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#and SHE will ''correct'' herself if she uses too many feminine terms for me WITHOUT ME SAYING ANYTHING
fruityocto · 1 year
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! Introduction Alert !
personal account!! @tacozonesu + @softandfluffycalliefan is literally the best person in the whole wide world.. please go give her some love on her art too!!! its SO pretty!!(just like herself!!) ((love you wifey <3<3<))
anyway yeah i wanted a personal account because im dropping the whole social media thing and just want to do it for myself and not to build a following like i originally intended when i first started my social media journey back in summer of 2020.. i will not be giving out the name of it for multiple reasons.
anywho, i go by They/He and im pansexual. Please try to use tone tags with certain messages!! i have a hard time deciphering tone through only text without them, after some bad experiences with that i decided i needed tone tags. please try not to use feminine terms for me(unless for satire/humorous purposes)
im trying my best to improve myself every day as a person, for my girlfriend and the people around me. if i say something wrong by accident, please try to correct me in a polite way, i havent had good experiences with people when i slip up, so please be patient with me.
with that out of the way, im a huge fan of splatoon and owl house, amongst many other things. I like to draw a ton..i wouldnt say my art is the best, but i try. i also have a fascination for flowers and crystals... it comforts me in a way. i just never talked about it to anybody because i kinda. yknow. wanted to keep it to myself as a little thing i can study and learn about. im too shy to talk about something like that with people, yknow?
[ uh oh girlfriend ramble😭 ]
i have a BIG fear of bugs though, and my girlfriend is obsessed with them, so its a little bit stupid..but she deals with them for me. she doesnt kill them, which im starting to not wanting to, she just cares for them in the gentlest way possible.. which is something i literally ADORE about her. shes so sweet to almost every creature in the world, she even took care of a mantis for like.. a week or two straight. it was so cute i CANTTT shes so sweet and i love her to death and will personally throw hand with anyone who tells me otherwise. shes one of the nicest people ive ever met, she helps me in every way she can and i love her so much for it. shes so supportive of everything i do.. im so happy i have her. shes one of the most special people to me, and she plays a big part of my healing process. whenever i think of what my life would be without her, its just.. sad. she brightens up my days even when she doesnt try and she just warms my heart..im being so cheesy and i genuinely dont care anymore this girl is my everything. ever. not to mention how drop dead gorgeous she is. I WAS SITTING IN MATH CLASS NEXT TO HER AND FOR LIKE. 5 MINUTES STRAIGHT. I STARED AT HER THE WHOLE TIME. i didnt even notice i was staring at her. i think that just PROVES my point. i love her so much and she has her own special place in my heart and godDAMNIT i wish i was with her right now. just. laying down and talking to eachother while at like.. 2 in the morning while running on an hour of sleep. SHE MAKES MY HEART FLUTTER SO MUCH.. I WAS IN SOCIAL STUDIES AND SHE WRAPPED HER ARM AROUND MY WAIST FROM THE SIDE AND I SQUEALED IN MY HEAD IT WAS LIKE A CHEESY X READER FANFICTION but it was SO COOL EEEEEEWJDJNSNDSNSNNS
dear god i really just made a whole essay about my girlfriend..i think that just comes to show how much she means to me sjdjsndn....i had to write the warning AFTER i made that because i realized how much i wrote BAHA
if you got this far, thank you for reading you have so much patience oh my god........take my creature while ur here
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- sam☆
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heartbeetz · 3 years
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Wow what a wonderful day to remember that I am a man who loves men ♡
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ok, so we have paranoid bella and all other incarnations, but what about Bella who is just a complete sociopath. She completely understands what a vampire is and what she's getting into by wanting to be one. Bella just wants to be immoral and powerful regardless of the consequences. Edward can't read her mind and I imagine Bella has learned social cues and hiding evidence enough to be about at an equal level social standings wise with already weird book Bella. How does the twilight series go?
Anon is referring to Paranoid Bella.
And oh boy, alright, let's do this I suppose.
On Why Bella Doesn't Have to Be the World's Greatest Actress
Of a note, I don't think Edward would even notice that Bella's... odd. Even if she were a fantastic actress (Bella is notably in canon a very poor liar and very easy to read).
This is because he doesn't actually care what Bella is like, he projects onto her, and she smells phenomenal. In other words, he'll still tell himself Bella's a feminine Carlisle Cullen knock off even if she's drowning puppies in a well.
So Bella doesn't need those social cues, Edward genuinely will not notice, and he will not care.
Regardless, you've set the stage with a completely different character and I guess we're going with that.
The Tale of Sociopath Bella
As in canon, Bella immediately notes something is off about the Cullens. Then Edward tries to eat her in Biology. In canon, Bella was terrified in this moment and genuinely thought this boy might kill her. She later tells herself this was irrational and tries to shrug it off, but none the less, she was terrified.
You don't give me too much to go off of with Sociopath Bella in terms of personality traits, but I imagine she still fears for her life in this moment.
I imagine what she does is, after collecting herself, try to get Edward Cullen thrown out of school. Bella is now a sociopath with no empathy towards others, Edward Cullen makes her uncomfortable and appears to actively wish her harm, she's going to do something about this.
I imagine, rather like Amy Dunne from "Gone Girl", she accuses him of sexual assault and goes about fabricating evidence, including harming herself. When asked, others agree that Edward was acting very strange in Biology towards Bella Swan and is generally kind of creepy. Even the administration agrees that something odd appeared to happen, as Edward tried to switch out of his Biology class immediately and then he disappeared without warning for a week after having appeared perfectly healthy the day before.
Something happened in that class, or after it, and that something seems to revolve around Bella Swan.
There's no real evidence, but there's enough suspicion that Edward is granted his wish when he returns: he gets moved into Physics. Edward, of course, is appalled. That girl not only humiliated him and ruined his life by merely existing and smelling delicious, but now she's spreading slanderous lies about him. His family, of course, knows the truth and tries to comfort him (it doesn't really matter, there's no evidence and they'll be gone in a few years anyway, as it is they can leave early if they have to and no harm done) but Edward seethes.
He makes a point of confronting Bella, both to notice if she noticed anything odd (as in canon), and to get revenge for her slander. Unfortunately for Edward, again, there's a little too many witnesses, and Edward looks... unfriendly. Bella files for a restraining order through her father, it's approved in record time.
Edward is now livid.
This woman is the devil.
Well, that there seals Bella's fate. She is a great evil upon this earth, the worst kind of woman, and in a way just as monstrous as the rapist pigs he used to eat. She's destroying his family's reputation in this town, destroying his school life, and he won't stand for it. Carlisle wouldn't approve, but at some point, the demon wins.
Edward gleefully eats Bella in her bedroom. The crime scene is as grotesque and bloody as you can imagine.
Which, of course, also makes him the primary murder suspect (correct in this case, well done Charlie). With the advent of the internet, with cable television, and with Edward now having to disappear before they start trying to get DNA, the Cullens have to go off the grid and exit society.
They now live in a cave, thanks to Edward and Bella.
But That Wasn't What I Wanted!
I get the feeling you wanted to get a little further into canon than that. So, for once, I'll oblige.
Sociopath Bella, for whatever reason, holds her tongue and takes no action when Edward is terrifying as fuck in Biology. He disappears for a week, she finds this very strange, then he returns, clearly interested in her, which is also very strange.
Bella continues to have no sense of self-preservation (for some reason) and still does not take action against Edward. Even when he confesses to wanting to eat her on numerous occasions.
By the time Bella figures out Edward's a vampire, she wants to be one, desperately. Edward doesn't seem... amenable.
But unlike Canon Bella, Sociopath Bella isn't here to please Edward. After the James incident, and she's met the family, I imagine she takes stock of her options and tries to see who is her best mark.
I imagine Bella lands on either Carlisle or Jasper. Carlisle, because he has the best control and has clearly turned several already, and Jasper because he has shown no hesitation on doing what he believes needs to be done regardless of the family.
If she approaches Carlisle, I imagine she points out the peril her life is in. Edward could crush her at any moment, she nearly died thanks to James, her very existence puts his coven in peril and Edward does not seem inclined to let her go either. This is untenable. (I imagine Bella also learns during the course of this conversation about the Volturi Law, as Carlisle undoubtedly explains it in clearer terms than Edward initially did). Edward has condemned her to death, they both know it, and it's best Carlisle turn her sooner rather than later.
Carlisle is deeply uncomfortable with this but doesn't disagree. I imagine he tries to argue for after Bella's graduation, when she can more easily disappear. I imagine she pushes for that summer, plans a hiking accident and forces his hand with "sooner is better than later".
If she goes to Jasper, Bella points out the same thing. This is untenable, she's breaking the law by existing, she must be turned. Jasper fully agrees (and would like not to eat her) but he doesn't have the control to turn her. He would in turn go to Carlisle (leading to the above scenario).
Now, through Alice's visions, Edward would likely find out about all of this and throw the greatest fit the world has ever seen. He rages at Bella, then himself when he realizes she has a bit of a point and he's condemned her to be a vampire, then rages at her again because the Volturi need not ever know and EDWARD WILL LEAVE HER DAMN YOU!
I imagine Bella keeps pushing, which may get her mercy killed by Edward.
In the event that his guilt is all-consuming and he can't even grant her mercy for he is such a wretched beast, Bella turns, and...
I imagine she's a perfect Cullen.
Bella has superb control, to the point of ridiculousness, more the Cullen lifestyle appeals to her beyond just immortality. They have stability, material wealth, and while Bella doesn't care about the familial connection she won't say no to it either.
Being a man eating nomad has no appeal to this Bella.
She'll follow the diet meticulously to a t, do the high school routine perfectly, and ignore Edward's spiral into depression and despair now that he's ruined Bella Swan's life.
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kdramafeminist · 3 years
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Performative Badassery & Women in Kdramas
When I said I wrote an essay, I meant essay. This is a long one! Grab a snack and venture below the read more. I’ll see you at the end!
