too many people are genuinely trying to say that if you want more hunger games movies you are just like the capitol, which is blatantly untrue. the key difference is that unlike the capitol, none of us are watching the hunger games because we view children being forced into an arena to kill each other as entertainment! none of us are betting on lives or laughing as children are dying on our screens. our motivations involve wanting to see more of our beloved characters, and also, they're characters. they aren't real! the capitol is not tuning into a show with actors, but we are. it is fundamentally different. use your brain

Plat!Yan!Chrollo x Autistic!Reader x Plat!Yan!PT - Soulmate AU Part 1

This is largely self indulgent writing, as I know that very little of this niche exists, if any. The reader here is largely based on myself and my own thoughts of the world, but I hope others enjoy my writing. I have no formal education in writing, so if you have any advice for my writing style, please feel free to send it in.

This idea was largely inspired by the lovely @kiame-sama, who wrote this concept with a romantically yandere Chrollo, though I am aro-ace and changed it just slightly for my own writing. I hope to continue this series with more parts, but they may not all follow the same story thread.

This part just includes the body swap.

-----

You were never going to make the best impression on your soulmate. Or at least, you could never make the best impression on their friends, and that was what mattered largely to you. Talking to people would never be your strong suit, but at least on your end you had many months and other friends to keep your soulmate entertained. Waking up in a stranger's body, talking to other strangers about all details of their life? Horrible.

It should have been a comfort that there was a small yellow flower tattooed just below the date on your back, indicative of a platonic soulmate, but the idea that you would likely be expected to spend time not just with your soulmate, but with their friends as well threw you off so incredibly. Your soulmate would surely need the patience of a saint to deal with you, at least according to most people you speak with about your soulmate.

Your preparations for the switch were over now, all things embarrassing put away for now, some good food prepped, and a letter you had written taped to the inside of your bedroom door. For now, you were going over the final rules for your friends who were under strict instructions of exactly what they could and could not speak about with your soulmate. Even though they chuckled under their breath about your extreme caution, at this point you had to trust that they would follow what you said, since your switch was just minutes away.

Your closest friend, Jo, assured you that they would keep the rest in line. Knowing their authoritative personality and intimidating aura, you were much more reassured that things would go well. Even as you got up to leave, they were giving everyone their famous evil eye to keep them quiet.

Heading into the bedroom, you laid down, only to realize that your breathing was coming short and there seemed to be not enough air getting in your lungs. Were you seriously having a panic attack just before your switch? You tried to calm yourself with the breathing exercises you had been taught, but there was little you could do, which only made your panic grow faster.

You had only seconds to spare, and the reality of the situation hit you with the force of a freight train. Keeping your eyes open, you took one deep breath to hope you wouldn't ruin everything on the spot.

Everything changed in an instant, the position of your body, the tension of your muscles, the temperature and smell of the room. And the last thing to hit you, the fact that your soulmate decided to switch while driving on a highway.

Internally, you felt a massive surge of panic, outweighing the mild anxiety you had been feeling by a landslide. Until you realized that the body you were in appeared to be functioning on its own.

It was common knowledge that during the switch, there was no change to the body's ability to understand and speak languages, though you wondered if you were among the first to find the same thing applied to driving skills.

Slowly, you brought your breathing back to a calm, knowing that a meltdown right now could spell things much worse than humiliation. Once you felt ready enough that you wouldn't cry the second anything moved a moment to fast, you looked up to the rearview mirror to take in the inhabitants of the car.

Seeing the body you were in -- your soulmate -- was jarring, but he didn't appear immediately scary in the mirror. He had slicked black hair, wide eyes the color of granite, and wore a black trench coat with white fur that was open to show his bare chest underneath. But your attention was quickly drawn from his reflection to the fact that there were others accompanying you in this car.

Sat next to you in the passenger's seat was a woman with bright pink hair and a stony face, staring straight ahead at the road, who didn't appear to have noticed that there was any difference in her driver's behavior. Taking up the back seats were three men, one blond with a babyish smile, another blonde much taller than the first with a toughened look about himself, and a man with long black hair tied back looking grumpily out of his side window. All of them gave off intimidating vibes, almost putting you off of speaking at all.

After a few moments of quiet driving, it became apparent to you that these people weren't going to notice you until you spoke up. You were grateful for the time to prepare your first words, but with the menacing energy all these people gave off, you had to put your minimal understanding of conversation to its maximum.

"Ah... This wasn't quite what I was expecting..." Not the best opening line, but at least you had begun to announce your presence.

It was the pink-haired woman next to you who first responded with a questioning hum.

"I'm not sure who this is, but whoever they are, I'm their soulmate." That seemed to incite a reaction from the entire car.

"Soulmate!?" The black haired man jumped from his position, his grumpy mood dissipated and replaced with confusion mixed with excitement. The two other men were looking between themselves, while the woman's face somehow got even tougher, glaring towards you with something that you assumed was suspicion.

"Hah... I'm about as surprised as you are!" You tried to add some joy to your tone, hoping that matching their excitement would somehow dispel the situation faster. However, they continued to glare at you, and you began to wish that you could sink away into the seat, though there was very little that would help with at this point.

It's almost deathly quiet in the car for just a few moments, before all hell breaks loose. The others in the car were yelling questions at you, and yelling in general at each other.

"Would you lot calm down!?" The woman seemed to be your ally here, "If you keep this act up, we're gonna scare his soulmate off before the switch is even over!"

"Why wouldn't the boss have told us about his switch? This isn't like him in the slightest!" The black-haired man was clearly upset, though you weren't sure if he was angry at 'the boss' or at you.

The woman hushed him by saying that 'the boss' likely meant this as a test, which only served to confuse your perception of these people further. After a few moments of whispering between themselves, they finally turned back to you.

"So, who are you?" The rougher looking blond asked, not exactly setting a good tone.

It took you a few moments to even notice that he had even spoken to you, as the realization that your soulmate made seemingly no preparations for your switch hit you hard. Even though the day he would switch with you was embedded on his body, he had let you wake up in some random moment of his life, while you had spent months working around this day to get the best outcome possible.

"My name is (Y/N)," you introduced yourself carefully, not quite sure if you wanted to give your full name away to these people, "And who might you be?"

The four looked between themselves, completely ignoring your question. "No-one we know by that name."

They went further into their suspicious act, but were kind enough to also give their own first names before continuing their own interrogation. It was the baby-faced boy in the backseat, Shalnark, who asked the majority of the questions, he seemed to be very pushy and tricked you into giving answers multiple times.

The conversation was very one-sided, as you tried every trick you had ever been taught for keeping interactions equal, only to eventually realize that all four of them were working against you, using tactics for talking that you had never thought of before.

You were quick to become frustrated with their incessant questions. There were no spaces for the others to talk, leaving you feel like bug under a microscope as they stared at you. Eventually, it seemed that they were happy with the information they had gotten from you, which was a lot, including the full name you hadn't wanted to give them earlier, your home nation and your line of work.

Whoever these people were, they were good at interrogation, Shalnark especially good at tricking you with simple questions that he insinuated much greater answers from, which worried you for what these people could do for a living. If your soulmate was their boss, could he be even better at this type of talk? You didn't think you could handle conversations with a man that potentially intelligent.

Now that they were being less interrogating, you tried to take the opportunity to add your own questions, but you could only glean a few things from the way they answered. For one thing, the highway that you were currently on was on the same continent that you lived on, but a few countries over. For another, there were many more members of this group that worked for your soulmate.

Asking questions about your soulmate got a strange reaction each time, all of the passengers of the car taking a moment to look between themselves before giving you vague answers. His name was Chrollo, and as their boss, they didn't feel it was right to tell you too much about him, or so they said. You found that he was well-read, though they still refused to tell you much about precisely what he read.

It felt useless to try and pursue the conversation further, as you were nowhere near their level of smarts in conversation. To try and alleviate some of the tension you were feeling, you attempted to bring up lighter topics, asking them for funny stories, which they somewhat complied with. Although their style of telling stories seemed odd to you, as they left out a lot of details without prompting, but you were at least happy that the focus was off of you.

They told you stories of traveling around the world, and how they saw some of the worlds most gorgeous sights and expensive luxuries nearly everyday. You had to assume that they were embellishing most of it, but they made their lives sound rather fun, and you wondered if your own friends were giving Chrollo anywhere near as good an impression back home.

It had to have been at least an hour before another fear hit you, one that plagued you nearly everyday. From your perspective, everything was going well, they were laughing and telling stories not just to you but with each other, which indicated that they were happy with how how you acted. However, the fear that plagued you from inside told you that they weren't happy, that you had done something wrong and now they were laughing at you. Looking back on every word you had spoken, you felt almost physically sick, seeing every flaw in your word choice and tone in hindsight.

The passengers were looking and laughing between themselves and talking, so they didn't notice right away that there were tears gathering in your eyes, for which you were grateful. Just as suddenly as you were sat there, surrounded by happy voices with tears in your eyes, you were back home, sat amongst your own friends, who laughed perhaps even louder.

Once you came to and realized that you were no longer driving, and in fact were sitting on your own couch with your own friends, the tears really started to run. The letter that you had spent so much time carefully writing was clutched hard in your hand, but not so much that it would crumple or bend.

You quickly stood while mumbling an excuse, rushing to your room as your friends called after you. It felt odd to be back in your own body, the smells and sounds of everything hitting you horribly clearly. There was very little you could do to keep yourself from getting overwhelmed.

Your friends had already been prepared for what to do if you were overwhelmed coming back from your switch, but that didn't stop their concern for the way you were acting.

"Hey, (Y/N)? You okay in there?" Jo's voice came through the door, and you were grateful that your closest friend was here for you. "The others are all gonna start heading home now, but I'm gonna stick around. I don't want you to feel alone at the moment."

With a quick confirmation from you from behind the door, Jo headed to get some rest in the living room. Practically falling into your bed, you pulled the weighted blanket you had gotten as a gift over yourself, staring up at the ceiling as all of the feelings of excitement and fear finally crashed down on you.

-----

Thanks for reading!

Ménage (7/13ish)

SFW. A human makes a rash decision. A demon and an angel talk. Continued verbal snarkiness. 

@thewolfisapartofmysoul @beetlewise-and-pennyjuice @dilfyjuice @yogsathot @janitor-boy Enjoy! ~

Once the room was empty of all non-human persons, Molly let the towel fall as she grasped at her chest, her heart aching behind her ribs, body responding in kind to the chaos of her current situation. What was she going to do? She wasn’t about to send Beetlejuice away, even if he was a demon; she knew the loneliness in his eyes all too well, and besides, he had been nothing but kind to her. This angel, on the other hand . . .

