#I found out he died after I published my story
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Sioux Warrior Rain-in-the-Face (Eastman's Biography)
Rain-in-the-Face (Ite Omagazu, l. c. 1835-1905) was a Lakota Sioux warrior and war chief during Red Cloud's War (1866-1868) and at the Battle of the Little Bighorn (1876), after which he became famous as the man who killed Lt. Col. George Armstrong Custer, his brother Capt. Thomas Custer, or both of them.
How Rain-in-the-Face first became identified as Custer's killer is unclear, but the claim was popularized by the poem The Revenge of Rain-in-the-Face by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow – the bestselling American poet of his age – published in Keramos and Other Poems (1878). Although modern-day writers cite the poem as claiming Rain-in-the-Face killed Thomas Custer, it seems clear "White Chief with yellow hair" (line 9 of the poem) alludes to George Custer, and it is George's heart, not Thomas's, that Rain-in-the-Face rides off with at the end of the piece.
Rain-in-the-Face is best known today from two accounts of his life and the part he played at the Battle of the Little Bighorn – the 1894 report given by American journalist W. Kent Thomas based on an "interview" given at Coney Island, and the 1905 biography by the Sioux author and physician Charles A. Eastman (also known as Ohiyesa, l. 1858-1939) – which contradict each other.
In the Thomas interview, Rain-in-the-Face claims he killed Thomas Custer, cut out his heart, and spat part of it in his face at Little Bighorn as revenge for being unjustly arrested by Capt. Custer in 1874. In Eastman's account, he denies killing either of the brothers and, further, describes the Battle of Little Bighorn as so chaotic no one could have known who they had killed for certain.
As the W. Kent Thomas interview was given after the journalist got Rain-in-the-Face drunk, for the express purpose of getting the "real story" on Custer's death, while Eastman's account is a respectful transcript of the old warrior's life story, the latter is usually understood as more historically accurate.
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The following is taken from Eastman's Indian Heroes and Great Chieftains (1916), the 1939 edition, republished in 2016. It has been edited in the interests of space, but the full account will be found below in the External Links section.
The noted Sioux warrior, Rain-in-the-Face, whose name once carried terror to every part of the frontier, died at his home on the Standing Rock reserve in North Dakota on September 14, 1905. About two months before his death, I went to see him for the last time, where he lay upon the bed of sickness from which he never rose again, and drew from him his life-history.
It had been my experience that you cannot induce an Indian to tell a story, or even his own name, by asking him directly.
"Friend," I said, "even if a man is on a hot trail, he stops for a smoke! In the good old days, before the charge there was a smoke. At home, by the fireside, when the old men were asked to tell their brave deeds, again the pipe was passed. So come, let us smoke now to the memory of the old days!"
He took of my tobacco and filled his long pipe, and we smoked. Then I told an old mirthful story to get him in the humor of relating his own history.
The old man lay upon an iron bedstead, covered by a red blanket, in a corner of the little log cabin. He was all alone that day; only an old dog lay silent and watchful at his master's feet.
Finally, he looked up and said with a pleasant smile:
"True, friend; it is the old custom to retrace one's trail before leaving it forever! I know that I am at the door of the spirit home.
"I was born near the forks of the Cheyenne River, about seventy years ago…When I was a boy, I loved to fight," he continued. "In all our boyish games I had the name of being hard to handle, and I took much pride in the fact.
"I was about ten years old when we encountered a band of Cheyenne. They were on friendly terms with us, but we boys always indulged in sham fights on such occasions, and this time I got in an honest fight with a Cheyenne boy older than I. I got the best of the boy, but he hit me hard in the face several times, and my face was all spattered with blood and streaked where the paint had been washed away. The Sioux boys whooped and yelled:
"‘His enemy is down, and his face is spattered as if with rain! Rain-in-the-Face! His name shall be Rain-in-the-Face!'
"Afterwards, when I was a young man, we went on a warpath against the Gros Ventres. We stole some of their horses but were overtaken and had to abandon the horses and fight for our lives. I had wished my face to represent the sun when partly covered with darkness, so I painted it half black, half red. We fought all day in the rain, and my face was partly washed and streaked with red and black: so again, I was christened Rain-in-the-Face. We considered it an honorable name.
"I had been on many warpaths, but was not especially successful until about the time the Sioux began to fight with the white man…
"Some , Crow King, and others.
"This was the plan decided upon after many councils. The main war party lay in ambush, and a few of the bravest young men were appointed to attack the woodchoppers who were cutting logs to complete the building of the fort. We were told not to kill these men, but to chase them into the fort and retreat slowly, defying the white men; and if the soldiers should follow, we were to lead them into the ambush. They took our bait exactly as we had hoped! It was a matter of a very few minutes, for every soldier lay dead in a shorter time than it takes to annihilate a small herd of buffalo.
"This attack was hastened because most of the Sioux on the Missouri River and eastward had begun to talk of suing for peace. But even this did not stop the peace movement. The very next year a treaty was signed at Fort Rice, Dakota Territory, by nearly all the Sioux chiefs, in which it was agreed on the part of the Great Father in Washington that all the country north of the Republican River in Nebraska, including the Black Hills and the Big Horn Mountains, was to be always Sioux country, and no white man should intrude upon it without our permission. Even with this agreement Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse were not satisfied, and they would not sign…
"It was when the white men found the yellow metal in our country, and came in great numbers, driving away our game, that we took up arms against them for the last time. I must say here that the chiefs who were loudest for war were among the first to submit and accept reservation life. Spotted Tail was a great warrior, yet he was one of the first to yield, because he was promised by the Chief Soldiers that they would make him chief of all the Sioux. Ugh! He would have stayed with Sitting Bull to the last had it not been for his ambition.
"About this time, we young warriors began to watch the trails of the white men into the Black Hills, and when we saw a wagon coming, we would hide at the crossing and kill them all without much trouble. We did this to discourage the whites from coming into our country without our permission…
"There were a few Indians who were liars, and never on the warpath, playing ‘good Indian' with the Indian agents and the war chiefs at the forts. Some of this faithless set betrayed me and told more than I ever did. I was seized and taken to the fort near Bismarck, North Dakota of the Long-Haired War Chief and imprisoned there. These same lying Indians, who were selling their services as scouts to the white man, told me that I was to be shot to death, or else hanged upon a tree. I answered that I was not afraid to die.
"However, there was an old soldier who used to bring my food and stand guard over me—he was a white man, it is true, but he had an Indian heart! He came to me one day and unfastened the iron chain and ball with which they had locked my leg, saying by signs and what little Sioux he could muster:
"‘Go, friend! Take the chain and ball with you. I shall shoot, but the voice of the gun will lie.'
"When he had made me understand, you may guess that I ran my best! I was almost over the bank when he fired his piece at me several times, but I had already gained cover and was safe. I have never told this before, and would not, lest it should do him an injury, but he was an old man then, and I am sure he must be dead long since. That old soldier taught me that some of the white people have hearts," he added, quite seriously.
"I went back to Standing Rock in the night, and I had to hide for several days in the woods, where food was brought to me by my relatives…
"In the spring the hostile Sioux got together again upon the Tongue River. It was one of the greatest camps of the Sioux that I ever saw…We had decided to fight the white soldiers until no warrior should be left."
At this point Rain-in-the-Face took up his tobacco pouch and began again to fill his pipe…
"There was excitement among the people, and a great council was held. Many spoke. I was asked the condition of those Indians who had gone upon the reservation, and I told them truly that they were nothing more than prisoners. It was decided to go out and meet Three Stars at a safe distance from our camp.
"We met him on the Little Rosebud. I believe that if we had waited and allowed him to make the attack, he would have fared no better than Custer. He was too strongly fortified where he was, and I think, too, that he was saved partly by his Indian allies, for the scouts discovered us first and fought us first, thus giving him time to make his preparations. I think he was more wise than brave! After we had left that neighborhood, he might have pushed on and connected with the Long-Haired Chief. That would have saved Custer and perhaps won the day.
"When we crossed from Tongue River to the Little Big Horn, on account of the scarcity of game, we did not anticipate any more trouble. Our runners had discovered that Crook had retraced his trail to Goose Creek, and we did not suppose that the white men would care to follow us farther into the rough country.
"Suddenly the Long-Haired Chief appeared with his men! It was a surprise."
"What part of the camp were you in when the soldiers attacked the lower end?" I asked.
"I had been invited to a feast at one of the young men's lodges . There was a certain warrior who was making preparations to go against the Crows, and I had decided to go also," he said.
"While I was eating my meat, we heard the war cry! We all rushed out and saw a warrior riding at top speed from the lower camp, giving the warning as he came. Then we heard the reports of the soldiers' guns, which sounded differently from the guns fired by our people in battle.
"I ran to my teepee and seized my gun, a bow, and a quiver full of arrows. I already had my stone war club, for you know we usually carry those by way of ornament. Just as I was about to set out to meet Reno, a body of soldiers appeared nearly opposite us, at the edge of a long line of cliffs across the river.
"All of us who were mounted and ready immediately started down the stream toward the ford. There were Ogallala, Miniconjou, Cheyenne, and some Hunkpapa, and those around me seemed to be nearly all very young men.
"‘Behold, there is among us a young woman!' I shouted. ‘Let no young man hide behind her garment!' I knew that would make those young men brave.
"The woman was Tashenamani, or Moving Robe, whose brother had just been killed in the fight with Three Stars. Holding her brother's war staff over her head, and leaning forward upon her charger, she looked as pretty as a bird. Always when there is a woman in the charge, it causes the warriors to vie with one another in displaying their valor," he added.
"The foremost warriors had almost surrounded the white men, and more were continually crossing the stream. The soldiers had dismounted and were firing into the camp from the top of the cliff."
"My friend, was Sitting Bull in this fight?" I inquired.
"I did not see him there, but I learned afterward that he was among those who met Reno, and that was three or four of the white man's miles from Custer's position. Later he joined the attack upon Custer but was not among the foremost.
"When the troops were surrounded on two sides, with the river on the third, the order came to charge! There were many very young men, some of whom had only a war staff or a stone war club in hand, who plunged into the column, knocking the men over and stampeding their horses.
"The soldiers had mounted and started back, but when the onset came, they dismounted again and separated into several divisions, facing different ways. They fired as fast as they could load their guns, while we used chiefly arrows and war clubs. There seemed to be two distinct movements among the Indians. One body moved continually in a circle, while the other rode directly into and through the troops.
"Presently some of the soldiers remounted and fled along the ridge toward Reno's position; but they were followed by our warriors, like hundreds of blackbirds after a hawk. A larger body remained together at the upper end of a little ravine and fought bravely until they were cut to pieces. I had always thought that white men were cowards, but I had a great respect for them after this day.
"It is generally said that a young man with nothing but a war staff in his hand broke through the column and knocked down the leader very early in the fight. We supposed him to be the leader, because he stood up in full view, swinging his big knife .
"After the first rush was over, coups were counted as usual on the bodies of the slain. You know, four coups is entitled to the ‘first feather.'
"There was an Indian here called Appearing Elk, who died a short time ago. He was slightly wounded in the charge. He had some of the weapons of the Long-Haired Chief, and the Indians used to say jokingly after we came upon the reservation that Appearing Elk must have killed the Chief, because he had his sword! However, the scramble for plunder did not begin until all were dead. I do not think he killed Custer, and if he had, the time to claim the honor was immediately after the fight.
"Many lies have been told of me. Some say that I killed the Chief, and others that I cut out the heart of his brother , because he had caused me to be imprisoned. Why, in that fight the excitement was so great that we scarcely recognized our nearest friends! Everything was done like lightning. After the battle, we young men were chasing horses all over the prairie, while the old men and women plundered the bodies; and if any mutilating was done, it was by the old men.
"I have lived peaceably ever since we came upon the reservation. No one can say that Rain-in-the-Face has broken the rules of the Great Father. I fought for my people and my country. When we were conquered, I remained silent, as a warrior should. Rain-in-the-Face was killed when he put down his weapons before the Great Father. His spirit was gone then; only his poor body lived on, but now it is almost ready to lie down for the last time. Ho, hechetu! "
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Reviews and Critiques and how to handle them.
So the second best treaties about this was Holly Lisle's Mugging the Muse (2000), which, BTW, I read much later, because she'd stepped down by then from Forward Motion. At the time I read it, it was free, but now it's paywalled, so it has gems in there, the most useful of which is don't jump on paychecks and budget. Learn how to do Writer Tax returns. Remember to truly LIVE to write better *cough Barthes should have known this one. And the last one is how to take critiques.
The one on critiques goes like this: She used scream and shout when she got critiques and sometimes cry. She'd go into the bathroom and scream and let her do this. And then force herself to act professionally. The BEST of us at this process still fucks up once in a while. The trick is to not fuck up too often.
This is my second best treaties I've seen and heard about it. The first treaties I ever learned about how to take critiques is from my former teacher/advisor, Thomas C. Joyce, who unfortunately died of cancer some years back.
I do remember the names of the people. But as I don't have permission to use their likeness and I don't want them to be harassed. The people who are living (as far as I know) I will not name. I am also including my own fuck ups, because it's only fair. But the core of this is mostly Tom Joyce. Who said something on the order of don't call me "Mr. Joyce, it makes me feel weird. Call me Tom."
He was my advisor at the Young Writer's Camp–a summer writing camp. For this reason, I'll call him Tom.
I wanted to write this treaties out because he never wrote it anywhere... and I might remember parts of it wrongly, but I 100% used this to post to Nanowrimo's first critique threads, and then for the critique forums, which served as the core of a lot of critique groups online?? (not sure about that). And I listed the rules he gave me during critiques. Also that there has been a rise in people who can't take or give critiques and they think doing so won't help their writing. So, I won't write it as eloquently as him, and honestly I'm writing this quite sad because I do wish it was his words here instead of my fuzzy memories of him.
Let me dip a bit into memory lane first, so you get a sense of who Tom was. Tom smoked. He knew he smoked a lot and didn't particularly care. He liked to give this lesson on perception. with music, showing that the simpler things in life aren't always first. And that the source of stories can come from anywhere–not just writing.
When I met him he was a bit portly, which he'd sometimes point out about himself and had salt and pepper hair, which was curly. He'd often talk about how he wanted to lose weight.
He had this calm and cool demeanor about him, but also warm. So when he gave you a critique, it felt like he was reaching into your writerly soul and he could pull out your intentions in an instant. He not only saw where you were, but more importantly, where you were going and intended to go. I aspired to be that sort of critiquer.
He never judged you on your process to write. He had no lessons about that. And he based the entire time around critiquing and making sure you had something for the group. If you wrote on clay tablets, I think he wouldn't care. He'd likely joke loosely about it, but he wouldn't care and say, can you share it?
We did not write the same genre. We did not have the same process to write by a long shot. I never really read his writing and since he was an advisor, he rarely talked about his own writing or boast. He was a cool character because he was HUMBLE and he pressed it into you that YOU MUST STAY HUMBLE at every point of the process. Brave enough to share, but humble enough to take critiques.
He loved anedotes. I probably got my love of making up extended analogies from him.
He was not just a good writing teacher he was the BEST writing teacher I've ever had. And fuck it—I've read a TON of ass novel writing manuals from Aristotle to the present and I've heard author interviews all over the best, I would rank him as the best.
He was so memorable that when I finally got something published he was on my top list of people to show because I'd promised myself I would do so, but when I looked him up so I could pass the story to him, I had found that he'd died of cancer. I was DEVASTATED.
The fact we didn't write the same didn't matter because his lessons around critiquing. His process was this:
You write. You get critiqued. You take the critique gracefully to your face. You learn to critique. You learn both of these processes and perfect them and apply them, and you get better as a writer. He had several large arguments for this process and why he didn't want it to be regimented into telling people how to write.
Remembering his lessons, I posted his loose list of critique rules to early Nanowrimo boards–I posted the first critique threads for first pages and queries, but never his justification for them, because I didn't think it was my place to, but he's not published it himself and I think the internet is forgetting. And I don't think we should forget Tom Joyce since he taught me some really excellent lessons that I think you need to know.
So loosely, Tom's treaties on taking a critique goes something like this:
On receiving a critique:
Stay silent when people critique you. No. Hold your tongue (Fuck, I'm really still working on this one).
Remember any time they put into the critique is a blessing.
Only open your mouth to fact check the person. If they think the US flag has green, you can POLITELY correct them.
Stop explaining your work before you give the piece. He taught me this one. I still struggle with it. I still repeat the advice, but I still have issues.
Do not argue with your critiquers. I've fucked this one up too.
Critiques aren't always right and sometime you have to divine what they are really getting at.
On giving a critique:
When you give a review try to balance the review out. You give 3 bad things, you give 3 good things list them out. Do a summary for your review. YOU MUST find something good to say about it.
Try to read the entire piece before you comment.
Honor the wishes of the author. If they don't think something is working, try to figure out why.
Do your best to separate "Not for you" versus objectively written bad.
Be SPECIFIC. That's more important than the length of your review. He drove this into me.
He argued, the more you critique other people, the better writer you become. And the more you consume, in general, the better writer you become. The more you recieve critiques, the better you become. It's a two-way process, not a one-way process.
His arguments are pretty much why I dislike the whole idea that people don't "have time to give critiques" and thus don't want to give one back. No. If you do 10,000 critiques and get better at them and get 10,000 in return and learn to apply them well, you get better as a writer. Focus on your craft and the writer you want to become.
And now you can see why even though we did not write the same genre, I did not know his writing work, I did not have a matching writing process, that I treasured his lessons. He also had this thing where he was super, super cool with however people wrote. He never, ever disciplined how one should or should not write. He simply said, produce the writing–that's the most important part. And then get it critiqued. We did do occasional writing lessons, but he never ranked that as important.
Now for his arguments on why he thought these things.
So, as a younger writer I struggled and still struggle quite a bit with the first rule. The shut up and listen to someone tear your baby apart.
How to Receive Critiques
First Rule: Stay silent when others critique you and NEVER argue with your critiquer.
His argument went this way: You, the writer are never going to win against a critic. Your entire existence is going to be criticism. You have choices. You suck it up, and accept it is part of the writing thus owning it. You incorporate the suggestion. Or you do better next time.
He had an anecdote, which he liked to tell about this writer who fought against a critic and screamed and shouted and the writer lost.
The result of you fighting against a critic, according to Tom, is that you gain a bad reputation. ALWAYS. Never fight your reviewers.
As Holly Lisle said, go scream into a pillow somewhere, but shut the fuck up and get off the internet. Don't post it onto boards. Tell a friend privately, but don't post it in public. Give yourself a set amount of time to get back to it.
He liked to say stop throwing stones at glass houses. It's not going to work.
No lie, his cool attitude over this still has me screaming at times, HOW DID YOU DO IT? I still try to override the impulse. It's so hard.
Second rule: Every time someone bothers to critique you it's a blessing.
They spent time, and effort consuming your product. As he liked to say THEY ARE A PAYING CUSTOMER. Treat your customers correctly.
And if they are not paying, they were paying their time with you. They cared enough about your work and you to give you a critique.
You have to suck it up and do better.
BTW, if you watch the Youtube Channel, Wait in the Wings, this argument comes up over and over again. When you fight the critics, you lose the majority of the time. When you honor they came to the show and did understand it,
They really cared about you and your art to do this, no matter how cutting it is. Learn to breathe, move on and figure out what to do next.
Third Rule: The only time you open your mouth AFTER the person is done, is on two cases:
The first is to say thank you. The second is to fact check something obvious.
There is no green in the American flag, for example.
DO NOT ARGUE WITH YOUR REVIEWER and don't use this opportunity to try to feel superior to them. WTF man, go back to shutting up. TT
I still struggle with this. I'm swallowing my own feelings as I'm saying thank you. And I'm fighting the voices. And Tom acted like it was easy.
Fourth Rule: Stop explaining your work before you show it.
No lie, my other professors who have given critique sessions also said this. My typography teacher said this, which I keep repeating to myself, "Stop explaining your work. Say that you did the best that you could for the time you were given."
But Tom's logic went like this: Every time someone picks up your work, are you going to be beside them to explain what you MEANT by this or that. Will you be in their ear to talk about your intentions? Let them read the work themselves.
No, it's on you the writer to communicate it better.
Most of the time it's on you, the writer to do it better. (go back to rule number 1 on why).
Fifth Rule: No really, don't argue with your critiquers
It will only end in a bad reputation. Learn how to let it go. Move on. Either take the advice or leave it. See if it works, but at least try it. But arguing with your critiquers will result in nothing good.
How to Give Critiques
First rule: When you give a review, try to balance the review out.
If you give 3 bad things, give three good things, but remember that the person has feelings, so put the good things first. The best critique is good things, bad things, summary. We'll get into how to sort a critique later.
Tom liked to say, remember there is a human being behind that work. And that you won't get that mercy in real life once your work is "out there."
Second rule: Try to read the entire piece first before you comment and then make your comments.
This is your basic reasoning of trying to figure out what the writer is trying to achieve instead of hyper focusing on what they did wrong.
Third rule: Honor the wishes of the author
Spoken and unspoken. If they think something is not working, try to figure out why and some solutions one can do to fix it. Don't just say this thing is wrong. Figure out why. This process will make you also a better writer.
Try to make the piece in front of you better for the author, not how you would write it. He repeated this a lot so you got it. It's not about you and OMG, I would insert dragon here because I could do it better. No, face the piece in front of you and find ways to help the author where they are. You may ultimately disagree and they might not take your advice, but make sure it's about the author, not you.
Rule 4: Do your best to sort "Not for you, versus objectively written bad."
He didn't write romance, fantasy, or Science Fiction. It didn't matter to him or this process. Because there are some commonalities and if you read widely enough, you will know what is good or bad. Don't discriminate like that. If you're struggling with this go to the previous rule about honoring the wishes of the author.
Rule 5: Be specific as possible on why you like or dislike the item in front of you. This helps to sort it out later.
If you say, character is lame. That's not helpful. If you say I dislike the character is diving off the cliff without motivation and I don't know why and the physics don't make sense, that's a lot more helpful to the writer.
He would say too, that the more you're specific and drill down to why, the better you become as a writer. This is why DOING critiques is as important as receiving them. Do the best you can as a critiquer and be specific as possible. It will develop your writer brain and editor brain better.
And I should insert around here:
Revenge critiques are counter productive to you becoming a better writer.
He didn't say this. But I think he would agree given the previous treaties, especially on the idea that the writer is always going to lose.
OMG, you said info dump in MY STORY was bad. So I'm going to find every instance that you info dumped and point it out to you.
Your hurt feelings shouldn't be entering into critiques. Go outside, do something else, come back. You aren't in a place of learning. And sometimes what works for one story will not work for another. Sometimes people do it on purpose and go back to the previous rule about the intentions of the author.
The writer who never honestly critiques and revenge critiques and doesn't listen to critiques, never improves and gets better.
How to Sort Your Critiques
Sort them into these tiers/categories:
Grammar
If you're crying over grammar mistakes, get over it. Just take it and agree or disagree. Do better next time.
Facts
The Earth isn't perfectly round, but it's not shaped like a pear either. The Wizard of Oz wasn't originally propaganda. Greensleeves aren't written for Anne Boleyn. These usually hurt less, but often can dissolve entire stories. This is why you should research. Make sure every single quote is true and truly attributed. This is because facts in your story you don't want that to pull out the reader at any point and you don't know who might be reading it.
Core story issues.
This or that character doesn't work. The intention and impact aren't the same. These are the ones that hurt the most. These are the ones in critiques one should be careful of the most. And the ones that are going to hurt you the most.
The problem is often sort story issues are also the hardest to divine and the hardest to fix.
Critiquer might have had a different emotion from your intention, so remember what I said about being able to reach into other people's writing and figure out their intentions and then work with that? Yeah, this is where it comes in handy to make your own writing better. Sometimes they point to a thing, but it's not that thing.
Say comments are,
this character is boring.
This character doesn't do much.
I think this character is lazy.
But you've written the character on a hot summer day where they are baking out of their mind.
How do you punch it up to make it better? Your KEY ideas on why they aren't moving are "Hot summer day." So punch that part up and give more specific details so people get it. So people get that it's so hot people can't move.
And when the person said the character is lazy, the commentary feels more like deprication rather than true laziness.
That's how you divine the comments. It's not well, this character needs to change the entire scene so it has more action. It's how do I do this scene better so it communicates more.
BTW, Botchan by Natsume Soseki is a masterclass in how to get your character into total inertia such that you actively hate them, but at the same time you understand them.
Tom would say something like, once you get the critiques what you do with them is up to you. Ignore them, take them, but realize that what you don't take is likely to show up as a critique later.
Seeee... both critiquing and receiving critiques makes you a better writer. I'd also argue, it makes you a better person, too.
Short anecdote.
I was on a board and this writer was complaining about this review she had which said that the clothing she had was "inaccurate" and she argued that it was an other world fantasy setting so she could do whatever she liked. And she wanted to know if she should reply and get revenge on the critiquer. A few people were comforting her and egging her on.
I pushed against it gently by asking for the specific critique lines pretty much repeating Tom's advice on how to take a critique. The critique isn't always right, you have to divine, etc.
She stated she loosely based the costumes on a particular century of clothing. So I looked it up for her. I pointed out that stays during that century had changed a lot over time and the underwear changed the outer clothing. So it was possible the person was objecting to the underwear and the outer clothing not matching. I named the pieces of underwear that had changed during that time period and pointed out there is a huge difference for us for 1990's clothes versus the next decade. And that previous eras were no different.
What she needed was someone to cold sort the comment, point out she needed to do research and point out that sometimes physics can't be explained away by an other world.
Don't argue with your critiquers. Also, stop encouraging people to do this???