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You know the feeling. The drama begins. Our female main lead walks onto screen. She’s a successful businesswoman, a hotshot detective, clever lawyer, smartass retail worker, etc, etc. She stares down a random man to prove she’s the powerful one here. Or kicks some ass. Or rattles off a bunch of demands to her workers. Or talks fast to show off her intelligence.
Then she meets the male lead. There’re fireworks. Slowly we find our female lead has a softer side. Good to know. 3-dimensional and complex characters are important. It’s nice to see women on-screen who are both capable and emotional. Kick ass and feminine. 
But slowly... something starts to go wrong. She seems to be crying more than showing literally any other kind of emotion. And is it just me or is she getting saved and manhandled and flustered quite a lot for a woman who we were told was so well put together? Sure, the circumstances are extreme. But they’re extreme for the male lead too and he seems to be managing just fine for some reason. Also, if both of them are ordinary people with no on-screen fighting experience, how come he’s so great at throwing fists out of nowhere and she’s busy keeping hidden or needing rescuing? Exactly how many times can one person just faint like that without anyone checking to see if she has a medical condition?
By the drama’s end our lead has gone through trials and tribulations. She’s fallen in love too, I’m happy for her. But... now that the story’s ending and she’s getting in one last chance to show us she’s a “badass”, why am I left feeling hollow? She’s showing us how tough she is but... we ALL spent this whole drama watching her have absolutely no agency or such a little amount that she might as well have been trying to put out a fire with a water-pistol. It’s almost like her previous badassery (in whatever form it may have been - I don’t mean badass only in terms of being able to throw a good punch) was just a façade. A way to hook in female viewers like me who want to see something more than a wilting wallflower or one-trick Cinderella. But the tiniest knock and the cardboard house collapses.
And no matter how many times we get throwaway lines about her being “the smartest/toughest/scariest/most capable one here” it doesn’t ring true compared to the actual character we’re watching.
Rom-coms, melos and sagueks especially (but many more genres besides), have a real problem when it comes to performative badassery in their female characters. The writers give us a female lead they claim is hyper competent, but the reality is totally different. Any plot that features romance, almost always features this. Honestly the way the start of the relationship in dramas actively MURDERS the female character’s agency could be its own essay so I won’t go deep, just know the two are 100% linked.
The “Faux Action Girl” Problem 
A Faux Action Girl happens when a writer wants the popularity that comes with having a cool action girl character, or they want the praise that comes with writing a lead that breaks gender norms, or they want to be lauded for writing a FL whose more capable & progressive than the female kdrama lead we’d imagine, but they don’t end up actually giving us her. Instead we get the fake or faux version. The reasons are usually a combination of:
Relying on outdated tropes. Wrist grabs, damsels in distress, a girl fainting so she misses some vital plot related moment to increase runtime etc...
Sexist worldviews. As a by-product of being Korean which is still a heavily sexist country because of the holdover of Confucianism mixed in with the Christianity westerners brought over that leads many writers to (often without even realising) inserting moments that inadvertently reduce their female leads because they think that’s what correct or natural for the female character based on their opinion of women in general. Even if it doesn’t actually fit the type of character they’ve set out to create.
Executive meddling. Producers who think their demographic wouldn’t be able to handle a real badass but also know their female viewers want more complexity and agency in their FLs these days and so give us the paper-version instead of the 3D model.
This character’s more “badass” traits are nearly always just an Informed Ability (the writers tell us via other characters what she can do but never actually show us on-screen these same things) or we only ever see her utilise them once/twice at the beginning and maybe if we’re lucky once at the end, but never again. 
It really hurts.
The “Badass Decay/Chickification” Problem
Sometimes she really is a legitimate action girl though. She’ll be a cop whose good at her job or an ordinary citizen whose well-versed in taekwondo. She has actual moments on-screen to prove herself. 
Well. She has moments in episodes 1 and 2. Then she almost always goes through Badass Decay/Chickification. Which means that writers (& producers) believe that if we don’t see her having a softer side, she’ll become unrealistic or unlikeable. 
They fix her. So she becomes more vulnerable. As the only girl on the team (usually), she becomes the one who ends up injured more often or needs rescuing most. Her life begins to revolve entirely around her romance and nothing else. (Meanwhile the male leads gets to have the romance and keep his side-quest - have you noticed that? If the FL is really lucky she gets to keep one side-quest too, maybe a dream job or solving some family mystery. Never more though.. only men get to be complicated here). Once she was competent... now it feels like she legitimately had a personality transplant. 
Is this even the same person we began with?
The “Worf Effect” Problem 
Worf Effect is when the danger/power level of a villain is shown to the audience by making him successfully attack/hurt/ruin the plans of someone that the audience knows is skilled. This isn’t a bad thing alone and writers use it all the time. We need to acknowledge the villain as a proper threat and this is a useful way to do it!
But in kdramas it’s something used almost always against the lead female character. The one we’ve seen is intelligent, or strong-willed or quick-witted. 
And because it’s always her, this character begins to look weak. If this writing trope is abused, her reputation as the "biggest, toughest" etc. begins to look like it never existed and we’re back to her having an informed ability. 
That this is something that happens to the female characters not only more often but almost exclusively is a sign of sexism. Plain and simple.
Competent, Real Badass Female Characters Aren’t Scary
 If you’re going to sell me a capable woman, give me her. 
Not someone who has one very unique, specialised skill but otherwise can do nothing else except for that one time when her one skill is useful. 
Or has built up her own empire, implying a certain level of smarts, business ability or networking skills, but then once she’s removed from it she becomes so utterly useless it begs the question how she built that empire in the first place. 
Or has a rep as the detective whose taken down the toughest guys off-screen, but whatever skills she used to do that seem to disappear the moment anything really challenging happens on-screen. 
I’m not saying she needs to win all the time. Of course she doesn’t, how boring is that? All I’m asking is that when she loses, it’s in keeping with the character I’m supposedly watching. A woman that can kick ass can still be outwitted. A clever woman can be physically beaten. A street-smart girl can be foiled by rules and regulations. A leader-type can be beat by someone whose more unconventional.
It’s not difficult to write someone like this. I know the writers can do it because every male lead is written this way. I’ve never once, whilst watching a badass male lead lose, get beaten and cry, thought “oh no, his badassery was fake all along!”
Because when he loses it makes sense. It’s in character. There’s a solid plot reason behind why it happens.
Meanwhile my ladies who are meant to be able to kick ass and take names somehow just got kidnapped out of nowhere?
Make it make sense!
Consistent Characterisation is Good Writing
I get wanting moments where one is injured and the other fusses over them. I love those moments! All I ask is more imagination taken to get us to that point. Make it in-character. If my taekwondo black belt is kidnapped, I want to see her really fight. I want the kidnapping to be shown as genuinely tough on the people trying to nab her. Imagine how much more satisfying it would be to see her fight off all these bad guys, yet still end up losing? How much more heart-breaking?
We’d be so much more invested in the mind games or politics the villain is playing if the female lead we’ve been told is good at that stuff is playing the game just as hard. When she loses it’ll hurt more.
Writers need to stop being afraid that her remaining capable in some way diminishes the masculinity, attractiveness, prowess or “hero” status of the male lead. Trust me. It doesn’t. Ever. 
It’s not a case of either/or. We don’t think less of the male lead because his partner is as capable as him in whatever way that may be. Instead, we think more of them both. Once a romance begins, the heightened worry both characters have for each other should only make both of them stronger in whatever area they’re skill lies in. Not just make the man a sudden defence wall and the woman a worrying mess. 
I’m sure everyone who reads this can immediately think of at least one drama with a FL who is a Performative Badass. I know I had about ten in mind as I wrote this. 
There are exceptions. Cases where the badass gets to stay a badass. Usually these cases happen in genres without romance because like I said above, those problems are linked. But I can think of a few romcoms/sageuks/melos where it happens too. 
But those are the minority.
Women in kdramas. Give them agency. Make their characterisation genuine, not just a bit-part for the sake of a cool trailer. Not just one moment someone can edit into a “badass multifemale” video edit - only for us to watch the drama from the clip and discover we’ve been sold a lie. 
How satisfied would we be?
Writers! Give us a story we enjoyed because of the excellent characterisation. A new female character we can add to our lists of faves. Women who proved themselves as consistently badass as their first scenes claimed. Women in kdramas who, no matter what problem they faced, don’t become echoes or paper-thin versions of who we were promised.
Actual, complex, layered, enjoyable, KICK-ASS AND BADASS female leads.
Wouldn’t that be a miracle.
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PS. This is an open notice that it’s OKAY to reblog with added commentary/thoughts/rambles of your own. I would *love* to see it if you have anything to add.
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(Disclaimer: This essay was written with a specific female character type in mind. I am not saying every FL needs to be a badass or hyper competent. Soft, shy, physically weak female characters exist and can be just as realistic and complex. There’s a few I can think of who I adore. Instead my essay is very specifically about characters who are *meant* to be badass from the start but then... don’t end up being. So, yeah, before anyone claims I’m some angry feminist who needs every FL to be some tough martial artist or something. Absolutely not! Diversity is amazing and interesting. All I ask is that when I am told I’ll be getting a badass in a drama I get her. Not have my heart broken by the fake wilting flower I find in her place. Ok. End disclaimer. ^^)
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Also I’m tagging a bunch of you because you reblogged my post saying you wanted this so here! TY for making it to the end ^^
@kdramaxoxo​ @islandsofchaos @storytellergirl @vernalagnia-blog @lostindramas @salaamdreamer​ @planb-is-in-effect​ 
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elliemarchetti · 3 years
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Do you plan to update your red queen fanfics anytime soon?
