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fruitcoops · 3 years

Note

Could you maybe write a “73 questions with Sirius Black” Vogue one? Or something like that.

Yes! I had never seen these videos before and it was a fun challenge to write. Hope you enjoy! Sweater Weather credit goes to @lumosinlove!

The house is large, two stories tall and painted a soft gray with white trim around the windows. Holiday lights have yet to be taken down and shine in all colors of the rainbow from the eaves as the camera crew walks up the front steps. The curtains in the window tremble for a moment, then a dog pokes her head through—she is all-black and curious, and looks quite large.

Dorcas Meadowes knocks on the front door; a moment later, it swings open and reveals Sirius Black. “Hey, guys, come on in! You can leave your shoes by the door inside.”

“Thanks, Sirius.” Dorcas kicks off her flats and follows him inside as he sets a dish towel on the end table and leans against it. “How are you today?”

“I’m doing pretty well. Morning practice was productive and I’m feeling good about our upcoming game.”

“We’re here today to ask you 73 rapid-fire questions while you lead us around. Sound good?”

“Sounds good. You can all come inside instead of freezing on the porch,” he laughs, waving them closer. The door shuts with a gentle click.

“First question: on a scale of 1-10, how excited are you about life right now?”

“Hmmm. A solid seven.”

“Do you have any pets?”

“I do!” Sirius leads them into the other room, where the dog is curled up on the couch below the window; he picks her up and gives her a kiss on the head. “This is Hattie and I love her very much.”

“Cute! If you could do a dramatic love scene in a movie with anyone, who would it be?”

Sirius sets the dog down and thinks for a second. “Aside from my fiancé, I’m going to say James Potter. We would kill it and I don’t think it would be that awkward.”

“What’s the origin of your name?”

“Pretty much my whole family has star-themed names. Sirius is the dog star from Canis Major.”

“Brightest star in the sky, too. What’s one thing people don’t know about you?”

“I’m an introvert. Lots of people assume that I’m super social because of my job, but I’m very quiet in real life.” He walks back out to the entrance and takes the towel off the table, then moves into the kitchen. It’s well-lit and painted a deep, warm red. The countertop is scattered with knickknacks and picture frames—clearly, this is a place people spend a lot of time. Hattie, who followed them in, lays down by the oven with a heavy sigh.

“What’s your wakeup ritual?”

Sirius reaches up and pulls two mugs out of the cupboard. “I wake up around seven am and make coffee while Re is in the shower, then rinse off and get dressed while he makes breakfast. It’s a good system. Want some tea?”

“Sure. What’s your bedtime ritual?”

“I don’t think I have one,” he says as he puts the kettle on and ignites a burner on the stove. “Usually we read or watch a movie, then go up to bed and talk for a while. There’s not a big routine or anything.”

“Sounds nice. What’s your favorite time of day?” Dorcas sits on the other side of the kitchen island while he takes a box of peppermint tea down.

“That’s a tough one. I like the in-between spots, like just after sunrise or dusk. Three in the afternoon is usually pretty chill as well. Does anyone else want a cup?”

There are a few murmurs behind the camera and he takes two more down. “What is one thing no one knows about you?” Dorcas asks.

He raises an eyebrow. “If I told you, everyone would know, and it wouldn’t count.”

“Fair enough. Dream country to visit?”

“Anywhere. I think I want to go to Ireland first, though.” Small wisps of steam begin curling out of the kettle, but it doesn’t whistle.

“Do you ever feel pressure to post things on social media?”

Sirius makes a face. “I used to. Eventually I just got tired of it, you know? The whole point of social media is sharing bits of your life with people and it makes me happy to show off my dog, or Re, or my friends. I post things just for fun now.”

The kettle begins to hiss and he reaches back to turn it off. “Sneakers or skates?”

“Skates.”

“Vintage or new?

“Vintage, especially for t-shirts and sweaters.”

“Who is your biggest role model?”

“Pascal Dumais.” Sirius stops pouring for a moment to look up at the camera. “If you ever get a chance to meet him, listen to what he has to say. You’ll be better for it.”

“Wise words. How do you deal with negativity? Oh, thank you.” Dorcas wraps her hands around the mug and takes a small sip while Sirius passes the other ones to the crew.

“Honestly? I don’t give a shit. It used to really bother me, but I’m happy, I have a job I love, and my family cares about me. Why should I care what people I’ve never met think of me?” He sits on the counter and rests his elbows on his knees, blowing on the hot water.

“What are three things you can’t live without?”

“My dog, Remus, and my family.” There is no hesitation in his voice.

“Not hockey?”

“I’d be devastated if I couldn’t play, sure, but it’s not the central focus of my life anymore.”

“What’s one ingredient you put in everything?”

“Does salt count?” He winces as he takes a drink. “Ugh, burned my tongue. I put salt on a lot of things because I drink so much water that it throws my balance off.”

“What is something you’re completely bored of right now?”

Sirius rolls his eyes. “Gossip columns and tabloids in general.”

Dorcas hums in agreement. “What’s your biggest fear in life?”

“Losing my loved ones.”

“Window or aisle seat?”

“Window. Anyone walking by always steps on my foot or hits my elbow if I’m in the aisle. Plus, I get a good view and an easy nap spot.”

“What’s your current TV obsession?”

“Avatar: The Last Airbender, which I’m watching for the third time already.” He shakes his head. “It’s just so good.”

“Favorite app?”

He takes a second to think. “Spotify.”

“Secret talent?”

Sirius looks at her over the rim over his cup. “This is going to shock you. Ready?”

“Ready.”

“Hockey.”

“You’re the worst.” Despite her words, Dorcas smiles. “What the most adventurous thing you’ve done in your life?”

“Uh, probably going to Europe with some of the guys last year. We had a lot of fun, but it was crazy.”

“I can imagine it was. How would you define yourself in three words?”

“Tall, dark, and handsome.”

“And apparently not humble,” Dorcas teases. “Favorite piece of clothing?”

“Hoodies.”

“Clothing item everyone should have?”

“Hoodies.”

A door opens behind them and the camera turns; Remus walks out of the basement, covered in sweat as he wipes his forehead with the hem of his shirt and holds his skates in his other hand. “Baby, have you seen…” he trails off when he sees the group of people in the kitchen. Hattie’s tail thumps on the floor. “Um. Hello.”

“Hey, Remus, how are you doing?” Dorcas asks mildly.

The camera pans out to catch both Sirius, who is laughing quietly, and Remus, who flushes pink. “I’m good. I thought you were coming at ten?”

“It’s ten-thirty, sweetheart,” Sirius says, hiding his smile in his tea.

Remus glances at the clock before giving an awkward nod and walking toward the stairs. “I guess I’ll take a shower, then. Sorry about that. Uh, carry on.”

“What’s a superpower you would want?” Dorcas asks as soon as he disappears.

Sirius shakes his head with a grin. “Uh, teleportation. That would be really cool.”

“What’s inspiring you in life right now?”

“Ah, une grande question.” He thinks, then tilts his head toward the staircase. “Moments like that. And the Stanley Cup, of course.” He reaches back and knocks on the wooden cupboard.

“What cause is closest to your heart?”

“LGBT+ rights, especially trans rights. I’m privileged enough to have a platform and I intend to be loud as hell about that.”

“Good.” Dorcas sets her almost-empty mug on the table. “What’s one thing you’d say to your teenage self?”

Sirius lets out a long breath and drums his hands on the light blue ceramic of his cup. “I would say…it gets better. It really, really does. You’re going to feel super shitty for just a little bit longer, but then I promise you will be so incredibly happy that you wake up every morning and it hits you all over again.”

Dorcas nods, and the kitchen is quiet for a moment. “What’s a book that everyone should read?”

“The Hobbit, by J.R.R Tolkien.”

“What would you like to be remembered for?”

“This is going to sound so corny, but I want to be remembered for just being a good person.”

“That’s not corny. How do you define beauty?”

“Remus Lupin.”

“That’s corny,” she laughs, making him smile. “What do you love most about your body?”

“I’m a big guy, which can be a little bit intimidating, but it means I give really great hugs. I’m sure everyone saw the video that went around a while ago.”

“Cap Cuddles?”

He snorts. “Right. You’ve got Finn O’Hara to thank for that.”

“In your opinion, what’s the best way to take a rest or decompress?”

“Being alone,” Sirius says. “There is literally nothing better than getting home and sitting down with a book or something while I can hear Re doing his own thing and Hattie’s napping. It’s one of my favorite parts of the afternoon.”

“That’s the most introverted thing you’ve ever said.” Dorcas grins and finishes her tea just as a faint beeping noise begins in another room. “What’s your favorite way to experience art?”

“Through music, for sure.” He slides off the counter and walks down the hall, leading them toward the laundry room. He gives the camera crew a look as he pulls dry clothes out of the machine and heads back to the living room. “What? Did you think I didn’t do my own laundry?”

“You lost a sock,” Dorcas informs him, picking it off the ground and laying it on top of his head.

“Thanks, D.”

“What question do people ask that you wish they wouldn’t?”

“Lots of people have asked me when I decided to be gay, which is wrong on so many levels.”

“If you could master one instrument, what would it be?”

“Guitar or piano.” He dumps the load of laundry on the couch and opens the back door, holding it for the crew as they walk out into the sunshine. Hattie weaves through their legs and disappears into the bushes along the back.

“I might have to take your dog home with me. If you had a tattoo, where would it be?”

Sirius mock-glares at her. “Let me have my girl! Um, I would love to have a tattoo somewhere on my arm.”

“This might be a hard one. Dolphins or koalas?”

“Oh, that is hard. Probably dolphins. The ocean is terrifying but those little guys are just having a blast.”

“What’s the best gift you’ve ever received?” Dorcas asks as he picks up a tennis ball and throws it across the yard. Hattie emerges from the bushes and races after it in a blur of black fur.

“An engagement ring.”

“Yeah, it was.” Remus walks into the backyard and kisses Sirius’ cheek before bending down to catch Hattie in his arms. His hair is still damp from the shower. “Hello, sweet girl!”

“Who’s your favorite musician?”

“Queen.” Sirius laughs at her surprised look. “I’m gay, what did you expect?”

“True. What’s your favorite board game?”

“Monopoly.” Remus and Hattie disappear from the frame, but the bouncing sound of the tennis ball creates some background noise and Sirius watches them for a moment with pure affection.

“Favorite color?”

“Blue.”

“Least favorite color?”

“Orange.”

“Bowties or knot ties?”

He frowns. “Don’t they all have knots?”

“Smartass.”

“Yep! Uh, regular ties.”

“Bowties are superior!” Remus calls.

“Get your own questions!” Sirius laughs.

“Going off your music answers: records or CDs?”

“I don’t own a lot of records, so I’m going to have to go with CDs. I love the way vinyl sounds, though.” His eyes widen as he looks to the side. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Remus wheezes. “I didn’t need those ribs anyway.”

“For the viewers, the dog just football-tackled him into the grass,” Sirius says, and Dorcas snorts.

“Your hair is famously luscious. Blow-dry or air-dry?”

“Air dry.”

“Coffee or tea?”

“Coffee, but tea is nice in the evenings.”

“What’s the weirdest word in the English language?”

Sirius laughs. “There are so many. Uh, ‘jeez’ is the one that comes to mind first.”

“What about the French language?”

“Oiseaux,” he says in a crisp accent. “It means ‘birds’, and you pronounce about three of the actual letters.”

“Good to know. Do you prefer dark chocolate or milk chocolate?”

“Dark chocolate.”

“Stairs or elevators?”

“Elevators. I don’t want to walk up three floors after playing hockey for two and a half hours.”

“Summer or winter?”

Sirius bites his lip in thought as they walk around the yard, where small flowers line the fence in beds and colorful pots. “I love summer because I have actual free time to be with my friends, but winter is hockey season. I don’t know, next question.”

“What’s a dessert you don’t like?”

“I’m not a huge fan of caramel. It’s too sticky.”

“A skill you’re working on mastering?”

“Will you ban me from more interviews if I say hockey?”

“Yes.”

“In that case, I’m working on keeping plants alive, as you can probably see.” He taps the nearest flowerpot gently with his foot; it has ‘Harry’ painted across it in sloppy blue letters. “My godson made that for my birthday.”

“What’s the best thing to happen to you today?”

“This, for sure,” he says with a smile. “I haven’t seen you and Marley in ages.”

“We missed you, too. What’s the worst thing that happened to you today?”

He pouts slightly. “Burning my tongue on tea.”

“Hugs or kisses?”

“Hugs! Though I’ll accept kisses from a few very specific people.”

“Do you have a favorite smell?”

He pauses and cranes his neck to look behind the cameras. “Re?”

“Yeah?”

“What shampoo do you use?”

“Uhhh…” There’s a moment of quiet. “It’s something with lavender, I think.”

Sirius turns back to Dorcas. “Something with lavender.”

“How specific,” she laughs. “What’s the best compliment you’ve ever received?”

He smiles to himself. “There was a young woman, maybe sixteen or seventeen, that came to one of the games earlier this season. I saw her standing with a puck and went over, and while I was signing it she looks at me and says, ‘you are exactly what I wish my older brother was like’. Turns out, she was bisexual and her brother wasn’t super accepting of her. That was…” He shakes his head. “That meant the world to me. I’ll never forget it.”

“You’ve definitely made a big impact on the community,” Dorcas agrees. “What’s the last piece of content you consumed that made you cry?”

“I watched ‘Soul’ the other night and almost had to pause it at one point to pull myself together.”

“Do you prefer animated movies or live-action?”

“Animated, mostly because I wasn’t allowed to watch Disney movies as a kid, so I’ve been catching up as an adult and they rock.”

“What’s your nerdiest quality?

“I love watching documentaries.”

“Sweet or savory?” The back door creaks a bit as they walk back inside and the camera catches a few frames of Hattie and Remus running around the yard together.

“Sweet.”

“In ten years, you have a daughter. What age do you let her date?”

Sirius gives Dorcas a look. “Whenever she wants to. I’m going to impose curfews and stuff, but I’m the last person on the planet to police her love life.”

“Good answer. What’s a song you can listen to on repeat?”

“Don’t Stop Me Now by Queen. Absolute banger.”

“If you could switch lives with someone for a day, who would it be?”

“Arthur Weasley,” he says after a moment. “I would love to know what it feels like to get up in the morning and know you’re about to spend another day wrangling our team. It’s a miracle he hasn’t killed us all with his clipboard.”

“How do you know you’re in love?”

“Oh.” Sirius blinks at her in surprise at the sudden topic change. “Well, for me, I think it’s just…being comfortable around someone. Being able to spend time with them without saying anything and knowing you’re safe, no matter what. It’s the best feeling in the world.”

“What are you most excited about at this time in your life?”

A slight smile crinkles his eyes. “Getting married. That’s going to be awesome.”

“Who is your go-to for having a good laugh?”

“James Potter. He’s the best, and I love him.”

“Last question,” Dorcas says, sliding her list into her pocket. “Many LGBT+ people, especially teenagers, have spoken about how you’re an inspiration. Any words for them?”

Sirius hums in thought. “First of all, thank you for being so open and welcoming. I would never have expected the sheer force of people’s love to come through like that when so many people were saying horrible things. Second, to any kids out there who need to hear it: I’m proud of you. It takes a lot to be true to yourself and even if you’re still in the closet, you’re just as valid as the rest of us. Stay proud.”

“That’s a wrap.” Dorcas gives him a quick hug that he happily returns. “Thanks for letting us crash your morning, Cap.”

“Any time. Thanks for tuning in to Lion Pride, everyone!”

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forasecondtherewedwon · 3 years

Text

3 Simple Rules for Dating a Centenarian

Fandom: The Falcon and the Winter Soldier Pairing: Sam Wilson/Bucky Barnes Rating: T Word Count: 2374

Summary: After seeing Steve's shield handed over to some stranger, Sam calls up Bucky, certain he's the one person who can properly commiserate. He doesn't really expect Bucky to answer though (the guy's become a bit of a recluse), or to hear the hints that he might be missing Sam as much as Sam's been missing him. Not that he'd ever say it straight out.

Sam is almost completely still as the feelings rattle through him like a roller coaster’s last run on a derelict track. He only lets it out—the blend of frustration, betrayal, and regret—in the way his fingers squeeze his knee through his jeans, skin damp against the denim. Keeping his hands clasped, and watching those clasped hands, was more grounding, but he needs one of his hands to hold the phone to his ear, and that activity is getting pretty damn tired.

Bucky’s voicemail clicks on for the third time in a row.

“Bucky,” Sam says, “I know you prefer calls to texting, so what are you doing ignoring me, man? Haven’t used your cell in so long that you’ve forgotten how to hit the answer button? At least it rang. That’s something, I guess.”

He sighs away from the speaker where it won’t be recorded for Bucky to hear later. Maybe he did divert his message from the snarky sarcasm he was planning to leave the guy, but Bucky doesn’t need to hear him sigh on top of that.

For a few moments, Sam taps his foot along with the muffled music of his nephews’ video game coming through the closed door. He knows the boys’ routine (and if he ever forgets, he sees the copy Sarah has on the fridge door) and that this isn’t their usual scheduled time for whatever they’re playing out there. Best guess: Sarah wants them hogging the TV so she won’t be tempted to peek at that government-sanctioned shitshow. Sam can’t blame her. Actually, he wonders if she blames him. The disappointment was so clear in her eyes before he stopped making himself meet them. He thought he was doing the right thing when he handed the shield over. Are there people out there who think he’s let them down, or just his sister? Just himself?

He can’t talk to Sarah right now and he’s thankful that she’s giving him some time to himself, but as soon as he got it, he realized he didn’t know what to do with it. Just like that shield. Dialing Bucky over and over—tapping in every number every time because that appears to be part of this pity ritual he’s performing—seemed like the thing he should do. Probably won’t answer. That asshole is terrible at staying in touch. Still, Sam’s heart feels a little heavier with every word closer he gets to the end of this message. Feels like he’s trying to keep the thing afloat in his chest, like his parents’ boat down at the dock. This is what he knows he should do when everything in him wants to sink—reach out, talk to people. Kinda self-sabotage when he picks the one person almost guaranteed not to answer.

Oh, he’ll hear back from Bucky eventually, probably a handful of choppy texts sent in the middle of the night two weeks from now. Sam knows his pattern; Bucky’s chattiest between 3am and 4am, so chatty that what are likely intended as longer blocks of text arrive in broken fragments because he wants to make everything into neat paragraphs, like he’s writing a damn letter, instead of just getting to the point, but he hits send too soon. Sam would teach him—with plenty of mocking and name-calling, but he would teach him—only while he’s been running ops all over the planet, Bucky’s shrunk his own world way down. He’s gone local to the extreme and it aggravates Sam, even though Bucky isn’t his responsibility, isn’t his other inheritance from Steve. It’s sorta just easier to feel like Bucky is a misplaced bequest than to acknowledge that maybe he misses the guy and his sharp-shooter’s eye and his caveman hair. He can’t keep calling him.

“Thought I’d give you a heads-up,” Sam says, voice weary with this half-true excuse. “Maybe you already saw.” He clears his throat and says quickly, “Anyway, guess I’ll hear from you when I hear from you.”

He’s pulling the phone away from his head and has barely ended the call when it’s ringing in his hand. He answers and catches Bucky’s voice saying his name before it’s even back up to his ear.

“Bucky?” Sam says. “You have a senior’s moment and forget where you left your phone?”

“Nah,” Bucky says. “I saw it was you and decided to ignore it.”

“But you called back.”

“You wouldn’t quit calling. Seemed like you needed me to tell you directly to knock it off.”

“Jackass.” Sam’s gaze darts to the door, but it’s still shut. No chance Sarah saw him grinning over this easy banter. Always the banter with this idiot. Always easy. He sniffs and turns his chair away from the black TV screen. “Did you see that joker on the news?”

Bucky’s either less self-conscious or more inept because he sighs right into the mouthpiece, an exhausted breath in Sam’s ear that has his fingers fleetingly digging into his knee.

“Couldn’t believe that shit,” Bucky tells him in a rough voice. He’s clearly holding back his own feelings about today’s events and, from the sounds of it, they’re more along the lines of anger, hurt, and a simmering desire to wrench the shield from the arm of the new Captain America. “You know that thing’s supposed to be yours.”

“You saying I should’ve done something to stop it?” Sam demands.

“Coulda.”

Sam forces his shoulders to drop, draws a slow breath in and pushes it back out.

“It wasn’t mine anymore, if it ever was. I gave it to the Smithsonian. They sealed it in this glass case and added it to the exhibit.”

“Not a very tight seal.”

“Guess not,” Sam agrees.

“You shouldn’t have turned it over,” Bucky says. Sam’s silent, frowning, and Bucky goes on. “Forget about the shield being given to somebody else—it shouldn’t have even been in a glass case. Doesn’t belong there.”

“I do just fine without it,” Sam assures him. The practicalities of carrying that shield around are more straightforward to discuss than his yawning uncertainty in the face of Steve’s legacy and his place relative to it. “The shield would only get in the way of the wings.”

“You and those wings.”

“Hey, they carried me over Tunisia recently. Show some respect.”

“Didn’t hear about that,” Bucky says in a tone that’s difficult to interpret, though Sam squints thoughtfully as he listens.

“Yeah, well, I shouldn’t even be telling the likes of you, but it was discrete. As far as the major players are concerned, I was never there.”

“So it was illegal?”

Sam’s head tips back as he laughs hard.

“Why, you wanna turn me in?” he jokes. “Working on the government’s trust? What’s the next level up from a pardon? Knighthood?”

“You are such a pain in the ass,” Bucky groans, which really does make Sam smile.

“I’m sure it would’ve been illegal if you were there,” he says automatically. Too fast, his imagination fills it in, a fictional alternative materializing in his mind. Him and Bucky, cocky in reckless freefall. Him and Bucky, fighting back-to-back in a plummeting aircraft. Sam screening Bucky from enemy fire with his wings. Bucky deflecting a stray bullet with his arm before it could hit Sam.

“Nah, I can’t do that no more.”

“Uh huh. I’m sure you’re an angel.”

“Anybody get hurt?” Bucky asks.

Sam glances through the window at the blue sky, the truck rolling unhurriedly past with the driver’s arm hanging out to catch the sun. Beautiful day. He remembers a kick that sent a guy through the door of the plane, sucked out into the sky, another guy tossed aside who tried to fight him in midair, and a helicopter aflame as it went down. He shrugs and figures Bucky’ll hear the gesture in his voice.

“Nobody who didn’t know the risks.”

“Of going up against Captain America?” Bucky probes. Sam rolls his eyes.

“You know, that would almost be a compliment if you got my name right.”

“Don’t tell me you’re not using the name just to avoid compliments from me.”

“I honestly can’t say which one would feel more wrong,” Sam says, passing a hand over his head as he leans back in his chair, “calling myself Captain America or hearing a little overdue praise from you.”

“I’m not really a words guy. Ask my therapist.”

Sam sits with that for a second. He’s happy that Bucky’s talking to someone. He needs it, badly, after decades of violence and being belted into the passenger seat of his own brain. It’s more than Bucky’s ever admitted to him before, but Sam would bet—and bet big—that seeing some stranger named as Steve’s successor today has gotten to Bucky as much as it’s gotten to him. Something like that is bound to open Bucky up a little. He’s the only other person Sam can imagine the news having such a monumental impact on.

“You could try words,” he goads, not wanting to leave Bucky hanging more than a few seconds after his admission. “What else do you have if you don’t feel like being a human action figure?”