She ended up deleting her entire post. If you can't take critiques. Get someone to cold sort your critiques for you.
Haha. I have an awesome self-nominated writer's assistant who refuses to be paid, even though I tried to pay her. She knows me sooo well, when she gives a critique and I'm in writer meltdown mode saying, but I could do this or do that. She says in a flat voice, "No, you're going to do this and this is why." I hide this from the public, but damn. You need people like this in your life too.
'cause as much as I'm going off on Tom's rules, I also occasionally fail them. I'm still trying to be as calm cool and collected as he appeared to be about this sort of thing.
How to Know you're getting review bombed.
The account is brand new
All of the review ratings are at extremes. No 3 star reviews.
All of the reviews are targeted.
None of them are specific about the book.
The hazards of making the writer the primary marketer such that they have to do the job of 3 people: Writer, Publicist, and Marketer. Separate your modes. Compartmentalization. Learn it. It can be healthy.
But really, go back up and read. The writer is always going to lose. The more you care about it, the more likely you're going to be review bombed. Fighting reviewers never does you any good.
Bonus Round
The person that you're worried is better than you is probably thinking the same thing about you.
In another words, it's not a battle against others.
In my Young Writer's Group, I deeply admired this guy's writing for his ideas, how he was able to cobble things together with this sort of balance. And I had this kind of feeling like I could never do what he did. I mean he had this kind of deeper detail I felt I was missing. Plus his ideas—fucking clever.
All the time he'd come up with the "obvious" idea that I wanted to be able to write. It's the kind of stuff that you go, OMG, of course.
Flat out envy on my side. And then one day, I heard him talking about how was I able to come up with so many ideas so quickly to other people in the group and that he deeply admired my ideas.
I was shocked. I thought it was one way the entire time. Of course, honor code, not typing up his name, and not typing up his ideas, but the spirit of it is this: You're in a battle against yourself. Your critiquers when you're honestly facing them, and not say, trying to get enough points to post your work, are truly helping you, but you critiquing them is also helping you.
There's still a few of his ideas I keep waiting for him to publish, so I can do spins on them. I still hope he's writing, because writing is a community effort.
Stop being intimidated by other writer's brilliance and find your own. You'll get there too. But damn, I still want to see at least two of his ideas make it onto screen/in a book. I keep looking for him. A few of my former critique partners got published. Dave, hello. And another one that too recognizable by first and last name.
If you can't take reviews, don't read them.
This comes from repeating Writing Excuses episodes–people have writer's assistants do it for them.
I had mine (self-nominated one) look up rare cat breeds... but yeah, some people have them do normal things.
Sometimes writers ask agents to filter them for them.
All you writers, stop stalking Goodreads and writing reviews about your stories/books. I know, but it's not going to do much anyway and the more you care, the more likely you're going to get review bombed or pull a Cait Corrain.
Remember, One Star reviews can be good actually
One star reviews tell you how to improve your product. The maker of Instapot in an interview said he oly reads one star reviews.
Also, sometimes one star reviews have told me that I absolutely want to buy the product in question.
If there are 10 reviews of 1 star by white reviewers saying that white writer wrote it better and it's about say, Chinese history. That says to me, I want to buy your book. I want to understand why they think it's substandard. I want to see what you did to break away from the common popular narrative.
If there are a ton of negative reviews on a product that says this item is too small but I have dinky hands and I want the product to be smaller, that's also useful to know.
One star reviews are not the end to the world. People don't go by purely star ratings. They also look at what the reviews say and how they say it and which people think that review is accurate.
One star review that says they don't know how a story about Jane Austen in Outer Space turned into a sex comedy with a tentacle squid monster? Please, please give me that book.
Stop hyper fixating on star ratings. People often will judge for themselves if it's for them or not. And you pushing back, force deleting the reviews giving that sort of guidance isn't going to help you. As Tom said, you're going to lose, so lose right.
#Sometimes the best teachers you don't realize are that until much later#writing advice#critique advice#damn it why cancer had to take my teacher before I could boast about my published story#I found out he died after I published my story#how to handle reviews
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I'm a little frustrated making this scrapbook because I had the idea to put some quotes from grandma's memoirs into it both to give it a little more color and to create a more intentional sense of narrative because grandma didn't always keep things that were historically significant- she kept movie tickets and play programs. And I wanted to combine the 'life at home' visual story with the photos of ww2 and kind of play with the idea of two worlds waiting to come back together again. Trust me, I'm sobbing a little working on this because even though grandma wasn't a great writer you knew she meant the things she wrote.
But what's making it frustrating is that she didn't intend to publish this. It was intended to be a story that she wrote for her sons so that they would know where they came from.
My uncle found it and wrote a real presumptuous foreword about it, about how it was an important read for future generations, about how different the world was in the 1940s, about the lesson we can all learn from grandma and truly its a 'must read.'
And then his son published it for profit literally 3 months after she died.
I love my grandma very much, but it is not a 'must read.' There are plenty of accounts of what it was like to live in America during WW2 and she spends a lot of time talking about how she grew up poor and didn't have this, that, or the other thing. She was a good writer, but she had a tendency to ramble, write things out of order. She was first and foremost a poet and when it came to writing a story she often forgot where she left off, and she did not have an editor.
I want to take my uncle by the shoulders and tell him:
"Matthew. Matthew. Look at me. Some things are not for sale. Take this message and pass it on to your son. Tell him that if I die first and he tries to pull this on me it means he's next."
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Good Omens and The Crow Road
I read the novel The Crow Road by Iain Banks—the book Muriel is reading at the end of season two episode six and the book that hints at the events of season three.
My thoughts are under the cut. You can also read it on AO3 here. Obviously it includes spoilers for The Crow Road.
The Crow Road
The protagonist of The Crow Road is Prentice McHoan. He is a young man (early twenties) and, personally, I found him to be a bit of a dick though he does mature over the course of the book.
The book meanders and leaps about in time, telling the story in a non-linear way and with switches in point of view. This means that the relevance of events is often not clear as you read them, only becoming clear later on.
The title The Crow Road is a metaphor for death as the novel introduces early on that “he’s away the Crow Road” is a way of speaking of someone being dead.
There are three key story arcs:
(1) No one has spoken to or seen Prentice’s Uncle Rory for years. Rory is Prentice’s globetrotting Uncle who became famous because he wrote a bestselling travel diary as a young man. Rory’s ambition is to write a serious novel he called “The Crow Road”. No one knows where Rory is but Prentice’s father believes that he is still alive because he regularly receives match book covers from different locations all around the world. He believes that Rory is the one sending the match book covers because Rory once confessed to him that as a child he lit a fire that accidentally burned down a barn. Prentice becomes increasingly obsessed with what happened to Rory.
(2) Prentice is estranged from his father and he struggles with this. The estrangement is over belief in God. Prentice’s father is a communist and an atheist. When a friend of Prentice’s dies tragically, Prentice decides that there must be an afterlife and hence a God. The estrangement begins and he moves in with a religious Uncle.
(3) Prentice has an intense and unreciprocated infatuation with a young woman called Verity and does not handle it well when Verity becomes an item with his own brother Lewis. Seriously ridiculous childish drama here. Prentice complains about this all many times and at length to Ash, another young woman who is a more patient friend than Prentice deserves.
Here’s how each story arc lands (obviously this is the big spoiler bit for The Crow Road):
(1) Prentice eventually works out through reading a rough draft of Uncle Rory’s novel that Rory was murdered by another of Prentice’s Uncles for realising that that Uncle had previously murdered his own wife (and Prentice’s Aunt) in a car crash by undoing her seatbelt. The match book covers were being sent to Prentice’s father by a friend of the murderous Uncle to convince him that Rory was still alive. Rory’s body is found in a lake. It is all quite proven as far as Prentice is concerned but the murderous Uncle dies and hence there is no sense of justice, just a mystery solved.
(2) Prentice’s father dies while climbing a church spire by being struck by lightning and falling. At the point of his death Prentice and his father are still estranged. In the end, after solving the mystery of Uncle Rory, Prentice decides that there is no afterlife and no God. Prentice hopes that his father died knowing that he wouldn’t be a fool forever.
(3) Prentice’s brother Lewis marries and has a child with Verity. Prentice finds peace with this and realises that he actually loves Ash, the patient friend who has been listening to his nonsense for years.
Prentice and Ash sleep together and confess their love—I kid you not—in Morse code during sex with a series of squeezes and pushes. Yeah. Sometimes I think we come up with weird stuff in fanfiction and then I read a published novel and… but I digress. Point is, they are in love and they both know it. Prentice is finally growing up. But Ash planned to spend time in Canada and she goes anyway (good for her) saying that if Prentice does love her then they can still be together and simply continue when she returns. That’s where it ends which might sound sad but it actually feels mature and real after Prentice’s carry on with Verity. There’s a general feeling that Prentice has finally grown enough himself to make a relationship work and they are both starting that relationship right.
Implications for Good Omens seasons three:
(1) Good Omens has also been jumping about in time. The story is not being told in a linear manner. I suspect that there are scenes we’ve already seen where the meaning of those events won’t be clear until sometime in season three. I suspect that there are missing pieces to the overall story arc that will also be shown in season three. In short, we don’t have all the information and we don’t know what we truly have.
(2) Season three will involve working out, possibly using a diary or a book of some kind, what has happened to somebody. From simply hearing about the plot of The Crow Road I thought it would be Muriel working out what’s happened to Aziraphale by reading his diaries. Perhaps season three will open with a very different Aziraphale to the one we are used to and Muriel will work out what is really going on (memory wipe, manipulation, Aziraphale lying to enact a plan). This might still be true but after reading The Crow Road I was left with a different idea.
After reading The Crow Road the obvious parallel to Uncle Rory is not Aziraphale but God. God narrates season one but season two is strangely lacking in God’s narration. As Crowley says she’s “not talking to any of us”. Just like Uncle Rory. Yet everyone assumes that Heaven’s orders ultimately come from her. What if they aren’t coming from her? What if they are being sent by the person who murdered her? I think a big focus of season three will be what exactly is happening with God. It won’t necessarily be that she’s dead like Uncle Rory. Not everything is going to line up perfectly with The Crow Road. But finding out where she is and why she isn’t talking to anyone, just what this ineffable game is, will be important.
(3) It is worth noting that in The Crow Road Prentice’s father is sent match book covers to convince him that his brother, Rory, is still alive and in Good Omens we have Gabriel putting Beelezebub’s fly into a Resurrectionist match box. Does this mean anything beyond simply making a connection between Good Omens and The Crow Road? I don’t know. I can’t see any extra meaning to this yet.
(4) Aziraphale, like Prentice, won’t be a fool forever. We can depend on that. He is currently fooling himself because the truth (that Heaven is corrupt all the way down or rather up I suppose) is too painful to contemplate. But this won’t last. Aziraphale and Crowley are currently at odds, but they won’t remain so. Aziraphale’s viewpoint will shift and align more with Crowley’s.
Unlike Prentice’s father, Crowley has already fallen and will be ready when Aziraphale comes to his senses. Their estrangement will have a full resolution.
(5) Aziraphale will move on from his immature infatuation with Heaven to focus on his mature love relationship with Crowley.
Crowley will clearly state his love during passionate sex in Morse code by rhythmically contracting his effortfully formed vaginal muscles around Aziraphale’s hard cock. Wait. What? Crowley, if you are reading this please don’t do that. I know you struggle to put your love into words but that’s not the answer. But seriously, the physical expression of their love will be important. It will be important to Aziraphale. This is consistent with fanon conjecture that physical touch is Aziraphale’s love language and that physical (ie human) expressions of love are what is unique to Aziraphale and Crowley.
(6) This quote slapped me on the face: “Places have an effect on people. They alter your thoughts.” It is very like the Good Omens quote, “form shapes nature”. Aziraphale has been on Earth a long time. I wonder how he will be affected by being back in Heaven? Even if he has returned with a plan, Heaven might start seeping back in. Our angel has never been more vulnerable.
(7) This quote slapped me in the face too: “Faith itself is idolatry”. I wonder what Aziraphale would say about that? Is his faith in Heaven a form of idolatry? Aziraphale needs to shift in his stance regarding Heaven but I wonder where he will ultimately land on God. Will his faith in God be preserved or must that die too? Much depends on what exactly has happened to God and just what kind of ineffable game she is playing. So I suppose we will have to wait and see.
#good omens#good omens meta#good omens analysis#The Crow Road#crowley#aziraphale#ineffable husbands#good omens season 3 speculation#good omens season three speculation#go s3#go s3 theory#good omens season two#good omens season 2#my meta
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An interview with Bojan Cvjetićanin and Nace Jordan in Jana magazine, published 10.10.2023. Featuring a very special shoutout! 😁
On the couch with Joker Out: about the big changes in their lives
Still good, sober boys
We’ll play this and then we’re off – to switch off
The time we have with them is tightly limited, but that’s appropriate for stars of their kind. They are the most popular musical group right now, and they’ve thoroughly conquered many hearts far beyond both Slovenian and Balkan borders. At sold-out concerts, Finns are swooning because of them, Poles, Serbians, Croatians and Spaniards are fainting, not to mention the girls back home. No one prepared them for this kind of craze, but they’re holding up pretty well – they’re still humble guys with good manners, which can (also) be seen in their polite greeting and relaxed chatting in front of their rehearsal space, a comfortable hideaway somewhere between Ljubljana’s warehouses with an unappealing blue door.
Floating into their sanctuary, you almost hit your head on a collection of hanging bras with various affectionate messages written on them. A few more steps, and we plop down on the couch with Bojan Cvjetićanin and Nace Jordan. Jan Peteh and Kris Guštin (damn, he’s tall!) are busy with another camera, and Jure Maček is nowhere to be seen.
How’s your health doing with your (as it seems if you look at the crazy number of concerts all around Europe) pretty exhausting life? How do you take care of your physical fitness?
Bojan: By working out.
Nace: Well, you and I work out, the others only do it a little.
Bojan: Well yeah, she asked us.
Nace: So: we work out a lot, we play badminton, I run, we go to the gym and hike, Bojan also does mixed martial arts.
You’ve found yourselves at a turbulent stage in your career, and like you’ve said before, you cannot be fully prepared for that. What about mental preparation? Do you have to pay extra attention to that or do anything you've never done before?
Bojan: Yes, we have to rest. We haven't had any rest ever since everything became much more intense. My mind and body are now really begging to switch off.
Nace: I agree. Just the other day, we were talking about how we haven’t truly rested since the pre-Eurovision performances. Two- and three-day trips don’t count.
So you’ll only be able to turn off for a bit, after your big concert in Stožice?
Bojan: That’s right. Well, we maybe planned our break a little poorly, because we’re going on a holiday together. (both start laughing loudly)
Nace: Everyone has the same stunned reaction that you did.
You really have to love each other and have a good time together, that’s all I thought. Can you reveal where you’re going?
Bojan: Far away, somewhere warm. As to whether us going together is smart, we’ll tell you when we come back. If we end up needing another holiday after this holiday, then we didn’t make a very wise decision.
Since you really hang out with each other so much, do you perhaps understand any better why some bands get into fatal quarrels or even break up?
Bojan: We definitely understand it a lot more. In a short time, I’ve realised that this rock and roll lifestyle presented to us by rock legends (myths, stories, Hollywood) is truly something that is untenable in the long term. If we look at all the most famous bands, they actually existed for a very short time.
Nace: And, as an interesting fact, most of them broke up while on tour.
Bojan: You can’t do rock and roll and be devoted to your music, concerts, travels, if you’re constantly under the influence of any substances (drugs, alcohol). You really can’t do that, because neither the human body nor the mind are made to withstand this kind of strain, sleeplessness, pleasure, dopamine. All those legends either died young or the bands broke up. Sure, they did a lot, left a permanent mark, but at what cost? We’ve realised that if we want to enjoy what we’re doing, we have to be sober, and you truly enjoy yourself a lot more if you’re sober and feel physically and mentally ready and cultivate friendships. I think that this way, we’ll remember a lot more after a few tours than many rock legends do in their longer careers. How much can you even remember if your brain isn’t even with you on the same stage?
I see that you’re drinking plenty of water, and we remember you, Bojan, from Eurovision, when you were walking around with a bottle of water and blowing into a straw. What was that for?
Bojan: It’s a technique to warm up your vocal chords, based on the principle of blowing into a slightly wider silicone straw in a water bottle. You blow into it, in the correct way and because of the water in the bottle, a negative pressure is created that puts your vocal chords into the most natural position and it works like a massage for them.
Did you discover this for yourself or was it recommended to you?
Bojan: I had never paid special attention to my voice before that, I’m not a trained vocalist, but luckily I naturally developed the correct technique. Otherwise I would’ve lost my voice long ago. So, on the stage, this mechanism luckily developed in a very positive direction for me, which was also confirmed by singing coaches and the doctor I went to for my vocal chords check-up. A phoniatrics specialist, a wonderful guy, helped me during Eurovision. Before the Eurovision performance, my voice gave in a little due to nerves, so I was constantly in contact with a doctor – and we didn’t even really know each other – who gave me advice over the phone. Then, at the first sound check, everything opened up and sounded like it should. It’s really interesting what happens with your voice, it gets incredibly affected by your mental state. Your vocal chords can be perfectly fine, but if your mind is not in the right place, your voice won’t work either.
I also went to get advice from singing coach Nataša Nahtigal, who really helped me a lot. I especially needed that preparation from a psychological point of view.
Did the other band members also need coaches for anything?
Nace: Me and Kris also visited Nataša, because at the beginning we thought that we’d be singing the backing vocals live on the Eurovision stage. So we also practised with her a few times. We also had rehearsals with a choreographer for the optimum stage performance.
We’re having this conversation five days before your biggest concert yet, in Stožice. Does that require any special preparation?
Bojan: It’s a special concert, because it’s the first time we’re encountering the organisation of something this big; it is, after all, the only arena in the country. It’s a lot for us, Magnifico also told us that he was kind of in the dark the first time, but now they’re acclimatised to it. It’s a different type of preparation: we have to prepare the show, the lights, the stage appearance …
Have you even internalised what you’ve managed to do, all the places and the number of people you’ve played to in the past few months (from Ireland to Great Britain, Finland, Norway, Belgrade, Zagreb, Vienna, and now in December, you've got Amsterdam, Madrid, Barcelona …)?
Bojan: I think that will be a task for the upcoming holiday. When things just keep happening, you’re in this cycle and don’t even really differentiate between one peak and another, so we need to come down a bit to start retroactively comprehending what really happened. Because it’s really wonderful. We were in cities and countries we’d never been to, and then we were there – to play our own sold-out concerts. We absolutely never thought anything like that would ever happen to us.
Nace: Often it’s only when I come home from this kind of tour that I think to myself: wow, look at where we were! We’re playing on a stage where world legends had played before us! Now, in the club in Helsinki, Foo Fighters and AC/DC had played there, among others. Any musician would wish to play there, let alone sell out that concert.
When you walk around these European cities where you have sold out your concerts, do people already recognise you on the street?
Bojan: It’s pretty bizarre, but now they’ve really started to. I think that on this Nordic tour there truly wasn’t any place we went to without at least someone recognising us – either on a train, on the street, in a restaurant, at the airport. Foreign fan culture is a little different, as they get prepared to meet us, in a way – for example, they know when we’ll be at the airport, and they wait for us with gifts, they don’t just come to take photos with us. They bring along our merch shirts, various things for us to sign, they give us gifts. Fans make a lot of things on their own – bracelets, dolls, there are a lot of drawings, crafts; I have two knitted Joker Out scarves at home.
Nace: In Finland we got a lot of knitted socks, hats …
Hand-knitted socks?
Bojan: Yes, with a Slovenian and Finnish flag, for example.
The Scandinavian youth are clearly well-versed in that.
Bojan: Let’s go, Slovenian youth, start knitting Joker Out stuff too! (laughter)
And what is it like to walk down the streets of Slovenia? Can you go to the store in peace?
Bojan: It’s nice to walk down the streets of Slovenia, but we truly always get recognised, that’s a fact, it’s not as inconvenient in stores as it can be when you’re out for drinks, when you constantly feel like someone is eavesdropping next to you.
How difficult is the rockstar life?
Bojan: It’s really nice – every time we’re on the stage, the audience rewards us with a really nice energy, you can’t compare that to anything else, but like any profession, ours has negative sides as well, with the biggest difference being that you’re constantly in the public eye. Very few things are truly personal – you also have a hard time judging for yourself what’s private and what’s not. It’s more of a mental game with yourself – that’s the hardest part of it all. As well as not sleeping, because you travel a lot.
Are there any big disappointments or unexpected things – perhaps that some fans get “carried away” or that not everyone is as well-intentioned as you thought?
Bojan: Absolutely! You suddenly find yourself not only belonging to a home crowd, but also becoming an internet hashtag. The internet has no limits, people have no reservations there, they hide behind a nickname. Each of us has definitely had a few of these moments that shocked us, that’s why we’ve started to pull back from social media.
That’s probably pretty tricky: for the sake of advertising and contact with fans, you have to be present on social media, but meanwhile you’re aware that you need to take a step back for the sake of your health. How do you stay on the safe side? What’s your strategy?
Nace: Primarily, we’ve all stopped reading Twitter, the comments … We have to maintain a certain distance.
Bojan: To be completely honest, I’d like to find someone who could handle my personal profile on social media. It also bothers me that you really waste a lot of time on social media and subconsciously create a lot of unrealistic expectations, because you’re constantly swiping through people’s perfect lives, faces and situations, it’s all quite absurd.
Do you want to influence teenagers in this area, to pass any important messages on to them?
Bojan: Yes, find some wonderful analogue way to follow us and delete your social media.
So, knit a Joker Out scarf or socks instead and listen to their music – that’s pretty analogue. Then, you can also do a charity auction of your fans’ knitwear.
Bojan: Exactly!
One small revolutionary move would also be if concerts or gigs at various parties started earlier. Us slightly more mature citizens also like to go to concerts, but we also like to go to bed a little earlier.
Bojan: I can say that after our Stožice concert, people will be able to be asleep by midnight. But actually, when we were abroad, we got used to gigs starting very soon – sometime between seven and nine in the evening – and the party is definitely not any worse because of that.
You say that you’re full of creative energy. Does your creative process continue under the covers too, do you have notebooks on your nightstand?
Bojan: All the ideas come to me just before I go to sleep. The most recent song Sunny Side of London also happened on the last day before we went to the studio – I couldn’t sleep and I came up with those base lyrics while in bed.
Even though your latest song is in English, due to most of your songs being in Slovenian, you’ve unintentionally become ambassadors of the Slovenian language as well.
Bojan: It was never our goal to become ambassadors of the Slovenian language, but we consciously decided to sing in Slovenian at Eurovision. It means a lot to us, and we hope that our fans will accept that we want to widen our listener base and that there will be some more songs in English because of that. I think that people all around Europe or even further singing twenty of our songs in Slovenian is already a lot, and shows that we’ve done our job. In the future, we’ll create in foreign languages a lot, but we’ll also stay loyal to Slovenian.
A lot of your TV appearances can be found translated to English on the internet. Is that your doing?
Bojan: No, the credit for that goes to a group of fans from all around the world called “Joker Out Subs”, who follow our videos and concerts and translate into quite a few global languages (recently even into Hebrew). They’ve already translated a huge amount of our content, and they do it voluntarily. They’ve also connected with each other in that way, and they’ve told us that 20 of our fans, who met online because of us, booked a house together for our concert in Amsterdam (in December). They’re all coming to the concert and they will stay there together.
Nace: A lot of people have connected like that because of us, which is very nice.
What’s it like at home? Is everything the same at home despite your stardom?
Bojan: Yes, it’s all the same – go mow the lawn!
Nace: I, for example, still drive my grandmother around to run her errands.
And your grandmother listens to your songs?
Nace: She’s definitely listened to some, but I doubt that she’s playing our entire discography. (laughter)
Bojan: Oooh, mine plays it every day, she goes through everything 150 times!
Have you made any changes to your menus?
Bojan: I’ve started eating vegetables – bowls (various healthy ingredients, served in one bowl), Nace got me into that.
Nace: Isn’t it nice to savour something together that’s healthy and that we all like? (Kris pipes up from the background, saying that Nace has gotten them all into Asian food.)
Translation of the captions on the photos:
1) The special friendship with Finnish Eurovision representative Käärijä continues. Together on Finnish stages in September.
2) Bojan loves Swedish girls, says the writing on his shirt.
Translation cr: Joker Out Subs
EDIT: to celebrate the JokerOutSubs shout-out, we prepared a giveaway for Tumblr! You can read more aboout it here!
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Snowfall - a polyamorous m/m/m fantasy story ft. an elf, a vampire, and a draugr/lich (sfw)
Disclaimer which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere. They are copyrighted and belong to me.
I had a random and vivid dream about a draugr/lich with a secret, living in an old tomb in Skyrim and meeting a twinky, kinda foul-mouthed elven adventurer and his snooty, grumpy, (not-so-)secretly adoring vampire boyfriend. This was the result.
Daethir is pronounced 'day-theer', Nyr 'Neer', and Karsi 'car-si' (with a short 'i' like 'hit').
If you’ve not played Skyrim, none of the lore is needed to enjoy this story. It’s just someone else’s sandbox I’m playing in for some handy, pre-existing lore.
Content: Brief/passing mention of enslavement and mass sacrifice, genocide of an entire species, a tiny bit of blood and threat to life, and Daethir’s inner (and outer) monologue which includes a fair few uses of the word ‘fuck’.
Wordcount: 7589
Despite what the tattered remnants of his pride were trying to tell him, Daethir was most definitely, one hundred percent lost.
He was completely fucking disorientated in this dilapidated shithole of an ancient Nord tomb. He was also incandescently furious about that fact.