I take the opportunity of this ask to publish the update of Pride and Prejudice AU but apart from this story, which I intend to finish as soon as possible, I am not sure that I will continue the others, as long as I no longer receive feedback and some requests on how to continue. I hope you enjoy this chapter and quench your thirst for new Red Queen fanfiction! @lilyharvord I must also apologize to you for the very long wait, but life has definitely come between me and my interests
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Words: 2450
After breakfast, the girls took a walk in the village to find out if Mr. Maven was back, and to complain about his absence at the ball. He joined them as soon as they entered the city and he and Mr. Thomas took them home, a double advantage, as Mare could spend time with him undisturbed and the opportunity was propitious to present him to her father and mother. Immediately upon returning home, Miss Skonos was delivered a letter which was immediately opened: the envelope contained an elegant sheet of satin filled paper with beautiful, flowing feminine handwriting, which however changed her expression as she read it. It was from Evangeline Samos, and what it contained surprised her greatly, as the whole party had left the Stilts, with no intention of returning. When, later, Mare too was able to read it, she looked at the high-sounding expressions used with all the indifference of suspicion and, although surprised by the rapidity of that departure, she saw nothing really worrying: there was nothing to suggest that their absence would also prevent Mr. Samos from returning, and about the loss of their company, she was convinced that Wren would’ve certainly stopped worrying about it, being able to enjoy his. Sure it was unfortunate that she hadn't been able to see her friends again before they left the countryside, and that none of them were willing to return that winter, but wasn't that the reason why those who could afford it owned two houses?
"But you don't know everything. I'll read you the passage that particularly hurt me, since I don't want to hide anything from you," added her friend, and finally Mare noticed the second sheet she was holding in her hands.
"I am truly convinced that my dear friend, Lady Elane Haven, has no equal in terms of beauty, elegance and quality, and I don't think I'm at fault if I take it for granted that you agree with me. The affection she has inspired me for years is intensified by something even more significant, namely the hope of soon being able to call her my sister-in-law. I don't know if I have ever told you my feelings about it, but I won’t leave without trusting you, and I believe you won’t find them unreasonable. My brother already admires her very much, all her relatives desire this union for her as much as we do, and I don't think I am deceived by the partiality of a sister if I say that Ptolemus is certainly capable of winning the heart of any woman. With all these circumstances in favour of a bond and none that can prevent it, I am perhaps wrong to indulge in the hope of an event that will ensure the happiness of this many people?"
Mare was stunned. So this was the plan, it wasn't a marriage already orchestrated between Miss Samos and the General, but between her friend and her brother! Wren, however, didn’t want to believe her, and her words about the undeniable affection he felt for her seemed to do nothing but further hurt her broken heart as upstream they didn’t think the same about the letter's emissary, for not to mention that she was convinced that she wouldn’t be able to derive any joy from a marriage to a man whose friends and relatives hoped he would marry another woman.
"You must be the one to decide," said Mare, "and if after mature reflection you discover that the pain of doing a rudeness to his sister is greater than the happiness of being his wife, I certainly recommend you to refuse.”
These words brought Wren a smile, as they both knew perfectly well that she wouldn’t hesitate to accept his proposal, but the shadow of the possibility that he wouldn’t return in six months continued to cast a dark shadow on the general mood, to the point that only Diana’s invitation, addressed to both of them, managed to dispel that constant thought a little, replacing it with genuine curiosity, since she and Wren were by no means intimate enough for such a proposal. The answer to all their questions, however, came the next day when the Colonel's daughter told them that she needed female help, and that Mare was too involved to be the only opinion she would hear. From anyone else, this would’ve been an intolerable rudeness, but Mare knew her friend well, and if it was about romance, an assumption that soon turned out to be correct, she didn't want to be wrong and analyzed every single detail to the point of making the least gesture the most rational. The summary of the matter, however, was that Mr. Jesper had woken up early the previous morning, and unannounced, had gone under her window to ask her for a clandestine meeting. Diana accepted, and he, very awkwardly, revealed his interest in her, as well as his intention to marry her, if she accepted. The entire Farley family would’ve been thrilled with the event, but she had asked him for time to think about it, although she was already certain that she wouldn’t come to any conclusion alone, so she had bestowed that invitation. Wren, who was good-natured, greatly appreciated the gesture, and considered it an unspoken compliment to her sensibility and handling of the matter with Mr. Samos, so she quickly got busy, and all the years they had spent politely ignoring each other were recovered within an afternoon. Mare, however, wasn’t so well disposed towards the idea: she appreciated that Diana had asked for more help to reach the most favourable of conclusions, but she would’ve preferred that she had talked about it with her brother, as Shade had been silently courting her for years, and watched her from afar become the only woman he certainly wanted to marry; the prospect that she might want another man had bothered him and not a little, Mare had noticed, although she hadn't said anything, too absorbed in her own problems, but the real possibility that she might decide to marry another man would certainly have prompted him to declare himself, and everyone knew that those two were meant for each other, something that she wanted to remind to her friend.
"Mr. Jesper is smart and pleasant, and it’s certainly inviting for a woman to be the only one who can put a man at ease, not to say reassuring, even if he doesn’t seem like that kind of person. On the other hand, I can already see the blame on your face, Mare, and I want you to remember that your friendship is the thing I care about most in the world and even if I know how you feel, remember I too would behave differently if my perspectives were different, but they’re not, so I’m just asking you to be happy for me if I accept.”
"I will be," Mare assured her, though she wasn't sure she would ever be able to rejoice in her brother's unhappiness, "I just ask you to tell Shade before making any decisions. Do you think you can?"
To the affirmative answer of the other, Mare waited a time that she considered reasonable and took leave, followed by Wren, who asked her if she wanted to be accompanied home, which Mare refused, determined to be left alone with her considerations. It took her time before she could reconcile herself with the idea of ​​such an inappropriate union as she never imagined that, once called to decide, her friend would sacrifice all her best feelings. The next day, Mare was sitting with her mother and sister when Colonel Farley appeared and requested an audience with Mr. Barrow. Terrified of what might have happened, Mare remained tense the entire time they spent in the library, but the tones never rose, and when he left, the Colonel looked as calm as when he arrived. Mare waited a while before reaching her father and asking him what had happened, fearing a reproach for her advice to her friend, which could’ve broken the relationship between the two families, if the situation between Diana and Shade had been from her misunderstood, but he replied very calmly, saying he was happy and satisfied that Miss Farley, whom he had always thought fairly intelligent, wasn’t as foolish as his wife or daughter Gisa. Although this didn’t gave an explicit answer to her question, it reassured Mare, who was convinced that she could get more direct answers once her brother, who had gone out with Bree and Tramy, returned, as she didn’t want to be pressing with Diana, who could also have took offense at how things went the last time they met. At first, Shade seemed a little surprised by all that attention, but when he realized that Mare’s wasn’t just a fervent desire to know some new gossip but real concern, he told her not to worry, and that everything would turn out right in due time, a time that however established a reserve between the two friend that became a silence so heavy that convinced Mare their confidence was stained forever. Furthermore, these gloomy feelings certainly didn’t help Wren's mood, who hadn’t heard from Mr. Samos for a week and hadn’t even received an answer to her letter for his sister. Even Mare was beginning to have fears, not so much that Mr. Samos was indifferent, but that his sister could keep him far. Reluctant as she was to admit such a devastating idea to the happiness of the only friend she had left, and so dishonourable about the constancy of her love, she couldn't help but think about it often. The united efforts of two insensitive women and a friend so influential, favoured by the charm and amusement of Archeon, might’ve proved to be too much, so she feared, for strength of his affection. As for Wren, her anxiety about that uncertainty was, of course, more painful than Mare's, but whatever she felt she just wanted to hide it, and therefore between her and her friend there were never any allusions to that subject. The mother, on the other hand, wasn’t held back by such delicacy and hardly an hour passed without speaking of Mr. Samos, expressing the impatience for his return, or even asking her daughter to admit that if he didn't come back she would feel treated very bad. It took all of Wren's mild steadfastness to endure those attacks with acceptable tranquillity, which diminished, however, upon the arrival of Miss Samos' letter of reply, which removed any doubt about their winter accommodation, they would have settled in the General's residence, and, according to Wren, also regarding the feelings of Mr. Samos towards Lady Haven. Mare paid no attention to those speculations, she hadn’t seen, in fact, any warmth between the two in the time they had spent at the Hall of the Sun, but the fact that Evangeline was so evil she could take pleasure in the idea of undermine her own brother’s happiness, and in such a mean way, filled her with indignation and resentment, equal only to the concern she felt for her friend, who had fallen in love with a man of such lightness of character, a slave to intriguing friend, willing to sacrifice his own happiness at the whim of their desires. If, however, it was only his happiness
that was sacrificed, he could play with it as he wanted, but it was also Wren's that was involved and she believed he should be aware of it. In short, it was a topic that could’ve been thought about for a long time, even if, perhaps, to no avail, but she could do nothing else, and whether Mr. Samos's affection had really died down or had been suffocated by the interference of his friends, whether he had been aware of Wren's feelings or they had escaped his observation, in any case, even if the judgment would’ve been concretely influenced in the different hypotheses, the situation remained the same, and the peace of the girl equally wounded. It was a couple of days after, that Wren found the courage to talk about her feelings with Mare, but in the end, left alone by Mrs. Skonos, after a longer than usual rant on the Hall of the Sun and his owner, she said: "Oh! If my dear mother controlled herself more, she has no idea how much pain her constant considerations about him give me. But I don't want to complain, since it won't last long. He will be forgotten, and we will all be as before."