“I have my system. My rules.”

“Oh yeah? What rules?”

“Three of ’em,” Bucky informs him. “Nothing illegal. Nobody gets hurt. Making amends for the actions of the Winter Solider.”

“You don’t have to make amends for something you—”

“Don’t. It… helps.”

And who is Sam to question what’s helping Bucky? After the multiple-lifetimes’ worth of hell the guy’s been through?

“Good for you, man,” Sam offers softly.

“Save it, Sam.” The words are clipped but light. Sam grins.

“No words for me either? You more comfortable with me sticking to actions? How are we supposed to talk to each other when you don’t come to Tunisia with me?”

“Wasn’t invited,” Bucky quips back.

“You mighta been if you answered your phone more often. I’m not gonna send you the details to a covert operation in a text.”

“You wanted me in Tunisia?”

“You get shit done,” Sam acknowledges simply. You wanted me in Tunisia? echoes in his head. His heart’s bobbing like a buoy now. You wanted me in Tunisia? You wanted me?

“Not like that.”

“‘Not illegal,’” Sam repeats. “‘Nobody gets hurt. Making amends.’”

“Right. Can’t do any of that.”

“Well, I’m glad this regime’s working for you, but you have to admit it’s weird that I saw more of you when we were fighting alien hordes.”

“What can I say?” Bucky asks in a tone that seems to consciously flatten the charm out of it. “I’m old-fashioned now.”

Sam snorts.

“You were old-fashioned then.”

“I assume you had a team on the ground.”

“I had to,” Sam says over the sound of a squabble in the other room. Immediately, he can hear Sarah’s voice rising slightly above, breaking it up. Just like that, there’s the looping music of the video game again. She’s raised those boys well. “Couldn’t wait around for you.”

“I might show up if you asked me on better dates.”

“It wasn’t a date, it was a goddamn op.”

It’s startling to hear the sound of laughter. Not hearty, deep, rich, or loud, but definitely laughter. Bucky laughs? Sam backtracks a minute. Bucky makes jokes? About dating? About the two of them dating? Evidently, that is something he’s capable of, along with returning calls during daylight hours.

Sam shifts in his seat.

“You could come around sometime,” he suggests, nervously rubbing a hand up and down his thigh. “If you like fish and you’re ever in Louisiana.”

“I do like fish,” Bucky says. “I’ve been going to this sushi place a lot lately.”

It’s not his taste that surprises Sam—it’s the readiness with which he responds to the invitation. He would’ve sooner guessed that Bucky would tell him to shove it up his ass. In a joking way, but still.

“On dates?” Sam asks, telling himself he’s providing some good-natured hassling and that it has nothing to do with the odd feeling he got when Bucky’s joke about them dating caught up with him.

“One. Mostly, I go with Mr. Nakajima.”

“And that’s not a date?”

Sam laughs and wishes he could shut his own mouth as firmly as he’s (many times) told Bucky to shut his.

“I’m pretty sure he’s in his eighties, so he’s more age-appropriate for me than most people, but I murdered his son,” Bucky says grimly.

“Amends?” Sam guesses, adjusting his tone to cope with Bucky’s emotional switchback.

“I haven’t told him yet, but, yeah, I’m working on that.”

They’re both working on something, Sam thinks. Both confronting something that feels too big to tackle—the decision not to announce himself as the new Captain America, guilt for assassinations Bucky had no control over but which span the better part of a century. Sometimes it seems to Sam that they go up against the easiest situations as a team and face the hardest stuff alone. But he called Bucky, and Bucky called back.

“You could bring some of those amends down here and trade them for a snapper dinner,” Sam proposes, aiming for irritatingly cheerful to pull Bucky back out of the dark.

“What do I have to make amends to you for?”

“Being a dick. I’ll text you my sister’s address.”

Sam swiftly ends the call. There are two possible sources to which he can attribute the small surge of adrenaline he feels: hanging up on Bucky and the fact that he might’ve just asked him on a date. When Sam dialed, he knew it was because he didn’t want to do this alone, but he thought that meant watching the appointment of an upstart Captain America. Although he believed he could count on Bucky’s understanding today and for the near future, asking him down to have dinner with Sarah and the boys (or tricking him into it, since he didn’t exactly say it’d be a thing with the whole family) lengthens the timeline. Near future? Inviting Bucky to meet his family and see where he grew up means recognizing that he’ll be in his life a little longer. Alone? Sam might forget the meaning of the word.

#my writing #tfatws #tfatws spoilers #The Falcon and the Winter Soldier #Sam Wilson #Bucky Barnes #sambucky #Sam Wilson x Bucky Barnes

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pillage-and-lute · 3 years

Note

Can I have some Book! Geralt,who somehow happened to be in show universe,meeting Jaskier, who after some prodding from him tells B!Geralt about mountain and B!Geralt is furious? At some point they meet show! Geralt and B!Geralt makes sh!Geralt jealous because he knows Jask's feelings are not unrequited,but only after making sh!Geralt understand that that is not how you treat your best friend in the whole wide world. I just want some sh!Geralt/Jask with a little help from B! Geralt Thank you <3

Hi Sadpathologist!

Have I read the books? no, but I intend to. I’m giving this a whack nonetheless!

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Jaskier about leapt out of his skin when the tall, silver haired witcher appeared beside him at the bar. He seemed...different. Jaskier’s brain, marinating in a fair amount of gin, wasn’t putting in the work to decifer the difference.

Jaskier coughed.

Geralt glanced at him, looked directly at him, then went back to ordering his drink.

So that was how it was. Twenty two years, just to end up strangers again.

Jaskier wasn’t going to put up with that. He deserved better than that. He wasn’t quite sure what all he deserved, an apology for one, but not to be given the silent treatment and a cold shoulder were definitely on the list.

“Hey,” he said. “Geralt.”

The witcher turned. “Do I know you?”

Jaskier felt something little crush in his chest. “That’s not fair and you know it, we’ve known eachother for decades, Geralt.” His voice was getting dangerously wobbly now and it made him burn with shame but he didn’t deserve to be treated this way. “We were friends,” he said through the lump in his throat. “I know you never called us that but we were. I know we aren’t anymore but...” He choked, not able to finish the sentence and not sure how he would have if he could.

Geralt was looking at him, wide eyed.

“Dandelion?”

huh?

“I haven’t gone by that since Oxenfurt,” Jaskier said. His rational brain was really, really trying to tell him something about Geralt, something was weird, but it had been a lot of gin. “I’m not sure I ever told you that, either.”

Geralt picked him up by the shoulder and hauled him out of the tavern, into the light of day. It hurt after all the daydrinking, but realization slid into place and the shock had a better sobering effect than a cold bath.

“You aren’t Geralt,” he said. He began to twist about in the grip, captured by some Geralt-facsimilie.

“I am, I am,” the not-Geralt set Jaskier down. “I’m just not- I’m not you’re Geralt. He pulled Jaskier into the stables and Jaskier took a good look, since the man didn’t seem to be actively trying to kill him.

“You aren’t my Geralt,” Jaskier said. “The scars are wrong, and your beard is more grown in than you usually let it get.” He thought. “And I don’t think I told you I ever went by Dandelion.”

“What, never?”

“You-he never asked.”

“Okay,” not-Geralt said, sitting down on a sack of hay. “I’m not from here, I know a Dandelion-Jaskier, he looks a lot like you, but he’s blonde. There was this... thing, I interrupted some big sorceressy ritual, I’m sure I’ll get back in a couple of days but listen...what did you mean when you said we-you and your Geralt- aren’t friends anymore, that he never called you friends?”

The face, almost familiar, looked very serious. Geralt was looking at him with genuine concern and it was so close to everything Jaskier wanted, but the scars were wrong, there were little laugh lines and marks in the wrong places. The eyes were the same.

He believed this Geralt, too. It sounded crazy but, well...golden dragon men, djinns, devils, elves, Jaskier had known a lot of crazy.

This Geralt hadn’t asked for the whole story, but it felt so good to tell someone about it, Jaskier gave it to him anyway. From Posada to the mountain. His voice broke, and not-quite-Geralt put a comforting arm around him, rubbing his hair in a way he liked. It was as if he knew just how Jaskier liked it.

Jaskier full on cried talking about the mountain, but he never even talked about the final argument, merely saying Geralt had sent him away. He felt safe and appreciated but it wasn’t his Geralt and it was so close that it hurt to talk about it. The thought that in another life Geralt might be his friend, could be this more open, loving person ached. In this life Geralt would rather he be dead.

He sat there, other Geralt seemed baffled. After a moment he spoked.

“What a dick.”

Jaskier was thinking though. Maybe the difference wasn’t about Geralt. What difference in Jaskier could cause all this.

“Tell me about your Jaskier?”

Geralt-ish looked down at him. “He’s blonde, he wears loud clothing, more pinks and purples, and feathered hats.” A small smile crossed his face, and it was so beautifully, heart achingly familiar. “It took me a while to accept our friendship too, but he practically forced it to me. I love him more than anything.” There was a soft look in Geralt’s eyes.

“I can’t image a world in which we aren’t at least friends, if not lovers. I don’t think the white wolf was meant to be without his barker.” He made direct, blazing eye contact with Jaskier. “We need to find your Geralt and knock sense into him, if you can’t do it, I’ll take him outside and beat him from one end of the Continent to the other.”

“I don’t even know where he is,” Jaskier said.

“We’ll find him, if I were him I’d still be brooding at the bottom of that mountain.” Other-Geralt began slinging bags onto Roach. She looked exactly like Roach. Jaskier approached carefully.

She sniffed him cautiously, but there must have been something in his scent she recognized because she nuzzled him appreciatively. Wrong-Geralt mounted up and looked at Jaskier expectantly.

“Well? Go on, get on Roach.”

“Oh no,” Jaskier said, stepping back. “I’m not allowed on Roach.”

Not-Geralt looked at him like he was stupid. “What do you mean you’re ‘not allowed on Roach’, you don’t have your own horse. You can’t walk all the time.”

Jaskier shouldered his lute. “I manage fine.”

Not-Geralt picked him up by his collar and deposited him solidly on Roach’s back. “Hold tight,” he said. “We can’t both ride her all the time, but we’ll take turns walking, it’s not too far to the mountain you mentioned.”

Jaskier wasn’t certain he wanted to go back to that mountain at all.

This wasn’t his Geralt. This was a witcher from a completely different universe. One with a blonde Jaskier who still went by his old stage name. He could be completely wrong about all of this. He might love his Jaskier, but what if in this world Jaskier was truly despicable to his Geralt. A shit shoveler.

He must have tensed because the Geralt he had his arms wrapped around twisted back to look at him.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“There’s something you aren’t saying.”

Jaskier sighed, and they rode on a few more minutes in silence. He hadn’t gotten very far from the mountain, and it would take them only a few hours on horse back.

“When Geralt-my Geralt, told me to leave on the mountain...” Jaskier tailed off, the memory was still so recent and it stung.

“He said something, didn’t he?”

Jaskier nodded, sure the witcher would feel the movement.

“It’s okay, you can tell me. What did he say?”

“He told me I shovel shit,” Jaskier gave a wet little chuckle. “He blamed me for every bad thing that happened in his life. Then he said...”

Other-Geralt held Jaskier’s wrist where his arms were holding on and rubbed his thumb across the joint sympathetically. Jaskier began to cry silently.

“He told me that if life could give him one blessing,” Jaskier said, leaning his wet face against the back of other-Geralt. “If life could give him one blessing it would be to take me off of his hands.”

Other-Geralt took in a sharp breath and brought other-Roach up short. He turned almost fully around in his saddle.

“He said what?” His voice was low and dangerous. There was real fury in his voice.

“He said-”

“I heard what he said, he said that to you? He actually looked at you and told you that?”

Jaskier nodded.

“Tell me,” other-Geralt said. “Did he leave you to get off of that mountain alone?”

“There were tracks,” Jaskier said, feeling somehow that he should defend his Geralt, although admittedly the witcher probably no longer deserved his loyalty.

“And, from what you’ve told me, some pretty murderous people not to mention treacherous terrain.” Other-Geralt nudged not-Roach into a trot, but his jaw was working the way Geralt’s did when he was angry.

“I’m going to kill him.”

“Don’t,” Jaskier said softly. Not-Geralt peered at him over his shoulder.

“You know you don’t deserve what he said, right?”

“Yes of course, I didn’t deserve any of that.” Jaskier huffed ruefully. “Especially not after twenty two years.”

“Good,” not-Geralt said, turning back to face front. “So long as you understand that.”

They rode a while in silence, Jaskier’s eyes gradually drying.

“Do you love him?” not-Geralt asked eventually.

“More than life,” Jaskier said.

“Even after all this? No one would blame you if you fell out of love after treatment like that.”

“Even now, yes,” Jaskier sighed. “I think it’s because I understand him better than anyone. He isn’t used to dealing with his emotions, so sometimes he does it badly. I still love him, but he really messed up this time, he’s bad at emotions but this bad...it really hurt me.”

Other-Roach walked another long silence.

“I think it hurt even more because sometimes,” Jaskier took a deep breath, not willing to cry again today. “Sometimes I thought he might love me back, love me too. There were little things he’d do...”

“Like what?”

“Oh little things, he noticed when my boots needed replacing before I did, let me wash his hair. Tiny, sleep smiles in the morning, that sort of thing.”

“He does love you,” other-Geralt said. “I’m certain of it. We’re not far from the mountain now, and I have a plan, if you’re willing.”

“A plan?”

“Absolutely. It will be torture for him, and he’ll certainly apologize, probably confess his feelings too.””

Not-Geralt explained his plan.

Jaskier listened.

“Won’t your Jaskier mind?” he asked.

“I don’t think so, we have a flexible exclusivity, and this is for a very good cause, besides, we won’t go very far.”

“If you’re certain.”

“It won’t make you uncomfortable?” asked the other-Geralt.

“No, actually,” Jaskier said, grinning. “I think it’s a perfect plan.”

They reached the inn at the base of the mountain before nightfall.

Just like other-Geralt said he’d be, Jaskier’s Geralt was drinking with a single mindedness that was a little worrying. Other-Geralt turned to him.

“Sure you don’t want me to just beat sense into him?”

“No,” Jaskier said, mentally slipping into character.

“Okay then, ready?”

“Ready.”

Other-Geralt strolled up to the bar with Jaskier basically hanging off his arm.

“Pint for me, please,” he told the barman. “And one for my...friend.”

Friend dripped positively salaciously.

Jaskier’s Geralt didn’t even look up, but he didn’t let himself be deterred.

They sat with their ales close, but not too close to Geralt. Jaskier plopped himself, giggling into other-Geralt’s lap. He leaned into his ear and whispered flirtily, “tell me a joke?”

Other-Geralt chuckled, and oh, that sound in such a familiar voice made Jaskier’s heart skip in his chest.

“Where does the general keep his armies?” other-Geralt asked. Jaskier thought, then asked,

“I dunno, where?”

“Up his sleevies.”

It was such a ridiculous joke, silly and lighthearted and so odd to hear in Geralt’s deep rumbling voice that Jaskier tilted his head back and let peals of laughter escape. He finally disolved into little, bubbling giggles and buried his face into other-Geralt’s neck.

“Is he looking?” he whispered, barely a breath so that sensitive witcher ears wouldn’t hear in the loud tavern.

“Yes,” other-Geralt rumbled. “He looks green with envy.”

Jaskier looked into almost familiar eyes, smiling. “Okay?” he whispered.

“Yeah, okay,” other-Geralt said. He leaned in and kissed Jaskier.

It was a lovely kiss, other-Jaskier clearly liked being kissed the same way, but it was fairly short. Then other-Geralt pressed little kisses along the top of Jaskier’s cheeks and behind his ears, beginning to trail down his neck.

“Jaskier.”

It was his Geralt, standing over them. Jaskier looked up. “I’m busy,” he said, then leaned in to wrap his arms around other-Geralt’s neck, as if he was going to kiss him again.

Geralt lifted him off by his collar.

“What the hell are you doing?” he growled. Jaskier noted with amusement that he was making his voice deeper than usual, like a tom cat fluffing it’s tail. The bard crossed his arms as his feet hit the floor.

“I don’t see why that’s any of your business,” he said, although part of him just wanted to melt into that familiar gaze. “Especially since you decided it would be a blessing for me to be taken off your hands.”

Other-Geralt, with expert timing, pulled Jaskier back into his lap, sliding one hand up to Jaskier’s inner thigh. It was almost indecent, although not really, but Geralt looked ready to explode.

“I don’t know if you noticed,” other-Geralt said, voice pitched suggestively. “But your hands aren’t what he’s going to be on.” This was accompanied with a truly indecent hip thrust, rolling Jaskier where he was sat on other-Geralt’s lap. The witcher wasn’t hard, and it was all an act, but Jaskier couldn’t help blushing a little. This was, after all, the body double of his Geralt.

He looked up at Geralt. “You can go now,” he said.

His Geralt looked so conflicted that Jaskier’s heart went out to him. He could see the emotion running across Geralt’s face. Guilt, regret, loss, betrayal, anger.

“Please, Jaskier,” he said.

“Please Jaskier what?” just because he still loved the idiot didn’t mean he was going to make this easy. “Please Jaskier leave me so you don’t shovel more shit into my life?” Geralt winced.

“Please Jaskier take yourself off my hands because after more than twenty years I still don’t think of you as a friend?” Geralt winced again. Other-Geralt had started leaving teasing, butterfly kisses along his neck again, and was shifting in his seat. It wasn’t sexy, and his hips weren’t rocking against Jaskier, but to Geralt it must surely look that way.

“Please Jaskier, find your own way off this god-forsaken mountain with murderers and monsters and, oh yeah, all the provisions were in your pack and I had to forage and not poison myself?”

Other-Geralt growled his displeasure at that detail. Geralt’s shoulders slumped. Jaskier tapped other-Geralt’s leg to let him up and they both stood.

“I’m going outside,” he said. “If you want to say something, come too, if not, I’m leaving.” Jaskier smiled flirtatiously at other-Geralt. “And he’ll be going with me.”

Geralt followed him outside.

Other-Geralt followed too, but at a slower pace so they could talk.

In the stables, hoping Geralt wouldn’t notice the identical Roaches side by side, he whirled around, finally letting out every last bit of anger, betrayal and frustration he’d been feeling.

“Twenty two years you stupid bastard!” he yelled, poking one finger into Geralt’s chest. “Two decades!” he smacked the armor with an open palm. “And in all that time not once could you bear to so much as call me you friend! You ASSHOLE! And I love you! That’s not fair because I STILL love you! And you DON’T DESERVE IT! But I LOVE YOU!”

Jaskier took a tiny breath then continued yelling.

“And I KNOW you love me too! You don’t do the things we did for one another without love! It might not be the way I love you, that’s okay, if you only love me platonically, but you love me! I was so SURE you loved me! AND THEN YOU LEFT ME ON THE MOUNTAIN!”

Geralt opened his mouth and Jaskier slapped a hand over it. He wasn’t sure at what point during the screaming he’d started crying but he wasn’t about to lose momentum now.

“NO! I’m talking now! You LEFT ME ON THAT MOUNTAIN! I COULD HAVE DIED! YOU DON”T DO THAT TO PEOPLE YOU LOVE!” Damn it all, he was losing momentum, he was crying for real, sobbing. And the sobs were choking his anger.

“You told me I was a burden and a curse,” he said between sobs. “That I had only ever caused you misfortune.” He sucked in a breath and looked into tortured golden eyes. “You told me that if life could give you one blessing it would be for me to be taken off your hands. How did you mean that? Did you mean simply that you would never see me again? Or did you mean me dying on that mountain without a pack and without food or water? Or did you mean me falling on that mountain and dying alone and in pain on the rocks below? Did you mean me getting murdered by the bastards who’d gone on that dragon hunt?”

Jaskier was sniffling great, snotty pauses in his sentences. “Or maybe you just wanted some peace and quiet, like that time with the djinn.” He stepped back from Geralt and met his gaze, watery though his own eyes might have been. “So tell me, how did you mean it, Geralt?”

“I didn’t.”

It was a whisper, then Geralt knelt in the straw and took both of Jaskier’s slightly shaking hands in his own.

“I swear on my life, Jaskier I didn’t mean it.”

His gaze was so honest and open and he looked so tortured Jaskier wanted to forgive him and fall into his arms right there, but he was still hurting so badly.

“You said it though, it almost came true, like with the djinn, am I that much of a burden to you?”

“No!,” Geralt stood, not releasing Jaskier’s hands. “No,” he said a little more calmly, stepping closer. “You are the greatest gift of my life, my treasure, my friend,I swear it.”

Geralt looked at Jaskier’s face, gold and blue meeting in the dim stable light.

“I don’t know if you can believe my oath, but I swear to you, on the name of every witcher, alive or dead, on the medallion I wear around my neck, Jaskier. Jaskier, you are my truest blessing.”

He pulled Jaskier into a perfect, soul numbing hug.

“I’ve hardly slept,” Geralt whispered. “I’m so, so sorry. I’ve hardly slept for the thought that I’d killed you. Fed you to that mountain.” Geralt was taking great, shuddering breaths, his shoulders trembling, tremors in the earthquake taking over him. “I thought I’d killed my love. I’m so sorry, Jaskier. My love. I do love you, not as friends. I love you like a ballad, and I could have killed you.”

Geralt was crying, Jaskier realized. His tear ducts may have been dry but he was crying all the same, clutching to Jaskier like a lifeline, like Geralt himself had been left dangling from the mountainside and Jaskier was his rope.

“I’m sorry Jaskier, so, so sorry. I’m poor with emotions and I took it out on you and it could have killed you,” Geralt said, his face buried in Jaskier’s hair, squeezing him tight like he wanted them to be glued together. “I didn’t mean a word of it I swear, and I searched that thrice damned mountain for you until I found your tracks leading you safely away.”

“I wanted to kill you,” other-Geralt said, stepping around from the corner of the stables. “You’re lucky he still loves you, or I might have.”

Geralt-Jaskier’s Geralt, for ther first time got a decent look, not obscured by jealousy or dim lighting, of other-Geralt.

“Oh,” he said. “You’re...”

“You? Yeah. It’s hard to explain but it involves blundering in to some sorceressy bullshit.” Other-Geralt clapped one massive hand onto Geralt’s shoulder and stared into his face, gold meeting gold. “I have a bard in my world, and I’ll be returned to him soon. He is truly my greatest gift. I want nothing of your bard but for him to be happy, because I do not believe in any world where I and my love are not at least companions.”

“I understand,” Geralt said.

“No, I don’t think you do,” other-Geralt said. “If I ever somehow, and I don’t know how, get a dream I suppose, that you mistreat your gift again, I will slice open this wall between worlds and hunt you down myself.”

A whistle came from behind them, and the three men turned. Jaskier looked into a face very similar to his own. It had a goatee. And blonde hair. The man was standing next to a glowing portal.

“Geralt,” the other-Jaskier, Dandelion, Jaskier supposed, said. There was relief in his voice. He leapt to his witcher and there was a kiss so vigorous that Jaskier, singer of two dozen bawdy songs, looked away.

“I feared I’d never find you,” the blonde said. Other-Geralt grinned at him.

“I always knew you would, my love.”

He turned to Geralt and Jaskier, standing dumbstruck. “I guess my work here is done.” Here he pointed at Geralt. “Remember my warning.” He mounted up on his Roach and with barely a sound to mark their leaving, the pair left.

