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cosplayingwitch · 3 years

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"Presentation is Everything"

Part two of "Finding My Way Home" series

Takes place 6-8 months after the last chapter

Prompt: flowers

Pairing: f!reader x Poe Dameron

Summary: Reader has graduated with their masters and had to leave their roommate/best friend/(crush?) behind as they go on to a doctoral program at a different university. Reader is about to present her work at a professional conference and an unexpected surprise calms her down.

Triggers: panic attack, slight stalker-ish behavior, these two being complete idiots, swearing

Tags: @make-me-imagine

It’d been over six months since you’d seen your best friend, Poe Dameron. You were successful enough with your thesis (even while practically teaching a field class for Professor Solo) and graduated with your Masters degree. And with the help of Professor Solo’s recommendation, you'd gotten into your dream school for your PhD.

Which meant moving two states away from your best friend/roommate. Not exactly something you’d wanted to do, but this wasn’t an opportunity you could turn down.

When you’d told Poe, he was very supportive, but still sad about the whole thing. You’d definitely stay in touch, you insisted. There was social media, zoom, all of that.

“Plus we could always meet up somewhere between us!” you told him. “It wouldn’t be more than a couple hours for each of us.”

That didn’t mean you didn’t miss him. His random breaking into song at what could be described as the worst possible times. What he always described as his ‘fact of the day’, which always dissolved into a random string of thoughts. (He still sent you his ‘fact of the day’ via text, but it wasn’t the same without his commentary.)

Remembering the night you spent stargazing, you also realized you missed your chance to tell him how you felt. To outright ask him out on a date. You always rationalized the urge away as not wanting to ruin your friendship, as him probably not feeling the same way as you. Who knows if he was even into girls (or anyone at all). In the many years you’d lived together, he’d never brought someone back to the apartment you shared.

(That’s because he wanted you, your heart shouted at you, you’re an idiot to let that go. But your brain insisted there had to be other reasons.)

Either way, the research you’d done with Professor Solo didn’t just get you into your doctoral program. You’d be presenting at a research conference soon. On your own. (That was a theme with Professor Solo. He’d help you start something, then insist you do the rest of the work.) This was your first time even attending this conference, let alone presenting at one. My god, you thought. How am I supposed to do this? Alone?

This will go down in flames, the voice in your head continued. You’ll fuck it up and ruin your academic reputation. And then never get your doctorate or a job.

When you get to your hotel the day before the conference was set to begin, every worry you’d ever had was spinning through your head. All the ways you could screw up nearly had you in a panic attack. Oh god, you thought, please let me get to my room before I start hyperventilating.

But then, you entered your room to find flowers. Yellow roses with a hint of red. Your favorite.

There was only one person on the planet who knew that. Poe Dameron. But how did he know where to send the flowers? Was he stalking you? The card read:

‘For my friend who I haven’t seen in forever,

My friend who is likely in a panic attack,

My friend who will kill it with her presentation.

You don’t need it, but good luck.’

God, he could write. And it’d been six months and hundreds of miles, but he still knew you well enough to anticipate what you were feeling right now.

In an instant you had your phone out and were calling him.

“Well look who finally called. I guess the flowers did the trick?” Poe answered.

“How did you even know where to send them? I never told you where I was staying! Are you stalking me or something?”

Poe explained, “Well, while you didn’t tell me the hotel you were in, you did tell me every other detail about the conference. And their website had the ‘official hotel’ of the conference, so I figured you’d stay there. The office there wouldn’t say if you were, but did tell me I could get flowers delivered there and he’d make sure they went where they needed to go. I took the chance. Obviously it worked, you called me and I didn’t even leave my name on the card.”

“You could say that. Thanks, by the way. You were right, I’m starting to freak out. I’m presenting my research tomorrow. The stuff I did for my masters. All these other presenters already have their doctorates.” you reason with him. “Maybe I’ll get there someday.”

Poe about exploded through the phone. “MAYBE? MAYBE you’ll get that degree ‘some day’? I did NOT lose my best friend to another university three states away to ‘maybe’ get a degree. You WILL get it. Not tomorrow, but eventually.”

You couldn’t tell if he was angry, joking, or trying to encourage you. A mix of the three? Somehow it did feel like he was trying to give you a pep talk. Break you out of the panic setting in and focus you back on the goal. He knew how much you wanted this and he would never discourage you from going after it.

“Okay then. How about you tell me about what’s going on back home and take my mind off this whole thing.”

Oh god, you thought. You referred to where he was as home. I mean the university, you rationalize, the place where I just lived and studied for six years. Poe’ll probably think that’s the case anyway. You certainly did not mean him.

“Well, you know while you’ve been gone, I went and knocked off another thing on my bucket list. I’m a few weeks away from having my pilot’s license!” Poe stated, which sent you into a small laughing fit. You knew he’d always wanted to, but with his awful driving skills you never thought it’d actually happen.

“Good for you, I guess. Just be careful- I definitely don’t need my best friend dying in a plane crash.”

When you finally got off the phone with Poe, it was late. You’d had room service delivered while you were still talking, him likewise with delivery. In some ways, it was like you were back together again, having dinner on the coffee table while gossiping about the faculty and staff at the university. Who was having an affair, who was being suspected of plagiarism, whatever the next big scandal would be and how the university would cover it up this time.

It was just the thing you needed to make you relax. Your boyfriend best friend supporting you.

You stopped yourself. Not again. Poe was not your boyfriend. He was a friend and nothing more. And you certainly weren’t screwing that up.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, or maybe the bottom of your heart, you couldn’t help but think of him in a romantic way. That maybe your relationship with Poe could evolve into something more. Maybe even hope for that happy ending. After all, he could have just texted you good luck, but he chose to send your favorite flowers and a beautifully written card.

That would count as a romantic overture in your mind. If you were in some kind of cheesy rom-com with him, that is.

Friends. Nothing more. Nothing less. Friends. You remind yourself.

Friends.

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Poe kept running that conversation over in his mind for days. I was a fucking idiot for sending her flowers, he thought. The note was even worse. Both were definitely something romantic, but he didn’t want you to know that he felt that way about you.

Then you asked about ‘what was going on back home’. Home. Poe asked himself if you meant the university as home, you’d been there for more than six years. Or did you mean him? Your formerly-shared apartment? Was your intention to say you considered the apartment, and him as an extension, as your home?

God, Poe thought. I’m way over thinking it.

But what if she meant that in the same way I meant the flowers? He asked himself. Some kind of idiotic slip of the mind that was only there because of underlying feelings?

Her slip of the tongue wasn’t as bad as his flowers, but it gave him some kind of hope that someday you might actually be a couple, growing your friendship into something more. But he pushed this hope out of his mind as best he could.

After all, they were only friends. Friends only. Nothing more. Nothing less. Just really good friends who know each other's favorite flowers and things that could send them into panic attacks. Friends who lived and studied together for long enough to practically be family.

Home? Just the university they went to. And where he just happened to live, too.

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Author's Note: So I used this type of flower because they are my personal favorite, but then I decided to look up the 'meaning' behind them... I suggest you do the same... (not intentional, but a really nice coincidence for this)

Also, I'll be updating this again next weekend with posts on Saturday and Sunday. Let me know if you want to be tagged in future chapters!

#meras30daywritingchallenge #poe dameron #fan fiction #flowers #idiots in love #poe dameron x female reader

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afternoonpoppy · 3 years

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Camping

Poppy awakens from her slumber, aaaaaa! This was for a commission but also something I’d wanted to sit down and write for a looong while, so this finally got me to do it and I’m glad for that. This turned out longer than I expected but I had fun writing it, so I hope it turned out well!

A bit of a chill had started to creep into the night air, but Allister hardly minded at all. Being sat by a modestly-sized campfire with Wolfram beside him, there was plenty of warmth to go around. And besides, Allister was camping again!

Sort of, anyway - it was honestly more of a meetup with friends for the evening, and they weren't even more than a twenty-minute walk from Allister's house. But the group had gotten a fire together, brought out a cooler with drinks, and even found some sizable logs to sit on. Allister preferred fold-out chairs, but his cousin Sadie had insisted it would make the whole night more 'authentic.' Plus, it did allow Wolfram and Allister to sit closer together. In all, they'd ended up with about nine people gathered together, some of them being mutual friends of Allister and Sadie, with others being acquaintances invited by said friends. The total was 'about' nine since Allister's coworker Vincent had shouted that they were going on an impromptu snack-run to the nearest convenience store thirty minutes ago.

"Honestly, I don't know what she was expecting to happen," Sadie was saying very emphatically from across the campfire. While the group had split off into their own conversations and activities, she'd recruited Allister and Wolfram into listening to the evening's third rant about the obnoxious roommate she'd been putting up with for the past while. "Like, she was gonna yell at me and then just expect me to finish cleaning up the apartment for her? I am under no obligation to do her laundry, thank you very much."

Marcus, the other of Allister's two coworkers that had been invited, walked over to take a seat by the fire just in time to catch what was being discussed and followed up with, "I mean, you gotta remember, Sadie. This is the same girl that thought she'd just hand in a Wikipedia article for one of her college assignments. You think she thinks this stuff through?"

Allister's eyebrows furrowed as he stared into the fire and tried to parse that statement. "Wait, as in she plagiarized a Wikipedia article, right?" Surely Marcus hadn't literally meant -

"I mean, I guess it's still plagiarism if you download an entire Wikipedia page and send it to your professor, yeah."

Oh. Allister nodded, struggling for something to say to that, but quickly gave up. Even if that anecdote weren't so absurd that it demanded speechlessness, he'd been content to let his friends steer the conversations of the night. Allister was just glad to hear what they'd been up to as of late, as well as to have a chance to sit outside and enjoy the wilderness. Crickets chirped in the trees of the woods and stars coated the sky up above, making a beautiful sight.

That sight had been one of his favorite things about moving out here from the city. The other being that he'd been able to meet Wolfram. Wolfram who had spent the first part of the evening nearly dozing off by the fire after the walk to the group's meetup spot, but looked to have regained some energy now that he'd been sitting down for a while. He hadn't bothered to take part in the conversation much either and had also been focusing on either the fire or the stars for most of the night. Allister wasn't very surprised, though. Considering this was the first time Wolfram had properly interacted with... anyone else in this world in person, Allister was just glad to get him out of the house. Getting into the car was still a no-go, but perhaps that would be another day.

"So, Wolfram, what do you do, anyway? You work, doing the whole 'actually trying to learn' thing, what?" Sadie asked abruptly, apparently letting the previous topic rest for now. "I don't think Allister's ever mentioned."

Allister's eyes widened and he glanced at Wolfram. The two had long ago decided not to mention the whole... 'magic and other worlds' situation to other people for any number of reasons. Not least of all being concerns as to what sort of attention Wolfram would draw as a (somewhat, at least) practiced spellcaster. It wasn't as if the pair hadn't discussed what their cover story would be to other people, but it hadn't come up very much as of yet and Allister couldn't help but worry.

Still, Wolfram seemed unphased by the question and smoothly answered, "I'm a writer. Primarily focusing on short fiction at the moment."

"Whoa, cool," Sadie said with a grin. "What do you write, like, romance, fantasy, sci-fi? Romance? I'm into romance if you've got any of that."

"Apologies, no. It is fantasy, my current project is a series of stories taking place in the same setting, so right now much of my time working on it is spent on world-building."

Allister was impressed at Wolfram's confidence in that answer. Sadie nodded, reaching into the cooler near her for a drink. "Neat. I don't actually read a whole lot, so no promises, but I'll try and give it a look when it's done. Either of you guys wants a beer?" She held up an extra can and tapped on the side with one nail.

"No, thank you," Wolfram said.

Allister shrugged. "Yeah, sure, I'll have one."

Sadie aimed to toss it to Allister but realized the fire between them might pose a problem. Rather than stand up and walk around it, she settled for instead trying to throw the can around the fire at an awkward angle, which resulted in it flying off to the side and rolling across the ground a bit. Marcus stared at Sadie with eyebrows raised.

"Uh, I think we can let that one settle there for a while," Allister said, standing from his seat to grab a can from the cooler. "Let's not ask you to throw things when you've had alcohol."

Sadie objected by holding up her freshly-opened can and saying, "Hey, this is my first one, Alli!"

"That was a sober throw?" Wolfram asked.

"Wait, shit. Okay, yeah, let's say I was drunk for that."

For a while longer, the conversation shifted back and forth through various topics among the group. Eventually, though, Allister glanced over to the trees around the campsite. He leaned closer to Wolfram and asked, "Hey, you wanna go for a walk?"

"A walk?" Wolfram leaned against Allister's shoulder. "Where did you intend to go?"

"Nowhere, in particular. I just wanted to stretch my legs and get away from the fire for a bit. We don't gotta go far."

Wolfram thought for a moment, then said, "We walked here and have to do so again to get home, so I would rather not. Feel free to enjoy yourself, though, so long as you don't end up lost."

"You sure?"

"I'm not frightened of people, Allister," Wolfram said with a smile. "I can handle any questions your cousin directs at me. Either that or I can ask her something about her housemate and let her talk for another thirty minutes."

"Hmm, I guess so. Alright then, if you're sure. I'll make sure I can still see the fire anyway." Allister stood up, stretching a bit, noting that Sadie and Marcus had both wandered off to the rest of the group and were yelling into someone's phone at Vincent, demanding they return from whatever had distracted them on their snack run. Allister had meant to tell them he'd be back shortly but figured he wouldn't disrupt anything if he just stepped away from the campsite.

Once he'd gotten some distance away, he noticed how quiet it was out in the woods. He hadn't been aware of the background noise his social circle's chatter made until he could hear the contrast in nature's quiet cricket chirps. It was nice out here. Much more Allister's pace than when he lived out in the city with his family, but this was the first time he'd taken the time to stop and appreciate it even after moving out here.

He leaned back against a tree, occasionally sipping the beer he'd brought with him, and started searching the stars for any constellations he knew. The answer was none, he'd always been terrible at telling constellations apart and never knew where one ended and another began, but at least they were pretty.

Allister's thoughts were interrupted, unfortunately, as a strong hiccup shook through his chest. 'HUP!' He raised a hand to his chest in surprise and instinctively tried to muffle the next 'HMK!' to follow, his own hiccups startling him as they broke the silence.

"Why n - HULP - now..." he mumbled to himself. As usual, Allister's hiccups were fast and obnoxiously loud. Considering it was almost unheard of for his cases to start up with no reason, he cast an accusatory look at the beer can in his hand. "Thi - HUC - this is you - HIC - your fault - HUC-UP!" He sighed - or tried to with yet another hiccup interrupting - and turned his attention back up to the stars.

Allister had planned to try to wait out his hiccups in the hopes they'd stop on their own. He preferred not to return to the party only to be a distraction for everyone. Unfortunately, he did wait for some time, looking back at the campfire now and then and eventually checking his phone to see that almost fifteen minutes had passed. It was becoming apparent that just the same as the hiccups didn't typically start without reason, they wouldn't stop on their own anytime soon either.

Allister grimaced at that thought. He had wanted to be back by now, but here he was instead, without even so much as a bottle of water to try to solve the problem. He hated what he was contemplating, but he hated leaving Wolfram on his own even more. So, without putting too much thought into what a terrible decision he was making, Allister inhaled deeply and held his breath. In the past, that had always been a terrible idea, but maybe that had always been a coincidence?

Successfully holding his breath with hiccups leaping through his chest every other second proved to be more difficult than he remembered, and it felt like he ran out of air much faster than he would have otherwise. And he was forced to give up that effort and breathe fresh air when his hiccups abruptly became faster.

Allister immediately regretted his decision. "Wa - HUP - wait - HUC-UP - please ju - HIC! HIGK - just - HUK-ULP - h-hold on - HIC!" His attempt at talking his hiccups into calming down did little to help. Even worse, they had gotten stronger and were starting to hurt now. Allister would have said it was because his own body seemingly wanted him to suffer, but he knew this was his mind's fault instead, for thinking holding his breath might seriously work this time.

"Allister?"

Allister jumped when he realized Wolfram was now standing next to him. When that had happened, he had no idea. "Fr - HUP! HIC-ULP! - Fram, I - HUC-UP! HIGK! - what - HIC!"

Wolfram reached out and patted Allister gently on his back, a look of concern on his face. "Everyone at the fire is currently engaged in a round of trivia about media that is flying completely over my head, so I thought I would come to find you. And it didn't take me very long to hear where you were... Are you alright? Those sound worse than usual, somehow."

Unable to form anything even remotely close to a proper sentence at the moment, Allister could only answer with, "B - HIGK-UP - bad ch - HIC! HUC-ULP - choices - HUP!"

"I'm not sure what that - oh. Allister, did you try to stop them by holding your breath?"

Allister nodded.

"Haven't you told me that's the one thing you absolutely cannot do?"

Allister answered with another nod and a whine between hiccups.

"And why in the world would you do that?" Wolfram asked. "From what I was last aware, there are plenty of drinks available that you could have cured them with instead. That's at least had a partial success rate before."

At first, Allister contemplated how to phrase the answer in a way that his hiccups would allow, then settled for pulling up a note app on his phone and typing. 'I didn't want to bother anybody. My hiccups aren't exactly subtle.'

Wolfram stared at the message, thinking. "I hardly think anyone present tonight would mind as much as you think. You honestly did not need to make yourself suffer like this."

'Suffer' sounded melodramatic, but considering he was still putting up with nonstop hiccup after hiccup, Allister figured it wasn't exactly wrong. 'I know it was a dumb idea. But everyone's having fun, and I didn't want to be a problem.'

"Honestly, Allister, you worry too much about these things..." Wolfram sighed. "Though I... have also hidden in a crate to avoid being seen with hiccups, so... perhaps I am not the best person to hear this from."

"You - HIGK-ULP - what?" Allister asked, too surprised by that statement to bother typing his response on his phone.

Staring down at the ground and fidgeting a bit, Wolfram mumbled, "I, um, it was rarely an issue back home but I... did have a particularly stubborn case at one point and... Hiding away until they stopped seemed ideal..."

"But a - HUC! HIC - a crate?"

"It - I panicked, I was in one of the Academia Arcana's storerooms to retrieve spell materials and - and I heard someone outside the door - the details aren't important. My point is, I do understand but don't do this sort of thing to yourself in the future, please."

Allister appreciated the thought, smiling at Wolfram and nodding. "Don't w - HUP! HIC-UP - worry, I - HIC - I won't."

"Good. Now then, I'll fetch you some water. Wait here, I'll be quick about it."

After a minute or two, Wolfram returned with a bottle of water, which Allister accepted gladly, trying and failing to state his gratitude, "Th - HIGK - thank y - HULP - you, F - HUC-ULP - Fra -"

"Just drink it," Wolfram interrupted.

Allister did so, drinking the water in quick gulps between each hiccup. It took a few tries, but eventually, they slowed down somewhat and finally came to a stop entirely. He waited for a few seconds, still unsure if he'd genuinely been cured at first, but then finally sighed with relief.