Mare looked at her friend with affectionate disbelief, but said nothing, although the doubt about those words could be read on her face like lines from an open book. Wren blushed: she knew that this man, who had been so lovable to her, would live forever in her memory, but that was all. If she had something to hope, fear, or even blame him for, the situation would’ve been different, and time would’ve done nothing but make the pain greater, but in that case she had the immediate comfort that it was nothing more than an error of her imagination, which had hurt no one but herself. If she had said those words aloud, Mare would’ve told her she was too good, and she would’ve attributed ethereal adjectives to her sweetness and impartiality, but it wasn't praise for her character that she needed to hear at the moment, only how much she was loved, words that not even her mother seemed willing to give. Even her father considered it only a mere disappointment, and indeed, he seemed inclined to joke about it when the Barrows went to visit them, inciting Mare to have her own heartbreak with Mr. Maven, who seemed a very nice and stylish man. Regarding him, it can be said that his company helped to dispel the melancholy into which the last, unfortunate events had thrown the two friends, who saw him often and had been able to add to the long list of his qualities the total absence of reserve, as the whole story already exposed to Mare soon became public, and everyone was satisfied thinking about how much they had always thought the General unpleasant before coming to knowledge of the whole matter. The only one who could imagine that there could be some extenuating circumstance in the matter was Miss Skonos, whose mild and firm candour always put forward justifications, and insisted on the possibility that there were misunderstandings, but by all the others the General had been labelled like the worst of men.
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deans-baby-momma · 3 years
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Past Haunts- A Revisit
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A/N: Let’s take a look inside the Winchester/Quentin household and see how everyone is getting along. Also look for the 2nd author’s note after this story. 
It's been six months today. Six months since my daughter and I were getting ready for work and school when a simple knock on the front door changed everything. Changed it all, for the better.
To be able to watch from the sidelines as Whitney got to finally know the man who was her father; to finally experience having a male figure in her life was indescribable. 
Those two were like two peas in a pod, though. Similar likes, the same dislikes, an identical warped sense of humor. Once Dean had gotten over- no, that isn't the right wording-since Dean had come to terms with Sam being locked in a cage in Hell, he had jumped right into being a parent, a daddy. And he was killing it!
I hadn't expected to find him in the kitchen every morning, cooking breakfast for us before sending us both off with a kiss and I definitely never dreamed of coming home to a clean house, mowed lawn and that pesky back porch light repaired but during the first whole week of loving with us,  Dean had picked up the slack. I was amazed and very grateful.
Dean and I have slept in the same bed every night since his return but have yet to put a label on what we are. Although, Whitney happily tells anyone and everyone that her parents are together, I'm just unsure. And yes, we've had sex but then again what woman in her right mind could look at him, cuddle up to him and NOT want to have sex with him?
He had gotten a job at a local garage after the first month of being 'home' and had quickly impressed the boss with his knowledge of older vehicles. It seemed as though the mechanics nowadays depended on the little computers installed in the newer models to alert them to whatever was wrong, so when older vehicles came across their rack, these young boys were stumped.
During the week after Thanksgiving, the city of Fairfax Indiana got its first snowfall. Everything looked so clean and fresh with the white blanket covering all the blemishes and eyesores around town. And that's the day we found out Dean Winchester doesn't like the cold.
"It's just-" Dean grumbled as he drank his coffee at the head of the table. "-so ridiculous. You have to wear extra layers, watch out for other idiots on the road. Watch where you step. And it's just so cold." He finishes his groaning with a full body shiver.
"Dad you sound like a whiny brat," Whitney banters as she eats her eggs and bacon. "It's wonderful! Everything looks so bright and shiny."
"I need sun and warmth, missy," Dean shoots back with a wink. He suddenly sits up straight and looks at me. "Babe, how many days of school until our little girl is on holiday?"
Whitney hmphs at being called a little girl, even though she knows Dean only does it to get a rise out of her. The smirk on his face tells me that is exactly the response he expected.
"Uh, nine. I think."
"Eight and a half," Whitney corrects me, standing up to take her plate to the sink. "And the half day is going to be mostly watching movies and not much else."
I look at Dean to see his mind whirling. I could tell he was trying to work something out in his head. I raise an eyebrow in question but only get a smile in response. I shake my head at his antics and stand up to go finish getting ready for work.
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Christmas in Florida is distinctly opposite of Christmas in the North. For one, there is no snow for the lights to mirror. The lights are pretty but seem so dull without the reflection. And instead of coats and gloves and hats, people are in swimsuits and shorts, tank tops and flip-flops. A total 180 from what I'm used to in mid-December. I ponder the difference between the two as I lounge on the long beach chair beside Dean's as we watch Whitney frolic in the cool water.
Dean hasn't fully embraced the warmer temperatures as he is still in jeans and his usually two-shirt ensemble.  The only thing missing is the heavy work boots he usually dons; his feet are bare. The sunglasses on his face does little to hide the freckles that have made an appearance the darker his skin tans. I've laid in bed recently, counting the cute little misshapen dots. He is all smiles and happy. I love him so much!
When Dean had first suggested taking a trip down south for Christmas break I was astonished, Whitney was ecstatic. In her 13 year existence, this is the first full-fledged vacation we have ever taken so she was excited and enthusiastic about the chance to take a trip. And when she found out the destination, I didn't think she would survive the 17-hour trip without spending the whole time exploding with glee. Whitney and I spent my whole payday on a new wardrobe for the both of us, getting weird and bizarre looks from other shoppers as we tried to find t-shirts and shorts, bathing suits and sunscreen; during December in Indiana those items were few and far between. I also took a secret trip to the courthouse, getting the paperwork to officially make Whitney a Winchester. All it needs is information and signatures from both parents. I plan to surprise Dean with them Christmas morning.
So far, this vacation has been fantastic. We have spent time as a family doing little things, like walking along the beach at sunset searching for seashells, playing mini-golf, spending the day in our hotel room watching old movies and cartoons when the weather took a turn for the worse. It has been a dream come true, something I had never in a million years thought would ever happen. 
Spending time with him and our daughter in what I dubbed as the most magical place on Earth. So what if we're not at Disney World, to me this is the most fascinating time and place; a week spent with my daughter and her father, the love of my life. Life couldn't get any better than this.
I am shaken from my daydreams as I hear Dean growl and begin throwing fictitious daggers with his eyes in the direction of the pool. I turn my head to see a group of teenage boys all surrounding Whitney, who is all smiles at the attention. 
"Calm down honey," I cajole. "We knew this would eventually happen. We can't expect her to be a nun."
"Those boys are too old for her," he defends. "They see an innocent, young girl like her and there's only one thing on their mind." He goes to get up and I reach over to place my hand on his arm, stopping him.
"Give it a minute," I tell him. "I've taught Whitney to take care of herself."
As Dean and I sit there I keep our daughter in my peripheral, just in case one of us needs to step in. Suddenly, Whitney yells out "Jerk!" and slaps the boy who looks to be the protagonist of the crew. I smile as I watch her climb out of the pool and walk toward us. She sits at my feet and wraps her towel around her shoulders.
"You okay darlin'?" her dad asks, his eyes still trained on the gang of boys. They just don't know how many different ways Dean Winchester could murder them and make them all disappear.
"Y-yea," she answers but I can tell she's lying. "They just said some things that weren't nice."
Dean finally turned his eyes toward his daughter, the dangerous glint replaced by concern.  "Baby girl, I can go have a talk with them, if you-"
"No Dean!" she says, standing up. "I don't need my father taking up for me. I'm not a baby!" As Whitney storms out of the pool area, Dean looks at me, at a loss.
"What did I do?"
I stand up and wrap the sarong around my bikini-clad body. "Just let me go talk to her, okay?" I have an idea what is going on and I know having her dad there I'd never get Whitney to open up. I lean down and kiss him and head in the direction our daughter had stomped off.
In the room, Whitney has thrown herself across her bed and is crying into the pillow.
"Honey, what's wrong?" I ask gently because if my suspicions were true, anything could cause her to fly off the handle.
"I don't know," she whines. "I was feeling okay and then all of a sudden, it's like my energy zapped. So I was just floating in the pool, hoping the ache would go away and then those boys came up and started talking to me. And I liked it," she explains as she sits up on the bed. "But then Kyle said something about me being pure and innocent when I told them how old I was and I just lost it. And then I jumped down Dad's throat and he probably hates me now!" She begins crying again and I join her on the bed, wrapping my arm around her shoulders and she places her head on my shoulder.
 "Oh baby," I console. "I think it's becoming that time. You're getting ready to start your first period."
She jerks her head up and looks at me. "Really?"
"Yea, we need to go get you some pads and Midol. You're going to start bleeding anytime."
"God, did I just ruin our first vacation?"
"No!" I claim. "You didn't ruin vacation at all, baby. Now, let's get cleaned up and run down the street to the store."
"Moooom! I can't leave the room! What if it starts before we get back?" I chuckle at her wide-eyed expression.
"Okay, okay." I reach over and grab my phone texting Dean to come up to the room. I roll my eyes as I remember the discussion he and I had almost 2 years ago. Never in a million years did I think I would actually be asking this of him but I can't leave my baby.
The look on his face was comical as I whispered my request. He looked terrified and afflicted at the thought of having to buy feminine products. I take screenshots of exactly what he needs to buy and send him on his way, but not before he insists that I remember promising him he would never have to do this particular task.
The rest of the vacation goes off without a hitch. Whitney does begin her first period and requests to spend the rest of our time in Florida in the hotel room, only going out to eat. Dean and I trust her enough to leave her in the room while we go out, exploring not only the beach but the little town we are in. 
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Christmas morning comes and Whitney wakes us up with squeals of delight at the massive amount of presents placed under the decorated fake palm tree in our room.
Dean and I sit on the sofa, drinking coffee and enjoying the look of awe on our daughter's face as she opens her presents. Once finished, she winks at her dad and goes to her bag where she pulls a box from inside. Handing it to him, Whitney steps back as Dean slides off to the floor, getting on one knee.
My hand slaps over my mouth as he clears his throat. I have no idea what he says because my inner voice is chanting 'Oh my god! This can't be happening!' Finally my ears take over and I hear him ask, "Becks, will you marry me?" I nod through the tears and watch as he slips the ring onto my finger. He climbs back onto the couch and wraps his arms around me, only moving one around Whitney when she dog-piles on top of us in excitement.