Her jaw set, teeth grinding together, still furious. How dare he waltz into her home like he hadn’t been standing by twiddling his thumbs while she suffered. How dare he try to make her get rid of the one thing that had made her feel less empty since her family died. How dare he try to act as if he had her best interests at heart. Hands shaking, she got dressed, towel-drying her hair and combing it out with her fingers. Molly wasn’t about to stand for this, not in her own home. If she could summon a demon, surely she could banish an angel.

It took an incredible amount of willpower to open the door and leave the relative safety of her bedroom to walk out into her living room, where the two entities stood icily surveying the other. The tension was so thick, it could be cut with a knife and spread it on toast. Without speaking to either, she went and grabbed the grimoire she used to summon Beetlejuice, flipping through the pages. Most of the herbs she had here already, the others were easy enough to find. Her eyes were uncharacteristically cold as she looked up at the angel.

⁂

Beetlejuice scratched the hair on his stomach, just to emphasize the fact that he wasn't going to cover himself just because an angel wanted him too.

"For someone who gets off watching people without them knowing, you're such a prude," he said off-handedly, then listened with faux interest about rules, procedures, and structures. He snorted wordlessly when the angel tried to collect himself and pull his "superior than thou" attitude back in place.

He didn't miss the look on the angel's face when he looked back at Molly's bedroom door. His face softened, just a little.

Beetlejuice rolled his eyes. Everybody knew angels got off on hosannas and basking in the Light, not gross icky things like physical touch.

When Molly reappeared, clothed but with her damp hair a deeper shade of blue that he associated closer to depression than not, he took some steps forward to take her hand. The set of her face, however, made him stutter step and not get too close.

“I’m not sending him away. I called him here, and I’ll take whatever consequences that comes with,”  Molly announced to the room, although it was obviously directed towards the angel. “You, on the other hand, are trespassing, and if you won’t leave, then I’ll make you.”

He watched with bright eyes her going back to her altar and flipping through her grimoire, and laughed out loud when she spun on the angel who was still trying his best to be politely interested but was also obviously worried and exasperated.

Beetlejuice licked his teeth as he grinned in triumph.

"This is priceless," he crowed. "It must burn pretty bad--pun totally intended--to see how free will is a fundamental right, unlike what the Big Guy might say!

At this point, Dewey was wondering if actually strangling this demon could count as an act of holy smiting, because he was so close to doing it anyway. Especially after that crack about free will. He took a deep breath, trying to push aside his annoyance, trying to push aside the sting of Molly looking at him with near hatred in her eyes.

“Molly, sweetheart, you can’t banish me. Guardians can’t be sent away, they have to remain near their charges.”

It was written all over her face how tenuous her emotional state was, and although he wanted nothing more than to send his fist flying right into the demon’s smug, crowing face, he ruffled a hand back through his hair and forced himself to calm down.

“Let’s . . . let’s just sit down and talk. Okay?”

Molly wanted to scream that she didn’t care if the spell didn’t work, she at least had to try, but deep down, she knew the simple banishing spell in the grimoire wouldn’t be strong enough to handle any celestial, let alone her guardian angel. A sob nearly clawed its way out of her throat, but she closed the book in defeat.

“So . . . what, I’m just stuck with you? You can’t just poof yourself invisible again? I don’t see why not, you seemed so comfortable with it before.”

She couldn’t help it, her chest physically ached with the need to be near someone, and she breezed past the angel to wrap her arms around Beetlejuice’s waist.

“This is a fucking nightmare,” she murmured, her face half buried in his chest.

After a moment or two, Molly spoke again. “All right. Fine. You wanna talk? Let’s talk.”

She gently pushed on the demon’s chest, guiding him back toward the couch and sitting, curling up close to his side.

It didn’t escape him, the suggestive licking of his lips or the intimate caress of his fingers over her stomach. It also didn’t escape him that the demon was purposefully trying to provoke him, trying to lord his supposed “claim” to her over him. His cheeks flared red and hot, but he simply shot the smirking demon a glare before he sunk onto the floor, sitting cross legged, hands fidgeting in his lap. He’d been hoping just he and Molly could talk, but at this point, Dewey didn’t think he could persuade her to be alone with him. Honestly, he couldn’t blame her.

“I know this must all seem like a bit much all at once,” he began, wishing she would at least look at him, “and you have every right to be angry with me. If I was in your position, I’d be angry too. But this?” He nodded toward the demon, whose smirk was beginning to fade. “This is dangerous. I don’t think you realize how much. It’s not just your life that’s at stake here, Molly, its your soul. Demons are manipulative, they can’t be trusted, they can’t be tamed or domesticated or whatever it is you planned to do. He will end up killing you at some point, if he loses control or just gets bored. It’s what they do. It’s in their nature to crave chaos and suffering.

“And when he does kill you, after you let him mark you? You run the risk of never being able to see your family again.”

Dewey was leaning forward now, as if bowed beneath the gravity of the situation.

Molly was only half-listening, at least until the angel proclaimed that Beej would kill her. She let out a scoff and rolled her eyes; he had no idea what he was talking about. Beej had been nothing but gentle with her, asking what she wanted, looking after her comfort. He couldn’t possibly be as evil as the angel said he was. And yet . . . some little voice, no louder than a whisper but so persistent, murmured that as an angel, he would have more experience with demons. Wouldn’t he know how they operated? She hadn’t known Beetlejuice terribly long, what made her so sure he wasn’t manipulating her? Her arms tightened around him; she didn’t like having these thoughts, hated the idea that he could willfully harm her.

When he mentioned seeing her family again, her eyes finally drifted to him.

“That’s a low fucking blow,” she muttered, her heart wrenching in her chest.  “So, what? I’m supposed to banish him, repent of my sins, be born again, that whole schtick?” Molly sighed, dropping her embrace to lean forward on the couch. “Look. I’m still angry with you. But I understand you may not have had a choice, either. I can’t make you leave, but I won’t make him leave; he’s got every right to be here, and I don’t regret summoning him. My life isn’t going to change just because you suddenly decided to show up.”

Beetlejuice liked that the angel sat on the ground, wings folded tightly behind his back, his hands tapping, entwining themselves, unable to be still. The pink on his cheeks, too, made him grin. An angel choosing to sit in an inferior position, blushing . . . some incredibly infernal thoughts slipped though his mind as he looked down on the uninvited guest.

Beetlejuice was brought back to the matter at hand and any naughty scenarios evaporated like vapor when the angel started talking to Molly about him, like he wasn't even present.

Okay, so he had manipulated people. He had hurt people. He had killed people. It was a little hazy in his memory if he did it because he was bored. Chaos? Yes. Control over whether or not a person goes to the Light or not, just because he'd fucked them?

Please. Nobody had that kind of power.

He growled, "I told you I didn't coerce her to come here and I actively told her to send me away!" while Molly herself jumped to his defense. Semi-defense? There was a little acknowledgment that the angel didn't have much choice in his lot, either?

His grip tightened as she accused him of playing dirty. It wasn't overtly possessive, this hug; he knew the pain of losing people you cared about. He doubted the angel could understand it.

The sting of her seeming to have some slight recognition of the angel's predicament was squashed by her conviction she wasn't going to send him away.

"Molly, baby," he said quietly, into her ear, while looking at the angel. "I've enjoyed my time with you. I think you did too. And then this angel, this appointed guardian, this holy dental dam for your soul, just shows up out of the blue? He hasn't even told you his name. He seems to expect so much instant trust from you, but he hasn't even given you that?"

Dewey wanted to be angry with the demon for insinuating that he could possibly be the manipulator, but . . . he couldn’t. As much as he hated to admit it, the demon had a point. Angels weren’t supposed to share their names with their charges--names held power, encouraged familiarity. Angels were meant to be above that. Even so, he couldn’t help himself from blurting it out.

“Dewey,” he said softly. “My name is Dewey.” In the interest of transparency, he took a deep breath, and began talking. “I died back in the seventies, I think maybe seventy-eight or seventy-nine. I fell asleep at the wheel and crashed. I was appointed to you when you were thirteen; you were my first charge.”

A rather fond smile crossed his face, thinking back to that time before tragedy touched her life, remembering her as she was and could never be again.

“I remember being proud of you for sneaking CD’s past your parents, even though I shouldn’t have been. I always felt just a little proud of you when you rebelled.”

That was a secret he had promised to keep to himself, but he wanted Molly to trust him, wanted her to know him.

Molly leaned back against her demon as the angel spoke, giving her his name, a rush of details spilling from his lips as if determined to be as forthcoming as possible. It was interesting to learn about his past, to learn that he really hadn’t been an angel for terribly long, to learn that she was his first charge. Idly, her fingers brushed back and forth across Beetlejuice’s arm, as if seeking contact subconsciously. Despite his previous absence in her life, despite his apparent hatred of the demon she had summoned and his insistence that she had made a mistake, he didn’t seem bad. Just like a regular person stuck with a bad job.  

When he was finished, she raked her fingers back through her air, fluffy and waved from air drying. Conflict tugged at her heart; if they weren’t two opposing forces, she almost wouldn’t mind them both staying. If they could learn to behave, to refuse their natures for the sake of peace, then it could even be nice to have them around. Her voice was decidedly softer when she spoke again.

“Look. Either both of you go, or no one goes. Since you can’t leave, you’re just going to have to be okay with Beej being here. He could have hurt me so many times last night, but he didn’t. I don’t believe that he would. So you’re just going to have to learn to live with him.”

As if that settled the matter, she got to her feet. “I’m going to make coffee, and if anybody wants some, let me know.”

It felt odd, to just walk into her kitchen and start up the coffeemaker like it was any other morning. But with all that had transpired in the last twenty-four hours, she needed a bit of normalcy now more than ever.

Beetlejuice let her up and said that he'd like coffee, black as sin, and put it in the microwave so it'd be even hotter after it was brewed. He watched her walk out of the room with his eyes on the swing of her hips, then he turned back to the angel, still on the floor. He caught the holy being also watching Molly's ass. He cocked his head as possessive rage flared in him, but he tamped it down for the moment as things the angel had confessed drifted through his head.

A curl swept across Dewey's brow as he nodded at Molly, murmuring that he’d have whatever she was having, his eyes trailing after her like a lovesick puppy as she retreated into the kitchen. Part of him wanted to join her there, as he had done every morning she had lived in this house, but he forced himself to stay put, folded up on the floor, looking up at a glowering demon.  

"You were alive," Beetlejuice said. It came out a little more accusatory than maybe he'd meant it. "I thought guardian angels--well, all angels, really--were shavings off the Big Man. I figured guardian angels were pariahs of the pack. Everyone else gets to be close to the alpha, while you're stuck slaving away near stinky, sweaty, gross humans. I never would've guessed you were alive once too."

The realization that he didn't know as much about angels as he thought--plus the more sudden, shittier realization that he probably would've taken the same deal to be close to people if it'd been offered--made him close his mouth sharply. He conjured a cigarette to cover his sudden discomfort that he could've been trapped in the same situation. Taking a drag on it, he changed his train of thought.

