I told you all I can draw, I excel at everything I do. John allowed me to post a drawing after all, he doesn't know which one exactly and he doesn't answer anymore because he is at work, so let's see if I get into trouble after he sees what exactly I posted.

Before anyone wonders why the hell I have done this, it was for a challenge due to this post where someone threatened to draw me and John in shorts with the inscription "psychoanalyse me", and if I drew it first they would not post it. So looks like I won. I am more of a traditional artist, none of this artifical computer art. And this is John, obviously. 

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sakusa kiyoomi x gn!reader word count: 1.8k tags: fluff, slight internal turmoil, accidental confession (kind of) summary; Why should Sakusa care if you make plans with his captain? a/n: for my bby @imarizaki

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

“I’m going to the cafe with Tsukasa-senpai this weekend.”

Sakusa couldn’t stop the words from repeating in his head as he jumped up and hit his serve. He winced at the impact, the force of it being much harder than he had intended. The flick of his wrist sent the ball flying over to the opposite side of the gym, crashing loudly against the metal bars that protected the windows.

Sakusa bent over to place his hands on his knees, and sighed deeply.

You had looked so excited about your upcoming plans, and the image of your beaming smile suddenly flashed in his mind. He supposes he should feel some sort of happiness for you, but at the moment, the only word he could use to describe his emotions would be frustration.

He always thought volleyball managers were useless. His teams always had one, and they hardly ever did anything other than compliment his serves and gave him water.

But perhaps that said more about his previous classmates than it did about the job itself, because ever since he’s been on this team with you, he’s not sure he could have it any other way.

He remembers when he walked into practice, three weeks into your stint as their manager. You’ve gotten into the habit of wearing a mask during practice, the black cloth fitted snugly across your face as you happily bounced over to speak with him.

“I researched different wrist exercises online,” you had said, handing him a stack of paper you had printed, “These seemed to be the ones that had worked out well for others.”

He nodded his head in thanks, not telling you that he already has these exact exercises memorized -- appreciating the effort you had put into helping his game.

He thinks back to when he arrived back from a training camp in a sour mood; feeling angry, frustrated, and insecure at the rate of his growth in comparison to the famous Ushiwaka. He grabbed his issue of monthly volleyball from his locker, flipping it open to the aforementioned ace’s page when his lips burst into an incredibly uncharacteristic smile.

On his rival’s photograph were devil horns drawn on his head, his front tooth blacked out and his eyebrows penned into a unibrow, your writing nearly inscripting “Ushiwaka Stinks! Sakusa Rocks!”

As he walks back to the volleyball cart, his mind wanders to when you let him borrow your manager notebook, and as he flipped the pages filled to the brim with your scribbles, he realizes that you were taking notes on much more than just Itachiyama players — your attention to detail had left him in a state of awe. Though, now he’s figuring out that you seem to do that just by existing.

It dawns on him that he seeks your attention past your daily scheduled practices. His routine has changed, and instead of eating his lunch in empty classrooms, he walks out to the courtyard of his school, passed the crowds of people and to a bench situated under a tree, so he can find you saving a spot for him next to you.

Every time he hears his phone buzz, he wishes it was you. Every time he wins a game, he looks to see if you’re watching him. His so-called useless manager.

He feels more uneasy as he wonders why he’s even thinking about such things in the first place. He turns and grabs another ball before taking his position behind the end line.

If you wanted to go to a cafe with tsukasa-senpai, then you had every right to do it. Who was he to be upset about it? Wait, was he upset? The sinking feeling in his gut and the irritation swelling in his chest tells him that he is.

But why? It’s not like it was a date. Or was it? But you just said you were going to the cafe. You never told him it was a date.

So what if it was?

Sakusa throws the ball into the air, and smacks his palm against the blue and yellow leather. The stinging in his palm matched the velocity of which it flew across the room yet again, and he curses at his lack of control.

“You’re still here?”

He snaps his head to the doorway, the echo of your voice mingling with the bouncing of the volleyball reverberating on the walls.

“I thought you went home,” he said, walking to his bag placed on the bench, grabbing a towel to wipe the sweat off his forehead.

“Something told me to come check on you before I left,” you said, walking into the gym.

“Well, you should get going,” he said, in a much sharper tone than he had intended, “It’s getting dark.”

He ignored the way you frowned as he grabbed yet another volleyball, and repeating the same movements he has done for the past half hour since practice ended. He could feel the way your eyes burned into his back as he landed gracefully on his feet, clicking his tongue when his ball not-so-gracefully catches into the net.

“What’s up with you,” you quip, crossing your arms and popping your hip, “First, you ignore me all day, now you won’t even walk home with me?”

Your question only serves to confuse him even further. Is not walking home together now considered an odd thing? Since when did that happen? Had he really been so lost in your presence that he didn’t notice? He hadn’t realized things had gotten this far -- to him, time with you never felt like it was enough. And right now, he’s not sure if he likes that. Not when the end result is this.

He didn’t reply, choosing instead to walk over to the other side of the court, and collecting the balls that had gone astray.

But he should have known you wouldn’t have let things go, and he should have expected your footsteps marching behind him.

“Sakusa Kiyoomi,” you say sternly, and it irritates him even further.

What, do you think that just because you say his full name, he’s going to bend to your will? Is that the kind of hold you think you have on him? The audacity of your familiarity was bothersome and aggravating.

Because it worked.

“You’re going to the cafe with Tsukasa-senpai tomorrow.” he says quickly, turning around to face you. You nearly collided with his chest, stopping abruptly in place. You blinked your eyes at Sakusa dumbly, trying to comprehend what he’s saying.

“Yes… and?”

“Is it a date?” he cuts to the chase, no longer wishing to prolong the agony he’s been in all day.

You looked at him in surprise, jaw hanging slightly and dropping your arms to your side. You quickly regain your composure, straightening your back before giving him a hard look.

“What, am I not allowed to go on dates?”

“I never said that,” Sakusa fumed, wondering if you were trying to dodge his question.

“Then why do you —“

“Can you just answer the question?”

You huffed a little at Sakusa’s interruption, and shot him a half hearted glare. Sakusa stood his ground, looking dead into your eyes.

“It’s not a date,” you finally respond, and Sakusa let’s go of a tension in his shoulders that he had no idea he was carrying.

“Good,” he said, turning around to continue his previous task of collecting his equipement.

“Why is that good?”

Sakusa shrugged, balancing four volleyballs in his arms as he made his way back to the cart. “You shouldn’t be going on dates with guys like Tsukasa-senpai.”

At this, you scoffed in disbelief. “Excuse me? And pray tell, o wise Sakusa-san, just what exactly kind of guy should I go on dates with?”

“Me,” he said before he could stop himself. He stopped all his movements for a moment, time suddenly freezing as he comprehends what just slipped from his lips. A feeling of dread soon began to slowly creep up from his gut, spreading across his body until it reached up and grabbed hold of his heart.

He pretends he never said a thing, depositing the volleyballs back into their rightful place before heading over to collapse the net. In his peripherals, he could see your shocked expression, eyes following his every move as he starts to lower the net. He could feel the sweat forming on his forehead like bullets, but he continues on.

“So...what you’re saying is,” You finally broke the silence, walking over to the other side of the court to help Sakusa with his task. “You want me to go on a date with you.”

“I never said that,” he replied, quickly gathering the material that had bunched up on the floor. He felt awkward doing this errand in front of you, something you must have picked up on, because you finished the job for him.

Still the ever dutiful manager.

“No, I’m pretty sure you just did,” you say, grabbing onto the folded up net before walking over to place it into the storage room, not giving him a chance to reply.

Sakusa uses the ten seconds you were gone to slap himself in the face.

He solemnly walks over to gather his things, the silence growing louder and louder by the second as you choose to continue closing the gym instead of saying anything further. He takes his time switching out of his gym shoes, and slowly looped each side of his face mask on his ear.

He was zipping up his jacket when you stood in front of him.

Goosebumps raise in his flesh when you glare at him, tapping your foot on the wooden floors.

“Well?” You ask.

Sakusa tilts his head. “Well what?”

“Are you going to ask me out on a date?”

Sakusa is thankful for the fabric covering his face, though surely redness spread across his entire visage.

He was sure steam was wafting up from his head, the clock in the wall ticking tocking his nerves deeper into his bones.

You raised your eyebrow at him, and he wonders if this is a trap. Or perhaps a cruel joke. But regardless, he couldn’t keep you waiting.

“Will you… go on a date with me,” Sakusa spoke slowly, coughing into his hand before continuing, “This weekend?”

You smiled at him, brighter than he’s ever seen before. He feels as if the skies have opened up, and the sun herself graced him with his own personal ray of warmth.

“Let’s go home, Omi,” you beckon him out of the gym before turning off the lights, “I got a big date to get ready for.”

You don’t see his smile, but you se the way his joy crinkled at the corner of his eyes.

“Preparing already?”

You laugh. “I’ve only been waiting for this moment my entire life.”

He hadn’t realized things had gotten this far — though, he realizes he doesn’t mind if the end result was this.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

6:39 PM [From: Captain Tsukasa] :

so? did it work?

6:42 PM (To: Captain Tsukasa) :

senpai… ur kinda scary

6:45 PM [From: Captain Tsukasa] :

I know my little kohai better than u think 😌

The new job (Din Djarin x F!Reader)

Part 1 of the “Ad Astra” series

Summary: as your eyes scanned the page, the words “spatial coordinates” and the phrase “writings and symbols no one has been able to decipher” made your eyes widen and your interest spike... (word count: 1.7k)

Warning: mention of food and drinks

A/N: my first ever Mando fic/series (even though we don't get to meet him in this first chapter)! Huge thanks to @hnt-escape for beta reading, and I hope you guys enjoy it ✨

Reblogs and comments are highly appreciated ❤️

NEXT | SERIES MASTERLIST

Sitting alone in your home office with a mug of coffee in your hand, you shuffled through the heap of unopened mail you found upon your return from your last expedition: advertising brochures, leaflets, bills and, at the bottom of the stack, a cream-coloured paper envelope with slightly torn edges.

Prompted by curiosity, you put down the mug and opened the letter with an old knife you kept in the first drawer: it was typewritten, dated 25th of September and signed at the bottom by a certain Elizabeth Williams.

As your eyes scanned the page, the words “spatial coordinates” and the phrase “writings and symbols no one has been able to decipher” made your eyes widen and your interest spike. Your work as an archaeologist had given you the opportunity to travel the world, discover different types of artifacts and ruins, get closer to cultures and their ancient origins; but something inside of you, a feeling in your gut, was telling you that what was described in the letter was unique and, possibly, something you had never seen before.

Without giving it a second thought, you dialed the phone number scribbled underneath the signature and waited with bated breath as you began fidgeting with a pen, clicking it open with every beeping sound coming from the other side.

“Hello?” a calm tone greeted you.

“Mrs. Williams?” you asked, clearing your throat.

“Yes, it’s me.”

“Hi, I’m-”

“I know who you are, I’ve been waiting for your call.” the woman said with a smile in her voice.

“Oh,” you gasped, “I... received your letter and I would love to hear more about this artifact you mention.”

“Great. I’ll have someone pick you up tomorrow morning at 9 sharp.”

“Thanks, Mrs Williams,” you nodded, “do I… have to bring anything?”

“Your knowledge will be sufficient, my dear.”

Once you both ended the call, you took a deep breath and closed your eyes, feeling anxious and impatient for what was about to come and reliving the exact same sensations you had experienced the day of your very first excavation.

After a sleepless night, you were awakened by the furious pitter patter of heavy rain against the windows. The dark grey of the sky made every room of your house incredibly cold and humid, and you put on your favorite cardigan as you dragged your feet into the kitchen to prepare something for breakfast.

When you finished eating, you took a quick shower and got dressed in your favorite black pencil skirt and a white blouse, a matching blazer and a pair of heels completed the look. You took a seat on the couch in your living room and waited for the driver.

At 9AM there was a knock at your front door, and you immediately grabbed your blazer and your purse and walked over to it.

“Good morning, Miss,” the driver bowed his head a little and extended his gloved hand to you while opening a black umbrella with the other. “Please, follow me. Mrs. Williams and her colleagues are waiting for you.”