None of us know though, that when we return to Indiana  the past is going to come back to haunt us, in the form of Sam Winchester back from Hell.
A/N2: Another announcement! Another story! Remember how I promised a sequel to this story? A look into the years these two spent apart? Well I began it and then life happened (along with a stroke) so I just now am finishing it up. Look for Wounded Hearts to begin in March!!! I’m excited to share it with you. I will keep those of you that were on the PH taglist unless you tell me different. Love to you all. 
@vickiq9761 @81mysteriouslyme @travelingriversideblues-x @akshi8278 @keymology @hoboal87 @squirrelnotsam @spnbaby-67 @sandlee44 @natura1phenomenon @drakelover78 @lostinaseaoffictionalbliss @larajadeschmidt13 @tftumblin @blacktithe7 @lilulo-12 @adoptdontshoppets @cpag7 @markofdean79 @supraveng @deanwanddamons @mogaruke @death-unbecomes-you @vicariouslythruspn @atc74 @delightfullykrispypeach​ @sea040561​
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demonsonthemoon · 3 years
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The Flood and its Aftermath
Fandom: Supernatural Pairings: N/A Word Count: 1861 Summary: Sam had always thought that coming out would be the hardest thing. Note: I set out to write what was meant to NOT be a coming-out fic. Then it turned into a coming-out fic. Turns out writing what you would have wanted coming out to feel like is really therapeutic? Who would have guessed.Anyway, Sam Winchester is a non-binary lesbian in my heart.
Read it on AO3.
Sam had always thought that coming out would be the hardest thing.
The silver lining being that, with the lives they lived, there was really only one person she needed to come out to.
Dean.
Dean Winchester, the manly man who thought he was making fun of Sam by calling her a girl. The kind of guy who would refuse a good drink if it came in a pink bottle.
But Sam wasn't stupid and they knew better. Dean wasn't as much of an asshole as he made himself out to be, not really. That kind of bullshit was just the best way that Dean had found to protect himself.
Still. The hypermasculine posturing hadn't exactly been reassuring to Sam considering that he needed to tell his brother he was trans.
He'd thought that coming out would be the hardest, because it was the first step, the one that was supposed to open the floodgates.
In the end, it had been relatively easy. The anticipation had been awful, a crawling feeling under his skin where guilt and fear mingled.
People could argue all they wanted that lying by omission wasn't technically lying but it sure felt the same way to Sam. She wasn't sure what telling Dean would change, which was perhaps what made it so scary. She knew, however, that she couldn't physically keep it a secret anymore, that it was making her sick inside.
Besides, secrets had nearly ruined their relationship many times over.
She was sick of that too.
So there came a day, in the bunker, in front of a dinner Dean had lovingly prepared (because he cooked now, more than spaghetti-Os and PB&J sandwiches) where Sam told their brother that they were trans.
Dean's first reaction was confusion. His second was awkward laughter. Which was followed by more confusion. Sam let him work through it, knowing Dean needed to get past his surprise before they could really start talking.
Sure enough, Dean frowned deeply before asking : “When you say you're transgender, you mean you feel like a woman?”
“No. Well, not exactly. It's more like... Like there's a spectrum between being a man and being a woman and I'm somewhere on that spectrum. It moves around a lot. Most often these days I feel closer to womanhood, I guess, but it's never really one or the other so it's hard to tell.”
“So... what, you don't feel like a guy, but you're not a woman either?”
“Yeah. Something like that. Non-binary is the term. I guess technically I'm genderfluid, but I like non-binary.”
“How long have you...?”
Sam shrugged. “Depends on what you mean. I only put a word to it maybe... a year ago? Two years? But looking back... I think I might have felt this way for a long time. Especially in college. I was just... curious. About gender, queerness. I thought I was a straight guy, though, and it felt... I don't know. Voyeuristic? So I didn't really explore it. And there were times, then and later, when something didn't feel right, but I just blamed that on everyrhing else that was wrong with me.”
“You know that's not true, right?”
“What?”
“That there's something wrong with you. There's not.”
“Dean-”
“I mean it. This isn't wrong. And all the rest of it...” The demon blood. His psychic powers. The memories of a body without a soul and of a soul being tortured. “It's all stuff that was done to you. It's not who you are.”
Sam wasn't sure he wholly agreed with his brother. He wasn't convinced you could separate the essence of a soul from all that had shaped it throughout the years. That particular line of thinking had backfired every time he had tried it. But this wasn't the time to have that conversation.
“I know it's not wrong,” Sam said, only addressing one part of Dean's argument. “That's why I'm telling you. Being non-binary... It feels right. It feels like me.”
“Okay,” Dean replied. Then, with slightly more assurance: “Okay. So... what does it change? Do I call you like... my sister? Or... my sibling, I guess?”
Sam smiled. The apprehension they'd been feeling for almost an entire days was quickly dissolving, leaving behind relief and a fierce kind of love.
“Yeah. I'd like that. Either of them. I mean... It's fine if you don't, I get that it's-”
“Dude.” Dean winced right after interrupting them. “Not-dude. Whatever. I'm probably gonna mess up. A lot. Like I just did. But you've got to let me try. You told me this because it's important to you, right? So you need to let me know how I can make you more comfortable. Not just what's okay or what's easier but what you actually prefer. Okay?”
Sam held up her hands. “Yeah. Okay. Sorry, it's just... It's complicated. I'm not actually planning on transitioning medically. Can't really afford to, not with the risk of someone looking into one of our fake IDs. And before you suggest black market hormones – I know that look in your eyes, don't deny it – I just don't want to. This is the body I've got. It took me years to stop feeling like there was something wrong with it, but I'm finally getting there. I don't wanna change it. But that means... I'm always gonna look pretty masculine, okay? Even if that's not how I feel, I get that that's what other people see. And that's... okay. It's how it is. I don't want to come out to everyone I meet, there's no point and it's just none of their business. So sticking to masuline language is better. It's not just easier, although that's part of it. It's more comfortable than always being put on the spot.
“Okay. That... It sucks that you even have to think like that, but I get it.”
Sam shot her brother a grateful look. She doubted whether he really did get it, whether he understood how painful and frustrating it had been to come to these conclusions after finally finding ways to explore her gender identity. But all that mattered was that he was trying.
“What about when it's just us then?”
“You could... switch? Pronouns, I mean. Sometimes he, sometimes she. Singular they. Same with gendered words, when there's no neutral way to say something.
Dean stayed silent for a few seconds. He nervously ran a hand through his hair, not looking at Sam when he finally spoke. “Tell me if I say something fucked up, okay? I know I'm not always the most... sensitive, when it comes to those things.”
Sam nodded in what he hoped was a reassuring manner.
“From what you said about-” He made a vague hand gesture. “- fluid genders, I get that it makes sense to switch pronouns. But you also said you felt more feminine, right? And I... I'm so used to seeing you as my brother and as a guy, so...”
Dean paused, as if waiting for Sam to tell him off for what he'd just said. But they wouldn't do that, because they knew it was true and that Dean wasn't saying this to prove a point about who Sam really was.
“I just think that if you let me call you he, I won't actually be able to switch to thinking of you as anything else.”
A bittersweet emotion bloomed under Sam's tongue, making him choke and his eyes water. Sam had argued with himself, again and again, and he'd figured it was easier to give his brother an out. It would hurt less like this, he'd thought, less than if he'd asked for more and had had to face his brother's failures full-on.
But Dean was flat-out refusing to take the easy way out.
Sam knew his expression probably looked ridiculous, but he smiled. Wide and bright, and with his eyes still prickling.
“She and they work, then. Thank you.”
Dean looked embarrassed. “Sure.”
He wasn't looking at her, but Sam didn't mind. She was happy. She basked in the silence between them, silence that was no longer heavy with secrets.
“Hey, Sam?”
“Mmh?”
“Is it still funny if I call you Samantha?”
Sam laughed, despite themself. Dean's grin was shy in return.
“It was never funny, jerk.”
“Bitch.”
So that, it turned out, had been the easy part.
The hard stuff came after.
The hard stuff was finding a way to get Dean to stop walking on eggshells around her everytime he had to correct himself on pronouns. The hard stuff was learning to correct Dan herself, forcing herself to stop letting it slide despite every part of her that screamed it wasn't a big deal and that it was safer to say nothing. The hard stuff was learning to know herself and then have that knowledge be stripped away by the gaze of strangers every time she and Dean went out in public.
Sam had learned to love his body out of necessity. Because they knew how easy it was to lose control of it, and because most days it was the only thing they could rely on. Years of living amongst demons and angels had taught them that the physical form was only a vessel. And so it hurt when other people couldn't understand that.
There was another thing that the hunter's life had taught Sam. Pain was easier to deal with when you were used to it. But it didn't take long to lose that habit.
And so the sweetest moments, the euphoria of knowing and of feeling known, they made the other times even more difficult. They made the casual assumptions and the well-meaning but off-track comments feel like a constant weight over their shoulders.
The hardest thing, in all of this, was that Sam couldn't get angry. He couldn't fault people for not instinctively realizing what had taken them 30 years to figure out. He couldn't complain about people using the wrong pronouns, not when he used them himself. He couldn't begrudge people for not seeing him for who he was, not when he didn't know how to make that person intelligible in any sort of language.
And so Sam couldn't get angry. They got tired instead, the kind of fatigue that settled into their bones like it had in the first few months of that year when Dean had been in Purgatory and Sam had been driving because he didn't know what else they could do.
On those days, Sam kept going because she knew there was no better option. And she knew, in her heart, that this was only a matter of having lost the habit. She knew that it only hurt so bad because the ache wasn't constant anymore, because there were moments (with herself, then with Dean, then with Castiel and Jack and Jody too) where she could be herself without it being a question, where she existed not only in translation but in the glory of her own tongue, and when she didn't have to try.