"Better?"

"Much," Allister said. "Thanks, Fram."

Wolfram smiled and leaned his weight against Allister's side. "Very good. Shall we be returning to the camp?"

"Hmm..." Allister wrapped an arm around Wolfram's shoulder. "It is getting a bit cold, huh? I guess we should." He paused for a moment, then added, "But... Hey, how about we have a real camping trip sometime soon?"

"We won't have an oven for you to cook proper meals, then," Wolfram objected.

"I mean, I guess not. But you've never had s'mores before. Those are best when they're toasted over a campfire."

"I've heard of those... what are they?"

"Chocolate and marshmallows, Fram."

Wolfram's eyes widened at the statement, clearly intrigued. "When is your next day off? We can do it then."

Allister laughed and hugged Wolfram closer. "Okay, we'll talk about it when we get home. C'mon, let's head back to the camp before Sadie comes to chase us down."

#Poppy Writes #wolfram and allister #hiccup kink #hiccups #alcohol

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monstersandmaw · 5 years

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Male uruk hai (Mauhír) x reader - Part Three (sfw)

Edit 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.

(mostly sfw/very very light nsfw) It kicks in almost immediately, hence the super short preview...

Whoop! Who remembers Mauhir? Well, in case you don't, here are Parts One and Two. My patrons over on Patreon have already devoured this, so if you want to be a part of everything before it happens over here, as well as having access to exclusives (this month it’s a naga boy!), then why not sign up to my Pixies and Goblins tier?

Hope you enjoy this - don't forget to let me know if you did by reblogging, dropping a like or even leaving me a comment/ask. I can't tell you how much that means to me when you do, but I don't necessarily expect it. I just hope you enjoy it - that’s the most important thing! :)

Content: 6048 words, some blood/conflict (not particularly explicit), death of a very minor character, a bit of angst, and lots of fluff (because it's me!).

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The morning after Mauhír and Okash had had their vicious fight over you, the Uruk stirred early, as usual, and grunted softly. You had been awake for only a short time, having warily watched the chief rise and leave the tent from the other side. Okash was nowhere to be seen, and you’d guessed she hadn’t returned last night. You honestly hoped she was lying passed out in a ditch full of warg shit.

You shifted slightly and realised that Mauhír was still pressed up close against your back, only now, his hips ground ever so slightly against you, and his left hand twitched suddenly, knuckly fingers clenching as his weighty arm lay draped across your waist. His hard length pressed against you too, and you felt a stirring of heat in your own groin that was most unexpected, given the circumstances of your captivity.

You rolled over just enough to be able to look at him and lay there a while, simply watching his sleeping form. Every now and again he let out a deep, guttural grunt which usually coincided with a sharper roll of his hips. His face was still puffy and tender from the blows his sister had dealt him, and his purplish brown skin had darkened under the bruises which covered his scarred face. As he slowly climbed to the surface of consciousness, his eyes opened and he blinked, looking straight at you.

“Pleasant dreams?” you asked coyly, and his tusked smile made you snort with laughter. He wasn’t in the least bit embarrassed about the nature of his dreams.

“Yes,” he rasped, deep voice made even thicker than usual by the extensive swelling and bruising. “You want… I stop?”

Crushingly, you didn’t get the chance to say one way or the other, because the chief re-entered, striding across the hide-strewn floor, and yelled something at Mauhír without looking at him, grabbing his huge war axe from where it rested beside his own sleeping furs.

“What is it?” you asked as Mauhír levered himself upright, still sporting an impressive hard on that was visible through his underclothes, though for how much longer you weren’t sure because the war horns were sounding, harsh and cruel on the morning air. He dressed hurriedly into his leather and fur wrappings.

Mauhír grunted in pain as he straightened and prepared to head out. “War band,” he said. “Centaurs.”

“Centaurs… You think…?”

“I think your friend is stupid,” he growled.

If Erica had convinced the centaurs to come raiding against this belligerent band of Uruk Hai, then she was indeed foolish. “She wouldn’t…”

“Stay here,” he snarled, grabbing his own war axe and hefting its weight in his scarred hand.

When you scowled at him, he leaned down and grabbed your tunic by the collar, hauling your whole body up off the furs by at least a foot and leaning in close to snarl in your face.

“Stay. Here.” His voice was threatening in a way that you’d not witnessed before and he shook you emphatically with each word as though you were a disobedient pup.

“You’re frightened,” you whispered, seeing a new light in his puffy, golden eye.

“For you,” he said, dropping you unceremoniously back into the furs. He strode away, whistling to Avhundas, who was already pacing in the main space of the tent, ears pricked and her ugly face alert and wary.

He didn’t look back at you as he made his way to the tent flaps, and you sat up sharply and called after him, “Mauhír!”

Only then did he pause, and he squinted, clearly having a hard time seeing you with his one remaining, bruised eye. He looked honestly incredible; his dark, purplish-brown legs built like tree trunks, powerful thighs barely covered by the leather wrapping he wore around his hips like a gladiator, his torso covered only by his scars, and his long hair hanging down his back in a bead and bone studded braid.

“Please be careful,” you whispered.

He grinned at you, scars stretching on his face, and nodded once before striding out into the daylight.

Beyond, the camp seemed to have exploded.

Tramping feet, clanking weapons, blaring horns and the yipping and yowling of wargs formed a chaotic backdrop to your own fear, and you crept closer to the tent flaps and peered out.

Okash was there, yelling at a group of Uruks who had just mounted up onto their own wargs. Avhundas was one of them, and Mauhír kept her at the back until Okash jabbed a finger at him and then pointed at the main camp gate. He simply nodded, no sign of their previous feud in his features, and dug his heels into his warg’s side. She sprang away at a gallop, large as a horse and muscular as an ox, and the pair had vanished through the camp gates in seconds.

“Be safe,” you prayed aloud. He was clearly a scout and had been sent to recce the situation.

A while later, Okash and the others followed him, with seemingly all of the other orcs in the camp proceeding on foot behind them. The excitement in the air was palpable, and you felt sick from their collective blood lust. You couldn’t help wondering that perhaps if you’d gone with Erica you could have stopped all this from ever happening.

The appearance of a figure right in front of you made you jump and you startled backwards into the tent before realising it was another human. Simon, the blacksmith’s apprentice from your village, had been sent to work the forge fire with the Uruk smith, and he crouched down in front of you and hissed, “Relax; it’s only me.”

“What’s going on?” you asked, recovering quickly.

“As far as I can tell, a group of centaurs was spotted not far off wearing war gear and carrying spears. Ghorga seemed to think they were only scouting though, not intent on raiding…”

“Ghorga?”

“The smith,” he explained. “How have you been? I haven’t seen much of you around the camp, except at mealtimes when you serve the orcs their food…”

You shuddered, recalling hands on you in places you really didn’t want Uruk hands. Well, save perhaps for Mauhír’s. The thought so startled you that you nearly didn’t reply, but you cleared your throat and said, “It’s… It’s been better lately. Mauhír has sort of taken me under his wing a bit.”

Simon smiled. “Good. Ghorga’s kind of done the same with me.”

“Is she out with the others too now?”

He shook his head. “No, but she let me go see what was going on. Listen, I heard Erica escaped?”

Cold fear shot through you as you recalled the events of that evening, and you nodded. “Yeah. She ran away while Mauhír and his sister were fighting last night.”

“You think this has anything to do with that? You think we could escape too?”

You shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t see how we can…”

“We could drug their food…” Simon suggested.

The thought had occurred to you, but you didn’t have access to any poisons.

Glancing across the courtyard, you saw that Argash’s hut seemed abandoned and quiet, and you’d glimpsed a number of plants growing which might be useful in concocting a poison that would render them unconscious if slipped into their wine. “They’ll want to celebrate tonight when they get back,” you said, thinking on your feet. “They’ll all be drinking. If we can poison their wine, then the humans can escape the same way Erica did while they’re all unconscious.”

“You wouldn’t kill them?” he asked darkly.

“I don’t think there’s going to be enough poison for that,” you said carefully. “If I can even find any at all…”

After a little more discussion, you and Simon decided that you would head over to Argash’s hut and see what you could find. If you could prepare the poison and slip it into the wine casks on the far side of camp before they returned, you stood a chance of escaping. It was a slim hope, but it was all you had, and you didn’t intend to spend the rest of your life as a slave in an Uruk war camp. You also decided to keep this between you, in case anyone squealed in the hopes of getting preferential treatment from their captors. Plus, if it failed, no one’s hopes would be dashed but your own.

You walked carefully but confidently over to Argash’s little hut while Simon headed to the edge of the encampment to keep an eye open for any remaining orcs. Most of them seemed to have charged out onto the plains with only the thought of bloodsports in their minds, but if Ghorga had remained, then others would probably have done so too.

At the tent flaps of Argash’s home, you paused, straining all your senses. You couldn’t hear anyone stirring within. You hovered there, tense and frightened, before taking a deep breath and stepping inside. It was dark and your eyes took a while to adjust, but when they did, you almost screamed with shock. Sitting in the centre of her hovel was the old, gnarled, white-haired Uruk.

And she was looking straight at you with suspicious, red eyes.

“What are you doing in here, human?” she growled without getting up.

“I… um…” Your heart thudded so hard against your ribs that its frantic rhythm was all you were aware of until you croaked, “Forgive me for intruding. I thought… since I was a healer in my village, that I might be able to… help you… when they get back… in case anyone is injured…”

A slow, cruel smile spread across her gnarled face. “Really,” she said sarcastically. “And why would you want to do that?”

You shrugged, aiming for nonchalant and missing by a mile. It looked more like a nervous twitch than anything else. “Figured I might as well offer. If you don’t need another pair of hands, I’ll take my leave.” And you bowed awkwardly, hoping to back out of the entrance before she could decide that you’d been there for more nefarious reasons.

“Wait,” the old Uruk snarled, rising stiffly and grabbing a knotted walking cane from nearby. Her knuckly hands gripped it and you realised with a jolt that it was made from the horn of a huge creature, perhaps an aurochs, and was carved with a repeating design of skulls.

“Yes?” you croaked, mouth completely dry, throat constricting with fear.

“Come here…” and she shuffled to the back of her round yurt and drew out a bag of tools which she unrolled with relish on a table. “You know how to stitch a wound?”

You nodded.

“And you know what these are?” she said, waving a surprisingly steady hand over an array of pots and salves on the table beside the tool roll.

You shook your head this time and she smiled that yellow smile again. “Come here then and tell me.”

You worked out that most of the salves were made with honey, to help with healing and to prevent infection, and as you worked your way through them, sniffing and inspecting, she seemed quietly pleased with your knowledge.

“I don’t know what that one is though,” you said, pointing at the last one in the row.

Her nasty smile told you that it probably wasn’t a pleasant concoction. “It’s made of naga venom and the sting of a giant wasp,” she said, “Among other things. I use it most commonly on amputations after cauterising the stump.”

“Right,” you said, feeling a bit faint. There hadn’t been much call for amputations in the village where you’d lived before the Uruks had razed it to the ground.

“Works a treat on burns, though the pain is ten times worse than the burn itself for a while. I think I can use you,” she added, apparently satisfied.

She kept you there until the sound of returning Uruks heralded the end of the fighting, hours later. They were laughing, jeering, and whooping, and singing some kind of terrible song that made your bones crawl at the sound of it.

Argash stepped outside, leaving you alone in her tent. On the table before you were dried seeds which you had identified as henbane. Perfect. While these were poisonous to humans, they had the effect of rendering larger creatures like orcs and Uruks unconscious for hours, sometimes even days. You bit your lip and carefully slid them into your pocket with the blade of a knife, mindful not to touch them with your bare skin.

You followed Argash outside a moment later and gasped when you saw what the returning Uruks had with them. Between three wargs, none of which you recognised, a centaur was being dragged along the ground by the hooves, and he was dead, no mistaking it. Looking away from the gruesome sight before your stomach emptied itself, you scanned every face, searching for Mauhír, but there was no sign of him. A frantic fear bubbled up your throat like acrid bile and you stepped forwards unthinkingly, drawing Okash’s eye as you did so.

She laughed as she swung down off her own black warg and said, “Don’t worry, little human, your runt will be coming soon.”

Relief washed through you and your knees wobbled. Argash caught the reaction and tilted her head slightly but offered no comment on her private thoughts.

A moment later, a screaming neigh split the air and six huge Uruks appeared in the gateway to the camp with cruel lassos lashed around a centaur who was thrashing and kicking, bleeding and screaming. He was covered in bite marks and gashes, but even bloodied he was not giving up. Four wargs prowled, one on each side, one in front and the last behind him, and the one at the rear was Avhundas. She had blood on her muzzle and one of her ears was ripped, but sitting astride her was Mauhír.

When he saw you standing with Argash, his eyes lit up with fear, but he quickly masked it. He was carrying his arm awkwardly in his lap, and you realised his shoulder was dislocated. He was also cut on his ribs by what looked like a glancing kick from a centaur’s hoof.

He swung down off Avhundas’ back and strode over to Argash, who shook her head, tutting, and handed you her walking cane. It was heavier than it looked. The gentleness with which she put his shoulder back into place surprised you, and he only grunted his thanks and looked at you.

“I said stay there,” he said petulantly, jutting his blunt chin at his father’s tent.

“I came to see if I could be of any help to Argash,” you countered with a hot snarl, and the orcish healer laughed, ruffling your hair with her leathery hand.

“The human is knowledgeable, Mauhír,” she said before turning to you and added, “Perhaps you should have seen to your master…”

“He’s not my master,” you snarled, but Argash only snorted and shook her head, the bone and metal beads clacking in her hair.

Mauhír’s expression seemed proud at your defiance beneath the bruises on his face. “Come,” he said. “You heal these,” he grunted, pointing to the bleeding cuts on his body, “Then drink.”

You nodded, guilt blooming in the pit of your stomach.

As you walked behind him towards the main tent, you caught Simon’s eye and nodded once. He flashed a grin and turned away.

Mauhír’s dark growl made you look up at him, and you realised that he’d seen your interaction with Simon and misread it completley. When you smiled and made to follow him inside the tent, he sneered at you and brought the flat of his hand to the middle of your chest and pushed you backwards, hard. You landed heavily in the dirt, winded and confused, and he looked down at you with disgust in his eyes. “You are not mine.”

“Mauhír,” you said, but he rounded on you and spat his words out as though they were nightshade.

“Not speak my name,” he snarled. “Go. Go him…”

With a heavy heart, you realised that now was the perfect opportunity to poison the wine, so you picked yourself up and headed away from Mauhír towards the stores before they could begin to crack the casks open and start celebrating. Everyone was preoccupied with either tying up the captive centaur in the middle of the camp, lashing his hooves to four posts driven into the ground so that he had to stand with his legs splayed and his wrists tied to the front two posts, or with dangling the corpse of the other centaur off the palisade wall as a sick trophy.

You didn’t linger to watch either.

With the seeds administered equally to each cask, all you could do was wait. You prayed it would be enough. It wasn’t exactly as though you’d had time to measure out doses after all…

The celebrations began not long after that, with some orcs taking turns to sit on the centaur’s back as though he were a wild horse to be broken, degrading him and humiliating him while he could do nothing but stand there while they sat astride him until his legs shook. His shame was enough to turn your stomach. You decided that once the orcs were asleep, you would free him too.

‘If’ the orcs fell asleep…

For the first hour, they showed no signs of being affected in even the least little bit by the narcotic. They grew rowdier and rowdier by the minute, though you were pleased to note that Mauhír was nowhere to be seen. You assumed that he had remained in his father’s tent, but you weren’t about to go and check. If he didn’t want to see you any more, well, that just made leaving all the easier.

When the first orc went down, it was met with a cheer and a round of fresh drinks.

When the second and the third collapsed a few minutes later, the others began to look nervously around and reach for weapons. You stayed silently out of the way, sitting with Simon in the lea of the small forge, watching the orcs stagger and sway and finally hit the dirt.

When all of the orcs around the fire were finally down, you and Simon nodded at each other, and he handed you a dagger from Ghorga’s collection.

“I’ll free the centaur,” you said. “You start gathering the others. I’ll meet you outside the gate.”

He nodded once and set off at a run.

As you approached the centaur, he looked at you with wary, white eyes rolling and his chest heaving. He was exhausted but clearly his adrenaline had spiked again at your appearance from the shadows.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” you said slowly, showing him the dagger. “I’m going to cut you loose. Tell me, did a woman named Erica find your herd last night?”

He nodded, tapering ears pressed flat against his flame-red hair. “Yes,” he croaked. “She said more humans were captured here.”

“Is that why your war party rode out?”

Again, the centaur nodded. “We were only scouting. They must have seen us in the distance and decided to attack.” He tossed the unconscious Uruks a disdainful look and turned back to you. “Was that your doing?”

You nodded and got to work on the ropes without waiting to see his reaction. Sawing through the thick ropes was slow going, even with the sharp blade, but eventually he was free and he staggered slightly before skittering out of the crude holding pen, haunches tucked nervously and dancing round in an apprehensive circle.

Simon appeared a second or two later with a group of humans following him like nervous ducklings, and you looked around and nodded. Everyone was here.

Turning back to the centaur, you said, “Will you take us to your herd?”

He nodded. “You can’t stay with us though,” he said. “You bring too much attention from these bastards. My name is Iarla, by the way. Come on, we shouldn’t hang around.”

You corralled the others into a group and turned to go, knife still in hand.

As you brought up the rear, something made you halt in the gateway and you turned to see Mauhír standing at the entrance of his father’s tent, holding the flaps to one side with his left hand. He was the only one who had not been present at the festivities, and he watched you and then nodded once, disappearing back into the shadows and letting the flap drop.

A hand on your shoulder made you jump, but it was Iarla. “Come on. Let’s go.”

You nodded and set off.

The trek to the centaur’s camp wasn’t all that arduous, but your feet still felt bruised and your legs like lead by the time you got there. Erica met you with a shriek of delight, and to your immense joy, you found that your older brother and the other humans who had been sent to the neighbouring Uruk tribe as tribute had been rescued perhaps four days earlier and were recovering well.

The reunion festivities were tempered however by the other centaur’s death and, more personally for you, your deception of Mauhír. You felt honestly terrible about it, but he had seen you go - let you go, even - and perhaps he was glad that you were out here, safe, and away from them.

You made plans with the centaurs to ride south in the morning, some of them even offering to let you ride on their backs to speed you on your way. Iarla was particularly grateful to you, and honoured you by offering to let you ride on his back. You accepted, despite not being particularly familiar with riding equine creatures. When you admitted as much, he just tossed his ginger head and laughed. “You let me do the work,” he said. “You just hold tight, and I’ll take care of everything.”

You curled up in a canvas tent that night and dreamed of Mauhír. You remembered in astonishing detail the way his body had felt against yours, the way his heat had seeped into your skin, the hardness of his muscles and of his morning wood against your body, and the gruff kindness in his voice. You missed him. And you worried for him.