"So Dewey, huh? You don't look Welsh. Was that what you were actually named, or something you picked after--" He pointed upward with the cigarette between his first two fingers. "--because it sounded like something in nature, and God's all about that?"

He sighed, expecting to be repulsed by the smell of cigarette smoke but finding it oddly familiar; he didn’t remember most of his human life, but every now and then he caught snippets. Did he smoke? Perhaps he had loved someone who did.

“Most guardian angels were humans once. Most have been angels so long they’ve forgotten how to be human.” His gaze fell down to his hands, which had begun to fidget in his lap again. “The Heaven-born angels . . . kind of look down on the job. So it’s given to us.”

Spilling himself to Molly seemed to have opened some kind of floodgates, and demon or not, it was still a nice change to be able to talk to someone.

“People that are deemed worthy are given a choice when they die. Enter the Light, or become a guardian. If you become a guardian, you can’t be in the Light, so you lose your chance to reunite with passed loved ones. Most choose the Light. I didn’t have any family to speak of, and . . . being dead kind of messed me up. I just wanted to be back on earth, with people. If I’d known how lonely it was . . . ”

He stopped himself, cleared his throat. “Yeah. That was my name before I died. Dewey Finn.”

Molly could hear them speaking from the kitchen, and let loose a sigh of relief when their voices weren’t raised in anger or accusation. Perhaps they could learn to get along. Maybe this didn’t have to be the gigantic clusterfuck it had started out as. She poured a cup to Beetlejuice’s specifications, nuking it for three minutes to get it near boiling while she poured a cup for herself and Dewey, adding cream and sugar to lighten the brew. Arranging the mugs on a tray, she stopped and took a deep breath, steeling herself to return to the tension of the living room.

That tension, she was grateful to find, had eased somewhat, the two still holding a remarkably civil conversation. She set the tray on the coffee table and settled back against the demon’s side, cradling her mug in her hands like a living thing, warm and soothing. After a moment, she sighed.

“Dewey, why don’t you come up here? You don’t have to sit on the floor, there’s room on the couch.”

Molly figured that as long as he got to hold her close, Beetlejuice wouldn’t be as opposed to an angel sharing the space.

He shifted his cigarette from one hand to the other, the one over the arm of the couch he was lazing against to fold Molly back into his side. Her invitation for the angel to join them made him tense, but he'd already ignored his baser instincts to talk to him, so him sitting at the other end of the couch shouldn't be a problem. Even if it was the spot he'd asked Molly to finger herself so he could watch.

He grinned to himself at the memory as Dewey gingerly settled onto the cushions.

"Dewey the angel was just telling me about how there's uppity snobs up there, shitting on the confused, newly deceased. Making them take jobs they don't want, so they can grovel and continue to feel superior to the masses. Isn't that right, Dewey?" he said conversationally.

He took a drag, then set the cigarette down on the coffee table, lit end out as he took his scalding cup of coffee. As he brought it to his mouth, he continued,

"Kinda makes you think the angels that never had anything to do with people don't really embody the whole "forgiveness and love everyone" vibe that's supposed to be the driving force up there."

As he took a mouthful of the scalding, burnt coffee, he didn't miss Dewey's glance to the cigarette he'd put aside.

"You want a smoke?" he asked. Anyone else, he'd probably just pass the one he'd all ready taken a drag from, but he didn't think that'd fly.

Instead, he tapped his finger to his thumb and like a magic trick, a fresh cigarette appeared between them. He twirled it and offered to the angel with raised eyebrows.

He was grateful for the invitation, grateful that Molly was allowing him closer, and he smiled as he all but scrambled up onto the couch, blissfully unaware of the carnal activities that had taken place there the night previous. As soon as clothes had started coming off, he’d retreated to her basement, where he couldn’t see or hear them. In the light of the day, the action felt cowardly, especially since he’d been professing moments ago that demons only had lethal intentions for humans.

The first sip of coffee nearly made his eyes roll back in his head; he’d forgotten how much he loved the stuff, and it was all he could do not to slurp it down immediately. Over his cup, his eyes narrowed at the demon, casual insults disguised with a conversational tone. Truthfully, they didn’t sting as much as he thought they would; he wasn’t exactly wrong about the angelic hierarchy. The celestials higher on the totem pole tended to be aloof, their noses turned up at the notion of humans. It was their prerogative to look after the Boss’s favorite creation, but they always did so with an air of superiority. Dewey himself thought they were snobby and standoffish, but that wasn’t just something you said. Besides, it’s not like angels had an HR department to complain to.

“They just want what’s best,” he said in a lame attempt to defend them. “They don’t know what being human means, they don’t make mistakes or let their emotions get the better of them. They don’t understand why humans are so . . . messy. I think that’s why its people like me that get the guardian jobs. Because we do know.”

He was a bit surprised at the offering of a cigarette, even more surprised that the demon had picked up on his brief, longing look.

Dewey nodded, even managed a stiff smile as he took the offered cigarette, snapping his fingers to light it. The first drag reminded him that oh yes, he did smoke cigarettes, and the curling of smoke in his lungs plus the coffee? He almost felt human again.  

“Thank you.”

Molly nearly drove her elbow into Beetlejuice’s side at the uncalled-for jab against celestials, but she let it go when Dewey didn’t seem offended beyond a half-hearted glare. He, at least, seemed to be backing down from the territorial back and forth. Then, to her surprise and relief, Beetlejuice offered a cigarette. Both sides seemed to be attempting to make peace, and she was grateful for that. Playing referee for a demon and an angel for the foreseeable future didn’t exactly sound fun.

She settled more firmly against her demon, her head against his chest as she watched Dewey take another drag from his cigarette with apparent delight.

“I’m going to have to invest in some ash trays,” she murmured off-handedly, smiling despite herself.

Perhaps this could  work, and if it did . . . it would seem all the lonely souls in this house would get what they wanted.  Mug half-drained, she sighed and looked at the angel, curled up into a tight ball on the opposite end of the couch.

“It’s strange that you’re still defending them,” she said lightly, not meaning to offend him but merely offering her point of view. “You don’t seem like the type of person that likes following rules, Dewey. You said yourself you were proud of me whenever I’d rebel against my parents. So why do you bend over backwards to uphold the rules of a system that looks down on you?

“Why not rebel a little yourself?”

Beetlejuice snorted into his coffee.

“Oh baby, even I know the answer to that question if everything in the Bible is 100% true. Which I'm sure it is," he smirked.

 Dewey ignored the crack about the Bible, shaking his head.

“Rebellion is . . . not well received upstairs,” he said lowly, his gaze dropping to his lap as he took another drag on the cigarette. “Besides . . . ” The words seemed to catch in his throat, and again, he blushed. “I like  watching over you. I like being near you. I’ve been around you for so long, watched you grow up and change . . .”

Somehow, he shrunk further into himself, his voice a barely audible murmur. “I don’t want to risk not being with you.”

He was sure it would seem like a weakness to the demon, this need to be near his charge, and oh, if only he knew the thoughts, the fantasies he’d had about her . . .

Well. Neither of them needed to know.

Molly sighed but didn’t press the subject, draining her cup and getting back to her feet.

“I’m just saying. You don’t really seem like you fit very well within their rules.”

She stretched, a slice of bare stomach visible as her shirt rode up, and pushed her hair back from her forehead, the waves spilling over her shoulder.

“I’m gonna find something you two can use as an ashtray before you track ash all over my carpet.” Her soft smile removed any sting of scold from her statement, tossed over her shoulder as she went to rummage through her kitchen for a suitable substitute ashtray.

He let his fingers trail on her as she got up again. After she'd left the room once more, he looked over at the angel shrewdly. That blush on his cheeks was back, and Beetlejuice knew he hadn't missed the familiar touch.

"Would you lose your wings? You know, if you told them to kiss your ass?" he asked. "I've seen demons with wings, but it's more an aesthetic thing. Most don't bother, or have . . . other adornments."

Like an idiot, his line of questioning left the door open  for return queries of a personal nature about himself, so he interrupted it with a huge mouthful of coffee. It'd grown a little cold but he drank it anyway.

After half a second had passed with no reply--it was occasionally difficult for him to remember other beings may need some time to answer--he continued in a slightly different vein.

"I'm sure you'll think this next thing I'm gonna say this because I'll get some kind of infernal gold star or be next in line for a promotion or something, but that's not it. I'm a little outside their specific jurisdiction. So . . . if you rebel,  what's stopping you from seeing her?"

The line of questioning surprised him a little, made him pause, and so left him equally unprepared to answer the second question the demon lobbed his way. His cheeks burned; he had never hated his tendency to blush under strain more. Honestly, there was so much about being an angel that was a mystery to him-by their standards, he was still considered a rookie, wet behind the ears.

“Rebelling against heaven isn’t something that should be desired,” he said, more for himself than for Beetlejuice. “But . . . if I was cast out, then I guess there wouldn’t be anything stopping me. Theoretically.”

He huffed and drained his coffee cup, chasing it immediately with a lungful of bitter smoke. “But it’s my duty to protect her. I can’t . . . I can’t leave that behind just because I . . .”

He stopped himself, cleared his throat. Better not to admit those pesky human wants and desires out loud, especially in front of the present company.

“And as far as my wings go, I’m not sure. They’re a physical part of my body, so they can’t just be stripped. They’d have to physically cut them off of me.” Dewey couldn’t help a shudder at the thought. “If the crime is particularly bad, I think they remove the wings. At the very least, you get banished to Earth permanently.”

He couldn’t be sure if it was being in the presence of a demon, or being able to talk to the woman he’d been guarding for so long, but with each moment that passed, rebelling seemed like more and more like an appealing concept. So what if he lost his wings? So what if he betrayed perhaps the highest power to ever exist? So what if he abandoned his post and lost the ability to protect her? Being able to hold her and kiss her whenever he wanted would make it all worth it.

But the sobering reality of it all was that if he did give it all up for her, he had no way of knowing if she would return his affections. What if he rebelled and she rejected him? He’d be left with nothing, with no purpose, no home, no reason for being. The risk was too high. Besides, what was he doing talking about it to a demon?

“Again, this is all hypothetical.”

 tbc . . .

Self Promo Sunday: “Scaling the Walls”

Originally, I started this one before the season four finale actually aired, though the idea and set-up were based on the promos, and I didn’t finish it until that episode had shown. Still, this is more my own idea of how the “Emma being trapped in a tower and needing a rescue” plot could have played out. I revisited it the other day and thought that someone else might also enjoy it on Self-Promo Sunday!

"Scaling the Walls”

By: @snowbellewells

Wave upon wave of pain racks her body, radiating through unendingly, nearly rocking Emma Swan off her feet. The only thing keeping her from falling to the floor in an unconscious heap are the chains binding her hand and foot to the stone wall of her tower prison. Her eyes slam shut, and she tries fruitlessly to press her hands to her brow, only to have the motion arrested halfway through by the shortness of her bonds. It feels as if her head may split in two if she cannot exert some pressure to keep her senses together, but all her efforts are for naught. She is trapped and will remain so, no end to her agony in sight.