You put your hand in his as he walked you over to the sedan; he opened the car door and waited for you to get in, shutting it swiftly once you got comfortable in the cream leather back seat.

After a two hours drive, the car stopped in front of a wired mesh and barbed wire fence, lined with several “Military Zone” signs. A couple of seconds later, the guarded gates opened with a screech, letting the car enter what looked like a tunnel carved inside of a mountain.

The driver pulled up in front of a large white door with soldiers on either side, where an elderly woman waited with crossed arms.

“Goodmorning my dear,” the woman stepped towards you. “I’m Elizabeth. Welcome to the Falls Hill military installation.”

She hugged you tightly and you stiffened at first, looking at the two soldiers, whose eyes were fixed on a point in front of them.

“Come, I’ll show you around.”

One of the guards stepped to the side and held the door open for you and Mrs. Williams. The large corridor that extended in front of you reminded you of a war bunker: it was grey and cold, illuminated by pale neon lights, and it had the same distinctive smell you would find in the subway.

You followed her obediently, and when she reached the end of the corridor, she slowly opened a set of double doors bearing an "Authorized Personnel Only" sign; taking a step forward, your mouth dropped open in wonder as soon as you laid eyes on what looked like a giant stone ring covered with strange inscriptions.

“I've never seen anything like this,” you gulped, keeping your eyes fixed on the object.

Mrs. Williams chuckled, pleased at your reaction. “No one has, my dear.”

“Can I…?” you asked in a trembling voice as you pointed at the artifact.

Elizabeth nodded and you walked over to it, placing your hand on the rough surface of the stone to feel the engraved characters under your fingers.

“These inscriptions,” you started, turning to her, “might be hieratic or maybe cuneiform, I think I've seen some of those symbols before.”

“Perhaps you could help us with the interpretation?” she moved to stand beside you and tilted her head to the side, looking at you expectantly.

“Yeah, of course. I'll get to work right away.”

The hours passed quickly, and between one cup of coffee and another, it was already evening. The succession of symbols and characters engraved in the stone kept repeating in your mind, a mix of infinite combinations and interpretations, from the most logical to the least plausible.

Wrinkling your eyes for tiredness, you looked up from all your papers and notes, finding a new possible interpretation of the second row that made your heart race.

“Mrs. Williams, was anything else found in the proximity of this object?”

“I was hoping you'd ask me,” she smiled and motioned you to follow her.

Elizabeth led you through a hallway and stopped in front of another door, resting both hands on the opening handle.

“You are not to speak of this to anyone, understand?”

You simply nodded, your breath catching in your throat at her request.

“Mrs. Williams, I haven't issued any new authorization papers for this lady.” a baritone voice captured your attention, and you turned around only to find a soldier in uniform staring back at you.

“Colonel Shaw, it's nice to see you again,” Elizabeth greeted him with a gentle smile, but the man looked at her with a serious and impenetrable gaze.

“Mrs. Williams, I don't think I'll have to remind you that what's inside this room is classified.” he walked over to the both of you, his expression unfazed.

“She's the new addition to my team, Colonel,” she said, looking him straight into his icy blue eyes, “a world-renowned archaeologist who is going to help us decipher the inscriptions on the stone ring.”

“Exactly. Then why are you here?” he glanced at you out of the corner of his eye.

“Because,” you cleared your throat “the second row of inscriptions refers to another object, described as the portal.”

The Colonel raised an eyebrow at you and sighed, then looked at Elizabeth.

“Permission denied.”

“Excuse me, Colonel Shaw. I was told you would have given me carte blanche, especially since the government authorized this project,” she stepped towards him with her usual calm tone.

“Not for long,” he retorted, “you have one more week Mrs. Williams, the clock is ticking. And since she doesn't have any authorization at the moment, I won't grant her access into this room.”

“Then I guess I'll have to ask Captain Gallo,” she crossed her arms. “See, he was the one who helped us get started with this project and I'm sure he would authorize this young lady in a heartbeat.”

The Colonel exhaled angrily, his jaw was clenched in frustration and you smiled to yourself.

“Fine,” he said through gritted teeth “You have my permission.”

6 days later

Staring at the portal, the inscripted characters on dark metal and stone looked so similar to something you had seen before, but also so different. You felt intimidated by that object, almost in awe, it was as if it gave off vibrations within the room, as if it wanted to give you clues to solve that riddle that had been keeping you and the rest of the team awake for days.

“Morning guys,” Elizabeth walked into the research lab with a box of donuts, “I brought something to eat.”

“Thanks,” you beamed at her as you took a glazed donut from the container. “I really needed something with sugar.”

“How is the research going?”

“Bad,” Linda, one of the members of the team, shook her head, “no matches whatsoever.”

“Is that so?” Elizabeth turned to you, her expression somber.

“Yeah,” you sighed, “even if the inscriptions look familiar to us, when comparing them to all the material we have available, we found no similarities. We’re missing something and tomorrow is the last day.”

“I’m gonna ask for a permit extension, I'm sure they'll grant it to me,” she stroked your back, comforting you.

“I found another reference!” Linda squealed with excitement “Shall we start with the comparison?”

“Absolutely,” you rushed to her side and took a seat on the corner of her desk, looking at the monitor of her computer.

The documents she had just found showed incredible similarities, and referred to an engraved metal fragment found a few months earlier in the Atacama Desert.

“These three symbols are exactly the same ones of the central row!” you exclaimed, not believing your eyes.

Linda nodded, then gulped, “They also say here that they found out some symbols represent a stylized version of constellations, and that this type of metal is not…”

“Terrestrial,” you added as you kept on reading the description under one of the pictures.

Mrs. Williams looked at the both of you with a proud smile, then she walked over to the other desk and dialed a number on the phone.

“Captain, we finally found a match for the inscriptions.”

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On August 18th 1746 Arthur Elphinstone, Lord Balmerino and William Boyd, 4th Earl of Kilmarnock the Jacobite nobles, were executed.

The two were found guilty of treason and sentenced to death; this was commuted to beheading, rather than the usual sentence of Hung,drawn and quartered, which had already been carried out on some Jacobites, most notably the English Jacobite Francis Towneley on 30th July that year, with eight of his comrades from the Manchester Regiment.

Before I start on this post proper I have to say we should remember that whilst the high profile executions may make the “headlines” in my posts, we should remember the ordinary soldiers that also died, both during the uprising and afterwards. Also the provisions that followed stripping the country of their way of life.

Magnus Magnusson recounts in Scotland The Story of Nation: “Of the total of 3471 Jacobite prisoners, 120 were executed: most by hanging, drawing and quartering, four by beheading because they were peers of the realm -- the privilege of rank. Of the remainder, more than six hundred died in prison; 936 were transported to the West Indies to be sold as slaves [which, at that time, meant that they would almost certainly be dead of yellow fever or the like within two years], 121 were banished ‘outside our Dominions’; and 1287 were released or exchanged” 

Of those released my guess is that a large number of these would have been co-opted into the British army.  Highlanders were among the world’s best natural soldiers and if given discipline, training and leadership would make a formidable force. Which indeed was proved true. 

Numerous clan chiefs were attainted, having their titles and lands stripped of them. More importantly the Heritable Jurisdictions Act of 1746 removed all judicial powers from the chiefs, smashing the very structure of Highland society as sheriffdoms reverted to the Crown.  The Act of Proscription of 1746 banned anyone north of the Highland line from the carrying of arms and the Dress Act section banned anyone in Scotland from wearing Highland dress, especially the kilt, on pain of six months in jail – transportation was the punishment for a second offence. Also banned by extensions of the Act were the bagpipes and the speaking of Gaelic in public. In a few short years, that Act had great effect, and the repression of the Gael was almost total. Many Highlanders opted to emigrate to America and Canada in a bid to preserve their way of life that was now under assault on all sides – lowland Scottish people, it has to be said, largely backed the brutal repression of their fellow Scots.

On to the day of the executions, much of this is first hand accounts from the history books.

Everyone who was anyone wanted to be at the execution, among the spectators was the English army officer and naturalist George Montagu, it is his description that I have pinched for an eye witness account of the gruesome events that day in 1746. Montagu was allowed close access to the prisoners from before their trial until they met their end.

“Just before they came out of the Tower, Lord Balmerino drank a bumper to King James’s health. As the clock struck ten they came forth on foot, Lord Kilmarnock all in black, his hair unpowdered in a bag, supported by Forster, the great Presbyterian, and by Mr. Home, a young clergyman, his friend. Lord Balmerino followed, alone, in a blue coat turned up with red, his rebellious regimentals, a flannel waistcoat, and his shroud beneath; their hearses following.

They were conducted to a house near the scaffold; the room forwards had benches for spectators; in the second Lord Kilmarnock was put, and in the third backwards Lord Balmerino; all three chambers hung with black. Here they parted! Balmerino embraced the other, and said,

“My lord, I wish I could suffer for both!” He had scarce left him, before he desired again to see him, and then asked him, “My Lord Kilmarnock, do you know any thing of the resolution taken in our army, the day before the battle of Culloden, to put the English prisoners to death?”

He replied, “My lord, I was not present; but since I came hither, I have had all the reason in the world to believe that there was such order taken; and I hear the Duke has the pocketbook with the order.”

Balmerino answered, “It was a lie raised to excuse their barbarity to us.” –Take notice, that the Duke’s charging this on Lord Kilmarnock (certainly on misinformation) decided this unhappy man’s fate! The most now pretended is, that it would have come to Lord Kilmarnock’s turn to have given the word for the slaughter, as lieutenant-general, with the patent for which he was immediately drawn into the rebellion, after having been staggered by his wife, her mother, his own poverty, and the defeat of Cope.

I’ll interject here this conversation pertained to the lie that the Jacobite commanders issued an order that “no quarter” was to be give ‘no quarter’ meant that no prisoners would be taken. Any men on the battlefield would have no mercy shown to them and surrender would not be accepted.”

On the eve of the Battle of Culloden the Duke of Cumberland was determined to end the Jacobite Rising and prevent the Jacobites from ever being capable of challenging the throne again. After losing to the Jacobites at every turn, up to this point, he would not let them win again. To motivate his men he informed them that Lord George Murray had ordered ‘no quarter’ to be given to the Government men on the field. This meant the men would be shown no mercy by the Jacobites . However, this claim was not true. No such order had been given. From copies of Lord Murray’s orders there was no mention of ‘no quarter’ anywhere. But, in Cumberland’s papers there was a copy in which the words ‘and to give no quarters to the electors troops on any account whatsoever’ had been inserted. Whilst Cumberland may not have been responsible for doctoring the order he certainly did not shy away from the words written and retaliated in kind.

After the battle Cumberland ordered his men to search out any surviving rebels who were to be treated as traitors, outside the conventions of international combat. Those with the French Royal Ecossais or the Irish Piquet’s would be regarded as prisoners of war but everyone else was to be considered traitors. Whilst some men in the government army refused to kill, and tried to turn a blind eye, there were some who committed terrible acts. As well as wounded soldiers, civilians, women and children were all killed in the horrible aftermath of Culloden.

Back to Montagu’s account…..

“He (Kilmarnock) remained an hour and a half in the house, and shed tears. At last he came to the scaffold, certainly much terrified, but with a resolution that prevented his behaving in the least meanly or unlike a gentleman. He took no notice of the crowd, only to desire that the baize might be lifted up from the rails, that the mob might see the spectacle.

He stood and prayed some time with Forster, who wept over him, exhorted and encouraged him. He delivered a long speech to the Sheriff, and with a noble manliness stuck to the recantation he had made at his trial; declaring he wished that all who embarked in the same cause might meet the same fate.

He then took off his bag, coat and waistcoat with great composure, and after some trouble put on a napkin-cap, and then several times tried the block; the executioner, who was in white with a white apron, out of tenderness concealing the axe behind himself. At last the Earl knelt down, with a visible unwillingness to depart, and after five minutes dropped his handkerchief, the signal, and his head was cut off at once, only hanging by a bit of skin, and was received in a scarlet cloth by four of the undertaker’s men kneeling, who wrapped it up and put it into the coffin with the body; orders having been given not to expose the heads, as used to be the custom.