Your brother woke some time after midnight and found you sitting up, hugging your knees, staring off into the darkness, and he touched you lightly on the shoulder. “What’s up, kiddo?” he asked.

“Nothing,” you said, and as the lie rolled across your tongue, an alarm call went up from the centaur on watch.

You and your brother shot out of the tent and, illuminated by the moonlight washing over the cool, whispering grasses, you saw the figure of a warg walking slowly over the grasslands, up the rise towards the camp. At first you thought she was alone and when you rushed forwards crying, “Avhundas!” you were immediately held back by two centaurs, one of which was Iarla. “Let me go!” you hissed. “That’s Mauhír’s warg!”

“I don’t care who’s filthy animal that is,” Iarla growled. “I’m going to kill it!” There was an ash spear in his hand already.

“Wait!” you yelled, seeing something slumped over the shoulders of the warg. You wriggled free of the centaur’s grasp like a rabbit and shot forwards over the scrubby heathland towards Avhundas, calling her name in the hopes that she would recognise you and not attack.

She did recognise you and yipped softly, and as you drew level to her you saw that the figure draped across her shoulders was Mauhír, and that he was in a terrible state. He had an arrow sticking out of his ribs, and he was cut and bloodied beyond what you’d seen him endure at the hands of his sister.

“Come on, girl,” you said, turning around and leading the anxious warg into the camp. “If anyone hurts this warg or Mauhír I will kill them,” you said, the warning flashing in your eyes. The centaurs saw the sincerity in your words and nodded warily, though in truth there wasn’t much you could have done to stop them if they had turned on him. “He kept me alive, and he let me escape. Let me help him,” you demanded quietly.

Iarla snorted and stamped a hoof, coming closer, rearing and plunging. “That bastard is one of the ones who brought me in, bound with lassos like a common plains donkey!” he whickered.

“Did he lay a finger on you?” you countered hotly. “Did he hurt you?”

Iarla’s ears went back. “No,” he admitted. “But inaction is the same as action when it comes to injustice.”

“What was he supposed to do? Fight his entire clan singlehandedly for you?” you shouted. “He let you go, Iarla. He watched you leave tonight and did nothing to stop you. He as good as set you free. Will you deny him aid?”

“No,” the centaur scout said sullenly. “And neither will I stop you tending to him. But he leaves with you in the morning, or he dies here tonight.”

You nodded gruffly and signalled Avhundas to follow you, which she did.

“Lie down, girl,” you said, pointing at the ground at your feet. She got the message and carefully lay herself down. Despite the efforts she took not to jostle Mauhír, who was still draped across her shoulders, he slid onto the ground beside her, mercifully not onto his right side where the arrow was lodged. That was going to be a bugger to get out cleanly.

You used every ounce of your medical training that night in stitching him up and cleaning the wounds. The centaurs refused to help in the surgery, but they did provide you with silk and a needle, clean water and bandages.

He had clearly been beaten within an inch of his life before he’d managed to escape on Avhundas. It was only as you finished with Mauhír that you noticed the gash in the warg’s hind leg. She hadn’t even limped. You cleaned that, not without her snapping at you, but after a stern bop on the nose, she had behaved herself and allowed you to tend to her as well.

Simon came over when you were just bandaging the still unconscious Uruk up - with some considerable difficulty, and he looked at you with confusion and hurt in his eyes. “You’d treat one of them?” he asked harshly. “After what they did for you?”

“Mauhír protected me from his sister,” you said. “He fought with her to keep me from being humiliated and used and hurt, Simon. I trust him. I don’t trust any of the others further than I could throw them, but I trust him. Why else did Avhundas bring him here? He means us no harm.”

Simon just shook his head and stalked off.

It was another tense hour before Mauhír regained consciousness. He swallowed thickly and sat up, grunting, before you could stop him.

“Careful!” you yipped. “Fuck, Mauhír, you nearly died. Are you alright?”

“Where…?” he asked.

“Avhundas brought you to me, to the centaurs. You’re going to be alright, Mauhír.”

He nodded and brought his hand to the thick bandages around his ribs. “Thank you,” he said and then looked up at you. “Is that right? ‘Thank you’?”

You smiled and took his jaw in your palm. He leaned into it, closing his eyes. “Yes, Mauhír,” you said. “That’s right.”

“I cannot… go back,” he said. “I go… for you.”

“I know,” you said. “Thank you. It’s going to be alright.”

He sighed and his eyes fluttered as he fought to remain conscious. His blind eye drifted slightly when he was tired, and you smiled at the unexpected softness in him. “Sleep now, Mauhír. We have to leave in the morning. They won’t let us stay here any longer than that.”

The Uruk nodded and lay back, staring at the sky above him and the canopy of stars. You lay down on his uninjured side and snuggled close while Avhundas curled up behind his head and set herself on guard duty for the rest of the night.

You let your hands play over the solid, iron muscles of his abs and stomach, and he smiled, growling softly in pleasure like a big cat as you eased him towards sleep.

When dawn came, he woke suddenly and sat up, unceremoniously dislodging you from your perch on his shoulder. You expressed your displeasure with a curse and a light smack on his forearm, and he grinned playfully at you, tusks glinting in the dawn light.

The rest of the temporary camp was stirring and beginning their usual morning routines, and it wasn’t long before Mauhír was on his feet. The centaurs had no food for Avhundas, but Mauhír shared with her the hunk of bread they tossed him, and when you had all eaten, the humans and Mauhír gathered at the edge of camp, preparing to ride out with the centaurs.

Iarla gave Mauhír such a look of caustic hatred that you thought the two might come to blows, but Mauhír only ducked his head and mounted Avhundas, wincing as he landed gently on her back, clearly jolting the arrow wound in his ribs. Uruks healed quickly, but not that quickly.

You rode with the others in silence to the edge of the centaurs’ usual territory, and then further into the lusher, verdant valleys you knew from childhood.

“We’re almost home,” you said to Mauhír as you recognised the old lightning-blasted oak tree on the hill outside the remnants of your town.

“What will you do?” Iarla asked when he saw the blackened shells of the buildings, cold now and lying in disarray along the hard-packed dirt of the road.

You sighed. “I suppose they’ll rebuild…”

“And you?”

You looked over at Mauhír, riding silently on the edge of the cavalcade. “I suppose we’ll see…”

The Uruk managed a weak smile and you thanked Iarla for letting you ride him. “It can’t have been easy for you,” you said carefully in a quiet voice that only he could hear, “After what they did to you…”

He laughed wryly. “It was only too easy,” he said lightly. “You, I owe. Them… Them I’m going to make pay.”

“Take care of yourself, alright?” you said as you slithered off his back, steadying yourself on his warm, chestnut withers.

He nodded. “You too.”

The centaurs left and the humans headed off to pick through the remnants of their houses, but you remained with Mauhír on the outskirts of the former village. “What will you do?” you asked him.

He looked at you and blinked slowly. “I…” he shrugged and looked away. “I can fight,” he said. “Someone pay me… fight for them…”

You scowled. “You’re no mercenary, Mauhír. Stay with me.”

He shook his head, looking down at you from Avhundas’ high, sloping back. She carried herself like a hyena, and had the jaws to match. Now, however, she wagged softly, the wound in her flank seeming to trouble her not at all.

You nodded at the warg and said, “Avhundas seems to like it here…”

At the sound of her name on your lips, she swivelled her head to face you and whined once, stepping closer and nuzzling at your palm, tame as a princess’ lapdog.

“You want to stay here, girl?” you crooned patronisingly and she wagged her stumpy tail again. “Is that right? You want to stay with me?”

More wagging.

Mauhír rasped a laugh and slid carefully down from her back. He patted her rump and she took it as a signal to wander off and nose about after game trails in the long grass.

The Uruk took your hands in his and stared down at you with his mismatching gaze. His blind eye and extensive scars seemed starker and more out of place here in the softer terrain of the valley where you’d grown up, but you loved him no less here than you had out on the plains. “What… What you want… for me?” he asked awkwardly.

“For you to learn more Common, for a start,” you grinned, and he smiled good-naturedly, twin tusks gleaming. “And… to stay with me, I suppose.”

He jerked his chin over his shoulder towards where the other humans had gone, and said, “They… They not like Uruk here…”

“True. Perhaps we should hit the road together… you know… travel a bit. Just you, me, and Avhundas?”

“You… You leave…” he looked around him and gestured with his rough, scarred hands, “You leave this… for me?”

“Sure,” you shrugged. “There’s nothing much here for me now.”

Your brother called your name before Mauhír could respond, and you looked around to see him jogging over. He eyed Mauhír warily and hung back. “Can I talk to you for a second?” he said, and you nodded, letting go of Mauhír’s leathery hands and stepping away.

“What?”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m… I’m not going to stay,” you said. “I can’t.”

He took a deep breath and shook his head. “I didn’t think you would,” he admitted. “I saw the way you look at him, and the way he is around you. He’s different, isn’t he?”

You nodded.

“Fine,” he said with obvious difficulty, “But you keep in touch, you hear me?”

“I will.”

You hugged your brother and promised to visit, and then turned back to Mauhír who was watching you unblinkingly from a polite distance.

He cut a strange figure in the strong sunlight of the fertile valley, with his mottled purple-brown skin and deep scars, but as Avhundas trotted back over to him and bumped her forehead affectionately against his hip and as he fondled her ears the way a lord would fuss a beloved hunting hound’s ears, you smiled.

He looked back to you and suddenly seemed so vulnerable for all his steel muscles and intimidating looks.

“Let’s go,” you said as you walked back through the long grass towards him.

Mauhír had only his war axe on his back and his warg by his side, but in that moment he knelt before you and bowed his head. He said something in the harsh, guttural dialect of the Uruks and took your hand in his. Something told you that the words he spoke were an oath. He pressed your knuckles against his forehead with great solemnity and then rose. “I… I am… yours…” he said falteringly, embarrassed.

You smiled and reached your hands up around his neck, more pulling yourself up to meet him than tugging him successfully down to meet you. You pressed a kiss against his lips, avoiding his jutting tusks, and laughed as his eyes went wide with surprise. His hands grabbed your waist and then the curve of your cheeks, and he hoisted you unceremoniously up around his waist, heedless of his injuries, and he kissed you back, his hands holding you firmly in place.

You caught him wincing, and you said, “Put me down you big idiot. When you’re better, we can do this and much more, but not til then, alright?”

He growled wordlessly, nuzzling kisses against your neck, but eventually acquiesced when you continued to protest. He then set you up on Avhundas’ back and then hopped up behind you, holding you tightly.

He had no reins to control her, relying on his voice and his legs to guide her, and the three of you headed out of the village and down the road, still heading south, towards a new life together and towards whatever your new road would bring.

His warm weight was a comfort behind you, and as the day wore on and your legs began to get sore from riding so long, you let yourself lean back against his bare chest. He kissed the top of your head and pressed on, leaving his clan and everything familiar behind.

And it was all for you.

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elliepassmore · 4 years

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House of Earth and Blood Review

3.5/5 stars Recommended for people who like: fantasy, urban fantasy, revenge, mysteries, multiple POVs I cannot believe my rating for this. It's what I think, but it's surprising considering I've liked every other book by Maas that I've read. It's also super surprising that I didn't exactly read the entire book, only most of it. Part of the problem is that this book wasn't what I was going in expecting it to be, so that was a massive surprise once I got into it. The first third and the last third of the book are good, I liked those parts and if that's nearly all it had been, I would've been fine with that. But the parts I read of the middle....no. The investigation sort of dragged on longer than I think it should've. Obviously it can't be solved in a day or a week, but this is a nearly 800 page book when it could've been half that. I've read other fantasy books with mysteries that clock in around 400-500 pages and don't feel rushed (in fact, Throne of Glass is one such fantasy/mystery). I think this is going to be part of a series, but in all actuality, the ending wrapped up a lot of stuff. Sure, there was that epilogue that leaves it open, but if you wanted you can just take it as an answer to some additional questions and leave it at that instead of letting it lead into the next book. As mentioned, I liked the beginning. I loved Danika and the Pack of Devils and their relationships with one another and with Bryce. And Danika and Bryce are pretty much the reason I like the ending as well. I would've liked to see more of them and their OG friendship group with Juniper and Fury. But of course that doesn't happen and everything gets fucked up within the first several chapters. The ending to the first part of the book was predictable and I saw it coming from pretty much the minute characters other than Bryce were introduced. Also, the mystery of where the Horn is was something I figured out pretty quickly once someone mentioned who stole it. Something positive I will say for the mystery and how shit hit the fan the first time is that it is so painful but masterful. Like, if you want to torture someone that's how you do it. So I hate it, but also respect Maas' choice. Bryce was an okay character, I actually liked her. She was loyal and protective, but she was also wrecked, which I think made her a better character. It was kind of annoying how Maas isolated her from her friends--Fury I could understand, but Juniper? And what the hell happened with Ithan? We never get an explanation for those two--but I suppose it was for Plot Reasons. I also wasn't a huge fan of Hunt. He was okay, he had some funny lines, but just as a character he was 'meh.' I'm not really sure the stuff that happened at the end needed to happen, necessarily (*SPOILER* if Aelin Ashryver Galathynius was one of the most powerful ToG Fae and she can't come back from the dead with more than a drop of magic, then Bryce, who had only a drop of magic to begin with, can't come back one of the most powerful half-Fae. I know they're two different worlds, but really? Bug off *SPOILER END*. Okay, okay, so I know Maas has gotten heat for plagiarizing herself before, but I feel it's usually minor enough for it to not be a big issue. Usually. Weird how the kristallos in this book reads so similarly to the ridderak in ToG. And how it's up to the protagonist to figure out what's going on while being guarded by some moody 'best of the guard' character who ends up being a love interest *SPOILER* who also ends up betraying her and ends up with a bloody face because of it *SPOILER END*, you know, not at all like Celaena and Chaol in ToG. And this is totally the first we've seen of glowing starlight magic, right? Or a city getting unexpectedly sacked? And asshole Autumn Kings? Or what about the coincidence that best friends keep getting into remarkably similar tragic accidents that leave the characters describing themselves in grief as having an internal 'light go out' *SPOILER* and then having those best friends come back to aid as ghosts *SPOILER END*? Or that line somewhere toward the end of the book about how Bryce will "bow to no one"? Maas is a good writer. She has some issues, yes, but she's a good writer and I'm sure that she can come up with a book that doesn't blatantly rip off her other ones the way this one does, because while it won't matter to people who only read this series, it will matter to fans who've read her other stuff and find this one $25 worth of repetition. One thing I will say, she's getting better with the LGBTQ+ representation. It's still more in the background than it should be, but at least it's stated from the beginning this time...which is a sorry comment on the state of previous books. I was super surprised when Danika and Bryce weren't revealed to have (or have had) a thing. They're best friends and Bryce is obviously gunning for Connor in the beginning, but parts of the book made it seem like they'd dated or been lovers at one point, but if they did it wasn't mentioned. I do not think she's getting better with racial/ethnic representation. Maybe I just missed it, but I'm fairly certain 95-99% of character in this book are white. Especially the main characters. It's a fantasy world. There are people whose skin is blue (maybe not in this one, but in some of her others), why aren't there people whose skin tone is black or brown? It isn't hard to write representation, all it takes is one or two lines during a character's introduction and some follow-through, something that's easy to fit into an 800-page book. I do like Maas' writing, but I don't think I'll be reading more of Crescent City. While this is her only completely new project right now, if she writes more completely new stuff I don't know if I'll read that either. I think I'll have to settle for rereads and hope that the remaining ACoTaR books will eventually be published. If you haven't read any of her other books (or you don't remember them well), this one is probably fine for you. This is also probably the book for people who like long mystery novels, since that's basically what it is (or maybe not, since it is a tad predictable). As a side note: I might edit/rereview this book later as it can sometimes be hard on the first read-through of something to completely articulate my thoughts on it (and I also might be hoping my opinion changes)

#book #book review #house of earth and blood #sarah j maas #fantasy #new adult #urban fantasy #bryce quinlan #hunt athalar #danika fendyr

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chaos-in-pandoras-box · 5 years

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What is Exclusive Conjuring?

This is a relatively unspoken trademark that spirit conjurers around the spirit keeping community perform in order to keep their work safe. Just as artists place claims and trademarks on certain original characters they've created, or how writers place copywrites on their work to keep it from being stolen, spirit conjurers, too, have their own method of keeping their spiritual contracts safe.

Exclusive conjuring is stating that there is an official contract, astral or physical, that is signed and/or designated by the conjurer and a spokesperson or leader of that spiritual race. In other words, although many conjurers might invoke spider hybrid/shifter spirits, like Jorogumo, arachne beings, and other spider "centaur"-like creatures, Dream Catchers are CiPB's exclusively contracted race of spider shifters.

Can other conjurers summon Dream Catchers? Yes, but should they? Not necessarily, no. Placing your own name on a type of spirit that another conjurer has made exclusive in their shop is like saying that you have permission to conjure and bind them, even when you do not. This causes confusion, misconceptions, and lack of personal knowledge of these beings.

Let me see if I can break it down a little better. For some reason, this concept of exclusives is much harder for people to understand than an artist claiming rights to an OC are. I'll use a personal experience. Many, many years ago, when I was still just a kid investing myself in spiritual and dream work, I was visited by a race that called themselves the Siole. These impressively crystalline and gorgeous beings were from an alternate realm of Earth, and constantly visited me in my dreams. When I grew up, I finally had the chance and the means to reach out to the leader of the Siole, seeing if I could make a more personal connection to them all. The leader--we'll call him T--was extremely cagey about letting me in to his world, as it was astrally dangerous, and he was a busy man. However, the connection happened, and after some time of communicating with T through conjuring sessions, he finally gave me the rights to befriend, conjure, and ethically bind Siole to any other humans who found interest in them and wanted to experience their impressive astral traveling abilities.

I spent years working with the Siole to get to that point. All along the way, I wrote pages and pages of information about the Siole and other beings from their realm. I collected info, names, content on significant events that happened in their world, etc. It took me a very long time. Through Commander T, I met and learned about the Penumbrae and the Yaw, two other exclusive races, and both quite dangerous. Part of the contract was that T and his Siole adviser were to be my go-to people for any Siole, Penumbra, or Yaw conjures and interactions. So as you can tell now, I spent forever building up all this information, filling up my Book of Shadows, making acquaintances, establishing trust. It was only fair to place the exclusive label on these conjures. For one, Commander T doesn't easily trust just anyone. He doesn't give out his regular name to anyone for a reason. Although I have written it down in my personal notes, journal entries, and my BoS. He doesn't give out information about his world to just anyone. Heck, he doesn't even meet with any other humans except Pandora, my wife. And if he does, it's through a controlled channeling instigated by him in a group session within our community. T does not trust people. He knows the destruction that can happen through spreading himself too thin, and he will not craft another contract with anyone else without contacting us first about it. If we haven't heard about it, then T hasn't visited anyone.