A strangled scream rises from her throat, pouring past her lips out the window into the trackless woods surrounding her cell and reverberating off its walls. She feels her heart wrenching and shattering as this psychotically unrecognizable version of Snow White plunges her hand once more into Emma's chest and grasps, squeezing and trying to pull out her own daughter's heart. The fact that this is her mother, made bloodthirsty and malicious by some wretched curse, only makes the torture worse, as the face whose kindness Emma has always treasured grins wickedly and Snow throws back her head with an evil laugh. "Oh darling! If you think you will ever defeat me, you're living in a dream world. You as the uprising’s pathetic hope?!? Their promised Savior?" The words are hissed right in Emma's face as the clawed fingers squeeze her pounding organ tighter and jerk at it again, "It’s almost laughable. I am the Queen, and you will rot in this tower, unless you relinquish your lovely heart, and your magic, and submit to my control."

Emma is practically trembling with pain and exertion, sweat running down her forehead and stinging in her eyes, fists clenched at the effort it takes merely to retain awareness through this newest onslaught, petrified by what might happen to her if she slips away. She bites almost through her lower lip, trying not to scream or cry anymore – knowing it only brings this twisted version of Snow pleasure. She has also long since ceased trying to remind her mother of the truth, as it also brought only pain at previous attempts. It hardly bears mentioning that her magic is either not working or no longer accessible to her. She is certain that this Snow won't take that for an answer. Still, can't the other woman see that if Emma had control of her powers she wouldn't stay here at their mercy? Tears fall from Emma's eyes silently at the cruel, unknowing stare focused on her, but she holds back any sound.

The new Evil Queen twists her hand within Emma's chest, and Emma is sure she must be dying. A howl of agony tears from her throat against her will and echoes in horrible crescendo. The sounds of abject despair and torment go winging out the lone window of the tower to be heard for miles around by those who ignore the cries of a rumored hero supposedly suffering at the Queen's hand.

The heartless slave version of Prince Charming steps forward from where he waits in the shadows, hand outstretched in supplication as he urges his Queen. "Your Majesty!" he pleads fervently. "Stop, please! You'll kill her at this rate and never harness her magic for yourself!"

His dark haired mistress darts a dangerous, crackling, narrow-eyed look over her shoulder at him against the far wall, pausing only an instant before her hand shoots out and throws him against the solid stone, where he falls incapacitated. "Silence!" Snow White orders needlessly as he seems completely stunned into submission.

Her shuttered, emotionless eyes, venomous and sharp as any serpent's, flick back to her prisoner and gleam with cold intent. "You're going nowhere, Princess," she purrs, the title cruel and mocking with the inflection she gives it. "You'll die a prisoner either way. But how much more you suffer before I can gain your heart and your power is entirely up to you. Tell me now how I can accomplish this, and put yourself out of your misery."

Emma trembles helplessly where she stands; her abused, aching muscles stretched beyond endurance but unable to gain relief. She wants to cry out to Snow that she is not this monster; they need to fight together to escape whatever alternate reality Gold and the Author have plunged them into - despite knowing her plea will do no good. Though she senses she will need her magic before all is said and done, though she knows she must hang onto what strength and sanity she has left, Emma thinks that in this awful moment, if she knew how to give up her powers, she would allow the Queen to have them. She doesn't know where Killian or Henry, or any of the other people she has come to know and care about, are – if they have been brought along in this nightmare as well, if they know themselves, or if they have been changed. All she has seen is the inside of these stone walls and these horrific mockeries that should never be called her parents.

However, Snow White seems to take her quiet helplessness as defiance and she shrieks in wild rage. "Have it your way!" she yells. An almost electric pulse of energy erupts from the other woman's palm, and Emma feels it crawling through her veins, burning and scorching unbearably.

Her howls of helpless agony as she quivers in her restraints overlap on each other in desperate, unending climax, until she finally slumps, boneless and insensate in her chains, lost to the world.

~888~~888~~888~~888~~888~~888~~888~~888~~~

Killian Jones does not know how he got himself roped into such a ridiculous venture. He shakes his head in disbelief once more as he looks behind him to the skinny, bedraggled youth with brown hair flopping in his eyes who follows him through the thick undergrowth at the forest's edge – 'more a fool's errand than a hero's journey' his mind insinuates as he recalls the words of the boy on his heels as he had looked up at Killian with a wide open expression of hope.

What had he been thinking, letting his sense of duty move him to follow this child off his ship, away from the harbor, and on this – what had the lad called it? Operation? Yes, that was it…Operation Swan's Rescue. He had thought himself long past dreams of being a dashing hero and undertaking courageous missions for the good of his people. That was all burned away in the ashes of a Pegasus sail and sunk to the depths with Liam's body long ago, when he was another man. Yet, he has never claimed to be wise or cautious, to do what makes reasonable sense, and he was not able to resist this ragamuffin's precocious grin or the somehow familiar twinkle in his big, trusting eyes, and so here they were, quite possibly chasing a mirage, a dream: a princess in a tower needing a champion to save her.

The lad certainly weaves a compelling tale, Killian thinks to himself as he pushes further into the trees and bracken, keeping well off the beaten path. Of course, he has heard the stories; everyone in this section of the kingdom – where the tower is supposed to reside – has heard of the Savior, the lovely being of hope and light magic, somehow born to the Evil Queen and her favorite plaything, then imprisoned by said mother in fear of her daughter's magical power someday overthrowing her reign of terror. Killian himself had always thought them mere fables – fireside tales to charm and entertain. However, this boy seems so sincere, and so desperate, that he finds himself believing the youth's words.

Beyond that hunch, the sense of trust, his mind cannot help but whisper, 'What if?" If there is truly a Savior, a being of Light and Good, who could restore this land to what it once was, to the beautiful, peaceful kingdom of his youth where he remembers running wild in the fields with Liam chasing him laughingly, where he wove daisy chains to take home to his mother and he could still bask in the love of her pleased, quiet smile. If the Evil Queen's rule can be brought to an end, doesn't he owe it to his people, his country, and Liam's memory, to explore every possibility? Isn't it only good form for one in his post to venture forth and make sure? Not only that, but if such a pure innocent is being held captive, if everyone knows and merely leaves her to such a fate…it twists knots of tension in his gut, not letting his mind rest. A fool he may be. He may be walking directly to his death, but his conscience will let him pursue no other course.

They have come to a stop at a running brook – refilling their canteens, slaking their thirst, catching their breaths – when a wretched wail of agony rings out in the air, silencing the birds and echoing off the trees in harsh, violent waves. Killian's eyes meet the lad Henry's, and they both freeze, horrified by the sound of such suffering. The anguish he hears in that cry lets Killian know for certain he was right to follow this quest. He must stop whatever is being done to this prisoner.

They take off at a run, unheeding of their safety or what they may find. Crashing through thorn bushes and grasping vines, panting with exertion, they both nearly go tumbling headlong to the ground when Killian skids to a sudden halt and Henry plows right into his back.

They have dashed into a deserted clearing, and there before them, rising dark and foreboding into the clouds, stands the tower. The grey stones are cracked and jutting, looking as dark and unwelcoming as must have been intended, and though his eyes search frantically along the base, Killian can see no way in.

Both pirate and youth stand frozen in uncertainty for a long stretch, until abruptly the cries of suffering halt, all goes silent, and Killian finds himself desperately jolted forward. He does not know if this will work, but he simply must take action. The imprisoned woman – according to Henry, their last chance – cannot be dead. They cannot be too late. Grasping at the rugged wall as best he can with his one working hand, he wedges his hook into a crack between stones. With one last glance to make sure his young compatriot is still with him, Killian begins to climb the tower.

~~888~~888~~888~~888~~888~~888~~888~~888~~~

Awareness trickles back to Emma with the scrabbling, scratching sounds of metal scraping along stone. Blinking her eyes blearily and raising her head from where it had slumped awkwardly on her chest, she vaguely determines that the strange scuffling is coming from just outside her prison's single window.

Emma scrunches her brow in confusion, trying to determine what new threat could be coming for her now. She knows that the tower is high, high enough that no fully sane person would attempt to scale its walls. For the few fleeting instants she has been free of her chains in the years it seems she has been held captive here, she was able to see out over the entire forest, well over the tops of the tallest trees.

Just as she is looking fruitlessly around the barren room for something she can defend herself with against this intruder, a metal hook and strong forearm fling themselves in the window and clutch tightly, soon pulling a messily wind-ruffled head of black hair and a belovedly familiar face over with them. Her pirate, whom she had begun to fear herself lost from forever, practically hauls himself though the opening, flopping onto the stone floor, chest heaving with exertion.

"Killian!" she cries out plaintively, so glad to see him that she doesn't even care how girlish and helpless it might make her sound. "You found me!" She begins to run to him, momentarily forgetting her bonds, until the chains jerk her back.

His head shoots up at the sound of her voice, startled blue eyes meeting her gaze. He looks unsure, as if he doesn't know what to make of her awe-filled greeting. Turning quickly in the next moment to stand and return to the window again, he surprises her once more by reaching out his hand to pull someone else up and into the window after him.

Emma's heart swells at the sight of Henry. Both her son and the man she loves are here at last, safe and sound and come to rescue her. Henry doesn't seem to suffer the same confusion that Killian does. Once the man has stopped brushing him off, asking if he is okay, and lets him go, Henry rushes to her with a joyfully relieved shout of "Mom!" and wraps his arms around her – literally bringing warmth and hope back into her cold, lonely false existence.

"You found me," she repeats, a dazed whisper this time, overwhelmed by the belief and determination her son has shown to get here, and the bravery he has exhibited in climbing a tower guarded by the Evil Queen's men, at the risk of his own life – for her sake. She squeezes him tighter, wishing more than she has in all the rest of her time here to be free of the chains so that she can really take her little boy – well, young man now – fully in her arms.

She can only chuckle and shake her head when he grins at her and says exactly what she should have been expecting, "Did you really doubt we would?"

Emma's gaze flicks to Killian again, where he stands back awkwardly watching the reunion. He scratches the spot behind his ear uncertainly, but then he meets her curious, searching glance. She is frozen when their eyes make contact, breath catching with emotion. Not only is he here helping Henry, but he came to her aid even without remembering who she is or what they mean to each other. She wants so badly for him to hold her, for the sort of passionate kiss they have only recently begun to allow themselves to set everything back to rights.

Surprisingly, as the moment stretches on, Emma can see something come over Killian's face. She holds her breath, hoping against hope that somehow what they have, the connection between them, has survived this reboot of their history and who they are in this fictional reality. As she has suffered here alone, afraid she would never see his face, hear his beautiful, lilting voice, or feel his gentle but inflaming touch again, she had come to realize the truth. She loves him with a depth that scares her. She has for a long time, but could never find the words to say it aloud.