The scaffold was immediately new-strewed with saw-dust, the block new-covered, the executioner new-dressed, and a new axe brought. Then came old Balmerino, treading with the air of a general. As soon as he mounted the scaffold, he read the inscription on his coffin, as he did again afterwards: he then surveyed the spectators, who were in amazing numbers, even upon masts of ships in the river; and pulling out his spectacles, read a treasonable speech, which he delivered to the Sheriff, and said, the young Pretender was so sweet a Prince that flesh and blood could not resist following him; and lying down to try the block, he said, “If I had a thousand lives, I would lay them all down here in the same cause.”

He said, if he had not taken the sacrament the day before, he would have knocked down Williamson, the lieutenant of the Tower, for his ill usage of him. He took the axe and felt it, and asked the headsman how many blows he had given Lord Kilmarnock; and gave him three guineas. Two clergymen, who attended him, coming up, he said, “No, gentlemen, I believe you have already done me all the service you can.” Then he went to the corner of the scaffold, and called very loud for the warder, to give him his periwig, which he took off, and put on a nightcap of Scotch plaid, and then pulled off his coat and waistcoat and lay down; but being told he was on the wrong side, vaulted round, and immediately gave the sign by tossing up his arm, as if he were giving the signal for battle. He received three blows, but the first certainly took away all sensation. He was not a quarter of an hour on the scaffold; Lord Kilmarnock above half a one. Balmerino certainly died with the intrepidity of a hero, but with the insensibility of one too.”

Pics show the Lords, the second is a satirical drawing of  Lord Balmerino, next is a depiction of the crowd and scaffold on the day. Finally is a plaque at Trinity Square Gardens, Tower Hamlets, London where the executions took place. 

Nico and Portuguese

I don’t know if this bugged anyone else, but in the Hidden Oracle it didn’t sit right with me that Chiara and Apollo, who were both fluent in Italian, couldn’t understand Paolo when he spoke Portuguese, even though Nico could understand him because he speaks Italian (as seen in BoO when he read the Portuguese inscription in the Church of Bones, and when he was able to translate that Paolo wanted Apollo to have his lucky bandanna). At first I figured it was just weird Uncle Rick discrepancies and stuff, but then I figured why not do a bit of googling to see if I could find an explanation. I did a bit research on Italian dialects and second languages, as well as its connections to Portuguese, Catalan, and Spanish, and I think I discovered why Nico could speak with Paolo and understand Portuguese when no one else could

Just as a forewarning, I want to say is that I don’t speak Italian or Portuguese, I have never been to Italy or Portugal (or any other country that speaks Portuguese), and I am in no way an expert on the subject of any language. If you have any information on this topic, please correct any mistakes I make and feel free to add anything related to this. That being said, let’s get into this monster of a post

First of all, obviously Italian and Portuguese are very close together (they are both derived from Vulgar Latin, and have at least superficial similarities). However, this post will be looking into specific dialects and historical facts that would support Nico understanding Portuguese from Italian whereas the other two people who are confirmed to be fluent have no idea what Paolo says

I started trying to find out a bit more about Italian (because I knew there were differences in the language depending on where you are in the country, because everything in Italy varies from region to region). It turns out there are around 34 recognized spoken dialects within the country of Italy, and Standard Italian comes from Old Tuscany/Florence. The dialects vary from region to region, and even city to city in the country. All the different dialects are vastly different, especially between North Italy and South Italy. If you had a southern Italian speaking their native dialect and a northern Italian speaking theirs, neither of them would have any idea what the other was saying, unlike with different dialects in English, where you still know what the other person is saying. For example, in Venice, the dialect changes depending on the island you are on (ie. Burano to Pellestrina)

If we look specifically at the Veneto Region (where Venice and Verona are, and where Nico is from), one of the dialects is Venetian, although there isn’t a lot of information on the language that I could find, and even less about it’s roots. However I did find out that it is closer to Spanish, Catalan, and Portuguese than it is to Standard Italian (Tuscan), and the language isn’t just spoken in and around Venice, but also in Trieste, Croatia (which led me down the path of Croatia and Venice thanks to Nico visiting there, and I’m gonna make a post about that too now because it’s really cool to me and I’ve got ideas for that) , Slovenia, Mexico and Brazil

Apparently, in certain parts of Brazil, the Talian dialect of Venetian holds co-official status with Portuguese. (I couldn’t find a whole lot of info on this, so I’m not sure where or if this is a true/accurate fact). From around 1875 to the 1920′s, there was a mass boom of Venetian immigrants to Brazil, and of the largest place in the world for people of direct Italian descent is actually Sao Paolo, Brazil. The only article I could find on the Talian dialect cut off two paragraphs in and required a paid subscription to read more (which I couldn’t do since I’m broke), so all I know is that a Portuguese dialect of Venetian is spoken in some areas of Brazil, more of them down south from what I could gather

In my research on Talian, I found out about another dialect, this one of Portuguese. It is called the  Paulistano dialect, and is spoken in and around Sao Paolo, the city I brought up before. Paulistano has direct influences from the Venetian language, as it was created thanks to Northern Italian immigrants who spoke with think foreign accents, and a new dialect was created, and preserves characteristics from Venetian

Not gonna lie, I think that they might just be different names for the same language, but I’m probably wrong about that. As I said, I really couldn’t find a lot of information on this topic so I’m probably very wrong by saying that

On top of that, historically, Venice and Portugal (the places that created both languages) have had extremely close relations. In the 15th century, the Portuguese kings used Venice’s ports to help with the spice trade from Asia, South America, and Europe. There were Portuguese and Spanish people coming in and out of Venice’s docks all the time. This is presumably why Venetian is much closer to Spanish and Portuguese than it is to Italian

As you can see, Venetian and Portuguese have deep rooted histories and simmilarities, and show how Nico would be able to understand Portuguese. Nico would’ve grown up speaking a very similar language to Paolo’s, and Paolo may have grown up speaking a dialect inspired by Venetian

I did try to use Paolo’s name to see if I could get an idea of where in Brazil he might be from, but I have absolutely no idea. Montes was originally a French or Spanish surname, suggesting he might have had French or Spanish roots, but that could also be pure bullshit, because I genuinely don’t know. If he was Spanish somewhere along the line, he most likely lived towards the south, closer to Sao Paolo and probably knew either Talian or Paulistano

At this point, you might be wondering why Apollo or Chiara can’t speak or understand Portuguese, and my answer is the following:

Apollo was probably only fluent in Standard Italian/ Tuscan after the country unified in 1861. After all, Italy is the capital of music, art, and is well known for being sunny and warm all the time, and Apollo is the god of all that stuff. Therefore, he probably learned the standardized language, and didn’t bother with any local dialects (after all, most people don’t speak the individual dialects with tourists/foreigners)

Now Chiara was a bit different. She was from Italy, so she would’ve known a regional dialect, and I came up with an issue there. She could have been from Venice, and that would have thrown this whole thing into the trash. That would have thrown out this idea, and mean that my research would have been for nothing, and that it really was just a stupid error on Rick’s part

So I looked up the origins of her name to check this out, praying to all the gods I could think of that my two days of research and googling wasn’t for nothing. The first thing I saw was that most Italian surnames with an ‘i’ at the end are from northern Italy. Just as I was about to start crying, I found a link on ‘The Noble House of Benvenuti’, and it turns out she was most likely Tuscan. Therefore, she probably speaks a regional dialect of New Tuscan or something of the like, and wouldn’t know Venetian

Also, after a bit more digging just to double check some of the facts in this post, I found out that even if she was Venetian, she might not have spoken it. Since Venice is a dying city, apparently Venetian is a dying language, and most people who are fluent in it are older, and there are lot’s of other dialects in the Veneto region anyways. Nico probably only knows it because he lived in Venice before the city started really dying out! The only reason Paolo can communicate with someone could be because of the whole hotel thing!

The Adventures of Hildraed Dawnsbane -  Fucking Morals and Damnit Fine (5/?)

Farmer, Pirate, Menace, Captain, Dawnsbane. Hildraed has many titles, she really could have lived well without Watcher.

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Hildraed meets a certain chanter and is faced with the uncomfortable revelation that she might be making friends.

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Read here or on Ao3. (3224 words)

Have fun! Comments always welcome! :)

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The keep was… something. Something for sure. Even from a distance they could see the broken, rotting walls. How fitting. Certainly reflective of her mental state.

Mud stuck on her boots as she dragged them over the moist ground, not bothering to lift her feet. She could practically feel the elf boy’s disapproving glare. Well too bad for him, if she had suffer she’d at least look like it too, so nobody got any dumb expectations. Thankfully that message seemed to come across to her companions, because no one bothered her until they finally reached the outer walls.

Well, technically none of them bothered her then either, instead it was someone else, an island aumaua happily humming at a crumbling wall. Alright then. Sure there weren’t all that many fortresses in the Deadfire, but still this decaying pile of stones could hardly be that interesting.

“Fascinating brick wall, I’m sure.” Some distant part of her brain told her it probably wasn’t her greatest idea ever to immediately antagonize every random stranger just minding their own business, but she really, really didn’t give a shit right now. She winced at another painful pulse shooting through her head.

Fortunately the stranger didn’t seem to mind either way.

“Oh, it is! Or the wall itself maybe not, it is a very traditional build. But here look! An inscription! The builders most likely, signing their work. Isn’t it fascinating?” The aumaua was smiling at her now, his terrible sincerity completely frying Hildraed’s brain. That and the Rauataian accent. That was a bit unexpected.

Once again the stranger didn’t seem to mind her undoubtedly rude, mindless stare, for he didn’t even wait for an answer before continuing his excited babble.

“But the truly interesting part is in there." He points a piece of charcoal in his hand at the gates. "...and I haven't had much luck in reaching the keep itself. I hoped to find the master of this place - a man by the name of Maerwald - but it seems that he either holds his privacy most dear or else has been devoured by his houseguests.” Somehow, not even his with sharp teeth infested grin he seemed threatening. How could a humanoid shark look so cuddly? Oh wait, he probably expected an answer.

„Mjam. Old man, delicious.“ Oh well, not the worst thing she’d ever said. That opinion quickly changed when the stranger’s loud, bellowing laugh nearly made her go cross-eyed from the headache.

“For some fellows I’m sure! But personally I’d prefer a talk over making a meal of him. You see, I’ve travelled far and wide over Eora in search of the Tanvii ora Toha. You know it?” Unfortunately. Though she hadn’t encountered a ton of Rauataians (or at least not many willing to have a talk), there had been a few. And they tended to talk when drunk. Often unbidden and at length.

Okay that was a lie, Hildraed had always sucked up knowledge like a sponge, so of course she had interrogated everyone in reach for anything interesting or useable. Not that this guy needed to know that. Why had they been talking about that again? Oh yes. Wait what?

“Sure, sure. But why should it be here?” Still undeterred his grin grew even wider.

“Now that is the question isn’t it? I have no idea! But still the traces are leading me here. Unfortunately I haven’t had much luck breaching the defences, however unintentional they are.” For the first time during their conversation something other than rampant enthusiasm appeared on his face. If she hadn’t known better Hildraed might have called it sly. Oh who was she kidding, she didn’t know any better. “There must be some reason you’re here, is there not? I’m certain together we’ll have better chances to reach the fort than alone!” His eyes wandered over to the side. Oh yes, she wasn’t travelling alone. If she was forgetting this already the headache was slowly becoming more dangerous than annoying. Still very annoying though. “That is, if your companions don’t mind me joining.”

The elf boy did look miffed, but when did he not? And he didn’t seem inclined to deny the protection another party member would bring, so Hildraed counted him on board. She doubted the farmer would be an issue, but then again what did she know about these people. She turned around to him. And promptly did a double take at his dopey grin.

“’Long as you don’t try to hang me off a tree, I’m square.” Hildraed blinked. Perhaps it wasn’t actually her, perhaps people just talked to this man like that. And from the way he STILL grinned that was probably not farfetched.