This is fair. Considering the fact I have worked with the Siole since I was about 10 years old, it would make sense for me to place some sort of "trademark" on all this work that I have done. So I hope you can imagine the type of upset and distress that both Pandora and I go through whenever we see another conjurer "conjuring" our exclusively contracted races. Those who think that spirit races are free for everyone are both right and wrong at the same time. Sure, you can conjure them if you think you have the rights to do so. But did you talk to the original conjurer first? If you answer no, then what you're doing is considered unethical, and you should stop immediately.

There are toes that can be stepped on in the conjuring community. The reason why many conjurers have exclusive lists now is to try and prevent people from being unethical, and to openly show that there are certain spirits who are just off limits. We've spent too much sacred work, special dedication to these beings to let someone take our work and consider it their own. And it goes deeper than that. A seller can't just put "Originally conjured by CiPB!" on their listings as a nod to us. We need to give people permission. Without that permission, what that seller is doing is stealing our life work, and that's considered a huge no-no to just about anyone who understands the ins and outs of seller ethics.

This is why artists don't allow other sellers to redistribute or resell their work. And I know of many artists who aren't afraid to go to court over plagiarism. And yes, taking someone else's exclusive race and selling it for your own is plagiarism. It doesn't matter if you've prettied up the listing to make it sound like your own. It's wrong, and it needs to stop.

Can mistakes be made? Certainly. I've run across several instances of people conjuring beings called pastel vampires, or certain kinds of void/vortex spirits, or even beings with gold blood like our Andromedan Star Djinn. But that's just coincidence, and in the end after communicating with all conjurers involved, things were worked out without any confrontation. The only time I've ever come across confrontation was when I brought up Dream Catchers being exclusives in our shop, and the seller in question suddenly took the listing down, claimed the being had been sold, and never contacted me about the occurrence. And yeah, they know who they are.

Now exclusives are tricky business. You can't just run around and slap EXCLUSIVE on an umbrella term race, like Marid Djinn, or Naga, or Sanguine Vampires. These are main types of spirits that you'll find in just about every conjuring shop online. Now subtypes of these races *can* be considered exclusive. The Awri Stone Sea Djinn, for example, is an exclusive in our shop. As are Gilded Forest Naga and the very fangy Sabyres, which are a sub-variant of Sanguines. But anyone who tries to say that their Ice Faeries or White Dragons are exclusive need to backtrack and make sure they're actually conjuring an exclusive subtype of these beings, because many shops conjure the more "general" termed spirit types. And in so doing that, they probably ought to state what makes them exclusive compared to other people's Ice Faeries and White Dragons. What realm are they from? How do they raise their young? What do they eat? How do they survive? Who do they prefer to work with? What's their energy type? Because I'm pretty sure if the seller can answer all those questions, they'll vary from one shop to another. I've seen some people list Sanguine Vampires as grey arts, and others list the as dark arts. I've met and worked with white arts demonics, even. It's not a matter of where the beings come from. It's a matter of their personal nature, and where they fit into as far as categories go.

Our exclusives are protected. Pandora and I actually have a list of questions about the leaders and spokespeople, and the races in general that only we can answer, because they are based off our personal studies of the spirits. Now if we contact a person conjuring our exclusives and present them with the question, they have a chance of getting it right or wrong. If it's right, then the leader of that race probably really did visit them, and we have no say in the other contract being made between seller and spirit. If they get it wrong, well... then they aren't conjuring the same type of being and should probably ask the beings if they can adjust the coined name of them so it doesn't conflict with our own exclusive spirits. Or you know... just stop conjuring them.

This is called ethical communication amongst sellers. Discernment, a professional and open attitude, and the willingness to adjust so that things don't conflict are really all just what should be human nature to begin with. It's not rocket science. It's just being nice. We're not in this industry to compete with other sellers. We're in it to make rent every month and connect people to the awesome races we have spent time getting to know, so other people can have great experiences.

I know this has gone on for a while, but I really wanted to get this off my chest. It's hard on us to see people taking our hard-earned work and selling it for themselves. And that's really all it is. So are exclusive lists necessary to keep a shop safe? Absolutely. In fact I recommend just about all shops start creating public exclusive lists of their spirit subtypes or ETs they've encountered. Having something open and honest with the community will prevent others from feeling like they have to steal someone's work to make a buck.

~Lu

#chaos in pandora's box #conjuring #spirit keeping #spirit companionship #exclusives #witchcraft #astral travel

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justauthoring · 6 years

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A Pawn - Sherlock Holmes/Jim Moriarty (1/3)

Prompt: You were a pawn - a planted weapon to destroy Sherlock Holmes. But were you, maybe, more?

THIS IS A MINI-SERIES: one - two - three

Notes: So I had a bit of time and this has been on my mind ever since I read @deerstalkersanddangerousthoughts‘s Every King Has A Secret, and it was just such an interesting idea that i had to put my own take on it.

Yes, this is partially a Moriarty x Reader as well as a Sherlock x Reader. I hope you all enjoy!

Please don’t plagiarize my work - I spend a lot of my time writing, copying and pasting destroys that. If you want to repost my work. please ask first - but even then I might say no.

REQUESTS ARE CLOSED!

“You’re just gonna run off like that? Really?”

Sherlock paused, back to you as he finished tying his scarf around his neck.

You huffed, leaning against John’s signature chair, narrowing your eyes as you stared at Sherlock’s back. He was foolish, a child - a complete child that constantly threw himself in the face of danger for the thrill of a case. Of course, that is what made Sherlock Holmes so special.

“Sherlock, Moriarty is dangerous.” You seethed, even the mention of his name making you feel sick to your stomach. “And you’re going alone?”

Sherlock laughed, as if what you had said was amusing - which it most certainly wasn’t. “Of course not, J-”

“Hey! I got here as fast as I could.” Your eyes fell on John, your shoulders slumping as the man stopped by the doorway, panting slightly. His eyes fell on you for a brief moment before falling on Sherlock, brows raised in curiosity. “You said it was an emergency...” You closed your eyes, pacing for a moment. John chuckled in defeat; “of course it’s not an emergency. What do you need now? Tie your shoes?”

Sherlock glowered, looking away. “Actually,” he mumbled, and you glanced back at him. “This time - it is an emergency.” Without saying another word, Sherlock raised his phone, revealing to John the text he had received moments ago from the one and only Jim Moriarty.

John’s eyes widened, and again, his eyes fell between you and Sherlock. “He’s back?” Sherlock nodded and John’s shoulders slumped. “Well that’s not any good is it?” It wasn’t intended as a question, and you could tell from John’s tone he was a little disheartened.

You raised a brow; “no, it’s not.”

“Keep your coat on John, we’ve got work to do.”

You crossed your arms over your chest, staring at the two best friends with an unimpressed look. You hated this - them always running off into danger. You understand it was their job, technically speaking, but they never bothered to let you come along. Sherlock said it was to keep you safe, but rather you just found it extremely annoying. There was a few cases Sherlock allowed you to join on, but that was only when you were going to investigate a body or something of the sort.

One of the main reasons Sherlock kept you around was, like him, you were quite good at deducing. In different ways than Sherlock, but nonetheless it helped. And at first, it’d been strictly that - Sherlock would called you when he, begrudgingly, was stuck.

Yet, somehow, and you knew he wouldn’t admit it - Sherlock had grown to care for you. In a similar manner to John, but you always suspected in a rather more... romantic way. And that inhabited your ability of being allowed on more dangerous cases.

Though, Sherlock always told you everything afterwards. You never physically went on the case but you knew every little detail about it - good memory, you had. Excellent memory.

“Oh don’t worry,” Sherlock said, glancing back at you with a smirk. “You’ll hear all about it when we’re back.”

You laughed, shaking your head; “i’m sure I will.”

Sherlock laughed, as best he could, flipping up the collar of his jacket and directing John out of the apartment. Just before they left your sights, you called for their attention. “Be safe,” you mumbled, eyes softening with worry. “Okay?”

Sherlock grinned; “always.”

You made your way to the doorway, watching as the two partners ran down the stairs, preparing themselves for what was to come. You waited a moment, glancing down at the stairwell with a distant look. You’re not sure how long you stood there before Mrs. Hudson’s face appeared in front of you. “Oh! Y/N, dear!” She exclaimed, and you blinked, pulling your attention on her and away from your thoughts.

You smiled; “hello Mrs. Hudson.”

“Where are the boys?” She asked, looking down at the stairs. “I’m almost positive I just heard John come in.”

“You did,” you reassured. “A case. Went running off to save the day.”

Mrs. Hudson laughed, shaking her head as she walked past you and into the kitchen. “Well then, would you like a cuppa Y/N?” She offered, peering past the wall. “I always like making you tea dear, you’re much more appreciative compared to Sherlock.”

You laughed, leaving the door way and pausing by Sherlock’s chair. “I’d love one-” A buzz from your phone interrupted you, and you fell silent with a frown as you reached in your back pocket for the device. Pulling it out, the screen lit up and the words you’d been awaiting to see appeared.

Your turn xx - J.M.

“Y/N?” Mrs. Hudson called, peering back when you never replied. “Y/N? Are you okay?”

Pulling your phone from your face, you smiled; “actually, Mrs. Hudson, i’m afraid i’ll have to decline that cuppa. Someone needs me.”

“O-Oh?” She fretted. “Sherlock?”

You made your way over to your jacket, pulling your arms through the sleeves and the weight of it falling on your shoulders. You grinned Mrs. Hudson way. “Actually no, i’ve got a game going.” You explained, “and it’s my turn.”

Mrs. Hudson smiled; “oooh! A sport of some kind? I didn’t know you were athletic Y/N.”

Walking out the door, you laughed. “More of a mental game,” you clarified, sending a short wave. “See you later, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Bye dear!”

“...Maybe.”

“Jesus Christ Sherlock!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, pulling his sleeve further down his arm and brushing away the stray glass that remained stuck to the window. “Oh please John.” Sherlock exclaimed, climbing in through the now open window. “You should be use to this by now.”

John made his way over to the window, slowly climbing over the ledge with a grunt. “Doesn’t mean i’m anymore use to it.” He spat back, following after the impatient man.

Moriarty had led the both of them into some museum, but in the back storage room. All that was around them was many, many different paintings. Sherlock’s eyes danced around the abandoned room with curiosity, keeping a careful eye out for the man himself - though, if this meeting was meant to go anything like it had last time, Sherlock expected it’d be more of a challenge to bring Moriarty out in sight.

First thing Sherlock noticed was the fact that this was an abandoned storage room, yet none of the paintings were covered in dust. In fact, when Sherlock ran a finger over a painting himself, no dust at all came off. It was perfectly clean, more clean than any normal person would go to keep something tidy.

“Sherlock,” John called.

Spinning, with his hands now in his pockets, Sherlock turned to face his friend. “Hmm?”

“Look at this painting,” John said, gesturing over to the painting of a woman placed before him. The man was crouched down slightly, gazing at the seemingly useless painting with much interest - which baffled Sherlock. “Girl With A Pearl Earring,” John named the painting, pointing at it. “By Johannes Vermeer.”

Sherlock frowned; “didn’t know you were a fan of paintings.”

“I’m not.” John shook his head, meeting Sherlock’s blues eyes. “But Y/N is.”

Sherlock furrowed his brows, but seemingly caught on to what John was insinuating and glancing around, Sherlock looked at the names and faces of the paintings surrounding him. He distinctly remembered you speaking about each and everyone of them with great fondness.

Most of the time Sherlock hadn’t been listening - you did tend to go on. But some he remembered, and almost all of them, John did.

“Water Lillies,” John named, shaking his head baffled. “And America Gothic. And Whistler’s Mother. Oh and look at that, her favourite, The Art of Painting.”

“Why do you know so much about Y/N’s obsession with art?” Sherlock questioned, his lip curled in slight discomfort.

“Because I listen,” John deadpanned, making his way over to his friend. “But that’s not what i’m getting at, what i’m getting at is-”

“Why are Y/N’s favourite paintings here.” Sherlock finished, nodding. “I know.”

“Of course you do.”

Taking a step forward, Sherlock’s eyes danced around the room. “It can’t be a coincidence - too many of her favourites laying around to be a simple coincidence.” Sherlock mumbled, his eyes searching low and high for any clues. He found none.

“What if she’s in danger?” John questioned, worried. “What if Moriarty got to her?”

“She was fine when we left.” Sherlock bit his lip. “But there was a reason we were brought here. He could’ve planned ahead. Though, what would Moriarty want with Y/N?”

John huffed - for a genius, Sherlock was pretty stupid. “To get to you, maybe?”

Sherlock paused, opening his mouth to say something but someone beat him to it.

“Good deductions John.”

Both Sherlock and John spun in the direction of the voice, finding you.

You walked in with a serious expression, in different clothing than you had been when they’d left. Instead you were in a dress, a red dress, tightly fitted to your body and your hair was done up neatly. You raised your hands, slowly clapping as your heels made tapping noises with your footsteps. You stopped just before the two, a gentle smile falling on your lips,

The two men looked around, as if this was some kind of trick or rouse and that Moriarty was somewhere around with a gun to your head - how else were you so calm?

But in that moment it was only you.

“Y/N?” John exclaimed, narrowed eyes falling on you. “What the hell is going on?”

You shrugged; “just a little game.”

Sherlock’s eyes fell on you then, narrowed. Though John glanced back and forth, utterly confused. “Are you hurt? What are you wear-”

“I’m not hurt, John.” You cut him off, sending a chaste smile his way. “But thank you for your concern.”

You turned your eyes back on Sherlock, smirking. “I assure you that he is here, Sherlock.” You said, your eyes conveying the mischief behind them. “Just around... the... corner.”

“What is this?” Sherlock asked, tone sharp.

You placed your hands before you; “we both know you know Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s eyes fell on you, eyeing you, deducing you with those same piercing, blue eyes he had before - the first time you met. All the words that had floated around you, that had define you - kind. Smart. Sarcastic. Loyal - all seemed to fade, leaving his mind and all Sherlock could see was the words traitor floating around your head. Suddenly everything felt dark, and Sherlock didn’t know what to say.

He always knew what to say.

“Well I don’t.” John snapped, “will someone tell me what the hell is going on here?”

“A part of the game,” a new voice said, and out came Moriarty. You remained still, not moving an inch until Moriarty fell by your side. Grinning widely, Moriarty brought you closer to his side, a hand falling around your waist. “And it’s Y/N’s turn now.”

John took a step back, breathless. “So this is it?” He asked, glaring at you. “This,” he gestured around himself. “Was all just a lie?”

You frowned; “this?” You mimicked him, pointing around you at the paintings. “This wasn’t a lie, John. I truly do love art.” John glowered seething as you giggled. “But the rest? Oh yeah, that was a lie.”

Moriarty grinned, as pleased as he could ever be and brought you closer; “see? My game,” then the smile dropped, suddenly and very quickly. “Is to destroy Sherlock.”

Sherlock glared at you, his eyes narrowing darkly. But you knew, and so did he, that he wasn’t just mad - oh no, he was hurt. Betrayed by you, the woman he’d grown to care for. Sherlock’s mind was racing with thoughts and questions - how had he not noticed?

“Double agent, you see.” You smiled, holding up your hand only for Moriarty to take it in a sick display of PDA. “I’m surprised Sherlock hadn’t deduced it earlier, I thought you were some kind of genius?” You paused, biting your lip and feigning though. “Consulting detective?”

“You...” John shook his head, fumbling for the word.

“Bitch?” Moriarty offered and you feigned hurt, placing a hand against your chest. Laughing, Moriarty moved from your side, nearing both John and Sherlock. “Plant Sherlock and in this case John,” John grumbled. “With a caring girl. One they can’t refuse. Make Sherlock fall in love with her,” Moriary sent a toothy grin Sherlock’s way, “then rip her from him - thus, only a small, beginning step in destroying Sherlock Holmes.”

“How do you he’s not just using you?” It took you a second to realize that Sherlock was in fact talking to you. Your brows raised in surprise, meeting the man’s eyes with bewilderment. Daring man, Sherlock Holme’s was.

You smirked; “he could be.” You shrugged. “But I don’t all that mind. Yet,” you paused, placing a finger against your lips for effect. “Something tells me he isn’t. Just the genius side of me working.”

Moriarty laugh; “she’s right Sherlock. Y/N’s clever, more clever then you.” He grinned, making his way back to you and leaning his head on your shoulder, staring at you with a dark look. Then, his head moved and he was looking at Sherlock again. “And she’s not boring.” Moriarty sighed.

“I can’t...” John huffed, at a lost. “I can’t believe this...” His eyes fell on Sherlock, gauging for some kind of reaction but Sherlock was still. Sullen almost.

“It’s a shame though,” you sighed, looking at your fingernails in boredom. “Sherlock was fun.”

Sherlock laughed half-heartedly, stepping back in disgust.

You grinned, glancing at the man of the hour from the corner of your eye. “For a bit.”

“Exactly my thoughts,” Moriarty laughed, his voice booming with amusement.

Sherlock looked your way one final time and you sent him a feigned sad smile, all the while he shook his head. Ever so slightly, you noticed his eyes water just a tad bit more then usual - and you knew, your goal had been accomplished.

Sherlock was hurt - even if he never admitted it. Moriarty had done, teared apart Sherlock just a tad bit.

“Time for a us to leave,” Moriarty announced, obviously noticing the same as you. Pulling you back by the hand, Moriarty waved. “It’s been fun. Til’ next time!”

You spun, following after the man. But just before the door closed behind you, your eyes fell on Sherlock’s one final time and what he saw in your expression - confused Sherlock more than anything had that night.

there’s a cliffhanger for a reason, so if people want it - i’ll do a part two. I worked really hard on this, so please let me know what you thought but giving feedback! remember, reblogging always helps!

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serendibidibidis · 6 years

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Issa Vibe Tag

I was tagged by @ssamdominic whom I love more than Kiseok loves not posting on ig. & @soul-less23 whom I love more than jay loves posting his stories on ig.

this has been sitting in my drafts for months

How tall are you? 5'7(/67inches/170.18cm according to google)

What color are your eyes? Gray/hazel

Do you wear contacts and/or glasses? Glasses because I'm super blind.

Do you wear braces? Yes I did from 3rd grade until my birthday in 5th grade.

What is your fashion style? Kinda boho, martial artist, painter, hip hop dancer, punk rocker, dog sitter, girl on her period...??? (I wrote this when I first got tagged and I'm looking at it now thinking “hmm makes sense”)

When were you born? I was born when the doctors decided to take me out.

How old are you? 18

Do you have any siblings? Yes.

What school/ college do you go to? I'm the hottest student in my school. Granted I'm the only student in my school but it still counts right?