Killian tilts his head to the side, beautiful ocean eyes squinting in concentration as he studies her face, almost seeming to look beneath her skin, into her soul. Taking a tentative step forward, he reaches out, taking her hand in his one, gently rubbing soothing fingers over her skin reddened from the heavy shackle. Reaching out with his hook, he smoothes her wild, tangled hair back from her face and over her shoulder; a familiar, intimate gesture he has made several times, whether he realizes it or not. "I know you, Lass. Do I not?" he finally murmurs, eyes searching hers for an answer.

It is as though he has stolen the very breath from her lungs and the words right off her lips. All Emma can do is stare at him, amazed by his unbelievable, inexplicable faith, and nod in affirmation. She can still see wonder and adoration shining from his face, directed at her, even if he isn't sure why. Can he still somehow see what he means to her in her face? Still feel what they have – or echoes of it – despite everything that has been altered? Emma finds herself willing to hope as never before.

Unfortunately, at that moment they are interrupted by the sound of several pairs of booted feet pounding up the steps to her cell, harsh voices calling about intruders and securing the 'mad princess'. All three of them whirl to stare at the heavy door of Emma's cell in alarm, knowing the pirate and young prince can climb back out, but that they have no way to release her from her chains. She can't escape with them.

"Go!" she urges desperately, trying to spur both Henry and Killian on. She cannot bear to think what may happen to them if they are discovered here trying to free her. The guards are getting closer all the time and her heartbeat is pulsing in her throat at the danger to her two most precious loves. "You can't be found here! Please!"

Henry's eyes show understanding beyond his years as he nods his assent. Clasping her hand tightly for a split second, he vows, "We'll be back for you, Mom," before he moves toward the window, swinging one leg over the ledge and preparing to go.

Killian's face shows no such resignation. His look is desperate, frantic to save her. "What happens to you when we go, Love? I cannot leave you to them!"

"You have to, Killian…for now…I'll be alright." She gives him a brave, if tremulous, smile, needing him to be safe, even if she is not.

"No," he breathes, shaking his head and not moving an inch, even when Emma hears the running footsteps halt and instead the dreadful sound of a key turning in the ancient, rusty lock.

Whirling to face the door as it swings open, Emma prays that somehow Killian will slip out the window after Henry in the nick of time, or that some echo of the magic she possesses in their real world will shield him from their malevolent foes. Of course, as they have been ever since she opened her eyes in this parallel universe, her wishes are ignored, and with cries of attack four of the Queen's armed black guards charge forward.

Killian steps in front of Emma swiftly, easily shielding her in a single movement. He pulls the cutlass from his belt and strikes down the first assailant with deadly grace; the movement a slash as quick and sharp as a jagged finger of lightning. The second opponent meets his hook and falls motionless at their feet.

For several tense moments, Emma's breath is stolen watching the lethal accuracy Killian employs, protecting them both flawlessly and without hesitation. He ducks the third attacker's strike, and the guard overshoots, running past them, stumbling and falling just in time for the pirate to parry a fourth henchman's blow. They engage for only the briefest flurry of sword passes before Killian has bested this one as well and kicked the unconscious man away. He turns sharply, on guard with the knowledge that one last aggressor is still waiting.

Emma wants to call out to warn him, spare him the shocked pain she sees flare in his eyes when he finds his last foe, but she can't – not with the guard's hand gripping her throat, cutting off her air and her voice. She shakes her head at her sailor, knowing he won't protect his own safety but merely lunge forward to save her. She puts out a hand in an effort to wave him back, urging him to think for a moment, fight as smart as he has been, but somehow Killian misconstrues her motion and lets his eyes follow her gesture. Perhaps he thought she was reaching out for him in fear, but he is distracted one second too long.

The guard stabs forward, arm pushing stealthily from under Emma's outstretched one. He catches Killian in the side, under his ribs, and then drags the sword blade across and up, slicing a long path through leather and flesh with sickening depth.

Those fathomless blue eyes snap wide in shock and pain and a gasp flies from his lips as Killian's forward stride draws up short. Having achieved his goal, the final guard releases his grip on Emma and flings her away. Emma registers that she is screaming, crying out for Killian, but he doesn't answer, falling to his knees and bringing his hands up disbelievingly to the blood flowing from his side.

"Let that be a lesson to you before considering future attempts at escape," the guard growls roughly. "I'll leave him with you, to be sure you understand the price of crossing our Queen."

The heavy door slams shut again behind him, and Emma stumbles forward, clanking chains and all, to fall beside her pirate, sobbing out his name and pulling his head into her lap, cradling him protectively the best she can with her limited movement, tears falling from her eyes to his cheeks as she bends her head over him, fearing he is already gone, the wound is so bad. "Please…Killian…I'm so sorry…" she murmurs frantically, brushing his dark hair off his forehead, trying to ease his pain and keep him with her.

It isn't long before she feels smaller hands on her shoulders, pulling her into a hug from behind, trying to offer comfort before crouching next to her and attempting to staunch the blood still pouring from Killian's wound.

"Henry?" she questions blearily, confused.

He shrugs, "I just held onto the outside wall right below the window. Luckily they didn't check for anyone else. When the fighting stopped, I crawled back in."

She shakes her head at his daring, but her eyes quickly fly back to her pirate. To her shock, he is also chuckling at her son, though the sound is rough and choking. "There's a lad," he manages teasingly to Henry, before a horrible wracking cough interrupts and she sees blood at the corners of his mouth when he pulls his hand away afterwards.

Emma's tears still fall and she begins whispering apologies in his ear once more. He only shakes his head, "No, Lass…don't….be sorry. You are worth it. You and Henry….will find… a way out…I'm…glad I was…part of it…" His eyes flutter closed and his chest heaves mightily to keep moving up and down.

"Killian?...No!" she cries out when his eyes fail to reopen.

"Mom!" Henry breaks into her panic, his hand on her upper arm pulling her back to her senses. "Mom, you have to kiss him. True Love's Kiss! It'll save him. It has to!"

It seems so farfetched that she hardly dares to hope, but Emma is out of options and desperate not to have Killian slip away in front of her. Tracing a hand along his jaw, she lets her eyes slide shut and leans even closer to his mouth. Just before she presses her lips to his, she whispers as she did once before, "Killian, come back to me."

A disconcerting pull in her stomach and a spinning feeling makes it seem for a minute as if the world has turned upside down and the floor has dropped from under her. Blinking her eyes to look around once the whirling sensation eases, Emma is stunned to find them back in Storybrooke, sprawled inelegantly on the pavement in the middle of Main Street. Her fingers are somehow miraculously twined with Killian's as he sits up beside her, whole and unharmed from the sword wound still fresh in her memory, and her other arm is wrapped tightly around Henry. The chains and her tower prison are gone, and she gapes like a newborn baby at her surroundings. Killian turns to her, a rakish grin on his face, and she knows both realities are in his mind too. "It would appear you saved me, Swan," he teases lightly, but real affection brims in his eyes.

"What would I do without you, Pirate?" she whispers, holding on tighter and trying to keep the quaver from her voice as she burrows into his embrace. It is long past time he heard the words, and suddenly so simple for her to add in a whisper against his heart, "I love you."

Tagging a few who might enjoy: @kmomof4 @hollyethecurious @searchingwardrobes @therooksshiningknight @spartanguard @jennjenn615 @bmbbcs4evr @resident-of-storybrooke @teamhook @revanmeetra87 @laschatzi @ilovemesomekillianjones @gingerchangeling @blackwidownat2814

A Rant That Nobody Asked For

I read a comment on here the other day that said that Harry Styles career can’t die unless he does something outrageously heinous or controversial, and unless he’s publicly hated more than he’s liked, I actually disagree with that. I don’t know why it bothered me enough to write this whole thing but here we go.

The entire Kardashian brand is built on feeding off of public outrage. People seem to not understand that they want you to hate them. They know that a large portion of their audience dislike them, but follow and pay attention, just to see what thing they do next that they can hate on. Brands are doing that as well. Where they are intentionally putting out overtly racist clothing, slogans, advertising, obviously offensive products, because really and truly, consumers want to be apart of the outrage, consumers enjoy dragging shit. A European makeup brand made a lipstick color called the n-word, and after the outrage on twitter, the lipstick sold out in less then ten hours. I think there are people who think that they’re being helpful or effective by hating the Kardashians, but in actuality by hating them you’re feeding into their machine, you’re putting money in their pockets.

So people always tweet things like  how is James Charles still getting millions of views despite his gross behaviour, how is Camilla Cabello still able to headline tours after calling Normani the n-word repeatedly, how is Kodak Black still making music even though there’s several rape accusations against him? The last one I’d argue is because the volume on rape allegations drops significantly when the accusation comes from black women, and we don’t listen to them or give black women’s voices the validity we should. But overall the reason these people still have careers is BECAUSE some people hate them. (I don't think Camilla is publicly hated but hear me out) That’s what they want. By calling out people who fuel they’re careers off of outrage, you’re fighting a fruitless battle because you’re appealing to the sympathy of people who actually don’t give a fuck. They know what they’re doing, they don’t care who’s hurt, they don’t care the real world affect of their words, they don’t care about learning or growing from their actions, but they bank on the fact that you care about those things and will take time out of your day to try and break it down for them. They exist to antagonize their audience and then get the label “controversial”. I’m 100% positive that Kylie Jenner knew that people were going to mad about Kylie Skin, but she let them be mad, she let them hate on her loudly, she let that hate act as free promo, and then her skincare line sold out. If Kim Kardashian put her hair in braids, and no one said anything but instead she lost a shit ton of followers, if all the people who disagreed with that unfollowed her, she would’ve never done that shit again. But because the outrage actually gained her followers and traction, she continues to do it. Everyone knows what cultural appropriation is. Everybody does. Maybe not everyone understands why it can be so damaging but everyone knows what it is. So famous women right now who are posting pictures of themselves in cornrows or bindis or in Native headdresses, they know better. They know people are going to be mad, they know people are going to be hurt, they know this. But they profit off of it. They are dependant on your outrage, for a surge in media attention. I’m not saying that these girls are heinous human beings, but I’m saying it’s 100% intentional. It’s intentional. You’re wasting your energy in the comments trying to educate them, trying to get them to see why people are upset, they don’t care. They don’t care why you’re upset, they just want you angry, and then once you’re angry they’ll flip it on you and play the victim and talk about how intense and evil social media has been to them. These girls posting incredibly photoshopped pictures of themselves, and pictures with their ribs jutting out from their bodies, not disclosing all of the surgery they’ve had to impressionable young girls, they are literally profiting off of their viewers insecurity.  It’s business. It’s a game. 