“That I believe is a promise I can make. I don’t even think any of the trees left here would be able to hold you.” Yep, that settled it. Everyone else here was just as insane as her. How comforting. “Now to official introductions, my name is Kana. Kana Rua. At your service.” What followed was hat flourish that made Hildraed actually home sick. How come everyone had an awesome hat except her?

Introductions were quickly done away with (or so Hildraed thought, at this point she couldn’t be sure of anything), and they set off for the keep. The sooner they were inside the better.

Unfortunately the mentioned house guests apparently disagreed with that sentiment. As soon as they set foot into the courtyard they were set upon by multiple shades, followed by some phantoms, all of them very angry.

And at this point Hildraed was too. Her head was hurting like a bitch, nothing made sense in this damn place, and even the fucking wildlife wanted to skin her. She was tired. Oh so tired. But she was also absolutely livid.

The shades swarmed them, phantoms following up close and the banter died down. Swords slashed against strange, mist like flesh in an uncomfortably screeching noise, spells were muttered and let loose in stabbingly bright flashes of colours.

And Hildraed screamed. As soon as the creatures were within range she let loose howl so disharmonic it could barely be counted as a chant. The spirits, hanging dark and heavy in the air, almost seemed to screech along with her as they were pushed back, but they had no chance to compete with Hildraed’s pure rage. There was no one around anymore, just her and (soon to be) dead bastards.

Feet on moist earth, cool air of the evening brushing almost gently across her cheek, thuds in her ears, red in her eyes, heavy breath from her throat. Gravity pulling at her she fell into every swing, using momentum to rip her broadsword back up. A deadly dance accompanied by her furious chants. One she had danced and sung many, many times. One she had not actually wanted to dance and sing again.

And that cost her. She was tired, angry, frustrated. And also no longer used to solid ground as her dance floor. She stepped forward, swinging her sword upwards in anticipation of a wave that didn’t come. The sword went wide. The weight pulled her along, eyes wide as her balance tipped. Her breathed hitched, a second to long for the chorus, and her next verse slipped out of her grasp. The familiar sensation of an ended chant was just as horrifying as her fall. A lost chant was a lost life in battle, be it hers or her crew, most likely both.

Her back hit the ground with a heavy thump, her sword clanking right next to her, ripped aside with a well-trained reflex to not impale her. Not that it would do her much good anymore.

One more clank, this time from above her. A back to her, broad, and blond hair on the head above it. What?

Suddenly her head burned hot for a second, and the world was back in sharp focus. The farmer in front of her fending off the phantom she’d attempted to decapitate, from behind her a chant. Her chant. Well not anymore, now with a halfway clear head again she could feel that chant had not dissolved when she’d lost hold of it, instead someone else had picked it up and continued it. Somebody who sounded like they had shark teeth.

The light of a Minoletta spell stabbed her eyes for once she was glad for the headache it caused (strangely reduced now from before), as it finally triggered her fighting instincts again. She rolled over, carefully avoiding the sword (and getting grass stains all over herself for it) and dragged herself back up.

She allowed herself one glance backwards, which told her that indeed the newcomer was a chanter, and not a bad one at that, and also that she should most certainly remain on the front line with the farmer. The elf boy looked both determinedly terrified and very squishy, and though the sharkman could probably take a hit, there was no need to risk the chant breaking again.

Ripping her eyes away from the first chanter she’d seen in a long, long time, she heaved her sword back up and fell into a defensive position between their main fighter and the squishy wizard. Not a position she was used to, but she would manage.

The fight didn’t continue for much longer, as her companions had made short work of the spirits while she’d been in a bloodthirsty (smokethirsty? Aetherthirsty? Maybe ask the wizard later) rage. Few hits managed to get through to her, and though she would have been hard pressed to admit it, it was probably for the best. The voice from behind her was deeply distracting. He wasn’t singing her phrases anymore. Neither did he sound much like her. But she- she liked it. It was nice. Unfamiliar.

The last shadow disintegrated and a loud collective sigh moved through the group. The wizard was obviously very desperately trying not to hug his grimoire for comfort, the fighter was drenched in sweat like he’d been dropped into the sea, and the- the chanter’s hat was close to falling off, much like his by now wavering grin.

And they’d made it barely through the courtyard.

Fuck.

Hildraed was very tempted to just let herself fall into the giant, overgrown flowerbed next to them and wait for the ground to just swallow her. But then again, she’d lead a crew for too long to give in to that impulse. The close house it was then. The keep itself would definitely be infested, but perhaps, hopefully, the house had been spared this fate. They’d see. At the very least it couldn’t be too many in the enclosed space, and Hildraed really, really didn’t want to camp again. Or at least she didn’t want to camp outside in the cold anymore.

“Ladies, we’re trying our luck in the house.” Despite her desperate need to fall over again, she waited for the others to shuffle past her, in the elf’s case with a badly suppressed glower at her word choice. Which was indeed very funny and Hildraed could feel her lips twitch upwards. And though in other situations she would have relished in the mirth, perhaps right now wasn’t time for this. Sadly.

Thankfully, no one had any other objections (in fact she was almost sure the singing shark had found it funny.) and they made their way over to the house with only their general grumpiness as an obstacle.

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The inside of the house was hardly comfortable, but Hildraed had slept in worse places. She certainly didn’t want to stay in this shithole, but it was acceptable for a night, if it would keep her out of the wind.

That was what she kept telling herself, continuously plucking out gravel from her ass and back, as she had made the grave mistake of attempting to lie down. Or more accurately, she had flopped down and immediately cursed herself. Loudly.

That in turn had made the elf into a blushing, stammering mess, and he’d fled into a corner digging his nose into a book. Which he had from… somewhere. Hildraed wasn’t quite sure where, but she wasn’t about to ask. Mostly because she was curious how long it would take him to admit that he was sitting on a sharp stone.

“Ow.” She grimaced and winced as she pulled out (probably) the last pebble. She hoped these weren’t like sand. Sand you’d find in the weirdest places days later. Much like companions apparently.

One of which had left to check out the stairs up and had yet to return. Strange noises were coming from the direction of hallway, but as none of them were growls or shouts, Hildraed was willing to ignore them. She didn’t know what the lonely farmer was doing in the back that would cause minor rockslides, and frankly she had no intention to find out.

A fire was lit in the middle of the room, next to the broken fountain. The structure might have been beautiful once, but now it was barely more than a heap of rubble. A shame really. Not that Hildraed cared. It wasn’t like the thing reminded her of the old church, the only impressive construction in her old village. It wasn’t like they’d had anything like it there, a small pool in which she’d played with the other children during her childhood. Nope, not at all.

With that thought she slumped down on the ground (carefully making sure to not repeat her mistake), her back to the structure, and poked the fire a bit. It crackled in front of her, warm and bright, while at the same time dousing the room in an ominous shadow, flames dancing on the walls in a constantly changing rhythm.

“Are you alright?” The voice sounded genuinely concerned, which surprised Hildraed more than the sudden words. She looked up through the flames, and her stupidly poetic with exhaustion brain tried to jumpstart another ramble at the sight of the aumaua’s changed skin colour. She was tempted to try and find a stick to beat her head with, but somehow, she didn’t think that would be very helpful. She sighed.

“Are any of us?” Another dumb thought she hadn’t wanted to voice. The crew didn’t need to know her own insecurities. Thankfully, the awkward silence was broken by another one of their companions.

“The stairs up are completely collapsed. Before anything from up there could attack us, it’d break its neck coming down.” Edér stepped out from the side room, rubbing his neck, rubble stuck all over his clothes and his hair. At least he hadn’t broken his neck. With whatever he was doing. Since his clothes only seemed dirty and not actually all that dishevelled though, she felt almost bad for her inner monologue’s implications. Only almost though, because obviously he’d still been dumb enough to crawl around there.

He flopped down next to them, giving Aloth and his book a cursory glance. Only to immediately grimace in regret again. Hildraed snorted.

An awkward silence followed. Hildraed stared into the flames. But really what should she say to these people? She didn’t know them, not really. She was just sitting in these fucking pebbles with them. Right? And why would she want to know them, knowing them brought responsibilities, knowing them would mean having to take care of them. She was done with that life, she didn’t have a crew anymore and didn’t want one. The fact that she had referred to them as such meant nothing. Old habits, nothing more.

“Would you sing with me?” What?

“What?” Hildraed blinked at- at- Kana. His name was Kana.

“Would you sing with me?” Nope, not any clearer, not even with his grin restored. “Your form in the fight was fascinating, and I would be honoured if you were to give me the opportunity of a chant with you.” He was looking at her over the fire with this shining, honest smile, and for a second Hildraed could feel her heart break. Gods be damned he was cute. He was a full grown man with the enthusiasm of a child. No she couldn’t keep looking at this, his excitement might actually melt her.

Unfortunately, for some reason, turning away didn’t help. On her other side sat- Edér. And though he wasn’t quite as high level excitement, he looked terribly derpy with his dusty face and clothes, and also intrigued at the concept of show. Which she was not giving. She wasn’t a fucking circus horse.

And the- Aloth, sitting across the room, doing a horrible job of subtly eyeing them with interest over his book would change nothing about it. Not even his embarrassing blush at having been spotted.

Oh who was she still trying to lie to. She had tried to keep her distance and had failed, now she might as well enjoy what she got out of it.

The self-revelation came and took the last bit of her adrenaline though. If she was going to give them a show, it would at least be an impressive one. She sighed, and for some reason it felt strangely liberating.

“Fine, boy, but not right now. First a nap. I couldn’t hit a note right now if I tried.” Now that was probably a lie, but she still wouldn’t be good. She almost didn’t dare look up, in fear that he had also mastered the sad puppy look, which might just be fatal for her conviction. Regrettably, her eyes drifted over on their own, and though he looked a little disappointed, Kana either couldn’t or didn’t want to utilize the sad puppy dog look. For Hildraed there were reasons to hope for both.

And while she was already looking at him, she couldn’t help but eye him.

“You know, you could bolster your chances for tomorrow by being my pillow for tonight.” He stared at her with surprise, and Hildraed wanted to bite herself. She was mushy enough, no need to make it worse! (And what if she’d made him uncomfortable now?)

The moment passed though, and his grin returned full force. Instead of giving a verbal answer he just opened his arms expectantly. Before he (or she) could come to their senses and realize just how stupidly mushy they were being, she turned to the side, putting her head on his thigh. (Which was exactly as comfortable as it looked.)

This however put her into the uncomfortable position of having to see Edér’s slightly jealous glances, and Aloth’s now more frequent shifting. She rolled her eyes.

“Fine, come here, bear, we don’t want anyone getting pneumonia here. And kid, please just come to the fire at least, there’s no need to skulk. And also pull that stone out of your bum, you’re proving nothing.”

Before she could see their reaction she turned into the other direction, entirely ignoring the shuffling behind and beside her. She didn’t care what they doing. Okay she did, but at least for now that was only her business.

Which is why she definitely didn’t ask: “How about a demonstration if you’re still so fit?”

Which is why she definitely didn’t feel vindicated at the excited answer.

Which is why she certainly didn’t fall asleep to the velvety tunes of a Rauataian hymn.

Day 10: I think the true purpose of this game is to see how many qualifiers we can get to precede the word "self" and still understand what we're talking about

https://homestuck.com/story/1642

I don’t think anyone has said much about Calsprite. There’s not much to be said. I’m pretty sure, based on the Juju rules, that this Lil Cal probably doesn’t count as the real one - supposedly, any version of a Juju from a Doomed Timeline doesn’t count as the real thing? In any case, it’s a very mild comfort that this being isn’t a source of even more power for the already arbitrarily powerful Lord English.

Another thing that I think is interesting to note is that Dave’s use of iPhone technology marks him, in my opinion, as a poseur. While I am by no means advocating against buying from Microsoft’s competitors, but Mac vs. PC is one of those parts of my childhood, and as an actual IT Professional I’ve learned more than a little about the way that they brand themselves and the history of Apple’s struggle for market share - Apple doesn’t advertise its products as computing alternatives, or as productivity software, or whatever - Apple sells a lifestyle. Apple products are styled as the sexier, more cerebral, more artistic, more individualistic alternative to Microsoft’s products, a computer not for the Office Drone but for... well, the Hipster. Hipsters have stopped really being a thing, or at least, nobody calls themselves that any more.