His sense of direction was fucking legendary. He must have explored a hundred underground tombs and dwarven cities, sunk deep into the earth as well as forgotten places consumed by rambling forests, and never once had he got lost before. He’d even been to bloody Labyrinthian! But no. He’d taken a wrong turn somewhere maybe three or four hours back, and now he was balls deep in skeever shit and cobwebs, and couldn’t find the way out.
“Oh man, Karsi must be going berserk out there,” he muttered through clenched teeth, breath billowing in the dark, cold tunnel.
The draugrs’ strange compulsion to keep the tombs somewhat maintained for their slumbering master meant that there was nearly always light flickering in the sconces on the walls, and braziers were often found burning at the intersections of the tomb’s warren of passageways, and he found himself pathetically grateful that he wasn’t lost in the pitch black at least.
“Hold on, love,” he added as he set his jaw and tried to strain his senses for the faintest lift of a breeze in the stagnant air of the tomb. “I’m coming.”
He hoped the vampire didn’t hurt himself trying to break through the unique enchantment that seemed to stop the undead from passing through it. Gods, Karsi had practically been spitting venom when he’d discovered he couldn’t enter the tomb with Daethir, no matter what spells he hurled at the doorway. Daethir, as usual, had slipped gleefully through in the blink of an eye and without a backward glance.
“I didn’t even say goodbye,” he thought bitterly, and the pervasive fear of dying alone in the dark crystallised into something sharper and edged with guilt when he realised that Karsi would never know exactly how he died, and would never be able to recover his lover’s body. “Shit.”
Something moved up ahead and he froze.
Blue eyes in the dark.
Shit.
A draugr Death Lord from the size of it, and from that ugly horned helmet.
Before he could formulate any sort of plan, hands reached out from the darkness behind him.
One clasped right over his mouth to form a perfect seal against the scream that rose unbidden from the pit of his stomach, and the other wrapped around his waist, and he found himself lifted bodily off the floor and into an alcove.
Naturally, like the well-trained, level-headed, and seasoned rogue he was, Daethir thrashed in blind and abject panic, lashing out with his heels until a hoarse, scraping voice rasped in his ear, “Auri-el have mercy, stop! I’m trying to save your life!”
Deciding that his luck might have been on the cusp of changing, or that he was about to become easy prey for some maniac who apparently lived down there in the dark tunnels of an ancient Nord tomb, Daethir went limp. He was not put down.
For a long few minutes, neither of them dared move in case the slightest sound attracted the Death Lord who was patrolling the corridor up ahead. Like an extremely loyal but not terribly bright guard dog, it swung its head back and forth, growling and snarling to itself and adjusting its grip on the enormous ebony war axe in its right hand. At the way the light played along the black blade of that axe like firelight on oil, Daethir shuddered involuntarily into the grasp of his mysterious rescuer.
“Easy,” the voice breathed, right in his ear. His tapering, sensitive, elven ear.
He shuddered again and tried not to gasp for an entirely different reason this time. Funny how terror and pleasure seemed to go hand in hand for him. After all, he was dating a vampire, and the two of them frequently mixed feeding and fucking, so he was no stranger to a healthy dose of of fear lacing his pleasure. But now was absolutely, categorically not the time to start getting turned on by a strong stranger manhandling him in a dark tomb. Gross, Dae, get it together.
The hand across his mouth was warm and leathery and strong, and by the faint glimmer of torchlight from beyond their shadowed alcove, he could see the faintest flash of bone-white flesh. Strange, but not totally unusual. People were born without pigment in their skin, after all. Heck, he’d spent an entire summer with an orc carpenter who had the most beautiful red eyes and skin so pale he couldn’t go out in the sun for long without burning. Caedrak hadn’t been able to see more than a foot in front of him, but he’d made the most beautiful things with his big, sensitive hands…
Dammit, Daethir, pull yourself the fuck together.
In the distance, the Draugr Death Lord huffed in irritation, then shuffled away in the opposite direction, and the figure behind him relaxed.
“Before I let go of you, I need you to swear something,” the voice said.
It was a strange voice. Although it was as dry as the coarsest sands from Elsweyr, the consonants were crisply articulated, and it had a strange lilt to it, as though the speaker was used to the music of another language from another age. Karsi spoke a bit like that too, though nowhere near as much as this. Daethir, raised in the Ratway of Riften, spoke like a gutter-skeever with the brash accent to match.
Still with the person’s hand clamped across his mouth, he couldn't do much to respond beyond a little noncommittal shrug, and received a dry chuckle in response.
“Fine,” his saviour said with an evident smile, “When I release you, walk forward and do not look back.”
That… That was not what he’d been expecting. And the way the person spoke seemed so heartbreakingly sad that he felt his own chest constrict for a moment. He floundered a little, and, perhaps mistaking the movement for panic, his saviour set his feet back down on the ground.
Slowly, hesitantly, those spider-pale hands drew back, and of course, Daethir immediately turned around.
And screamed.
Flailing, he staggered back into the corridor that had so recently been vacated by the Death Lord, and fell hard onto his backside, sprawled on the damp ground and staring up at the emaciated corpse of another draugr.
Searing, sapphire blue eyes blazed out of a face devoid of all colour, so much so that for a heartbeat, Daethir thought he was looking at a skeleton, except this person still had flesh and muscle on their frame, even if it had all been withered away over time to white leather stretched over bone.
Pale lips pulled back off perfect teeth in a grimace, and white, barely-there eyebrows tugged into a hurt expression so profound that Daethir found himself suddenly silenced by it.
Then, because he was apparently pathologically incapable of keeping his mouth shut, he blurted, “Shit, I’m sorry, I just –”
At a croaking shout of triumph from the connecting tunnel, the pale draugr’s head twitched around and it let out a snarl of its own. “No time. Come on,” and with that, it surged forwards, grabbed Daethir by the wrist and hauled him to his feet with a strength that he would never have expected from a creature so thin.
Unlike the other draugr he’d encountered on his way down into the depths of the tomb – the ones who’d stumbled around and dragged their bare feet along like stiff, empty Dwarven automata – this one was nimble and lithe, and it wore a loose, undyed linen shift that was belted at the waist and fell halfway down its emaciated thighs. Its feet were bare though, and as it turned and yanked him down a corridor, Daethir had to duck beneath a long, white plait that swung behind it like a flailing ship’s rope in a high wind.
“Alright, I’m coming, I’m coming, ow!” he yelped, trying to keep his feet in the same frantic rhythm while also attempting to twist free of the vice-strong grip of the creature’s fingers.
“Do not fall behind,” the draugr rasped, and then let go.
“You’ll show me the way out?” he chirped hopefully, and the draugr glanced back over its shoulder.
“I’ll take you to –” its eyes went wide and for a moment, Daethir thought the creature had tripped because it turned back abruptly and shoved him hard in the chest, sending him reeling. Daethir’s shoulder struck the tunnel wall and he let out an ‘oof’ of surprise on impact, but a second later, an ebony war axe embedded itself in the damp, softly crumbling stone of a mortuary shelf.
“Holy shit,” he breathed, staring at the weapon.
“Run! This way,” the strange, pale draugr gasped, and Daethir followed blindly.
Something seemed to ripple and shimmer in the wall up ahead, and a blue light pulsed in the draugr’s hand as they charged towards the rockface. The creature seemed to be running straight at the section of wall that was warping disturbingly and Daethir’s feet slowed.
“Don’t stop! Through the doorway, quick!” the draugr barked.
“What doorway?!” he yelped, skidding to a stop a few paces behind the apparently mad draugr. “You’re nuts. This place has sent you round the bed. That’s a solid fucking wall right there, I’m not –”
“Come on!” the creature hissed in obvious frustration. It was unnervingly similar to the tone of voice Karsi took with him when he was exasperated, and Daethir was being stupid or stubborn (or both) about something.
When Daethir didn’t move, and the footsteps and continuous cursing in a language he couldn't understand drifted round the corner from the fast-approaching Death Lord, the odd, silver-haired draugr rolled its eerie, blue eyes and snatched his hand again.
With a yell of horror and surprise, Daethir was tugged forwards into the wall. He closed his eyes, expecting to be slammed into solid stonework, and was amazed when he found himself staggering right into the chest of the draugr, who nudged him to stand behind its back while it worked some kind of magic on the wall or portal.
“The fuck…?” he breathed, chest heaving.
The draugr, still holding his right hand, worked a spell with its left, and the doorway in the wall vanished and returned to looking like uninterrupted rock.
“That’s never going to fool a draugr,” Daethir said, eyeing the spot sceptically.
“Fooled you,” the creature quipped and turned to face him, releasing its hold on his hand.
Daethir opened and closed his mouth like a landed carp for a good three seconds before heat flooded his tanned face and he looked away. “So, what, we’re safe now? And what the fuck are you?”
“Direct, aren’t you?” the creature said archly, and hell, if it didn’t remind Daethir of Karsi’s dry sarcasm.
At that thought, another bolt of guilt lanced through his chest and he looked up at the draugr. It wasn’t surprising that the draugr was taller than he was – it was hard not to be taller than Daethir, provided that one was over the age of about fifteen. He tried out his best smile and hoped it stuck. “It’s one of my many charms. Please, don’t let it stop you from showing me how to get out of this charming tomb you call home.”
The draugr’s soft laugh was like a handful of dry, autumn leaves, rattling around the narrow space that surrounded the two of them. It soon died though, and he let out a long, heavy sigh.
“Oh no,” Daethir said, backing up a pace. “I don’t like the sound of that. You are going to show me the way out now, right?”
Slowly, the creature nodded. “Yes.”
“Good. Great. Let’s move the fuck along, shall we? I’ve got a vampire waiting for me outside who will probably thrall me into complete obedience for a week for disappearing and scaring him witless, and I’d rather not make it two if I can help it. Not that I mind him thralling me, quite the contrary actually, but two weeks is a long time to spend as a puppet, even if I do get the most toe-curling orgasms out of it. Fuck, I’m running my mouth. I do that when I’m nervous, and the way you’re just staring at me like I’m some kind of hitherto-unknown species of cave mushroom that’s suddenly gained sentience is unnerving. Also you never answered my question: what the fuck are you? And are we safe now?”
The draugr blinked. “Did you hit your head?”
“Beg pardon?” he asked, and reflexively brought his hand to the back of his head to search for blood or injury in his light brown hair. When he found none, it dawned on him that the question might have been rhetorical, and he pouted. “Oh, it’s funny too. Great. I found the only draugr in all of Tamriel with a sense of humour. You are a draugr, right? Because the whole ‘mummified and still walking around’ thing is usually a dead giveaway. If you’ll pardon the pun. Man, I’m doing it again, aren’t I?”
“Yes,” the draugr said. “And yes.”
“Yes what?”
“Yes, you are, and yes, I am.”
“I am what?”
“Running your mouth again, as you put it. And I am a draugr.”
“Oh. Fuck. Well, let’s crack on then, eh?” he chirped with a nervous little laugh, gesturing behind him up what appeared to be a narrow, upward-sloping tunnel. “Lead on to freedom, and all that. You can fill me in on the way.”
The creature gave a little snort of laughter and shook its head. Sections of white hair had come loose from its braid and dangled down into its glowing, blue eyes which gave it an altogether softer, dishevelled look. It cast a couple of glowing balls of light, with which Daethir was familiar from Karsi’s magic, and they floated away up the tunnel like dandelion puffs on the wind.
Following the magelights, the draugr stepped around Daethir in the narrow tunnel, and as it passed, Daethir caught the soft scents of leather and parchment and incense, and the faint crackle of ozone that hovered around Karsi too.
“You’re a mage?” he asked to break the thick silence that had flooded into the tunnel when the draugr had fallen quiet again.
“Mm.”
“And you are definitely a draugr?”
“Mn.”
“You’re… different… from the others…” he said, inviting the draugr to expand on the statement.
“Mmm.”
“You suddenly run out of words? What happened to Mr. Funny Undead from a minute ago? Wait, that was rude. I have no idea whether you’re a ‘mister’ or something else entirely. I’m sorry.”
At that, the creature gave another grinding chuckle and halted to look back at Daethir. “I am male, if that’s your question. My name is Nýráðr.”
The way his tongue trilled over the ‘r’ and ‘th’ sounds sent a thrill through Daethir’s whole body. “Neer-ath-ur,” he repeated, frowning. “That’s… It sounds elven, but… I’ve never heard it before.”
“It’s old,” he replied, and Daethir got the impression that there was some dark humour in his tone that was lost on the relatively young Bosmer. “If it’s too much of a mouthful for you, you can just call me Nyr.”
“Right. I’m Daethir.”
“You are a Wood Elf, are you not?”
“Yup, though I’m not the ‘live in the woods in my underwear and commune with squirrels’ kind of Wood Elf, so don’t go making assumptions.”
The laugh that fluttered out of Nyr was like ripping parchment, but it sounded full of unexpected delight all the same. Centuries, even millennia, as a slowly-desiccating draugr had wrought a heck of a lot of damage on the creature’s whole body by the look of it, and from the sound of things, his vocal cords hadn’t escaped unscathed either. Daethir mused that perhaps he would have had a voice as smooth and haunting as Karsi did when he had been fully alive, and something twinged in his chest at the creature’s loss.
“Well,” the draugr said, “Since we’re not making assumptions about each other, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t assume I was a mindless drone like all my fellow animated corpses down here.”
“I thought I’d already made it abundantly clear that I don’t think that,” Daethir scowled. “And you were the one who implied I had no more brains than a Death Lord…”
“You were the one who thought I was going to ram you into a wall,” Nyr countered, glancing back over his shoulder. This time, as he moved, Daethir caught sight of his pale, very tapered ear and his footsteps halted abruptly.
With his eyes wide, he stared at the elven shape of the draugr’s ear and his jaw dropped.
“What?” Nyr asked, stopping too and turning properly to face him. “What’s wrong?”
“You’re… an elf,” he blurted stupidly, and then went on in a slightly hysterical ramble. “I mean, the name should have given it away, but… holy shit, you’re an elf! I thought draugr were all human. I mean, the Nordic kings who built these tombs were… you know, humans, and they were famous for killing everything that didn’t have a perfectly rounded ear, and they had human courts and human servants and subjects, and what the fuck?” His voice ended in a little squeak as he ran out of breath.
A slow, sad smile crept onto Nyr’s sunken features, and he sighed. “I am an elf, you’re right. Are you so far removed from my time that our story has been forgotten? Did not the Atmorans start out as our friends and allies only to betray us and subjugate us instead?”
“The Night of Tears,” Daethir exhaled, reeling.
In the cold blue glow of Nyr’s magelight, the draugr’s face settled into a frown. “I… I don’t know what that is.”
“You must have died before that all went down then,” he said, trying to scrape together what he remembered of it from Karsi’s impromptu fireside history lessons. “Shit. It was a massacre. Snow Elves descended on the human city of Saarthal in the north one night. After years of uneasy peace, they slaughtered everyone and, rumour has it, took or locked away something of great power beneath the city. After that, the humans retaliated and began the systematic genocide of all the Snow Elves in Tamriel.”
The draugr swayed and staggered, catching himself with a hand on the wall before he could collapse completely, and he stared wild-eyed at him. “They’re… They’re all gone?” he hissed, his bony chest rising and falling in fast, shallow gasps. “There are no more of us?”
“Us?” he asked, and then he really saw the white hair and colourless skin, and he understood at last. “Holy shit, you’re a Snow Elf?”
Mute, he just barely managed a nod.
“Shit, I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I should have realised and told you more gently. Karsi would have realised what you are immediately. I’m sorry,” he said, and stepped closer, closing his hand around the bare, bony forearm of the elven draugr.
“None of us…?” he asked, unable to finish the question.
“Not as far as I know,” Daethir said, much more gently this time.
He squeezed Nyr’s forearm and felt the bones shift beneath, and barely resisted the urge to jerk away in surprise. Even with his small hands, he could close his thumb and fingers around Nyr’s emaciated forearm. This close up, he could also see the way his collarbones stuck out beneath the open ‘v’ of his linen tunic’s neck, and his hollow cheeks looked all the more gaunt in the blue light that cast harsh shadows down over them. Even so, there was a cut-glass beauty to the creature with his high cheekbones and elegant jawline.
“I’m sorry, Nyr.”
The Snow Elf swallowed, blinked glassy eyes, and looked down at the point where Daethir was touching him. For a long moment, he stared, and Daethir wondered if he shouldn’t have been so forward, but the draugr gave another wheezing sigh and placed his left hand over Daethir’s and squeezed gently.
“Nothing lasts forever,” he whispered. The sound of it was like a winter wind in bare branches, and Daethir shivered. He felt like cold hands were scraping down his spine.
“What will happen to you now?” Daethir asked, still holding onto the draugr. Nyr’s body was warm – far warmer than Karsi’s undead vampire body – and his skin was supple and unbelievably soft. He’d always expected draugr to be fragile and papery, like mildewed parchment, or slimy and rotten, but Nyr was neither. He had just wasted away over time. Daethir wondered exactly how much time he’d spent alone in the dark down here, with nothing but shuffling, insentient corpses for company, and his heart went out to him. The last of his species, and confined in the tomb of his oppressors for generations while the world went on without him. “Nýráðr?”
At the sound of his full name on Daethir’s tongue, the draugr startled softly and offered him a smile that went all the way up to the corners of his kindly eyes. “If I am not caught in the next few days, the Death Lord will forget about all of this. They’re not terribly bright, after all.”
Daethir narrowed his eyes. “That means you think I’m not terribly bright, if I was as easily fooled as a fucking draugr. No offence, you know,” he added with a pointed look up and down at the draugr in front of him.
Nyr’s grip on his hand tightened for a fraction before he let go and dropped his arm, laughing quietly, that autumn rattle back in his voice. “None taken,” he said, turning to continue leading Daethir up the passage. “And in my defence, you should have been able to see through that enchantment. It really wasn’t very strong. It doesn’t have to be to keep the majority of my fellow tomb-dwellers out.”
“I’m not exactly proficient at seeing magic,” Daethir mumbled. “Can’t cast a spark myself, and scrolls are… unpredictable. Even the ones idiot Nords with no magic are supposed to be able to use,” he added morosely.
“Elves with no magic whatsoever were not common in my time, but not unheard of. I apologise. I shouldn’t have made fun of you for it.”
“Nah, it’s fine,” he huffed. “Karsi is always taking the piss out of me for it. He’s pretty adept at magic – could run rings around most of the stuffy old mages at the College of Winterhold. Even the Archmage, if you believe him. He does think quite highly of himself though, so it’s hard to tell.”
After a lilting pause in which only the sound of their soft footfalls could be heard, Nyr said, “You’re fond of this ‘Karsi’.”
“Fond? Fond doesn’t even begin to cover it. I’m besotted. Head over heels. Enraptured by. Enamoured of. Utterly fucking smitten.” He did his best to emulate, and perhaps exaggerate, Karsi’s refined, educated way of speaking while he rattled off a list of synonyms for ‘completely fucking whipped’.
Again, Nyr gave a rasping chuckle. “You don’t sound terribly thrilled about that.”
“Of course I’m ‘not terribly thrilled’ about that!” he exclaimed, gesturing up in the air with his hands. “The bloke’s a century-old vampire whose more educated than most princes, he’s elegant as fuck, can talk me into a stupor in a single sentence, and is more beautiful than all the Divines.”
“How is any of that a bad thing?” Nyr asked, still sounding amused by Daethir’s petulance over the matter.
“Well, you might have been starved for beauty down here in the dark for a billion years, so I can see why my face might look like it was carved by a devotee of Dibella, Goddess of Love and Sex and Beauty,” he said with deep sarcasm, “But if you’d seen a single other living soul that didn’t resemble the back end of a raisin, you’d realise that next to literally anyone else, I’m about as ordinary as it gets. I’m ignorant as fuck about lots of things. I can’t do magic. All I’m good for is sneaking about, cutting purses, breaking into places I shouldn’t be, and hitting a target dead-centre at a hundred paces with a tiny piece of steel.”
It was only when he’d finished insulting the draugr that lived down here that he remembered who and what his companion was, and he fell into an awkward silence. Then, because he couldn’t bear it a second longer, he tacked on an apology that was way too late. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to imply you’re like them. You’re not.”
“It’s alright,” he said softly. The sound was like a stone dragging across the tunnel floor. “I know what I am and what I look like by now.”
“Yeah, but you’re not like the other draugr I’ve seen.”
“Oh, goody. What a comfort it is to know that I’ll win the Annual Draugr Beauty Contest for another year in a row,” he said with caustic sarcasm.
Before Daethir could recover from the unexpected and well-deserved reprimand, the draugr rounded the corner in the steadily-rising tunnel and they came to an elaborate, carved stone door that abruptly halted their journey.
Pressing his emaciated palm against a point at the centre of the labyrinthine tangle of patterns, the draugr let his icy blue magic pour out of him and it ran through the channels of the maze like water, flowing all the way across to form a tapestry of blue and grey until, with a dull, grinding noise, the door opened slowly outwards, and a blast of freezing, snow-filled air rushed in.
The wind lifted Nyr’s white hair off his face and Daethir stared as moonlight inked silver brushstrokes across his high cheekbones and down his straight nose and delicate jawline.
For a moment, neither of them moved as the night opened up around them, but Daethir knew he had to make up for his inadvertently cruel comments, so he stepped close to the draugr and reached his hand out to cup his colourless cheek.
Nyr’s searing blue eyes fluttered closed and he sucked in a sharp breath, going rigid beneath Daethir’s touch. He traced his thumb across the Snow Elf’s high, arching cheekbone and murmured, “You really are exquisite.” He meant it too. “Thank you for saving my life, Nýráðr. I will never forget you, nor your kindness to me.”
Like a cat long-starved of affection, Nyr tipped his head into Daethir’s palm and nuzzled him once. The longing in his gaunt face cut Daethir to the quick, but he stepped back and opened his eyes. “Nor I you, Daethir,” he said in a scraping rasp.
Then his blue gaze sailed over Daethir’s head – not exactly a difficult task, given how much taller the Snow Elf was than the diminutive Bosmer – and he smiled. “Karsi, I take it?” he said dryly.
Daethir turned and had the fleeting impression of a figure standing beside a small, smouldering campfire outside the main entrance of the tomb, eyes blazing red, before the image disintegrated into a twisting swarm of black bats and Karsi reappeared right in front of Daethir, his face burning like a vengeful spirit.
“By Molag Bal’s unholy blood,” he cursed, gripping Daethir by the shoulders and lifting him away from Nyr as though he were a child that had strayed too close to a firepit. “Do you have any idea how long you’ve been gone?!” His tone was frantic and his eyes blazed red as he unleashed all his pent-up rage and fear. Then he turned with a snarl on Nyr and bared his fangs at him, putting himself between the two of them.
Magicka boiled to life in his hands, scarlet as blood and shifting eerily in the icy moonlight, and Daethir thrashed in his grip. “No! No! Karsi, no, don’t! Don’t! He saved my life, Karsi, don’t hurt him! Shit, Karsi! Fucking listen to me you overgrown, underfed leech!”
Karsi’s head snapped back to Daethir and he froze, then loosened his grip on Daethir’s leather jerkin. “That’s a draugr,” he said flatly, as if Daethir had lost his wits down in the tomb.
“Ten out of ten for observation,” Daethir sneered, looking around Karsi’s figure to meet Nyr’s gaze. “I told you he was the smart one.”
“So you did,” Nyr said dryly. He swallowed and stepped back into the shadows of the doorway, and Karsi flew at him.
The moment he hit the threshold, Karsi collided with a magical barrier and rebounded as if he’d hit a solid wall. He grunted and hissed like a wet cat, shaking himself out and rounding on Nyr again. “Why would a draugr help an intruder instead of attacking?”
Daethir blinked. It had never occurred to him to ask that question. He really was fucking simple.
Nyr’s lips twitched into his sad smile. “I couldn’t bear to see a fellow elf spend his eternity in the tomb of a human king who had been so cruel to our kind. Take care of him, Karsi,” he said, and turned away.
The door didn’t immediately close, so Daethir did something that was so perfectly in-keeping with his track record of uninhibited stupidity, and darted after him before Karsi had realised what he was doing.
The vampire snatched for him and roared in wordless fury when Daethir’s jerkin slipped through his fingers behind the impenetrable barrier and he heard the weight of compulsion in Karsi’s words as he added, “Daethir, come back here right now!”
“Doesn’t work if I'm not looking at you!” Daethir shot back merrily over his shoulder and was answered with another impotent yowl of fury from his lover.
Nyr had stopped and was frowning in confusion at him. “What are you doing?” he asked. His voice was even softer now, as though talking so much had strained his fragile vocal cords to their limit and even Daethir’s sharp ears nearly missed the question.
“I… I’m not sure,” he said honestly.
“Go, Daethir,” Nyr said gently. “Go with Karsi and put this place out of your mind.”
“I’m not sure I can,” he breathed. “I… Do you have to stay here? Are you trapped by the barrier that’s keeping Karsi out? Wait, no, you just passed through it. Fuck, I’m so stupid sometimes,” he said, smacking his forehead with his palm.
Nyr stepped closer and drew Daethir’s hand away from his face. He opened his mouth to speak, but Karsi roared at him from the mouth of the tunnel. “Get your filthy corpse hands off him! I swear by all the blood in my body and all the blood I’ve ever taken in the unholy sacrament of feeding that I will rip you apart and scatter your remains to the wolves if you don’t unhand him!”
“Ignore him,” Daethir snorted at Nyr without looking around. “He’s always had a terrible flare for the dramatic, and it only gets worse when he’s like that.”
“He’s worried for you,” Nyr smiled, and he let go. “Cherish it.”