(This is a side note but with all of the PR relationships Harry’s been in, really and truly him having a girlfriend might have a really negative impact on the girls linked to him, but they have positive affects for Harry. Because when he has a girlfriend, his fans feel insecure, they compare themselves to this model girlfriend, they wonder if this is the kind of woman he wants and I don’t look like that, what’s wrong with me? They hurt, they get uncomfortable, and often respond with intense hate, but really that hate comes from a place of insecurity and pain. But see, when they’re hurting, he can turn around and ask you to pay him to tell him that he loves you.)

This is getting longwinded but what I’m getting to is that the opposite of love isn’t hate, it never has been, the opposite of love is INDIFFERENCE. Being publicly hated doesn’t always end careers, in fact public outrage can be manufactured to gain traction and attention for a person or brand. The only answer to truly get rid of those kind of people is to respond with silence and indifference and the removal of your attention. This is why I think that honestly, Harry has every possibility of his career dwindling away. I don’t know that he’ll ever be “unsuccessful” because he has his core audience but I think we’re seeing more and more that we live in a world where everyone is really ready to jump on a hatred bandwagon, that the careers that really die, are not the people who you’re angry at. The careers that die are the people that you are entirely indifferent to.

It’s been proven that Harry Styles is incredibly sensitive to the point where he and his fans cannot even stand constructive criticism. It is greatly important to him to be publicly upheld and adored, and I think that that proved itself with the TV show he produced that was based on him, because he couldn’t even allow the character that was meant to vaguely represent him to be a fully fleshed out character with flaws and negative attributes, instead the character ended up being a lot like what Harry presents to the world, a caricature of a great guy. Harry presents an image that is meant to be interpreted and digested in whatever way you like. If you want him to be a feminist he is, if you don’t want him to be he’s not, if you want him to be a bad boy? Gay? Straight? A sweetheart? A rich sugar daddy aesthetic? A true artist who only cares about the music? He’s a walking fan fiction on purpose, because it is of such high importance to him to be adored and to be accepted that he presents nothing, and allows his fans to do all the work in implanting their own vision on him, and then his fans sustain his fame for him out of personal obligation and emotional ties they have to the idea of him they created, right?

Harry isn’t designed to be someone that can be hated, he intentionally straddles every topic, and stays right in the middle and never says anything controversial, to the point where he really doesn’t share any actual opinions. He spews apolitical sweetness and kindness, and creates a pseudo-political activism aesthetic without actually giving opinions, because he doesn’t have to, he’s dependant on the fact that his fans will project their opinions onto him, and assume he’s on whichever side they’re on. He’s not sustaining a career based off of the music, because the people who listen to his music, listen to him as a byproduct of already loving him. The people who pay attention to his content, do so out of love for who they believe he is as a person. Harry Styles is really not a celebrity who has many casual fans. I think in terms of his looks, he does, casual fans who will comment on his look at the Met Gala, or comment on him being good-looking, but not many casual fans who would sit down and listen to an album of his, you know?

The emptiness fans are feeling now comes from the fact that Harry used to pander to maintaining his audience at an emotional level, and insinuate a relationship between he and his audience, that he no longer cares to feed, and all the Harries, whether they admit or not, are feeling the distance and feeling his withdrawal. I bring this up because, now we're seeing even some Harries are growing not hateful, not resentful, but indifferent towards him. They are getting exhausted of having to maintain their ideal of him, and having to fight themselves into liking something that's really not there. As someone who's still kind of in the Harry Styles bubble, I can't argue this 100% but I do feel that there is a level of indifference towards him from the general public.

(Another side note: One similarity between Harry and the Kardashians is what I call convenient stupidity. They claim smarts and being smart business people, Harry specifically is obsessed with putting out an aesthetic of intellect, but when it’s convenient for them, they want you to assume that they are stupid and/or not responsible for whatever your upset about and/or that they don’t understand what they’ve done. If you think they’re stupid you’ll underestimate them and you’ll never assume that you’re the one being played. By keeping you thinking that you’re mentally above them, they manipulate you, every time.)

Harry couldn’t even commit to the rock music aesthetic fully, because rock music, real rock music, has to come with commitment and controversy, and he’s so obsessed with being adored across the board. I highly doubt he’ll ever get involved in real controversy or that he’d use controversy as a marketing ploy, just because we’ve seen time and time again that he’s prioritized public adoration over the actual quality of his work. But like I said, as he pulls away, the manufactured love between him and his fans is getting harder for them to hold on to, it’s getting hard for them to rearrange information to make him the guy he was to them. I’m telling you, what’s going to kill Harry is not intense hatred, but indifference. As he tries to gear himself to an older audience, he's not going to be able to manufacture the same blind adoration that 1D fans were able to give him in the beginning. We're already beginning to see indifference towards him grow.

Merry Christmas, @Rebekahdarian93!

Read on AO3

*****

This Awkward Love

Derek hates parties. He doesn't like crowds or having to smile for complete strangers. He particularly hates the Hale Pack's Annual Christmas party because his parents will inevitably use it to try and set him up with their friends' children or people from allied packs. They've even done it when he wasn't single, though really the less said about the year he brought Kate Argent to the party, the better.

If it had been any other party, he might have been able to find a way out of attending—like suddenly visiting another country or drinking just enough wolfsbane-laced alcohol to send him to the hospital without risking his life—but the annual Hale Christmas party in Beacon Hills was a big deal and his parents would literally drag him here, IV bag and all, if he didn't voluntarily attend.

They know how bad he is at talking to people outside of their pack. He is the embodiment of awkward and this, right here, is a prime example. There's a gorgeous guy hanging out near the buffet table—young and skinny with large brown eyes, delicately thin hands, and a smile full of mischief—and Derek's instincts are screaming at him to go talk to the guy, that he might be The One, Derek's mate, the absolute love of his life, but his feet are rooted to the floor and all he can do is stare.

Another man approaches Derek's possibly-mate and grabs his arm. Derek has to fight down the urge to bare his teeth in challenge. He's not a jealous guy but he has the strangest urge to throw the man across the room for getting too close to his maybe-mate.

"Stiles," the man hisses, voice low, frown firmly in place, "what did you do? That werewolf looks like he's about to murder you."

Derek's eyes narrow. Who's threatening his potential mate, Stiles? He glances around but no one is looking at Stiles with more than a fleeting glance. The other attendees seem happy, for the most part. He doesn't scent any overt aggression.

"You promised you weren't going to do anything," the man says in a bit of a whine. "You promised."

Stiles places his hand on his chest and gapes at his friend with mock-affront. The move seems practiced in its theatricality. "Why, Scott, the very insinuation that I would start any kind of mischief is just absurd. I am the picture of innocence."

"Stiles..." Scott's tone is long-suffering, suggesting that Stiles and mischief are well-acquainted.

Stiles sighs and rolls his eyes. "Fine. But I haven't done anything." Scott raises an eyebrow and Stiles adds, "Yet. I swear, I haven't even talked to creeper-wolf over there." He jerks his thumb in Derek's direction.

Derek blinks. He looks behind him. There's a bare wall and a small scattering of people, none of whom are facing this way.

"And I haven't seen Peter yet, so really, what could I possibly have done?"

Stiles knows Peter? He could be referring to a different Peter—it's certainly a common enough name—but what are the chances of him meaning anyone other than Uncle Peter at a Hale function? How does Stiles know Peter? Why haven't they crossed paths before?

"Do you need me to get your dad? One of the Alphas?" Scott whispers.

Stiles rolls his eyes. "You do realize that's Alpha Hale's son, right? Derek Hale."

Shit! Shit. He's the creepy murder werewolf. He needs to look away. Anywhere else. Ceiling? No, lights are too bright. Floor? Now he looks pathetic. There! The Christmas tree. He can stare at the tree and it's like he's admiring it instead of trying too hard to not creep out his mate. Maybe mate. Probably most definitely mate.

"Hey, there's Cora. Cora!" Stiles raises his voice a little to catch Cora's attention. "Cora, come over here for a sec."

He risks a glance at his sister. She's got a glass of cider on one hand. She walks up to them with a familiar, "Yo! What's up, Stiles?"

Does everyone in his family know Stiles? This could be bad for him. Gods, if Stiles knows Laura there will be no end to the embarrassing stories.

"Did I do something to piss off your brother?" Stiles asks. He sounds more amused than concerned. "He's glaring some serious daggers my way."

"I didn't know you two had even met," Cora says. Which is true. They haven't. Until now, but that really doesn't count if he hasn't actually said a word to Stiles. Or come within three feet of him.

"We haven't," Stiles agrees. "Did Peter say something? I feel like this could be one of Peter's pranks, in which case my revenge will be swift and glorious."

"Not that I've heard and Peter usually tells me his evil plans." There's a slight pause where none of them speak and Derek stares very hard at a snowflake ornament on the tree so he doesn't look at Stiles.

"I think he's planning to murder the tree now," Stiles says. His amusement is obvious.

Cora sighs. "Derek, what are you being all pissy about?"

He frowns and scuffs his foot against the carpet. "I'm not being pissy," he mutters back.

"Did you swallow a lemon?" Stiles snorts. "Seriously, why are you mad at Stiles?"

He huffs and rolls his eyes to the ceiling. "I'm not mad."

"Then what are you doing?"

He considers hiding in the woods until the party's over but the only direction his body wants to move is closer to Stiles.

"Do I need to get Laura?" Cora threatens.

His cheeks flame red at the very suggestion. "Ithinkhe'smymate," he says, all in one breath.

He dares a glance over. Cora is frowning at him. Next to her, Stiles is watching him, bemused. Scott keeps looking back and forth between Stiles and Derek like he's waiting for a fight to break out.

Cora raises an eyebrow when she notices him looking. "I'm sorry, try again. Maybe in English this time."

He sighs. He's never going to hear the end of this. Ever. Laura is going to put the story on his tombstone. "I think," he says slowly, "he's my mate."

Someone tackles Derek from behind, sending him stumbling. He barely avoids falling on his face. "What the hell?" He turns to find Laura standing there with an insane grin.

"Who's your mate?" Laura asks, voice full of excitement. She even bounces a little.

"He is," Cora says, pointing at Stiles, who looks very confused.

"I'm what?" Stiles asks.

"Going to meet my brother," Cora answers. She grabs Stiles by the arm at the same time as Laura grabs Derek's arm. They're both dragged across the room to meet in the middle. "Stiles, meet my brother, Derek. He wants to make babies with you."

Laura gives Derek an extra push toward Stiles. He shoots Laura a quick glare and then rubs the back of his head. He's not sure his face can get redder but he's about to find out. "Um, hi." He can't quite bring himself to look straight at Stiles. He doesn't want to come off as creepy. Again.

"Hi," Stiles says, voice thick with humor. "I'm Stiles. I require at least one proper date before there's any attempt at making babies. Which, given we're both guys, babies are highly unlikely to occur but I'm willing to put in the effort." He holds out his hand. His smile is absolutely blinding. Cora and Laura can both hear the way it makes Derek's heart skip a beat.