Like the vast majority of subcultures, I suspect the hipster subculture has kind of been swallowed by time, its symbols expropriated by Capitalism, its center hollowed out and its aesthetics packaged for mass production, as the cynical and jaded approach to popular culture of the hipster, along with its more enthusiastic counterpart “the geek” (actually pretty well personified by John!) became more mainstream - both stereotypes are probably a part of Homestuck’s general commentary on fandom. Fandom is something I think Homestuck talks about, but I don’t think it’s something Homestuck is about in quite the same way that it’s about, say, Narratives, or Reproduction.

More after the break.

https://homestuck.com/story/1643

While Homestuck has been a story that involves some time loops, Act 4 is where it really gets off the ground as an actual Time Travel story. The thing about Time Travel stories, like the thing about Cosmic Horror Stories, is that once a story starts having Time Travel, or Cosmic Horrors in it, it’s that genre forever. This is why DND, for example, is part of a cosmic horror story, because something like 20 years ago, an adventure writer decided that there should be the Far Realm, and now it casts its sticky pall over the rest of the game’s setting.

Homestuck sidesteps this issue largely by involving all of the genres that do this to a story, and just kind of blending them all together into a genre-busting stew. Homestuck is a superhero story. Homestuck is a creation story. Homestuck is a theogony. Homestuck is a cosmic horror story. Homestuck is a time travel story. And so on and so on.

https://homestuck.com/story/1657

And so began one of the greatest partnerships in the history of Paradox Space.

Also of note is that Terezi compares Dave to fire here, not the first or the last bit of symbolism linking him to that element. It’s pretty strongly linked, in general, with The Hero, in kind of the same way that the color Red, and the Sword is in these sorts of things.

Dave fits the Classic Hero Archetype a lot better in a lot of ways than John does, and Bro has been training him for that role since birth. On a much larger scale, Lord English has decreed from his position as the overlord of Paradox Space that Dave is the Hero who should defeat him.

https://homestuck.com/story/1663

Friendship proves once again to be one of the most powerful forces in the universe, changing John’s direction, and steering him away from disaster.

https://homestuck.com/story/1667

Not much to say about this conversation, but the transition between Karkat’s explanation of the Veil and the beginning of [S]Jack: Ascend is smooth as fuck.

https://homestuck.com/story/1670

Our very first self-indulgent author self-insert; the Fourth Wall is explicitly identified as a Fenestrated Plane. 1 Point for the Narrative Contrivance hypothesis.

https://homestuck.com/story/1692

Dave actually does care immensely. Not only does he spend a ton of his time being overshadowed by cooler more powerful men like Bro, and John, now Dave even has to spend his time being overshadowed by cooler versions of himself - and that goes in both directions - both Davesprite and Dave seem to think that the other is the more real, more cool Dave!

https://homestuck.com/story/1710

As a Light Player, Rose is preoccupied with Meaning. She sees it everywhere, and she certainly sees where it is not (at least when she is not Miserable with a capital M). Meaning and Value - Fortune - is not intrinsic to this item, but it is instead bestowed upon it by the fact that Rose loves it, and by the work that Rose put into it. The Rabbit is a labor of love and a treasured belonging, and the Love in the Rabbit is the Light that the Seer Sees.

https://homestuck.com/story/1714

I’m pretty sure that John and Kanaya only talk to each other about twice in all of Homestuck, which is a bit of a shame! John and Karkat are really a lot more alike each other than either of them is comfortable admitting (which I think is probably why Dave is attracted to Karkat). By the transitive law of friendship, it seems to me that John and Kanaya would probably be pretty good friends. On the subject of the other diagonal line in the quadrangle of friendship, I wonder if Rose and Karkat talk to each other pretty much ever?

https://homestuck.com/story/1715

The clear indication here is a parallel between Dave and Sollux, but like a lot of things that probably didn’t go as intended with the Trolls, nothing much ends up materializing from it. I suppose that by fucking off to do nothing for the rest of the adventure, Sollux gets to live Dave’s dream for him, so there’s that.

https://homestuck.com/story/1720

Adorable. This is one of the happiest little moments in the comic.

So often, characters are cut off from one another by moments. They just miss each other, or literally can’t understand each other because of supernatural shenanigans, or can’t communicate with each other on screen because of the way that communication can’t happen unmediated in Homestuck.

And even when they can talk to each other, often the awkwardness and pain of communicating with other people, of trying to get them to understand you the way you actually are, instead of only seeing you one certain way, is too great, and communication proves impossible.

But here, Rose and Dave don’t need words to hang out.

They shut up and jam.

(It’s also incredibly sweet that Rose‘s actual in-person esteem of Dave is so great that she cannot restrain her own thought process. For all her joshing, she really does think Dave is cool.)

https://homestuck.com/story/1722

Also incredibly sweet that Rose’s first order of business as soon as they’re done playing around is to destroy that goddamn puppet.

https://homestuck.com/story/1754

Just missed him.

https://homestuck.com/story/1775

I wish not to contemplate the implication that Homestuck Sprite Mode Legs are actually wafer thin.

https://homestuck.com/story/1812

Nearly as soon as Rose has awoken and absorbed herself from the Doomed Timeline, she gets down to business alchemizing a lot of dangerous and powerful artifacts in preparation to fuck shit up. I’ve never thought about it much before, but I think it’s not hard to say that the memories she absorbed from the other timeline cause Rose to embrace her more reckless and less charitable side. She comments on her own dangerous pursuit of power, and then immediately ignores that train of thought.

https://homestuck.com/story/1836

Dave sure is fixated on bottoms.

https://homestuck.com/story/1852

Note to self. Come back to this.

So far, the only thing of note is the number 12, a portent related to the victors of Homestuck, if only coincidentally.

https://homestuck.com/story/1857

Dave’s sincerity senses are tingling. Maybe it’s an instinct since he and Roxy are pretty similar people, maybe it’s just because Dave himself is not nearly as insincere as he wants to be.

Dave’s anxiety about being watched is also probably best exemplified by his insistence on hiding his eyes behind glasses.

https://homestuck.com/story/1887

Adorable!

I wonder if Andrew already had the sprite designs for these squirts, and their names picked out at this time.

The hair and accessories are certainly correct.

https://homestuck.com/story/1895

Before I get too much further into this sequence, I’d like to pause and take a second to just appreciate this prose. The style is captivating.

The shipping pun is also pretty good.

https://homestuck.com/story/1903

BladeKindEyeWear has already done a pretty good job explaining what the Ultimate Riddle is, so I won’t belabor it too much more than he has here. The Ultimate Riddle itself is, “What Will You Do?” And the answer to it is, “Do What You Will.”

Do What You Will isn’t just the inscription on AURYN, it’s also an extremely old phrase intended for spiritual enlightenment, historically first formulated by Saint Augustine in his Sermon On Love, where he puts it thusly, “Love, and Do What You Will.” The Love that Augustine is talking about is not Romantic Love or even familial love, but Universal Unconditional Love - goodwill toward everyone and everything, to have one’s Heart’s Desire be that everyone should flourish and be happy.

Another formulation, the Wiccan Rede is, “An It Harm None, Do What Ye Will,” perhaps a more detached, declaration. In either case, the Will here is not talking about merely chasing simple wants, but an invitation to follow one’s true will, not to respond to simple passions, but to take voluntary action in accordance with who one is as a person.

https://homestuck.com/story/1905

threatening.............

https://homestuck.com/story/1922

Jake Harley begins a life of serial abandonment.

https://homestuck.com/story/1930

I really should have brought this up first when Rose and Davesprite went back into time, but this is about the time Homestuck starts to get lousy with all kinds of alternate selves, Dream Selves, Doomed Selves, and so on and so on, and from a narrative frame of reference, they’re actually all literally the same guy - the actions of one version of a character inform us about all versions of that character.

More on that later.

https://homestuck.com/story/1931

More Roleplaying. John has a wild imagine spot.

https://homestuck.com/story/1934

Dave stares at the blood on his hands, and contemplates his death for a long time.

https://homestuck.com/story/1936

Some immediate foreshadowing in here. Jade, I’m pretty sure, is one of the few people in Tavros’ life who shows him some genuine unconditional friendliness, so it’s no wonder that he latches onto her.

The way he does is still pretty creepy though.

https://homestuck.com/story/1940

As long as I’m mostly focusing on the emotional dimension of Homestuck, the two major emotional beats in this Flash are the Sovereign Slayer slaughtering WV’s army, revealing the source of his self-loathing and trauma, and the death of Jade’s Dream Self.

The death of her Dream Self is not nearly the beginning of Jade’s Trauma Conga Line, but it’s definitely the first in the chain of events that leads her to finally snap out of her learned helplessness and blind optimism, and to start taking her fate into her own hands. She’s been so sure of her destiny up to this point, and now things are finally starting to get out of hand.

Also, I choose to believe that the bizarre Squiddles interlude is the first moment that the Dark Gods make contact with Jade’s psyche. They know she’s about to die, and they’re starting to communicate with her.

Anyway, that’s all for today.

Yesterday’s cough turned out to be post-viral infection, since I had Covid the week of the 11th, so for now this is Cam signing off, Medicated, and Not Alone.

For a prompt, how about an alternate version of a meet cute? Like maybe TK keeps on stealing Carlos’ coffee order without knowing it until one day he finally does? Feel free not to use this, just thought it would be adorable ❤️

I obviously did not get to this in time for Lone Star week, but I still wanted to do it, so here you go.

It’s also the first entry into my new drabble collection on ao3, which is pretty cool. And yes, it is adorable - if I do say so myself. 

standing on the ocean (until I start sinking) 

[Ao3 Link]

Characters: TK Strand, Carlos Reyes

Pairings: TK Strand/Carlos Reyes

Length: 1,527

Summary: A collection of drabbles from tumblr prompts

1. A coffee mix up and an alternate meet-cute for our boys

———————————————————————

TK thought he was settling into Austin pretty well. He had been keeping busy with the renovations at the stations and the interviews for the crew, but in his downtime he had been doing his best to explore the city. So far he had found a good jogging route, a great organic market, even a decent boba place. The only struggle had been a coffee shop.

There was one right around the corner from the station that he had been hopeful about. The decor was kind of a cozy modern style and they had a great tea selection. He had ordered a matcha latte and leaned back to wait. The vibe of this place was pretty great; it was somehow simultaneously energetic and laid back. His name was called and he stepped forward, grabbing the cup nearest to him on the edge of the counter, flashing a smile to the barista. He took a sip as he turned around and almost spit it out. It was definitely not the green tea he had ordered, but he opened the lid to confirm.

The lid lifted to reveal the warm brown of coffee rather than the vivid green matcha he had been expecting. He turned around to say something, but one look at the barista drove any thoughts of complaining from his mind. She was a young girl, no more than 19, and she was working by herself. She already looked frazzled - TK couldn’t bring himself to put anything else on her. With a sigh he replaced the lid and exited the shop. As he took another sip he gave thanks that she had at least managed to put some hazelnut in when she screwed up his order; it actually wasn’t half bad.

-----

The first time the coffee shop screwed up his order he knew it was an accident. It had been busy and the poor barista had been overwhelmed.

But the second time? He was starting to wonder if this was personal.

Of course it was the one day he was running late so by the time his order arrived on the counter he grabbed it and was out the door and halfway down the block before he even took a sip. He faltered in his steps as he peered down at the cup. Not only was it not his order, but it was the same exact mix up as last time. He ran through the process of ordering in his head and wondered if maybe it was something about his inflection that made “matcha latte with oat milk” sound like “hazelnut coffee.” He glanced back at the shop and considered going back and asking for a replacement, but a quick glance at his watch told him that was not happening today. He sighed and took another sip of the hazelnut coffee as he continued his walk to the station.

He hoped whoever had his matcha was enjoying it.

------

The third, fourth, and fifth time it happened TK simply accepted his hazelnut coffee without question.

It wasn’t that he didn’t like coffee; it was just that he preferred to not drink it before a shift because they certainly drank more than enough of it during shift. Though if it was going to keep showing up with hazelnut, he supposed he couldn’t complain too much. It could be worse; it could be caramel, or something fruity.