The wise man asks the fool:
Why do you hurt yourself so?
Because it feels so good when the pain stops.
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Taylor Swift Bent the Music Industry to Her Will
By: Lindsay Zoladz for Vulture Date: December 30th 2019
In the 2010s, she became its savviest power player.
n late November 2019, Taylor Swift gave a career-spanning performance at the American Music Awards before accepting the statue for Artist of the Decade. (Swift was perhaps the perfect cross between the award’s two previous recipients, Britney Spears and Garth Brooks.) Clad in a cascading rose-colored cape and holding court among the younger female artists in attendance - 17-year-old Billie Eilish, 22-year-old Camila Cabello, 25-year-old Halsey - Swift had the queenly air of an elder stateswoman. After picking up five additional awards, including Artist of the Year, she became the show’s most decorated artist in history. “This is such a great year in music. The new artists are insane,” she declared in her acceptance speech, with big-sister gravitas. That night, she finally outgrew that “Who, me?” face of perpetual awards-show surprise; she accepted the honors she won like an artist who believed she had worked hard enough to deserve them.
Swift cut an imposing adult figure up there, because somewhere along the line she’d become one. The 2010s have coincided almost exactly with Swift’s 20s, with the subtle image changes and maturations across her last five album cycles coming to look like an Animorphs cover of a savvy and talented young woman gradually growing into her power. And so to reflect on the Decade in Taylor Swift is to assess not just her sonic evolutions but her many industry chess moves: She took Spotify to task in a Wall Street Journal op-ed and got Apple to reverse its policy of not paying artists royalties during a three-month free trial of its music-streaming service. She sued a former radio DJ for allegedly groping her during a photo op and demanded just a symbolic victory of $1, as if to say the money wasn’t the point. Critics wondered whether she was leaning too heavily on her co-writers, so she wrote her entire 2010 album, Speak Now, herself, without any collaborators. In 2018, she severed ties with her longtime label, Big Machine Records, and negotiated a new contract with Universal Music Group that gave her ownership of her masters and assurance that she (and any other artist on the label) would be paid out if UMG ever sold its Spotify shares. Yes, she stoked the flames of her celebrity feuds with Kanye West, Kim Kardashian West, and Katy Perry plenty over the past ten years, but she’s also focused some of her combative energy on tackling systemic problems and fashioning herself into something like the music industry’s most high-profile vigilante. Few artists have made royalty payments and the minutiae of entertainment-law front-page news as often as Swift has.
Within the industry, Swift has always had the reputation of being something of a songwriting savant (in 2007, when “Our Song” was released, then-17-year-old Swift became the youngest person ever to write and perform a No. 1 song on the Billboard Country chart), but she has long desired to be considered an industry power player, too. A 2011 New Yorker profile of Swift circa her blockbuster Speak Now World Tour noted that she initially intended to follow her parents’ footsteps and pursue a career in business, quoting her saying, “I didn’t know what a stockbroker was when I was 8, but I would just tell everybody that’s what I was going to be.” In an even earlier interview, she fondly recalled the times in elementary school when she stayed up late with her mother, practicing for school presentations. “I’m sick of women not being able to say that they have strategic business minds - because male artists are allowed to,” she said this year in an unusually candid Rolling Stone interview. “And I’m so sick and tired of having to pretend like I don’t mastermind my own business.” Of course, she still spent plenty of time sitting at her piano or strumming her guitar, but in that conversation she painted herself as someone who is also “sit[ting] in a conference room several times a week,” coming up with ideas about how best to market her music and her career.
And so over the past decade, Swift’s face has appeared not just on magazine covers and television screens, but on UPS trucks and Amazon packages. Her songs have been featured in Target commercials and NFL spots, to name just two of her many lucrative partnerships. That New Yorker profile also found her to be uncommonly enthused about the fact that her CDs were being sold in Starbucks: “I was so stoked about it, because it’s been one of my goals - I always go into Starbucks, and I wished that they would sell my album.”
“Taylor Swift is something like the Sheryl Sandberg of pop music,” Hazel Cills wrote recently in Jezebel. “She has propelled her career from tiny country artist into pop machine over the past few years with little shame when it comes to corporate collaborators.” Such brazen femme-capitalism will always be a turnoff to some people (“the Sheryl Sandberg of pop music” is even less of a compliment in 2019 than it was when Lean In was first published), but it’s undeniable that it has helped Swift maintain and leverage her status as a commercial juggernaut more consistently than any other pop star over the past ten years.
In the 2010s, with the clockwork certainty of a midterm election, there was a Taylor Swift album every other autumn. (Yes, there was a three-year gap between 1989 and Reputation, but she all but made up for it with the quick timing of August’s Lover.) The kinds of pop superstars considered her peers did not stick to such rigid schedules: Adele released two studio albums this decade, Beyoncé released three, and even Rihanna - who for the first three years of the decade was averaging an album a year - eventually slowed her roll and will have released just four when the 2010s are all said and done. The only A-plus-list musician who saturated the market as steadily as Swift did this decade was Drake.
Still, Drake’s commercial dominance was more of a newfangled phenomenon, capitalizing on the industry’s sudden reliance on streaming and his massive popularity on platforms like Spotify and Apple Music. Drake might be the artist who rode the streaming wave most successfully this decade, but - with her strategic withholding of her albums from certain platforms until they better compensated artists - Swift was often the one bending it to her will. And she could do that because she didn’t need to rely on it solely: Somehow, against all odds, Taylor Swift still sold records. Like, gazillions of them. When Swift’s 2017 record, Reputation (some critics thought it was a critical misstep, but it certainly wasn’t a commercial one), moved 1.216 million units in its first seven days, Swift became the only artist in history to achieve four different million-selling weeks. And, of course, all four of these weeks came during a decade when traditional album sales were on a precipitous decline. At least for those mere mortals who were not an all-powerful being named Taylor Alison Swift.
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“Female empowerment” has been such an ambient, unquestioned virtue of the pop culture of this decade that we have too often failed to take a step back and ask ourselves what sort of power is being advocated for, and if its attainment should always be a cause for celebration. Is “female empowerment” any different from the hollow, materialistic promises of the late ’90s “girl power”? Is “female power” inherently different or more benevolent than its default male counterpart? Maybe this feels like such a distinctly American hang-up because we have not yet experienced that mythic, oft-imagined figure of the First Female President, and have thus not had to contend with the cold reality that, whoever she is, she will, like all of us, be inevitably flawed, imperfect, and at least occasionally disappointing.
As she’s grown into her own brand of 21st-century American pop feminism - sometimes elegantly, sometimes gawkily - Swift seems to have come to a firm conviction that female power is essentially more virtuous than the male variety. This was a side of herself she celebrated in her AMA performance. Swift opened her medley with a few fiery bars of “The Man,” her own personalized daydream of what gender equality would look like: “I’m so sick of running as fast as I can,” she sings, “wondering if I’d get there quicker if I was a man.” She wore an oversize white button-down onto which the titles of her old albums were stamped in a correctional-facility font: SPEAK NOW, RED, 1989, REPUTATION. Plenty of the millions of people who scrutinize Swift’s every move interpreted her choice of outfit and song as not-so-subtle jabs at Big Machine’s Scott Borchetta and the manager-to-the-stars Scooter Braun, with whom Swift is still in a messy, uncommonly public battle over the fate of her master recordings. (The only album title missing from her outfit was “LOVER,” which happens to be the only one of which she has full ownership.) She has framed the terms of her battle with Borchetta and Braun in strikingly gendered language: “These are two very rich, very powerful men, using $300 million of other people’s money to purchase, like, the most feminine body of work,” she told Rolling Stone. “And then they’re standing in a wood-panel bar doing a tacky photo shoot, raising a glass of Scotch to themselves.” Though she is herself a very rich, very powerful woman, she reads their message to be unquestionably condescending: Be a good little girl and shut up.
It is true that many record contracts are designed to take advantage of young artists, and that young women and people of color are probably perceived by music executives to be the marks most vulnerable to exploitation. But it is also true that Swift signed a legally binding contract, the kind that a businesswoman like herself would have to respect if it were signed by somebody else. Braun, who has been asking to have these negotiations in private rather than on Twitter, claims to have received death threats from her fans.
Even as she’s grown into one of the most dominant pop-culture figures in the world, Swift sometimes still seems to be clinging to her old underdog identity, to the extent that she can fail to grasp the magnitude of her own power or account for the blind spots of her privilege. “Someday I’ll be big enough so you can’t hit me,” she sang on Speak Now’s Grammy-winning 2010 single “Mean,” seemingly oblivious to the fact that, compared to 99.99 percent of the population, she already was. The mid-decade backlash to Swift’s thin-white-celebrity-and-model-studded “girl squad” - none of which was more incisive than Lara Marie Schoenhals’s hilarious parody video - took her by surprise. “I never would have imagined that people would have thought, This is a clique that wouldn’t have accepted me if I wanted to be in it... I thought it was going to be we can still stick together, just like men are allowed to.”
“Female power” is not automatically faultless, and can of course be tainted by all other sorts of biases and assumptions about class, race, and sexual orientation, to name just a few more common pitfalls. Swift’s face-palm-inducing 2015 misunderstanding with Nicki Minaj revealed this, of course, and plenty of people felt that her sudden embrace of the LGBTQ community in the “You Need to Calm Down” was a clumsy overcorrection for her past silence. Maybe she would have gotten where she was quicker if she were a man. But it would take a more complicated, and perhaps less catchy, song to acknowledge she might not have gotten there at all had she not also enjoyed other privileges.
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Art has its own kind of power - sneakier and harder to measure than the economic kind. The reason Taylor Swift has been worth talking about incessantly for an entire decade is that she continues to wield this kind, too. “I don’t think her commercial responsibilities detract from her genuine passion for her craft,” a then-17-year-old Tavi Gevinson wrote in a memorable 2013 essay for The Believer. “Have you ever watched her in interviews when she gets asked about her actual songwriting? She becomes that kid who’s really into the science fair.”