“Tolerate it, more like,” Daethir said with a sigh. “But yeah. Do you have to stay here?”
“Look at me, Daethir. Where else could I go? I’m the last of my race, if what you say is true, and you will probably be the first and only person not to take one look at me and decide I must be destroyed on the spot.” He jutted his delicate chin towards the tunnel mouth where Karsi was pacing and snarling with bared fangs, his eyes locked on the pair of them. “He’s already proven my point.”
“Pfft, you’re not that special. He’s like that with anyone he thinks is a threat to me, and with how often I get myself in a pickle, trust me, that’s quite a lot of people. It’s nothing personal.”
“It very much is personal, you dim-witted Wood Elf!” Karsi spat, though it came out as affectionately petulant now, rather than truly fearful. “Would you please, darling, love and light of my life, back away from that thing and come back out here to join me?” Sarcasm dripped so tangibly off his tone that Daethir could practically taste it.
He sighed and continued to ignore the vampire.
“Come with us. If you’re not bound to this place, come with us.”
“Why?”
“See the world? See what’s changed since you went in there,” he said, jerking his thumb down the passageway. “Get away from the shitty Nords who imprisoned you in there for all eternity –”
“-- Nords aren’t shitty anymore?” Nyr asked, surprised.
“Oh, no, they’re shittier than ever, especially to us elves, but –”
From behind him, Karsi sputtered. “‘Us’ elves?”
“Shut up. You’re a Nord, Karsi, so you don’t get a say in this,” Daethir barked without bite.
They heard Karsi’s inhalation of surprise, even above the wind that whistled around the mountaintop tomb. “He’s an elf? Daethir, the Nords who made the draugr would never have used elves for draugr servants. They thought they were animals!”
“Worse than animals, actually,” Nyr said with a sharp smile. “They enslaved us. We weren’t even afforded the same dignity you’d give a dog.”
Karsi fell still and silent at that and stood staring for a long time. Finally, he breathed, “That hair…” He let his red gaze slide up and down Nyr’s skeletally thin body and then added, “You’re a Snow Elf.”
With a quiet dignity, Nýráðr bowed his head with closed eyes.
Daethir watched his lover for a long time, sensing the kind of thoughts that would be racing through that scholar’s head of his. Making a silent ‘wait there’ gesture to Nyr, he turned and went back to Karsi.
The vampire’s eyes were unfocused, now staring unseeing at the floor near the doorway to the tomb.
“Karse…?” Karsi truly hated that nickname because it was the word for a small, edible plant that went well with egg sandwiches in some highborn circles, and sure enough, it snapped him immediately out of his reverie.
His upper lip twitched but his eyes faded from red to gold. That he wasn’t bothering with the glamour which he usually wore around himself like an old cloak was testament to how rattled he was. He sighed and lifted his eyes from Daethir to Nyr, who was still standing, much to Daethir’s relief, in the tunnel, watching them and silent as a silver spectre.
“Think of all the questions you could ask him, Karsi,” Daethir insisted quietly. “You could annoy him into a second undeath with them all.”
Karsi’s mouth lifted at one corner into an amused smile despite himself. Then he looked down at Daethir and his eyes filled with tears. He brought both hands to Daethir’s jaw and choked, “You scared the shit out of me, love.”
“I know,” Daethir replied, placing his hands on Karsi’s waist. His heavy, wine-red robes were lashed around his slim middle with a thick band of black silk, into which was tucked a ruby-hilted dagger, and Daethir felt its cold bite against the bare inside of his wrist. “I’m sorry. I’m here though, and it’s entirely because of Nyr. He saved me from a Death Lord, and then when I freaked out over him being a draugr too, he saved me all over again and led me through a wall and then up here. To you. I’m alive because of him.”
He paused and tilted his head sideways in a way that he saved for special occasions just like that one: unfortunate situations (usually of his own making) when he needed Karsi to be thoroughly wrapped around his little finger and eating out of his hand and helplessly unable to say no.
Karsi swallowed.
“I owe him my life, Karsi. You owe him my life. Shouldn’t we give him another chance at living too? Let him come with us…”
Karsi’s right eyelid twitched, and although he hadn’t uttered a word, Daethir knew he had him.
He popped up onto his tiptoes, pecked the vampire on the cheek, and scuttled back to Nyr in the dark tunnel.
He took the draugr by both hands and backed up towards the doorway, and to his surprise, Nyr followed. His movements were soft, graceful and fluid as a dancer, and Daethir thought again how strangely beautiful this creature was.
Nyr stopped just shy of the threshold though, and met Karsi’s eye. He let go of Daethir’s hands and lowered his arms to his sides. Something wordless seemed to pass between the two that Daethir couldn’t unpick, and he looked from one to the other in helpless confusion.
“Kay?” he chirped after a moment. “Nyr?”
Finally, Karsi drew in a long breath, held it, and then let it go in a rush. “Do you have anything you wish to bring with you?” he asked and Daethir almost yipped with the sudden rush of joy that bubbled up inside him. He hadn’t quite dared believe it until then.
It was the same kind of excitement and trepidation he felt at the start of a new journey. No matter how many times he and Karsi had set off to find some new book or scroll or sacred offering pot, he felt the exact same flare of unbridled, effervescent joy, and now as he looked between the two undead creatures before him, he felt it again.
“If I go back down there now, I will not come out again,” Nyr said in a barely there rasp. “The Death Lords will all know by now what I did, and how I betrayed them to get Daethir out. They will forget in a week perhaps, but I would have to conceal myself, and Daethir would freeze to death up here waiting, even with a fire.”
Daethir paused and watched Karsi’s expression as the realisation dawned on the vampire of the risk Nyr had taken to get his lover out alive. Then, he surprised Daethir by raising the inside of his left wrist – the side closest to his now-silent heart – to his canines and biting his own vein, sending droplets of his precious blood spattering onto the snow rimed stone at his feet. With ritualistic intonation, he said, “You’re right. I owe you the life of my beloved. By my blood I swear to do you no harm, and to protect you to the best of my abilities until my death or such time as you release me from my oath.”
Daethir’s eyebrows shot up. He’d never heard Karsi speak like that, and he’d certainly never given a blood oath to anyone, not that Daethir knew of anyway. Astonished, he looked at Nyr.
The draugr stepped out of the doorway and around the small pool of blood that sparkled like a handful of rubies cushioned on the snow. He tilted his head slightly to one side, and smiled. “I shall do my utmost to be worthy of such an oath, vampire.” The word came out like an honorific, not an insult.
For the space of ten heartbeats – twenty, if Daethir’s pounding pulse was the cadence by which such measurements were to be judged – no one moved or spoke. Finally, Karsi turned away and walked towards the fire, his long black hair blowing loose in the wind. He looked softer now, the tension melting from his shoulders, but Daethir knew his lover to the core, and he still bore some internal struggle.
Daethir made a mental note to question him about it later, and then turned to Nyr. “Where to now?” he asked.
“I will follow where you lead, Daethir.”
At that, Daethir sucked air in through his teeth in a comical grimace. “Terrible choice,” he grinned. “Luckily for you, I follow where Karsi leads, and Karsi is full of excellent ideas and great judgement.”
“I’m not so sure of that,” Karsi said over his shoulder as he stalked six paces ahead of them. “I just gave a blood oath to a draugr. You’ve rotted my brain with your company, Dae.”
Daethir grinned again and elbowed Nyr in his ribs. “You’re gonna fit right in, I just know it.”
Nyr smiled faintly and it was only then that Daethir realised that the draugr was still wearing just a linen shift and no boots.
“Shit, Nyr, you must be freezing!”
“I’m not going to die of exposure, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Karsi snorted faintly, looking surprisingly amused until Daethir told him to take his own coat off and give it to Nyr, which he flat-out refused to do.
“You can’t expect him to walk around barefoot, Karse!”
“He can strip one of the bandits in the entrance for armour,” Karsi shot back, gesturing at the main door to the tomb. “It’s not like they need it. I swore to protect him, not divest myself for his comfort.”
Without a word, Nyr left in the direction Karsi had pointed, and a few minutes later, he returned wearing the black mage robes of one of the frozen corpses just inside the door, with a long fur-trimmed cloak that caught the wind and flapped like bat’s wings, and tall, black leather boots cuffed with soft fur. The cloak had a hood, which he pulled up over his head, and with the shadows it cast, he almost looked unremarkable save for that long, silver braid that hung elegantly down over one shoulder. With those new clothes on, he looked thin, yes, but not undead. Until Daethir met his blue eyes.
“Karsi, can you cast a glamour on him or something? Like the one you use? He shouldn’t have to worry about every last person we meet trying to hack his head off.”
The vampire nodded, and crossed their frozen campsite to meet him halfway. “If I may?” he asked, raising his right hand. Black and red magicka bubbled into his palm and Nyr eyed it warily, but nodded once.
“I can do it myself,” he added, “But I think you’re a stronger mage than I, and you have more experience with alteration magic, I’m sure.”
Karsi just grunted something and circled his fingertips over Nyr’s face. In place of the haunted, sunken eyes and gaunt, hollow cheeks of a corpse, a beautiful, porcelain face stared out from under the hood, and the undead, blue glow of his eyes faded to the forget-me-not blue of a wild meadow in summer.
“Holy shit, Karsi,” Daethir exhaled. “You don’t do anything by halves, do you?”
The vampire rolled his eyes and cast the same spell on his own face, and the black sclera faded to white, and the gold deepened to a warm brown, and Daethir tried not to mourn the loss of the ‘otherness’ in his two companions.
“Karsi?”
“Mn?”
“Can you… Can you make it so that I can see you both?”
“Without affecting the way others view us?” he clarified, and Daethir nodded. He looked to Nyr for his opinion, and when the draugr just shrugged, seeming almost curious about whether such a clause could be written into a spell like that, especially after it had already been woven, Karsi took it for the challenge it undoubtedly was, and made another gesture at the side of Nyr’s face.
The face of a draugr stared back at him once again, and Daethir beamed. “I fucking love magic,” he laughed, and to his surprise, Nyr laughed too, shaking his head. “Do you mind? I mean, I was pretty rude about draugr a while ago, but I really didn’t mean to include you in it.”
“What, when you called my kind ‘the wrong end of a raisin’ or thereabouts?” he said, arching an eyebrow.
Karsi burst out laughing, and the sound was so loud and honest and off-guard that all three of them began to laugh. It took a lot to make Karsi laugh like that, and the sound of it filled Daethir’s heart to bursting.
He looped his arm through Nyr’s elbow and then dragged him round so he could stick his other arm under Karsi’s, and he dragged the two of them towards the fire and their discarded travel packs.
“Come on,” he said, glancing up at the two of them. They were almost a match in heights, he noted from about a foot below them. “Let’s put this place behind us. Karsi, what was the next item on our list?”
“The Lunarstone Chalice,” he said dryly. “Last rumoured to be in a ruined temple in the mountains north of Markarth.”
“Ooh, Markarth. My favourite place in all the world,” Daethir chimed sarcastically, unlinking both arms so he could gesture grandly while walking backwards. “Second only to Windhelm in its snobbery towards elven kind, and the whole area is bristling with rabid, frothing lunatics called the ‘Forsworn’. Can’t think of a place I’d like to start Nyr’s tour of Tamriel more than bloody fucking Markarth.”
And then he caught his heel on a flagstone and pitched backwards with a sharp cry of surprise, only to find hands shooting out to catch him on either side.
Nyr and Karsi hauled him upright before he landed ass-first on the icy stone, and Daethir grinned up at both of them.
“Alright,” Nyr said in his hoarse croak. “Let’s begin.”
__
If there's interest in these three, I'll happily add it to my 'to work on' list. Consider letting me know you enjoyed it by reblogging it or leaving a comment/ask.
Take care of yourselves, and I hope you have a lovely day/night wherever you are, and whenever you read this.
| Masterlist | Ko-fi (tip jar)
(if you enjoyed this draugr/lich boy, you might also like this story, featuring an altogether more shy and retiring draugr named Kalle, and the adventurer who falls in love with him over several visits to his tomb - m/f pairing).
#lich#draugr#vampire#elf#wood elf#bosmer#skyrim#skyrim story#skyrim oc#you don't need to know skyrim to read this though#polyamory#m/m/m
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All I Really Want Is You
Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x fem!reader
Warnings: bullet wounds, mentions of potential death (no one dies, just a small injury during a mission). This is told in 3rd person limited POV (of Miguel, mostly?). One-sided kind of. Reader can speak Spanish (is that considered a warning?).
Summary: This is how it all began for Miguel. From mere coincidence to something more. (Fluff/Romance)
Excerpt: "He realizes something and it’s arguable in his mind... Out of all the Spiders, you’re the anomaly."
A/N: This narrative is actually repurposed from my friend's spidersona story. It didn't have any romance in it originally but my version does and the more I wrote, the more it diverged from their initial story. They said they liked this version and gave me the go ahead to post it because they'll probably never share their's anyway.
Special thank you to my friend who edited this thing. I'm grateful that they were able to help me turn my messy notes and ramblings in a cohesive story.
I get really inspired by music. So, if I do continue to publish installments of this story, they'll most likely be written with songs included.
Also, I'm sorry if there are any mistakes. I've never had to format such a long post like this on here before.
Word Count: 13.9k (This is a slow burn)
youtube
Breakdown
I'm overworking 'til the sundown
Don't see the light inside my head now
There’s a faint buzzing sound that fills Miguel’s workspace. His eyes are a bit bloodshot and itchy from his lack of blinking. He’s grown irritated by now after hours of surveillance and Lyla badgering him to just take a break already. He keeps swatting her away with languid flicks of his wrist while sighing and rubbing his temple. There’s an ache in his head that’s dull yet ever-present but he feels like rest will not come to him anytime soon. He also remembered that he wanted to run diagnostics on a few of his lab’s systems that would ultimately take a while. The testing is usually run automatically but he’s disabled the scheduled maintenance cycle in order to have tasks to do when he's restless like now. Unfortunately for Miguel’s overactive mind, things have mellowed out in the multiverse for the time being. He's been trying to fill his time as he waits for something, anything to happen. It's caused him to grow a bit on edge as of late. Yes, there are still plenty of anomalies to be dealt with but he’s found the late hours to have grown more quiet. It seems that the uncharacteristic silence has planted an eerie feeling in him that he just can’t shake. What if the moment he steps away, something arises? Lyla calls him paranoid but truthfully, he can’t take the risk of complacency.
Eventually, he plops into his chair and prepares to stare at the monitors for another who knows how many hours. He glances over the society’s various CCTV displays in a sluggish attempt at monitoring the building. Yet, something catches his attention. His eyes zero in on a lone figure in the engineering lab. He blinks a bit slowly and scoots closer to take a better look while disregarding the buttons on the control panel in front of him that actually allows him to zoom in on the feed. The thought had completely escaped his foggy brain thanks to his chronic sleep deprivation. Languidly, his eyes flicker to the time and back up. 4:13 am.
I need to see you in my window
There’s not a doubt in Miguel’s mind about what or more accurately who it may be. It’s your form hunched over the workbench. Your signature pair of shoes gives you away entirely. Frankly, it’s not a surprise at this point. This may be the fourth or fifth time he's noticed your presence at such an unorthodox hour. You always tend to stay late at HQ because of your own odd sleeping schedule. He’s overheard you mention to Jess that your universe has a slight daytime shift compared to the others but he didn’t consider it to be by this much. This was nonetheless a preferred choice of company, albeit in an entirely different area of the building from him, because you're quiet and focus on your work. He's not entirely sure if the two of you have interacted for more than a single minute. Perhaps, that's why he prefers you over others. He's never actually spoken to you outside of very few mission assignments and reports. You've caught his eye before. At first, he noticed you were a bit too quiet. It initially caused suspicion to sew itself within his brain. However, after a brief investigation into you performed by Lyla, he concluded that it's simply the way you behave. Now, when you catch his eye he assumes it's due to how you carry yourself relative to others, professional and efficient. Despite the distance between you two, both figurative and literal in this moment, he finds himself watching you through one of the many floating windows before him. His fingers finally slither among the control panel to switch to a different camera in the lab. After flicking through a couple of feeds, the screen changes to an angle that shows your face. Perhaps he's a bit too tired in this instance because his hazy brain barely registers the way his breath hitches in his throat momentarily.
He's seen your bare face only once before and it summoned the same reaction from him. He's taken aback by how you look. It's a bit of a surprise in all honesty. You're so, for lack of a better term, different. And that's not claimed in some common colloquial way. You are literally different. Here at the society, a handful of faces are circulated between the Spiders. However, yours is unique and undoubtedly you. He's only ever come across one of you, the one that's sitting and tinkering in one of his labs. The last and only time he saw your bare face was a fleeting glance before you quickly shoved your mask back on. He assumes you're a bit shy because of it. However, now he can take his time to really analyze your features. He sees how your brows pinch in concentration and how your eyes look a bit red. Ah, it appears you haven't been blinking properly like him either. He sees how your tongue gently swipes out from your mouth before you nip at your bottom lip. Your hands work on repairing a circuit board with your eyes focused on the corrosion you wipe off. He watches you for a while as you work, finding intrigue in the way you do such mundane tasks as repairing a PCB and reassembling a gadget. Eventually, you sit up and stretch a bit, before rubbing your face in what he collects as either exhaustion or boredom. He understands the feeling, truly. Yet his eyes widen a bit as your eyes look at the camera and he finds himself perking up when he sees you smile. He then zooms out to see that you’re conversing with Lyla. Despite the quick misunderstanding, he finds himself enjoying the scene before him. You speak to her so calmly and casually. Do you often speak with her? Many thoughts start to pop up in his mind about you and your overall enigmatic behavior. Your smile triggers hyperactivity to blossom in his mind, his thoughts reeling at the way you look. Your lips pinch together softly as one side of your mouth curls a bit more than the other. Your brows raise as you speak with Lyla, your contentment is evident. He's caught up in the details of your face and it's nearly instinctual the way the corners of his lips twitch in a subconscious attempt to mirror yours.
And I whisper
All I really want is you
What would you do?
He has formed this habit of watching you in the late nights and early mornings. At first, it was mere coincidence when his eyes lingered on you, maybe even out of some sense of caution, but now he finds himself seeking you out after a month of noticing your constant presence. Lyla teased him about being a creep but he usually just replies with a grunt or the occasional snarky comment. Every night you’re working on something and his curiosity is piqued. However, it appears you work efficiently given how it seems to be a new project every few nights or so. His eyes flutter a bit as he sees Lyla appear next to you. Judging by the way you react to her arrival, it’s just for a chat. He notices how your hands rest over one another in front of you as you nod at what Lyla says, laughing and blinking softly at her. You’re polite when listening, putting down whatever you’re working on to give her your attention. The only assumption he's made from it being that you're simply kind. His eyes are attracted to the way your thumbs twiddle around one another absentmindedly. Do you often fidget like that? He tries to think back on the previous times he witnessed your hands when they were not busy, which is not a common occurrence. And as he watches you, he strokes the panel button under his own thumb subconsciously as if it were the back of your hand. He’s only managed to conclude one thing about them and it’s not about how you fidget.
He mutters to himself deeply in observation, “Pequeñas.”
He looks at your hands, pixelated by the monitor, and then down at his own much bigger ones. He ponders momentarily about just how small they truly are. He's certain that if he were to measure them, the entire length would barely reach 7 inches while his are well past 9, probably even past 10 in actuality. If you placed your palm against his, his hand would completely dwarf yours. If you placed your palm against his... what would it fit like? What would it feel like? What would you do if he held your hand? Wait… why is he thinking about that?
“But,” he mumbles softly as he watches you walk off with Lyla in tow, “I think…”
Laying in the rain with you
Middle of June
It’s been two months since he fully took notice of you that night with his full attention; the night he seen you truly as yourself for the first time. From what Lyla has mentioned, you’ve been here almost every night since you joined the society. It doesn’t bother him that he hadn’t noticed you for so long. To him, it made sense. He often found himself drowned in work. Things were hectic for a while, a long while, but luckily during these past few months, things have been relatively easy. Emergency missions in the middle of the night have been few and far between and usually required only one person to complete them which is why Miguel has been manning the fort all by his lonesome for some time now. However, the only other spider permitted to be at HQ during the overnight hours is you thanks to your completely reversed day-night schedule. The two of you have been on a handful of late night missions together throughout this time but he has yet to speak to you about anything not regarding work. It’s a bit strange if he’s being truthful. You may be the only spider that has never spoken to him casually, ever. Sure, he’s suspected you are antisocial but he hadn’t anticipated it to be by this much. You don’t stand out, you stay focused on your work, and you never talk to anyone. Well, that last one isn’t too unbelievable given the fact that you’re only ever here when everyone else isn’t. Miguel can’t help but wonder if you have ever spoken to anyone in the Society without the intention of completing your professional duties? The closest to such an instance was the one time he heard you speak to Jess which was also the first time he had ever seen you. Jess was going to introduce you to him but he was busy having an argument with Hobie. It never grew to be physical but his shouting certainly must have put you off considering he never saw you around again after that. It makes sense, truthfully, since that was your first impression of him. You must think he's always shouting, irritated, and highly intolerant of disobeying his instruction. That is what he was yelling about at the time after all. Well, that is until he noticed you lingering around the building at night. Honestly, you weren’t even a thought in his mind until Lyla sent him a debriefing of you just before Jess officially assigned you to the night shift. He was going to protest, citing that you have no meritorious experience to do so or something like that but he found out that you don’t actually bother him like everyone else. However, he’s grown very aware of your presence as of late thanks to his more unoccupied overnight schedule.
He even has time to just sit and think about anything other than the multiverse now. Usually, this spare time is occupied by observing you. He likes to sit back and watch all the tasks you do with no one around. He finds it relaxing in a way, which is something he’s grateful for. He’s discovered many things about you through this newfound hobby. You tilt your head with a small pout when you’re confused. You often have music stuck in your head which is made evident by the way you nod your head rhythmically. You rub your face with both hands when you’re tired and only one hand when you’re bored. You like to take power naps under the workbench specifically in the left corner of the lab, closest to the door. You usually wear civilian clothing around HQ at night but always wear the same shoes. You don’t like coffee. You drink tea but it has to be hot with steam billowing from the cup. You drink water more often than tea though, but only at room temperature. You crack your knuckles in 30-minute intervals when you type or tinker for long periods of time. You yawn frequently when the air-conditioner is pointed at you… The list could go on. Honestly, he’s a bit taken aback by how much knowledge he’s retained of your behavior and mannerisms. Why is that exactly? He can’t just claim outright boredom. Watching you is something he avidly chooses to do because he likes it. Bored certainly isn't the word he'd use to describe how observing you makes him feel.
“Why am I doing this?”, he mutters deeply as his eyes watch you type away on a computer. Maybe it’s like a child with an ant farm. It’s simply interesting. No, that doesn’t quite sound right. Even ‘interesting’ doesn’t truly capture how he feels watching you every night.
Soon a bright search window pops up in front of him, making him flinch aggressively. “Lyla!”, he shouts in annoyance as he rubs his stinging eyes; already knowing the culprit.
She pops up next to him with a shrug, “What? You asked a question and I’m answering it.”
He squints softly, his eyes focusing on the window presented to him. There are multiple articles listing words that make him furrow his brows. Intrigue, infatuation, sonder, escapism, comfort-watching. To Lyla’s surprise, he mulls them over but she chalks it up to his sleep deprivation. Some words stick out to him, finding himself unfamiliar with them.
“Comfort-watching.”, he states slowly as he selects the article. It explains what it is and what it stems from, denoting its connection to escapism. “The habitual diversion of the mind to purely imaginative activity or entertainment as an escape from reality or routine.”, he reads aloud, words muffled by his hand stroking his chin. Well, that didn’t make sense, watching you is his routine at this point.
He wouldn’t describe what you do as entertainment in theory and it’s certainly not imaginative. It’s just him watching how you do normal things. He softly chews his lip as he glosses over the other articles.
Lyla mimics his actions and strokes her chin, opening another article in front of her form. “Oh? This’ll be interesting.”, she thinks before speaking to Miguel, who’s now distracted by both the articles and his occasional glances at you. “Why do you like watching y/s/n?” [your spider name]
He replies with a sigh as he waves his hands around, positioning the articles around him, “That's what I’m trying to figure out, Lyla.”
“Just think for a moment. Off the top of your head, what’s one thing you like about doing this?”, she gestures to the monitor containing you. The two of them glance at you through one of the screens standing from your seat and stretching your whole body in an attempt to reduce your exhaustion.
Miguel’s inquisitive eyes soften a bit as he responds earnestly, “It’s familiar.” Lyla’s face flashes a bit in curiosity as she observes his expression. Before she can speak again, he continues, “This is calm and… warm.”
“Warm?”, Lyla asks curiously, her eyes fluttering over the chart in the article she opened. She's notated a couple of checkmarks now, in places she hadn't expected.
His eyes just can’t leave you as he thinks about what he’s said. It’s hard to put exactly into words, “I… appreciate her presence. She’s always there and it makes me feel comfortable.” There’s a strange feeling that stirs inside him upon hearing the words he formulates in response. You, a complete stranger, have somehow become a totem of routine in his eyes. Because after watching you nearly every night, you are always there working. Always. Despite the strange and unpredictable multiverse the two of you reside in, you sit in one of his labs, typing away on a computer. In a sense you’ve become the embodiment of normal.
Lyla repeats quietly but not lacking the casual tone she usually holds, “Her… Do you ever want to talk to y/s/n?”
He hums in thought before replying with an unsure shrug, “Honestly… I never even considered that. I don’t think I need to.”
Lyla glances back at the article and then back to Miguel, “But do you want to?”