Derek stares at the appendage. This is it, the turning point of his life. If he takes Stiles's hand, it will confirm what his instincts already know. If he doesn't.... Well, that's not really an option.

He takes Stiles's hand in his. Electricity courses through his body, setting his nerves alight. In the space of an instant, he's broken apart and remade anew, his very being reshaped to include Stiles. He can feel Stiles's presence. Stiles is his personal North Star, a guiding light that pulls Derek home. Stiles's scent is so thick, Derek can taste it—electricity and midnight rain and freshly turned earth.

"Oh," Stiles says after a minute. His eyes are wide as saucers. He hasn't let go of Derek's hand.

Cora claps them both on the shoulder, startling them into letting go. "Well, my work here is done. You kids have a lovely time and don't start humping at the party, Mom will kill you."

Oh, gods, his parents are going to be insufferable. They'll announce it over the loudspeakers and pull him and Stiles up on stage. He has to get out of here. At least finding his mate will make a good excuse. They can't fault him for wanting to spend time strengthening the bond with his mate.

"Dinner?" Derek blurts.

Stiles blinks and his face shifts back to that amused grin he had before. "It's a thing I enjoy, yeah."

"We should..." Derek swallows. "Do you want to? Now?"

There's something soft in the way Stiles looks at him. Almost fond, growing fonder. "You mean, would I like to have dinner with you?"

"Yes." Derek nods. "That."

Stiles moves to Derek's side and wraps his arm around Derek's elbow. "I'd love to. For future reference, I love diners and curly fries are the food of the gods."

Derek nods, far more solemn than the situation calls for but he wants to do everything he can to please his mate. "I can do curly fries."

sad and disappointing day

*rant*

today has been one of the hardest days in recent years for me, I was betrayed and disrespected by someone who I loved and trusted. someone who I treated with nothing but kindness and respect in all the three years I have known her. I have gone out of my way time after time to make her feel included, getting nothing in return but her friendship because she is someone I cared about. when we met, she did not know my language and had no friends in my country. since day one I have done what I could do to her help her and be her friend. I was learning about her culture while teaching her my own. during the pandemic, which happened a few months after we met, I did my best to make her feel included. I knew she had few connections here, so I invited her to the clubs I participate in and I worked on projects with her. we met in person once it was safe and even before that we called 1 on 1 several times. I have always enjoyed spending time with her and cherished our friendship.

I welcomed her with open arms into my school, my home, my private life, my nation. I tried. I can't give too much context and quite frankly don't want to but the way she treated me today by disrespecting me, humiliating me, and acting as if I was trash on the sidewalk will be something I never forget. even if I'm wrong in this situation (which I truly, from my heart, do not think I am (I have a conscience which makes me feel bad about the time I accidentally put an item in the wrong recycling bin 5 years ago so I trust it lol) I feel like I deserved the decency to be talked to respectfully in private. I never treated her the way I did to "get something" out of it, but it's crazy to me that after all we've been through she couldn't even pull me aside and be like "hey (nickname), what's going on? I'm a bit concerned because of x and y so I'm wondering, what's happening?" or something like that. she didn't even give me the benefit of the doubt. she accused me and treated me like a second class citizen in front of all our classmates, straight up accusing me of wrongdoing while insinuating I was cruel, a liar, unfair, and a cheater. I am many things, some good and some not so good, but I am not a liar, a cheater, and I don't have an evil bone in my body. I can be slow, sluggish, obsessive, irritable, naive. I can be annoying and I make mistakes but I would never purposefully hurt someone, especially people I care about.

if I wasn't so shocked I probably would have defended myself but honestly no words could have come out. we have never had an argument or a discussion. 100% kindness always. I've never been so caught off guard. my eyes have never gone wider and my heart stopped for a moment. maybe I should have stood up for myself. I'm upset at myself that once the initial shock was over my first thought was to reach out and talk. but no. I don't want her to think that she can treat people like that and get them to come crawling back. I will miss her (or the person I thought she was) but I need to learn to protect my boundaries.

if she apologizes to me and I feel it is heartfelt I will forgive her because I too have done wrong in my life and think that we should forgive. but I won't ever let her in my home or private life again. once we graduate I likely won't contact her again. which breaks my heart because we have so many memories together. so many years of friendship. I won't ever understand. I don't want to go to school tomorrow. I could never have predicted that I would lose one of my best friends in moments. everything was fine 12 hours ago.

Field Guide to NeoPagans (humor)