After so much industry drama, much of the lived-in, self-reflective Lover is a simple reminder that Swift was and still is a singular songwriter. Yes, this was the decade of such loud, flashy missteps as “Look What You Made Me Do,” “Welcome to New York,” and “Me!,” but it was also a decade of so many quieter triumphs: the pulsing synesthesia of “Red,” the nervous heart flutter of “Delicate,” the sleek sophistication of “Style,” the concise lyricism of “Mean,” the cathartic fun of “22,” the slow-dance swoon of “Lover.” But like so many of her fans, and even Swift herself, I still find the most enduringly powerful song she’s ever written to be “All Too Well,” the smoldering breakup scrapbook released on her great 2012 album Red. “Wind in my hair, I was there, I remember it all too well,” she sings, an innocent enough lyric that, by the end of the song, comes to glint like a switchblade. In a decade of DGAF, ghosting, and performative chill, remembering it all too well might be Swift’s stealthiest superpower. She felt it deeply, can still access that feeling whenever she needs to, and that means she can size you up in a line as concisely cutting as “so casually cruel in the name of being honest.” Forget Jake Gyllenhaal or John Mayer. That’s the sort of observation that would bring Goliath to his knees.
“It is still the case that when listeners hear a female voice, they do not hear a voice that connotes authority,” the historian Mary Beard writes in her manifesto Women & Power, “or rather they have not learned how to hear authority in it.” At least in the realm of pop music, Swift has spent the better part of her decade chipping away at that double standard, and teaching people how to think about cultural power a little bit differently. She sprinkled artful emblems of teen-girl-speak through her smash hits (“Uhhh he calls me and he’s like, ‘I still love you,’ and I’m like, ‘This is exhausting, we are never getting back together, like, ever”) and did not abandon her effusive love of kittens and butterflies in order to be taken seriously. As an artist and a businesswoman, she made the power of teen girls - and the women who used to be them - that much more perilous to ignore. Because they’ve been there all along, and they remember all too well.
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shinra-makonoid · 3 years
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"How is gay FtMs any different than heterosexual transitioned females exactly? " How would you answer your own question?
I'd say it's the incentive/ if they actually have gender dysphoria or not (assuming the diagnoses would be always correct).
I mean to me labels are functionable so it depends on the setting and what you’re looking for etc. To me it depends, all gay FtMs are technically people born with XX chromosomes capable of creating ovum (female) attracted to the opposite sex (male looking people). But in reality, any passing trans man calling themselves a straight woman would be called a creep and/or a trans woman by other people, so gay FtM or gay man makes more sense to call oneself in that situation.
So I would say it solely depends on passing, not especially about gender dysphoria. Some detransitioned female who didn’t actually have gender dysphoria called themselves gay men because they were passing/living as a gay man in society.
But I suppose it’s not exactly answering the question, because your question is about “being” rather than “calling ourselves as”. And to this I have no answer because in a way, it is kind of “made up”.
“Heterosexual female” as in XX chromosome person attracted to XY people is incomplete as a definition even by scientific standard, because it’s not a clear cut on anything. What if a "heterosexual female” is attracted to a male who has a DSD that makes him XX, or what if a “heterosexual female” has a thing with another woman one night, or dates a pre-T trans man? To various people, those “heterosexual woman” will no longer be a “heterosexual woman”. 
So the definition of “heterosexual woman” is, to this day, pretty much unclear by a scientific standard. If we go by the definition of “attraction to the opposite sex” you have to prove that the woman has been/is attracted to the people she dated and/or slept with. It is a whole mess, because that means we have to rely on the testimony of the person claiming that she indeed was attracted or not to those people, that is biased as fuck. And since we know genital reaction is not always accurately related to sexual orientation especially in the context of a study (stress, being watched, other biases I don’t know about that happen), it is even more difficult to study.
In some scientific models, I am a heterosexual female. In some scientific models, I am a gay female-to-male, or even a gay male. But what I am is not really interesting in your everyday life, no one cares if I am this or that. I look male, I wouldn’t date a woman (I’m not attracted to women but again that’s my own personal testimony of that) and exclusively date males (I’m attracted to males but again that’s my own personal testimony of that), I “am” gay.
It doesn’t mean that those models should be casted away or erased like some people claim they should, or that they’re untrue or unreliable, because they are true and they are reliable for a group of people that you’re trying to study. They are reliable and true to study a large amount of people, or a group. But to one specific person, it isn’t always. 
That doesn’t mean no one is a specific sexual orientation or that sexual orientation doesn’t exist. But that does mean that we all have our different viewpoint on what is a specific sexuality and that not all people will fit the boxes in our eyes (or agree with said boxes) no matter how much we try to make them fit in. That’s the reason why so many bullshit identities came to be. 
One of my best friend is a woman who claims to be a lesbian, has been exclusively dating women for 25 years, never had anything with a male, never wanted to touch a penis, who is currently dating and having sex with a male. Let me tell you how weird and uncomfortable it was for me to see that she doesn’t fit the box of what I feel about what “lesbian”/”homosexual female” should be, but still she doesn’t call herself anything else but lesbian today. Am I supposed to screech about it? Telling her she can’t say she’s a lesbian because she fucks one male? What good will it do honestly, and who cares in the end, she’s not representative of lesbians, as I’m not representative of homosexual gay men. We are complex individuals with a story and personal beliefs about our existences and personal biases and ego. 
Scientifically, those things could also be explained with various hypothesis. For example: loneliness? Companionship gives hormones that make someone feels good, could create chemistry without it being attraction. Biological clock? Around 25 females sometimes have a drive to make babies and it could influences their decisions in some ways to the point of someone being exclusively attracted to females go on and have a relationship with a male. It is incredibly difficult to study and understand, so I have absolutely no idea, but that could explain it or part of it, without requiring to claim that “sexuality is fluid” or that “she’s actually bisexual” or other things like that. In truth, I don’t know, I’m just throwing things out there, maybe she’s bisexual, maybe one or several hypothesis is true, etc etc. Functionally speaking I would call her bi, but she wouldn’t, and it’s her right and I like her too much to be against her for that, again, what does it changes if I believe she’s wrong and I’m right. It’s her life.
Anyone basing that experience of her or me, as being “representative” of a whole group of people based on our own testimony and personal beliefs about our identity, is dumb as fuck and need to understand people are individuals first. Anyone who is, upon knowing me, regretful that I am not representative of what the majority of people claiming to be gay men are (or a trans person is, or a man is), are not people I want to associate with, because they don’t see me as a person, but as a group. Whether it’s because I’m not feminine enough, or because I’m trans, or because I don’t like Beyonce or because I don’t subscribe to the one night stand culture that is prevalent in dating apps, I don’t care. None of those things change the fact that I’m a male-passing person looking for male-passing people regarding romantic and sexual long term companionship, which is my “personal” definition of what a gay man is. 
People can have issues with it, and have their own beliefs of what the definition of gay man is, it’s their rights. We can take a coffee or a tea together once covid end, and they can call me a (heterosexual) female, and see how anyone else around react to that considering how I look and live. They might be surprised by the fact that no one normally constituted would believe calling me a heterosexual female make any sense whatsoever for it to be functionable in society. So I “am” not a heterosexual female in that sense, I “am” a gay male in the most functionable definition existing in society. And I think that’s what should direct someone to use that word for me rather than heterosexual female. But in the end, I “am” both dependently of how you look at it, and anyone can call me whatever.
The funny thing is that since I base my definition on the functionalibility in society, if one day people are not considered by how they look but for example, by their DNA, and that it’s only between X and Y individual (let us imagine that), I would call myself a heterosexual female without any issue too. So it’s to them to change society so that me calling myself a heterosexual female makes sense, not me to stand out in society just because they feel I should.
I got carried away, but it is such a complicated thing lmao 
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songsofbloodandfire · 4 years
Text
Affirmation
The quiet nightly routines were the ones that Sana had come to appreciate the most. There'd been a time when she'd felt stifled and chained by domestic life but now she was beginning to see if for the precious thing it was. More so when it gave her the chance to bond with her children. 
Khod'a was settled comfortably in front of her, the boy half asleep and purring as she worked a comb gently through the soft curls of his hair. It'd grown some since he'd come to live with her, edging on too long for a boy and making the already rather pretty child look even more androgynous or even feminine depending on his clothes. Clothes that were leaning more and more feminine by Khod'a's choice. 
It was something that Sana accepted and was more than happy to support. How Khod'a wanted the world to see him wasn't a concern to her, but preparing him for how the world might eventually treat him was. It was a worry she tired to ignore and simply focus on building a bond with her child and a sense of security for him but like so many other worries she had for all three of her children as well as the two she was pregnant with, it was an uncertainty  that would always linger just at the back of her mind. 
But it wasn't a worry for that night. Instead another concern had been lingering in her mind, rolled too and from as she tried to decide how to approach the subject with Khod'a. Motherhood seemed a constant learning experience and nothing she'd experienced yet had readied her for the topic she wanted to bring up with Khod'a. 
Her brother's adopted daughter, Terbish, had become a common sight at their home, the little girl having become instant friends with Khod'a. It was a friendship that was proving to be a healthy thing for the young Miqo'te who'd had his life completely upended by being sent to live with his mother and her mate. The shy awkwardness he had exhibited had eased and while he was still so painfully quiet at times, being around Terbish seemed to open Khod'a up and give him a bit more confidence. It wasn't a surprise to Sana that Khod'a likely confided things to Terbish that he wouldn't to her.
It had, however, been a surprise to her when Terbish had referred to Khod'a using feminine pronouns and even went as far as correcting Sana when Sana used the wrong pronouns. At the time she had simply smiled and adjusted but the thought to talk to Khod'a had lingered in her mind. While she wasn't afraid to have the conversation with Khod'a, she wasn't sure how to have it. Nothing in her still relatively short tenure in motherhood had prepared her for how to have this conversation. 