What kind of student are you? Well my semester ends tomorrow, and I have 40+ over due assignments so. (again back when I was first tagged.. but I’m on my final semester & have yet to do any work..) I think I'm a great student

What are your favorite subjects? I love asl, Photoshop & photography

What are your favorite movies? Thats a really good question

What are your favorite pastimes? I don't really do anything with my life so

Do you have any regrets? So if you watched EXO on 'knowing Bros' when Chen shared his philosophy about 'i will not regret the the things I've chosen to do, whatever decisions I make, I will be responsible of them.' I live my life kinda the same way. I don't regret anything I have control over, because it was something I once wanted, something that once made me happy, or something I learned from. I refuse to regret the shit I've been through that's made me who I am. I joke about having regrets with non serious things like getting into kpop or trying to find a bias but I don't genually spend my days wasting away wishing I could go back in time. There is nothing I want to change about the past 18 years of my life regardless of how good or bad it's been. So therefore no, I do not hold any regrets. (this is gonna make me sound like a little bitch, but I’ve been through some shit I hope none of you never even hear about, and I refuse to regret my choices that possibly helped put me in those situations because I refuse to let people hold power over me.)

What is your dream job? I actually wanted to work in Asia for quite some time now and help with the mental health stigma. But I don't know. (I haven’t ever really been open abbot that and I only recently started telling people about it.. and the lack of support I've gotten, actually kinda surprised me.. so yeah I probably will end up doing something else)

Would you like to get married? yes and no, I put so much pressure on myself to be like my parents, who’ve been together for 26 years, married for a majority of those years. Who are just like my great grandparents that were together for more than 60 years, my parents have two wedding bands each. even my grandparents were together like 40 years. And I am so terrified that I’ll marry someone and we won't last. like I don't want to bring that shame to my family.. but I also don't want the shame of being unmarried either you know.. I want to please them..

Do you want kids? How many? I don't know. When I was younger I dreamed of having a big family because I have such a small family, but now I'm kinda like? Terrified of the idea of even becoming pregnant so I'm pretty sure I'll end up adopting my children (which I planned to do anyways ngl) but that causes me to have a slight problem cause I know I'd adopt older children but I have one name picked out for a daughter that I'd literally leave someone over if they said they didn't like it. And I kinda want that to like biological but it only works if it's a girl.. so it's very difficult.. idk.. I’ll probably foster children before I get married lol.. (that’s how you can tell if they're real or not, lie about the foster children.. and if they're chill with it that’s when you hit them with the truth and marry them)

How many countries have you visited? I've never left my own country before

What was your scariest dream? I have ptsd nightmares and to me I think those are the worst.. but I also have really fucked up dreams like Idk if any of you have ever fallen asleep high before or started hallucinating but I'll get dreams like that on the daily..

Do you have a boyfriend/ girlfriend/ significant other? Nope, it's literally been a year since my ex and I broke up (I'm not counting I only know this biased off of hair color 😂 most of you don't understand that but every year around this time I dye my hair a certain color and I know we broke up right before I did it last year because I was SUPER petty with that) in that year , I've made all these beautiful mutuals & become happy because yay friends. Whilst my ex got married (😂) to someone who only wanted them for a green card. #goals. I think I won.

skipping the first 15 songs

아라리오 (Araio) - Topp Dogg (one song in and I'm already feeing attacked)

뱁새/Baepsae/Sliver Spoon - BTS

Champagne & Sunshine - Plvtinum featuring Tarro

Hey - Jimin

Never Changed - Gmni featuring Chaun from the start

Deep End (Tarro remix) - THEY.

Post It - Loco Featuring Jay Park(’s vocals are higher than my self esteem)

Naked - The Tide

GO - NCT Dream

King Sh*t - Yo Gotti featuring T.I. (this was one of U-Kwonie’s hit the stage songs)

Trust Fund baby - Why don’t we (pls support this bop, I'm friends with someone in this group and I'm so proud of him, he’s worked so hard to get here. please don’t sleep on them.)

팡파레 (Fanfare) - SF9 (the original boomerang) listen I don't even care how much shit I get for that, wanna one gets accused of plagiarism far too often and it's usually with groups that mad slept on, and I don’t find that to be a coincidence. SF9 deserves better (plus fanfare is better than boomerang..)

F**k You - Derek Luh (I'm so proud of him)

Let’s get it - Woodie Gochild Featuring Jay park & Dok2 (when people say there’s not lgbt people in Khh show them this..)

Caroline - Aminé (not linking the mv, but instead an extremely powerful performance everyone should see) skip to about the 3 min mark if you don't want to watch the whole thing

why do these tags always make it look like I only listen to guys??

I’m tagging: @merlionmen , @pendulumandthepoet , @vangoghwithaflo , @fishiepower , @realmckitten , because you angels have all been in my notifs recently and I love you all very much

#tag you're it #this is late #oh well #you don't have to do it

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just-french-me-up · 7 years

Text

Triptych

Enjoltaire Week | Day 1 | Painting

Summary: Three portraits are discovered in a hidden cellar in Paris, all three dating back from the nineteenth century. What's weird is that the man in the portraits looks an awful lot like Enjolras. What's weirder is that the paintings are all signed "R."

Tags: Modern AU; Reincarnation AU; Rated G

Word count: 3.5k

READ ON AO3

"Remind me why anyone would choose to watch what is considered to be the worst movie in history?"

Enjolras sat on the couch and balanced a huge bowl of popcorn on his lap. Courfeyrac's picks for movie night were usually more mainstream and understandable. Well. As understandable as romantic comedies could be, but at least they didn't require much brain activity. At least it allowed Enjolras to switch off his brain and shove handfuls of popcorn into his mouth while wondering how heteronormativity and dumb misunderstandings had become such crowd-pullers.

"That's because it's an experience!" Courfeyrac argued, slumping on the couch next to Enjolras and seriously compromising the balance of the popcorn bowl. "As your best friend, I just can't let you die a Room virgin!"

"What's so great about it, anyway?"

"Everything! The acting is so bad! It's like... You know how people say that if you let monkeys in a room full of typewriters the monkey would eventually end up rewriting Shakespeare? Well switch the monkeys with aliens who only have a vague idea of how human interactions work and you've got The Room! It's flipping fantastic!"

Enjolras shrugged. The enjoyment of intrinsically bad media was beyond him.

"There are some really interesting studies about trash movies and their ironical audience, actually," Combeferre chimed in as he joined them in the living room. He brought heavy-looking pizza plates that he settled on the coffee table before settling next to Courfeyrac. "Something about collectively liking something so bad that it gets good."

"Exactly!" Courfeyrac exclaimed, triumphant. "So sit back and brace yourself for this absolute masterpiece."

He switched on the TV and started rummaging through the pile of DVDs to find the right one. Automatically, the first channel popped up on screen. The news were still on and a generic news anchor looked at the three of them in the eyes.

"Wait," Enjolras said before Courfeyrac could switch on the DVD player.

"And tonight we come back on an incredible discovering in Paris earlier today," the news anchor announced, "when three paintings were discovered in a cellar in the Latin Quarter. The three works of art allegedly date back from the nineteenth century and predate the Haussmanian renovations of the capital. For more on this story, we go to Olivier Barron in the Latin Quarter, Olivier?"

The three paintings appeared on screen. Silence fell on the living room, leaving nothing but the artificial chatter of the television. In his seat, Enjolras turned to stone.

"-Twitter already rushed to title the works names such as 'Apollo in Red'-"

"Enjolras..."

That jaw line. That nose. The same eye colour. Enjolras' throat tightened. A cold shiver ran down his spine.

"Holy shit," Courfeyrac whispered. "Enj, it's you!"

Enjolras shuffled some papers around, trying to get his hands on notes he had written down the night before, somewhere around his third cup of coffee o'clock. There were some points about the upcoming the labour reform he really wanted to discuss during the meeting, if only he could find the damn thing. A pat on his shoulder took him by surprise.

"I think you're looking for this," Combeferre said, handing him the very notes he was looking for. "I forgot to tell you I took it. I just added a few remarks."

'A few remarks' in Combeferre's vocabulary entailed enthusiastic and colourful highlighting and additional notes scribbled in the margins that were illegible, including to Combeferre himself. Still, two minds were better than one, and Combeferre's mind was an undeniable asset. Enjolras took the revised notes with a smile.

"Thanks, I'll read though them."

Combeferre nodded and took his seat between Courfeyrac and Feuilly. Enjolras was the only one standing at this point, towering over his notes and the various things he had brought with him. The chatter began to fade. They all turned their attention towards him. The meeting officially begun.

"Okay, guys, so I thought we could start things off with some details about the labour reform and how―"

"Er-Sorry," Courfeyrac cut off, "but aren't we going to talk about the fact that they found paintings that look exactly like Enjolras?"

His remark was met with a few raised eyebrows and confused looks. Enjolras nervously raked a hand through his hair. Courfeyrac had not let this go since the night before.

"Oh come on! It was all over the news! Didn't you see it?"

"Courf, I don't think it's―"

It was already too late. All the others had already taken their phones out. Enjolras stood there awkwardly while they checked the news, and even more awkwardly when their eyes went from the screens to him in shock. Joly's jaw dropped.

"Oh my god, Enjolras, it is you!" he exclaimed.

"There's even the mole on your shoulder!" Bahorel added.

"See? It's him, I'm telling you!"

Emboldened by the number of allies on his side, Courfeyrac started listing the similarities between the painting and Enjolras, much to the latter's dismay. Why did it matter? Maybe he had a nineteenth-century look alike who had the same mole at the same place. So what? Enjolras let out a long sigh that was immediately drowned in the voices rising from the table. He shared a look with Combeferre, who picked up on his mood.

"Okay, but can we try to focus on the meeting?" Combeferre tried, rushing to Enjolras' rescue.

Almost like reprimanded students, the rest of les Amis sat back properly on their chairs and quietened down. Enjolras nodded in Combeferre's direction as a 'thank you'.

"So, as I was saying―"

"It's signed R," Feuilly said, deadpan.

"What?"

"It's signed 'R.'," he repeated. "It written right here, 'all three works are signed by the same hand, an unknown painter only identified by the letter R.' R. Like Grantaire."

There was electricity in the air. All eyes turned towards Grantaire, who looked as stunned as the rest of them. The room grew suddenly silent.

"What?" Grantaire asked, shuffling uncomfortably on his chair.

"I mean, you have to admit it's weird," Bossuet said.

Grantaire pointedly avoided looking at Enjolras in the eyes, running his hand through his curls. That was a lot of coincidences, even for Enjolras. For a second, his mind when for outlandish scenarios about how Grantaire could have planted those paintings there for whatever reason, before his logic took over. No. That cellar had been buried underground for more than a century. There was no way for Grantaire to know it was there! And experts had already dated the paintings!

Enjolras cleared his voice.

"Grantaire, did you somehow go back in time to paint me before abandoning those paintings in a random cellar?"

Grantaire snorted.

"No."

"That's what I thought," Enjolras said, giving Courfeyrac a meaningful look. "Now, if that's settled, can we go back to the labour reform and how it's going to affect us all?"

The rest of the meeting went without a hitch, with the usual amount of wits, snark, and dedication Enjolras cherished in his friends. Joly had been in charge of writing down all the ideas and suggestions for them to use as a starting point the following week. All in all, an evening well spent.

They all lingered in the backroom of the Musain for a while, talking about more casual topics while they stacked the chairs against the wall. The room emptied slowly. Enjolras was putting his things away in his satchel when Jehan came up to him.

"Hey. Can we talk?"

They looked a little hesitant. Enjolras smiled at them in an attempt to put them at ease.

"Sure. What's up?"

"It's about that thing with the paintings."

Oh. Clearly something in his expression had changed, because Jehan rushed to add:

"Just hear me out. It's just―Listen, okay? Is it okay if we sit?"

Enjolras nodded and sat on one of the few remaining chair. Jehan took another and sat across from him. They looked very serious, all of a sudden.

"Okay, so when I was in highschool, I participated in that poetry contest my school organised every year. So I wrote my poem and submitted it, but it was denied. Plagiarism. Even though I'd written it all myself. I didn't get it, so I asked what the original poem was from, just to see it for myself. It was from an old poetry collection from the nineteenth century, a book that had been sleeping in the Parisian archives for decades. And my poem was in there. Word for word. And the rest of the book was just... me. My style. It was like an out of body experience."

Enjolras listened intentely. He didn't know what to think about it. It was too weird. Stuff like that... It was only weird coincidences, right? What was it that Courfeyrac said about monkeys and typewriters? Still, he could not deny the sick feeling weighing on his stomach.

"Do you know who wrote the poetry collection?"

Jehan shook their head.

"I asked, but the people at the archives just told me it was seized propriety from someone who had committed treason. Then maybe someone deemed the poetry good enough to archive it. There was no name on it. The last poem was written in 1832, and the pages are all blank, so I guess the poet was arrested around that time."

"Sounds like a free thinker," Enjolras smiled. "Maybe you have more in common than poetry. So you think it's a similar thing? That it's a coincidence?"

"I don't know," Jehan sighed. "But it's weird, right? I mean surely it means something. Stuff like that wouldn't randomly pop up unless there was an explanation behind it, even if it's not a scientific one."

That where Jehan differed from Enjolras. While Jehan accepted the metaphysical and the paranormal as a natural aspect of life, Enjolras' mind favoured more rational interpretations. It was weird, for sure. But people simply did not exist in two timelines. That didn't happen. They would know about it by now if it existed.

Enjolras rubbed his neck. It was stiff from staying up too late doing research on that fucking labour reform.

"I don't know what to tell you, Jehan. It's just beyond my understanding, you know? Maybe someone really looked like me, two hundred years ago. It happens. People have look alike, even today. As for the poem... I just don't know."

Jehan smiled at him softly and rubbed his shoulder.

"It's getting late, Enj'. Courf and Ferre are waiting for you. Get some rest, okay?"

"Thanks, Jehan. I'll try."

When Enjolras went to bed that night, he dreamt of a book of blank pages, and when he looked down, he had a rose in his breast pocket. The colour had bled onto his shirt, and the stain kept growing, and growing, and growing.

When he woke up, he could still smell a hint of gunpowder.

The following days were spend avoiding the news, which was highly inconvenient because a) Enjolras liked to keep himself informed and b) you never know how much news exposure there is until you try to avoid it. Enjolras just couldn't bear to see his face on the screen, or whoever's face it was. It freaked him out. It would have freaked anyone out. He didn't even know how Jehan coped with the fact that there was a book out there that mirrors their lyricism.

Eventually, he resorted to studying in his room, in the hope of avoiding the clutter of thoughts that raged in his mind. It's nothing, his reason kept telling him. In two centuries, at least two people were bound to look alike.

Still, he couldn't focus. He kept rereading the same sentence from his textbook over and over, none of it making much sense to a very noisy mind. Frustrated, Enjolras snapped the book closed and leant back against his chair. On his desk, his laptop was open on the google search page. He hesitated. Reason held back his hand, but another voice whispered to his ear. What if there was really something going on? Curiosity killed the cat, reason retorted. Enjolras took a deep breath.

Fuck it.

A quick search informed him that the paintings were being studied by experts in Paris, so that they could properly date it. A website had uploaded close up photographs of details, ranging from the golden laurel wreath crowning the model's head to his beauty marks. An uncomfortable feeling weighed on Enjolras' stomach. Even the details were uncanny.

The signature was studied under every angle, with matching hypothesis about who the painter could have been according to the loop of the R. People had really spent time on this. Enjolras was a stranger to art history and discoveries, so perhaps those paintings were a gold mine for people who worked in that field. Perhaps it was their Howard Carter discovering Tutankhamun's tomb moment.

He went back to the google homepage and typed "1832 France." The first results mentioned something about a cholera epidemic. Enjolras kept scrolling until something caught his eye. Republican Insurrection in Paris, 1832. Jean Maximilien Lamarque. He clicked the wikipedia link and started reading. Barricades, students, National Guard, Faubourg Saint-Martin... His eyes were glued to the screen.

That's something I could see myself participate in, Enjolras thought, before the uneasy feeling overwhelmed him again. That event felt too close for comfort. Yet, Enjolras kept on reading.

A knock on the door made him jump. He almost knocked his chair over, and himself with it. The sky had gone dark outside, and Enjolras's eyes had the greatest difficulty to adjust to the darkness. Someone switched the lights on.

"Are you okay?" Combeferre's voice asked.

"Yeah. I've just been staring at the screen for too long," Enjolras said, rubbing his eyes.

Though blurry, his vision got slightly better. For one thing, he could see Combeferre standing by the door. He was holding steaming mug in each of his hands.

"Is that coffee?"

"Infusion, actually," Combeferre smiled. "I came to see if you wanted one. You've been in here for hours, we were starting to get a little worried."

"I'm fine. I was just reading stuff."

Enjolras scratched his scalp and lifted his arm to accept Combeferrre's plant water. It wasn't coffee, but he had to admit he was parched. Combeferre sat on the bed next to him.

"Anything interesting?"

"Just history stuff. Very educational."

Enjolras closed the various tabs he had opened on the June Rebellion, accidentally missing the one about the three paintings. "Apollo in Red." The name seemed to have stuck.

"I thought you weren't interested in those," Combeferre pointed out, taking a sip out of his mug.

"I don't. I mean, I do but it's not... It's weird, right? I keep telling myself that it's not weird and that those kind of coincidences happen all the time, but it's still weird."

"Well it doesn't happen every day, that's for sure."

There was a moment of silence during which Enjolras sighed and dragged his hand across his face. His mind was buzzing.

"You look like you could use a break," Combeferre said, giving his shoulder a light squeeze. "Come. Courf is making dinner."

Enjolras nodded slowly. Maybe he did need a break. He followed Combeferre to the kitchen, holding his warm mug against his chest. In his room, Apollo in Red shone in the dark.

A few weeks passed. Enjolras still heard about Apollo in Red here and there, but it was quickly replaced by other, fresher stories. His heart still made a double back-flip when he heard that the experts had situated the completion of the pieces around the 1820s early 1830s. After that, he did his best to direct his mind towards the future to avoid dwelling on the distant past. Whatever happened to that sitter or the poet of Jehan's book, they were long gone. There was no time like the present.

Yet, in spite of his best efforts, Enjolras couldn't seem to escape the past. One morning, Courfeyrac presented him with a museum ticket, sliding the piece of paper across the breakfast bar.

"Thank you?" he said, a little confused. And sleepy.

"They're putting the paintings on display today," Courfeyrac explained. "Now you can see them from up close."

Enjolras' gaze went from Courfeyrac to the ticket. It was too early for this. He didn't even know if he wanted to be awake right now.

"Or you can just go to the museum after class," Courfeyrac shrugged, since Enjolras hadn't said anything. "For fun. Or whatever you go to museums for. Elevate your understanding of humanity, or some shit."

Enjolras let out a hoarse chuckle in his mug.

"I guess I'll consider that as a cultural outing. Thanks, Courf."

He carried the ticket around in his wallet for the rest of the day. By the end of it, Enjolras had forgotten up to its existence. It's only when he looked for his métro pass that he noticed the piece of paper stuck between his ID and his insurance card. The museum was only three stations away. For a minute, Enjolras stood there, debating whether or not he wanted to dive head first into the uncanny and the unexplainable. He looked at his watch. The museum was closing in an hour. The past can't hurt you, he thought as he got into the coach, waiting through the three stations.