His movements stall as her question hangs in the air. He takes a moment to apprehend what she’s asking. His eyes trail slowly from the articles floating around him to you on the CCTV display. You're crawling under that specific workbench in the left corner of the lab for what he knows is a power nap; he finds himself almost smiling at that. Does he want to talk to you? He ponders a situation in which he finds himself conversing with you casually. What would you talk about? He knows you like tea. Would you talk about your favorite kind? What is your favorite kind? How would you pronounce it? How do you pronounce certain words like caramel or aluminum? Maybe like aluminium? Maybe you say it differently than he does. He can imagine a light-hearted debate over phonetics, the two of you drowsy from the late night hours. Maybe you’ll tease him about the way he says it. How would you say… his name? You’ve spoken his name before on missions with a professional tone, always addressing him by his surname. It irks him a bit but he's never gotten around to informing you to just call him Miguel… How would you sound calling out to him in a tone that's amicable and familiar?
He’s broken out of his thoughts by Lyla waving her pixelated arms in front of him and a shout of his name, “Miguel!” He jolts at the sound of an alarm beeping around him. Bold words pop out in front of him, “ANOMALY DETECTED”. He hears his family name called out and straightens at the sound. That’s not Lyla's voice. He turns around to see you in your suit, tucking the hem of your mask into your collar as you trek to his platform. His hand waved behind him, minimizing the displays floating around him to hide the clues to his distraction with a single motion.
He hears you speak in a sober tone as you stand before him, “Lyla informed me that we’re both needed for this one. There’s an anomaly running around a metropolitan area on Earth-26. It travels quickly so we'll have to chase after it. Also, there doesn’t appear to be anyone to help.” He nods quickly, navigating through the multiversal map on his watch to open a portal. He nearly flinches as you gently grasp his forearm, looking up at him slowly.
“O'Hara,” you said calmly, which made him look at you curiously, “full stealth on this one. I’m uncertain how this universe would respond to… our kind.”
His lips nearly press into his natural pout under his mask as you address him by his family name but quickly absorbs what you're truly saying to him. He’s had a couple run-ins with a universe like this before and understands your concern entirely. He slowly pulls your hand from his forearm. The size difference doesn’t skip past him and makes something buzz in the back of his brain. Yet it’s subconscious, the way his fingers linger around yours before he releases them and states firmly, “Stay close to me.” You nod in understanding which he reciprocates before opening a portal. You flip open your watch and quickly calibrate your interface and send sync data to his watch to stay connected during the mission. It’s strange how ready you appear to be but it’s greatly appreciated. He hadn’t realized that he was staring before you turned towards him. You tilt your head softly and unbeknownst to you, he knows without a doubt that it’s out of curiosity. He gives you a nod, hoping it didn’t look as strange as he felt doing it. You step through the portal first and he’s quick to follow after as Lyla observes it all with an inquisitive squint.
All I really want is you
This was an uncommon feeling. You two chased after the anomaly, zipping through the sleeping city's skies quickly. Luckily, you both haven’t been spotted by anyone as you swing through the late-night drizzle. He started feeling a bit… he supposes ‘at ease’ is the best way to put it. He’s not foolish enough to grow complacent mid-mission but being on mission with you, working so seamlessly with him, made this feel easy. You’re professional, giving clear cues and staying on the same page. It’s as if you can hear what he’s thinking. Sure lego Spider-man is a good teammate but you’re a good partner.
The anomaly made its way to a rooftop with you right on its tail. You landed quickly with a soft roll before keeping low to the ground while Miguel landed behind you with a soft grunt. You crouched a bit as you tiptoed around gently, trying not to alarm the anomaly located somewhere nearby. He waits on standby, keeping a lookout for anyone who might see you two while you try to catch the small creature. You freeze as you see the silhouette of it, patting the ground with stubby limbs, seemingly ready to take flight again. That is until you squat down and pat the ground too. It looks at you and tilts its head, another action that you mimic before removing your mask. It slowly walks to its right and you gently shuffle to your left. You release a chuckle as you can see something that looks like a tail wagging. The noise meets Miguel’s ears and he turns to find you squatting and maskless. His eyes widen at the sight, fighting the hitch in his breath as he sees your h/c hair, it looks much softer in person. His eyes narrow is realization as he quickly replaces his intrigue with his usual pragmatism.
Crossing his arms over his chest, he speaks monotone, “What are you doing?”
You release a slow and soft, “Shhhh.” You then gently raise your hand, motioning him to approach you. His fingers twitch instinctively as he looks at your flopping hand and surprises himself by reaching out for it. However, his mellow emotions are doused in confusion as you tug him down quickly. He nearly falls on top of you, clearly not anticipating such sudden strength from you. Luckily, he manages to brace himself, kneeling behind you, and leaning a bit over your shoulder. He’s about to ask what the hell you’re doing when you point to the far corner of the rooftop. His eyes widen as he watches the dark creature slowly slink toward the two of you.
You breathe out quietly to Miguel, “Deactivate your mask.” He turns to you in shock despite you not looking at him. He’s about to protest before you whisper, “It needs to see your face.”
He acquiesces your command and slowly retracts his mask. The air nips at his warm face as he spies the creature tilting its head. You tilt your head too while whispering to him, “Mimic what it does.”
Miguel begins to protest but you quickly cut off his words, “Why-?”
“Just do it.” He nearly rolls his eyes at your sudden command but finds himself following suit as he tilts his head too. He watches curiously as the creature pats the ground with its left paw and you mirror it with your right hand. He grows a bit amused watching the two of you continue this little dance until it slowly crawls closer to you both. Miguel can hear your breath hitch as the creature steps into the light shining from over the door to the rooftop you all are on. It’s dark and covered with scales, with large blue eyes and bat-like wings. Your hand is still placed on the ground as the creature cautiously closes the distance between you. You cautiously turn your hand palm up, Miguel is confused by this but continues to watch nonetheless. The creature's eyes look up at you warily with tightly constricted pupils. You then turn your head, facing away from it and toward Miguel quickly. He barely manages to lean back enough to avoid you smacking your head into his shoulder.
He looks at you quizzically as you whisper to him, “Keep your eyes on me.” His brows furrow which indicates his clear confusion at your command. You respond cautiously yet softly, “Don’t look it in the eyes. It’s still scared.” Miguel slowly nods in understanding as his eyes stay on yours.
There’s something that fizzles in his ears as he stares at you. Your eyes are oddly… calming. He’s never thought of looking at them before. At least not in an intentional way like this, unlike the usual polite eye contact you’re obligated to give someone you work with. It's so strange seeing you in person up close like this. He also has to fight the heat he feels making its way onto his cheeks at your close proximity. Your eyes sparkle a bit from the dim moonlight and there's drops of rain littered around your hair. You look so soft and inviting. There's not a sliver of malice anywhere across your features. He's sure this small anomaly is smart enough to come to you.
Soon he feels his lungs quiver in his chest as he watches your eyes crinkle as you smile. You’re chuckling. Why are you chuckling? His ears are roaring by the time you turn back toward the creature. His gaze lingers on the side of your face before looking down at the little one who’s currently licking and nuzzling into your hand, giving it playful nips. He smiles at that, grateful that this mission will end easier than expected.
The creature jumps on you and licks your face with a happy warble. Miguel tenses, worried that it may be attacking you until you release a giggle as you coo warmly, slowly standing with the creature wrapped in your arms. The sound tingles in Miguel's ears and he can’t help but watch you almost mesmerized as you carry the creature carefully before he stands back up next to you.
You comfort the creature with soft words as your nimble fingers quickly fashion a tracker to the little beast then click your watch. You speak calmly as you stare down at the baby creature with a smile, “Lyla, may you please check for any residual anomalies?” Lyla appears behind the creature and gives you a little salute before her visage flits around and scans the area. Miguel approaches to inspect the animal but leans back when it attempts to sniff at him which makes you chuckle at his stiffness. Then, you gently scratch between the animal’s horns as you walk closer to him to let it smell him properly. He stands awkwardly, watching its nostrils flare with each sniff of his arm.
You look around at the skyline behind him with a sigh, “What a view. Do you ever-”. Your voice fades off quickly as you squint, looking at something in the distance. Miguel notices as your hand stops moving and you cradle the creature protectively. Before he can even look at you, you shout while shoving him to the ground roughly, “Sniper!”. You yelp as something pierces your forearm violently, making your knees wobble. The creature jumps out of your hold, having sensed your body going limp before you slump into Miguel’s arms. The creature nuzzles into your dangling hand with a sad whine.
Miguel immediately enters high alert. He stays low as shots ring out above you, dragging you behind a structure to obstruct you all from whatever the hell is attacking. You're slumped against him as he shakes you softly with a tense voice, patting your face anxiously, “Y/s/n? Y/s/n wake up!” He sees the creature standing on its hind legs pawing at your thigh, looking up at him with scared eyes. Miguel shouts out into the air, “Lyla!” Immediately, a portal opens in front of you three.
Lyla speaks in a rushed tone, looking down at you worriedly, “I didn’t detect any more anomalies. Hurry.” Miguel scoops up both you and the anomaly, holding you tight as he jumps through the portal quickly.
What would you do?
Sleeping outside, the moon
Tripping with you
Miguel’s quick as he carries you to the med bay, the anomaly’s little legs trying to keep up with his long, wide strides. He places you on a bed and pulls up a med pod. He runs a full scan of your body and finds a bit of relief when it is concluded that you got dosed with a tranquilizer but he’s still tense. Usually a tranq doesn’t work that instantaneously; nor does it cause a strong shift in your blood pressure like this… It’s almost as if it’s thinned your blood. He sanitizes and gloves up quickly before grabbing some supplies to remove the projectile lodged in your arm. Fortunately, it doesn't take too long to remove all the pieces of the dart that broke apart. There's a bad feeling in his stomach as he does. He's never seen a tranq dart do such a thing. Why is it so fragile? Miguel has Lyla analyze the fragments while he cleans the wound.
He steals a glance at the little creature sitting in the doorway, its eyes watching you intently. He speaks evenly as he floods the wound with saline, gently patting it dry, “Don’t worry, she’s okay. She’s just sleeping.” He finishes wrapping your arm gingerly with a bandage and pulls the bed sheet over you, raising each of your arms to rest over the sheet. He stares at your hand in his for a moment. It’s warm. Your hands are warm and tiny compared to his. So, that’s how they feel… He blinks himself out of his thoughts and gently sets your hand down by your side to let you rest.
“You can come over. I’m done but she won’t be awake for a while.” Miguel says before looking over at the little beast. He’s almost surprised when it appears to understand what he’s said. After all, you did mention during the mission that it seemed highly intelligent relative to other wild animals. It stands, slowly trudging over before hopping onto the bed beside your leg. It looks at you and then turns to crawl on you cautiously as if it’s afraid of hurting you. After a few moments of hesitation, it pats the bed, circling a few times before settling down between your feet. Finally, it rests its chin on your leg, looking at you with large eyes while its tail curls around itself, and releases a soft bleat.
The display of how gentle it acts with you nearly makes him scoff in disbelief. It’s hard to believe that this is the same angry little beast that tried to claw at him earlier in the night. He's almost offended, truthfully. Why was it so mean to him? It seems to act like a cat, aggressive one moment then clingy the next. Miguel's eyes drift back up to look at you as he works around the room. He thinks for a moment to himself, "I guess between the two of us, I'd go to her too." He shakes the thoughts from his head. Miguel plops back onto the stool beside your bed with a sigh, having just finished cleaning up the soiled supplies. He yawns and scratches his jaw tiredly before he crosses his arms over his chest. The adrenaline that was once in his body is now long gone and his prior exhaustion floods him tenfold. However, he’s able to mutter with droopy eyes that watch your peaceful sleeping face, “What were you going to ask me?” He soon couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer, his body feeling heavy and slowly slumping over as he drifted off to sleep.
Head down
Miguel groans as he feels something slimy on his forehead. He squints harshly at the light that penetrates his eyelids but before he can get up to stretch he freezes at what he hears.
"Hey, hey. Don't do that, little one. He needs to rest."
He's about to just sit up to explain that it's too late but your voice breaks through with a gentle coo. "Oh. Look what you did, honey. You messed it up…"
Before his mind can propel itself into countless thoughts of hearing you say the pet name in such an endearing way, he feels something gently card through his hair. There's something that erupts down his spine at the sensation and that faint fizzling in his ears returns. Especially when he can feel your fingers graze against his helix as you sweep some strands of his hair behind it. He feels his body melt at your ministrations.
Now, he chooses not to move or open his eyes. He pretends to be asleep on what he can blindly tell is the edge of the bed you’re resting in. He enjoys this, the sound of your voice as you comfort and hush the little anomaly the two of you caught. He hears sad warbling and feels the bed move a bit. He manages to cautiously crack an eye open to peek at you cradling the creature close as it sniffs and licks your bandage gently.
You speak softly to it, "Hey, shh-shh. It's okay, I'm okay. See?" You poke the bandage, not where the wound is but the edge of it, to prove that it's fine. You point at Miguel which causes him to shut his eyes quickly before you speak again, "He protected me and helped me get better. So, it's okay." He feels the bed shift as you quietly chuckle, "Ah, ah. Don’t do that, love. I don't want to wake him up, he was really tired." He can sense you stopping the creature from approaching him further as you stand.
There's a soft shuffle that can be heard around him before he feels something drape over his shoulders. You speak so delicately near his ear as you cover him, “Thank you for taking care of me. Sweet dreams.”
He hears the rustling of fabric and the soft plodding of your feet along the floor accompanied by your voice, "Okay, baby. Let's go." Miguel's eyes peek open to see you walking out of the infirmary with the little creature trotting next to you.
Once you’re gone he turns his head, pulling the fabric off his back. It's your cardigan. The one that you were wearing earlier before the mission. His eyes still feel heavy as he bunches up the fabric under him. His nose is flooded with a scent he's unused to. It smells warm and comfortable and soon he drifts off again with his arms wrapped securely around your cardigan below his head.
That’s what you are, he thinks. Warm and comfortable.
I don't know when to come up for air now
It's been a couple of days since your e-26 mission together and you haven't spoken since. Like usual, you spend the night in the lab and Miguel busies himself with some backlogged reports. However, his eyes still glance over to the monitor displaying you occasionally. He's noticed that you haven't worked as much as before. Sure, you’ve tinkered with a few things but you mostly just write in a notebook and slump over the workbench now. He pauses to inspect your face then switches to a camera angle that shows what you're writing. Oh. You're not writing, you're sketching something. He zooms in to see a picture of the anomaly you two sent back after Miguel woke up that morning. Just as he thought, you were depressed because your little friend had to go back home. That’s a lie, he hadn’t actually thought of that at all. Truthfully, he was starting to grow concerned that something was wrong with you… He watches as you add detail to the eyes, the tip of your pencil faintly tracing along the paper to simulate each streak across its irises. It's this that reminds him of when he stared into your eyes. They're much richer than expected, drowned in a color that is so… you. It's you because it's comforting and relaxing and deep. Comfortable and warm. He remembers the words with a soft hum.
He catches something bright appearing next to you. It's Lyla. He's found that you two converse almost every night. What do you two talk about? How many things have you discussed? There’s something unknown that bubbles in the pit of his stomach as these thoughts fill his head. Eventually, his curiosity gets the best of him and he switches on the audio feed. The thought of this being a violation of your privacy, completely slipping past him. He gently sits down as he listens to the two of you talk.
"Raon? What does it mean?", Lyla questions curiously.
You rest your chin on your hand as you lean against the table, looking up at Lyla with a warm smile as you reply, "It means joyful. He looks just like… ah, it’s nothing." You trailed softly but soon chuckled with a wave of your hand.
The scene before him makes Miguel smile softly to himself. It’s such a mundane conversation yet he finds enjoyment from it. Especially from the soft chuckle that comes from you.
"Hey, did you ever get around to-" Lyla begins but is cut off by your quick response.
"Nope… sorry.", You apologize with a bow of your head, realizing you interrupted her, "I should probably soon, huh?"
"Uh, yeah. The window of validity is closing, bud.", Lyla conjures up a window beside her before shutting it slowly as she raises a brow at you.
You nod and sigh, standing from your seat before turning to leave, "You're right. Thanks for reminding me, Lyla."
She hums to you before disappearing off the screen. She soon pops up next to Miguel who’s watching the feed of you walking through a corridor. She leans over his shoulder and speaks near his ear, "Stalker much?"
Miguel jolts at that and quickly exits off the camera display. He grunts and pulls some reports in front of him in a feeble attempt to cover up what he was doing, "I'm not a stalker."
She smirks and sings with an almost smug tone, "Ah, c'mon. It's just a joke, Miguel. Don't pout."
He states evenly as his eyes glance over the files presented before him, “Not pouting.”
“You never answered my question, y’know?”
“What question?”
“Do you want to talk to y/s/n?” She emphasizes her words with raised brows as she slowly orbits around his head to face him.
He blinks in thought, recalling the recent mission. You’re unfinished words wading upon the surface of his mind and truthfully they have been in his thoughts ever since you first uttered them into the night air. It wasn’t in your usually professional tone. It sounded more casual and unfortunately, you were cut short before finishing your sentence. “Do you ever… Do I ever what?”, he muses as his fingers rub at the side of his chin. He nods slowly before mumbling, “Yes… I think I do.”
Lyla bends down to smirk smugly at him with her arms akimbo, “Good.”
He squints at her and voices his confusion, “What do you mean? Why are you looking at me like that?”
“O’Hara?”, he stiffened as his eyes went wide at the sound of your voice. He composes himself quickly with a low grunt before turning to you.
Unfortunately, you misunderstand this, “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”
“You’re not interrupting me. I just remembered something. Did something happen?”
You absorb his fast-paced sentences, “No, I just wanted to talk to you.”
He’s shocked by this but his face doesn’t show it. If only you knew of the discussion you just interrupted by coming here.
“I wanted to formally thank you for taking care of me.”, you spoke calmly while looking up at him on his platform. He noticed your hand resting over your bandaged arm, confusion taking over his features. You noticed this and looked down at your arm too, nodding before your gaze returned to him. You subconsciously rub the bandage as you speak, “Ah, this. I don’t… heal as quickly as the rest of you.”
He mulls over your words, the rest of you. You speak in a way that alienates yourself from the Spiders. It’s a phrase he can understand due to him constantly being put in his own category relative to the other spider-people. Other… He supposes he speaks about himself the same as you. So that’s that sense of familiarity explained, albeit partially. He asks with his naturally stoic expression, “Why is that?” He watches with furrowed brows as you think of how to respond.
You softly shake your head with a shrug, “I just don’t.”
Before either of you can speak again, Lyla questions while pointing at you next to Miguel. There’s a small smirk on her face, “Hey, y/s/n? What’s that?” Miguel looks at her curiously before looking down at the box in your hands.
“Oh, this is just… This is for you, O’Hara.”, you take a step forward towards his platform. Miguel’s brows shoot up not only at what you say but at his now descending platform. He looks over to Lyla who smirks at him, clearly the cause. He clears his throat as his workspace reaches your level, “Is it something to sign off on?” He thinks that maybe you’re ready to beta-test new equipment that needs approval first.
You shake your head and hand the box to him with a small smile, “No. This is a thank you.”
He furrows his brows again as he slowly opens the box with his words trailing off, “A thank you?...” It’s… they’re empanadas. You just gave him a box of empanadas as a thank you?
“I heard Jess mention you liked empanadas. Sorry, they’re not the ones from the cafeteria though.”
He stares at them for a few more seconds. They’re warm. Are they fresh? How? It’s almost 3 am. Did you pick them up from your universe? “You didn’t have to give me this. I didn’t really-”
“You saved my life.” His eyes widen a bit as they meet yours. Ah. So you found out…
Your hands wring together nervously as you speak, “Lyla showed me the analysis of the fragments you pulled from my arm. Etorphine is a strong agent as is but it was formulated into a high-dose soluble projectile. If you hadn’t helped me so quickly, it would have dissolved into my blood and…”
“Thank you.”, Miguel all but whispers with his head down.
“You don’t have to thank me for thanking yo-”
“You took that shot for me.”, he quickly cuts you off. His eyes slowly trailing up to meet yours with firm sincerity. “Why did you take that shot?”
You rub your nape as you avoid his gaze and reply in an almost soft voice, “Ah. I didn’t really think about it… my body just moved on its own.”
There’s a bit of an awkward silence that spreads between you two as you both avoid each other’s eyes. Miguel stares back down at the food before speaking, “You really didn’t have to give me these.”
You speak with gentle hand gestures, a trait he didn’t know you had until now, “No, no. Please take them. I made them to thank you. It’s how I show proper gratitude. Honestly, I don’t think it’s enough.”
He looks at you in thought before looking back down at them with raised brows and a gentle smirk, “You made them?”
You tense, eyes darting to Lyla but she only offers you a quiet snicker. You sigh before nodding slowly, “Yes, I did. I’m sorry if you think they taste bad.”
He’s amused at your word choice. You didn’t say if they taste bad, you said if he thinks they taste bad. So you cook. And it sounds like you cook well given how confidently you speak about what you make.
Before he speaks, Lyla asks you something and motions you toward the control panel, “Y/n/n, come take a look at this.” [your nickname]
You bow your head briefly at Miguel with a modest smile before making your way to the screen Lyla opens for you. That’s another habit of yours he wasn’t fully aware of. He stands back and watches as you point at the screen and discuss it with Lyla. Your arms cross as you stand before the monitors, your face morphed from your inquisitiveness as you inspect the blueprint Lyla shows you. This makes him calm again. Watching you always made him calm and relaxed. However, it feels a bit stronger when you’re standing just a meter or so away from him. With you here now, so close to him, he actually feels warm. There’s a heat that surrounds him that he just can’t really explain. He continues his musings before taking a bite of the empanada absentmindedly but his eyes shoot down at the food as he tastes it. These aren’t like the ones from the cafeteria, they’re far better. The cafeteria carries standard beef empanadas. Beef and seasoning, it’s hard to mess it up. But these? Is this stew? This is honestly the best thing he's eaten in a long time. His foot stutters as he prevents himself from stepping closer to you and swallows the delicious bite before mumbling, “Are these-”
“Salteñas, sí.” His eyes travel up to see you looking back at him with a warm smile and nod. The way you say it is so natural. It rolls off your tongue so smoothly. Do you speak Spanish?
“Wow, it eats!”, Lyla cheers sarcastically.
“Lyla!”, he groans in annoyance.
“What do you-”, you unfurl your arms and look at him with what he recognizes as concern, “Sir, are you not eating properly?” You turn to face him completely and approach him slowly when all he returns is silence.
Lyla floats over to you, her voice laced with a haughty tone as she tattles, “No. No, he is not.” He grunts and tries to snatch her holographic form. His hand just misses her as she teleports to your other side with a giggle.
“O’Hara,” you call to him in a tone that’s so soft while still holding firmness. That’s new. It’s not as casual as he imagined and you’re still addressing him by his surname but he’s still pleased with how it sounds coming from you in that tone. “How often do you eat?”
He tenses a bit and looks away from your eyes before he gets lost in more of his thoughts. “I eat.” His brows furrowed as he mentally berates himself for his obvious statement. Of course, he eats. Estúpido. His embarrassment quickly triggered his next words despite how unexpected they are, even to him, “What does it matter to you?”
He feels an odd sense of uneasiness as he notices your lack of reaction. He’s quick to attempt to amend his words, “It’s appreciated but it’s none of your concern when I do and don’t eat.” Then there is more silence. It weighs heavily in the air awkwardly. He realizes his words may seem a bit harsh given how tense his voice is. He’s unsure what to say now and for once the silence from you isn’t so comfortable.
“O’Hara.”, you say more sternly as you cross your arms. He can’t help the way he feels like a child being scolded by their teacher. What truly catches him off guard is how firm your tone is despite how gentle you look at him, “Stop deflecting.”
It all makes him feel a bit small despite him being the one looking down at you due to your apparent size difference. He’s never been fond of his height. It’s annoying and cumbersome but the way your body positions itself to stare at him makes him think that it’s not that bad. Your head has to tilt back for your eyes to meet his. Those rich eyes of yours… The e/c encompasses your pupils in such an inviting way [eye color]. And each time you blink he catches a glimpse of how your lashes flutter against your skin. His eyes slowly travel along your features. Your forehead creases softly as your brows raise. The action makes your eyes appear larger as you look up at him. Then he sees your lips moving slowly. They’re not shiny nor are they chapped. But they do look smooth as he sees the tip of your tongue softly curl behind your teeth as you speak. Your words slowly grow less foggy before he flinches at the feeling of your hand gently holding his forearm. There’s a slight ringing in his ears as your voice finally reaches him.
“Mr. O’Hara, are you okay? You’re flushed.”
“What?”, he breathes out in a rushed tone before his eyes focus out to see the entirety of your worried expression. He gently tugs at the collar of his suit uncomfortably. He actually feels the heat now, it’s more intense than before.
“You’re burning up. It’s warm in here too…”. You quickly grab the box of food from his hand and place it on a nearby tabletop before pulling him toward the entrance of his work area. “Here, come with me.”
You take my hand like there's a way out (way out)
And we're escaping through the window
Miguel isn’t sure how but he now finds himself in a rather unfamiliar situation. You’re dragging him around by the wrist. However, it’s apparent that he follows seamlessly behind you. It feels natural for him to just maintain your lead, especially when there’s very little energy within him to resist. He watches how you walk in front of him. You walk in a way that makes you look smaller than you actually are. It’s as if you’re trying to hide. Why is that? Your shoulders are slouched a bit forward as you guide him through the corridors. His eyes drift to the back of your head, watching the way your hair gently bounces with each one of your steps. You halt for a moment which causes him to nearly stumble into you. Your grip on his wrist falters briefly before sliding down to take him by the hand. The action completely slips past you as you decide where to walk next, but it surely does not get past him. He has to fight the urge to squeeze his hand around yours but utterly fails. He’s not too upset about this. Truthfully, most of his awareness was occupied by trying not to let his claws protrude from his fingertips. You turn back to look at him but he’s quick to avoid your eyes, oscillating his head mindlessly.