“Well,” said Jaskier, sitting on a barrell.

“Well,” said Geralt, standing stunned in the center of the stables.

“I’m glad at least somewhere we sorted ourselves out,” Jaskier said, smiling sadly.

“I want that to be us.”

“What?”

“I want to be able to kiss you like that, someday.” Geralt crossed the room towards Jaskier. “I want to turn to you someday and not be so...so stupid, so emotionally stunted, that I can name you as ‘my love’ in front of others.”

“But...”

“Jaskier, I never called you friend because it ached that you saw me as friend when I wanted you to be more, and now I’ve had a taste of losing you and I would walk over fire never to do so.”

Geralt got down on his knees in the stable and reached out with one hand. His fingers curled around Jaskier’s neck and pulled him closer until their foreheads gently met.

Somehow it was more intimate than a kiss.

“I forgive you,” Jaskier said. “And I love you, always.”

Geralt tilted his head up and captured Jaskier’s lips.

It was sweet and perfect and Geralt pulled back and planted so many more beautiful, chaste kisses that they fell like rain.

Then he pulled back and tugged Jaskier to his feet, a little, toe-tinglingly sexy growl escaping him.

“My love,” Geralt said, clearly savoring the phrase in their little bubble of secrecy. “I could eat you alive.”

“That,” Jaskier said, pulling back and smiling. “You may have to wait for.”

Geralt followed him out into the chilly evening. “For you I would wait forever,” he said.

Jaskier had a feeling that he probably wouldn’t make Geralt wait very long.

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Ope, you sent a request and I gave you a fic. 3812 words! hope you enjoy.

#the witcher #geraskier #post-mountain fix it #Book! Geralt #Show! Geralt #dandelion #jaskier #Roach is a good girl in every universe #angst #fluff

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lordeasriel · 3 years

Note

I really care about your opinion, how do you feel about the bbc show and the way it's going?

I feel like before I give my take, I need to say that I understand the show is its own thing, and while I do wish they did a better job adapting certain things, I understand that sometimes there is a need for radical change or cut, especially when your budget is not super high (which HDM does have a lot of money into it, still is not a super big budget production, so they have to worry about these things). And I do enjoy many things about the show, but my overall vibe is mixed, to be honest. I’m stating this now because people often question whether I like the show or not, becaus I do criticise it a lot, and I simply have a critic view of the things I like, which is why I discuss them a lot and it can be overwhelming.

My main issues with the show are these 3 things: (which I’ll put under the cut because this got a bit longer than I wanted to lmao sorry)

Lack of worldbuilding and loose lore: I’ve been talking about this since day one, and this mostly applies to season 1 because I can’t judge season 2 yet because it’s not fully aired yet, but the show suffers from lack of worldbuilding, especially in Lyra’s world, which is the world that sets everything in motion. I still dislike the fact they introduced Will mid-NL, I don’t think he needed all those episodes to establish something that easily could’ve been done in S2 and because they gave TSK a lot of time, other parts of Lyra’s world suffered considerably, mainly the witches and the Magisterium.

The show doesn’t really expand on those two groups, especially, and I think that’s not good, especially the Magisterium (which they have over simplified by making it one big baddie, or so it seems at least, not to mention that implying a single leader for them practically ruins Marcel Delamare’s arc in TBOD and I’m very mad about that lmao). A lot of the Magisterium plot has that infighting aspect, which creates tension on their side as well as against their enemies, but the show doesn’t really explore that or the nuances of the Church, and they also don’t explore how varied the witches are, and I feel like this is a serious mistake. (The portrayal of the witches is by far my least favourite thing in the show, if I’m being honest).

Dull parallel world (and lack of daemons): this ties a bit with the worldbuilding aspect, but this is mainly about design choices. I think the show doesn’t make Lyra’s world as unique as it should be. On its own the world looks pretty and the outfits of most of the cast are great, but when you realise that Will’s world is intertwined with that, you don’t really feel like these two worlds are vastly different.

There is an odd situation in which Marisa’s fashion feels 30s/40s, but most of the men from her social circle (not fair to compare with the gyptians) just wear plain suits and they look much more modern. And while I get that they went for a timeless vibes, with different eras and styles, Lyra’s world feels like a caricature and it doesn’t feel believable. The colour palette is mostly the same for both worlds (even in s2, it’s hard to tell much of the difference because either the scenes are indoors or at night.) This, paired with the lack of daemons (which has been discussed many times in the fandom) kinda bums me out.

Marisa’s oversimplification: I’m mentioning Marisa, specifically, because she is the one that suffers the most due to this writing issues, but other characters like Lord Asriel, MacPhail, the general collective of the Witches, they all suffer from the writing trying to take away the nuances of them and make them flatter than in the book. Marisa is the worst because without her complexity and her flaws, she simply gets dull and boring and flavourless, and it’s kinda what has been happening in the show in my opinion. All she does is weep and she has no strength that doesn’t rely on a random fit of rage that dies out and she gets upset. There’s some great moments, like when she mimics the Monkey, but most of the time she’s just a shadow of who she is supposed to be.

The show tries really hard to make her a Scorned Mother - right from the get go, they try to makes us see how she wants Lyra, how she struggles with her “bad nature” and how that affects their relationship. There is this lingering implication that Lyra was taken from her against her wishes; they make it seem like being a mother to Lyra is her driving force, the only reason why she seeks power and influence. And that is the opposite of Book! Marisa, who is a force of nature, ruthless and ambitious, with not an ounce of maternal instinct.

She does eventually decide to help Lyra, instead of harming her, but even that action comes from a narcisistic place: Lyra is to her a possession, something that belongs to her, and that she wants to preserve. The show just handles her badly, falling into overused, boring tropes that struck far from the book version.

These are usually my main complaints about the show, and they upset me every episode to the point I’m practically ignoring them now lmao The show does a lot of good things too, making Will less of a prick, restoring Lyra’s personality from the first book into S2 Lyra (so far, please keep it that way), Mary is looking great too. They have mostly a great cast, and they did improve the daemons this season (except uh, there are far less daemons to show because of the other worlds - and the Ruta Skadi daemon change pisses me off tbh).

They do have a lot of interest in the show, but the writing (the main issue to me) feels clunky and childish, with the show toning down most of the themes that make His Dark Materials so special, especially to me (which frankly I expected them to do, but it still stings a bit). They make the Magisterium a single bad entity that feels more Authoritarian-Fascist, than a theocracy (even if they sneak in the religious symbols and rituals and garments, it’s just not a good portrayal, it’s very tame and shy); and they try to justify Marisa’s actions (especially in current interviews, there’s lots of talk about how her background will play in the show to “explain why she is the way she is”). The fact the Magisterium is portrayed as pure evil makes it looks less familiar than it should be, and therefore they don’t look scary, they seem like a caricature, a joke.

A lot of the essence of the characters get lost, and the core message of the story too, like when Iorek and the Gyptians tell Lyra she can be one of them, to support her lack of “proper family”, when that is the opposite of the books message. It doesn’t make sense for them to change that, other than maybe Jack Thorne wanted to because it makes the story feels less hopeless, but it’s why he fails to adapt these character - he doesn’t capture the essence, he tries to write these character with gaps in them.

However, the thing that annoys me the most is how they portray Asriel. It’s just... it’s bad. Really bad, which is a shame cause James is talented as fuck, but he had little time to film for season 1, and then they portrayed him very poorly. That scene when he addresses Roger in episode 7 is ridiculous, Asriel would never behave that way; there was relief in him finding Roger was there too, yes, but not to that extent and not in such a cringe way. Asriel is not deranged or irrational, he is a man on a mission, and Roger was a tool (there is no pleasure in Asriel taking his life and no excuses - it needed to be done and he did it); they just needed him to sound creepy in the show for whatever reason.

I hated how they handled the bridge scene for Asriel, Lyra and Marisa, but that’s long and complicated for me to explain here. In S2, there has been some mentions of him so far, including the implication he might have ruined Cittàgazze himself and I frankly don’t understand where did they get that idea. But the cherry on the top was Thorold telling Marisa that Asriel was gonna kill Lyra and that’s just-- that’s so dumb. That’s genuinely dumb writing, because Thorold knows Lyra followed Asriel to the mountain, and while I do believe Asriel would have killed Lyra if Roger wasn’t there, there is no way Thorold should know or consider that Asriel was gonna hurt Lyra, because Roger was there. In fact, Thorold’s interactions with Asriel in episode 8 already disprove this, so either Thorold was lying in S2 for the sake of, I don’t know, chaos or whatever, or the person who wrote this was a five-star, solid gold, fucking moron.

I’m not gonna mention the lost episode because that was no one’s fault, but the fact that they discarded an episode that all information we have on imply that it was important to set up the backstory of the angels and the city, it’s... concerning. It means they wrote something parallel that should’ve been woven into the season.

The truth is, I still watch the show on Sundays, and I still like some stuff they do (especially Mary’s stuff, so far), and despite me slandering the show per your request anon lol (cause unfortunately my honest opinion is mixed, I just don’t try to overfocus on the negative on Tumblr, I mostly talk about it on discord or private), I do think anyone who has read the books should watch the show.

For me, personally, everything I love about HDM is barely on the show - complex characters, the philosophy, the oppression by religion, the interesting world - and the vibe I get is that they’re adapting a coming-of-age love story, which is the last and - being fully honest - the least important message these books give us, but unfortunately they were set to making a family show from the start, and my expectations were high and unmatched, and a family is what we’re getting: toned down, cute, pretty visuals and soulless (heh, pun intended), philosophically speaking. I expect a certain pattern going into S3, but I always like to hold out hope that they will hire better writers (apparently Jack Thorne already wrote 4 scripts, so there you go lmao), and try to give HDM the adaptation it deserves. The truth is, if you’re a picky, canon reliant person like I am, the show might be a struggle, but if you just like the story for the teen romance, or if you don’t care about overthinking a show/book, then most people can have a good time with it.

#asks #effie watches hdm #sorry it took me a while and sorry for the gigantic critique #but i wanted to be honest about my take on the show so far #Anonymous

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metellastella · 4 years

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Mao Mao Pride Week Prompts, Part 3

A continuation of the prompts put out by @maomaosmother Part 1 https://metellastella.tumblr.com/post/621726687992872960/hello-everyone-happy-pride-month-to-all-of-you Part 2 https://metellastella.tumblr.com/post/621834183114932224/mao-mao-pride-week-prompts

7. Marriage

“But first,” Mao’s sister clapped her hands together, “I wanna talk weddings some more!”

“Right on!” the badger agreed. He whooped.

“Oh good grief,” Mao rolled his eyes. “Fine. You two can chat with the king about the possibility. And I reiterate. Possibility. When you’re ready to make good on your promise, come find me.”

She clucked her tongue in disapproval. “Fine. Be the usual stick in the mud. Don’t know why I’m surprised.”

He grabbed a few more things off his plate and left.

“So,” she sat back down, “I guess if you favor men, the animals here didn’t have to petition for marriage laws to be amended, huh?”

”Correct.” the lion replied.

“Though some thought I was … ironically … being ‘biased.’ Oh well. Can’t help that. Royal power is absolute, for better or worse. I’ve traveled to other nations and, during debates, have suggested that they not use the term ‘marriage’ as I have. Law is, at least in some peoples’ opinions, supposed to be ‘secular,’ and not ‘religious,’ anyway, so why cling to a specific term that isn’t? Simply afford all the exact same rights to civil unions or domestic partnerships. Or make up a third designation. Much easier to get it passed that way. Bypasses a whole lot of entrenched resistance. People can hash out in their own communities what to do with the non-legal angles and rituals and what to call it. But for a ‘marriage’ certificate? What, after all, is a rhetorical difference, in the end?” the diplomat and statesman snapped his fingers. “And like that, less angst for absolutely everyone involved. It’s not always that easy to reconcile or find middle ground. I can’t think of practically any other issues where simply altering one single word could have that effect. Despite a couple of decades worth of rhetorical experience under my belt.”

He sat back, and interlaced his paws contentedly. “Some countries insisted they were still going to adjust tax breaks because of the very unlikely event of children. Unless surrogates are involved, and properly registered as such, to try to avoid wrangling over child custody. That’s a whole other kettle of fish to get into, obviously.”

She nodded. “Well like Mao said, I’m not here to talk politics. Let’s hear your fantasies about the most important day of your life!”

The badger shook his head. “Well it’s not like that for everyone, but don’t get me wrong, I wanna hear, too!” he said excitedly.

“Erm … “ the lion looked down.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“It’s just … I’m more enthusiastic about the idea than Mao, but I’m still a long way off from that myself. So, I don’t want to insult you by making you think I’m further along, just because I have envisioned a marriage … regardless of who the groom is.”

She frowned a little, thinking. “All right then.”

“But I would love to hear about some of your customs, in that event.”

Her face fell some more. “I’m not sure that would be a good idea.”

“Oh?”

“The homeland, though the majority is plenty accepting of pairing in general, has not approved marriage between men,” she said, “so any customs you applied to each other or one of you … might be seen as disrespectful. For example. Would Mao dress as the woman, since he’s chosen to sub? Not only do I think he would never, ever do that …” she looked at the badger for confirmation.

He shook his head, “Oh most definitely not.” He thought for a second. “Maybe that’s why he got up out of here, for that matter. He thought we were gonna suggest doing that. We’ve been to weddings like that. Again, a little like misgendering, no? Even in the rare cases where he gets a mind for it, he’s not at all like a typical sub.”

The badger paused.

“He doesn’t really fit in when I would hang out with other subs. One panda I met just could not wrap his mind around Mao. It was kinda funny. Irritating for him, though. I would be totally down for dressing like the female counterpart in a wedding, if it were me. I’ve pictured it both ways. Maybe even a costume change in the middle?” he waggled his eyebrows. “Or whatever my partner wanted? If a polar bear gave me any direction I’d melt under his strong paw,” his gaze unfocused, and he hummed appreciatively. “Tuxedo? Coming right up. What color? What style? White wool tunic and stole, as is customary for you big guy? I’ll match you! Usus? My Ursus. My dear ursine. Coemptio? Confarreati? Gown? Dress? You got it, my bae bear. I’m male, sure, but a lot more loosey-goosey in that way. But. It’s not me.”

He sighed romantically.

“If I understand Mao,” the lion said slowly, “in general, he’s less sentimental, at the very least in expression, so maybe it’s simply that he doesn’t get as wrapped up in it as you or I would.”

The badger shrugged.

“Also, women tend to get more excited about wedding planning. Not a hard and fast rule of course, but I think we’ve established that you and I have a lot more in common with women, so it makes sense we’d be more enamored, even if it didn’t necessarily need to be that way.”

The badger slapped his forehead. “Oh yeah, wow. How could I not think of that!” He put his paw down and gestured towards her. “I mean this whole conversation we've had a vibe and Mao has seemed the odd one out, gender wise, but I didn’t consider that.”

The badger went on, “Even without a wedding on the table, which is usually headed up by women in this part of the world, it’s often awkward in the first place for a typical guy to be in a room with all women and vice versa … so this visit has kinda been like that for him, I think. I mean, Mao’s always eager enough to go to a wedding, excited about hitting on and dancing with some ladies, and all, but that doesn’t mean he’d necessarily enjoy planning one. He might even leave it all up to you even if he was totally ready for it!”

The three femme animals spent the next few hours discussing flower arrangements, color palettes, the band of tolerant aristocracy he would invite, and who among the clan would approve enough to come. That was hard for the sister to get through, as she thought of those she loved who would refuse to give their blessing and ‘miss all the fun.’

8. Self-Acceptance

Mao threw up his hands in exasperation. “This was different than anything anybody knew of. Other clans’ elders who had wielders hurt badly were brought in to consult. We wielders can be slammed around by dragons, can be thrown into the ground and make craters, and walk away. With lesser wielders, bruises could be shrugged off and healed. But SOMEHOW, the universe had, like a homing pigeon bent on mouse’s blood, found one little chink in our armor. . . . Delicate tails aren’t resistant enough to damage to withstand direct crush force. Some of the visiting canine elders spoke of a time when groups of semi-sapient non-magical hunting dogs had their flowing, floppy ears or long tails surgically cropped to keep them from injuring themselves on hunts. To potentially avoid something like this happening again … by cave-ins, like mine, by boulders hurled by some types of dragons, even just being stepped on by a dragon big enough … Should all wielder animals, intending to fight these beasts … should every species with long tails start doing this removal with our children, they asked? With consent, of course. Like removing tonsils or primates removing the appendix? Lizards probably couldn’t do it, because their slanted gait was too dependent and their tails too heavy. So maybe just the tips? Surely the thicker parts of their tails withstand something like this? They asked. The elders of felines and canines and rodents and otters … the later they waited to dock tails in a trainee’s life, the more they would have to adjust to the missing counterbalance just as I was. They swarmed me and questioned me about it relentlessly. They were asking among themselves … What age would this terrible offered choice be appropriate?”

His green eyes widened in horror at these questions. As if he needed any more psychological stress after being temporarily crippled, he seemed to have altered the entire course of history with the way clans viewed preparation for wielder heroes.

“Inwardly, I felt like …” he once again tried to force the words out he had started before. “I felt like I was causing an implosion of the whole clan. The tranquil meditation spaces were overrun with visitors. Children still hid from me. Our elders argued over whether they should move me for the duration of my recovery, from the clan’s circle. They argued over what to do about the little ones. But didn’t I deserve to feel safe, too? Of course I was ripping everyone apart! It was what always happened when I was around! When we were all younger, and my sisters occasionally came to my defense from one another or dad, I felt it was somehow my fault they argued, too.”

Even if the elders made these new procedures for children voluntary, he would still be virtually ‘responsible’ for possibly unneeded selective surgical alteration of innocents.

“Blue says that’s common, for bullied children to feel like it’s their fault.”

He looked towards the door, probably thinking of the dog’s unruffled voice of reason.

“I try to listen to him. I try to like myself. B-but I … it seemed l-like my family w-was disintegrating because of m-m-me. And my stupid ‘mistake.’ The whole world of wielders, even! Sometimes it still does, when they visit …! Arguing over father’s treatment of me. Remember when my sister said she wasn’t sure starting arguments over lesser wielders was worth unsettling future heroes? Now imagine what I was thinking when the little ones didn’t feel safe in the circle of the clan because of me. I was drowning in self-blame and the only way I felt I could escape it was to work harder, push myself more, and get away from there.”

Could Blue even help him out of this? The lion pictured him like a seeing eye dog this time, trying for all the world to lead the black cat out of such darkness.

Bonus:

From my second story, Outnumbered. Tanya sashayed around the red-caped cat. “Hello Mittens.” “Tanya I swear if you do not stop calling me that, I’m going to use the wrong pronouns for you,” the cat threatened. “Touchy, touchy,” the tanuki tutted teasingly, but her normally chipper attitude got a dent in it. “As if that’s an even trade, anyway.” The masculine magic cat said gruffly, “Maybe not. But I’m tired of you mocking me without consequences. Just because that’s the only thing that ever gets under your skin is no fault of mine. Perky little miss.” She rolled her eyes. “So, you try to make gendering me correctly even sound derogatory. No wonder I broke up with you.” The cat’s fists tightened, but he spoke cooly. “If you can’t handle all this. I’ll just find someone who can.”

“Like the king you’re serving as a bodyguard to?” the fox-like animal said in a silken tone. “The only kind of lion with no birth mane. Are you a chaser, you dog?” “First off. No. How dare you. Targeting gender non-conforming animals may not be officially dishonorable, but as a concept, it is,” the samurai bristled, “We’re not involved, and we’re never going to be. We’re not attracted to each other, as my nose could clearly tell if he was. Second of all. Since when do you have something against dogs?” “It’s an expression.” “An expression that’s derogatory towards dogs,” the cat sneered. “I can’t imagine the blue therapist dog could be less like that. It’s like ‘sexist pig.’ The yellow pig back in Pure Heart would be crushed if he ever heard someone utter it. Yet outside that nice little paradise, it’s a common saying. King Snugglemagne is having to adjust mightily to the outside world. You may be used to it, steeped in it, but for magic’s sake, stop teasing him about it.” “Oh, a king can’t take a little hardship?” she said lazily. “Of course not, he’s been ensconced in his fancy-pants palace. Now that he has an idea of how it is for everyone else, he crumples at the slightest trouble. Sorry I can’t muster up enough energy to care.” “You should care. Given that he has the same problems you do.” “With pronouns? Puh. Since I’m a roaming outlaw,” the orange animal said flouncily, “I don’t expect either other crooks or enforcers I encounter to respect that my gender doesn’t match my body’s smell. The former doesn’t even respect the law, so why should I take that personally? And the latter are more focused on getting me behind bars. So, no, not my problem. Too much of a bother.” “If you settled down, and got a respectable job,” the cat pointed out, “Established yourself as a constant presence, people would probably collectively accept you.” She laughed derisively. “Oh no, I value my freedom far more than that, Mi-” she swallowed back the nickname. He laughed just as derisively. “I see you do value my word on the matter, though,” he said suggestively. “Are you just not as tough as you make out, or do you still harbor some feelings for me, my sweet little illusionist?”

She opened her mouth, but then shut it again.

“You slippery mirage master,” he said “you do, don’t you?”

He paused. “Hm. ‘Master,’ maybe I should say ‘Mistress’?” he amended. “There’s . . . really no good choice there,” she chuckled hesitantly. “There are ‘Head Mistresses’ at some schools in Snugglemagne’s kingdom,” the cat pointed out.

“Yes but . . . still has connotations. I don’t break the law that way,” she said, normally carefree attitude wobbling. “Even I have standards.”

“Hasn't stopped you from dangling the offer to get what you want,” he said.

She blushed.

“Yeah, word gets around,” he went on blithely as she uncomfortably gripped one of her arms. “Don't know why I should be surprised that playing with hearts isn't beneath you. But more to the point. I know you’re ultimately reasonably principled in that arena, if really flirty. You ever want to get back together, babe, the invitation is open,” he winked.

“And endure your jealous behavior again? I think not. I’ll file that away with other useless knowledge,” she said icily.

“Oh that’s not like you,” he said in a low baritone. “You’re sweet to everyone, even if they can’t catch the mocking tone sometimes.” “Not everyone’s as smart as you, cupcake.” He looked caught off guard by the compliment. “She brushed her fingers under his chin. “I guess you’ll just have to miss me.”

She somersaulted away from him, waving goodbye and blowing a kiss. He said under his breath, “As if I’d ever misgender you. You may play a lot of mind games, love, but you didn’t catch that bluff.”

Comic page: https://metellastella.tumblr.com/post/621837213819437056/mao-maos-specific-trigger-should-not-be First chapter of Piercing the Swordsman https://metellastella.tumblr.com/post/617045879413719040/piercing-the-swordsman-chapter-1

@beesechurguer @king-himbo

#maomaosprideweek2020 #mao mao heroes of pure heart #mao mao snugglemagne #snugglemao #badgerclops #mao mao sisters #fanfiction #LGBT Pride Month #piercingtheswordsman

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frankincenseisnotamonster · 4 years

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The Finish Line

EXPECT IT!

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

DEETS:

Today is the day we put things to rest.

Let the old demons die,

Let sleeping dogs lie.

So this is it. We did. Come hell or high water. And we really have been experiencing hellfire haven’t we all. Literal fires, and figurative fires. Its not easy to walk through flame, it is harder still to walk through flames and not be burned. Let us bask in knowing that if we are here, we are whole.