He had mentioned the predicament to the others once in passing and Mateo had asked him why he didn’t just go to a different coffee shop. TK really didn’t have a good answer to that. There was just something about that place that he liked. It had a good feeling and the employees - despite the fact that they apparently had a mental block when it came to his order - seemed really nice. He had gotten chatting with some of them during slow mornings and had found that they were genuinely kind and interesting people. The proximity to the station didn’t hurt either.

Paul suggested that maybe they just thought that hazelnut coffee should be his drink, and TK didn’t know how he felt about being essentially set up on a blind date with his drink order. Judd simply wondered why he was even going to a coffee shop anyways when that had a “monstrosity of a coffee maker or something” (his words) there at the station. TK waved him off with a roll of his eyes, but the truth was that it was kind of a ritual. Something he always did and had always done before his shift. It helped to ground him; to calm him before the start of another inevitably crazy and stressful day.  

So it continued; each day before his shift TK would enter the coffee shop, greet the baristas, order his matcha latte, and leave with his hazelnut coffee. It became a routine; just another aspect of his life here in Austin.

On one such morning, TK relayed his order to the usual barista - Shannon - manning the register. This morning there were two people on shift so she relayed the order to the other barista, who picked up a cup and labeled it with a sharpie from her apron pocket. TK furrowed his brows, “Have you always labeled the cups?” he asked, “I don’t remember ever noticing that before.”

Shannon shook her head, “Jayla’s new. She just moved to town and apparently that’s what they used to do at her last job, so when she asked if we did I figured we may as well try it.”

TK nodded as he stepped out of line and let the person behind him step up to place their order. As much as he liked this place experience had shown him that accuracy was not their strongest suit, so this labeling practice could be interesting.

He leaned on his usual spot against the wall before the counter, idly fiddling with his phone as he waited. When his name was called he stepped forward and grabbed the cup. He was about to take a sip when the inscription caught his eye. He turned the cup to see it better.

“Carlos?” he read aloud, puzzled. He heard a chuckle from behind him.

“So you must be the coffee bandit,” a smooth voice said. TK spun around to find a (very attractive) police officer smiling at him. TK gaped at him for a moment before his brain managed to put together the pieces. “Carlos?” he asked.

The officer grinned and stuck out his hand, “Carlos Reyes, nice to meet you. Should I just call you Mr. Green Tea, or do I get to know the name of the man who has been stealing my coffee for the past month?”

Oh. Oh.

“TK Strand,” he said weakly, reaching out to shake the offered hand, “and I am so sorry. I had no idea; I just thought it was a mistake.”

Carlos raised his eyebrows, “For an entire month?”

TK shrugged, “Stranger things have happened. Besides, it seemed like something silly to get worked up over. What about you? You clearly were not looking to be drinking matcha every day, why didn’t you say anything?”

Now it was Carlos’s turn to look a little sheepish, “Same as you I guess. It didn’t seem like enough of an issue to make a fuss and I was honestly curious to see how long it would take before you figured it out.”

TK looked at him incredulously, “You knew I was taking your coffee? For how long?”

“It is kind of my job to figure things out,” Carlos said dryly, gesturing towards his uniform (which TK could not help but notice fit him very well), “I was pretty sure after the second time, and certain after the third. I have to say that the matcha kind of grew on me though.”

It was TK’s turn to laugh, “The hazelnut coffee’s not too bad either.”

The stood in silence for a few moments before TK spoke again, “I suppose I owe you some coffee, at the very least.”

Carlos hummed consideringly, “I supposed that’s fair. Besides, if we order together I think I stand a much better chance of actually seeing my coffee.”

“So, is it a date?”

Carlos reached around him to the counter and grabbed the cup waiting behind them. He grabbed a pen from the jar next to the register and scribbled something on it. He replaced the pen and handed the cup to TK with a sly grin.

“Count on it,” he said before taking his coffee from TK’s other hand and exiting the coffee shop.

TK remained rooted to his spot by the counter, stunned by this latest turn of events. He couldn’t believe that had just happened. There is no way any of this was real. But a glance down at the cup in his hand proved him wrong. His name was scrawled underneath the rim in sharpie, and below that; in blue pen and neat handwriting, was a phone number.

TK felt a grin spread across his face even as his heart fluttered. He knew there was a reason he liked this coffee shop.

Got a moment? Leave a comment!

Say It Again

For @intrus1veth0ts!

Title (and a few other lines) are from the song I Love You Always Forever, by Donna Lewis. Shoutout to my beta reader, @cygnusfae! (they also chose the title!)

Now have some soft Logicality fic!

Warnings: swearing, kissing, food

Logan came downstairs to the scent of smoke, to find Patton staring at a pot of something on the stove with the most contemptuous look Logan had ever seen on him.

“Patton? Is everything alright?”

Patton bit his lip. “Uh, yeah, so about that homemade dinner…”

Logan sighed, stepping forward to survey the damage.

He was silent for a moment. “How the fuck did you manage to burn spaghetti?”

Patton turned, face planting into Logan’s shoulder. “I don’t know…”

Logan laughed.

“I was gonna do something nice for you…”

“It’s okay…do you wanna go out, or get delivery?”

“This was for you, you get to choose.”

“I still don’t understand why you’re so insistent on this, but okay. I don’t mind going out.”

“You don’t mind, or you want to?”

“You know I can’t make decisions.”

“Well, one of us has to.”

“I mean, we seem rather dressed up to just order pizza.”

Patton nodded, but an uncomfortable expression crossed his face.

“Patton? We don’t have to.”

“No, let’s do it.”

Logan watched Patton carefully. “…Okay.” Logan put the pot in the sink, filling it to soak, while Patton called the restaurant for reservations.

  Logan looped his arm through Patton’s as they walked inside.

They’re seated at a corner table, overlooking the street. Patton’s vision was caught by the view, and Logan smiled softly, his eyes coming to rest on his boyfriend.

“It’s so pretty,” Patton murmured.

Logan followed his gaze. It’s nothing extraordinary, just the old fashioned lamp posts lighting up the passerby, and the steady hum of traffic on the street. He supposed that’s always an ability Patton had, to see the beauty in all the everyday things.

Maybe Logan needed some of that.

The server came by in a few minutes, and took their drink orders. Then, they’re left in silence.

It’s almost magical, the moments like this with Patton. The way his eyes sparkle at something that anyone else would hardly notice. The way he could make anyone feel welcome. 

Logan never felt like he had to fill the silence with Patton. He never had to second guess his behavior, or worry about his complete lack of social skills.

Patton had him covered.

Patton was more fidgety, and less talkative than usual. Logan met his eyes across the table, about to inquire about it, but Patton snapped his attention back to the menu.

“What’re you having?” Patton asked, except it’s not the voice he usually uses with Logan. It’s tense, almost, like he sounds when he’s trying to distract his grandmother away from another meaningless argument.

Logan is a little shaken, but he attempted a smile. “We discussed the decision making issue already.”

“Whatever the special is?”

Logan nodded in agreement, as the server approached their table again.

They placed their order, and then they were left alone again.

“Patton? You’re quiet tonight.”

Patton startled. “Oh. I-uh…yeah.”

“Is everything alright?”

Patton nodded quickly.

“Then what is it?” Logan reached across the table, and took Patton’s hands.

Patton whined. “You’re ruining my plans.”

Logan’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

“You’re sitting there all gorgeous, and concerned about me, and how am I supposed to wait until dessert at this rate?”

“Wait for what?”

Logan smirked, and Patton clapped a hand over his mouth.

“Fuck.”

“Well, I can see why that would have to wait, but what were you really talking about?”

Patton sighed heavily, slamming his head into the table before Logan could stop him.

Logan tried to stifle a laugh as he reached across the table. “Are you okay?”

“No.” Patton took a deep breath. “Okay, um, here we go.”

Patton stood, and Logan looked up at him in confusion, before Patton crossed to Logan’s side of the booth.

“Patton?”

“Logan, I, I-fuck.”

“What?”

“I forgot the speech I wrote. Okay, you know what, I’m just gonna improvise.”

Logan’s started to piece this together, but he couldn’t stand to interrupt Patton again.

“Um, well, we’ve been together for five years, and I just love you so much, and god, stop looking at me like that, you’re too pretty, I can’t think straight. Well, I’m not straight, am I?” Patton sighed. “I’m getting off track again. So, I planned out this whole thing, but it’s kinda falling apart, so I’m just gonna cut to it. I really, really want to spend the rest of my life with you, and, wait, I’m supposed to be kneeling, aren’t I?”

Logan was laughing almost hysterically, and he wasn’t quite sure if it’s because of how much Patton was messing this up, or if it was just an overflow of love. Probably both.

Patton clumsily got down on one knee, and pulled a box from his pocket. “Will-will you marry me?”

Logan had started crying, but he managed to choke out “Yes.”

Patton smiled, throwing his arms around Logan. Logan pulled him close.

Logan faintly registered applause in the background, he wasn’t aware that was a thing that happened outside of the movies.

“I-um-I gotta put the ring on you.”

Logan frowned. “But then I gotta let go of you.”

“I know, I’ll be quick.” 

Patton pulled back and flipped open the box, slipping the ring onto Logan’s finger.

The band was silver, with a dark blue sapphire set in the center. Small diamonds dot the band around it. Logan could feel an inscription against his finger, he’d have to examine that later.

“I-I love it. I love you.”

Logan brought Patton closer once again, peppering kisses over his face.

The server came back with champagne, and informed them their meal was on the house.

Patton was giggling hysterically, as he managed to pull away and sit across the table from Logan, interlacing their fingers together.

"I didn’t know things like this happened in real life,” Patton said, awed.

“Um…about that,” Logan started.

“What?”

“I hate to make this proposal even more cliche, but-” Logan fumbled in his coat pocket for a moment, before producing a nearly identical box, and sliding it across the table.

Patton was giggling even harder as he clicked open the box.

“It’s beautiful.”

He carefully picked up the ring, examining it, and gasped when he caught sight of the inscription. Everything I will do for you.

“You like it?”

Patton nodded enthusiastically, tears spilling onto his cheeks. “Look-look at yours.”

Logan frowned in confusion, but took off his ring, his eyes glancing over the inside. Everywhere I will be with you.

“Oh.”

Patton nodded, giggling helplessly.

“Roman didn’t tell you,right?”

Logan shook his head. “I had no idea…I guess we really are meant to be.”

“Yeah…I guess we are.”

Logan put his own ring back on, before taking Patton’s and gently slipping it onto his finger. 

He laced their fingers together so the words lined up.

Everywhere I will be with you.

Everything I will do for you.

Hurt, pt.10 (E.D.)

Summary: Ethan and Y/N meet again, most of their secrets out in the open.

Warnings: ANGST, slight fluff, swearing, talk of depression

Word Count: 2500

Hurt - Masterlist

Memories work in different ways. Some memories feel warm and secure, wrapping you into the fuzzy feeling they evoke like a security blanket. Other times, memories are like a gateway to hell. They lead you down a dark, narrow path with certainty of doom. It's a fine line to walk between good memories and bad ones. One moment you feel happy, in the next the world is crashing around you.

Y/N had felt just that as she stepped foot in her old house, the one she had been staring at for far too long now. She didn't know if she was scared to return because she could still have feelings for Ethan, or because she'd go inside and find that she had become indifferent to it all.

One moment she felt the security blanket...

''You're going to break you back! Ethan!“ She yelped as he lifted her in his arms despite her protests, wanting to do things right from the start.

''I don't know where you come from, but here in New Jersey, it's custom to carry thy wife over the threshold!“

In the next moment it was pain...

''Don't...Damn it!“ Ethan growled out, holding back more than he thought is possible. He's been less than in control of his emotions as of late and he never wanted to lose control with Y/N. But in this moment where he had tried to be honest with her, to ask for her help, for her love, to be there for him and to watch her randomly pack a few of her things in a bag with intent of leaving him before he had a chance to say anything to explain his earlier words? In this moment he had lost himself completely. There was no more Ethna to hold onto.