You must have taken this as a sign of his unwell state because soon you're tugging him through the cafeteria with a firm whisper, “Over there. You need fresh air.”
His red face and his lack of words must make him appear as though he won’t be able to last the trek to the infirmary. You gently squeeze his hand which makes his eyes snap back to you quickly. Making your way to the large terrace, you push the glass door open. The air sweeps past you both as you guide him to sit on one of the patio chairs scattered among the outdoor area. His eyes are dazed as he looks up at you standing in front of him but they haven’t left you for even a moment since you squeezed his hand. But now your hand is no longer in his. He’s surprised to find himself a bit annoyed at that. You’re moving too fast, he thinks. All your actions are slipping away from him thanks to his hazy mind and he doesn’t appreciate it. You pull a handkerchief out of your back pocket and pat his sweaty forehead. His eyes watch you as you do. Your lips press into a line as you gently bite your bottom lip. Your eyes are full of concern as they roam over the sight of his flushed face. You remove your hand from his space as you step back a bit, wanting to let him feel the light breeze.
He spies how your hands start to reach out but retract back to your side, settling on your hips instead. You speak evenly as you look at him, “Are you okay? Does that feel better?” It’s gradual as he breaks out of his cloudy stupor, the wind finally cooling him down. He nods slowly before something slithers out of his brain and past his lips.
And I whisper
“What?”, you tilt your head curiously.
“Miguel….”, he breathes out, “My name is Miguel.”
You blink at him and speak with a bit of concern, “I know tha-”
“I don’t like being called O’Hara or Sir or Mr. O’Hara. Call me Miguel.”
You nod softly as you take in his words before giving him a small smile, “Okay. From now on I’ll call you Miguel.”
He almost smiles at the sound of his name rolling off your tongue but catches himself before it’s too late. His brows furrowed in confusion as you gently extended your hand toward him. You smile softly as you gently grasp his hand and shake it with a kind tone, “My name is y/n. It’s only fair that you address me as such.”
His brain stalls for a few moments, absorbing your name. It’s so fitting in a previously unknown yet expectedly pleasant way. Of course, that’s your name. He looks up at you in thought as you gently pull your hand from his, “Y/n, huh? It’s… pretty.”
He tenses in realization for a moment before slowly speaking, ensuring that his own curiosity remains undetectable, “The other night on e-26, on the rooftop. What were you going to ask me?”
You’re taken aback and stand back up, your lip jutting out in a pout as you try to remember. Your eyes wander to the table beside the two of you in thought but Miguel’s eyes stay on you. He takes in the sight of your face morphed in contemplation. It’s the same look he’s seen countlessly through the late nights. Except this time, it’s not pixelated or blurry from his monitors. Now, he can see you up close. He can see clearly how your chin softly wrinkles as you purse your lips and the way your eyes crinkle at the outer corners. It’s almost comical how earnestly he takes in such ordinary features with the same scrupulousness as a lab experiment.
“Do you ever look out at the skyline… and feel at peace?” The words flow out of you softly as you move to sit on the patio table next to him. Your eyes glide up to look at the lights below that decorate the horizon.
Miguel finally tears his eyes from you to look at the skyline before you both. It’s hard to hear the vehicles from up here but he knows they’re there. He can see the lights flicker and wane in the distance as his body relaxes into the chair. He realizes how familiar he is with the scene and breathes out lowly, “Yes. I do.”
He can see you smile in his peripherals before your voice fills the space between you, “I’ve always found comfort in the horizon and the view of the land below. The sunrise and sunset. I think Raon would have been mesmerized by this view of the city lights.”
He turns to look at you curiously, “Raon?” Truthfully, he was a bit curious about the word you mentioned to Lyla earlier.
You nod with a hum, crossing your legs and propping your chin on your elbows as you get comfortable. “The baby creature from our mission. Raon.”
Miguel notices how the word our rattles around his brain but pushes that feeling aside. He attempts to overpower it with a wry remark, “Did you name the anomaly?”
You release a breathy chuckle and nod, “Kind of. There’s a story from my universe that had a baby dragon named Raon Miru in it. Looked exactly like him too, blue eyes and all.”
He finds relief now not just in observing you but in your close presence and words. He’s intrigued by what you say. He can’t quite place the origin of such a unique name. He knows Japanese but he’s unsure if that is its correct origin. He takes a moment to look at you in thought, certain that he wants to hear more, “That name, what does it mean?”
“It’s a bit on the nose, truthfully. It means ‘joyful dragon’.”
“Raon Miru.”, he repeats to himself as he turns back to look at the skyline with you. There’s a comfortable silence that swells between you both. It takes a few more moments before your voice slithers into the empty space.
“Do you truly not eat well?”
He turns to look at you again but immediately regrets it. Well, not really. Your eyes are full of concern as they meet his. He sighs and shakes his head, “No. I don’t.”
“Why?” You ask so simply as your eyes never leave him.
He bites the inside of his cheeks and contemplates whether he should brush this off and lie or just tell you the truth. He chooses the latter, citing that he genuinely enjoys your consideration. “I’m busy. I lose track of time and just forget.”
Lyla finally decides to pop up next to you, “Hey, y/s/n. You actually remember to eat stuff. Mind keeping Miguel in check for me?”
Miguel stiffens quickly shaking his head to protest but before he can, you respond. “Sure, I don’t see why not.”
“Cool.”, Lyla nods and disappears having completed her job as instigator.
His eyes travel to yours in question only for you to smile gently at him with a tilt of your head. “I need to make sure you’re properly taken care of.”
Need, you say. Not want. The way you say it so matter-of-factly makes his lungs quiver, just like that night. His mouth shuts as he slowly leans back in his chair. The way you look at him lets him know that there’s no room for debate. You nod with a smile as you watch him acquiesce your response. “Good. So, did you like the salteñas?”
He nods and speaks with a low hum, “Yes, they were good.”
You beam at that and lean toward him unconsciously, “Really? I was worried there for a second. By the way you heated up, I thought you had a bad reaction.” You straighten up as your features quickly morph in realization of something before speaking, “That reminds me. Lyla?”
“Yo.”, she appears in front of you like a pop-up ad.
“What’s the temperature in Miguel’s work area?”
She conjures up a thermostat and squints at it, “Yeesh, 85°F and climbing. At the time of reporting, it is approximately 20 degrees higher than average. Excessive heat appears to be emitting from a ground-level display console.”
“Oh, may you please-”
“Filtering and cooling as we speak, captain.”, her little hand bumping her forehead to salute you in assurance. “I’ve shut off the machine since it’s under minimal usage priority. Consider this a work order.”
You chuckle at her antics, “Thank you, dear. I’ll be sure to repair it asap. It also sounds like your active monitoring is on the fritz, I’ll check that too.” You then turn to Miguel, leaning in inquisitively to see if he’s cooled down enough.
He questions absentmindedly with an almost gravelly mumble, “Hablas español?” [Do you speak Spanish?]
You're taken aback but smile softly, “Sí, pero no lo hablo con fluidez.” [Yes, but I’m not fluent in it.]
He finds the corners of his mouth gently lifting at your words, “Me suenas fluido. Tu acento es natural.” [You sound fluent to me. Your accent is natural.]
Your smile seems to grow ever so gently as you nod, “Thank you. I grew up in a diverse place. Lots of people spoke languages other than English.”
Miguel found himself completely relaxed as he spoke with you about anything and everything. Like that, the conversation flowed between you for a long while.
All I really want is you
What would you do?
Your brows shoot up in shock before a small smile blooms on your face. “Good. Let’s meet out on the terrace at 3 am. You better not leave me hanging.”
He smirks at your warning in amusement, you said it in such a way that carries no real malice. He nods in understanding as you two walk side by side languidly, back to his work area. The conversation hasn’t stopped. Miguel thinks this is the longest he’s ever talked to someone, speaking more words in these last couple of hours with you than he has to anyone in months. It’s odd to him how easy it is to talk with you. It makes him feel like he’s conversing with an old friend.
He’s lost in content conversation with you as you two enter back into his lab and continues even after you begin to work. He leans against the main control panel on his platform as he watches you repair the display console that practically turned his work area into an oven. Miguel’s arms are crossed over his chest, somehow unsure of what to do with his hands. He speaks with a more calm tone, “So you’re the one who does repairs around here? You’d think I, of all people, would know that.”
“I actually did think you already knew that but I suppose me coming in here and working on your tech while you’re out during the day is a bit of a clue as to why you didn’t.” You calmly respond to him. Your voice is just a bit louder than normal in order to ensure he can hear you properly. After all, half of your body is inside a relatively large electronics console.
“So what’s the issue here then?”
"Just a basic issue. Overclocked GPUs and faulty heatsinks don't really mix well.", you sigh with a shrug after gently crawling out of the unit to drop some screws into a small tray beside you. You present a damaged PCB to him and point at a burnt section of it with the tip of your screwdriver, “See, a few of them have blown fuses.”
He’s tuned into what you say and nods in acknowledgment. He knows what you’re talking about and enjoys it because it’s not rushed and not frantic like during the day. It’s calm and comfortable.
"Although I told Pete to run manual diagnostics on this which he said he did. Liar."
Miguel is amused by your annoyed grumble as you work. He’s a bit curious as to why you refer to Peter by nickname when you’ve only started calling him by his given name a couple hours ago but he figures it’s fine since Peter is the one who initially recruited you from what he can recall.
Miguel leans a bit over to peek at the mess that is the internal hardware before you crawl back inside. "I'm going to guess that he didn't even look at this at all."
"Yeah, pretty safe to assume that. I should have known better than to ask him. He's been preoccupied lately.", you groan from inside the panel. You look a bit funny like this, with half your body inside the console.
“Why did you ask Peter to look at it then?”, Miguel asks a bit curiously.
“Um, my arm was still messed up, Sir. I couldn’t really pronate it without feeling uncomfortable.”
He hears how nonchalantly you say it and senses that you don’t want to bring up the injury again. He nods curtly to himself and continues while changing the subject, “Don't call me Sir. It makes me feel old.”
You smile softly to yourself as you respond, “Sorry, it’s a hard habit to shake. I mean, you are the boss. But you shouldn’t worry, you’re not old by a long shot. In fact, I’m your elder…”
Your last few words are muffled but he manages to pick them up. His brows raise in intrigue as he asks, “Is that so?”
The way you tense at what he says doesn’t slip past him but you soon answer in a calm voice, “My universe’s present year is several decades earlier than here. So despite being biologically younger than you, I am chronologically n/y years older than you.” [number of years]
Miguel turns to work on some reports as he says, “Well, you still look spry enough to handle the duties of a Spider.”
You nearly snort at his comment. You must have not expected it, judging by your reaction. You continue to work, your eyes focused on the components you inspect as you jest in a sardonic tone, “Thanks, jefe. I’m glad to know you think my body is still young enough to be thrown around on missions.”
He has to bite his lip to contain the chuckle that he feels vibrate in his chest. He didn’t expect you to respond so sarcastically but he’s glad that you did. If anything, it makes him want to continue talking with you, “So why haven’t I been formally notified of your work here?”
“Well, if something breaks or needs general maintenance, Lyla is informed and she then passes that information to me. She typically deals with software issues and I’m the hardware person. We don’t usually bother you with these things because you’re always so busy as it is.”, you offer with a shrug as you crawl out and sit on your heels, inspecting yet another PCB.
“It wouldn’t be a bother. I need to know about these things.”
You look up at him and chuckle quietly with a soft shake of your head, “There are reports on file of every single repair I’ve done but… the last thing you need to worry about is a coffee maker gone haywire or someone’s empty web cartridges.”
“Aren’t you busy too? You take missions yet you still pull the Society’s odd jobs. Why?”
“Not really. I’m active mostly at night or in the early morning hours. Even when there is an active mission, I’m D-team at best.”
“D-team? Why do you think that?”, Miguel is genuinely confused by what you say. After all, the two of you worked so well together during the missions you have been on with one another.
“I’m just not that capable when compared to the Spiders.”
There’s that phrasing of yours again. It paints a clear separation between you and the society. Why are you so unwilling to include yourself with them? What exactly makes you speak this way? Miguel then thinks back to your first mission together, when it was just the two of you. Although it felt foreign at first, you two completed it quickly and efficiently. He speaks in a tone that leaves no room for rebuttal, “You are very capable.”
“Yeah, you think so?”
“You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t.”
You sigh casually as you stand up, carrying a small tote against your hip of damaged hardware to be further inspected, “Well, I could just be pleasant to be around.”
He releases a breathy laugh at your arch remark with a shake of his head. If only you knew how important your presence has become to him over all these late nights.
You perked up at the sound as you placed the tote on a nearby desk, turning to him as you asked, “Did I just make you laugh?”
He was about to groan in annoyance on instinct but caught the look in your eyes before he did. Your face didn’t show a single sign of ill intent. Rather, it carried what he identifies as wonder. His lips purse a bit as he looks away from you, trying to avoid your gaze to spare himself from how overactive he’s found his mind becomes when gazing upon your bare face.
“Oh, now you’re pouting.”
“Not pouting.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I am not.”
Miguel’s brain stalls as his ears pick up a previously unknown yet gratifying sound. Gentle giggling slips from you and it makes that buzzing sensation in his ears return. But he's not upset because he knows you're not laughing at him. It’s that kind of laughter that isn’t rude nor teasing. It’s kind and full of joy. He can’t help the upturn of the corners of his mouth, finding your delight somewhat infectious.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It’s just too cute.”, you wave your hand softly as your other hand attempts to muffle your chortling before grabbing the tote of hardware to repair again. You turn to leave to your usual lab to work but your joyful sounds have yet to cease.
Miguel’s frozen by your comment. Cute? In reference to him? That’s not… that’s implausible and honestly, unprecedented. The more he speaks with you, the more he learns just how strange you are. You’re different in not only appearance but behavior as well. He's sure now that you are unique to the Society in such an eccentric way. He realizes something and it’s arguable in his mind. It makes sense why you exclude yourself from them all. Out of all the Spiders, you’re the anomaly.
Laying in the rain with you
Middle of June
“Miguel O’Hara! Get your butt out here now!”
He groans and rolls his eyes with a smirk as he looks at the time. 3 am, on the dot. It’s time.
The two have grown very well acquainted with each other over the past 8 months. There was a stint of anomalies surfacing during the early overnight hours. For a while, it seemed you and Miguel were dispatched nearly every night but now the instances have slowed to every week or so. You’ve learned a lot about each other and have acclimated well to each other’s presence. His hands swipe away the monitors floating around him as he calls over his shoulder, “Yeah, yeah. Just a second, needy.”
“Needy?! Puh-lease, you would waste away without me.”, you chuckle as your body swings around the entrance to his work area. You cross your arms and lean against the doorway, “Ven a comer.” [Come eat.]
“Sí, Mami.”, he mumbles amusedly, stroking his chin as he stares at the monitors in front of him. [Yes, Mom.]
You chuckle and walk over to him, “Don’t make me drag you out of here.”
He closes the floating screens around him with a flick of his wrist before turning to you with a smirk. His hands rest on his hips as his platform descends to meet you. The soft fizzling in his ears returns as you look up at him with a small, playful smile. The sensation is no longer foreign to him. It’s welcomed now. Warm and comfortable. “Yeah, uh-huh. And how do you suppose you’d do that?”
Your grin is almost mischievous as he finally stands in front of you, “I’d figure it out. I’m very resourceful, you know?”
He nods and begins to walk with you to complete your late-night ritual. “Oh, are you now?”
“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.” You repeat the words he told you from your first night together. At this point, it’s more of an inside joke; a reference that often appears as you two converse.
“I thought you said it was because you were pleasant to be around.”, he hums amusedly.
“Well? Am I?”, you look up at him through your lashes. Your eyes gleam with warmth and he’s not sure if you truly know just how beguiling it is.
He mutters as he avoids your gaze, knowing damn well he wants to say yes, “Don’t fish for compliments.”
“But you would compliment me.”, you state in a way that’s laced with playfulness. You bend a bit at the waist to catch a glimpse of his face with your hands resting neatly upon your lower back.
He meets your teasing gaze for a moment before rolling his eyes, “What’s for dinner?”
He sees your lips curl up in his peripherals before you state nonchalantly, “It’s a surprise.”
“A surprise? What do you mean? What for?”
“What? Don’t you trust me?”, you chuckle in amusement after he rambles a bit. You managed to identify that habit of his despite his general seriousness after the many nights you've spent working together.
“I trust you as far as I can throw you.”, he replies collectedly, or so he hopes.
“Liar.”, you hum with an amused smile on your lips, “Nonetheless, I suppose it’s good that you’re an incredibly strong man that can throw me very, very far.”
You chuckle again as he groans beside you. You’re far too sharp for your own good, having seen right through his strategic word choice. You two enter the terrace and something feels different. The air is a bit warmer tonight. Miguel supposes it’s just that kind of summer night. One where the heat from the day lingers into the late night and rekindles the following morning. His eyes shut for a moment as he absorbs the scent floating around. It’s familiar, it’s… enticing. He blinks softly before turning to you, eyebrows lifting in surprise as he sees that setup you’ve made. Upon the ground is a large blanket with a couple of small pillows. There are a few containers of what he knows is your cooking placed in the center. It’s not extravagant but something does stir in his stomach as he sees you turn to him. You almost look coy as you gesture behind you but your eyes never lack that warmth he knows as yours. “Yeah, it’s a bit silly but… happy 50th successful mission, partner.”
He stiffens at your calm yet happy proclamation. The word partner rattles around his brain for a few moments before the gears in his brain turn again. 50 missions? Have you two truly been on 50 missions already? Oh, who is he kidding? Of course, he knows that already. The two of you have actually been on 58 missions to be exact but they can’t always be successes.
You walk over to pull him gently by the wrist to the blanket, “Come on already. Food’s getting cold.”
He rolls his eyes with a smirk as he indulges your command with reluctance, but only externally.
You let go of his hand and sit at one end of the blanket, “Mira, I made some of your favorites.” You remove the lids of the containers presenting a small variety of his preferred dishes. There’s a smile on your lips as you pull out the final container, presenting it to him with a kind tone of voice, “I even made Stobhach for you. And I’ll let you know I’ve perfected my recipe.”
He can’t help the small curl of his lips as he sits opposite of you. You seem so excited to show him all that you prepared for tonight. It all almost makes him blush. He’s learned fairly early on in your acquaintanceship-turned-friendship that you show affection through care. Especially, by giving someone a home cooked meal. He stares down at the food and hums, “Thank you.”
You return with a hum of your own. Besides the banter and wry humor, words aren’t really necessary between the two of you. You’ve learned to read each other well. Body language, quirks, and even the noises that rumble from each of your chests. It’s almost animalistic in its simplicity. Miguel has come to realize how truly perceptive you can be, similar to himself. You two actually share a lot of similarities like your inquisitive nature and reclusive behavior. And he’s come to the conclusion that that is why you two can exist so harmoniously together. It’s not hard to be around you. To him, your presence is easy.
All I really want is you
What would you do?
You two have been talking for a while, the food long gone and your bellies satiated. There’s a bubble around you two as you converse like you’re in your own little world.
“Come on. Lay with me.”, you look up at him with warmth in your eyes as you pat the space next to you. He truly can’t find it within himself to deny such a gentle command. He moves to lie next to you and stares up at the few stars that manage to make it through the city’s light pollution. It’s times like these when he ponders upon his actions and realizes how easily he finds himself following your instruction. He’s not upset about it. He just finds it odd although certainly not unwelcome. Truthfully, he’s grateful that he can take your lead and not have to be in charge, even if only for a moment. But these moments fill his chest with something warm. Warm and comfortable are his two choice words to describe you in any situation. Whether it be as you two work in silence in one of the labs or when you patch each other up after rough missions.
Sleeping outside, the moon
Tripping with you
He hears a sweet sigh from your lips as you relax on the blanket next to him. You whisper into the night air with the same gentleness one speaks a secret, “This reminds me of one night when I was a teen. In my universe…”
Miguel’s ears perked a bit as you began. It was very rare for you to speak of yourself, your experiences, or your universe. Every time you did, he was sure to pay attention and commit each word to memory because if you ever spoke of it like this, earnestly and unprompted, it meant you were revealing a part of who you are. That you were trusting him with a part of your very essence. To keep it safe.
“California isn’t gone. There’s a coastal city there called San Francisco that my friends and I traveled to. We spent hours there. We watched the sunset on the bay and the evening fog that rolled in. And eventually, we laid back on the sand and looked up at the stars. Just like this.”
He didn't say anything or make a noise. He just stared up at the stars with you, listening intently.
“I felt so calm that night. I knew in that moment that nothing else mattered. And for the first time, I felt at peace. My whole life I didn’t do much. I stayed at home filling my time with random knowledge and tricks. I avoided people and kept to myself as best as I could because I had learned very young that people were not to be trusted.”
Miguel feels his chest tighten at your words but keeps silent. There’s a darkness that barely laces your voice but it is there. He picks up the sound of hurt in your tone and it grips him tightly. There’s a tumultuous feeling in his stomach. He’s eager to preserve the pieces of yourself that you delicately hand him but it doesn’t change the feeling of helplessness that floods him. Your honesty is encased in sadness, a build-up of fears and insecurity that he’s far too late to have prevented. So he listens because maybe, just maybe, something you reveal to him in these genuine passages of your lore can help him protect the parts of you he keeps.
“I learned that family was everything because family would never hurt you. It’s funny now… Now, I think I’m nothing but a memory yet to be forgotten by them.”
He turns to look at you curiously but the concern is unmistakable in his eyes. Of all the countless nights you’ve spent together, you’re finally revealing why you are the way you are. Why he feels like he knows you without words. Because loss and loneliness radiates off you like bittersweet perfume yet you contain it with walls built of sufferance and capability. He’s always held a certain affinity to you that he could never quite describe until now. Before his thoughts submerge his consciousness, he notices how your eyes are screwed shut and the way your fist is squeezed tightly around the strings of your hoodie. Your clenched fingers resting above your heart almost as if you're quelling pain into passivity.
You sigh quietly as if to prepare yourself for what to say. “Things happen. At one point you think you know where you are. Then you blink and wake up somewhere else entirely.”
There’s a brief pause before your next words. Your eyes slowly flutter open to look up at the stars with glossy eyes and a gentle yet certain voice, “I’m here now and I’m actually very grateful for all that has happened. I’ve learned things I never thought were possible, about reality and the world. About people and about myself.”
He’s a bit surprised as you speak to him with sincerity, “I know I’m strange, Miguel. I know I don't make sense and that I don’t really fit. But you make me feel understood. And you make me feel like I’m not really alone… Thank you.”
You turn to find him staring at you in surprise. Your smile is small but your usual warmth has returned, and truthfully, he thinks that it never left. “Sorry. That was a bit heavy, huh? Just forget I said anything.” You offer with a chuckle before laying back.
All I really want is you
Your eyes are closed as you bask in the moonlight and his eyes travel over you. He takes in the soft curl of your lips and the faint flush on your cheeks from the cool air and candid words. The temperature isn’t too bad but thanks to the extreme altitude of the building, it’s crisp yet foggy. It’s an odd feeling, the air is damp from the clouds rolling through the skyscraper but Miguel feels warm. So soothingly warm. Especially, with you laying so close to him. So earnest and so true. He finds it odd how comforting this feeling is despite it being foreign to him, or rather dormant. He’s astonished by your trust in him. It fills him with something that he wasn’t entirely sure he was missing. Suddenly it's apparent what exactly this feeling is. The same feeling that he's felt for months. And it finally sparks in his mind as you look at him with tired eyes and a warm smile.
I love you.
All I really want is you
What would you do?
He can nearly taste the words on his tongue but he remains silent as your eyes stare into his. Suddenly he feels very awake as his own thoughts dawn on him. Managing to tear his gaze away from your familiar e/c eyes, he finally speaks as he closes his eyes with a coy smirk.
“Never.”
It’s you. Now, it’s something that’s as certain as fact in his mind. He feels the heat of your hand resting on the blanket between the two of you, right next to his. Right where you belong, he thinks. Right next to him.
All I really want is you
Is you, is you, is you
Appearing near you two and out of sight is Lyla. She watches you two and makes a final checkmark on the chart she pulled from an article months ago, when Miguel was initially questioning his interest in you. She smiles to herself as she looks over the chart then back at you two as you exist in your own little world. The words softly illuminated in the window beside her, Infatuation vs. Love, with all her markings under the latter.
Thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone who took the time to read this! Also, big thanks to everyone who voted on my poll regarding this fic. I am open to your opinions and questions! Please feel free to ask me anything!
#miguel o'hara x reader#miguel x reader#miguel ohara x reader#miguel o'hara x y/n#miguel o'hara#atsv miguel#miguel ohara#miguel spiderman#miguel spiderverse#atsv#itsv#miguel x fem!reader#hispanic!reader#??? maybe#y/n#female reader#reader insert#miguel x y/n#holy shit#this is long#fem!reader#? i guess#plus size!reader#he just wants to hold your hand#🥺#fluff#atsv fluff#falling in love#oof#my heart
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🌿 Herb Of The Day
Title: Lilac
Gender: Feminine
Element: Water
Planet: Venus
📜 Folklore & History 📜
Lilacs are an old, old, species that originated in Persia and then traveled to Europe. They were brought to America in 1750 and then planted at New Jersey Governor Wentworth’s home. Other prominent men fell in love with lilacs. They were reportedly one of Thomas Jefferson’s favorite flowers, and he documented his lilac-planting-methods in 1767. George Washington followed suit and moved existing lilacs on his property to his garden in 1785.