I had my last guitar battle on Saturday, the day before my birthday amongst friends who have been there for all the guitar battles and all the personal battles before that. Even in smoke, even in fire, my friends and loved ones, present and virtual came to gather round in our world now made camp fire.

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

I won. But what really is “winning” anyway. Is winning feeling better than someone else? Is winning learning a cool new lick on guitar? Is winning everyone voting for you? Is winning doing your best? Is winning just showing up?

Now at the end, after all the shenanigans, all the smiles, all the plotting, all the practicing and ruminating, I wonder, was it even a competition? And who really wins?

Winning is cool, and winning is good for me to work toward, but I didn’t do the battles to win.

I did the battles to battle myself and all the ways I had twisted up in self-sabotage and betrayal, setting myself up to fail constantly, and its not so much that I did fail but that I always “thought” I was.

I hope if folks look closely, or even look at all, they see what I see and know what I know, I did the battles, every guitar battle as an expression of pure self-love and healing, an unabashed (although I can be very abashed) display of what I thought, who I am and what I was, and most important who I could be. I won for myself, a vision of me being something else than what I thought I was.

I think I win, but not because of “winning the guitar battles”. All that I won was myself, the harder battle and the real one underneath, of learning to love and like myself.

I haven’t become amazing at guitar, or done a lot of cool shows were I stage dive into the audience, but I’ve met new people and been able to tell I resonate with them. I’ve reconnected with people from the past and realized there not for me. I’ve been hurt and hurt others. Similar to this new anime I adore, called K-ON, that is about a club that meets after school to eat and be in a band; I spent most of my time dreaming, and eating treats and snoozing probably a good deal more than I spent playing guitar.

The thing I love the most about picking up guitar and doing this strange and silly performance ritual has been all new fun memories with my friends I’ve made. And if I am being deeply honest, thats probably what I wanted most. I saw these other guys, something outside myself bringing folks together through music. I caught that love, and then I caught something more, or found something more in me, which was the dark, the envy the shadow.

The shadow is a special part. Its the part that made me keep practicing even if I thought it was a lost cause. Its the part that kept me feisty and petty with my rivals, I hope just enough to make it fun! Its the part that needed answers, needed to be seen, needed to be liked. But there was only one person that could really give love to my shadow and that was me. I had some pain inside me and I couldn’t even really say truly where it came from. What I found healing was acknowledging it existed, that even with my love of psychology and astrology, I still found it hard to give myself grace, to say its okay to make mistakes, its okay to be selfish sometimes, its okay to be wrong, its okay to be bad, its okay to just be.

So many times I have let things change me and sometimes there’s just no stopping that. But when I play guitar or make art, I’m shaping my own change. Octavia Butler says, god is change, but also we can also shape change. We can future cast, and we have to.

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

I was listening to a podcast recently with Amanda Seals and Sonya Renee Taylor and they noted something so beautiful to me, “compassion and kindness can exist in the same space as honesty and truth”. I love this so deeply, through out my whole body. Truth doesn’t have to hurt and honestly doesn’t have to wound you. The guitar battles were my way of telling the truth in the most compassionate way that I could tell it, especially to myself.

They were a manifestation of what I believe, which is that fighting the power can be fun, saying hard things can happen with whimsy and joy, and you can do little things all the time to shape change and embody the love you want to see for everyone, by loving yourself, and the ladies of you know I had to add that in lol! ^,^

I haven’t always follow my own rules, or stuck to how I intended to do this whole thing, but thank you thank you to my lovely folks, my friends, my family, my bandmate, and my community thank you thank you (deep bows) for your ear, your time, checking in, looking out for me, hosting my battles, sharing my struggles, adjusting cameras and filming, contributing, joking and laughing, celebrating and being thank you thank you.

Through this whole process, I wanted to change and now in some ways I have. Its not my business what people think of me, but it is my business what I think of myself. I don’t need to be the protagonist of my story.

I hope there will be more challenges more strange adventure to go on. Sometimes I almost love the adventure itself, more than anything else. All I ask is that I have a fun story, and maybe one with a little adventure, a little whimsy, and atonement mixed in.

3 times over 3 times under I release my old stories. I love them for what they made me, And now may I let in something new.

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

UPDATES

Im done play with the big boys now! To all my rivals I’ll catch you on the flip side.

I learned enter the sandman or some of it and it may not seem like a big deal, but y’all when I feel the power when I play it I gotta say! So today I make a promise and I don’t always like promises, as they are hard to keep. But if I cold promise anything ever, I would promise this:

Even if it takes everything in me, until my very last breath, I am going to shred so hard FOR THE LADIES. HUZZAH!

youtube

#staylazystaycrazy

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thelanternlight · 3 years

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Witchy Asks!

Hello fellow witches! Here’s 50 Witchy Asks written by the-lunar-vixen. Please follow if you enjoy them. Blessed be!

1 What type of witch are you?

A gay one.

2 What deities do you like to work with, if any?

Angels, faery, guides, Mother God, Father God, Christ, saints, and ancestors. I'll also work with deities from various religions as they pertain to a spell or ritual (e.g. I may work with Hathor for a love spell).

3 Have you ever created your own spell?

Absolutely, most of the spellwork I do is original at least to some extent.

4 What’s your favorite time of year?

All the year is beautiful and wonderful for a myriad of reasons but Springtime is sacred to me.

5 Do you have a witch you look up to?

I think I have teachers that come and go in my life. They can be famous or not famous, witches or not, etc. Currently I'm loving Ember Honeyraven.

6 What makes you feel powerful?

Balance and freedom. Knowing that I'm on the side of what's good and right.

7 Do you have a favorite myth?

I'm an author and storyteller so I have many, many favorite myths. Off the top of my head I love the stories of Medusa, Apollo, the Christian Creation myth, Germanic and Scandinavian folklore, Anansi and his stories, Arthurian legends... the list goes on, but yes I LOVE stories. I think have so much meaning and wisdom to share.

8 Which famous/fantasy witch do you relate to the most?

I've grown up watching witches in movies, television, reading about them, etc so I've related to witches one way or another since day one. The Charmed Ones (all four) were role models for me when there were no role models for little, effeminate weirdos like myself as a child. The Sanderson Sisters were person heroes to me and I tried to emulate them from the very first time I saw the film; in fact those three are perhaps the original witches with whom I related the most. Since then there have been SO many wonderful characters in entertainment and in real life that inspired me so incredibly much that they've become a part of me.

9 Are you a wiccan?

I am not.

10 What’s the most unique item you’ve ever used in a spell?

I guess a dildo? I think 'unique' is a relative term.

11 Do you own any witchy books?

Apart from my personal book of spells I've owned many books on witchcraft but have parted ways with the majority of them. I'm currently trying to downsize the amount I have currently as it happens. Anybody want some free books?

12 Which misconception about witches annoys you the most?

That magic isn't real and this is all nonsense. I think it's especially irritating when people of other faiths criticize my own as if a prayer is anything different from an incantation. In fact I would argue that spells direct energy in a more concentrated way to affect change than simply petitioning a deity.

13 Have you ever created your own sigil?

You bet. Sometimes you just need something original and unique for the rite/spell.

14 What element are you most drawn to?

Water.

15 Do you have a familiar?

Some people use the word "familiar" interchangeably with "pet". I do have a pet but she's not my familiar. Other people define "familiar" as "spirit animal" which I'm not entirely sure is correct either. I'm in a bit of a gray area on this subject, but I see question 17 below touches on it as well.

16 Are you a part of a coven?

No. I've tried working with others to do magic but I think the synergy/chemistry has to REALLY be on point to do effective magic. Very often there's a clash of philosophies or practice that sort of spoils things all too easily whereas working alone allows me to concentrate so much better.

17 What’s your spirit animal?

Again this is a vague term that means different things to different people. I consider my spirit animal to be more or less my "familiar". When I was younger I was walking in the woods one evening praying really hard about something that was weighing very heavily on me. Then suddenly I looked up and there was this gorgeous and perfectly white stag looking back at me. He stood there for quite a while before slowly walking off again and the whole situation had such a profound sense of meaning to it. I saw the stag a few more times until finally, late one night while I was walking through the woods by a lake under the glow of a bright full moon I saw the stag one last time on the far side of the water. Ever since then the white stag has been sacred to me. So that's what I consider my spirit animal/familiar. It's a guide of sorts, a good omen, a sign, a representation of Spirit/Soul/God-energy and Self. I identify with it. So that's my spirit animal.

18 Do you do tarot readings?

I do indeed!

19 What’s your favorite witch movie?

I have several, but Hocus Pocus has been my favorite since I was a wee tot.

20 How many crystal do you have?

I actually don't really know. I don't go out and buy crystals but sometimes they come into my life and then go when they've served their purpose. For example, I had a beautiful large quartz that my grandmother had bought me from the nature store when I was a kid. I loved it so much. But one Halloween night I was doing a ritual with a friend of mine in the woods and ended up losing it. Interestingly, that friend was pursuing me romantically unbeknownst to me while also hooking up with the guy I was hooking up with and also really liked (ugh, gay culture). And during that ritual I was speaking with my grandfather (husband to the grandmother who bought me the quartz that I lost that night). So what does all that mean? I have no idea. But I figured all things considered maybe it was just time to let that thing go, along with other things that night.

21 What’s the most unique item on your altar?

I don't really have the privacy to set up an altar but generally I like my "work area" to be neat. Everything has a purpose and a meaning and a function. If I need to burn something I have the item/items, the cauldron, the lighter, oils, and anything else needed for what I'm doing. So nothing in particular stands out as "unique"... unless... Well I do have a small copper cauldron with a handful of dirt from my grandmother's house that I've kept for almost twenty years now. I guess that's unique?

22 Have you ever enchanted anything?

Oh god, yes, lots of things. I've enchanted things so as to protect them, or so that the item will protect someone else or some place... I've enchanted things for love, or to keep something or someone away. I've enchanted things to help in a greater ritual or spell. And so on.

23 What’s your religion?

I was raised Christian Baptist but following one horrible experience after another I've absolutely left that faith well behind long ago. I don't have a particular religion in the sense of organized religion. I'm spiritual and I cast spells. I also believe in science. I don't call myself a witch but I do everything a witch does.

24 Do you have a favorite crystal?

"I could no sooner choose a favorite star in the heavens".

25 What are some of your favorite spells?

Oooo I'd have to say I'm rather partial to love magic. I'm particularly good at it too.

26 What do you like to do to cleanse your space?

After physically cleaning a space I like to use the Violet Fire to cleanse an area as well as cleansing using a broom and a wand and/or athame.

27 When do you feel the most powerful?

When nature and I have our little moments. When the wind is warm and strong. When I'm out in a storm. When I can "feel" things growing during the Spring. The silence of a frozen winter night in the woods... Also when I'm cooking. I fucking LOVE charging a pot of boiling ingredients with good juju.

28 Do other people know you’re a witch?

A few people close to me know I practice witchcraft. Others think I'm just a little bit daffy.

29 Has one of your spells ever gone wrong?

Definitely. Mostly when I was still learning and practicing. Like this one time in sixth grade I cast a spell so that a popular girl in school would like me and we could start dating. Obviously since I was gay I didn't really want to be with her, I only did it because I wanted to be cool (although I did like her and we ended up being fairly good friends until we went to different high schools). That spell backfired and I ended up 1. not getting the result I intended because I was doing it for the wrong reason and simultaneously trying to force another to do something against her will, and 2. I ended up having one shitty fucking love life for the longest time.

30 What outfit makes you feel the most witchy?

Oh I love me a good cape. Even just walking around with a long blanket around me.

31 Have you ever tried astral projection?

Yes, successfully, several times. I like to use it for meditation. Often I go to the artic sea where there's just ocean, ice, and darkness.

32 Do you have any enchanted jewelry?

Probably.

33 What does your altar look like?

A space on the floor where I cast a circle and set up my stuff.

34 Have you ever seen a spirit?

YES! I've seen fairies, spirits, ghosts, shadows, sparks, heard voices, etc.

35 What’s your favorite spell sachet?

I can't say that I have one.

36 Do you have a favorite sigil?

I'm especially fond of the Sigil of Venus.

37 What’s your astrological sign?

Sun sign Virgo, Rising Pisces, Moon in Sagittarius

38 Have you ever interacted with a deity?

Well, yes, of course... per the previous questions.

39 What color are you most drawn to?

Purple.

40 Do you believe in past lives?

Without a doubt.

41 Where do you like to practice your craft?

Wherever I have privacy and calm.

42 What’s your favorite season?

Springtime, as mentioned previously.

43 Have you ever cursed someone?

That's not what my magic is for. Yes I'm familiar with the how-to, but no I don't partake in that kind of thing. The "worst" I've ever done is cast binding spells to keep someone from harming me and/or even coming into my presence.

44 How long have you been a practicing witch?

I'm telling on myself now but I'd say about 24 years practicing in earnest.

45 What drew you to witchcraft?

A natural inclination.

46 In what moon phase do you feel the most powerful?

The Moon itself does not change with the phases of its shadow. The phases are representational, of course, and its symbology can be evocative and meaningful, but otherwise the Moon is what it is. Therefore I'd have to say I personally feel most connected or at least most aware of the Moon when it's full. Else, I would say when it's waxing as that's when most of my spells are done simply because of the type of spell I usually work.

47 What’s your favorite holiday?

Wisterlimas, and then Halloween. Although I love all the holidays.

48 Do you know anything about your past lives? (if you believe in them!)

Yes, wow, I've done extensive work on discovering my past lives. I've lived in San Francisco at the turn of the century, in Scotland, England, France, Japan, China, as a woman, as a man... It's all very fascinating but you can't delve too deep because it's simply not necessary. You're not really *supposed* to know about your past lives. That defeats the purpose of the great forgetting once you're reincarnated. Yes, you can revisit the major themes and lessons learned, but one shouldn't really fret too much about what happened in the past.

49 Have you ever done an energy reading?

Certainly. I think most people do energy readings even when they don't know they're doing it. There's "reading the room" or "getting a bad vibe". There's also reiki and the like. And healing work. And of course magic is all about directing energy so to achieve a specific goal.

50 What time of day do you like to practice your craft?

Usually at night but it has more to do with the individual spell. Astronomical positioning is also important as well as weather, season, personal mood, day of the week, et al.

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thedeevirus · 4 years

Note

Sugar daddy AU, except the opposite of what people normally do. Edward is the rich, older man and Oswald is the young boyfriend.

Professor Ed Nygma is set up with a ‘sugar baby’ by his Gotham U colleague Professor Kristen Kringle but things don’t go according to plan…

Added to Nygmobblepot Ficlets on AO3

Hope you enjoy! But no prizes for knowing which song they’re playing on the piano LOL

***

‘Eddie?’

‘Huh?’

Ed flicked the whistling kettle off and Kristen obligingly repeated what he had missed.

‘I said, “I’m really sorry the date with Isabella didn’t work out”’.

Ed shrugged offhandedly as he sat beside Kristen on his couch. The weekly ritual of ‘Tuesday Tea Time’ after work at his apartment was somehow cleansing after the uncomfortable atmosphere of the previous evening. It had been the latest in a long line of blind dates Kristen had arranged for him. One of the only aspects of cold comfort was that it had been far from the worst one. Another was that his attempts at romance had, so far, stayed out of the vortex of campus gossip.

‘Me too’, Ed said, offering her a cookie, ‘It was just too weird’.

Kristen dunked the cookie in her tea, shaking her head.

‘Yeah, maybe not the best week for my darling sister to experiment with red hair dye or forget her contact lenses’. She held up the gingerbread man,nodded in approval at the creamy afro she had given it and bit its head off. ‘Unless she did it on purpose to mess with you. Wouldn’t be the first time come to think of it’.

‘Funny, she never mentioned that’.

‘Does she really wear it better? Be honest’.

‘Wait, you’re not a natural redhead?’ Ed said, hand held to his chest, aghast, ‘What other dark secrets are you hiding from me Professor Kringle?’

‘Very funny Professor Nygma’, Kristen said, chomping down hard on the cookie’s disembodied legs.

‘Anyway’, Ed said, ‘How are you doing on the romance front?’

‘Um, good’, Kristen smiled conspiratorially.

Ed raised an eyebrow and Kristen flashed an ‘ok’ sign with her fingers.

‘Very good actually’, she said with a cheeky wink.

‘Intriguing’, Ed smirked, ‘Anyone I know?’

‘Nope but he did have a friend I thought would be perfect for you’.

‘Really? Right now I’d settle for someone to take an extra concert ticket off my hands’.

‘I’m really sure this time! Can feel it in my gut!’

Ed laughed at Kristen’s sudden fervour.

‘Okay, okay!’ he said, resigning himself to yet another of Kristen’s attempts at matchmaking, ‘What are they like?’

‘You’ll see’.

‘Wait what’s that supposed to m-?’

The sound of the doorbell interrupted his sentence.

‘Oh jeepers look at the time!’ Kristen suddenly cried.

‘Kristen?’ Ed asked, instantly realising the doorbell and Kristen hastily grabbing her bag were connected, ‘What’s going on?’

‘Nothing Eddie! I’m just dandy! Just need to head home and,uh…’

‘Think of an excuse for why you’re suddenly rushing out of my apartment?’ Ed deadpanned.

‘Exactly!’ she said brightly, pulling on her coat, ‘I’ll see you in the cafeteria tomorrow as usual breakfast buddy! Bye!’

She opened the front door and swept into the hallway like a tornado. Ed went to the door and was able to overhear a few seconds of barely audible conversation on the other side before he opened it. A young man dressed in a smart black suit was waiting outside, hand raised as if prepared to knock. To his credit, he recovered well.

‘Hello Mr Nygma’, the young man said, ‘My name is Oswald. I believe you’re expecting me?’

Ed, suddenly confronted with Kristen’s latest machination straight out of the 50’s sitcoms she enjoyed, decided he would also attempt a good recovery.

‘I suppose so’, he smiled and opened the door wide, ‘Please, come in’.

Oswald entered the apartment and Ed closed the door behind him.

‘Can I get you something to drink or…?’ Ed began but trailed off when he turned around.

Oswald was undoing his bow tie and licking his lips.

‘No thank you’, he said breathlessly, ‘B-but I would love something to…eat’.

As Oswald approached, hips swaying suggestively, Ed backed up against the door. Not out of fear but utter disbelief. When his supposedly massive intellect failed to provide him with a counter strategy to Oswald advancing on his position, he simply went to the source.

‘What are you doing?’ he asked.

Oswald halted, brow furrowed. Ed relaxed, about to proceed with followup enquiries but Oswald’s confusion did not last long.

‘Oh?’ Oswald said, lustful expression slipping effortlessly back onto his face, ‘Would you prefer things this way?’

He took hold of Ed’s limp hands and fixed them to his shirt. He abruptly pulled his arms apart, causing the shirt to tear open. Ed was begrudgingly impressed that not a single button popped off.

‘Heck yes I would’, Ed bluffed, moving his hands to Oswald’s shoulders.

Oswald’s eyes darted to Ed’s hands and now Ed was sure. Oswald’s demeanour was a front. He didn’t want to be here any more than Ed had been expecting him. But then why was he here by Kristen’s invitation?

‘Then…give it to me. R-right now!’

Ed bit back a laugh. What Oswald had intended as an order had come out sounding more like a child throwing a tantrum. It was oddly endearing how hard he was trying to be someone he wasn’t. Ed could sympathise with the smokescreen.

‘Give it to you?’ Ed asked, ‘Is that what you want? Really?’

‘It’s all I want’, Oswald begged, half-hooded eyelids fluttering, ‘Please, please, give it to me. Please. Please’.

Ed held up a hand to silence the increasingly frantic litany of ‘pleases’. It was time to put them both out of their collective misery.

‘You’re not gonna blink are you?’ Ed sighed.

‘Y-you mean close my eyes?’

‘No. Come on, let’s have some tea. And button your shirt’.

‘I am so embarrassed right now’.

Oswald’s head rose from where it had been resting in his hands to nod gratefully for the mug of tea Ed was offering.

‘Nothing to be embarrassed about’, Ed said reassuringly, pouring milk into his own cup, ‘I really was tempted for a minute. It’s, uh, been a while. I just didn’t realise Kristen knew that. Humbling’.

He cleared his throat as he sat down at the kitchen table, across from Oswald.

‘So what stopped you?’ Oswald asked.

‘How uncomfortable you were’.

Oswald rubbed the back of his head, discomfited. Ed offered him one of the gingerbread cookies as consolation. Oswald took it and dunked it head first. Ed wondered if Kirsten chose all of his prospective romantic partners by comparing how they dunked their cookies compared to her.

‘I’m really sorry for wasting your time’, Oswald sighed.

‘Don’t worry, you’re not. We may as well use the time Kristen paid you for. She saw your ad in the library?’

‘The agency’s got them up all over Gotham U’s campus. Prime recruitment ground’.

‘I never noticed’.

‘Think we’ve established you weren’t looking’.

‘Do you always come on that strong to clients?’

‘Actually, it’s, uh, my first day. I work as a waiter and a friend told me being a sugar baby was a good way to make extra cash’.

‘A what?’

‘You heard the first time’, Oswald sighed, eyes closing resignedly.

‘Like a-’ Ed halted for a second until he found an appropriately polite turn of phrase. ’-‘companion’ for hire?’

‘People hire them…us for all kinds of things’, Oswald shrugged, ‘Your friend Ms Kringle called and said to make you ‘feel special’ so I tried my best’.

‘Not into men?’

Oswald’s fingers drummed on the sides of his cup.

‘Not into anything actually. I thought it would be an advantage. That it would make the ‘hard core’ stuff easier but it didn’t. Not that you’re not aesthetically pleasing!’

‘Thanks’, Ed chuckled, waving a hand to show he was not offended.

‘No, thank you’, Oswald said sincerely, ‘I’ll refund this session when I get home. I don’t think I’m cut out for this line of work’.

‘Why?’ Ed said gently, ‘I’m getting exactly what I needed’.

‘But…we’re just talking’.

‘Kirsten’s an excellent lecturer in Library Sciences, an even better friend (albeit an overconfident matchmaker) but she’s always so busy and we don’t have the same hobbies. That’s great, don’t get me wrong, it’s good that people are different but sometimes I would just like to share my more intimate interests with someone’.

‘I thought this was going too well’, Oswald said with mock apprehension, ‘This is when you show me your sex dungeon, isn’t it?’

Ed burst out laughing. Oswald was proving to be full of surprises.

‘Much more mundane than that’, Ed said, ‘Not that you’ll be disappointed at the lack of one. Do you play video games?’

‘Not many’, Oswald admitted, ‘They’re an expensive habit’.

Ed indicated the piano against the far wall and asked, ‘What about music?’

Oswald sat down and pressed a key with one long finger.

‘My mother taught me but I’m a bit out of practice’.

Ed sat beside him, positioned both hands over the keys and began to play one of the tunes scheduled for the concert that weekend. After only a few notes, Oswald nodded in recognition.

‘I actually know this one’.

‘Jump in whenever you like’, Ed invited.

Oswald obliged immediately and Ed’s jaw dropped at the nimble harmony joining his own. He had never played with anyone before and as Oswald began to softly sing along, he thought he could get used to doing it more often.

‘It’s hard to let it go…’

Oswald trailed off as their fingers brushed against each other. Ed swallowed at the way Oswald’s pale cheeks coloured beneath his glass green eyes. Ed slowly stopped playing, letting the song come to an organic end as Oswald clasped both hands in his lap thoughtfully. It was strange. Oswald was a little older than his university students but sometimes he could seem so vulnerable.