''You told me to be honest with you!“ Ethan kicked the bag she was packing, hoping it gets her attention. And it did. But the look she shot him was clear as day – it was a look of hate, not sympathy or love. He had lost her. He knew that.

''DON'T THROW THAT BACK IN MY FACE!“ She didn't hold herself back anymore either. She was dancing on a line between madness and sanity, one she found hard to balance. She told him that when they first began dating because she always believed trust would breed solid ground to build a relationship on. She didn't want that to be what makes them break.

''You being in love with someone else? I'm supposed to thank you for telling me that? For not fucking her yet? Want me to applaud you for it? Because I won't! You don't catch feelings overnight, Ethan! Had you told me you've been attracted to someone earlier, when it started, we could have worked something out! Love?! I can't work with that! I can't stop you from loving her, but I won't sit around and watch my marriage burn when it had ended the day you decided I wasn't worth it anymore. You made the choice to hire her. You knew you'd spend half your time with her. Had you cared, you wouldn't have let it get far.“

She could still hear the ghosts of their past – romantic gestures, giggles, pranks, heart to hearts, but she could also hear the fights, the accusations thrown in their last one, the malicious intent behind every word she had spoken.

Sighing, she pushed through the heartache and undeniable regret. Walking the halls, she finally found what she's been looking for – their bedroom. A part of her wanted to remember all the softness, all the kisses and promises made, but a bigger part of her wondered how many times had he tried to fuck Bianca where she used to lay. It's the part of her she's not too proud of, but a part that's ruthlessly honest with her.

Just because he never truly got to that point with Bianca, it had hurt to know that there was a part of him – a deep, dark part of Ethan that didn't love or care for her as much as she thought he did. A part of him could imagine a life without her and before they separated, Y/N never thought she could survive without him. So much of her was comprised of all their moments spent together – the good and the bad – and she didn't want to erase any of them...until that day.

Opening the drawers, Y/N moved aside Ethan's socks, nearly grunting when she saw he had started folding them all wrong like he used to do when they just got married. It took her four months to teach him how to properly fold his clothes and to see he had reverted to his old habits unnerved her. It's a silly thing to be angry about because who gets mad about how socks are folded? But she was angry, not necessarily just about the socks, but the whole situation she found herself in.

Finally finding what she came here for, she closed her hand around the small, black box. Sitting back to rest, she drew in a deep, heavy breath. She had already started having trouble moving and breathing and she was only four months along, her stomach visible just enough to tell she's pregnant, but not enough to say she's as big as she knows she'll get. She was happy not to have the morning sickness issue, but the size? She wasn't happy about getting so big so soon.

Staring at the little black box, she debated whether to open it. It wouldn't do her any good for she already knew what was inside. None of this would do her any good, but she felt the need to do this – to see it herself. It's that nagging feeling you get in the back of your mind that won't leave you alone until you humor it, so she did.

Shaking her head, she opened the box, gasping despite knowing she'd find just that – their wedding band – his and hers – the same one she had thrown in his face as she walked out of their house. He kept them both, but that's not what got her – it's the inscription he had engraved as a surprise – Infinity times infinity, that faced her directly.

''It's just in case one of us gets in a horrible accident and the tattoos are scraped off our skin.“ Ethan shrugged as if his reasoning is the most normal thing in the world and the weird part of it all is that Y/N simply nodded, chuckling, because that's exactly the kind of thing she'd expect him to do, to say, to think – and she absolutely loved him for it.

Placing a shaky hand over her mouth, she felt the tears pricking at her eyes. It's quite clear she can't say she's indifferent to it all anymore, but her other fear had turned out to be true – she still felt something, everything for him.

All her friends and family keep telling her to forget, to let him go. How? It's all part of her. She can't let go of the pain without losing something sacred. The good memories keep her going and the bad ones make her want to curl under the duvet and never come out again, but they are locked tight together like two sides of the same coin.

How to let go of him when she can’t say for sure she wants to?

Y/N didn't know what to say. In fact, she didn't come to see him to say anything at all. She just needed to see him – like she would lose her mind if she didn't. So she came. And she stood there, shaking like a leaf, staring at her husband...ex-husband...or not...she didn't know anymore.

And he stared right back.

Noticing his lips move in an effort to speak, Y/N had rushed toward him. She didn't know why and she didn't want to do it at all, it was a surprise for her too – instinct, something beyond her control, like her heartbeat.

Without control, she threw her arms around him, holding him close. However, she couldn't stop herself from shaking even more in his embrace, especially as he wrapped his arms around her as well – her safe place forming once again.

''Babe, you're shaking.“ His voice had chased away all the sanity in her mind. He had turned her back to porcelain, a fragile doll in need of his kisses and compliments and sexy smirks that made her weak in the knees. He still has all of her, she knows that. But she can't be porcelain again. Never again. Porcelain breaks.

Pushing against his chest, Y/N had stepped back, wiping under her nose with the back of her hand as she sniffled, holding her emotions in, regaining control. She turned to leave, only to find Ethan wanted her to stay.

''Please don't. Just...I've missed you. All of you.“ Ethan's desperate call had made her turn around, giving him a good look at not only her face but her growing abdomen. It felt like the light at the end of a very long tunnel for Ethan, but for Y/N it was anything but. It was the bottom of a well she worked so hard to climb out of.

''I'm not here to mend things between us, Ethan. I just needed to see you. Make sure you're alright. That's all.“ She struggled to keep her voice leveled, but the slight rasp to her tone had given him insight into her pain. And all he could think about is how much he hates that he had caused her any pain, regardless how she carries it with such grace that he had fallen in love with her all over again.

''I understand. I do. I don't deserve you nor do you have to give me a second chance. Y/N, I'm just asking for a moment longer. I haven't given up on you, but if you gave up on me...on us...I understand.“ Ethan wasn't hiding his emotion any longer. He stood there, bleeding heart in his hands out in the open, giving her the choice between mercy and revenge.

''Don't. Okay?“ She pressed her lips in a thin line, releasing a shaky breath.

''I'm sorry you've been hurting and I'm sorry I contributed to that pain. Hopefully, you'll get well and...I hope you'll be happy again. Because I do want that for you, Ethan. I do.“ Her eyes glossed over as he stepped closer to her, grateful he didn't try to manipulate her by saying he'd never be happy without her by his side. He let her speak. He didn't interrupt her. He let her be herself – the new Y/N, and he did love the new side of her too.

''And I hate myself for not seeing your pain before, but that doesn't excuse what you did. It doesn't magically erase the bad, the pain, the lost trust and...If I stay here any longer I might cave and fall back into the bad place you put me in...And I don't want to go there again, Ethan. And I don't want to make you feel worse about it because I want you to get better. Our babies will need you to get better.'' She smiled, absentmindedly placing a hand over her swollen belly and while it pained him, Ethan could tell she would be a good mother already.

''I didn't meant to hurt you. I guess I was hurting so badly...hating that you didn't. There was a wicked part of me that wanted you to hurt just as much. I shouldn't have started the conversation like that. I should have started with what's wrong with my mind. I should have done a lot of things differently and I'm so sorry I didn't.“ Ethan wanted to make amends, to make sure she knows he was working to be different, someone who wouldn't just hurt her for sport. Even he couldn't recognize that part of himself for it felt like a different person, a split personality, but he couldn't place blame on someone else because it was him. He had to take responsibility.

''I know.“ She smiled so kindly that he felt like he was in heaven. It's the same smile she used to give him when he'd come home from work and rush to kiss her before saying anything because that's all he could think about all day long.

''It doesn't make it hurt any less. It changed me, E. I'm not the same woman you married. And it's not the worst change. I actually like myself better now.“ She stepped closer once again, taking his hand in hers. She had turned it in her hold, his palm facing her belly as she placed it lightly.

''Thank you.“ Ethan whispered, wanting to cry but not because of the sadness that took over him when he realized he might not stand a chance with her, but happy tears over feeling her stomach. There was no movement, nothing that would let him know there are babies inside her other than the size of it, but he hadn't felt so happy in so long that he had forgotten what happiness meant.

''I should go. I'm getting tired so easily these days.“ She smiled, pulling his hand away, taking his happiness away in the process just as easily as she had given it.

''Will you come back?“ Ethan asked, knowing that he's supposed to come out in two weeks anyway, but he wasn't really asking if she'd come back here – but if she'd come back to him...to their house...to their life. She just smiled, shrugging because she could see right through him and he knew that.

''Birds often fly in different directions...it doesn't mean they never meet again after the winter has passed.“

Hearing someone approach had brought her out of her most recent Ethan memory, knowing she probably stayed too long – long enough to draw attention and worry. Quickly, she had placed the box back in the back of his sock drawer, her heart pounding so strongly she worried it might break her ribcage open.

''Hey? Found what you were looking for?“ Edward walks in, his charming smile erased with a worried glint in his bright blue eyes, a strand of his blonde hair falling from behind his ear and to his cheekbone which Y/N couldn't help but smile at. He looked like an angel, incredibly handsome and while her mind continued to push Ethan memory of him standing in the same place looking at her the same way, she focused on the British man who had been so kind to waste his lunch break on her.

''Yeah...I think I did.“

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Sorry @frenchy-and-the-sea​ but Tumblr keeps ruining my read more attempts if I dare to save a post as a draft or edit it... anyway here it is again but with the PROMISED CUT in the right place:

Permission to ramble about Ciphers? Why THANK you! Mostly under the cut because that’s how I [try to] roll these days.

Ciphers

So, a Cipher is basically a rare individual who is able to learn languages at a ridiculous rate, only needing to be taught words and phrases once before they are dedicated to memory. It is a hereditary skill, and there are nine Cipher families currently in operation, which is down from what used to be over twenty In some cases, the ability just disappeared suddenly. In others, the Cipher died before having children and it never manifested again. In others, it skipped too many generations and was effectively ‘lost’ because, even if it did reappear, no one was actively looking for or fostering the ability and it just sorta… flew under the radar.

Ciphers generally have a pretty straightforward life-path. They are born, their ability is discovered at a young age (typically by their Cipher parent, who will test their ability to learn language periodically). The first years of their life are largely dedicated to the explicit teaching of all the languages known by their family, which can vary based on location, exposure and issues mentioned in the previous paragraph. Then, when they are old enough, they go to work for a member of the nobility (royalty, lords and ladies, etc.) who will act as their patron until they grow old enough to tire and be replaced by the next Cipher in their line.

In the earlier days after the Divide, Ciphers played an extremely vital role in translating and deciphering texts, documents and inscriptions, determining what should be kept of the old world and what should be destroyed. They were essentially the gatekeepers of information, as they were the only ones who could actually understand what was written, and if the language was utterly unknown, they had the best chance of decoding it based on languages that share geographic and  linguistic similarities. They were also key players as the world began to establish its new order, privy to the highest meetings and negotiations, serving as trusted translators between royalty as the kingdoms began to form. They were, essentially, essential.

However, almost 600 years post-Divide, things have changed. Trade Tongue was developed in the mid-second century, which has opened communication significantly across the known world. Languages have also consolidated considerably, particularly with the expansion of the Khathi Empire, meaning there are fewer one must learn in order to serve as a functional translator. Majority of texts have been located, decoded, and sent away to the various archives to be locked in dusty rooms. Basically, Ciphers have found themselves in a world that has largely outgrown them. They are a convenience, rather than a necessity. Where they used to deal with incredible artefacts of the past, tasked with uncovering lost knowledge, they are now more likely to be found performing general bureaucratic services to ‘earn their keep’.

The tradition of patronage has continued largely due to the generational bond formed between Cipher families and their noble patrons (who often remain loyal to a single Cipher family, and visa versa). This allows current Ciphers to still live comfortably, but there is no real prestige associated with their abilities anymore. In fact, they are often actively disliked, as when their services do happen to be required, their patron sets the price (and that price is usually very high). So, many now view Ciphers as little more than lapdogs whose main function is to line their patron’s pocket. And they’re really not wrong.