In Greek mythology, Pan, the god of the wild, chased a nymph named Syringa. She turned herself into a lilac bush to escape Pan, and in anger, he broke off the reed-like branches which made pipes. With regret, he tried kissing the broken branches, and as his air pushed over them, sounds were made. Lilacs were responsible for the creation of “Panpipes.”
Russian folklore believed that hanging lilacs above a baby’s bed would bring the child wisdom.
American folklore thought that lilacs could drive away evil and that placing them in a haunted house would displace ghosts. Thought to be symbolic of “old love,” Victorian widows often wore lilacs as a sign of remembrance. One hundred and fifty-five years ago today, April 15th, Abraham Lincoln died after being shot by John Wilkes Booth. Any American — and much of the world — knows the story of the self-educated, country lawyer who became one of our nation’s most beloved presidents. But what many Americans might not realize is how the death of Lincoln reverberated into so many areas of our collective psyche, including literature and horticulture, thanks to Walt Whitman. Walt Whitman was a reporter, printer, writer, traveler and Civil War nurse who is considered one of America’s greatest poets. He self-published Leaves of Grass and worked on it throughout his lifetime, eventually modifying it so that there are eight different editions. Whitman felt a great affinity with President Abraham Lincoln, and when Lincoln was assassinated in the spring of 1865, Whitman grieved.
He wrote years later in Specimen Days about learning of the President’s death:
"I remember where I was stopping at the time, the season being advanced, there were many lilacs in full bloom. By one of those caprices that enter and give tinge to events without being at all a part of them, I find myself always reminded of great tragedy of that day by the sight and odor of these blossoms. It never fails."
While lilacs are first to bloom, their flowers are short-lived. The heady fragrance lingers sweetly at first, but then the blooms start to die, leaving a heavy, cloying smell. One of the first flowers of spring, lilacs contain a natural compound called indole that’s found in flowers — and feces. It’s that undercurrent of the “bottom note” of fragrance that suggests decay and death.
🔮 Metaphysical Properties 🔮
The beautiful May-blooming lilac is one of the loveliest tokens of spring. But they are much more than beautiful shrubs with showy, sweet-smelling flowers. Originally lilacs were planted to repel all evil. Planted near the entryway, lilacs were believed to send out protective vibrations. When the flowers are cut and brought into the home they cleanse any living space. And they'll also remove any unwanted spiritual presence. Blue and white varieties work well for this purpose. Since lilacs are ruled by Venus, they are also used in love spells. Try placing some pink lilacs on your altar while performing a love spell. The dried flowers make a powerful addition to any love sachet.
🍴⚕️ Culinary & Medicinal Properties
The simplest way to enjoy lilacs is as an infusion of the flowers for a lilac sugar. The sugar can then be used in recipes to add lilac flavor to baked goods. This also works with a lilac simple syrup which is just a liquid form of the same thing that’s perfect for making cocktails. For my money though, I think lilac infused honey sounds the best. The sweet floral flavor of lilacs translates beautifully into an ice cream base.
To prevent the recurrence of disease, lilac flowers were used to help strengthen the system and prevent relapse after a patient had healed. They’re said to be specifically good after cases of malaria. Tasting the raw flowers you can actually pick up some of the astringent qualities, as they make your mouth dry and pucker a bit (along with their floral flavors). This astringent quality makes them good for use in skin care products. Lilacs are used as a folk remedy for intestinal worms, as well as a treatment for gastric discomfort and gas. Regardless of the purpose, the most likely medicinal lilac preparation is a tincture, which is just a lilac infused alcohol
#elder witch#baby witch#beginner witch#dark witchcraft#herbalism#herbology#herbs#whimsigoth#witch aesthetic#witch herbs#divination#spirituality#spiritual#witchblr#witchcore#witchcraft#witch tip
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Tourniquet - Chapter Five
A Supernatural Dean x Reader Series Told Backwards
~Y/N has been by Dean’s side through his worst days, always there if he needs her, forever just a call away. Love is impossible to fight and more impossible to live with. Just a side character in his epic life, Y/N would give anything just to give Dean a moment’s peace.~
Please see MASTERLIST for full info/warnings/chapter links.
Impala-Dreamer’s Masterlist ~ Patreon ~ Published Works ~ Get A Custom Story
How To Lose Friends and Knock on Death’s Door
She hadn’t been far when he called, which was always strange. Strange to think that out of the entire country, they’d accidentally ended up in almost the exact same place at the same time.
Y/N had just cleaned up a little ghost situation in Absecon, New Jersey and decided to treat herself to a little glitz and glamor down in Atlantic City. Sadly, she found none, but she did find a few really good margaritas which led her to relieve her wallet of a few bucks in Bally’s.
That night, she hung out on the boardwalk, boots thumping gently on the slatted wood. She took her time, nowhere to go, nothing really to do. The moon was bright and its glow reflected on the ocean like a million diamonds sparkling in the swells.
The November wind was slow but cruel and she tugged her jacket around her a little tighter.
Someday, she wanted to come back in the summer. To bring a book and sit on the beach under a rented umbrella and feel the sun burn her legs. To dodge the crowds on the boardwalk, walk through the casinos for a little air conditioning. Maybe she’d bring a friend. Maybe she’d bring Dean. She laughed at the thought of Dean lying next to her on the beach; his back red from the sun, his legs too long for the blanket, toes digging into the sand.
Dean.
She sighed and leaned against the wooden railing, staring off at the water. Her nose was freezing and she rubbed at it, deciding it was time to go.
As she turned, her phone buzzed and she smiled. His ears must have been ringing. Maybe she could get him to come out right now. Despite the late autumn cold, New Jersey was beautiful.
“I was just thinking about you,” she answered with a light laugh.
“Y/N/N…” His voice was panicked and rough.
Her heart sank. Another tragic call, another night of talking him off the ledge. Pushing away her smile and disappointment, Y/N squared her shoulders and focused.
“What’s going on? Are you hurt?”
“No.” He stumbled as if his tongue wasn’t quite sure how to form the words. “You- it’s- Y/N/N, you gotta come here. Now.”
“OK.” His panic drifted through the phone into her. “Tell me what’s going on. Where are you?”
Heavy breathing, a choked back sob.
“It’s Bobby…”
Thirty-one miles wasn’t very far, but she felt every bump in the road like she was running barefoot on broken glass. Her stomach ached; her muscles tensed. Twice, she’d had to slow down in fear of retching, but she grit her teeth, gripped the wheel, and pushed on.
The trauma rooms were on the main floor behind Emergency, and they were hesitant to let her in.
“Please… He’s my father,” she lied, but not really. Bobby had been more of a father to her in those early years after her mother and sister died than her own had been. He was the only one she would listen to when reprimanded or given advice; his house buried in the junkyard was the only place she could truly call home. “Please.”
The tears were real even if the genetics weren’t and they let her in; a short nurse pointing the way to the room in the corner.
Doctors ran in and out, white coats and blue scrubs blurring as tears filled her eyes.
She stood in the middle of the walkway, staring at the body in the bed, refusing to believe that it was Bobby.
The patterned gown was too big, hanging off his shoulders and tucked under in weird places. Plastic tubes came out of his mouth, his chest, his arms. Bright blood leaked through the white gauze on his head.
Someone called her name, but she couldn’t hear it over the monitors beeping or the racing of her heart.
“Y/N…”
Sam touched her shoulder and she jumped back and away, hunter’s instincts taking over.
“Whoa-” He held up his giant hands in surrender and leaned away. “It’s me. Sorry.”
She sucked in a quick breath and looked up into his worried eyes. His hair was a bit longer than she’d last seen; his sideburns a ridiculous mess. He opened his arms and she fell into them, grabbing the front of his green jacket and twisting it in her fists.
“What the fuck happened?” It came out in a wet sob, but the words were formed well enough.
Sam was shaking and braced himself by wrapping his arms around her. “He… we were…”
Confusion choked her. “Who did this?”
He couldn’t answer, he just squeezed a little tighter.
“What happened? What- I- Sam!”
She pulled back and looked up. His face was creased with pain, his gaze sad and empty with shock.
“Sam!”
Hazel eyes flit from her face to Bobby and back again. Unable to speak, he shook his head.
She tore at his jacket, tugging him closer. Her body burned with anger, not at Sam, but he was the only one around that she could beat up on and not end up in cuffs.
“Sam!”
“I’m-” He closed his eyes and swallowed hard. “It just… happened. I don’t-”
Y/N could tell how hard he was trying, how strong he was being. The simple act of standing there seemed to almost break him down, but he held himself together. She pushed aside her anger and pressed her hand to his chest in a calming gesture.
He looked down with the tiniest ghost of a smile.
She softened her voice. “Has a doctor talked to you yet?”
Sam nodded. “Just now.”
“What did they say?”
“He’s um… They have to wait for the swelling to come down and then-”
He shrugged, it was all he could do.
Y/N’s head was pounding, her arms felt like lead. She turned to look back at the bed, at the old man lying unconscious surrounded by machines. He looked pale, cold. The thin hospital blanket wasn’t enough. She wanted to run to her car and grab another, cover him up, hold him close, but her feet wouldn’t move. She was stuck in place, looking through the glass doors as Bobby clung to life.
Her whole world was shattering and autopilot took over. There were no more words, no more questions, there was only the eerie quiet between them and the constant mechanical beeping.
At some point, she and Sam found chairs and they sat stoically sharing their pain. He clung to her and she covered him the best she could with much smaller hands.
“He’s gonna die,” she whispered. She was staring, unblinking at the base of the hospital bed, wondering what all the different pedals and levers did. “He’s gonna die.”
Sam sucked in a shuddering breath. “Yeah. I think so.”
“He ain’t dyin’. Not today.”
Dean startled them both with his refusal to admit the truth and his sudden appearance. He towered over them and Y/N tore her eyes from Bobby and looked up at Dean.
His eyes were wide and bloodshot, the skin dark beneath. He was trembling slightly but doing his best to hide it behind a clenched jaw and tight fists.
She wanted to yell at him, to force him to see reality, but she was distracted by a drop of blood. It fell from his hand and struck the top of his boot, splashing like a raindrop onto pavement.
“You’re bleeding.”
He looked down and flexed his fingers. His knuckles were torn and bleeding.
“It’s fine.”
Y/N stood up and grabbed his hand, looking it over. “It’s gonna get infected,” she sighed. “Come on…”
They found an empty room down the hall that seemed unused. Most of the lights were off and the ones that were on were old and dim. They snuck in and Y/N forced Dean to sit on the edge of the bed. He was quiet but she could feel the anger pushing off of him. She could see it in his eyes; feel it in the tension of his fingers.
“What’d you do, punch a wall?”
Dean huffed and cleared his throat. “A- uh- glass window thing.”
Y/N sighed as she dug through a cabinet, plucking out alcohol swabs and gauze. “You think that was wise?”
Dean tipped his head back and closed his eyes. He was exhausted, scared, and running from defeat.
“Was that or the guy’s face.”
She pulled up a stool and steel tray, laid out her instruments and sat across from him.
“Then I guess you did the right thing.”
He let her examine his cuts, winced as she pulled a piece of glass from the middle knuckle, hissed when the alcohol hit his open flesh.
Y/N scoffed and hit him again with the cold fluid. “Baby.”
He cocked his head and looked at her. “You know I love it when you call me that.”
She met his eye and pursed her lips. “Of all the times, Dean. Now is not a good one.”
He shrugged and offered half a smile in apology.
“I’m glad you called.” She wrapped his hand up carefully, sure to make it tight but not too tight. “Thank you.”
Dean licked his lips and dropped his head, staring at the old tiles covering the floor. They were dingy and the glaze was cracked. Just like him.
“Thought you’d wanna be here,” he replied.
“I do. Thanks.” She smiled sadly and patted his arm. “All done.”
“You’re a hell of a nurse, Y/N/N.”
“Don’t you know it.”
She moved to stand, but Dean grabbed her. He pulled at her arms and tugged the stool forward until she was between his legs. She looked up in surprise and then blinked back a fresh swarm of tears.
“Don’t do that,” he whispered, cupping her cheeks in his warm hands and brushing away a tear with his thumb. “You do that and I’ll do that and then where will we be?”
“Crying in an ancient hospital room,” she teased.
He laughed.
She sighed.
He’d be OK.
“Dean, I-”
His kiss was slow but desperate. He held her face, kept her locked to him as his lips pressed tight against her mouth. She was surprised but not really. This is what he did. He called when he needed her, kissed her when he felt hopeless, let his hands roam when he needed to feel alive and connected.
It didn’t matter why, it just mattered that it happened.
Y/N melted against him, parting her lips for his tongue, and breathed him in. He smelled like cheap cologne and smoke, like whiskey and three days without a shower. He stank. He was filthy. His stubble burned her lips. He felt like heaven.
Dean seemed to find his breath again within her and he sucked at her lips, kissed across her jaw, sank his teeth gently into the crook of her neck. Y/N’s eyes were rolling, her skin burning, heart racing.
“Dean, we shouldn’t-”
He sat back, green eyes dark and wide as he looked her over. He ran his fingertips across the hem of her shirt, followed her collarbone across on each side. He was there but not; a mechanical body moving because it had to, but his mind was elsewhere. His mind was back in that room with Bobby.
“Dean…”
As much as she wanted his hands to move down a little further, to sneak up beneath her shirt, rip her clothing away, she knew she couldn’t do it. She placed her hands on his wrists and pulled them gently off of her shoulders.
He startled, shoved back into himself. He blinked quickly and then stood up, pushing her back on the rolling stool.
“I- I’m sorry, Y/N/N-”
Shaking his head, he wrenched the door open and escaped, leaving her alone in the dim light, surrounded by the ghost of a moment and bloody wrappings.
She wasn’t sure how long she sat there picking at her cuticles and absorbing the night. She wanted to break down, to run away and scream as loud as she could until she couldn’t anymore, but that wasn’t her. She was the bedrock, the warm blanket, the calm in a stormy sea. If she wasn’t that, she wasn’t anything.
After some time, she managed to stand. She wiped the tears from her cheeks and his kiss from her lips.
She gathered up the mess she’d made and tossed it all in the bin.
She shut the lights and walked back down the hall.
A white coat flew past her, bumping her shoulder. She turned into the hit and watched the young doctor run towards an incoming trauma.
Outside, sirens were blaring and nurses were shouting, but inside there was a steady ringing. A long buzz that Y/N slowly realized had replaced the beeping.
She looked towards Bobby’s room, her vision blurred and her movements slow.
Dean was at the foot of the bed, his hands on his head as he spun away. Sam was doubled over off to the side, slowly sliding to the floor.
It didn’t make any sense.
A nurse in bright blue scrubs and a white knitted sweater reached over the bed and shut off a monitor. The buzzing stopped.
Bobby was dead.
Anguish pumped through her system and Y/N broke into a run, screaming for help as she reached the room.
“Please! Help him!”
Dean tried to grab her, but she slipped through his arms.
“Please! Why won’t you do something!”
Her hands waved over his body, unsure where to land, unsure what to do. Tears stung her eyes and she let them fall, crashing down like a tidal wave onto the thin blanket. She pushed at his shoulders, trying to get him to move, but there was no response.
“Please!”
She cupped her hands over his heart and tried to push down with all of her strength, to force his heart to start again, but it was no use.
“Bobby, please!”
She climbed up onto the bed and beat on his chest; her cries growing more desperate, more pitiful.
“Bobby-”
When he couldn’t stand it any longer, Dean grabbed her by the waist and yanked her off of the bed.
“Get off of me!”
She struggled against his hold, kicking at him to get back to the bed, but his arms were too solid, his grip too strong.
“Y/N, stop!”
She hissed and slapped at the arm around her middle, but Dean wouldn’t let go.
“Dean! Let! Go!”
She clawed at his hands and Dean pulled her closer. He dropped his head and pressed it against hers. His eyes fell closed.
“Y/N/N, he’s gone. He’s gone.”
Dean’s voice bounded off of every corner of her mind, echoed into the deepest parts of her. She stopped fighting and collapsed, legs giving out and sending them both to the cold floor. Dean fell with her and wrapped his arms around her, curling her into his chest.
“He can’t go,” she sobbed, fingers climbing up his chest to find something to hold on to. “He can’t. He can’t. He can’t…”
Dean cradled her head, rocked them both gently. “Shh… I’ve got you.”
“He can’t go, Dean… He can’t.”
He shivered against her and pressed his lips to her forehead. “I’ve got you.”
She ran. As soon as the sun rose and she could see clear enough to drive, she was gone. She was broken and devastated and the worst part was, he hadn’t asked her to stay.
So, she ran.
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Picturing LFL au where Luke did manage to escape with Shiera that day. Imagining Luke offering to inter Aemond on driftmark rather then have him killed.
Everyone thinking it’s some weird guilt thing or a devotion to the seven he must’ve found in captivity (obviously no one knows the extent and assumes most rumours spread by mushroom are obviously false (side note George making the drunken lecher having more truths versus the oh so pious Septon Eustace is something I can 100% see)).
Luke just enjoys having the say of whatever Aemond eats or wears. The fact that he’s the only person who can decide if the terror of the riverlands lives or dies is something he probably thinks of whenever he��s having some trouble with sexual intimacy ( though no one would know about the extent to his occasional internal struggles with his past not even Rhaena). anytime he remembers his abuse that’s only been shared with (maybe Rhaena??) ,Jace or Daemon (who would have a bit more of an idea of war time practices in Westeros) he remembers that he has Aemond in his hands not the other way around.
Balancing never seeming weak again and being this loving brother/son/heir that once came so easy to him. Then him and Rhaena having her six daughters like canon (for Rhaena) and him making the eldest heir like he fought for but always in the back of his mind that men are not safe from other men in war time but especially not women. Just whole other bucket of trauma for him to deal with. Especially after he started praying to primarily female deity figures during his own s/a and captivity.
Probably spoilers if anyone has ever read my own fic but I quite enjoy Luke claiming Cannibal trope (now a trope, at the time I started publishing my fic in October 2022 there was crumbs to eat but thankfully we’re feasting now as lucemonders!!). Arrax being this pearlescent dragon who was swift and growing every year symbolising Luke himself growing from this unsure boy into someday maybe someone more sure of himself then claiming cannibal a dragon rumoured to be strange enough to devour its own kind, pitch black and monsterously older than the Iron throne itself. Just a very silly and lazy way for me to bring this visual of loss of innocence tho I defend myself in my mind that GRRM probs wanted Arrax to evoke that when he made him Pearl white with golden chest to die when he was 13 along with Luke.
Not even getting into the fun interactions with Aemond. Maybe Luke is still keeping this love act up for some fucked reason in his head and has Aemond convinced he’s alive out of love. Or if history changes yet again and Aemond has the injuries of Rooks Rest instead of Aegon (like the rumours his dick broke) after the war kicks off later, how Luke would manipulate his way into topping him (the thing he’ll think will “cure him” of his nightmares and traumas. Not how that works bookie but I understand even being raised by a polycule in this time would not save him from the patriarchys nonsense lol)
Even better him visiting winterfell with Jace and stumbling upon his brother and Cregan and watching their interactions (Cregans fucking Jace’s “cunt” and still sees him as a man??? Talks about loving Jace’s cock despite being the “man” in their relationship) just completely breaking apart his ideas of what he’s internalised m/m relationships being.
I wouldn’t change a thing of LFLEFE of course, it’s perfection. it’s always fun to read someone’s work and wonder of the “what ifs” (which is what I do between chapters of fanfiction too as you’ve seen from my delirious asks before lol) and how the characters would shift and change when the butterflies wings change to a different direction.
At that point in the story Aemond has already planted this cruelty in Luke (not in general, we see him freely empathise with people even when not knowing them like the servants entering the chambers after shieras death) that Luke has to foster against Aemond in his mind to survive the ordeal. It’s a coping mechanism for him that allows him to continue the charade. The satisfaction of tricking Aemond is probably what kept him alive through much of the uncertainty.
A scene of the new show Mary & George where the main character who usually tops bottoming with his enemy after (falsely) professing love just to fuck with his mind and get one final “I’m the one who won here. Go fuck yourself” literally gave me this vibe and I don’t know where it could possible fit in this “au” lol. Luke taking back his own asshole in a way idk that’s so silly hahah
Luke taking his own feelings of self loathing and low self esteem and sharpening them into a weapon to use against Aemond? Art, chefs kiss!
Sorry this got so long I was inbetween tasks and kept forgetting how long it was 🤣
some very mild spoilers for the themes/arcs i have planned for the series
a friend had already recommended Mary & George to me, but this definitely confirms i need to watch it
also, 100% get it. i constantly have to restrain myself from writing canon divergence fic of my canon divergence fic. to the point that, if i do manage to finish the series in a reasonable time frame, i may very well cave and do just that. (personally, i like to think that if Shiera lived, she would have become a sailor). tbh if anyone, for whatever reason, wrote a 'what if' fic based on any fic of mine... well, i think that's kind of the highest honour a fic writer could receive, isn't it? so it's a practice i fully endorse.
westerosi gender is 100% something i want to explore/am exploring in this series. especially in relation to sexual violence being so gendered in the setting, to the point that being raped is almost feminising in the eyes of many of the characters. lfleye!Luke 100% identifies as and will continue to identify as a man in the series. but his experiences now means he identifies *with* women far more. as you've noted, Luke is a very empathetic character. while not many characters will acknowledge it in-universe, Luke is extremely strong as a character, and thats proven with how his experiences have increased his empathy rather than diminished it. it's so tempting to be 'strong' after being 'weak' by inflicting abuse on others and exploiting whatever societal power you have, especially in a setting like Westeros. but a really big part of Luke's arc is going to be to a refusal to do that, and to continue to identify with the abused (women, lowborn, etc). (some of my interest in Theon as a character actually comes from a similar place)
this is a roundabout way to say that, yes, if he had six daughters he would be Stressed. but those six daughters would be very, very lucky.
at the same time. lucemond in this series is Toxic. with a capital T. and i'm not going to let Aemond have all the fun with that. if Luke ended up in the role of captor, it would be delicious. because he would 100% find comfort and satisfaction in asserting control over Aemond, even as he felt shame for it. or, alternatively, felt shame for *not* feeling shame for it.
and oh. oh boy. Luke being confronted with an actual heathy (for hotd) m/m relationship, not just in the abstract of Laenor but in the this-is-happening-right-now-in-front-of-me of his brother, would also be an experience for him. probably one he needs. in general, Luke is definitely going to try and get a better understanding of sexuality, and his sexuality specifically, in the next fic. whether he succeeds...
and Cannibal!!!! gods, i adore Cannibal. i do remember him being kind of unpopular, at least among some of the more active fan creators, but i saw this analysis about how he represents the dance--black scales, green eyes, eats his own kind, disappears at the end--and i've been obsessed ever since. he's definitely going to make an appearance so he can bring that symbolism (amongst others) to the table, whether Luke claims him or not. (i decided in 2022 whether Luke was going to claim a second dragon or not, and if yes then who, and while it is foreshadowed in the fic, and in some of the comments, i'll at least pretend i'm maintaining the mystery).
what's the name of your fic? bc i would love to read some Luke & Cannibal.
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Sunny's Age and Lemony's Lies: An Investigation into the Great Hiatus
So, more and more my theory of the Great Hiatus seems to make more sense. Recalling, I defend the idea that the Masked Ball where Lemony was arrested happened many years after the main events described in TE. The Ball happened between the publication of the book TWW and TMM in the asoue universe. An important concept is that the books were originally published over many years.
Although TBB began to be written during the main events of asoue, TBB and TRR were only published at least 2 years after the main events described in asoue. TWW was published sometime shortly after TRR. But TMM was published many years after the publication of TWW. These years of hiatus, is what I call the Great Hiatus. Some events in the asoue universe that happened during the Great Hiatus were the Masked Ball, one of Lemony's false deaths, one of Lemony's escapes abroad, the closing of Prufrock-Prep, and evidently the sending of the original TMM to the editor.During the Masked Ball, Lemony tried to tell a supposed Beatrice something about Count Olaf.
According to this chronology, the only thing that would be relevant for a supposed Beatrice to know was the fact that "Count Olaf is Dead." Olaf died on a desert island. Olaf's death was not known to the general public, but it was known to Lemony, as evidently Lemony was on the island.
But the right question is: why would Lemony think it important that this information should reach a supposed Beatrice? That's because the reason that would lead a supposed Beatrice not to expose herself to the public was the fact that, in theory, Beatrice believed that as long as her death was accepted as true, at least one of her children would be kept alive by Count Olaf so he could recover the inheritance when the surviving child turned 18. If Beatrice showed herself alive, the inheritance would not be any of her children's but Beatrice's herself. So none of the children would have a reason to be kept alive by Count Olaf. Therefore she, in theory, needed to be regarded as dead. And that's why Lemony emphasizes so much that Beatrice is dead, even though he believes she may be alive. He tries not to alarm her and reinforce her pretense.
I want to make clear that all this is valid both in the case where Beatrice survived the fire and in the case where she died in the fire. Because it doesn't matter the truth, what matters is what Lemony believes to be true, and what he decides to do with his beliefs: reveal them or distort them for a greater good he believes to be a greater good. Lemony believes that lying is sometimes good and necessary. Even if he were right to say that Beatrice was dead, when he wrote that, he believed she was alive. So, he lied when he said she was dead. And all this can be seen by analyzing Sunny's age.