‘You’re not that much out of practice’, Ed said.

‘You teach music?’ Oswald asked.

‘Forensic science. Very different ivories’.

He swelled with pride when the joke got a genuine laugh from Oswald. All it usually got was bemused confusion or ‘dadjoke’ groans from his students. It was so nice to see him relaxed. Ed’s eyes drifted to the tickets resting on top of the piano and, emboldened by how well things were going on this ‘not date’, he made the offer.

‘Do you feel like taking in a concert this weekend?’ Ed asked, ‘It’s the Gotham Symphony. On the clock of course’.

‘You mean it?’

‘I insist on it. Meet me here at six and I’ll include dinner before we head out, sound good?’

Oswald sniffed hard.

‘Dinner and a show sounds great Mr Nygma’, he replied.

‘Please, call me Ed’.

‘The customer’s always right, Ed’.

#nygmobblepot #nygmobblepot ficlet #edward nygma #Oswald Cobblepot #sugar daddy au

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ralfstrashcan · 4 years

Text

Fire Messages

A (long long long, let's not talk about it) while ago the dear @toughpaperround asked me about my thoughts on fire messages... and here they finally are.

Like most things in Shadowhunters fire messages come in two styles (other examples are portals, swords and runes) because at some point they experienced a random visual makeover. Both designs raise different questions and I'll get to those in a moment. First though it's interesting to note that the appearance of a fire message doesn't seem to depend on whether it's created by a shadowhunter or a warlock. On that note, are other downworlders able to create fire messages as well? Since shadowhunters operate them with their steles and warlocks with magic? I guess seelies should be able to as well since they also have magic (though they seem to prefere their nature-birds-leaves-whispering-on-the-wind way of communication). But what about vampires and werewolves? I don't recall either of thoses species ever sending a fire message on-screen, though it might have been mentioned at some point that one of them did, and I forgot. In any case I find it intriguing/ridiculous that fire messages look the same regardless of who creates them. Angelic energy and demonic magic don't really operate in similar ways so why would their fire messages look alike? Distinctive appearances like with the portals would make more sense.

Moving on to the first style! As far as I remember this style can only be spied once in the series, namely at the end of 1x06 when Izzy breaks things off with Meliorn

Which, now that I'm thinking about it, isn't that the shadow world equivalent of breaking up via text? Rude, Izzy. Anyway! The rune she draws at the bottom of the paper

is, as the trained eye immediately sees

Next, the paper goes up in flames

and Izzy lets go of it so she doesn't burn her fingers. Not a trace of the paper is left afterwards.

I think it's pretty safe to assume that the fire message burns into existence in midair wherever Meliorn is at this moment in time. Which... is probably the seelie realm? So can fire messages just travel between realms no big deal? Imagine the possibilities! Asmodeus could be bothering Magnus all day! Lilith could be terrorizing all Clave members via fire message harassment! This is hilarious XD

I have questions though! 1) How does the fire message know a) who the recipient is and b) where the recipient is? Canon never addresses or indicates either of those things so there's literally nothing to go off of. Re a): To me it seems most reasonable that the sender focuses on the person they want the message to receive while sending the message off via rune or magic. It's unlikely that writing the name on the paper alone determines the recipient because i) there exist people who share names and ii) you couldn't mention anyone in your fire message without accidentally cc-ing them, which, impractical and awkward. So intent seems the most plausible thing. Which in turn begs the question if you can mass-message people if you think of more than one person while sending? Probably not. In canon Magnus messages each warlock individually about that ritual he wants to try in 3x09. Might have been for courtesy's sake, so he can address every warlock individually with name but seems unlikely since he was under time pressure. Aside from that this would imply miraculous paper replication and physics says no. Re b): No way. This makes no sense whatsoever except when fire message magic is the ultimate omniscient might that can track anyone anytime anywhere. And if that power really existed in the world then how come no one has used it to currupt everything? Surely if you can access this pool of knowledge to send innocent little breakup messages you could find a way to use it for grand evil as well? I find it hard to believe that no one's tried and succeeded so far. Just look at how much effort shadowhunters put into tracking people all the time! They'd be stupid to waste their resources like that if there was a way to instantly-know the whereabouts of someone. Anyway, this is utter bs and just like the hp owls all over again and I simply refuse.

2) Who can you send fire messages to? My knee-jerk answer would be to anyone you know, both personally and more generally in the sense that you are aware of their existence. You focus on them while sending the message, bam, they get it. But. Spam. Spam is a thing. Do you have any idea how much hate mail and general pranks higher-ups would get if they could be (anonymously!) addressed by anyone? Magnus probably had a whole phase where he did nothing but trashtalk shadowhunters who pissed him off XD I read in this post (which is the one toughpaperround sent my way and which I'm kinda answering with this) the possibility that you can only fire message people you've either met in real life before or who you've established some kind of fire-messaging-you-is-okay-connection – kinda like exchanging phone numbers. Everyone has a phone but you can only call someone whose number you have. You can even hand-wave your way through issue b) and claim that the fire message tracks the recipient through that connection and that's how it can find them no matter where they are. I've thought about it for a while and while I think this is the most logical explanation I don't think it makes sense in-universe for how fire messages are used, or for what the purpose of a fire messages really is. Phones are inarguably more practical because you don't need an extra pen and paper to send off a message. So, why would someone use a fire message instead of a phone? Well, either the person you want to reach doesn't have a phone (*cough* Meliorn *cough*) or the message is so important and time-sensitive that you need the other person to know right now and while you can ignore a text or a call, you can lose your phone or it can die, it's kinda difficult to miss a burning piece of paper flying in your face. Fire messages are like extreme emergency phone calls. And for those it would be high-key impractical if you could only send them to someone you have already met previously. (Of course this is just speculation and doesn't even make sense historically since fire messages were around long before phones and likely were the only means of communication then and not just reserved for emergencies (or maybe they were since paper and ink was precious back then?!). And of course determining the nature of a thing by going 'It would be most practical if it was like this' is highly unscientific. Anyway.) Honestly, my personal take on this is still that you can send a fire message to anyone and the show simply ignoring everything that this implies (aka Alec getting at least 10 lewd fire messages per day from secret admirers) because it wasn't relevant to the plot.

Leaving behind questions that apply to fire messages generally this last one is design-specific. 3) To what exactly is the teleportation, that clearly happens here, limited? The paper, the ink. Uh-huh. What if you glue something to the paper? For example, idk, a GPS tracker? Would that allow you to learn the location of the person you messaged? Probably not, or they would have been very stupid not to do that with Valentine. Even if you could only message someone you have met in person and/or established a special fire message connection with there are still enough Circle members around in S1 who surely had his fire message phone number. (Or did he destroy the connection? Can you fire-message-block someone you no longer want any attachments to?) What happens if you fire message someone who's dead? Does the fire message hover over their grave for the rest of eternity? We'll never know. I'll allow that there is special fire message paper and special fire message ink that can teleport. Anything else tacked on would be left behind. Paper and ink could even be extra-charmed so they can pass through dimensions or whatever. Still sounds fake – because i) how would you spell paper so it can pass any ward (Magnus at some point messages Jem who's probably chilling in the Silent City or something) and ii) if there's a way to charm paper and ink so it can be teleported, why limit yourself to those? Why not put that same magic on your GPS tracker and you're ready to go? – but I tried okay. Whatever, special fire message paper and ink grow on special trees in Idris and their special teleportation magic can't be replicated. There, mystery solved.

The second style fire messages acquire is both more and less logically pleasing. It's more logically pleasing because it eliminates the whole teleportation issue since apparently the fire message just flies from sender to recipient but sadly this creates its own set of issues, first of all how tf does the fire message fly from sender to recipient? Does it have eyes? How does it navigate the streets by itself? What about the secrecy the shadow world allegedly tries to uphold? It also doesn't solve the GPS tracker problem (if anything it makes it worse) because who's stopping you from sending a nice little message to Valentine and then just, following the flying message to his secret hideout?

The journey itself isn't unproblematic either. How quick are those things flying? In 3x06 exactly 54 seconds pass between Magnus sending off his message to Jem and receiving an answer. So in less than a minute the message flew to Jem, he read it, he composed an answer, and it made the way back. No wonder these messages are burning at the edges if they're so quick. (Yes, that was sarcastic.) They also don't seem to slow down when approaching their intended target. Magnus even pushes Clary out of the way because of it.

This is so confusing. So the fire message can navigate through Magnus's apartment no problem but it would have chopped Clary's head off because she was in the way? Was Magnus just being dramatic? I mean I'd totally buy that on any given day, but the situation was a bit too serious for that especially because it isn't treated as a joke to lighten the mood but just like Magnus casually pulling Clary out of danger because that's what he always does. It makes no sense whatsoever. This also begs another question, since fire messages seem to seek out their target quite vehemently. If you're locked in an air-tight room, could you send a fire message to someone, and the fire message on its pursuit to fulfill its duty could help you create a crack in the walls? Could you actually break out via fire message? What if you grab the paper real tight? Could you fly out of a canyon on a fire message? Now, on to the last part of the fire message's journey: the landing. How. How do you catch something that moves so quickly instead of just swatting it away? In the post I mentioned before someone wrote that catching stuff like that works on auto pilot if you have the practice and I'll just take your word for it... but what if you don't have the practice? Personally I'm shit at catching shit. I'd get smacked in the face by 95% of the fire messages sent my way. And considering the speed and the sharp edges of the fire messages that can't be healthy. My poor face. Why do I say the fire message would slap my face and not docilely settle into my palm? Because that's what I honestly believe. I think if you fail to catch a fire message it just flops in your face and sticks there (that should also wake you up if you're asleep, lol) because I mean, look at those trajectories.

Mind that the fire message stays on its initial course even after Magnus / Alec / Izzy moves their hand to a position to catch it. That’s because it wasn't aiming for the hand. It was aiming for the face.

It only gets weirder from here on out.

Remember 3x07? Imogen gets stabbed by Possessed!Jace and uses her last moments to notify Alec of Jace's whereabouts (instead of, y'know, activating her healing rune which takes two seconds, sending the message after and keep on living. SIGH). Fair enough, but the thing is this

Where's the paper? Where's the ink?

What is happening? What is she doing there?!

And then-- and then--

Yeah Alec, I'm as shocked as you are. Where tf did that paper (and presumably ink for writing) come from?! Can shadowhunters suddenly create matter from nothing?? Physics is crying in the corner!! I have so many questions!!

#ps cleophas does the exact same thing in s2 ep too lazy to look up i think 7 or 8 #shadowhunters #magnus bane #alec lightwood #isabelle lightwood #clary fray #imogen herondale #magic #musings

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danganronpa-21 · 4 years

Note

I always wanted to ask this. What are your headcanons about the couples' first kiss?

Oh boy, this is another one of those ones that caught me off-guard. Sometimes I have every intricate detail of their lives planned out, and other times... simple things like this get me.

SONDAM:

Building up to their first kiss was hard. Even if Gundham got over his whole touch thing, or at least learned to live with it, actually kissing one another was pretty hard. In fact, when they had their first kiss, I doubt that it was anything more than a quick peck. Even so, though, I think it was probably ridiculously cute.

As you might expect, the two of them were most definitely on a date when the kiss happened. I like to think it was one of those “in the evening walking her home” kind of things, with Gundham escorting Sonia back to her living space after their date. As you can probably guess, their date wasn’t exactly the most normal thing in the world. While they did do cute things, like reading books together at the library or playing around on the beach, they probably spent most of their date on the Fourth Island. Which, if you can remember circa Danganronpa 21, is still an amusement park -- but is now notoriously creepy, and nobody’s exactly sure what it’s meant for by Future Foundation’s standards. The whole point of them going to the library was actually to look at spellbooks and other books of that sort, and then go and practice rituals in the amusement park grounds. You know, typical couple stuff.

They probably stay at the amusement park way late into the night, with Sonia reciting the tales and cases of serial killers like ghost stories to spook both herself and Gundham. Since Gundham is Gundham, he’s not terribly frightened by them, but he likes listening to Sonia talk about it and see her eyes light up with interest as she tells the stories. In all honesty, he wonders about kissing her right then and there, but it frightens him more than her serial killer stories. He’s gotten a lot better at the whole touching thing by this point, occasionally holding her hand or even kissing it in greeting, but he’s not sure he can work up the courage to actually press his lips against her own. So he kind of dismisses the thought until it gets much later into the night, and he starts walking her home.

The walk back to Sonia’s cell is mostly quiet, apart from the two of them occasionally chatting about what a nice time they had. Sonia even briefly brings up what they should do for their next date, but they don’t manage to get very far until they end up in front of Sonia’s door. The rest of the Jabberwock prisoners are not awake at this time, but there is a guard standing at the end of the hall waiting for the two to turn in. They are ten minutes past curfew, and normally this would get them into trouble, but the guard who’s waiting sympathizes with them. She’s even agreed to keep their relationship a secret from her superiors, as the prisoners are generally discouraged from pursuing personal relationships. She simply turns her head and lets them finish up their night, not wanting to disturb them.

Gundham thanks Sonia again for the night they had, and he agrees with her idea of doing something like it again another time. He’s just about to raise her hand to kiss is softly when Sonia takes a step towards him, gently tilts his face towards hers, and presses a quick peck to his lips. He feels his face go bright red within an instant, and his eyes are wide open in shock. When Sonia pulls back, he notices the pink hue of her cheeks, too. He longs to say something, but she doesn’t give him a chance. She just says thank you again for a great night, and rushes into her room.

Gundham finds himself turning to look stupidly at the guard, who’s covering her mouth with her hand so he can’t see that she’s laughing at him.

KUZUPEKO:

Finding a way to kiss is hard. These two are so concerned about Peko’s whole “I’m a tool” thing that they choose to be careful about how they had their first kiss. Fuyuhiko was adamant about not forcing himself on Peko, and felt worried about maybe doing that by accident before Peko was ready. After all, her sense of self was wonky prior to them dating, and it took some recovery time. Of course, on Peko’s end of things, she’s pretty shy. She’s never been sure about being kissed, although she thinks she’d like it if Fuyuhiko were to do it to her. And with Fuyuhiko being so nervous about it, Peko will have to be the one to make the first move.

She’s not entirely certain how to do it. Not without completely making a fool of herself and/or startling him. It would be a lot easier to just pounce on it so she could overcome her own nerves, but then she would potentially startle Fuyuhiko or do something he maybe wasn’t ready for. And she would never want to do that to him. She wants their first kiss to be as soft and as sweet as possible. So what does one do about that? Well, she supposes she’ll just have to look for the right moment.

That’s exactly what she does. She goes out of her way to try and just take a normal moment, and make it special. The two of them are just having a casual date when it happens. To keep things slow and comfortable, they head down to the theatre to have a movie date. It’s one of the things they’re allowed to do while they’re still on the island, after all. In terms of what movie they’re going to watch, I honestly couldn’t tell you... but it’s probably something that was recovered or protected during the Tragedy era. We might even be able to say that maybe it’s something soft and sweet, like some of the Studio Ghibli films. Regardless, it’s something nice. Calming, but enjoyable.

Their time at the movies together is good. As none of the other prisoners or Future Foundation agents are in the same theatre as them at the time, they have the whole place to themselves. They get to snack and chat about the movie freely, easily enjoying their company together. They watch the film together the whole way through, and sit through all of the credits to pay proper respect to everyone who worked on the film. As the credits end and they gear up to go back to their rooms, Peko stops Fuyuhiko in the main lobby of their ‘prisoner dormitories’. There’s a very gentle look in her eyes as she takes his hands in her own, and in a very bashful, very soft voice... She asks him if she could please kiss him.

His response is a resounding “yes, of course, please”. Peko can’t help but giggle at how eager he is as she tilts her head to the side, and prepares to gently press her lips against his. All the while, Fuyuhiko’s face has gone beet red, and he’s squeezing his eyes shut because he can just barely believe it. He’s not entirely sure when exactly the idea of being kissed by Peko started to scare him this much, but it does and he waits in eager anticipation for his lips to be met by hers. When they do, though, it’s almost like a sort of a relief. Almost like letting out a breath that neither of them knew they were holding. All they can do is enjoy it and drink the experience in, wondering why they waited so damn long.

KASUHIRO/YASUJIMA:

I think for them, they absolutely had a dorky-sweet kiss. Since their relationship originally progressed within the span of six months before they got married and had Leon, I imagine they probably kissed pretty early on in their relationship. But they also weren’t exactly settled into being in that relationship, so it was pretty goofy-sweet.

I like to think that they were probably trying to be romantic with each other at the time. The big plan on what they were doing I think was performed by Kanon. I think she thought that a picnic date might be a cute choice for them, and Yasuhiro agreed. The two of them probably got together at the start of the date to make all of the food. They make egg salad sandwiches, cheesecake, broccoli salad, and a little bit of sushi. To drink, I imagine they bring along some sweet tea or maybe lemonade — because how is lemonade not a great picnic beverage?

They plant themselves down in a park and have a beautiful date, watching the world go by. They even stop to do some cloud gazing. It’s a really nice date, the kind that Kanon always dreamed of having when she was a young girl. Yasuhiro has a really great time too, but he honestly can’t focus fully on the date because he’s been working up the courage to kiss Kanon all day. By the time they get around to eating the cheesecake, Yasuhiro can barely contain how nervous he is. The palms of his hands are getting really sweaty and his face is turning red, and he’s just not sure what to do. Kanon is so busy enjoying the cheesecake and passing a piece along to him to even notice what’s going on with him.

It’s not until Yasuhiro notices some filling on her lips as she’s talking to him that he sees his chance. It could totally be a smooth way for him to kiss her. Trying to be suave, he gently turns her head towards him and leans into kiss her, holding onto her chin ever so gently... But he’s not thinking about the way he’s doing it, and instead of his lips meeting hers, the first part of their faces to meet are their noses. Hard. Yasuhiro smashes his nose into Kanon’s and immediately she starts cursing, demanding to know why on earth he would do something like that. Her boyfriend rapidly scrambles to insist that he only intended to try and kiss her; he assures her that he never meant to bash her nose in like that. They have to stop for a second to ensure that Kanon’s nose isn’t bleeding, but after they confirm that she’s okay... Well, Kanon asks Yasuhiro if maybe they could try that kiss again.

It goes a lot more smoothly, albeit more shyly, the second time. Nevertheless, it leaves them both wanting more.

NAEGIRI:

Theirs, I confess, I wrote in full a couple years ago. I’ll explain it for people who want a condensed version, but for those of you who want to read it: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13135056

The short and sweet explanation, apart from the fanfic, is that the kiss was pretty impromptu. After a long day at work, Kyoko and Makoto were hanging out in the group’s Future Foundation apartment, when they got into a bit of conversation about wounds after the events of Future Arc. After having his nose broken and his ribs cracked by Kyousuke, Makoto hasn’t been taking good care of himself. He’s been neglecting himself in favour of taking care of everyone else, and Kyoko’s gotten fed up with it.

So she drags him to the bathroom to fix up his nose again, as he removed some of the healing measures when he shouldn’t have. The two slowly melt into conversation as she takes care of his nose, with Kyoko asking him why he’s so willing to throw himself into danger. Makoto sighs and explains that he doesn’t feel he can help it, for there’s so much in his life that he’s desperate to protect. He then goes on to tell her that if she had told him about her forbidden action, he’d have sacrificed himself for her in a heartbeat, as she’s one of those things he wants to protect.

She tells him that she knows, and that’s why she chose to die. This only makes Makoto more upset and he asks why, to which Kyoko answers that the world needed him to be alive... and she needed him to be alive even more. When he presses her for further answers as to why she could ever feel like she needs him, when she’s already so strong... and Kyoko admits basically what she said to Ryota: if it weren’t for him, she’d have given up hope a long time ago.

The two of them seem to pause, murmuring each other’s names as Makoto presses his forehead to hers. There’s a brief moment where they’re just looking at each other, and all of the sudden, Makoto gets the urge to kiss her. As much as his brain thinks he shouldn’t and that she doesn’t mean that she loves him the way he loves her... His instincts take over, and before he knows it, he’s kissing her.

And she’s not pulling back. She’s happy.

#danganronpa #sondam #kuzupeko #yasukanon #naegiri

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things-with-teeth · 5 years

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I was thinking the other night about how one of the great things about this podcast is how unreliable literally everyone is as a source of information, not just for the characters but for the audience. Annabelle is a prime example – although she, at least, is decent enough to underline every statement with OF COURSE I MIGHT BE FIBBING, NERD when writing to Jon – but it’s there throughout. Elias spends the better part of a season pretending to know what was up with Gertrude. He doesn’t, and there is no grand plan. None of the people serving the Entities have any damn idea what they’re doing, but good luck figuring that out if you’re listening to season one or two. Even our protagonists have a fair amount that they don’t reveal until late in the game; Martin’s backstory comes out pretty timely and the pacing of the reveal that Gertrude is less absent-minded librarian and more international woman of (murder) mystery is a thing of beauty, but it’s not until season three that we find out about Jon’s early exposure to the Web or Tim’s reasons for being at the Institute, and both have a major impact on who the character is and/or the plot. This season in particular, it’s been driven home that a lot of things happen that never get committed to tape.

This is all just a too-long way of saying “the Magnus Archives has taught me not to trust what any character says, ever, even when it seems straightforward,” which brings me to Elias’ murder confession. Like, dude is clearly lying about something there, right? As with Annabelle, he makes sure to confess when there’s no risk of him being compelled by Jon, taking the time to shake off the tingles before he tells all.

And god do I want to know why? Right now, my thoughts are running to a couple possibilities:

1. Someone else killed Gertrude.

I honestly don’t think this is very likely, but it was the first thing that popped into my head, and there are enough inconsistencies in the narrative that I can’t dismiss it entirely. For instance:

Leitner: How did you know I was here?

Elias: I didn’t. You’re very well hidden. But Jon is not, and he failed to take the same precautions I’m sure you took for granted with Gertrude. (MAG 80)

Gertrude successfully manages to conceal a lot from Elias, including her movements, so it does raise some questions for me that he was apparently able to track her through the tunnels and shoot her. We know that the murder comes hard on the heels of her stopping the Dark’s ritual, and that she’s injured in the process, so maybe she just got sloppy, but I can’t entirely rule out that Elias wasn’t the one to kill her. As for who else might have done it—like, I got nothin’, but I wanted to acknowledge the possibility.

2. He’s lying about his motives.

I think there’s a better chance that Elias needed to make sure that he could lie to Jon et al about why he murdered Gertrude if asked. Like, sure, I’ll buy that she was intending to blow up the Archives, she liked blowing things up, but I can think of a couple of other things he might’ve needed to lie about, probably because he wouldn’t want Jon to know so early in the game.

The first is that Gertrude is ill-suited in some way to perform the Watcher’s Crown. This seems—really likely, even if it wasn’t why Elias killed her. When talking to @wildehacked today, I said something along the lines of “Gertrude would make a terrifying god and a terrible tool.” Whether you think that Elias means to wear the Crown himself, with an Archivist’s involvement as a necessary component, or put it on Jon’s head, I can’t think of a single worse person for him to make the attempt with than Gertrude. A few characters have also remarked on Jon being the better Archivist (not more effective, but better at being the Archivist, specifically); Elias says that not even Gertrude could compel him the way Jon does, and the head librarian at the Pu Songling Research Center, who clearly knows what’s up, compliments Elias on his choice of Archivist after meeting Jon and having met Gertrude. In addition, we know from Arthur Nolan that Gertrude was singularly incurious about what makes the Entities tick, more focused on the practicalities of stopping them, and that’s cool but it also seems very un-Beholding, for lack of a better word, that she didn’t feel that drive to know more. It may be that Elias realized very late in the game that Gertrude wasn’t the right choice for the task he had in mind for her, and killed her to clear the way for someone new.