There weren't as many people at the museum as he had expected. Perhaps because closing hour was slowly but surely ticking by. Enjolras didn't need to look for the painting for long. They had made sure to guide people right to the jewel of the exhibition. As Enjolras entered the oval room where the paintings were kept, his attention wasn't directed to the paintings, but to a familiar face, standing a few yards away.

Grantaire.

Enjolras' heart did a somersault. There was something about seeing Grantaire here, right next to Apollo in Red, but Enjolras couldn't quite pin point it. One of his hands held nervously on to the strap of his satchel as he came closer.

"Hey," he said, trying to sound casual, though the atmosphere didn't quite work in his favour. "I didn't expect to see you here."

"Well, apparently I painted these, so I thought I might as well go and see them. My first exhibition. It's a very emotional moment."

Enjolras could tell he was joking, or endeavouring to. Maybe that's how he dealt with the uncanny and the unexplainable. On the wall, one of the paintings stared back at him. It was like looking in a mirror, but with a 180 year reflection delay. Enjolras lowered his eyes, stared down by his own image.

"Did Jehan tell you about their poem? The one that got denied for their poetry contest?"

Grantaire nodded, still looking at the paintings.

"Do you really thing it's remotely possible that this is me?"

"Maybe," Grantaire shrugged. "Why not?"

"Because it doesn't exist! It just doesn't happen like that. There's no way that could be me. I'm me, I am one person."

Voicing all the thoughts and doubts that had been reeling in his mind for so long felt liberating, though he had to keep his tone in check. Grantaire smirked at him.

"Now who's the skeptic, Apollo?"

"You can't be serious. It doesn't make sense."

"We're on a blue ball adrift in the universe, rotating around a giant ball of fire that will swallow us all one day. Nothing makes sense. Me painting you almost two centuries ago makes more sense than that."

Enjolras opened his mouth, but realised he had nothing to say to that. Yes. Maybe things didn't make sense. Maybe trying to make sense of it didn't make sense. He took a couple steps back and sat on a plastic bench. Grantaire followed him.

"So what if this is actually me? What does that mean?"

Grantaire shrugged.

"We may never know. But I have to say, my shading game was on point on that one."

"It's very beautifully done indeed," Enjolras agreed, giving him an amused look.

"Thank you."

"So that means we were close, right? If I sat for one of your pieces. Well. Three of your pieces."

He didn't really know if he was joking in all good fun or actually talking seriously anymore. For some reason, it felt right.

"Close enough for you to accept being drapped naked in a red sheet. It'd say that's pretty fucking close."

"How close?"

"Very close."

As close as they were now. Enjolras realised his hand was almost touching Grantaire's. To his own surprise, he found that he didn't mind it. On the contrary. That too, felt right.

"How much do you know about the June Rebellion?" Enjolras asked.

"What I've read online, why?"

"Well, I thought maybe you'd like to hear about it. It's all fascinating stuff. Maybe around a coffee, or something?"

He barely recognised the chirp in his own voice. Grantaire looked at him, as though he couldn't believe the words Enjolras had uttered. His face softened a second later.

"Yeah. Coffee sounds nice."

#les miserables #enjoltaire #enjoltaireweek2017 #exrweek2017 #enjolras #grantaire #exr #granjolras #written stuff #mine #les mis fic #les miserables fanfiction #les mis #les amis #courfeyrac #combeferrre #jehan #the ending is open because of course they fall in love #the luv

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serahne · 7 years

Note

11, 21. L and Light.

Hi ! Thanks for requesting this couple, I’ve decided to go with the first one and with a College!AU because why not, hum ? It’s barely romantic, really ( though very, very slightly nsfw-ish at some point ). It’s also way too long, haaaa.

11 - “Same time tomorrow?”

The teachers lounge was empty, even though the door was unlocked and Light thought that it was rather telling of the teacher’s low income through the country that not one of them had something stealing-worthy in the room, but it was convenient. He could wait inside.

He had never been in the teacher’s lounge before. And really, it made sense : the only time students had business in this room was when they were turning their assignment too late and had to put it into a teacher’s locker, or when they needed advice or help in their classes.

Needless to say, Light wasn’t the kind of student who were late with their homework. He was a straight-A student, a ‘genius’ as the rumor said, the pride of their college, the kind that his teachers would brag about in the future ‘I was the teacher of Light Yagami, it was obvious he would do great thing with his life, I can’t help but think that I took part in the formation of this bright young man.” It was okay, Light thought. If they wanted the scraps of his success, they could have them.

Looking at the bleakness of the room, he even felt some pity for them. The room was almost empty, except for the lockers, a couple of tables, two ugly couches, coffee maker with a bunch of dirty mugs surrounding it, and… a chessboard ?

Light looked at it, intrigued to see such thing in the teacher’s lounge, and even more intrigued to see that there was apparently a game going on between two adversaries who weren’t there for now. After a brief analysis, he concluded that the blacks were almost done, really, cornered as they were and about to have their queen taken. It was lost cause but…

He couldn’t help his brain to find a way to change the game. Throwing a quick glance at the door as if he was about to commit a felony, he moved the black knight to block the bishop to take the queen. After that, he looked at the game, satisfied. The blacks were still in a dire situation, but not an hopeless one. He hoped whoever was playing would be grateful.

The door opened behind him, revealing a woman in perfectly-adjusted tailor, holding a cup of coffee in her hand ( apparently the coffee machine wasn’t that good at its job ). She was his philosophy teacher and while he didn’t like her that much it was important for her to like him for she was the one noting him.

“Light Yagami, what a surprise !” Light bowed slightly and she offered him a bright smile. People tended to smile around Light, he was used to it, even with people he didn’t know. “What are you doing there ?”

“I’m waiting for M. Lawliet” he said, being careful to not mention why he needed to see him. “Do you know where he is ?”

“Really ? I’m scared he’s already gone home” she replied, obviously sorry for him. “He’ll be there tomorrow, if that can wait ? I’ll tell him you are looking for him.”

Light nodded and managed a tight smile.

“Thank you” he said “Have a nice day”.

The next day the teachers lounge was empty again when he went there, but the thing he noticed right away was that someone had moved a piece on the chessboard. Only one : the white bishop. He blinked, wondering why the players had only decided to make one move before letting the chessboard alone. They had obviously noticed Light’s interruption, but had apparently decided to play against Light instead of against each others.

The players seemed really careless at first, giving him the possibility to go for the White Queen, but Light wasn’t an idiot : after a few minutes he realized that doing so would lead to his defeat in a couple of moves. Smirking, he decided to protect his King, just in case his opponents had something in their sleeves.

No one came into the lounge, not Lawliet and not the teacher from the day before, and Light couldn’t do anything else besides going home, cursing this teacher for not having an e-mail address or a cellphone like any normal human being.

The third day, Light didn’t even bother to knock on the door and was absolutely not surprised that no one was in there - the room was apparently so awful that teachers were avoiding it - and his first glance was for the chessboard, in the corner of the room. He couldn’t help but smile when he noticed that someone had made their move, and was even more satisfied to see that they had chosen to retract in defeat, after Light refused to take the bait.

It was time for him to attack, he decided. Just a try, to see how the others would react. He moved his tower until the threat to the queen was obvious. His opponent could easily protect her, but he would have to either sacrifice his rourke for it or to move his bishop, which would create an opportunity for him. In either case, it was worth the shot.

“Ah !” a voice behind him made him jump “ So you were the one who decided to mess with my game ?”

Light turned around, mortified, and saw the person he has been looking for two days in front of him, wide smile and wide eyes, and absolutely not fashion sense. His law teacher and the one who dared to give him a B for his class.

Light Yagami didn’t have Bs. It was either a mistake or an unfair treatment from someone who wanted to ‘break’ him, teach him that he wasn’t as good as he thought he was. He had teachers like that in the past and knew how to deal with them, but he hoped that this case was an easier one.

“I’m not messing up anything” he said. “I’m helping”.

Lawliet smiled, obviously amused, and focused his attention toward the coffer maker, turning on the device which started to emit a low and annoying ‘hmmm’.

“I wanted to talk to you” Light said, and since Lawliet didn’t reply, he kept going. “About my grades. You gave me a B.”

“Yes, I seem to remember something like that” the other man commented, and Light couldn’t help but wondering if he was imagining the sarcasm in his voice. But unfortunately, that also meant that the ‘mistake’ theory was out of the window. Whatever, as long as he was in the right, he wouldn’t bow to an asshole teacher who had decided he didn’t like him.

“I don’t think a B is a very fair grade for my work” he tried his best to be polite, his voice sweet like honey, the tone that made the girls swoons and his parents exchange a tender “look at our angel, isn’t he perfect ?” look. Lawliet didn’t seem really receptive.

“Come on” he replied. “You’re underestimating yourself, Light, your work wasn’t that bad, and yes, maybe I gave you a B because I like you, and the way you are always there at 9, first rank on my left, fresh and awake. I know a teacher shouldn’t have a favorite but what can I do I am only hu…”

“I deserve an A” Light cut him off, realizing that there was no doubt this time : this guy was mocking him. He wasn’t even sure why, really, for he was right : Light never skipped a lesson, never slept in class, never talked to the other students, always turned his assignments on time. Apparently Lawliet was the weirdest human being in the world and had decided that he didn’t like it. “You’ve read my paper, it was brilliant. Sir.” his tone had lost the calm, composed, reverent tone he had worked on for years, but he needed to stay polite, no matter what.

Lawliet turned his head toward the student, and Light had the terrible feeling of being analyzed, scanned. He felt a shudder run through his spine. He didn’t know Lawliet besides for the four hours-class he had with him everyday. No one liked him, but Light enjoyed the lectures more than he should have. He managed to be somehow interesting, which was something when it came to law.

“The reason you didn’t get an A, Light Yagami, is because you failed the last question. The Carmichael case.” he said. Light could perfectly remember this part of the assignment and didn’t see any flaw in his answer. He had been pretty proud of his conclusion, even. But Lawliet felt his confusion : “ I asked for a personal work, you used someone else’s. Very good answer, but in no way personal.”

Light felt the burn of anger in his body. Plagiarism ? Was it what he was accused of ?

“I didn’t steal anything” he said, offended by the mere suggestion. “I don’t need to copy-paste another work to get a good grade, it must be a coincidence.”

“A coincidence ? I don’t think so.” Lawliet’s tone was smug, and it was obvious he didn’t really care about what Light could say but he was innocent. He had done his work by himself, and if someone had the same idea than him, well, that was unfortunate.

“See, Light, the conclusion that you plagiarized comes from my own notes when I worked on this case. There is no mistake there.”

Light blinked, as if he expected for the teacher to admit that it was joke. But since the silence wasn’t interrupted, he had to do it himself.

“That’s ridiculous ! Why would I steal your work, especially when I know you’ll be the one who is going to grade me ? Someone doing it would be incredibly stupid.” he defended himself.

“Hum, yes” Lawliet agreed. “What can I say, it seems that even the greatest mind of our time ( he chuckled after saying that ) can have a bad day. Rest assured that it was impossible for you to come to the same conclusion than me in only four days when I needed almost one month”

“I didn’t steal anything” Light repeated. “I did all this by myself.”

“That’s impossible” and Lawliet’s infuriating smile was so grating that Light wanted to punch him.

He glared at the teacher. “Not for me. I did it.”

Silence. Both of them glared at each other for a moment, the tension rising. At the end, Lawliet sighed.

“Fine. Maybe we can find a solution to this problem.”

Light frowned. “Yes, you give me the A I deserve.” Gone was the sweetness, and the politeness too. Lawliet didn’t seem to mind but was still looking at him with his weird, black eyes, and Light wished he wasn’t.

“No. But you really seem to want this A, and I can give it to you. If you do me a favor first, alright ?” Lawliet’s smile widened.

Light took a step back. Funny, he hadn’t thought about it at all. Not that no one had ever tried before, but it was in High School and a word to his father had been enough to deal with it.As infuriating as he was, he hadn’t thought the guy would stoop so low.

“So” he said, coldly. “That’s how it is, then ? The teacher trading good grades against sexual relationships with his students. Pretty pathetic, don’t you think ?”

Lawliet shook his head, his way-too-big eyes expressing surprise.

“Sexual relationship ?” he replied, and Light swore that he was about to burst into laughter. “Good god, Light, no. Why would I try to trick a stuck-up and probably virgin nineteen years old boy into having sex with me ? It’s no different than rob a shop with only a bunch of coins in the cash drawer. The risk isn’t worth the potential benefit, if you get what I mean.”

Light managed to bit his tongue before being even more rude than he was already, knowing that denying the ‘virgin’ part would be even more embarrassing than not saying anything.

“Whatever, what do you want ?”

But of course, Lawliet wanted to torture him some more.

“You know, it’s funny but if I ask any teacher what they think of you, they’ll tell me the same story ‘the most amazing student I’ve ever had’, ‘a delight to have in class’, ‘a studious boy who will do great things later’. I feel privileged to not having be fed the same lies than everyone else, to be honest.”

“Well” Light answered with some bite in the voice “Most of the teachers never insulted me before”. Having been called a ‘thief’ by this pitiful looking guy had really been like being slapped in the face. He couldn’t let it pass.

“Insulted ?” the other repeated. “I’m sorry for not accepting to engage in an intercourse with you, I didn’t know it would be so hard on you. If it softens the blow to your ego, your are ridiculously attractive, and if I didn’t want something else from you, you would definitely be moaning against the wall by now.”

Lawliet had just said that with a perfectly blank face and Light almost choked on his saliva, throwing a worried look at the door behind him to be sure than no one had entered the room to hear such things. Lawliet rolled his eyes, mumbling something about ‘nineteen years old’ that he didn’t want to hear.

“So” he said again. “What do you want ? And I swear if you keep not answering, I’m out of here.”

Lawliet bowed his head in direction of the chessboard.

“A game. If you win you get the A. If I win, you keep the B. If it’s draw… I may take your offer on this sexual favor thing.” he said, as if he was just thinking about it now.

Light waved off the last part - he knew Lawliet was going to milk it as long as it embarrassed him and he wouldn’t give him the satisfaction to blush - and looked at the chessboard. He could do it. It was… easy. The other one may have been good, but Light was better.

“What about your opponent ? Is it okay if I’m taking his place ?” he inquired.

“Opponent ? I’m playing against myself, Light. Really, until now, I hadn’t met someone able to meet me on this field. But if you are as clever as you think you are, you should be able to beat me, right ?” Lawliet replied, pleased to see Light consider the option.

“Right. Let’s do it, then.” Light said, knowing that he shouldn’t have to play a game of chess to get his A, but it was easy. He could do it. And he hadn’t played chess in since forever, for he didn’t have anyone to play against, and playing against himself was really unappealing.

“Ah, I’m sorry. I have to go.” Lawliet moved closer from the chessboard, examined it for a few seconds and moved his queen. “There, I’ll play again tomorrow. Let’s keep it easy. One move a day, just what we did these last few days, does it seem fair ?”

“But you have to change my grade before the end of the month !” Light said.

Lawliet pretended to think about the question then shrugged.

“Then you’ll have to win before the end of the month.”

“That’s-”

“Can you do it ?” Lawliet’s face was the most serious Light had ever seen it. Suddenly nervous, he licked his lips and felt Lawliet’s eyes follow his tongue, noticing how the dilatation of his pupils. Light smirked. A challenge. He could do challenge, and hoped this one wouldn’t be too easy.

“Yes, I can. Of course, I can.” Lawliet seemed very satisfied of his answer.

“Wonderful. Same time tomorrow ?”

#death note #lawlight #light yagami #l #I wil probably do the second prompt later #it'll be shorter though #my stuff #my fanfictions

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douchebagbrainwaves · 6 years

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THE OTHER 95% OF VC SUCKAGE

Not necessarily, but probably. The average founder is smarter than the average VC. No matter what kind of startup that has nothing more than the founders, they'll have to cede some power, because the board of directors might be composed of two VCs, two founders, and there are companies that will give $20k to a startup, don't feel that it has to look professional. A startup walks like a toddler, bashing into things and falling over all the time. It was a place people went in search of something new. Which means if it becomes the norm for founders to protect themselves against mistakes. But if you don't, you're in the home stretch, and if you enforce them it seems possible to keep a company as small as they might think. Also, startups are a good example of close friends who work well together. In the startup world is evolving away from their current model. They've also written at least a skeleton business plan, spend most on the demo or the business plan, if only to get this one to act. And I was a Reddit user when the opposite happened there, and sitting in a cafe feels different from working.

So far I've been able to keep up, in the worst case it won't be for too long. And to write these kinds of programs we may need some new things; if a psychologist met a colleague from 100 years ago, they'd just get into an ideological argument. Since this was the era of get big fast. No, it turns out, humans are not created by God in his own image; they're just one species among many, descended not merely from apes, but from microorganisms. One reason I put it there is that I don't think many people have the physical stamina much past that age. The defining quality seems to be hard to find.1 But even a proximate cause of death is worth trying hard to avoid. After Warren Buffett, you don't hit another MBA till number 22, Phil Knight, the CEO of Nike. So if you don't like it. A parent who set an example of loving their work might help their kids more than an expensive house. Someone who is a quite successful doctor complains constantly about her job.

Some of the smartest people around you are out of their element.2 The disadvantage of taking money from less known firms is that, like angels, they have less reputation to protect. A lot of research is hacking that had to be something I'd have to weight votes to keep crap off the frontpage, but I learned, without realizing it at the time, a lot of what's good in an article often survives; indeed, the closer the paraphrase is to plagiarism, the more outliers you lose. 7—VCs 650 33. Even now there is too much money chasing too few good deals. So if you want to do a deal with you just to lock you up while they decide if they really want to. And no doubt that will happen this time too. Silicon Valley's biggest advantages is its venture capital firms. They didn't talk Wall Street's language. A great university near an attractive town. Unfortunately, it's impractical if not illegal to adjust the valuation of the company, after giving the investors a brief tutorial on how to administer the servers themselves. That was the point of creating it.

C the only option seemed to be running into trouble, and there seems to be that as wealth derives increasingly from ideas, cities will prosper only if they attract those who have them. Knowing that founders will keep control of the company, you'll find a lot of what ends up driving you are the expectations of your family and friends. VCs'. Also, the money comes with more restrictions. This doesn't work well. But a constant multiple of any curve is exactly the spirit you want. The Segway hasn't delivered on its initial promise, to put it mildly. When eminent visitors came to see us, we were so inexperienced that we were established as a media company. You may feel lousy an hour after eating that pizza, but eating the first couple weeks of working on their own startup is probably going to learn more. Are People Really Scared of Prefix Syntax? I don't think that's a bias of mine.