Delver is the only active Cipher who lacks a patron. He basically acts as a freelancer, strutting around the kingdoms, spreading word when he is in the area. His general practice is to undercut the local cipher for work needed by the lower classes, and overcharge the nobility for his discretion (given his lack of affiliation). He is also from the only Cipher family where the ability has not skipped a generation, but that comes with its own cost that has only recently begun to manifest. There are theories that the Cipher ability skips generations as a kind of biological safety mechanism, as over time having that many languages at your fingertips can become overwhelming for any one mind. If a generation was skipped, the Cipher’s knowledge had to be consolidated and written down as best as possible, all while maintaining regular day to day work and duties. As a result, a lot tended to slip between the cracks, and often large portions of knowledge were lost in the process. While this meant that less languages were passed on when the ability reappeared, it alleviated some of the strain on the individual’s mind. There had been no real consequences for Delver’s line until his great-great grandfather, who was said to have gone mad in his seventies. Then his great grandmother, at about the same age. Then his grandfather, in his late fifties. Then his mother, in her early forties.

TBH I know it’s nothing particularly exciting on paper, but I think what excites me about the whole prospect is because I like the idea of change, and how time and development causes people and places and skills to fall in and out of favour. The joy I get out of it is writing from the perspective of someone who is trapped in a place of impotent bitterness, and how that jaded feeling changes the way he approaches the world. Delver longs for a challenge - dreams of the days when everything was mysterious and exciting, and people looked to Ciphers as links between the past and the present. Now, people just look to him for a seal and a signature, and he desperately wants to be more than that.

Catalina, Kathryn, and Katherine

I've been looking at the spellings for each of the Catherines because I find it interesting and I was curious if people in the Six fandom (and the musical itself) were using the right version since we all seem to use the same. Note: this is based on their wikipedia pages, the titles of the sources on those pages, Six the Musical, and what I’ve seen people using when talking about them or writing fanfiction.

So for Aragon, the wiki page refers to her as Catherine except for when it’s directly quoting something. The quotes are more often Katherine or Katharine. I find it interesting that the article does that since it has a section about the spelling of her name which says her baptismal name is Catalina but in most of her signatures it’s a variation of Katherine, all with a K. This is also the case in letters from her daughter and from Arthur (her first husband). Furthermore, lots of things Henry decorated or had made for them had the initials H & K. However, I only ever see her referred to as Catherine either because that’s how she’s listed in the programme for Six, that’s the title of her wiki page, or that seems to be the default way of spelling the name Catherine these days. 

Next is Howard, who the Six fandom refer to as Katherine due to the line “K Howard is here” and that’s how she’s listed in the programme. Once again her page refers to her as Catherine the entire way through despite again having a section saying her only surviving signature is “Kathryn” but it goes on to say that her chief biographer uses Catherine. Lots of people in the six fandom use nicknames for Katherine, mainly Kat and Kitty.

Finally is Parr who’s also referred to as Catherine but the page starts with saying she is also referred to as 4 variations of Katherine with a K. There’s a section where it seems to be constantly switching between C and K throughout, which is confusing as it mentions a Katherine Neville at the very beginning. I decided it is talking about Parr despite the changes because it refers to “Katherine’s brother William Parr”. Most of the sources or further readings use Katherine too. In the Six fandom, we use Catherine (like the programme) and also the nickname Cathy from the show’s line “gold star for Cathy Parr”.

Also, on a similar topic, Cleves has a similar issue but not a extreme. Her Germanic name is Anna von Kleve but the anglicised version is Anne of Cleves. In general, there is more consistency with calling her Anne, but Six (and thus the fandom) call her Anna of Cleves which is a mashup of the two but helps us differ between her and Anne Boleyn. People also use the mashup of Anna of Kleve(s) (myself included) but this is also technically wrong.

I thought Anne was free of this but in double-checking to confirm, it turns out she also varied her name, however mostly her second name. Boleyn has been spelled as Bullen and Bolena. While in the Netherlands, Anne signed her name as Anna de Boullan and portraits of her often use the Latin form Anna Bolina. Despite this, everyone seems to have agreed to call her Anne Boleyn (both academically and in the media/fandom).

Total variations of Catherine found: 9 and the first 8 were all on Aragon’s page. Catherine, Catalina, Katherine, Katherina, Katharine, Katharina, Katerine, Kateryn, and Kathryn. Jane never had these issues

Bonus history reasons for the many versions: in Tudor times, spelling hadn’t been confirmed so everyone spelled things however they wanted, as long as it made the right type of sound. This is the main reason there are so many variations. Also, they mostly use K because in Latin inscriptions, C is used for 100. No one wanted people to read their sign as 100atherine.

Smoothed by water

It was not Azula’s usual place, to be standing on the room’s side, doing her best to blend in with the background, and avoid stares. At least it hadn’t been, before. Now, with a lot of people still unsure of whether or not she should be free- with her own doubts about it- and particularly now, at the south, she was better off avoiding those who probably wanted her anywhere but in their land.

She was aware of the imposition she was to her brother, having come to this trip with him, because her fire could be blocked by lovely platinum cuffs at her wrists, but her title was very much intact. Azula was still the nation’s Princess, and as such, protocol asked she be here tonight, about to dine with the tribe’s Chief and his son, in the man’s own home. Agni had been merciful enough though, to spare her from having to share the evening with the waterbender as well. Now that would’ve ended poorly, most likely than not.

“Most of them are from hunting trips.” Chief Hakoda's voice startled Azula from her inspection of a bookcase, and the many things crammed in there. It was mostly scrolls and books, but there were also a lot of small trinkets she couldn’t tell what they stood for, although they looked important, traditional. She figured that was what the man was referring to.

“Others are gifts from other nations and towns. This one-” He picked up a small gold piece she was familiar with, running a thumb over its smooth surface. “This one was from your brother.” Azula nodded, but didn’t dare open her mouth to respond, as the man stood next to her. He was tall, broad, and his eyes were intimidating, so hers moved back to the bookcase. 

“You can pick any of them up.” Hakoda offered, and his deep voice sounded gentle enough. Her hands pushed deeper into her coat’s pockets, lest she took it upon his offer and touched anything. She was unwanted guest after all.

Azula felt his presence still by her side. His eyes were on her, and shifted on her feet, unsure on what to do. This had not been her first choice, by any means. If it were by her wishes, then she’d be in her room with a book, and Zuko would be here alone. But he’d been having many long trips as of late, and the palace was growing emptier each time her brother left. Its walls tall and overwhelming, and the darkness lurking behind the heavy curtains unbearable. She’d barely managed to sleep at all, last time he left to one of the temples.

“This one's from the northern tribe.” The Chief’s voice cut through the silence once more, and this time she turned to look up at him. 

“Why are you talking to me?” Azula’s voice was low, cautious, but tinged with curiosity. “If this is about protocol, then it’s okay, I don’t mind about it. You can go with them-” Her eyes moved to the opposite end of the room where Zuko and the Councilman were entertained with some papers on a table. “I’ll be fine.”

For a moment, the man seemed to be considering her words, evaluating her seriousness maybe, the tension in her jaw, and the way she couldn’t stop blinking under his blue gaze. And then he smiled, and Azula frowned, not bothering in hiding her confusion anymore.

“I don’t want your pity either.” She hurried to clarify, nails digging on her palms within the coat, shoulders tense. Hakoda’s eyes dropped briefly with a breathy chuckle, and when he looked up, there was a softness in them she’d not anticipated. It was alien, and disarming, and she looked back to the bookcase.

“You know, Katara used to look at me like that a lot when she was little. Confused, sulking. Way before I left to fight-” And still the man kept on talking, it seemed he’d gotten sentimental now. Azula looked at him on the side, unsure of what to do with being compared with his daughter, surely the girl wouldn’t like it. But this was his home, so there was not much she could do about it. “She’d ask questions I couldn’t answer, things that weren’t for a kid to know, and she’d hate it when I changed the conversation on her.”

“You’re doing it now.” Azula stated, flatly. “And I’m not a child.” Even if she sounded a bit like one right now.

“No, you’re not, you’re right. Twenty-four makes you very much an adult in any nation, Princess.” She thought kindness sounded in his voice, making her lips tighten into a fine line. “But I’m sure my answer would still not be all that pleasant for you. Although I can say it’s not pity, and it’s definitely not protocol either.”

She nodded once more, having nothing much to add to his vague answer. Her eyes moved to a decorated arrowhead. “What about this one?” She asked, voice small, hesitant, and thought she saw him smile.

“That one is something Sokka brought home one day, found it in the snow. He added the symbols himself, said one day it would be a family relic.” 

“That is old water tribe language. I’m not sure I know them all though.” Azula analyzed the inscriptions for a moment, cocking her head to the side to catch a spiralled one she didn’t recognize.

Hakoda laughed softly. “Some. Others are just invented by him, I think he was maybe four when he designed them, let me see…” A finger went on pointing to the different figures. “This one is Tui, and here is La. 

“Then there’s the wolf, and the seal, this one I can’t remember what he said it was. Oh, here- this little one is water, and this is the sun. Agni to you.” He finished with a smile to her, and Azula found herself answering to it with a twitch at the corner of her lips.

“I imagine you know the old Fire Nation’s language, yes?” Hakoda asked, hands working through a mess of scrolls piled in no apparent order, at the bottomost shelf. He came back up with a very old looking one, a faded red thread kept it closed. “This- was brought to the tribe many years ago, and it has been in the power of every tribe Chief ever since. The issue is, no-one knows how to read it.” He handed it over, an encouraging nod for her to take it.

Azula was careful to pull the knot, and roll it out, eyes scanning the old writing, and a full smile finally breaking through her face. She laughed before she was able to stop it, and could see Zuko’s head perking up in attention from the corner of her eye. Looking back up, she found the Chief’s expectant face.

“This is a recipe.” She handed the parchment over, shaking her head in amusement. His heavy brows knitted together over the writing, surprise evident in his expression. “It seems some Chieftess asked for the current Fire Lady’s fruit tarts recipe. I’m sorry it’s not some ancient secret, but those are actually very good, I’m sure you’ve had them when you visited the palace.”

Hakoda seemed completely bewildered, as if he’d been lied to about the existence of snow, or the moon, and then warm laughter poured from his lips, and he wiped a few tears from the corner of his eyes. Azula found she didn’t mind talking to him that much after all.

“I can’t believe it, all these years and it was a fruit tart.” The scroll was left forgotten on a random shelf. She shrugged, a smile still playing on her lips at the absurdity of it all. At how nice it had felt to make him laugh.

“What about this one?” Azula pointed to a small stone carved to imitate a leaf.

“That one is from the Swamp people. They use the water to shape the stone, much like nature does.”

“It’s beautiful.” Azula traced the leaf’s nerve before she realised her hand moving, and was quick to remove it.

“It is. You can take it.” He said, as if it were nothing, as if she wasn’t who she was. And when she turned to him once again, his eyes were so damned blue and sad, sitting on her hesitant hand.

And she couldn’t ask, because now she understood why he told her that about his daughter’s questions. Because the way he was looking at her was much like the way Zuko did, and she could barely handle her brother’s answers as it was. 

And before she could retreat to the coat, he took the leaf and put it on her hand, and Azula just stood there, petrified, with her hand between the Chief’s.

“It smells like the food is almost done.” He gave her hand a little squeeze before releasing it with a reassuring smile. “You can keep the coat on, okay? It’s always a bit chilly for you firebenders here.”

“Thank you.” It was all she could manage, and even then, the last word left her lips broken. He only shook his head, as if nothing where the matter, as if this were a common occurrence for him. And just like that he left to check on the food he’d been preparing.

After what felt like forever, Azula could tear her eyes from the stone leaf, and put it in her pocket to go sit down next to Zuko.

“Everything alright?” He turned to her offering a glass of something, his voice was low, but his concern terribly loud. She felt like crying for the second time in just a minute.

“Yeah, I just-” She glanced over to the fire. I just met a father, were what her lips refused to form. That she’d seen a tiny glimpse of what she’d never had, and now wanted to go drown herself in alcohol, and self-pity, and the cold sea. “Yes.” She repeated, managing a smile to quiet down Zuko’s worried eyes. “The Chief gave me a present, that’s all.”

“That sounds nice of him.” Her brother commented with an all too knowing smile, leaning to brush lips on her forehead. Azula nodded, fingers playing with the rock through the fabric of the coat. Dinner sounded a little bit better now.