Honestly, I suspect that when Gertrude mentioned that she knew how to stop the Beholding’s ritual, this is what she had in mind, she just intended to wait until it was too late for Elias to find and prepare a replacement for her. Heck, if her death had fallen after she had stopped the Unknowing, I might have just circled back to my first theory on why Elias is a lying liar, on the assumption that Gertrude just jumped the, uh, gun.

The second possibility is that Elias was the one to jump the (stop me, please) gun. All of the confirmed/very probable Avatars we meet have died in the process of becoming (as @pactmagic reminded me tonight, as well as providing almost all of the following list, because credit where credit is due I somehow did not make this connection). Oliver Banks is an obvious one, as is Maxwell Reyner, who drowns in the Darkness pool. The head injury Annabelle receives makes it seem likely in her case, and Trevor dying of lung cancer would both explain why he doesn’t suffer from it now and how someone at the Institute was so convinced that he had died while giving his statement that they passed that information along to Martin. Jude Perry sets herself on fire, Jon dies during the Unknowing, Hezekiah Wakely “dreams” of being buried alive before awakening above ground (similar setup to Karolina Górka and her dirt nap, which is nifty), Agnes is born under circumstances that no newborn would survive, and I’m going to stop before this starts to sound even more like the Ghastlycrumb Tinies.

(Hey, it even almost scans! H is for Hezekiah, who loved being buried alive / A is for Agnes, born in a fire she couldn’t survive. Okay, I’ll stop.)

So maybe Elias—uh, maybe he fucked it up. Maybe he fucked it up real bad, trying to move the process of becoming along only to look upon a very-actually-dead Gertrude Robinson and think oh no for one long, resounding moment before moving on to his backup plan and proceeding to be much more careful with allowing Jon’s development as Avatar to get along naturally, which... I’m going to file this one under, “not very likely, does make me laugh.”

Thank you for joining me once again for the Wild Speculation Hour, I’ll show myself out.

#the magnus archives #elias bouchard #gertrude robinson #meta #tma spoilers #cw: suicide mention #probably being overly cautious with that one #but i'm not trying to ruin anyone's night #will i ever be done writing about gertrude robinson?#such a bad role model #such a good character

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clansayeed · 4 years

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Bound by Circumstance ― Chapter 8: The Tower Upright

PAIRING: Nik Ryder x trans*M!MC (Taylor Hunter) RATING: Mature

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽

⥼ Bound by Circumstance ⥽

Taylor Hunter (MC) has made it good for himself in New Orleans; turns out moving to a new city fresh out of college to reinvent yourself isn’t as hard as people make it out to be. Things only start to get confusing when he finds himself the target of a malevolent wraith. Good thing someone’s looking out for him though — because without Nighthunter Nik Ryder as his bodyguard he definitely won’t survive long in the twisting darkness of the supernatural underworld he’s tripped into.

Bound by Circumstance and the rest of the Oblivion Bound series is an ongoing dramatic retelling project of the book Nightbound and the rest of the Bloodbound series. Find out more [HERE].

Note: Circumstance only loosely follows the events and plotline of Nightbound, and features a separate antagonist, different character motivations, and further worldbuilding.

*Let me know if you would like to be added to the Circumstance/series tag list!

⥼ Chapter Summary ⥽

Ryder and Taylor head to local out-of-the-way voodoo vendor Laveau’s for the final ingredient in their protection ritual. While he waits, Taylor gets his fortune told by the real deal—a spirit medium descended from Marie herself.

[READ IT ON AO3]

Krom’s barely through the threshold before Taylor pounces; hovers around him comically short and buzzing like a gnat.

“So, what did they say? Do I need to call — I don’t have my phone, shit — please tell me I’m not cut from the show.”

Luckily the stone troll looks freaked-out enough to get him to stop and apologize. “Sorry,” he mutters, “I just…”

“No, no I completely understand!” Krom scratches the tips of his head and laughs it off, “I just didn’t want to step on you.”

“He’s not that short.” calls Ivy from her booth at the back.

Taylor shrugs it off. “But I appreciate it.”

“Anyway; the company manager’s a little mad no one could reach you but I convinced them to give you a week of sick leave? Even though there was this one weirdly giddy guy…”

They join Ivy on either side. Taylor groans and rubs his hand over his face.

“That would be Antoni. He doesn’t matter. I really appreciate you doing this for me, Krom.”

“It’s no trouble!” And the troll’s voice is so filled with sincerity he has no trouble believing it.

“That’s our darling Krom.” Garrus returns behind the bar with his tray of collected dirty steins and beer glasses. “He’s like an angel; always helping others. You’ve got nothing to prove sweetheart — you know that.”

Ivy answers Taylor’s question before he even has the chance to ask it; “Stone trolls have a bit of a rep’ around here. You saw their natural element at Persephone.”

“Bodyguards, hired muscle, and the like.” Krom agrees; pointedly trying to keep his voice his usual baritone despite Garrus’ casual compliments.

“So you’re a pacifist?”

“In the flesh — so to speak.”

There’s a thud from behind and all eyes turn to see a stack of crates stumbling out from behind the back room curtain. Not hovering in midair as Taylor originally thought but carried by a very red-faced Cal. Who still forces on a smile through his gritted teeth at Garrus.

“Where… where?”

The fae gestures with a bony finger. “Just leave ‘em behind here. I’ll unpack before the evening rush.”

He slams them down before Taylor can even try to offer help — grumbles under his breath about something he can’t quite catch but he knows Cal’s grateful to Garrus for giving him a place to stay. He must be paying off the stupor he drank himself into following their return as less-than-triumphant heroes.

“I should start taking in strays more often — pun not intended,” Garrus teases but all in good humor; especially when he slides a cool glass of water for Cal to chug when his hands are free, “someone to do the heavy lifting around here and all that.”

Krom shifts in his seat. Something so subtle only the two beside him notice it. But Ivy doesn’t give him the chance to let it go and kicks his rock of a leg with her heels.

“I — I could help with whatever you need, Garrus?” Even though it comes out as more of a question than anything.

The look the two exchange is strange but fond. Garrus’ eyes softening under the twinkling lights. Maybe he regrets what he said — or the implications behind it.

“But if you’re laboring around here then what would I have to look at for inspiration?”

Not the smoothest save, in Taylor’s opinion. But Krom acts like it’s the highest form of praise and brushes the compliment off with a wave.

“Are they always like this?” Taylor whispers to Ivy. The revenant just sighs and nods. A long-suffering struggle on her end no doubt.

Heavy footfalls on metal steps herald Ryder’s arrival from the apartments above. He looks around and beelines towards Taylor in a way that almost has him jumping and hiding.

“You, me; let’s go.”

“That’s not how you ask a man out on a date, Nik.” chides Ivy as she pushes the mortals together.

“What?” He blinks; shakes himself out of whatever thoughts compelled him to seek Taylor out. “Wh — shut up, Iv’.”

“Right,” she winks, “he’ll go with you anyway. It’s part of your brutish charm.”

“Shut up, Iv’.” Taylor parrots with a glare. “Is the spell finally ready?”

Not that he’s not enjoying his time at the Shift. And following the disaster that was the Bayou and Persephone he’s not exactly eager to go into other supernatural spaces any time soon.

But he’s never been one to stay cooped up for long.

Ryder huffs. “Not quite. Damn toad wart expired. Luckily though there’s a shop down the road that carries simple ingredients — so put away that grin Iv’. I’m done owin’ you for now.”

Probably a good thing judging by the low witchy cackle she gives instead.

“So let’s get goin’, hustle hustle.”

“But wait — is it safe?” Taylor follows anyway. Keeping at the Nighthunter’s heels is practically his new job. “You didn’t even want me leaving for the theater.”

“I’ll be right there.”

“With your hallelujah arrows, right?”

“Holy light arrows, Rook. You sound like an idiot when you say that.”

“Well now I’ll keep doing it to piss you off.”

“‘Course, because why would you do anything else?”

Their bickering continues out onto the ruins of another day of Mardi Gras fun. At least some things never lose a sense of normalcy.

It’s a small shop — one of those ‘blink and you’ll miss it’ types. The shop name LAVEAU’s is hand-painted above a doorway embellished with the classic purple, green, and golden plastic beads of the season’s parties.

Taylor stops Ryder before he opens the door. “‘Laveau’s’ like…?”

“Read the signs, Rook.”

There they are clear as day; painted by the same hand as the top sign but with an artist’s frustration behind every black-painted stroke. One on the door declaring ‘Yes, like Marie herself’ and then one blue-tacked beneath it; ‘Not Affiliated with Marie Laveau’s House of Voodoo.’

“Oh. Got it.”

While the outside may lack the flair and panache that attracts the usual tourist crowds the inside is a whole other looking glass. Probably looks the way it does to differentiate between those who want fake dolls to poke with pins and those who want a real hex to mess with.

God, he’s talking about real hexes. When had this become his life?

Together they weave through the cluttered mess of uneven shelves and their uneven products. Books stacked flat where they’d fallen over at some point and left that way with little concern. A bundle of glass-looking orbs balancing precariously without cradle to keep them from rolling off the edge. A plant hanger in the middle of the room holds a pile of sage sticks just there. At second glance some look a little used.

The back ‘counter’ isn’t even that. It’s a folding table with a frayed tablecloth unevenly distributed atop and an old and rusting register in the corner.

First Taylor sees the joint resting in an ash tray made out of a mason jar lid. Only when it’s picked up and placed between two pink lips does he realize the man sitting kiddie-corner to the till.

“Welcome, wayward souls, to another side of the witch you know,” he recites as if from a script; monotone — doing everything he can to dissuade those who might darken his doorstep, “everything you see is one hundred percent bona fide authentic to the craft. Don’t do the rhyme if you can’t do the wiccan time.”

Ryder stops abruptly. Arms folded and a raised eyebrow looking over the pile of scattered tarot cards strewn across the table. That which holds the proprietor’s attention more than customers.

Unbidden he reaches out and plucks a card at random. Turns it over to stare at glittering golden words ‘The Emperor’ upside-down.

There’s no way the shop owner should know what card was grabbed — not like he can see though the matte black backing — but he gives a low and throaty chuckle. Lets smoke billow in a thin stream around the same lips now curled in a smirk.

“You always picked predictably, Ryder.”

Ryder who frisbees the card back onto the table carelessly. “I’m not still unconvinced you don’t set me up every time, Luc.”

“For all the shit you see…”

“I’ll always be skeptical of some damn cards, yeah. What else is new?”

“Good question.”

Luc finally drags his gaze up and away from his reading. Gives Ryder an easy and lazy smile that might possibly be the friendliest greeting to the Nighthunter Taylor’s seen so far. Had he not joined Ivy in teasing Krom only a short while ago he might have run himself ragged trying to understand the electric connection he’s witness to.

There’s definitely a history here.

Ryder sighs; knows Luc isn’t going to answer him until he answers himself. “The usual, man. Another day another job. Not much changes for me.”

“That’s not what I hear. In fact — I hear quite the opposite.”

“Sure those aren’t just voices from a bad trip?”

Luc laughs and kicks himself up to balance on the back two legs of his chair. Teeters dangerously close to falling backwards. “Could be, brother, could be. But I ain’t talkin’ ‘bout the spiritual radio this time. Everyone who’s anyone heard tell of a gutsy break-in among the city’s most elite. And all the chaos that followed.”

Ryder’s teeth grind together; his brow gives an almost imperceptible twitch.

“What did I tell you about listenin’ to the rumor mill, Luc?”

“Are they wrong?”

Not giving an answer is answer enough. Makes Luc give a haughty grin so wide Taylor likens him to a shark.

“I said what I said; another day, another job. It got me a rare ingredient I needed. I figured I could get the rest from your sorry ass if I could get you to look away from that damn deck long enough to ring me up.”

Luc makes everything look easy; from getting on Ryder’s bad side to letting his chair fall forward so he can stand. Like he’s not moving through air and gravity but dancing through deep watery depths.

But there’s a defensive edge to his voice — the first emotion beyond amusement — as he starts to gather up his cards.

“I’ll have you know I’m fond of this deck in particular. They were given to me as an apology from someone who never apologizes.”

“Oh yeah, what for?” Judging by Ryder’s tone, though, he already knows.

Still he lets Luc’s bright hazel eyes bore into his soul.

“Skippin’ out come dawn without so much as an adieu.”

Taylor laughs because, well, it’s funny? Only to quickly realize it’s not the right thing to be doing when he catches the strange look Ryder throws back at him; halfway and in profile — like he stops himself before he can make it a whole confrontation.

The teasing’s gone, now. “Yeah — listen, any chance I still have that standing credit here? I need frog warts and a few other things for a protection spell.”

“Ain’t like you to run around on an empty wallet.”

“Yeah, well… this job ain’t just another.”

And as ‘Another Job’ Taylor kind of takes offense to it.

Luc jerks his head towards a doorway shrouded with a curtain of thick wooden beads and the occasional bird feather. “You know where the stores are, cher. Just consider ya’self lucky Mardi Gras is a prosperous time for us all.”

“You’re a lifesaver, Luca. And if it makes you feel better the life you’re savin’ ain’t even mine.”

Taylor’s a step behind his heels when Ryder turns and keeps him at bay with a palm to his chest. His heartbeat stutters; spandex yielding to the firm press, but Ryder says nothing of it.

“Stay up here.”

Taylor scoffs. “Why? I’m not going to accidentally cast a spell or anything.”

“Maybe not, but the last thing I need is you gettin’ clumsy on the wrong object and fuckin’ us both even deeper.”

While he fumbles for a retort worthy of the witty comeback, though, Ryder makes his escape. Calls back; “don’t touch anything, don’t look at anything — and don’t let him suck you up in that damn deck!” before he’s gone in a clatter of beads.

They both know he’s not going to listen — he only says it so he can tell Taylor off when something inevitably happens. That seems to be how they function. Not that he plans on flailing his arms and messing with the first thing he hits, but…

“Since you ain’t dead I’m gonna assume Ryder’s not takin’ on the role’a teacher of the nighthunting arts.”

Snaps Taylor’s attention back to Luc; back in his chair and shuffling the deck in long and ring-adorned fingers.

“No.”

“Good. You might just stay alive then.”

“Apparently that’s a hard thing to do so, sure.”

Luc gestures to the chair across from him. It’s an offer, not a demand, but out of spite for Ryder’s twenty different moods — follow me, don’t follow me, around and around again — he takes it up. Watches Luc shuffle and reshuffle with naught but the soft collision of the cards as music.

When he realizes Ryder’s going to take his time, he figures the best way to start might be an introduction.

“I’m —”

“Pick a few cards for me, Taylor.”

He hadn’t even realized the man had started a spread; each card turned down and black as the void in a soft arc reaching out to him across the table.

Luc is courteous enough not to blow smoke in his face. Sits back slightly hunched and letting his focus flicker between Taylor and the cards. Like both are equally likely to speak to him in the silence.

“It’s probably useless asking how you knew my name, huh?”

“Smart boy. Sometimes they whisper an’ sometimes they scream, but I gotta say it’s been a good long while since I heard the cards call out the way they do to you, Taylor Hunter.

“So help me out here. Pick a few and let them show us why they’re so damn chatty.”

He wants to point out that the only chatty one around is Luca himself, but again that’s one of those useless things he’s finally starting to come to terms with. Knows another useless thing would be to ask why he can’t hear anything… but that’s because hearing is the only word he can think to describe it too.

They’re cards — just plain tarot cards. But like inky tendrils they’re reaching out to him across the table on another plane of reality. One where they have soft black fingers that wrap around his wrists and bring his hands to hover over them. Like safety.

Ryder said… “Well, Ryder said…”

The look Luc gives him cuts him off. Yeah, that was a bit of a stretch, wasn’t it?

He points at random; watches Luc pull a card out without flipping it over. Keeps going until a curt nod cuts him off and nine rectangles of shadow form a square across from him.

“This ain’t your average reading,” that much being obvious by the reverent way the shopkeep looks down at his selection, “and I ain’t your average reader. You’re not from around here.”

“Are you asking?”

“No. But I figure that means you did what all newcomers do — got yourself one of those back room phony shows at the House of Voodoo.”

He wants to say he hasn’t only for how ashamed Luc’s tone makes him feel about it. But yeah — yeah he had. Doesn’t remember much about the event itself but knows somewhere buried in the clutter of his desk back at his place there’s a piece of paper from whatever the alleged ‘psychic’ had him ask.

Luc nods slowly. “Mmhm. Sometimes — ‘bout as oft’n as pigs fly — the cards they play don’t listen and give out an ounce of truth. Nothing life-changing, but a slip enough to tempt the handler into believing.

“You won’t get none’a that here. Whatever’s shown when I flip these babies around has been, is, or will be whether you know it or not. But they only tell as much of a tale as you’re ready to hear.”

The unasked question: are you ready to hear it? And Taylor isn’t sure he knows how to answer.

He knows a lot about himself; inside and out. Has lived through too much and shoved too much inside for too long not to. It’s something he’s proud of. A lot of people spend their lives with no understanding of their inner self but he’s never had that problem.

But there’s a difference between knowing it and seeing… whatever these cards might show him.

What if what he knows isn’t what they say?

Life would be easier if Ryder took that opportune moment to reappear and save him the trouble of having to make the choice.

But life isn’t easy.

He nods — but before Luc can flip over the first card he reaches out and stops him.

“I’m not, like, sealing a deal with a demon or something, am I?” Judging by the look he gets he really shouldn’t have asked.

“Do I look like a demon?”

“I don’t know what demons look like.” He knows it’s a lie but says it anyway; can think only of that skeletal face sneering at him under the moonlight.

Luckily it’s not enough to deter the shopkeep who just bats Taylor’s hand away. “Judgin’ by your ghostly pallor I’m gonna call your fib on that one. But if it eases ya mind; no. No deals here. I get as much outta this as you do.”

Well that’s okay then, isn’t it?

Luc flips the first card over and has himself a little laugh. And why wouldn’t he — The Fool isn’t just an apt card but an apt description.

Taylor’s humor is, however, short-lived. “Seriously?”

“You drew the card. Only one to blame is you.”

“So I’m gonna be even more of a joke in my future or something?”

Luc shakes his head; spreads his fingers as far as they’ll go as the shadow of his palm casts over the center card. “This ain’t your future, but your self. This is you, Mister Hunter.”

“A fool.”

“A man of innocence,” comes the quick correction, “and oftentimes a free spirit. You do your own thing; march to your own drum. Ev’ry Sally and Joe likes to laugh at the Fool but he’s got his eyes set on the horizon and that’s worth admirin’. So don’t sell him — or ya’self — short.”

Innocent — not quite. But the rest Taylor doesn’t disagree with. Seems he knows himself as well as he thought.

Luc’s painted nail traces along a jagged line on the image. “But see here; the Fool stands at the cliff’s edge. He’s a card so it ain’t in his nature to look anywhere but where he’s told but you’re not a card, are ya?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you lookin’ forward at the horizon or down into that abyss,” — he flips over another card before Taylor can answer — “or maybe you see the Tower on the other side.”

The Tower card is actually at the Fool’s back but he’s learned enough now not to question the metaphors.

“All that love for life might come at a cost. An’ hey — maybe it’s one you’re willin’ to pay. I don’t judge.”

No matter how hard he looks he knows he isn’t going to see the same thing as his reader. But… “I’m gonna need you to be a little less cryptic and a little more straightforward.”

“This ain’t science. Everything’s up for interpretation when the cards are involved.”

“Okay so interpret what exactly you mean by a cost. What cost?”

His rings drum on the plastic surface slowly before Luc clicks his tongue. “Looks to me like you’ve been through some shit lately. Life-changin’ shit — shit that skips right over dippin’ a toe into destiny and pushes you right in the deep end tied to an anchor — or ten.”

Finally Luc looks back up but his gaze is guarded; carefully and excellently so. He can’t get a thing out of just a look.

“I could have told you that.” He mutters a defensive reply. “A couple of days ago everything was fine and then my best friend’s in a coma, I find out the shit I’ve been hallucinating my whole life is real, and on top of it some big scary Ugly wants my skinny ass for a meal.”

“That explains our friend Ryder, then.” Luc almost seems to peek at the row’s last hidden card. When he turns the Eight of Cups over the hum he hums reminds Taylor of endless weeks of therapists and their noncommittal noises failing to cover the scratching of pen on paper. “And it’s all a helluva lot, I bet.”

It’s a bit hard to play off the full-body adjustment to hide his discomfort but Taylor likes to think he pulls it off pretty well.

“Understatement of the century.”

“Makes a world ‘a sense. You’ve tried gettin’ away from it.”

“Actually I haven’t really had the time.”

Only Luc disagrees; shakes his head curtly and offers the Cups to Taylor like it’s written on the surface in plain sight. “The cards ain’t just talkin’ ‘round the physical. Sometimes we do all the runnin’ in our minds and we don’t even know it. It could be as simple as connecting new things in ya life to old ones and convincing ya’self they’re the same; whether they are or not.”

Oh, there it is — on the surface and in plain sight. Struggling for Cal and Donny. Taking blame for what happened (not that he’d tell Cal, he’s got enough to feel bad over). Jumping down Krom’s throat about the theater company.

“Don’t beat ya’self up too bad,” continues Luc in a way that makes him freeze in the sudden fear that he can read thoughts as well as tarot cards, “a little escapism is good for the soul. The hard part’s when you gotta come back to reality an’ doin’ it without a fight.”

Taylor offers the card back and watches it settle home beside the Fool. The same Fool he’s now a little reluctant to identify with so quickly. “Yeah. I guess.”

“Got it — now cut the ramblin’; you’re talkin’ over the cards.”

Only hasn’t he been the one doing all the talking? Arguing won’t help but that little nugget of petulance persists.

This time Luc reveals three cards one after the other. Makes sure to let each one rest face-up before moving on. Letting them breathe. Letting them speak.

Strength. The Hermit. The Two of Swords. The first two facing Taylor this time as if in judgment. No; they haven’t drawn that card just yet.

He realizes he’s waiting on bated breath when his lungs start to burn and beg for fresh air. Why is he so quiet all of a sudden?

“Tell me more about those hallucinations ya mentioned, Taylor.”

That’s not where he was expecting that to go at all; catches him off guard. “Sorry?”

“Don’t be,” but the other man sounds distant; lost in his thoughts, “jus’ tell me. Said you been seein’ things ‘your whole life’ right?”

“Yeah. But I’d really rather not, uh, go into…” Wasn’t his life story down on the cards? It was hard enough explaining everything to Kristin — and they knew things about one another bound to secrecy by the sanctity of roommate-dom. So he tries to keep it all in the realm of the reading; “I mean I know what they are now. I was seeing glamours. Like through them — without a charm or spell or whatever. I dunno, Nik can explain it better.”

When Luc doesn’t give the same shocked jaw-drop the trio at the Shift had he entertains the brief hope that the same talent runs through the psychic’s veins. But that’s dashed when he catches sight of the unconscious way Luc grabs onto one of the numerous stone pendants draped over his neck — the way he thumbs over the polished surface and tugs on the leather cord.