Then dumb threads would grow slower. Tv are a good example. For us the test of whether a startup will make it fairly hard to fire them later. Which means if letting the founders keep control stops being perceived as a concession, it will be with people you like. They said they didn't want to know how high they'd go, but I have never once sensed any unresolved tension between them. 2, with several years of classes. It might be a good rule simply to avoid any prestigious task. Many languages especially the ones designed for other people have the attitude of a governess: they try to keep their startup mojo. Writing application programs used to mean writing desktop software.3

I advised graduating seniors to work for a couple years for another company if you want to be their research assistants so they can, for example. So if you managed to recruit, en masse, a significant number of the best things about working for a big company. Yahoo really needed to be was a technology company, the next thought would have been too late. They had focus groups aplenty, I'm sure, but they don't have any users they don't have to force yourself to work, consider one thing above all: the quality of the other runners won't show up. That wasn't the intention of the legislators who wrote it. There is one reason you might want to include business people? Well, we humans are as conspicuously different from other animals as the anteater.

He said to ask about a time when Yahoo was a Google-style talent magnet, it was hard to imagine anything more fun to work on some very engaging project. And barring financial catastrophe, I think, is that there is now potentially an actual audience for our work. But what happened in Pittsburgh? And yet half the people who had them to continue to do badly. I was surprised recently when I realized that all the worst problems we faced in our startup were due not to competitors, but investors have you by the balls. But it doesn't matter much either way. I wanted to work in, but something major is missing. I always had a background process running, looking for something we could do together. But if you look into the hearts of hackers, you'll see that they really love it.4 Most universities aim at this ideal. The worst consequence of trying to be as big as possible wants to attract everyone. Some angel groups charge you money to pitch your idea to them.

Notes

Another approach would be to write an essay that will sign up quickest and those that will sign up quickest and those that have bad ideas is many times larger than the type who would in 1950 something one could do as some European countries have done and try selling it to be on fewer boards at once is to get into that because a quiet, earnest place like Cambridge in that sense, but one way in which I warn about later: beware of getting too high a valuation cap is merely boring, we don't use code written while you were doing Bayesian filtering in a city with few other startups, and once a hypothesis starts to be hard on the next uptick after that, isn't it? Corollary: Avoid starting a startup was a special name for these topics.

But that oversimplifies his role.

The obvious choice for your protection. If this happens it will become less common for the coincidence that Greg Mcadoo, our sense of being Turing equivalent, but art is brand, and indeed the venture business barely existed when they set up grant programs to encourage more startups in Germany told me about a startup to sell services than a Web terminal. I think I know, the un-rapacious founder is always 15 weeks behind the scenes role in IPOs, which can happen in any era if people can see how much of the conversion of buildings not previously public, like angel investors. Of the remaining outcomes don't have to be sharply differentiated, so if you know the inventor of something or the power that individual customers have over established companies can't compete on price, any YC partner can estimate a market of one investor who merely seems like he will fund you one day be able to grow big in people, but not in the ordinary variety that anyone wants.

Two possible and not end up saying no to drugs.

#automatically generated text #Markov chains #Paul Graham #Python #Patrick Mooney #startups #couple #universities

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crwdby · 7 years

Text

CRWDBY Chapter 2: The Mission

“Hey,” It took Yang a second to realize where she was. Yang was at Red Base, and so was Blake. “Yeah, Blake?” Yang asked, and instantly recognized what was happening, and knew what Blake would say next. “Do you ever wonder why we’re here?” Blake asked. Yang took this opportunity to be a part of an important, and philosophical point in the tale of the Reds and Blues. “It’s one of life’s greatest mysteries isn’t it? Are we the product of some cosmic coincidence, or is there really a god out there, with some kind of plan for us and stuff?”

The scene suddenly whirls across the canyon to see Nora and Ren on a cliff. Ren looking at Blake and Yang through binoculars.

Nora was becoming impatient, “What are they doing, Ren?” The silent teen took his face away from his binoculars, “What?” Nora restated her question. “I said, What are they doing now?” Ren became irritated with Nora, “Oh my god Nora! I’m getting so sick of you asking that question!” Nora came back with the same amount of sass, “Hey, you have those binoculars and I can’t see squat! Don’t complain about me, because I’m not gonna just sit up here and wait for something to happen.” Ren didn’t want to escalate the argument further so he tried to calm her down, to no effect. “They’re just standing there and talking, Nora. That’s all they ever do, is just stand there and talk. That’s what they were doing last monday. That’s what they were doing when you asked me ten minutes ago. And when you ask, five minutes from now, I’ll still say that they’re still just standing and talking.” Nora, being as nosy as she is, needed to ask one last question. “What’re they talking about?” This bent Ren a little too far, “You know what? I hate you”

The camera whirls back to Yang and Blake. Still, just standing and talking. Like usual.

“Talk about a waste of resources! We should go out and find new and intelligent forms of Grimm. Fight them” Yang said in the middle of a conversation. Blake agreed, “Yeah, that’s why they should put us in charge.” Ruby from somewhere in the base “Ladies! Get over here on the double!” Blake and Yang were startled by Ruby’s sudden call, “Crap, Yes sir!”

"Yang Jesus Christ wake the fuck up or I'll make you have a dream that you have no hair!" That was what Yang woke up to the next morning, and she knew that it was her friendly AI Church, because no one she knows is that profane. "Stop yelling, I'm up!" Yang yelled out loud, startling her teammates. "Uh, Yang we didn't say anything. Are you hearing things?" Blake asked, still wondering what's gotten into Yang. "Oh, I thought one of you said that if I didn't wake up you'd make me have a bad dream." The blonde replied, 'That was me, dumbass' Church thought making Yang frown a bit. "It looks like you did have a bad dream, Yang." Ruby said, noting Yang's frown.

Yang got out of bed and got ready for the big day ahead of them, team RWBY gets to choose their very first mission. “Do you know what kind of options we have?” Weiss asked, nervous about how she could complete a mission while dealing with the nonsense that is her team. “I have no idea, but we get to chose as a team!” Ruby said hopefully.

‘Do these missions involve dealing with whatever this Grimm thing is?’ The AI asked Yang. “Of course, missions help rid the world if Grimm. One little bit at a time.” Yang thought. ‘Damn it, those things are scary as hell, like Crunchbite. Which reminds me, if we ever see Tucker again, remind me to call his kid disgusting.’

Yang was the last to use the restroom to get ready and as she exited, she grabbed the stuff she packed last night for the mission. As she did this, both Yang and Church noticed Blake wasn't wearing her bow today. “No bow today, Blake?” Blake calmly replied, “Nope” and the team left for the auditorium for their mission assignment. Church couldn't string enough words to make a sentence and just stuttered. ‘Blake? Why doesn't… Yang, did you…?’ Yang had a hard time holding her laughter in front of her teammates and thought to Church, “You just got pranked, dude. Or as I like to call it, Yang-king your chain!” ‘Fuck you then’ Church snapped, and went offline.

When team RWBY reached the Beacon auditorium, the headmaster and assistant headmaster were on the stage, about to begin a speech of some sort. The assistant started by gathering everyone's attention and then turned it over to the headmaster, Professor Ozpin.

(Imagine that Ozpin’s speech is here because I'm too lazy to plagiarize it)

The team was more than ready for their mission ahead of them, they just had to pick one. “This is awesome! All we need to do is pick a mission in the southeast, and we're perfect!” The red leader exclaimed as team RWBY searched for missions in the southeast quadrant of Vale. Yang didn't try to hide her excitement, “Yeah! We'll follow them during the day and give them the slip at night!” The AI couldn't control his inner Tucker and said the iconic phrase, “Bow chika bow wow” Yang had to stifle a laugh and she was lucky that no one was looking at her then.

Ruby was the first to notice a mission that fit the team’s needs. “Here it is! Quadrant 5 needs Grimm eliminated!” Everybody agreed, but when the team tried to sign up, the screen read, “First year students are not allowed to take this mission” the team was disappointed, except Church chimed in, ’Hold on give me like five seconds.’ Yang created a small diversion, “Are you sure you spelled it right Ruby?” The team leader was a little offended by the question, “Of course I did, do you doubt my spelling abilities, my dear sister?” Church returned to Yang as Ruby was speaking,’Ok I cleared you guys for this mission, you should also beef up your security. That was way too easy.’ “Why don't you try again, Ruby, just to be sure” Yang asked, curious to see if the little AI actually allowed them to do the mission. Ruby re-entered their team and much to the team's surprise it worked this time. Yang took this as an chance to gloat over her sister, “I thought you entered it right, Ruby?” The young leader was dumbfounded, and so was the rest of the team. All of them tried, and failed, to find an explanation to how the system rejected them, but seemingly changed its mind.

As team RWBY made their way across the expansive courtyard toward the port, Church interrupted Yang’s thoughts. ‘So why does Ruby and the team need to get a mission strictly in the southeast?’ Yang could never get used to the sensation of Church talking, but she continued her step as if nothing happened. “What to do you know about the White Fang?” She thought to Church, who replied, ‘Aren't they a radical group of Faunus fighting for equality?’ Church asked, and Yang responded, “Yeah, and Blake used to be a member of them, but don't tell her you know, and we caught wind of a staging area for the White Fang hideout southeast of here, and that's where we are gonna mess up their plans!” Church used his superior AI mind (Delta) to make a quick calculation and made an observation. ‘From what I can see, the only reasonable place for a criminal staging ground southeast of here is a settlement named Mountain Glenn.’ This gave Yang a little bit of hope that they picked the right spot. “Sweet, that's exactly where we're going! Church was going to respond to his new friend, but was interrupted by Yang’s team.

“YANG!” A gunshot from Crescent Rose quickly followed her owner’s scream. “Ruby! What did I tell you about blindly firing into the air? You probably just killed an innocent person!” Weiss squealed towards Ruby. “How else were we supposed to get her attention? Tackle her?“ The red head retorted, Weiss huffed and looked away, clearly offended. “Yang, we've been trying to get your attention for three minutes. What's so important that you have to tune us out?” Yang was able to think of a reasonable lie, “Uh… I was just thinking about how this is our first mission! I can't wait to kick some White Fang butt!” Blake could see through the lie, but she needed more time and evidence to prove that something is up with her friend. Blake put this in a mental folder aptly named ‘Proof Something’s Wrong With Yang’ and put it back in her mental filing cabinet.

The team got to their assigned dock and waited for their airship to take them to Mountain Glenn. After a minute or two of waiting, an airship arrived at the teams dock, and put zipped Professor Oobleck. Team RWBY and Church knew they were in for one hell of a mission.

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sophiecentralnewsagency-blog · 7 years

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Indefinite Hiatus (part 1)

Yesterday (as of the penning of the original draft; 28th July Juche 106), I announced the voluntary surrender of my computer for independent investigation by a psychiatrist, one of whom’s main hobbies is computer-spergery and in particular, from recollection, programming (he tends to use a lot of programming metaphors in our appointments I still recognize having done a little bit at school), but, with an emphasis here on an independent party not connected to an inherently corrupt state “forensic investigation” apparatus to absolve me of accusations of child pornographic collection -- formerly litigious or otherwise from the vexatious complaint of troll, backed by the threat to escalate it to the former no less -- no matter how long it took (I don’t care if I don’t get that back for months): surely he would know how to uncover hidden directory trees, recover whether corrupted in part or preserved in full previously deleted files whether that was a 1-wipe, 5-wipe or a 7, and I don’t use 5-wipes, let alone 7-wipes; I don’t consider my ideological writings anything to hide, only the British state does, which is why it had punished my “racially offensive remarks” in 2012.

I’m not Stephen Gandy, who tried to introduce me to the software over a decade ago. I had no idea he was legitimately using it to hide his paedophilic proclivities, but it makes so much sense now.

With a heavy heart, I must announce some parting remarks:

Comrades, esteemed dignitaries, “friends”, and enemies to Aspergianism,

For myself, the future bode most bleakly as we enter this, my final Untergang, for the future prognostications are so beginning to untangle; LGBT flag in full furl, the transsexualists’ of their dual gender-coloured band sigil of demonism in fuller furl, held aloft by Kelly Anderson’s oversized hand and a look of intimidation sneeringly demanding the capitulation of the Aspergian as he attempts to cavort with former Cde. Chac amongst others, for, although he has returned to us, he has yet to earn the trust of the movement he was excommunicated from, yet with recent unsourced attributions potentially disparaging the ASMG authorship which had lauded him just a day prior. ASMG remains in full a swing as ourselves can with or without him, Kelly Anderson the co-conspiratorial autism charities under Rona MacKinnon’s domineering fist, Melanie Barker, James Gordon, Angela Haselgrove/Hasselgrove, the failed aspirant-bourgeois transsexual-convertees in theft of the author’s chaju (spiritual independence), Fionbarr Lennihan and countless other dignitaries to both the counterreactionaries and the counterrevolutionaries whom threaten Aspergia’s unique gender-theoretical, ideological, and political systems, “realisms above others.” Only from an Aspergian intellectual uncommitted to the treachery of neurodiversity can emerge the truth; whom is whichever homosexual-transsexual who claimed “[author] has been a loser all of [her] life whose reason for [her] failure is that [she] has no real talents or hobbies and so had no real groups who would accept [her]”, to paraphrase?

Whether this is the guise of LagoonaBlue’s real self finally revealing itself in full swing, a former primary, secondary, or disgruntled college acquaintance, or similarly beleaguered-with-overcompensatory-inadequacy trolling, ideological or ‘tard wrangling leech, whose respective sources of prestige are energetic vampiricism, plagiarism, and state contracts, none should be captive to the interrogation of their inferiority, whether heterosexual chivalry-slave, transsexual or homosexual lecher, asexual wizard plant, or some bizarre combination of all three -- of which the author potentially knows at least two?

(Only one has ever been ruled out for certain thus far,)

Their superfluous “talents” and timewasting, banal, laughably hedonistic and self-indulgent “hobbies” are of no consequence to a revolutionary of my caliber, hence, do they so dare to write such invectives about me, I can’t have exactly accepted them to have been anything other than freaks and losers, could I? They are alien to the 8-strong-and-regrowing Aspergian family of cadres, such foreigners only worthy of the fate to be dipped into a boiling pot of excrement for their meaninglessly ill-gotten accomplishments awarded by a hilariously yet saddeningly broken society.

Whatever personality maladies the author admittedly bares, some of those qualities brilliantly place them for potential leadership -- autism or not, as Hitler and Kim Il-Sung themselves had shown.

Disclosure barring (unless I postactively have it revealed to me when lurking and posting briefly on the farms today), they are imbeciles for failing to temper themselves before the wrath of a Borderline-Narcissist. If there are only 3 new groups I would include to “neo-Aspergianism”, it is the Sociopath, the Narcissist, and the BPD, and only provided pre-existing autism diagnoses not post-actively granted as a light alternative to full psychopathy post-SRS ala LagoonaBlue, as it has been to so many of my secondary school contemporaries. We need more Walter Dempseys, more Autphags, more Sapphires, and, if tempered, more David Chacs (provided those remarks to Cuntster were even his, were they not, it may well be forgivable). Shameful had the conduct been to the sole group of intellectuals remaining to champion his ideas if it was him, however; disproof it wasn’t just some secondary-school-sissy-faggot-acquaintance-turned-transsexual or otherwise-neugrotypical sleasebag forthcoming. (Prove it here, David.)

The handwritten version of this’ lines are in downward slope, graphologically representing doom, misfortune and potential pessimism, and I shall proceed to explain.

The meeting whose dual-doppel chukjibop venue location was retroactively changed to Harvey Nichol’s after imparting to the leader;’s sagacious eideticism that it was number one adjacent the Balmoral, convening, amongst others, allegedly “then-on-holiday” Fionnbar Lennihan, Hasselgrove, indignitaries of corrupt LGBT-youth scum now beplauging the alumnus of JYHS to the inclusion of Darren Morgan whom were invited, Fareal aka Melanie Barker, Kelly Anderson aka Cuntster, and other “around the clock” conspirators, whose bourgeois opulence and GCHQ connections allow so much as to verisimilitudinously co-incide bus and train hourneys with the author’s own in order to talk about her in open quarters with frightening passive-aggression laden with confusing-if-condescending praise (”bright for an autist” being the new “bright for a nigger” of yesterday), went according to the plan of the closure of the pre-edited venue’s intentionally conveyed metaphor: “we aberrantly-sexual and identitarian-disturbed lechers are in control.” This is when the only thing they deserve to be in control of is the trajectory of their GRIDS in an upwards direction, killing all of them off with Mallima speed; as praiseworthy as the Generallisimo Kim Jong-il and forgiving he was, patience little had he for the GRID-spreading transsexual imperialist sociopaths for how it is they manifoldly intend to desecrate such a figure of calibre as Cde. Sophie, defender of Occidental imperium.

- Firstly, LagoonaBlue/Darren Morgan/Amber Morgan’s planned role as a sickening and in any case reluctantly-approached but always-known/suspected-to-be and unwanted trans”gal”pal was to betray the author in short duration of real-world acquaintanceship regardless if met with or not, for the faux-German, who would then reveal themselves to be the subhuman Pict with a transgender-with-a-faux-autism-Dx niche-fetish James Gordon, thereby humiliating author.

- Secondly, regardless of this or not, easily achieved by retroactively backdating using unreliably begrudged alibis such as those convening at Harvey’s, in a L&O:SVU-episode-gone-wrong style fashion, Fareal and Cuntster had planned to use their Procurator Fiscal connections with Vitriol in conjunction wuth the defence of the QC friend of the foremost instance who had wished to sexually rendezvous with Darren Morgan to, in exchange for the “favour”, implicate me falsely in retroactive sexual crimes so as to provide impetus for faux-paedophilic daemonization of author via. implantation of her devices such materials. A new turn on the phrase “I’ll give it to you to suck” of Francis E. Dec fame (Fareal’s feminized cock or, if post-SRS, Darren’s), “finish ‘him’!”. May GRIDS have ensured for their attempted misdeeds to pervert the course of justice.

- Thirdly, in further corroboration of an unduly earnt paedophilia diagnosis, my kindle has been clandestinely stolen and yet-recovered, presumably with the intent to plant Child Pornography on it, in which case I don’t want it returned as these were not my activities but those of the perpetual Pizzagaters (see this, and resources here) of the Scottish transsexual community, whose diagnoses are typically somatoform conversions of paedophilia with the rare somato-trans infantilist 1 but otherwise, as Milo aptly points, "hardly any... real" cases exist.

1 Admittedly, myself. Kelly/Cuntster’s an autoandrophiliac gay man whose too lazy to live through their own penis, falling strictly into neither category, facetious paedo accusations aside, that is my genuine functional hypothesis regarding him as opposed to the other Celtonegroid transsexuals whose r-selection makes it infeasible to have deep emotions.

Ask yourself - How would mostly r-select Celts ever develop the emotionality for such a predicament? My marginal Slav genes sensitize me enough, BARELY, for me to be excused. Kelly can be a bitch about paternal genetic investment, ignoring the fact my mental characteristics more closely coincide with my mother’s side, all she wants -- I seem to have inherited mostly affective maladies from my dad’s side of the family, but in his case personally, brain damage, being unorganic, and a supremely negligent mother, makes a poor inherent case for the ToM and a stronger one for environmentally-induced emotional retardation, such as is speculated to be the cause for the virtually non-existent-in-my-case-bar-a-few-isolated-instances paedophilia. My surrendered equipment will hopefully absolve myself of all and any such accusations.