How old was Sunny when she arrived on the island? I can say more than 1 year, because of her behavior and the events mentioned in the story. Lemony claims he spent 14 years trying to talk about Count Olaf with Beatrice. But we have a limit for this subject to be relevant. When Sunny turned 18, if she was still in Olaf's clutches, he would find a way to cash the money and kill Sunny afterward. So, it wouldn't make sense for Beatrice to hide from Olaf anymore. If after discovering Olaf was dead, Lemony still tried to pass this information on to Beatrice, it's because he believed Beatrice believed Olaf had killed Klaus and Violet and preserved Sunny to cash the money. (It is interesting that Olaf tried to do exactly that at the end of TCC). Considering that Sunny spent 1 year on the island and Lemony didn't get there during that time, we can conclude that Sunny was at least 2 years old when she left the island, with the most likely being that she was 3 or 4 years old when she left the island. If Lemony got to the island during the year that followed and then found out that Olaf was dead (and also found the Baudelaires' notes), we can conclude that he spent the next 14 years trying to pass this information on to Beatrice, according to his own words, until the day of the Masked Ball.
This means that in the meantime he published 3 books, purposefully lying to the general public by saying that Beatrice was dead, when he believed she was alive.
That's why he couldn't complete the sentence for the general public. "Count Olaf is dead" would reveal that he believed Beatrice was alive.
It is interesting to note however, that evidence points to Beatrice in fact dying in her house fire, and that the woman Lemony thought was Beatrice was actually an imposter. Apparently that's what R meant to Lemony in the letter recorded in LSTUA chapter 2. "That girl was flammable." "Analyze these photos." "Impostors nearby in disguise". "Beatrice is far from reclaiming lost property." These hidden messages seem to be trying to tell Lemony, "Beatrice really is dead." And R only had to pass this message on to Lemony because he believed Beatrice was alive. This belief of Lemony's also explains why he was so alarmed when studying the city's underground, because he investigated possible survivors of fires hidden in fountains.
This deepens our understanding of the concept of unreliable narrators. Lemony Snicket becomes one of the most unique examples I've come across. He embodies the following notion: "One can tell an untruth without lying, simply by being mistaken. And one can tell the truth while lying, also by being mistaken." This intricate interplay of perceptions and realities adds another layer of complexity and intrigue to the narrative.
#asoue#asoue theory#asoue theories#count olaf#olaf#sunny baudelaire#sunny#lemony snicket the unauthorized autobiography#lemony snicket: the unauthorized autobiography#lemony snicket#beatrice baudelaire#a series of unfortunate events#lstua#masked ball#violet baudelaire#klaus baudelaire#duchness of winnipeg
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Bite to Bruise - 36
This work is mine and I do not give consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted without my permission. I am sharing chapters as I work on this story but it is copyrighted material that I plan to rework and publish when completed.
story tags: modern-fantasy mashup, werewolves, witches, monsters, romance, learning to trust, hurt/comfort, blood, violence, explicit sex, explicit language
The earlier parts can be found under the tag or over on patreon. <3
BITE TO BRUISE - CHAPTER 36.
She stumbled into her valley, reaching her ruined cottage. She had never wanted him to find it, even in her nightmares this was never where Baron caught up to her.
His laughter echoed between the trees behind her.
She ran for the side of the house, but he was already there, grinning at her. Fresh blood clung to his cheek, smeared from the mess of a bite he’d taken, while more blood stained his torn shirt and smeared his skin where he had been the one bitten in his short stint in the battle.
“No. You’re not getting away now. To think, you were this close the whole time…” Baron said, looking over his shoulder at the deep shadows of the forest. “Do you know how many of your kind we lost to the woods? They went where we couldn’t follow. I would think they died there, but every so often one comes back out. Tell me, Wilhelm… is that what drew you here? Were you just too afraid to take that leap and go past the river?”
Wren trembled but stood her ground, finally taking a long look at him. He was exactly as she remembered. And why wouldn’t he be? He was unaging. Undying. Nothing she could do could change that. “My name is Wren.”
He nodded slowly. “Yes, it is this time. Forgive me, but you don’t quite look yourself. You’ve been hiding well.”
Her mouth twitched, tears overflowing. She swallowed down reason. Blackwell had been right about that—there was no reasoning with him. Logic would not help her now. “How many times have we done this?”
His eyebrow lifted, head tipping curiously. “You know?”
“How many times have you murdered me?”
His lips twitched, flashing teeth. “How many of my blood did you kill? We’re not even yet. A lifetime for a lifetime…and their lives were supposed to be endless.”
“How many wolves did you kill first?”
He tsked between teeth and she shivered, remembering that mouth on her hand and how easily his teeth had snapped through her finger. “Hardly comparable. You were going to leave me. I did what anyone would have.” He raised a hand. “We’ve gone over this before. Your reasoning and begging will do nothing to change my mind.”
She dragged shaky breaths but nodded in agreement, hearing the roots under her feet wake up after their frosty sleep. “Okay. Then let’s skip that part.”
Baron blinked in surprise, lips parting to say something that was lost in the air when the ground pulled open and tried to swallow him.
He moved fast, somehow climbing the moving soil and rocks as they churned underfoot. He almost lost his footing, knee-deep for a second before snarling and pushing himself faster, climbing high and coming for her.
She had to give up the ground when he swiped for her throat, pulling power in and pushing it out to shove him back, rolling him into a tree.
The black of her magic on her fingers crawled past the low cut of her leather gloves, spreading over the backs of her hands and deep into her palms. She pulled the gloves off and almost remembered clearly a time when her arms and legs had been completely black, screaming testament to how much power she had turned into craft in their world.
A previous life.
Lifetimes.
She had been trapped in this cycle of pain and death with him for so many short agonizing lifetimes but she kept coming back. It wasn’t that she was too scared to cross the river. She wasn’t ready to go. She had lived so many lives but not that one she wanted—not the one he stole.
Her palms hummed with power and when Kish pushed himself to his feet, she saw him doing it a hundred times in her memory. He wore a hundred different outfits, in different places, in different times. Sometimes he was snarling and sometimes he was laughing.
Here and now, he grinned furiously. “You haven’t done this in ages, Wilhelm.”
“That’s not my name,” she reminded, feeling her wolf break through the tree line into the woods, cutting a line straight for her.
She had fought wars in old lives, performed miracles, risen islands from the sea, and sunk cities into the ground. She was nameless and endless. Who the fuck was this shade to stop her from having what she wanted? Who was he to kill her?
Kish snarled and stalked toward her, ready for her attack this time, his cunning eyes studying her carefully. It was a game they had played many times just the two of them.
Behind her, the slush and snow parted, creating a track through the trees to that shadow with teeth.
She didn’t back up. She didn’t run. She waited as her nightmare stepped closer and closer, reaching for her, those fingers close to her cheek. In his dark eyes, she saw her reflection and only then realized she had dropped the glamour of Bellamy. That forever broken face looked back at her and for the first time she saw it clearly—the latest face in a line of faces that had all been hers, just as Bellamy was hers. She smiled when Kish froze, realizing his mistake too late. In his eyes, she saw one shadow burst out of the others behind her, reflected in his pupil. “My name is Wren,” she told him and then stepped to the side as the giant fenrir barreled into his chest, teeth snapping over his face.
#
Baron almost had his hands on his witch when they slid to the side and the wolf slammed into him. Darkness edged in teeth blotted out the world, enamel digging into the sides of his head and bearing him to the ground.
Baron laughed inside that beast’s mouth. “Again? What is it with you and these dogs?” he called to Wilhelm, his voice echoing in a chamber of flesh and teeth.
The fenrir jerked side to side, as though he might be able to rip Baron’s head from his shoulders. His spine snapped like a whip, breaking only to crack and heal instantly. A heavy paw pressed into his chest, trying to pin him while those jaws continued to dig in and pull.
Baron snarled against the warm, wet breath of a wolf, finally grabbing fistfuls of that body over his. Fenrir were a strange texture, between smoke and fur, but there was muscle underneath. They broke and bled and died like everything else living in the world. He pushed and the dog pulled, his spine breaking and healing again. The pain felt like fireworks in his spine, going off between vertebrae.
He clawed, digging fingers into skin and then pushed his head deeper into that maw rather than trying to pull free. He bit at the dog’s tongue, his teeth much smaller and sharper than the beast pinning him. His mouth welled with that foul blood, earthy and bitter, and… familiar?
With a growl the fenrir threw him, releasing him from his teeth and sending him through a tree and into another.
The cracking and falling of those trees echoed out in all directions, snow and ice hurling into the air between them.
Baron was quick to his feet, swaying for a moment and touching the blood on his lips. The wolf’s blood. He knew this particular flavor. He knew… His gaze snapped up to the fenrir prowling in front of him, furious yellow eyes fixed on him. “No… That’s not how your kind work.”
The past and the present blurred before his eyes. He stood in both places, in this dark and wet forest at the end of winter and at the base of a mountain in summer. The same fenrir. The same blood. The same valiant effort thrown against him. “I killed you,” Kish remembered, staggering a step back as the ground seemed to shift underfoot with those clarifying memories. “I killed your pack. I killed your whole line. He was going to leave with you. He was going to… No. No! You don’t come back! Fenrir don’t come back!” he yelled, voice louder than the falling trees.
Something hit him hard from behind, cleaving flesh and muscle and breaking bone to nestle deep in his back. One of his legs gave out, dropping him to his knees, but he twisted to try to get a look at this new attacker.
Wilhelm stood over him. “You don’t know nearly as much as you think you do, Kish.”
Before he could reply or snarl, before he could even reach back to grasp at the offending weapon in his back, something cold and biting squirmed from it to his shoulder. It sliced through his clothes and skin, digging deep and coiling like a snake made of razors.
Kish doubled forward, mouth agape in a scream that he couldn’t get out of his lungs as that midnight magic surged across his skin, the iron curse digging deep to leech his blood. Shade blood, as rich as they came, first to the vein of his midnight. He clawed at it, at himself, trying to stop it from taking the last he had of his maker.
The scent of it filled his lungs and in his blind panic, his first thought was that his midnight was injured. Solse’s blood was a cloud in the air around him. His second thought was the memory of walking into that dining room to discover all his dead kin—slain by that witch he had once loved.
The curse twisted up his chest and wrapped around his throat. He stretched his neck, clawing at the living metal, forced to look up at Wilhelm.
He felt cold. His body was slow to heal where the long serpentine body of the curse had ripped him open, the metal undulating as it drank more of his blood.
“It won’t be enough,” Wilhelm whispered to the wolf, watching him.
Kish’s hands were shredded from the fruitless effort to pull the curse off of himself, but he tried to smile. No. This curse would not be enough to stop him. Someone would find him or his body would decay and the curse would go inert. Time was always on his side. Always.
“What are you doing?” the wolf asked. Kish had not realized he’d changed forms until then, his voice thick with worry.
Kish swayed on his knees and might have fallen over if the witch had not taken his face in her hands. She held him gently, like they were lovers again, and looked down on him with those eyes—the same eyes in a new face—always those eyes. Kish had held the newborn Wilhelm many times. The eyes never changed, even when everything else did. Those eyes could see through time and behind veils. Kish had carved them out a dozen times. They tasted like power.
“I can’t kill you,” Wilhelm admitted with a woman’s voice. “But I think I can make you forget. Forget me, forget everyone I ever was, forget the wolves, and forget your dead.”
His body convulsed, panic lancing his body deeper than any curse. He tried to scream out but the iron spell around his throat wouldn’t give him the air. Without his blood, his body was weak, and her power pulsed through his skull, violating and rooting around to dig out pieces of him.
#
His face was cold in her hands and the fear and rage in his eyes more gratifying than she’d ever want to admit. As soon as she started pressing into his mind, digging around for the trails of herself, she realized her magic had been here already. Without realizing it, she had been trying to make him forget her, her magic lashing out on instinct during all those deaths. It felt confused and frightened, making her want to pull away and hide from this monster.
Ever pressed against her back, bolstering her up and watching her enemy like he might throw off that curse and strike out at them again.
She couldn’t run from monsters and she couldn’t kill this one, but she could kill the part of him that knew her.
She learned about all her lives through his memories. Instead of being told the stories of her past by another witch she had to see it—see what he had done and feel the madness of revenge take hold of him. She burned them out of his mind as she went, deeper and deeper. It felt like she was eating those memories, devouring them like a snake in the vast jungle of Kish’s life.
It was tempting to take more—to take everything. His hunger urged her on.
Eat more.
Eat it all.
Take everything until the great Kish, first blood of Solse, was nothing but a newborn drooling on himself.
It was a trick. She could do it. She could take it all, but it would cost her. Vengeance always had a price and was sometimes worth paying. She remembered falling in love and the agony of that loss. Her only regret was that she hadn’t been able to bury Kish back then along with his court. There was no regret for that vengeance, not even for all the lifetimes of pain it cost her, because it all brought her back to where she wanted to be—to Ever. It was all part of a plan and she wasn’t going to lose her chance this time.
She had waited. She had returned lifetime after lifetime, even when most of her kind had stopped, because she was waiting for this moment—for this life.
Vengeance had a price that was sometimes worth paying, but not this time. If she wanted to end it, she would have to be justice—cold and exact.
She reached the last bit of his memory of her, far beyond the first offense. The moment Kish and Wilhelm first met. His spirit writhed, trying to hang onto that last piece.
“I know you will hear about this from others,” she told him, magic thick in her voice and the black ink staining her fingers welling up past her wrists to her forearms. “I know you will see the paper trail of our history, but without the passion, what do you care? I am no one to you. Just a waste of your time. You are Kish, first blood of the midnight Solse and governor of her court until her return. What am I? Nothing but a poisonous weed, Kish. Leave me be and I am nothing, come for me and I will destroy you. That is all you have to remember about me. That is all you will ever know. When you think too long about me, when you hear my name, you will smell your midnight’s blood in the air and feel that curse around your neck.”
He gurgled, the iron spell squirming to leech more from a fountain that would never dry. His body convulsed and his eyes rolled back.
Wren let him go, the air cracking when she broke the connection to his mind and let his body fall back onto the icy ground.
She sagged, knowing that Ever wouldn’t let her fall with him.
#Bite to Bruise#werewolf romance#werewolf x witch#modern fantasy world#<3#romance#own world#own work#dominimoonbeam#clover down
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CnD!
alright! so CnD, or "Creation and Destruction" is my homebrew "dnd" campaign!! i have dnd in quotes just cause. well my autism got too strong and i made an entire handbook with my own mechanics LMAO so it's really it's own Thing at this point. which is super cool n fun. after everything's been wrapped up i might publish that handbook but WE SHALL SEE.
anyway CnD is my own personal excuse to make my friends rp with me and my crazy ocs. SO.
it all started when the 11 party members crashed on the beach in a town they'd never seen before. looked totally normal until at the end of the first session they found a portal!
jumping in, that just... kept happening. small adventure, portal, repeat. with no end in sight. as the party began questioning why all this was happening, they met these two little FREAKS named mayhem and maelstrom. (i'll add all refs i have below!!)
anyway mae n may mentioned an elusive “She” that they’re working for, which led my players down an insane conspiracy rabbit hole in which they guessed 90% of hullabaloo’s vibe based on a PRONOUN. ONE PRONOUN I DROPPED I CAN’T TELL THESE MFS ANYTHING
next, they met pandemonium, (@weedsmokingbfs's oc!!! owe you my life muppy) who told them that: these portals aren't taking them place to place, it's transporting them around purgatory. and they've all died.
since then it's been up to the party to navigate their purpose, how to escape, all of it.
then they met bedlam, who explained to them this crazy prophecy and the reason they're all trapped there, which connects to a decision he made 800 years earlier.
enter callie.
my god this is so much to explain IM CRAZY ok. so callie and dee (@percexe) had been meeting in the void for centuries. he'd see callie there when he died and never knew why. 2 idiots had an unspoken pact to not talk about their pasts, but boy they should've!
it would've revealed that callie is actually named chaos, and directly related to all the other crazy clowns they'd meet across the campaign.
they're called the Story, the main 6 pantheon of gods i've set up in this universe! so we've got (in order of like. "hierarchy")
mayhem and maelstrom: gods of war and balance (he/they)
pandemonium: trickster god of illusion (he/it)
bedlam: god of magic and prophecy (he/him)
hullabaloo: goddess of joy, day, and spontaneity (she/her)
chaos: goddess of narration, night, and tradition (she/he)
the Story are basically the worlds most fucked up family, all considering each other brother and sister. in the beginning they were fine, but as time went on things just naturally got more and more messed, and now everything is just a nightmare
chaos and hullabaloo are kinda a tier above the rest of the story, part of their own subset called the Storytellers.
hullabaloo wanted more power and betrayed chaos, trapping her in the void for eternity, as she wanted to rule the universe herself. which all circles back to how callie met dee.
in the void, chaos didn't feel like himself and took on the name calypso, which is how she introduced herself to dee once they met.
and nobody found out anything out of a series of insane miscommunications and lack of info! what fun!
but now in the campaign timeline, everyone's basically caught up. we've finished the first season and are heading into the second in a couple weeks!!! also excuse if this feels rushed at all it's because it is <3 LMFAO there's just so much with CnD, this barely scratches the surface.
there's so much i couldn't cover here like the prophecy binding the party to purgatory, bedlam's entire role in that, the mages, etc. we're like 25 sessions in and so far i've planned 40 more. i am SO normal!!!!
PLEASEEE ask about it if you're curious!! im so insane about my campaign it is my pride and joy :]]
in order there: hullabaloo, chaos, bedlam, pandemonium, and mayhem and maelstrom! ART CREDS for pandemonium and may&mae refs @weedsmokingbfs !!! once more muppy i owe u all my beans
#cnd#dnd#dnd campaign#ASK ME ABOUT MY CAMPAIGN IM CRAZY#clowncore#circuscore#oc#oc art#homebrew#dnd homebrew
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A growing number of patients who request medical assistance in dying are asking to donate their organs for transplant, says an international review that found that Canada is performing the most organ transplants from MAID patients among the four countries studied that offer this practice.
The report is the first-ever review of the growing use of this new practice around the world. The review was conducted in 2021 and the results were formally published in December 2022.
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“We saw everyone is working in different directions. And then we said ‘OK, well, let's start an international (discussion) of all the countries involved,’” said Dr. Johannes Mulder, a physician and MAID provider in Zwolle, Netherlands, in an interview with CTV News.
Data collected for the paper shows that in Canada, Belgium, the Netherlands and Spain, combined, 286 assisted-death recipients provide lifesaving organs for transplant to 837 patients in the years up to and including 2021.
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Doctors in Canada, where medical assistance in dying (MAID) was decriminalized in 2016, performed almost half of the world’s organ transplants after MAID for that period (136), according to the publication.
Data from the Canadian Institute for Health Information confirms this new source of transplant organs accounted accounts for six per cent of all transplants from deceased donors in Canada in 2021. Some transplants, like those for kidneys and livers, can be done with patients who are alive.
“I was rather proud that Canada has done so well in terms of organ donation by MAID patients,” said Arthur Schafer, director of the Centre for Professional and Applied Ethics at the University of Manitoba, in an interview with CTV News.
With more than 4,000 Canadians waiting for organ transplants, some of whom are dying, he says Canada’s numbers show a strong move to turn death into a win-win.
“So I say, 'Good on us.' It’s a wonderful opportunity for someone facing death to make something significant out of the end of their life,” said Schafer.
PATIENT-DRIVEN TREND
The international review on this new practice has been overwhelmingly driven by patients who are suffering from irreversible degenerative diseases, like amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS) and Parkinson’s.
“If this body has deserted me, I could do something good,” is how Mulder says patients frame their decision.
Canadian ALS patient Sharron Demchuk donated her kidneys and lungs after her medically assisted death in September of 2021. Her family says she herself pushed her doctors to consider a way she could help people after she died, becoming the first in New Brunswick to do so.
“She kept doing follow-ups, kept pushing and even though she wasn’t able to speak, she would make notes for my dad. ‘Here’s what I want you to ask them. Here’s what I want you to say,’” her daughter, Darlene Demchuk, told CTV News last year.
One of the goals of the international report, says Mulder, was to share information openly on how countries are managing this controversial and evolving new practice, including the tricky ethical and logistical issues of consent from vulnerable patients.
“What should you do, or what should what shouldn't you do? And how to keep the whole project completely voluntary,” he said of some of the concerns, noting that patients should never be pressured to choose MAID to increase the availability of donor organs.
That is a worry shared by Trudo Lemmens, a professor in health law and policy at the University of Toronto.
He points to statistics showing more than 35 per cent of Canadians who died by MAID in 2021 felt they were "a burden on family, friends or caregivers” according to a Health Canada report.
“I am concerned that people who struggle with a lack of self-esteem and self-worth may be pushed to see this as an opportunity to mean something,” said Lemmens in an email comment to CTV News.
With other countries like Australia eyeing medical assistance in dying along with organ donations, Mulder says public trust in this new medical practice must be developed and maintained.
“That’s why guidelines are necessary and should also be strict,”’ the doctor said.
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new phone who this
hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii i went missing for another few decades again 💕💕💕💕🥰🥰😘💘🤟💘🥰❤️🔥🤟🤟❤️🔥❤️🔥💕❤️🔥❤️🔥i'm so sleepy yall got no idea.
im hall, a filipino nursing student with the humor of someone who should not be in healthcare. you will only see me biannually unless god decides to love me. i write original works, all of which are 3 paragraphs from a hipaa violation. my search history will put me on death row one day. i write about everything, jam-packing my works with lethal doses of found family, 2000 ccs of trauma, fantastic homosexuality, the occasional god complex, and the arduous process of semi-legal adoption. i've been told that most of my tales revolve around grief and the concept of a beating heart being a good enough reason to keep living.
so where the hell are my books?
you might wanna come back in 30 years for that, bestie. i got a bunch of stories im working on alongside @canadjester, my best bud. here's some of our faves:
End With One (Never Zero) / Novel
The day after the sun fucking deletes itself from the universe, terminal insomniac Sage gets kidnapped by aggressively delusional twelve-year-old Sasha and the ragtag group of preteen social rejects that she brainwashed into believing she's the messiah. The reason for his kidnapping? He's an NPC—and she needs cannon fodder. The journey to becoming the Ultimate God is a savage one, and she isn't about to sacrifice one of her loyal slaves to ensure her plot armor is kept intact. So, she forces him to die for her.
He does. Many, many times.
In God's Image / Visual Novel
Greasy boy Rui finds out he's god and is promptly told to go find "some answers." His best friend, the sole reason why he is not dead yet, says that he didn't find out jack shit. He was scammed, she says, by a cannibal or incest apologist or whatever else decided to exist before the poisoned water supply and mutants drive them all to extinction. Best to forget about it, she says. Don't even try going to Death Ocean Incredibly Lethal Do Not Go Here It Kills Everything Turn Back for "some answers," she says. You'd be stupid stupid dumb dumb idiot moron if you did that, Rui. You aren't stupid stupid dumb dumb idiot moron, are you?
In his defense, Rui is addicted to adrenaline and very, very bored.
To Rise a Fallen Angel / (Self-Indulgent) Trilogy
Princess Avyalva Dembrose and her twin brother Avoristell have been left tragically unsacrificed after the Guardian Angel spontaneously Fucking Dies. Source of Kingdom Etheria's protection from complete and utter bullshit now eviscerated and reality threatening to become one giant gutter, Avyalva turns to her favorite novels for guidance. Their answer? Found family. Find a legion of really... unique... clusterfucks.
Unfortunately, none of the stories prepared her for the sheer amount of plot holes and twists real life has to offer. And how long it actually takes to get from Point A to Point B.
and that is all~~
this blog will mostly feature others' writing and, of course, my writing. expect very little discourse and posts outside of writing. let me know if you'd like for me to reblog any of your works!
note: a good chunk of the stories i have here are works that i was once writing alongside a friend, Marcy. due to certain circumstances, i became the one in charge of actually publishing the damn things, and now i own all her characters. i was recently informed that she had a writeblr before deleting her social media presence. let me know if any of the works are familiar to you! if you could tell me anything about what you know of them, i would be grateful :)
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anyway found a book with an incredible premise.
"'The Book of the New Sun (1980–1983, 1987) is a four-volume science fantasy novel. It chronicles the journey of Severian, a journeyman torturer from the Order of the Seekers for Truth and Penitence who after helping a client kill themselves is exiled in disgrace to journey to the distant city of Thrax where he is to live out his days as their executioner. Severian lives in the ancient city of Nessus in a nation called the Commonwealth, ruled by the Autarch, in the Southern Hemisphere. It is at war with Ascia, its totalitarian northern neighbour.
It is a first-person narrative, ostensibly translated by Wolfe into contemporary English, set in a distant future when the Sun has dimmed and Earth is cooler (a "Dying Earth" story). '"
WHO thinks of making his protagonist a "journeyman torturer"....i love it and I don't think that's something you'd easily publish as a fantasy writer today.
But it gets better.
"Severian, the main character and narrator of the series, can be interpreted as a Christ figure. His life has many parallels to the life of Jesus, and Gene Wolfe, a Catholic, has explained that he deliberately mirrored Jesus in Severian. He compares Severian's profession as a torturer to Jesus's profession as a carpenter in The Castle of the Otter:[4]
It has been remarked thousands of times that Christ died under torture. Many of us have read so often that he was a "humble carpenter" that we feel a little surge of nausea on seeing the words yet again. But no one ever seems to notice that the instruments of torture were wood, nails, and a hammer; that the man who built the cross was undoubtedly a carpenter too; that the man who hammered in the nails was as much a carpenter as a soldier, as much a carpenter as a torturer. Very few even have seemed to have noticed that although Christ was a "humble carpenter," the only object we are specifically told he made was not a table or a chair, but a whip."
........ jesus made a whip this one time so it makes sense to make my professional torturer protagonist a Christ figure - a catholic, apparently.
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