It’s not the same one Ryder has but pretty damn close; close enough to assume his glamour-charm used to have a home in this very shop.

“That kind-a inner sight’s awful rare.” He practically mumbles.

“Yeah, it’s been mentioned.”

“Not unheard of, mind you. Not in things that ain’t entirely mortal by blood and bone. When you draw Strength in reverse it’s not the opposite like you’d think; it ain’t sayin’ you lack strength.

“Think of it more like the meanin’ is just turned about. Upright’s outside and the other is inside.”

“So it’s inner strength.” He can get behind that.

“Or lack of it.”

I’m fucking sorry? “Who—what-now?”

“This row,” he gestures a little too grandly for the subject matter, “is your past, present, and future. I told you the cards were screamin’ — and they still are — but not this one,” — not Strength — “this’un’s more of a whisper. And it makes sense given that you called ‘em ‘hallucinations.’”

“And an explanation for us ‘card’-of-hearing?”

Luc bites his tongue — really and without metaphor; wince and all. Grabs a stray bit of crumpled receipt from god-knows when his last sale was and scribbles on it in blocky letters.

“‘Note to self,’” he enunciates his writing harshly, “‘add sign to shop: ‘Owner Has the Right to Refuse Service on Account of Shitty Fucking Puns.’”

The glare that follows tells Taylor it won’t be long before that sign has his name added to avoid confusion.

No regrets. None at all.

Puns aside, though? The level eye he gets across the cards takes a turn for the serious.

“I think it tells me a lot more than you’re ready to share. About ya life before this; about the things you done to make the pain go away. Some of us may be human but that don’t mean we ain’t still animals. And animals lash out when they’re scared.”

He’s right. It’s a lot more than Taylor’s ready to share. Makes him want to scramble the deck — flip the table on its end. And maybe the old version of him, the version in those cards, might have.

In his silence Luc gets the answer — “moving on…” he almost sing-songs — lets his fingertips dance on the card showing the present: the Hermit.

Which Taylor tries not to take personally. Who is there to be angry at other than himself?

“So since that one’s reversed too that means… what, that I’m a hermit on the inside?”

“I can see how you’d think that,” laughs Luc, “but not quite. How about we let the professional do his profession?”

Taylor gestures. The professional carries on. “It ain’t easy comin’ into this life so late. ‘Specially when you end up seein’ all the bad before a lick’a good comes your way. But you’re drownin’ in it — that’s what the Hermit’s tellin’ us. No time to ruminate?”

He scoffs. “Something like that.”

“Well make time. Lest it all starts crashin’ down and you get the proverbial water in ya lungs.”

“It’s not by choice. There’s things after me and —”

“And excuses ain’t gonna keep you afloat.” The man reaches over faster than Taylor can move back; actually flicks his forehead dead center.

“Ow!” He swats Luc’s hand away.

“It ain’t me sayin’ this, Hunter. It’s them,” he gestures to the cards, “and they know more about this world than either of us could learn in a hundred lifetimes. Take ya damn time and really work out how you feel. Else you won’t be able to face this here future with a clear head.”

Luckily Taylor doesn’t have to ask; isn’t certain he’d be able to as he looks at the Two of Swords card and feels sweat start to bead at his temples.

Playing with tarot cards is all fun and games when you don’t believe. Even when you do — a measure of healthy skepticism is good for the soul. But with everything he’s seen; been told?

Who would willingly ask for their future foretold after that?

“I think we can skip to the next cards.”

“Oho, this don’t work like that.”

“Why,” doing his best to keep his voice level, “it’s my reading, right? I don’t want to know.”

“Sucks to be you, then. You draw; you listen. That’s how all true readin’s go.” Luc leans back on the creaky chair and lets the Swords card flip and twirl between his fingers.

He could make it easy on them both; stop arguing and just get up and leave the reading unfinished. Find Ryder in the back and apologize for doing what he said not to do — again — and book it out of there right quick.

But he doesn’t.

“Now I get why Nik said not to do this.”

“Ha — well, hindsight ain’t much use in a house of foresight baby. So listen; an’ listen well.

“In proper tarot some cards are real close in meanin’. That’s where the spread comes in — the order, the intent; not to mention the cards all ‘round it. The Swords in your future point to some hard fuckin’ choices. And if ya keep on the path ya’re on you won’t be makin’ ‘em with all your marbles.

“I ain’t talkin’ about decisions that can be made for you, neither. When it comes down to it you’re likely to find ya’self alone — not only in the act a’ choosin’ but in dealin’ with the consequences.”

“So what kind of choices? What do the cards scream about that?”

“They don’t —” he tosses the card back down and it’s probably not a coincidence that it slides magically askew back in the reading’s place, “— on account of all the changes between now and when that time comes.

“The cards give truths where mortals lie; hope where the world pushes despair. But at the end’a everythin’ they’re just cards — bound by the same circumstances as you or I.”

It’s probably meant to be poignant; something that might be sold on a re-purposed wooden palette hand-painted and polished. In a shop similar to this — right between the mismatched crystal balls and Ryder’s coveted frog warts.

But all Taylor can think is; “Well that’s absolutely useless to me beyond freaking me out.”

Luc gives another one of his gap-toothed grins — “C’est la vie, mon petit,” — and doesn’t wait for permission or argument to reveal another card.

“If it makes ya feel any better —”

“Doubtful at this point.”

“— Fair. But they won’t leave ya hangin’. Unless the Hanged Man is drawn, a’course. Naw, rest easy knowin’ you won’t be goin’ the journey alone.”

He frowns; confused. “But you just said —”

“Hush. All the best journeys are made with friends. Though I… I ain’t sure I’d call the Nine a’Wands a friend…”

Curiosity replaced by twists and turns of his bewildered head; Luc bites down on his thumb nail and scrutinizes the seventh draw. “In fact, I’d call whomever this bad draw represents —”

“Ryder!”

The Nighthunter emerges in a wave of beads carrying a pearly sphere the size of his head tucked in the crook of his arm. At the same time Taylor jumps — a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar — and swears when his knee bangs under the table.

Luc doesn’t notice — or doesn’t care; still fixated on the black-and-gold design in front of him. Mutters “could be him, but…” under his breath so low that no one catches it.

Taylor fumbles for an explanation — which is a pretty stupid move seeing as he was ready to just come clean only a minute ago — but doesn’t get the chance. Though he would like to state that it probably would have been an extremely convincing and well-versed one had Ryder not just held up a hand and rolled his eyes.

“I figured you’d ignore me. Already took out my anger with a mortar and pestle in the back.”

Well he’s a little offended now. “I wasn’t blatantly disobeying you or anything,” then; “I’m a grown adult and can make my own choices.”

And doesn’t that karma come around to bite him in the ass pretty damn fast. He makes a great effort not to look at what is no doubt a haughty look of ‘I told you so.’

“Yeah yeah, cry me a river.”

He props the sphere on a large cushion nearby to keep it from rolling and drags the last free seat over into Taylor’s personal bubble. Already looking at the spread like he, too, can hear these alleged screams from the deck. “So, Luc? Any tell on whether or not I’m gonna get paid for this gig?”

“Wha — hey!”

Taylor knows he doesn’t hit Nik’s arm that hard but the offended look he gets back is more than enough.

“Ouch. That hurt.”

“If that hurt I need a new bodyguard.”

“Don’t tempt me to pawn you off.”

“Please do.”

A tinny click draws their focus away from each other and to Luc’s newly lighted blunt. No longer puzzled by the cards — his eyes are brighter; they shine with understanding.

“Nevermind. I get it, now.”

“Get what?” barks Nik a little too defensively.

“Didn’ I jus’ tell ya not to mind it?”

Taylor cuts Nik off before he can continue arguing. They’ve been here too long already. “If we can’t leave until this is finished — can you finish?”

Two cards remain to be revealed. The fortune teller takes his sweet time with a few puffs before agreeing, if reluctantly. Maybe he just doesn’t like an audience?

All sense of the mysterium is gone. Luc flips the cards one at a time with one hand while sucking in his joint with the other.

The Five of Swords. The Wheel of Fortune.

It’s totally the secondhand high that makes the golden wheel glitter and seem to turn before their eyes. Totally.

He braces himself for another round of cryptic semi-explanations. Only they don’t come. Luc’s eyelids droop heavy — almost closed. And judging by Nik’s frown that’s not a normal part of the reading.

“Luca? Hey —” — he snaps in front of the man’s face — “— Laveau!”

He doesn’t quite jerk out of his momentary trance; eyelids flutter as if awakening from a dream.

“Maybe you had a point, Hunter,” after a throaty cough, “maybe it’s best this go unfinished.”

“What seriously? After all that earlier shit?” He balks. Beside him Ryder grabs the Swords and looks it over back to front.

“You’ve never left a reading hanging. What gives?”

“He’s still new to the life. I think he’s had enough bad news for today.”

Taylor practically snatches the card from Nik. But it seems just as reluctant to give up its secrets to him, too. Makes him toss it back down in frustration.

“Just tell me,” even he can’t believe what he’s saying, “since I dunno if it’s worse to know or to guess.”

“Trust me. The worst one’s knowin’.”

“I’ll take that as you’ve never encountered crippling anxiety, then.”

In rare sympathetic form Ryder reaches out and rests a hand on Luc’s exposed forearm. They aren’t hiding behind quips or dancing words any longer; you could see the remnants of intimacy between them from space.

“Luc — come on. For my sake, too.”

The doubt doesn’t ease off from the fortune teller’s brow. In fact it looks deeper than ever before. Finally he yields. “All right — but don’t blame me or the cards. We’re jus’ messengers after all.”

No longer in need of a familiar touch Luc shakes the hand off. Mutters something unintelligible under his breath and takes another few puffs to calm himself down before he covers the Five of Swords like he can’t do the reading while looking at it.

“There’s more than difficult choices ahead for you — and for those what end up around you. A fight looms —” he turns the Swords card on its back atop the revealed Wheel of Fortune, “— on a bigger horizon than that’a the Vieux Carre. Might even be one bigger than this world of ours.

“Not so much a fight as a battle; a war. Turnin’ and churnin’ at the banks of the river and out into the ocean. Ready to flood the whole damn city — every corner of the earth. And it’ll keep ragin’ and screamin’ with every body what falls to it.”

Ryder goes still as stone beside him. Taylor finds himself revisiting the notion of it being better not knowing.

“What does any of that have to do with me?”

“You, Mister Hunter — you’re smack dab in the middle of it. More’n that… you belong there.”

Apologies. Sympathy. Condolences. Luc can’t seem to settle on one way to look at Taylor so instead he just focuses on packing his deck back up. He isn’t as careful this time around — like he’s angry at the cards and what they had to say; to scream. Two separate entities working off of one another but, at the very least, both unhappy with the outcome.

“I’ll get a box for that crystal ball — the warts are yours but I’ll need interest on that relic.” He can’t get away from the pair fast enough. Shuffles the tarot deck in his hands as he goes.

He wants to be surprised that Nik doesn’t follow; doesn’t go to check on someone he obviously has a past and present connection with. But in the goody bag of his emotions he just keeps pulling out resignation — even when he cheats and peeks inside.

That’s all there is. All he can feel.

Where’s that opportunity for escapism the cards had mentioned earlier? He could use a bit of that at the moment.

Doesn’t know when exactly Nik started trying to comfort him; hand on his upper back, the gentle back-and-forth of his thumb. Taylor’s not a big fan of touch but that seems to be how Ryder connects to the world; through the physical.

And oddly it’s working. The comfort thing.

“You okay?”

He’ll sass such a ridiculous question later. “Uh, honestly I don’t really know what I am right now.”

Ryder’s face is unusually close when Taylor looks his way. The barest flicker — a crack in the bravado. Nik is worried for him.

“That can happen after Luc’s readings. You think I warned ya away to keep you from somethin’ fun? Knowin’ his connection with the spirit world makes it all really…”

He struggles for the right word. Weird, coming from him.

“‘Real?’” offers Taylor, and gets him a nod.

“Yeah, really real.”

Noises of shuffled boxes and Luc’s grunts draw them out of Taylor’s personal space and back to the world around them. Up near the back curtain Luc gently eases the crystal ball into a wooden box.

“So, question.”

“Yeah Rook?”

“What do we do now?” Because if turning tail and running like a shameless coward away from this war is an option, he’s taking it.

“We keep on going,” Nik answers, “We get back to the Shift and finish up this blasted protection spell and then we dive into findin’ your attacker and punch a bunch’a holy light holes in it’s ugly-ass face.”

This time when he reaches into the bag of emotions, luck gives him a break and lets him pull out the barest ghost of a smile.

“Man, it is ugly. Like — fugly ugly.”

Ryder’s smile is just as small — but no less sincere — than his.

“It damn sure is.”

#nightbound #nik ryder x mc #nik ryder #playchoices #choices fanfiction #cal lowell #garrus #krom #ivy #nightbound mc #mc: taylor hunter #oblv: bound by circumstance #oblv: new chapter #; my fics

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scarletgardensrpg · 4 years

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UNDEAD ♦ TWENTY-SIX ♦ NEUTRAL

EVANDER BUCHANAN is the Gravekeeper of the Oude Kerk. While Evander does not uphold most traditional priestly duties, such as Sunday sermons and rituals, he offers Undead baptisms, wherein the newly rehabilitated are “purified” as a means of initiation into Amsterdam—a common practice for nearly all Undead citizens, regardless of their religious affiliation. He was killed and transformed into a rotbeest at the age of twenty-six by Cecile, then resurrected in the Carpathian Mountains by Julian in 2045.

BIOGRAPHY

tw: alcohol and drug abuse, death

“Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck.” Julian, on the other end of the line, sounded tinny and unimpressed. Thank you for that, good morning to you as well. Now if you'll be more specific... “Okay, um. I’m still at the beach.” A long silence. “I took Papa’s Porsche.” An even longer silence. “It’s, like, not in great condition. Anymore.” This last stretch of silence went on for so long, Evander pulled his phone back from his ear to make sure the call hadn’t disconnected. “Julian.” Is it still driveable? “Yeah, I think so. Maybe. I dunno, the wheels look fine?” That’s not—okay. Drive it to the nearest collision center. Now, it was Evander’s turn to be silent. For the first time, in a long time, he felt something akin to shame. He was nineteen, and still trying—failing—to make his brother proud. “I’m, uh, still kind of drunk. Sorry. Do you think you could—” Yes. I’ll be there soon. Click. Evander swore under his breath and shoved his phone back into his pocket. His eyes hurt, there was sand in the depths of his ass crack, and Ce was going to mock him for a week.

- ❀ -

Spare the rod and spoil the child. He came last: after Julian had been born and deemed favorite and heir, after Cecile had been born and deemed illegitimate and unwanted. Evander, then, found himself with nothing to prove and nothing to endure: it was all roses. Handsome, good grades, star of the football team; he’d spend his youth living out some iteration of the American fantasy: a young prince without a care in the world, idling indulgently by an emerald infinity pool—the very picture of privilege. But, of course, as with all things that seemed too good to be true, there was the untarnished gleam of good appearances and saved face—and then, there was the truth. The Buchanans, for all their money’s worth, were a study in psychopathy: generations of well-dressed bastards who had lied and cheated their way up to Heaven, and scaled up the ladder of power using their claws and teeth. A thousand ruined lives could be put to Papa’s name—his own children’s being chief among them. It was a beautiful life, filled with exotic vacations and designer clothes, more money than he’d ever need, enough to fill entire rooms with—and it was an ugly life, marred by screaming matches, broken furniture, and five perpetually unoccupied seats at the dinner table.

In the end, it was enough to drive Julian to heartlessness, Cecile to madness, and Evander to debauchery. He, especially, wanted no part in any of it all. His siblings were formidable and hungry: the boldest and brightest of the Buchanan clan, with enough conviction to set the world aflame and enough ambition to swallow it whole. What candle could he have held to those big people, those big dreams? He had no interest in trying. Instead, at Dartmouth, he would retreat into his expensive amusements and vices: liquor and wine, lines of cocaine, a quarter-million dollars blown on a bad bet in the casino, yes-men all around him. You’re so pathetic, Cecile would say disdainfully each morning she found him passed out in the foyer—and this, Evander knew, was the one thing she and Julian could agree on. He didn’t mind. That meant there was one less thing he had to listen to them fight about. He loved them, dearly and inexplicably—and he had thought they loved him, too. Wasn’t it enough that they had one another? The answer was, printed in neat clinical letters atop a stack of biochemical consent forms: No. He had underestimated both of them. Julian’s love and Julian’s ambition were two breeds of the same beast. Cecile’s wrath and her ambition were two strains of the same poison.

So: he would die by the hands of his siblings. At this point, it was so trite to talk about: six years of experimentation, Cecile shouldering the brunt of it—not out of concern for Evander, but a twisted need for it to fucking work, already before it got to Julian. When at last it did, and Cecile came out of the bloody waters a dead woman with gleaming eyes, she’d make plans to raise hell, as was so typical of her—but this time, intended Evander to partake in the chaos, too. He had bled to death at her feet, cheek pressed to the filthy basement floor, more afraid than ever. When his mind sank away from him at last, Cecile let him up and swung the door open. It’s me, Ce, she cooed. You always liked to have fun. We’re going to have some fun. And was it fun? In the moment, it might’ve been. Evander couldn’t say. He would come to in three years, in the mountains with Julian’s blood in his mouth and no recollection of what had occurred in the time between the night he’d died and now. His brother looked older, icier than ever. Cecile was nowhere to be found. There’s no need to save her, Evander had spat into the snow. She saved herself.

At least I’ve saved you, Julian said. To that, Evander could only laugh and laugh, until the incredulity wore off, and there was only grief.

CONNECTIONS

IVONNE – PESKY WOMAN. Evander understands she is his counterpart of sorts—a Priestess to the living in the same way he is a Gravekeeper for the dead. Evander doesn’t understand how this, alone, is sufficient justification in Ivonne’s eyes to enter and leave his church as she pleases (“Evander, this is public property. Your attitude is un-priestly.” “I’m not a priest!”) with armfuls of baked goods, insisting matter-of-factly that he doesn’t eat enough, among a myriad of other baseless declarations she makes to him, about him. They are, in Evander's opinion, vastly different people: where he had happened upon the abandoned Oude Kerk and, in seeing no better option, made a reluctant home for himself there, Ivonne is a zealous New Worlder type. She is a peculiar woman in general: for all her power and popularity, it doesn’t seem she has many friends, nor particularly wants them. In some ways, Evander thinks she’s even lonelier than him. Despite this, he remains quick to brush her off—sometimes aggressively, the hurt of having someone to look after him after so many years both sharp and jarring, and other times begrudgingly, between bitefuls of (admittedly delicious) lemon meringue. She is not exactly motherly, per se—Ivonne acts more like a disapproving corporate manager, or a disinterested therapist—but her attentiveness for Evander is both overwhelming and...neither appreciated, nor unappreciated. He’s conflicted. You know, I can take care of myself, he told her once. Ivonne had lifted a single, elegant brow. Yes, I know. I wonder all the time why you don’t.

JULIAN & CECILE – TWO KNIVES IN HIS BACK. It’s hard—no, impossible—for him to reconcile that Julian, who read him to sleep after nightmares and took a welt to the cheek for Evander after he’d crashed the Porsche, had also watched impassively from across the expanse of an infinite table while Evander signed his life away—and that Cecile, who cried in the bathroom when nobody came to her recital, and accepted expulsion from six successive schools for the simple want of being loved, had been the same woman to draw Evander calmly into her arms, only to kill him between teethfuls of flesh and blood. Once, Evander thought his older brother and sister hung the moon. Cecile never was able to accept Julian’s kindnesses—ones she called debts, mouth wrapped sourly around the word—but Evander would have been content to bask in that kindness forever: diamonds and Jaguars, exotic beaches, lovers in every city—and above all other luxuries, the one of knowing the three of them would be together, always. That hope of his has come true, he supposes, in the most twisted of ways. True, he has Cecile to thank for not abandoning him in a basement in Palestrina—but she’d left him three years later instead in Poland. And he has Julian to thank for resurrecting him—but Julian was the pronouncer of his death sentence to begin with; and what’s more, he’s carried him out of one Hell, only to drag him into another. They were never a happy family, but they were a family. Now, whatever it is that’s keeping them together—science, death, and that ugly word, debts—Evander wishes it wouldn’t.

KISARA & OKSANA – THE LOVERS. He really, really, wishes they would stop making out in his cemetery. Well—they are not exactly kissing, but by the way they spar and wrestle, eyes gleaming bright with the closest thing to feeling alive : it might as well be kissing. Kisara is an old friend—someone he used to visit at the Moulin Rouge when he’d first arrived in Amsterdam, having defaulted back to sex and gambling to quell his misery. The two of them had once gone to depraved depths with one another, lost their minds eating seeds, tumbled about in satin sheets— Eventually, he turned his back on all of it once and for all, but Kisara stuck around. According to her, Oksana is new meat. I’m showing her around, she says, feinting disinterest as she goes to examine her perfect, shiny red nails. Evander snorts. Yeah, showing her around your bed. When Kisara jabs him in the rib with a snarl, he has to roll on the ground and make exaggerated sounds of pain for like, a while, before she finally laughs and forgives him. Kisara and Oksana have been coming around more often—De Wallen is cramped and unsightly, while Centraal Station tends to overrun itself with creepy 200 junkies when it gets late enough. The Oude Kerk, decrepit and, exempting Evander himself, void of people, is an admittedly good place to have some privacy. In truth, Evander doesn’t really mind. Kisara is welcome to come whenever she’d like, and he likes Oksana enough: she’s witty, abrasive, and reminds him a lot of Cecile. But perhaps it’s that very resemblance to his conniving sister that makes him uneasy about her. Kisara, too wrapped up in whatever it is they have going on, doesn’t seem to see the way Oksana holds herself: calmly and calculatively, showing just enough teeth to pass off as fully feral. Evander knows her kind. He’s not inclined to trust her.

OPEN ♦ FC: SEAN O'PRY

#evander #o #ud #neutral #all #lsrpg #lsrp #bio rp

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cunninginstinct · 4 years

Text

Dark Magic

Compiled thread with @neverwinterforgottenhero

Tension hung so taut in the air that it was practically tangible, and as the sun elf paced about in his humble shop, Sand consulted the mysterious tome she’d presented him with. Foul magicks indeed were tied to this book. Even Sand, who had known personally the wickedness of the Arcane Brotherhood, found it difficult to not be squeamish… yet utterly enraptured at the same time, in the same way that one would find it difficult to look away from a horrifying accident.

Tempting as it was to tell the distraught woman that there was no hope for her friend, and that she should leave the book under his professional care and forget the whole ordeal, there seemed to be several intriguing references in what Sand could decipher. But, looking at what was required, it was easier to tell her there was nothing to be done. Still…

Sand sighed, closing the book from both ends together. That was a mistake, as the smell of decay gusted upwards from that motion, and Sand’s sigh had just the right timing to breathe it in despite his conscious efforts to not inhale its stench. He coughed and retched for a while, feeling bile rise in the back of his throat. Hearing this, Jaral remained huddled at the very top of the staircase, tail fluffed and ears flattened.