- Fourthly, in an autoandrophilicization-as-punishment (I’ve trillions of fucked up fetishes as my closest confidantes know) fantasy .gone both way too far, wrong, but on the bright side, a tad comical at the time from a certain perspective (if your humour is so disturbingly dark), I’ve now ingrained in my head the “future prognostication” that Angela Haselgrove may very well pursue megadose-IVs/IM vials of irreversible anti-aromatazes (read: “estrogen blocker”) such as exemestane, superpotent antipsychotics such as haloperidol at their highest effective doses, penis extension and viagra (I’m giggling as I’m writing this -- because I was literally getting off to trolling myself at the time -- but it’s no joke as the predicted time-frame has yet to pass, approx ~Sep-Dec ‘17 or so), and emela cream applied phalically to “deal with the inappropriately adopted sexual characteristic* of genital hypersensitivity.”

*A term I borrowed a lot, littering this everywhere in fetishistically-induced sarcasm, or “literal sargasm” as otherwise known; in each fantasy has there been my own angrily sarcastic touch. Passive-aggressive sardonicness disguised as friendliness in manipulative females is a bit of a turn on for me, I won’t lie; it’s partly why i can’t take female medical professionals seriously anymore, and always see the worst discompassion in them, basically dominatrix cuck-artists.

It’s the verbal and meta-ironic equivalent to getting stilettoed in the balls, after all.

These fantasies were a bit more facetiously benevolent at first as the nurses were priorly briefed on how the paedophilia diagnosis was entirely faceitious as to exaggerate manliness in a piss-taking fashion. (I was working under the logic, “if I’m an autoandrophiliac, I therefore can’t be an autogynephiliac and therefore become even more genuine!”, it admittedly backfired, it just made me come to the LagoonaBlue epiphany of “everything’s a fetish” on an internal level and fucked me up completely for a few months.) It was supposed to be a joke at my own expense, but escalated badly, I won’t detail how exactly, but it’s no laughing matter to literally envisage yourself as deserving the predicament of being tarred a Micheal-tier rapist.

To condense all this as briefly as I can -- being-Micheal-as-a-fetish, psychodynamically speaking, was intended as a microaggression against him (I irrevocably hate the bastard), so I find it bizarre that Kelly/Cuntster extends this logic to my view of transgenders, whose sexual and stylistic proclivities bother and offend me much less than their politics (where the main misunderstanding is between myself and Cuntster; aberrosexualist exhibitionism should be unacceptable trans or cis, straight or gay -- “do your own business”). Meanwhile both the political and sexual wiles of the paedophile are inexcusable to me. But equally as inexcusable is one position of the transgender in particular, the one position that gets my furor, is their autistopathy. It’s for that betrayal for which I seek their destruction -- at least paedos can be humiliated and correctly so should it be so, as is a genuine fear will be used against me at some point in the future, whilst transsexuals have both correct and debaucherous reasons for their existences both existentially and politically, often hiding the latter behind the former; their acceptance comes at the cost of the infiltration of individuals like Sarah Nyberg (a transsexual paedophile, for those not in the know; literally) of Salon and the like into wider Western aberrosexual politics. Increasingly, more often than not, newly “ascended” trans are the latter - the parafetishists of infantilism are somewhat-forgivable (”I want to be re-raised from age [single-digit number here]” makes some sense given missing development in the correct gender), compared to the parafetishists of themselves, and those who parafetishize children in any other (read: externalized) context, with the exception for autopaedophiliac EPII types, in my view loosely connected with the foremost phenomenon.

Hence, the “transsexual paedophile” conspiracy was born.

I’m only genuinely sympathetic towards remorseful pre-paedos who have had a crisis morally, ethically, or emotionally speaking about it in some point of their lives; myself from about 4 years ago internally when I had my first panic about it, to now, where I’ve had such the largest panic I’ve literally been driven to several different neuroses over it, amongst other stressors. Those whose predicaments authentically trouble and distress them at the deepest level to that of immediate remorse. It shows, albeit how brokenly at times, some conscience; even Bundy was eventually regretful of his crimes independent of the incarceratory context -- as he was facing death, there’s no reason to believe it was feigned for favourable parole conditions.

Neither David nor I committed any crimes relating to children, whether that be of physical, verbal or sexual assault; neither of us have looked at child pornography, neither of us have pursued children to any massive degree, only David really looked to start a family, I would have the pipe-dream of one now and again with the full realization my resources would just be bringing more unfortunacy upon the world. Most paedoes tend to relentlessly pursue reproductive opportunities to gain new victims for their crimes. Yet I can still barely live with myself, and that’s before Cuntster shouted ‘PAEDO’; frankly, the fear of it was greater, but perhaps treatment has just made me number to taunting, who knows?

I do deserve not to have to live in fear for something I knowingly understand and are fully cognizantly aware to be inherently wrong. These are the kinds of complexes that just self-fulfil prophecies and create these criminals out of spite. I’m personally one for antiandrogenization of paedophiles, potential paedophiles, and even infantilists if androgens give them age-dysphoric distress** (I wonder if someone has given Clement Saggers the idea to become AB;DL yet; he has the personality type); it’s commonly done in mainland Europe but for some reason, only precious trannies ever get ANYTHING other than shit-tier, Indian-imported psychopharma drugs on the NHS.

**I even said in my diagram, the three -- infantilistic regressionism, infantilistic fetishism, and latent paedophilia, usually never acted upon and latent due to a high capacity to relate to a more childish ToM, can very rarely overlap in unison. Typically, it requires the individual to be on the very borderline between autism and neurotypicality (a kind of mid-stage in ToM disability and intellectual compensation for that ToM deficit; gifted children usually socialize in more ‘cerebral’ ways, true is it also for mediocre Asperger’s; when regressionist tendencies are strong due to high sensitivity to stress, there’s deliberate over-investment in the preservation of an infantile mindset for nurturance’s sake, and that, unlike the individual subtypes, is regardless of gender), and have generalized personality disorders over all three axes, but most strongly in borderline, followed by narcissism, then sociopathy and/or histrionicnness jointly. The paedophile-antipaedophile’s is a very distressing and potentially suicidal predicament when not dealt with. This is a mixed vulnerable-predatory personality type which switches upon external socio-pressurization and stressor conditions; you’ll remember on my old WordPress blog, where I said I only ever get angry to hide latent fear in rise to a challenge.

-This is a conscience I’m unsure whom I’ve dubbed as “Harvey’s local Pizzagate collective” really have, given their desire to forcibly hyperandrogenize and paedophilize all autistics -- starting with myself experimentally -- as some warped, spiteful, reputational and sexual humiliation tactic, to be followed, in the instance returning to my one fantasy (turned-nightmare, really), with a crypto-transsexual, pre-operative “support worker” whose sole careplan -- whilst I’m pacifier-gagged -- is to such a denied-dysphoriac’s then-engorged dick upon discharge.

I can believe, now, that rape victims cope with their experiences by enjoying the experience temporaneously to deprive their rapist of the power ascribed to them; I essentially raped myself in a bout of hyperprogesteronism-induced hypersexuality for approx. 36 hours worth of deranged, near-uncontrollable fantasies, almost like badly epiphanous visions, cumulatively. I also fear giving a spiteful, vengeance-seeking Haselgrove ideas, but I couldn’t care, enough conspiracy theorists exist on the internet that, even if retarded Scottish normalfags are duped by Vic Rodrick’s retarded lines, virtually nobody else other than the KiwiFarms would be.

I would still advocate the stuff for nootropic purposes, but at CONTROLLED DOSES. I never had a problem with megadoses in the past, but then, I never had a predisposition to psychotic thinking of the bona-fide form until my mid-20s, or late last year, when the time-travelling transsexual visions and Biblical reference delusions started happening. Never had that experience before in my life. My dopamine receptors could take grams upon grams of progesterone before. Not now, whatever’s genetically predisposed me to an increase in D2-sensitization (post-edit: retrospectively it might’ve been a conspiracy, see the ‘tard wrangler letter), it’s happened, and I can’t get away with it anymore; I take dosing a lot more responsibly in that I’ve given up buying the stuff, I now only take antiandros and I’ll be stopping even those as soon as I get a certain script. My, and yes get this, 10,000-mg-at-a-time (basically a box of 50 200mg microgest pills) progesterone consumption was intended as a form of myelinitic preservation, because I had a vision about the future in which everyone was given progestigenic antidepressants except autistics, who weren’t even allowed seretonergic ones, and forced to regress in segregation disguised as a “neurodiversitarian campaign”, in a hyperfeminist dictatorship. By no means is it not going to happen; that was the basis for my writing the autistic-transsexual conflict theory, which I’ve still been meaning to transcribe from my prison pennings. Instead, it became a mental health crisis of monumental proportions, the guilt of believing I was a Micheal-tier superpaedo overbearing my shoulders so greatly one time that my entire family had to console me as I broke into tears. If the system does attempt to destroy me, there will at least be a handful of people who will never believe the official narrative. Despite how neglected and frustrated I’ve felt at what seemed like emotional abandonment, when they are present for me, it’s refreshingly reassuring.

I’ve confided these thoughts to my sister and my mother, expecting permanent shunning and disownment because I believed I deserved it for reasons besides at the time (existing, basically). I had explained the nuances per my hypothesis paedophilia-to-infantilism continuum. It is just a theory, mind you. They thought it to make some sense “save for the fact most adult babies are guys” (their quote: my response was, “they’re suppressed trannies!”) -- they know of infantilism from a few fucked up acquaintances and television; they knew I was a very early adopter since 2003 though since my eldest sister confessed to spying on my connection, although I kept hush about the TG stuff until ‘09 -- to which I additionally pointed out “well, actually, LGDD is beplauging the movement as a BDSM-inspired inroads.” (Attribution to LagoonaBlue for the observation -- that has been a palpable subcultural trend from the early ‘00s to the mid-’10s; that is, female cultural appropriation).

CID retards like DC Black are ultimately response for the conflation of infantilism with paedophilia -- having overhead the phonecall between him and a duty psychiatrist in July ‘14 with my oversensitive hearing at times mostly self-induced (underesensitive at others; usually with not paying attention, possible unrecognized ADD?) -- which has created this guilt-ridden mess such that the deeker-activism which I’d rather keep a separate part of my life HAS to be an occasional part of my other work for syncretic theoretical reinforcement. I propose it as a viable redirection in redeemable paedophiles such that I see this successful reformation having overcome my genetics regardless of what Cuntster pontificates on the matter, maternal/patern genetic investment differentials in-particular. Strictly adhering to Freud, however, and since partially backed by neural and IQ-testing battery studies, biological males TEND to adhere inheritable to the intellectual and socio-emotional characteristics of the MATERNAL side anyway, explaining why I’m males ahead of my immediate sister down* (and roughly equivalent in ability to my eldest sister).

*Save for a lack of recognition of thyroid disorder; even then, whilst elevation caught at the right time would be inarguable, I still think the heirarchy would be maintained.

What’s more, wider variability in biological males end up in a bit more pot-luck despite the massive gamble to stupidity -- I converge to populational means, but I’m well above SES-normed averages (mean=90 for my parent’s place on the income distribution, so too does it truly hold for myself).

This ridiculous notion that I could be false equivocated to some brain-damaged child molester with zilch going on in the imaginative and intelligence department EVEN BY HIS IMMEDIATE FAMILY’S STANDARDS (there is trailing average, then outright exceptional), with only spite driving motivationally any minimization iof my mother’s genetic contributions is IDIOTIC to say the least, and OFFENSIVE (although that Cuntster seeks to be, well beyond “light ribbing”) needless to say!

Part 2 shall be transcribed tomorrow. I’m too tired, not to mention a little kid next to me was causing sensory disruption with the clacking of his keyboard.

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justauthoring · 6 years

Text

Reichenbach Fall - Sherlock Holmes

( @nevaeh-potter15 ) Request: Could I request a Sherlock one where the reader still lives in the fall after Sherlock died and when he comes back she’s happy but at first angry so angsty-ish

Please don’t plagiarize my work - I spend a lot of my time writing, copying and pasting destroys that. If you want to repost my work. please ask first - but even then I might say no.

ALL MASTERLIST’S

“Leave her out of your games, Sherlock.”

“Oh come on John, Y/N will be very excited to see me.”

“You didn’t see her, Sherlock. Your death... it crushed Y/N, and she’s only finally gotten her life together. Don’t ruin it.”

“I’m not going to ruin it John, better her see me this way then through the newspaper.”

“... It’ll crush her.”

All you wanted to do was go home, but sadly, you still had a few errands to ruin before you could. After a long day of working in the morgue along side Molly, you had to work a late shift, meaning it was already dark by the time you got off. Still, there was a few things you needed to pick up at the shop before you could go home and just pass out.

So you grabbed your coat, wallet and phone - you didn’t really care for carrying a lot of things - and headed out, giving a small wave Molly’s way. You grabbed a cabbie and stopped off at the market, searching through for the food you wanted to grab. It was the weekend and you quite frankly wanted to spend it at home doing nothing, so you’d have to find something to quench your hunger.

Plus, you’re sure Mrs. Hudson would appreciate it.

Yes, you did in fact still live in 221B after the death of Sherlock. Part of you had wanted to run away like John had, but the apartment had been your home, it had been where you met and spent a good chuck of your life with Sherlock in. You didn’t have to heart to just up and leave it, plus, John’s disappearance had crushed Mrs. Hudson enough, you wouldn’t leave her completely on her own.

You walked through the market’s doors with tired eyes, sending a quick hello to an employee that you often saw there and begun walking through the aisles. There wasn’t much to grab, considering a significantly less amount of people occupied the flat now-a-days, but still, you shopping reminded you of the days when Sherlock lived there. You were not his maid, that’s for sure, but often you, John or Mrs. Hudson would have to go out and grab food because Sherlock would throw food out for the sake of one of his experiments. Apparently, he’d needed room, he’d say.

You let a sad smile fall on your lips at the thought of Sherlock - God, you missed him.

Leaning down, you grabbed a package of crisps, not noticing the figure that had just walked into the same aisle as you placed the bag into your carrier. You straightened, still unaware of the figure that stood before you. It wasn’t until you turned to walk forward and quite literally walked into the figure did you notice them. “Oh gosh, i’m so sorry,” you whispered frantically, leaning down to grab the carrier you had dropped in the midst of it all.

A gloved hand came before your gaze, picking up the carrier for you. You stilled at the familiar looking gloves, ones that Sherlock had undeniably worn himself, but of course - that wasn’t possible, must just be a coincidence, Sherlock is dead.

You plastered a smile on your lips, straightening out to thank the rather kind man, but the smile left your lips that moment you met those familiar blue eyes. “My God...” The words left your mouth in a fit of shock. This was impossible, Sherlock could not be standing in front of you. You - You saw him fall, fall to his death.

“Hello Y/N.” Sherlock greeted, smiling softly your way.

You took a step back in shock, almost fear, blinking your eyes rapidly as if this was just a dream. You could practically feel your face go pale in response, and Sherlock’s eyes fluttered with concern at the petrified expression in your eyes.

“You’re dead,” you whispered and you’re glad Sherlock had been the one to grab your carrier, otherwise it would’ve fallen to the ground anyway. “I saw you die, you’re dead. This isn’t happening, you aren’t real.”

“I can assure you Y/N, this is real.”

You flinched at the sound of him saying your name. “No, don’t - don’t do that. Don’t say my name.”

“But that’s your name,” Sherlock shook his head, taking a step towards you. You flinched in response, holding your hands before you.

“Don’t come near me.” You whispered, your eyes watering in absolute fear. “This can’t be real. You can’t be Sherlock.”

“I am,” Sherlock whispered, nodding. “It’s me Y/N.”

Your vision blurred with your own tears. “How? How are... here?”

“It’s a long story Y/N,” Sherlock explained, head falling. “I had plan, before everything. I way out.”

“You had - had a way out?” You asked incredulously, lips curling in distress. “And you didn’t tell me? You let me... let me think you died!” Your voice raised considerably as you spoke, gaining the attention of a view passerbyers. “I saw you, your head and there was so much blood. Oh God, I think i’m going to be sick.”

Sherlock rushed to step forward the moment he saw you teetering on your feet, hands reaching out to grasp your own but you flinched away. “No! Don’t touch me!” You screamed, the market falling silence. “Don’t you dare.”

“Miss,” a man asked softly, stepping into the aisle with concern. “Are you okay?”

“She’s fine,” Sherlock answered for you, sending the man a sharp glance.

“I think the miss can answer-”

“We’re fine!” Sherlock shouted, his patience wearing.

The man flinched in response and despite two years of him being gone, you knew how much trouble Sherlock could get himself into. Taking a deep breath, you turned to the man, sending a small smiled; “i’m fine. Sorry for the inconvenience.” The man nodded, sending one wary glance Sherlock’s way, before turning.

“Just yell if you need help.”

You nodded, turning to Sherlock the moment the man was gone. “Outside, now.” You said sternly and then, in the next minute, you were stood outside, the road practically empty since it was so late. It was just you and Sherlock and darkness.

“Two years,” you whispered, glaring at the man. “I cried for you! I mourned for you! Jesus Christ, does John know?”

Sherlock nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. Foolishly he had expected you to be more pleased to see him, the selfish part of him had hoped, expected you to run into his arms with joy. But then again, John had warned him. “Yes, John knows.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Then i’m sure you know that I had to go to therapy, still am actually - all because you died. But apparently, you didn’t.”

Sherlock frowned. “You have to understand Y/N it wasn’t safe for me or you or anyone for me to tell you that I was alive. I had to take care of Moriarty’s men-”

“I don’t care about why!” You shouted into the dead of the night, “I am your wife, your wife Sherlock! i thought - I thought I had lost you...”

Sherlock dared another time to step towards you and this time you didn’t flinch, only looked to your feet in disappointed. Understanding you needed time, Sherlock let his hand fall under your chin, bringing your eyes to his own. “I did want to tell you, Y/N. More than anything and I spent everyday wishing I could come back to you and John, and this life. But I couldn’t - I came back as soon as I could.”

You nodded, shutting your eyes in thought. “Are you safe?”

Sherlock furrowed his brow, “hmm?”

“Are you safe now?”

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded. “I made sure that we were sa-”

“No,” you shook your head, confusing Sherlock once again. With a shaky and hesitant hand, you reached up to grasp the one Sherlock held your chin with, glancing up at him. “I don’t care about me, I care about you. Are you safe?”

Sherlock’s face softened at your words - the one thing he’d missed about you the most was the absolute selflessness you held. You always put others before yourself, even someone like Sherlock. “Yes, I am safe.”

Finally calming down, you nodded, letting your head fall against Sherlock’s chest in a moment of weakness. Sherlock didn’t shy away from your touch, instead let his arm fall around yours as you finally let your emotions get the best of you.

“I truly am sorry.”

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