This has knocked around the net for decades. I did not write it. Posted here for locational purposes. Field Guide to Neo-Paganism Bright-Eyed Novice You just read this cool book about a religion where there’s a Goddess and a God, and they meet outside in nature, instead of some scary old building. They think sex is good not evil, and you want to know where to sign up. Distinguishing Signs: Mispronounces god/dess names, has to think a moment about which is deosil and which is widdershins. Has a shiny new athame (rhymes with “A-frame”.) Grand Old Wo/Man Actually remembers Woodstock (the first one.) Will tell you about the time they dropped acid with Kerry Wendell Thornley - or maybe it was Robert Anton Wilson. Anyway, it was somebody with three names. Or was it three people with one name? Distinguishing Signs: Luxuriant gray locks, listens very intently, knows dish about people you’ve only read about. Tree Hugging Nature Sprite Most prized possession: one of Judi Barry’s old tree spikes. Simultaneously believes in universal love for humanity and returning the planet to a pristine, uncorrupted state. Apt to remove clothes and fondle the shrubbery at a moment’s notice. Can discuss compost in great detail. Distinguishing Signs: No meat, no fragrance, no leather, no plastic, no smoke, no drugs, no eco-exploitive products, no animal tested cosmetics, no TV, no car, but very tolerant. Anal Retentive Ceremonial Book collection actually holds up the ceiling in places. Is studying Greek, Latin and Hebrew all at once. Does “workings” instead of “rituals”. All twenty volumes of their magical diaries are all in Enochian. Distinguishing Signs: Won’t go anywhere without a book. Is constantly aware of which direction is east. Dresses according to planetary conditions, or whatever was on sale at Wal-Mart. Womyncentric Gynocrat A man’s shadow crossed her altar once and she spent three weeks purifying it. She’ll have no wands in her chalice, thank you. No boys allowed in her full-moon club. Can hold forth for hours on the magical properties of menstrual blood. Distinguishing Signs: Tiny axes or curved knives, just right for amputating a penis, are a favored symbol and often hang conveniently from her body parts. When a man approaches she rolls her eyes and stops talking. Sexy Pagan Nymph Oh, they’re so nice! All that warm, round, sex-positive flesh—and you can actually carry on a conversation with them between orgasms... pant, drool... Distinguishing Signs: Cute. Horny. Displays prominent cleavage. Will recite love poetry to you under a full moon. Likes to do it outdoors. Often destitute. All too few of them. Corporate Closet Witch “Hey, boss—I’d like to take February 2nd as a personal day...” Has an entire chapter of their Book Of Shadows concerned with spells for purifying the workplace. Doesn’t mind working on Christmas, especially if there’s overtime involved. Quit being overtly Pagan at work since being canned by that born-again boss, but still refuses to say “Merry Christmas.” Distinguishing Signs: Can assume a properly smiley work persona at the drop of a hat. Constantly glances around the room anxiously looking for co-workers and their spies. Non-distinctive style of dress, no conspicuous tattoos. Childe Ov Kaos Can name seventeen industrial goth bands without pausing to think. Knows what a Prince Albert is. Personally feels that if no panicky headlines appear the day after you do a ritual, you screwed up.  Painted on their jacket, engraved in their flesh and/or boldly displayed as jewelry is an emblem which resembles a combination of corporate logo and arcane symbol. If you don’t know what it means, they’ll think you’re a dweeb. Distinguishing Signs: Easy to picture as an alternative musician or bike messenger, difficult to visualize as a school teacher or research assistant, impossible to imagine as a TV news anchor or bank officer. Always wears black leather, even when sleeping. Pagan Celebrity At conventions, stays on the hotel floor that requires a special key for elevator access. Lurks around knots of conversation eavesdropping in order to see if their name is being mentioned. Arrives in helicopter especially for rituals. Starts every sentence with “I”. If you ask them how it’s going, they hand you a press release. Distinguishing Signs: Always has plenty of books to autograph and will personally sell them to you at a slight discount from cover price. Never seen unaccompanied by beefy Amazonian bodyguards and doe-eyed hangers-on. Seems vaguely afraid of anyone they don’t already know. Scary Devil Worshipper Would never be caught dead skyclad. Rarely smiles, except in a snide, knowing way which insinuates you are an ignorant peasant worthy of conquest. Secretly enjoys Rush Limbaugh and read The Bell Curve with smug satisfaction. Fascinated with Nazis. Probably has never hurt a fly, but they want you to think they’re capable of vast destruction. Distinguishing Signs: Lots of black and red. Men like goatees, women favor heavy black eyeliner. At least one inverted pentagram somewhere on their person. If you see several of them getting tanked in a bar, it would be wise to stay far away. Crowley-In-A-Past-Life Every magical gathering has at least one of these, along with several variants along the lines of Gerald Gardner, Tituba, Morgan LeFey, or somebody who was Atlantean royalty. Many of them were abducted by aliens recently, and have disturbing dreams rich with arcane symbolism that they will tell you all about, in great detail. Distinguishing Signs: Look for the intense gleam in the eyes, the backpack rattling with various psychiatric medications, and the garments that were clearly designed and tailored on another planet. Ravin’ Pagan Young and psychedelic. Can dance non-stop all night. Refuses to do boring Eurocentric rituals and prefers deities from sunny climes with lots of interesting local plants. Can say “Ayahuasca” ten times real fast and deliver long quotes from Terrence McKenna. Distinguishing Signs: Dresses in color combinations that hurt the eyes unless you’ve taken ecstasy. Bloodshot eyes, blissful smile, never goes anywhere without ritual drum. Fairie Queen Is he a she? Is she a he? Are they a couple, or are those two a couple or are all four of them a quadruple? If getting answers to these questions could disturb you, best stay away. If, on the other hand, these kind of questions seem overly judgmental, you might have a real good time... Distinguishing Signs: When you look at this person, does every sex act you’ve ever experienced in your life seem hopelessly vanilla? If so, congratulations -- you’ve found a Fairie! High Episcopagan Do their rituals have a script, a choreographer, a stage manager, an orchestra with chorus and last at least three hours? It’s a High Episcopagan! They can memorize pages and pages of Olde Englishe, have more ritual garbs than most people have socks, and consider their main pagan influences to be Gerald Gardner, Judy Garland and Busby Berkeley. Distinguishing Signs: Book of Shadows exceeds five volumes. Knows every note of “Carmina Burana” Don’t ask them about that 18th century seed pearl trim on their ritual hat unless you’ve got an hour to spare. Fundamentapagan If it’s in a book, it must be true. If it’s in an old book, it must really be true. If it’s in an old book that was handed down from an oral tradition of people who couldn’t read, then it must really be way true. Gnashes their teeth if anyone shows up at a circle wearing a watch, glasses, or other mechanical assistance. Believes that anyone who lives in a city, eats meat or has a regular job dare not call themselves a pagan. Distinguishing Signs: Has hissy fits when somebody brings up the old “Crowley ghosted Gardner’s books” argument. Goes around correcting everyone’s Gaelic, Old Norse, Latin, and Babylonian. Dances With Bunny Rabbits Uses animal symbolism to express nearly all opinions and feelings. Charter member of PETA. Thinks meat eaters should be publicly executed. Has many, many, many pets. Has a spirit animal. Personally owns 927 models, pictures, and other depictions of their spirit animal. Distinguishing Signs: Not counting the Pagan his/herself, how many animals can you see when looking at them? If the count surpasses five (including critters found on tattoos, jewelry, garments and undies), you’ve found a worshipper of beasties. Priest/ess of Political Correctness Analyzes everything they read or hear for sexist-racist-homophobic- imperialist-Eurocentric content without paying attention to what is actually being said. Believes in personal liberty—everyone has the right to be overbearing, dogmatic and holier-than-thou, not just the Xtian Right. Incredibly boring yet annoyingly self-righteous all at the same time. Distinguishing Signs: Beady hyper-alert little eyes are constantly in motion, waiting for someone to do or say something bad. Has loud and attention-attracting hissy fits when confronted with everyday things such as advertising or corporate franchises. Rudimentary sense of humor is rarely activated. Our Lady Of Intense Suffering Is constantly persecuted. You’re probably persecuting her right now, you just don’t realize it. Became a Pagan because she decided it was that most persecuted religion of all. Can’t enjoy anything because it would be selfish to have any fun when so many are suffering. Distinguishing Signs: Tales of woe. Even less of a sense of humor than #17. Bristles when anyone says the words “masochist,” or “whining”. I Am Not Spock (at the moment) Knows at least three filks about Cthulhu and at least forty Star Trek jokes. Has found a clever way to create simple furniture from stacks of science fiction paperbacks. Can name ninety different kinds of spaceship. Distinguishing Signs: Two fisted drinking style. Probably still lives with parents. Many cryptic buttons, badges, patches and other insignia. Too smart for their own good. Het-Case Insist that they aren’t homophobic; they just believe that Paganism is about a Goddess and a God and they do it and what could be more obvious than that? It just doesn’t “work right” if you try any other way! Are secretly afraid that gays and/or lesbians are dying to jump their tender hetro bones. Distinguishing Signs: Living spaces abound with depiction’s of satyrs with enormous genitals and huge-breasted, doe-eyed goddesses. Long manicured nails and wreaths of flowers (on females only — men have big, bushy beards instead.) Norse Code Heroic and Vikingly, these pagans often get into trouble with festival organizers and park rangers due to their fondness for running around with a huge battleaxe in one hand and a full mead horn in the other. They throw the best parties, but if you’re a wimp, you’re expressly not invited. Distinguishing Signs: Look for the large, foreboding, biker-like persons wearing runes, with many pounds of amber dangling from their necks. Pentacles, Inc. Pagans have disposable income too, right? So how come they aren’t buying my hand forged Venus of Willendorf necklaces—they come in silver and gold, and each one has a genuine cubic zirconium belly button. Would you like a reading? Will that be Visa or MasterCard? Distinguishing Signs: Has business cards featuring little embossed pentagrams. You never seen so much Egyptian god/dess jewelry on a human being in your whole life. Lord Fang Glory-Wing "I may look like a normal person, but I’m really a dragon." Defines every action (or inaction) that they take on the basis of what kind of dragon they are. Gets mightily offended anytime someone points out that “don’t dragons usually have wings?” . . . Spends a lot of time off by them self pretending that they’re not trying to breath fire. Can go into great detail about the differences between the dragons found on Pern, Krynn, and Middle-Earth. Can recite to you every paragraph of every page pertaining to their "colour" out of the AD&D Monstrous Manual™. Has a high paying job but lives in virtual poverty because every time the Franklin Mint comes out with a new dragon sculpture they just have to write a check for $800. Distinguishing Signs: Small apartments filled with broken down, garage sale furniture, contrasted with expensive, glass-fronted, internally lit display cases containing their collection of dragon sculptures and toys. This collection can often reach numbers made up of three digits, and if you count in the paintings, posters, books, sheets, and pj’s, another digit can be added. Bad skin and a hair-do that can only be described as "slept on". Dragon Fetish Oooooooh!!!! It’s a DWAGON! How much is it? I’ll find a place for it on my bookshelf, bumper, altar, etc. Don’t you worry! Do you have it in more colors? Distinguishing Signs: Loves dragon anything. Will wax rhapsodic on dragons for hours (and hours and hours)... Most have real cheesy grins, which become very obvious when dragon anything is mentioned in their presence. Nice and weird but very friendly. Judeo-Christopagan Some consider these people to be a contradiction in terms. They believe in a God and a Goddess, but have been going to the local Church (or Synagogue) for so long that they can't give up on it entirely. They know there's "more", but they just can't decide which "more" is for them. Distinguishing Signs: On their altar they have: a Holy Bible, a Pentagram, a Star of David, a statue of Buddha, and even The Book of Mormon (You never know). This way they have all the "bases" covered. They can hold, at length, a conversation about ANY religion in the known world. They place the name of their "primary" religion in front of Witch, e.g., Southern Baptist Witch. I’m a Discord ... Oh, a Golden App .. Fnord! Prone to sudden changes of direction, attitude, emotion, and mentality. Over all the best at laughing at themselves, Discordians are that practical-joker uncle at any family gathering that all of the serious members dread, but whom the children love. Rarely at a loss for something to do or say, regardless of whether or not is appropriate or even has any bearing on the current situation. These followers of the goddess of chaos live what many strive for but will never achieve. Distinguishing Signs: They are usually impossible to quantify, but if you know someone who can never be counted on to do the same thing twice, or to do something different the next time, you may have found a follower of Eris. Owns at least one copy of the Principia Discordia, has it bookmarked on their computer, knows who wrote the forward to each addition, and knows what P.O.E.E. stands for. Discordian Neo-Anarchist Argumentative. Infuriating. Goes on philosophical tangents for hours, only to lead the discussion into obsurdities that make your brain hurt to think about them. Smiles too much. Laughs too much, especially at things that are *NOT* funny. Makes fun of everyone's sacred cows, especially yours. Is iconoclastic to the point of cliche'. Rants and raves about huge conspiracies and secret centuries-old organizations. Distinguishing Signs: Yin/yang pendant with a pentacle and big yellow apple inside. Carries around any books by Douglas Adams or Robert Anton Wilson. Refuses to take themselves - or anyone else - seriously. Monster Truck Pagan Can grow their own food, build their own house, sew their own clothes homeschool their children and brew their own organic hooch. Are looking forward to the bleak, post-apocalyptic world postulated by the environmentalists as they can't wait to run amok through the country, worshiping ancient gods, blowing up strip malls and rutting on the divider line of every interstate. You may be a monster-truck pagan if your anointing oil is 30 weight.You may be a monster truck pagan if cakes & wine means tailgate party.You may be a monster truck pagan if Autumn is the Burning Time. Distinguishing Signs: Resourceful, clever and very well versed in the U. S. Constitution. Eats meat with visible twitches of pleasure. Is aware that primitive religions have nothing to do with crystals, Atlantis or unicorns. Bubba Witch Can typically be found wandering the country roads, bare foot and in jean suspenders. When they pass a person in their town it is always their cousin. Their idea of a circle chant is hooting and hollering at barn yard hoedowns! If they ain't makin' a rukus in town, their off chasm' 'coons through the woods, making more noise than their 13 hunting hounds! "Yeah, maybe ah shuld ave 12 dawgs 'n me ta make a propa cercle, but ah unly gots 10 fingas! How ya 'spect me ta count ta 13? gonna let me borra' youz fingas?" [draws his trusty dagger, he and ol' yeller circling for the kill] Distinguishing Signs: Straw protruding from clothes and hair like additional appendages. We won't even ask what they were doing in the hay loft to get all messy like that! Their pickup truck gas caps are replaced with a nifty black cloth with a white pentacle on it, or is that a white hood with a black pentacle? In any case, they are never without baccy-blackened gums (the teeth fell out long ago) and always have at least one spit cup on their person. Ninja Witch These night-clad Pagans are amusing from a distance only. They sneak through the shadows of streets pretending they can't be seen by everyone and trying to ignore the car lights and strange looks everyone gives them. The looks are merely coincidental of course "I'm the mighty invisible ninja, noone can see me!" They ain't too funny when you do actively point them out, they're Hilarious. They usually react by making all kinds of funny squeeky sounds and trying to stick their foot in their mouth, or is it supposed to be your mouth? Distinguishing Signs: Always in a baggy ninja jump suit and carrying one of those dangerous plastic Katanas the kids buy at K-Mart for Halloween. Pentagram throwing stars and an adorable lil' red pentacle on their hood. Supposed to make 'em seem dangerous! ooohhh... scary. Otaku Pagan (sub-titled) Has an equal amount of Japanese Manga as books on Paganism, sometimes more. Often dresses up as their favorite anime character. Often cannot sit still for five minutes without frolicking. Their God is a warrior God named Hitokiri Battousai and their Goddess is Belldandy. Distinguishing Signs: Their ritual garb looks too much like a Shinto robe or a kimono. Their BoS is written in Japanese. They often put Japanese slang in to convey emotions. When they get confused they say "Oro?" Their ritual sword is a katana or another Japanese blade. They call raising energy raising your ki level. Otaku Pagan (dubbed) Has more Sailor Moon or Dragonball stuff than possibly imaginable. Cannot take a single thing seriously. Even more frolicky than a sub-titled Otaku. Probably wanted to get into Paganism because s/he wanted to be a "magical-girl." Doesn't know a thing about Japanese culture. Thinks all anime is like Sailor Moon (and gets really shocked when they rent "NinjaScroll...".) Distinguishing signs: Freaks out when "skyclad" is even mentioned (A sub-titled Otaku wouldn't even care). Often jokingly calls you a "meatball head" if you insult them. Their ritual wand is pink with a crescent moon on the end and during ritual they shout "moon healing, escalation!" Quotes Sailor Moon and Dragonball every chance they get. TechnoPagan Often found discussing the best method of removing hot wax from keyboards. Seems unaccustomed to sunlight. Have had coven-mates for years whom they have never seen face to face, much less know which continent they live on. Distinguishing Signs: Casts circle with #5 torx driver. Chalice contains Jolt. BoS is writtin in Perl. Refers to eclectic ritual as "cross-platforming." Thinks "naked in your rites" means a non-GUI environment