Sand waved a hand in front of his face to attempt to clear the air as he recovered from his fit of coughing and gagging. “L-look,” he wheezed, much calmer now. “Look at the c… er-ehm. Look at the cover. See how there’s… only a few cr–” His voice broke and he hacked and coughed in a way similar to how his familiar would throw up a hairball. “There’s only a few crystals on the cover. The others seem to have been purposefully gouged out, and maybe hidden. Though I’d be simply ecstatic to tell you it may be as simple as locating and retrieving its counterparts, I wouldn’t put too much stock into your friend recovering from his curse. Possible, yes, but his chances are slim.”

The moon elf held the book underneath of his arm and clasped his hands behind his back. His expression was as grim as the tomb. “Something as powerful as this, my dear, must have some sort of guardian making sure these crystals are not recovered… whether for good or for ill. Are you really sure reviving your friend is worth the sacrifice?”

The dust clouded her vision for an instant. The mage took a long time to examine the grimoire, that didn’t seem too good. Yet she still had hope, Sand was known for his knowledge in the arcane mysteries. It was even why Lord Nasher had kept him near him. But more than that, it was the fact that the mage had worked with Ophelia, that had pushed the paladin to come here.

Oh it was not the first time she visited the shop. Yet it was maybe the first time she exchanged more than a few words with the moon elf. Until then she hadn’t noticed the cat. He too, seemed a bit affected by the dust and the smell.

It was not very surprising either, animals often sensed things better than them. And the odor that came from that flow of dust was truly horrible. She coughed a bit and tried to calm down quickly. But images of corpses flashed before her eyes.

No, no, they aren’t there, they aren’t there! You’re in a shop Rith, not there, not there…

Morninglord. With my eyes I see your holy sunrise. Morninglord. With my hands I sense your mercifull warmth. Morninglord. With my heart I feel your eternal love.

Her heart beat decreased slowly, yet she could feel a cold sweat dripping down her back. The magician didn’t seem too good either. The foul smell had invaded the shop, leaving no fresh air. Pressed against a shelf, she tried to catch her breath.

“Ugh…I see, are you alright?”

The crystals, that was the key. She doubted that these gems were inoffensive and it looked like she was right. Every thing had a purpose, and it wasn’t the first spellbook she had found. She was used to see magical mechanisms.

She stood up, as she felt better. Her amber eyes supported the gaze of the moon elf. She was determined. She remembered too well the first time she had seen Leandre, a child back then. The blonde curls and that innocent smile hadn’t fooled her. But she had also seen how thin and dirty he was as he stole that apple. She was the one who had send him to Aarin. And yes, she was responsible. It was her fault.

“I’m willing to do whatever it takes. And I’m kinda good at retrieving hidden things if I may say so.”

She paused, her tone was a bit ironic.

“That won’t be the first time I have to fight a guardian. We should elaborate a plan. when I would find it I would act accordingly. So… are you in?”

Startled by her assumption that he would simply go along, willy-nilly, into the heart of danger once more, he leaned away a little from the paladin. Holding up both of his hands in a simultaneous halting and submissive manner, he interrupted, “Oh, me? No, no, no, no. No. I have had my fill of adventuring, thank-you-very-much, and I do not intend to get myself wrapped up into the risky affairs of others over a stranger.”

He backed away, his spine (or, in this particular situation, lackthereof) brushing against the counter. “You’ll have to find someone else. No ifs, ands, or buts, my dear. While I would be simply ecstatic to put my life on the line yet again, those days are over. And my inventory will not take stock of itself.” Dismissively, he grabbed some random papers from his desk and looked them over as though she were no longer there.

The only hint he gave that he was still aware of her presence was the off-hand suggestion, “Try the mercenarys’ barracks. You’re sure to find a meatshield in there or two to help you along your way. Have a wonderful time, and ah, don’t die.”

It’s was an understatement to say that she was disapointed. Usually people were easily convinced by gold and gems. Some were also happy to help, or even eager to do what’s right. Unfortunatly the mage seemed a little to attached to his own comfort to really want to face danger.

Well it was not the first time someone said no to her. The paladin approached the cat, maybe a familiar, to hide that she had to think about a better reply to convince Sand. She reached for the cat, presenting her hand so it could smell her odor. Maybe then she could caress the lovely animal.

“Well. I still need a mage. If I understand it well, we’ll have to put the crystals back into the book to undo the curse. Maybe even perfom some ritual. And I can’t do that.”

The cat didn’t seem to mind her. In fact he didn’t seem to care at all. So she touched it very softly, Somehow it was quite comforting.

“I understand that you don’t want to risk your life for a stranger. But after what Ophelia told me about you I thought… Well that’s too bad. I need to act fast and an apprentice mage would only slow me. I need a veteran mage, one who can perform a spell while I protect him.”

Almost as a reflex she chanted softly a short prayer. Lathander give me the strenght! Then she turned to him, her amber eyes fixed on his.

“And you should know that I won’t take any meatshield. I am the shield, I have been the shield of this whole city, don’t you remember? So I’ll go alone then.”

She returned to the mage, and took the book on the counter. Her eyes were glowing with a fierce determination. A holy aura was surrounding her. She was willing to do anything to save Leandre.

Sand snootily watched as she acquainted herself with Jaral. The feline ducked his head and sniffed her hand, maintaining a respectable distance, before rearing his head to butt it into her palm, eyes closed into content little slits. A low purr rumbled in his throat. Ah, Jaral. Much more a ladies’ man than Sand ever was.

Admittedly, he felt a little bad leaving her to her own devices. Sand made an unsatisfactory host tower mage due to his guilty conscience and now here it was, throwing him headfirst into more danger and, almost worse yet, inconvenience. But did Rith really expect she would survive alone? Likely not. This was a little obvious trick she was playing on his feelings and to his unenthusiastic surprise, it was working.

One of these days, he’ll have to track down Ophelia and give her a talk about the reputation she painted of him, and how expectations go hand in hand.

“In that case, I suppose joining you would be prudent. A veteran mage would be difficult to locate in the docks district, after all, and the ones in the other quarters of Neverwinter would likely be less interested than I.” He placed both hands on the counter and leaned forward towards her, his face half-cast in shadow, one eyebrow raised. “Fair warning - I’m not risking life and limb on the whim of a stranger. I will help, but I have my boundaries.”

The feline was purring, its comforting sound was nice to hear. It was too long since she had seen such a nice cat. Well maybe not just a cat, as she was at a wizard’s shop, but still. It sure looked like one. Its fur was soft and fluffly under her fingers.

A wave of relief eased the tension in her shoulders. She felt like someone had lifted her heavy burden for now. Hearing the mage changing his mind put a smile on her face. The kind that she couldn’t erase even if she tried. Mentally she thanked the Morninglord. Then she composed herself, it was not the time to look stupidly joyfull.

“Well veteran mages seem quite rare these times. I’m really happy to see that you changed your mind. “

She approached the counter, leaning in quite close to the moon elf. Those two were like color opposites.

“That’s only fair I guess, should we discuss your boundaries right now? Or do you prefer a meal first? “

The paladin smiled.

Sand raised his hands from the counter top to cross his arms and half-turn away, still looking in her direction. “Allow me to pack first, then we’ll eat. We will have plenty of time to discuss boundaries afterwards on our way to find answers.” He sniffed and began to close up shop while she continued making friends with his familiar. “I’ll have my apprentice take over the shop for the time-being. And I trust you have authority to appeal to Lord Nasher? If you are to borrow me, in a manner of speaking, he will need to allow me the freedom to chase after you into danger without violating any codes between myself and Neverwinter.”

The mage compared wands and, with a shrug, packed both away into the bag on his hip alongside his spellbook. “Let us make relative haste, I am sure we will have a lot of ground to cover in order to help this friend of yours, Rith.” His smile was sly. “At least you had the sense to ask someone proficient enough to help, my dear. I make no promises, but I assure you I will do my best on your behalf.”

Oh so he did have boundaries, although rather tempted to address it, she didn’t say that out loud. She was honestly happy that he changed his mind. Because she knew by Ophelia how valuable his skills were. Still her joyful smile disappeared at the mention of the lord’s name. She was surprised that he too, was not totally free of his movements in the city. Maybe he was also some kind of spy.

She didn’t think about that and Ophie didn’t tell her. But well, kinda normal if any of this was a bit true. That man had pawns everywhere, even in the oddest places. That was nothing new really. She shrugged, a thin grin on her lips.

“Well, I left a note for Aarin Gend, I’m sure he will transmit the message if he thinks it has some importance to Nasher.”

As he was packing stuff, she took the grimoire back, putting it carefully into her magical backpack. Its touch made her shiver an instant. Fortunatly Rith had already packed her bag, armored, she had her weapon on her side, her shield was in the bag.

“I have a gift for that it seems. Well let’s go grab something to eat. You’re right, we don’t have much time to loose.”

#dark magic #neverwinterforgottenhero #finished thread #compiled thread

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betsyandmaxwellandduchessohmy · 5 years

Note

concepts: dadsona is one of the dads that joseph did away with in the cult ending. imagine the absolute FREAKOUT when he opens the door to find dadsona beaming at him with a plate of brownies, laughing. (Good thing we had good medical insurance, right?) But dadsona's hands are so cold. They talk at length, but never seem to stop for breath. no blinking, either. (1/2)

(2/2) and every goddamn night, joseph can see them, standing out in the street and watching his bedroom window. just watching, ever-polite. he visits their grave the next day, and it's still there. dead, but not gone. very very angry at you, joseph. So Very, Very Angry. (SORRY IF YOU DONT LIKE HORROR JUST THOUGHT IT WAS NEATO)

((ARE YOU KIDDING THIS IS NEATO BURRITO! I don’t know how good my response will be since, for all my interest in horror, I actually don’t write horror a lot. I kinda rushed through the end of this so I could post something this week, so sorry if that's a little obvious

I’m kinda on the fence about the cult ending as a whole, because the developers already messed with Joseph’s character enough by not allowing him a truly happy ending, and it just feels like the icing on the cake of that whole shitshow. But, part of me also kinda likes it? I can’t explain why. I think any story with a More Than Meets The Eye element, I kinda like a little. And I like horror! I understand that this wasn’t the most appropriate place for it, but I like it! So! CULT ENDING WARNING FOR PEOPLE WHO DON”T LIKE/DON”T WANT TO SEE CULT ENDING STUFF

This one really got away from me, and it came out way more Amanda-centric than I think Nonny intended, but I love the idea of Amanda practicing any kind of witchcraft. I just wish dadsona had been alive to have a talk with her about practicing dark magic responsibly.))

~~~

Amanda didn’t question it much, when the book showed up on the doorstep while she was cleaning up the house. She almost tossed it out - It was an ancient thing, the edges of the pages in tatters, the title on the leather spine almost completely lost to age. But out of curiosity, after glancing around briefly and finding no one in sight to have left it, she brought it inside.

She sat in the half-packed living room, intending to look through the fragile pages for some note to give her an explanation, and then set it aside and leave it be. She wasn’t in the mood for pranks and if this was Emma R.’s idea of a funny joke now, she was going to kill her.

A page near the back of the book was marked with a lump of dried root, and Amanda felt her throat close up a little when she read the title at the top of the page.

Returning The Wrongfully Taken

She inhaled sharply, resisting the urge to toss the book as though it had burned her, the way her instincts told her to.

Instead, she tentatively picked up the root, setting it aside as she read through the ingredients. And the ritual. And the incantation. The root, she figured, was probably the mentioned aconite. It was the only ingredient she didn’t at least have a vague idea about. It was all very complicated, but at the same time, she couldn’t bring herself to care. She’d played witches with Emma when she was little, and had started taking an interest in wicca a few years ago without really pursuing it, but this seemed like the kind of book the Wicked Witch might’ve had on her shelf. And that actually made her hopeful, in a tentative, scary kind of way, that it was real.

She didn’t know what the book meant by Wrongfully Taken. A quick glance through the table of contents said there were other necromancy spells for people who died before their time - even one specifically for people lost to the sea. But whoever had left this on her doorstep had marked “Wrongfully Taken”, and given her one of the ingredients that wasn’t found in any of the other dead-raising spells. Were they mistaken, or was she missing something?

In any case, she decided she had to try. What did she have to lose, anyway? A few bucks on ingredients and one night of her summer.

She would give up a lot more, if there was even a scrap of a chance that she could see her dad again.

Almost every family in the Cul-De-Sac had offered to let her come stay with them until she went off to college. Robert offered condolences, and Joseph told her to come by the church any time when he brought a plate of cookies by a few days after the funeral, but she understood neither of them were really in a position to take her in, even just briefly. She didn’t want to impose on anyone, but she just… couldn’t live in that house by herself, even if she could afford it. And none of her old friends seemed interested in offering.

In the end, she’d accepted Lucien and mister Bloodmarch’s offer. Damien knew a lot about plants, which was useful, and she felt a little less awkward about the whole thing since she was living with someone closer to her age who didn’t currently hate her.

And missus Christiansen came to visit quite often, which surprised her a little. She hadn’t known Mary and Damien were friends. Good friends, too, considering the way she just let herself in. It was always a little unsettling when Amanda came downstairs after all day in her (Temporary, Still-Packed) room and found her in the sitting room.

Much like today.

Lucien had called her from the door on his way in, saying she'd gotten a package (more of her ingredients, she was sure,) and she came down to find Mary sitting in the red room, drinking tea like she lived there.

“Hey there, Amanda,” she greeted casually, taking a sip out of Damien’s delicate teacups. Amanda had used them a few times, but she tried not to because she was terrified of breaking them.

“Hey, missus Christiansen,” she replied, giving her a friendly smile before turning toward the kitchen. “Lucien? Where’d you put that-” the package dropped into her hands. “Thank you.”

Lucien gave her a nod and a smile, passing her on his way up the stairs and left her awkwardly standing on the landing.

“What’d you get, kiddo?”

Amanda felt a lump in her throat as she turned from the stairs to Mary. Damien and Lucien mostly left her to herself. Offered themselves up if it seemed like she needed an ear, but letting her grieve alone when she needed. So they hadn’t really asked about her packages, or why she asked the questions she did. Maybe that was why, after a beat, she decided to share.

“Oh, you know. Dittany, copal incense, myrrh oil,” she hummed casually, giving a shrug as she pulled the tape off the box. It looked like this one also contained the death’s head hawkmoth she’d gotten from an online specialty store that worked with a butterfly sanctuary. She figured she could give it to Damien once she was done with it. Mary gave a hum of interest and Amanda paused, catching a whiff from her cup.

“What’re you drinking?"

“Elderflower tea. With a little chervil and mugwort. Little something a friend of mine cooked up, thought I’d bring some over for Dames. You wanna try?” she asked, lifting the pot. Pausing a moment, Amanda gave a small nod, taking a seat across from her and setting her package aside as Mary poured her a cup and held it out. There were still flecks of ingredients floating in her cup - she knew people did that, but it struck her as odd for some reason.

“Never took you for a tea drinker, missus Christiansen,” Amanda hummed thoughtfully taking the cup as carefully as humanly possible.

“I’m not really. But I’ve been told it’s in bad form to have wine before noon,” she returned, leaning back and taking a sip through her smile. “And call me Mary, kiddo. I’m not the stickler for formality that Damien is.”

Amanda managed a chuckle at that, taking a sip and feeling… strangely comfortable, for the first time in a while. She hummed in satisfaction, leaning back a bit herself.

“This is really good,” she hummed without really realizing she’d spoken. Mary smiled, and suddenly looked very tired.

“I’ll pass along the compliment,” she stated, setting her cup aside. “My friend’s a real hippie type. Apparently this stuff is supposed to heighten your connection to the spiritual plane,” she added, her tone a little intentionally dramatic. Amanda nearly spit out her tea, but she managed to maintain composure and swallow like a normal person.

“Oh. Really?” she asked carefully,

“Oh, yeah, she’s really into all that stuff. Tarot and lunar cycles and all. Not really my thing, but hey, tea’s good,” she hummed. Amanda paused a moment, taking another long sip from her cup, almost forgetting how delicate the porcelain in her hands was. This all seemed… a bit too convenient. Mary had a friend who was into what sounded an awful lot like witchcraft. Mary brought over tea that was supposed to help someone connect to the spirit world. Mary lived right next to her old house and would certainly not look out of place leaving something on her grieving neighbor’s doorstep. Amanda swallowed hard.

“Mis- Mary, I-”

“I’m home!” Damien called from the door, moving through the house with a dramatic flourish that made his cloak whirl.

“Welcome back, Sweetpea,” Mary called. Amanda swallowed her words, forcing a smile when she felt Damien place a hand on her shoulder, clearly glad to see her out of her room. Mary stood to hug him and Amanda finished her tea, standing carefully to go rinse out her cup.

On her way toward the kitchen, she glanced back, and managed to catch the meaningful look Mary shot her. She gave her a nod, and the older woman seemed to relax just a touch further into Damien’s arms. Swallowing hard, Amanda turned and retreated. She had work to do.

Amanda felt drained, but satisfied. She’d followed the instructions to the letter. She’d performed the ritual exactly as the book had said, and now she knelt before her father’s grave, quietly counting the weeds that had started growing on the turned earth. The book said the spirit might take a few minutes to manifest, so she wasn’t going to get nervous about whether or not it had worked yet.

She hadn’t gotten another chance to talk to Mary, which was regrettable, but otherwise didn’t bother her much. She couldn’t tell if it was just bad luck or if Mary was actively avoiding her, but she chose to believe it was the former. Still, she could’ve used some help with all this. Even if Mary actually didn’t know, she would’ve liked to meet this mysterious ‘friend’.

She shook off the thought and crossed her legs, picking up a thermos full of the tea Mary had given her - Well, given Damien. Semantics. It wasn’t bad, just weird. The moon was full and bright, casting white light on her as she turned to lean on the headstone and took a swig of the earthy, almost bitter mix.

“You gonna share?”

Amanda gasped, nearly dropping the thermos as she looked up at the voice.

“Dad!”

She threw herself at you, and you grunted when she pushed you to the ground, landing firmly on top of you, arms around your shoulders. Groaning, you hugged back, smiling as you looked down and ruffled her hair.

“Alright. Let me up, sweet pea. Dead or not, being crushed isn’t great for the old man bones,” you hummed, coughing for emphasis. Amanda laughed through her tears, kissing your cheek and sitting up.

“God, I’m sorry, I just..” She leaned in as you sat up, wrapping her arms around you and burying her face in your chest. Your clothes felt wet and salty, but she chalked it up to her tears and didn’t question it. “I’ve missed you.”

Your smile softened and you tucked your daughter close, resting your chin on her hair.

“I missed you too, Panda,” you murmured, kissing her hair. Clearing her throat, she sat back again, wiping her eyes with the sleeves of her jacket.

“Okay, first things first. I need to know. The spell I used, it implies that you were taken, not that you just died. What- did something happen? Before the boat sank? After? I just. I need to understand.”

You paused a moment, expression going cold as you remembered. Flashes of ropes. Of warm water getting quickly colder as you sank. A dark cave rank with the stink of rotten earth.

“Joseph,” you murmured, though it came out more like a growl.

“Mister Christiansen got out alright. The coast guard picked him up and-”

“Of course he got out. He’s the one that sank the boat,” you murmur, something dark coming over your look. Amanda froze up a little at it, zombies and vengeful spirits catching in her head for a moment. She shook them out and reached up, placing a hand on your face.

“Dad?”

You sigh, placing your hand over hers. The darkness faded and she let out a tiny sigh of relief.

“It’s… A long story, Manda Panda. I don’t think I understand most of it myself, but…"

“Dad. Tell me.”

So you did.

Joseph blinked in surprise at the knock on the door, setting aside his book and pushing to his feet. He wasn’t expecting anyone. Maybe someone from the church? It was fundraiser season, too, he recalled, the mere thought of cheap-tasting chocolate bars making his expression sour briefly.

Clearing his throat, he straightened his clothes and put on a charming grin before reaching for the door knob.

“Hey there! How can I.. help…”

“Hey there, Joe! Been a hot minute, huh? It’s good to see you!” you greeted jovially, quietly relishing the way the color drained from his face.

“Oh. Um. Yeah! It. It sure has,” he nodded, eyes flickering from your smiling face to the plate of brownies you held, to the clothes you wore - just slightly damp, the same ones you were wearing-

“These are for you, by the way. Make sure you get one before the kids get to ‘em, kay? Made ‘em with hot fudge,” you grinned. Even with the cheerful curl of your mouth, Joseph could see something in your eyes. Something not quite right. They were the same shape, same color, but… brighter. Too bright. Just on the near side of glowing. You were still talking, something about his kids and the recipe you used and health insurance. You went on and on, and never took pause long enough to breathe, nevermind get a word in. So he feigned listening until you finally stopped. It took him awhile to realize that you were waiting for an answer to a question.

“Oh, I, uh,”

“Joseph? You alright, man?”

Joseph looked past you, spotting Mat out on the sidewalk, giving him a smile that betrayed concern.

“Oh, I’m alright, Mat. Just enjoying the morning air,” he assured, cheerful as ever. You raised an arm to wave, but Mat was already moving on, not even acknowledging your presence. Turning back to Joseph, you kept smiling, still unblinking, placing the plate of brownies in his hands before he had time to realize he was taking them.

“He’s a real sweetheart, that Mat,” you hummed thoughtfully, cocking your head slightly at Joseph in a way that made a shiver shoot down his back. “But most of the people around here are good folks. If anyone did anything to hurt any of them- why, I might just have to kill them over it!”

You laughed, even as Joseph suddenly felt very cold. Words like that should not make someone like him shrivel and retreat, but under normal circumstances, you were mortal, which you clearly weren’t anymore because he’d felt the life drain from you and how was it you were even standing here?

“Heh, sorry if I spooked you with that one. Amanda’s been getting me on the “Fatalistic Humor” game her generation’s got going on. Figure it’ll give me an edge with her friends,” you added with a shrug. “Anyway, I gotta get going, but I’ll see you around, yeah?”

You started away from the house, still smiling over your shoulder, waving at him. He paused a moment before the feeling came back into his legs and he stepped inside, closing the door with a sour expression and dumping the plate into the trash.

“Like home you will.”

The thing was, he didn’t stop seeing you.

You were in the window at the Coffee Spoon. Crossing the street downtown. Ducking into shops to escape the rain or the heat. And no matter where he saw you, you always met his gaze. Always with that same cheerful grin and those dead, cold eyes. He’d thought himself impervious to intimidation up until this point, when he started panicking in front of his neighbors. They didn’t suspect anything though - save Robert, perhaps - just thought he was a man wracked with guilt over the death of another neighbor. He actually said your name once, when he saw you over the fence during a barbecue, and Brian had reassured him that it was just his eyes playing tricks on him.

No one else had seen you.

He could go into a shop you had just left, describe you to everyone in there, and none of them would have seen you.

Not that he did that. That would make him look like a crazy person.

But it was unsettling. You shouldn’t be here. Even with the level of ability humans had, necromancy alone shouldn’t have been able to bring your soul back from where he’d stuck it. But here you were. Everywhere. He couldn’t go more than a few hours without seeing you, unless he stayed inside all day with the curtains drawn.

Even when he did just that, the nights were worse.

His dreams were plagued with you. They could start innocent, even sweet, before devolving into a horror show, his own tactics and methods turned against him in a way that made him sick. And when he woke, he automatically looked to the window - the only dim source of light from the streetlamps outside. And there you stood, still smiling with cold, dead eyes.

He had guided evil this far. This should not be enough to turn the tables on him. But here he was, more and more scared of a dead man.

How the mighty fall.

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