It hadn't been hard to work out having time alone with Khod'a. Brem was home from the ship for a few days so her fiancée had happily jumped at the chance to put their toddler son to bed. It freed Sana up to focus solely on Khod'a and at first her focus had been putting the child at ease and making sure he was relaxed. Most of their conversation to that point had been him asking her questions about her travels, a topic he seemed fascinated with even if she was careful to edit out the less lawful aspects of her past that she wasn't quite sure how to address just yet.
A few moments of comfortable silence had settled between them before Sana finally asked, "Khod'a, when Terbi said that you were a girl and not a boy, did you ask her to call you a girl?"
She felt Khod'a stiffen some under her hands while she worked at putting his hair into a braid for the night. Pregnancy made leaning forward a bit awkward but she managed enough to press a reassuring kiss to the top of his head. The only thing she could hope was that her previous actions and responses to him had laid the foundation for him to trust her with this.
The younger Miqo'te shifted restlessly in place, worry causing his ears to press flat and his tail to flick in short, sharp little motions. “Yes...I don’t like being called a boy.” Careful, practiced motions finished off the braid she’d been working on and tied it off with a short bit of ribbon, making sure that it was secure enough that it wouldn’t come undone while Khod’a was sleeping. Sana wasn’t surprised by the statement, having contemplated over it but hadn’t wanted to push her child one way or the other. She knew plenty of men, including her brother Aya, who weren’t afraid to wear feminine clothes and it didn’t make them any less male. She simply wanted Khod’a and all her children to be happy and comfortable with who they were. It made her heart ache to see the signs of worry and nervousness in Khod’a and she couldn’t help but wonder if this was something he’d tried to bring up with his fathers only to have it ignore or met with opposition. She cared for Synd’to, enough that she hadn’t hesitated when it came to helping him when it had come time to conceive and carry Khod’a, but she knew he had his faults when it came to certain things. Raising their son in Gridania, knowing the rather close minded views of the locals, had been a choice he’d made a purpose and hadn’t done much to encourage Khod’a to be any different. 
Even Khod’a’s mixed heritage wasn’t something spoken about, though a Seeker and a Keeper having a child together was far more acceptable than if they’d been of different races. While neither Synd’to or his husband had said anything about Alvin and Mede being obviously mixed race, Sana knew neither had approved. She didn’t doubt their quietly held prejudices stopped there and there was guilt in the fact that she hadn’t taken the time to see how those prejudices might have been affecting Khod’a until she was put into a position where she couldn’t simply let it be their problem. She’d deal with the two of them if and when they returned, but until then Khod’a was her child and his worries and concerns were hers to deal with. 
She realized belatedly that his tension had grown in the face of her silence and almost seemed to be a living thing of its own surrounding him. Carefully, she turned Khod’a so they were settled side-saddle across her lap, a hand gently tilting his chin up so that his brilliant green gaze met hers. It never ceased to surprise her at just how much he favored her father and thus her. Fine boned and almost fragile in his vulnerability, she couldn’t help but wonder if that was what she’d looked like to everyone else when she’d been his age. 
“Khod’a...if that’s what you want, all you have to do is say so. No one can tell you who you are.” She marvelled that she managed to keep her voice soft and gentle despite the burn of tears that she was desperately trying to keep from her eyes and the tone of her voice. “No matter what anyone says, the only person who knows how you feel and who you feel you are is you. So if you feel you’re a girl, then you’re a girl.” “But daddy and papa…” Khod’a started in and then trailed off when Sana gently hushed the child, pressing a kiss to their temple. 
“I don’t care what your fathers told you, saghiri,” She corrected gently, the Antelope term familiar as all the children tended to be called little, “I will deal with them when the time comes. They are not you nor can they make that choice for you. If you feel you’re a girl and that is how you wish to be called, then that’s it. If not, that is fine too. There’s nothing wrong with that. What is wrong is forcing someone to be something they aren’t, do you understand?”
Wide eyed, Khod’a blinked owlishly at her as if some other answer or gentle lesson had been expected. It took a few moments before Khod’a nodded, ears pressed back in a sheepish gesture. “I don’t like being called a boy. I’m not a boy, I’m a girl like Terbi.” “Then that’s that.” Sana’s tone was, while still gentle, matter of fact. In her mind, there was no reason to argue. There was worry, more so knowing how harsh the world could be and how cruel people were, but they were worries for another day and another time. 
Worries that were well out measured by the almost fear in Khod’a’s expression as she looked up at Sana. “You’re not mad at me about it?” 
It wasn’t often that Sana was thankful her past profession allowed her to school her expression around her family but in this case she was thankful she knew she could keep her anger from her features. She’d have to have a very long talk with Synd’to and his husband if Khod’a’s worry was anger over such a thing. In rare form, she prayed that none of her other children would ever fear bringing anything like this to her. 
“No, saghiri, I’m not mad at you. I would never be mad at you about something like this.” Gently she pulled Khod’a to her so the child could rest her head against Sana’s chest, albeit with a little adjusting due to Sana’s pregnancy. With Khod’a settled, she gently rocked the younger miqo’te as she had so often since Khod’a had come to stay with her, knowing the child found the motion soothing. “All I want is for you to be safe and happy. If this makes you happy, then I am happy for you.” A quiet nod followed Sana’s words but further response wasn’t so quick to follow nor did Sana try to coax one from Khod’a. She could only begin to imagine how much was going through the young child’s mind and she knew that some things needed time to process. She was more than happy to give Khod’a all the time she needed. 
Though, when it took even longer than expected for an answer to come, Sana couldn’t help but look at the child in her arms. Khod’a had mostly drifted off, lashes still damp with quiet tears but at least the troubled look that so often seemed to rest on her features even in rest was gone for the moment. Not wanting to wake the sleeping child and not trusting herself to be able to carry Khod’a without falling, she was content to rest there. 
“You should have put him to bed before he fell asleep, Wyznblyss.” Brem’s voice pulled Sana out of the doze she’d drifted off as much as the sensation of Khod’a’s weight being lifted off of her. “She needed to talk and comforting and I wasn’t about to say no. It likely won’t be the last time I end up pregnant and trapped under a sleeping child.” Sana pointed out with a sleepy laugh. 
“Not if we keep having kids like we are…” There was a quiet questioning in Brem’s gaze, the choice of pronouns not lost on her fiancee. Sana simply shook her head, a tired smile on her lips as sleep still clung to her mind even as she stood to follow her wife to be as she went to put Khod’a to bed. “I’ll explain later. For now...let's put her to bed and go to bed ourselves. It’s been a long day.”
More than the call of bed, Sana wanted the warmth of her mate’s arms knowing their children were asleep and happy. It was one of the rare truly bright spots of happiness in her life that she doubted could ever truly be stamped out. 
((Terbish and Ayanga belong to @talesfromthegameff14​ and Brem belongs to @eyesofsteelandsky​))
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ginnranger · 3 years
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A Strange New Student
Summary: 
Ginn is a new student in a prestigious London private school. It’s pretty obvious she is not the type to be in private school, but is that going to stop her? Honestly, she doesn’t even know the answer to that one. 
But she does have a pretty good guess, when she meets Alex, Martin, George, Louise, and Elsie. They are pretty different from her. They seem nice enough, but will her past lessons allow her let them in? Another good question. 
Word count: 6542
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The large, stone hallways of Churchill high school were a lot less busy than Ginn’s old public school back in Liverpool. She guessed that was because barely anyone was able to afford the tuition to actually attend this school. How she got in was a complete miracle, sparked by some pretty unfortunate events.
The biggest understatement of her life.
Ginn was not used to anything that she had already faced in this new school at all, and she had only been in the building ten minutes. The students hanging around in the hallway before class were well behaved, milling around and chatting instead of running and fighting. The floors and lockers were clean, free of graffiti and chewing gum. The uniforms were the weirdest part; everyone wore it neat and proper, the boys’ ties being evenly tied, their shirts neatly tucked into their trousers, which were not sagging halfway down their butts, and their blazers free of burn holes and glue stains. The girls’ skirts were closer to the knee than the butt, their blouses also neatly tucked, and their cardigans neatly buttoned. Everyone’s shoes were perfectly shined, not a scuff in sight.
Every student had neatly styled hair, not a strand out of place. They all had perfect posture, shoulders squared and backs straight, the girls tending to keep their feet touching each other. Their faces shone with happy, satisfied smiles. There was no anger, hunger, or sadness in these people’s lives. Very different to what Ginn saw back in Liverpool. It was obvious these teenagers knew their place in the world. So did Ginn, and it was not surrounded by these people. They made that clear with their odd looks.
She stood out for many reasons around these people. For one, she was the only girl wearing trousers and a tie. Ginn flat out refused to wear a skirt, and the rules said trousers could not be worn without a tie, so she was stuck in the unflattering, unfitted, too big boy’s uniform. Her tie was relatively neat, but she had not buttoned the top of her shirt, and pulled the tie down slightly to accommodate the room the lack of a top button provided. her blazer sleeves had been rolled up slightly to accommodate her shorter arms. Her shirt was tucked in, but it was not neat. the sides of the shirt were bunched up, as she had tried to angle it in a way it was more fitted to her feminine frame. It was not working, but she felt comfortable. When Ginn stood, she leant on one leg, arms crossed, and her feet obviously not touching. Her shoulders slumped, and her hands folded into fists, no matter whether she was walking or standing. When she walked, her back curved forwards slightly, and her eyes shifted between everything that moved, glaring into every pair of eyes she met. Ginn had to be aware of everything that was happening around her. Just a little compulsion of hers. Her hair was cut short, mostly jar length, with layers getting shorter as they went up, and a fringe cut in line with her eyes, parted favouring the left side, and whilst that was not abnormal for girl, it was expected that she would make an attempt to calm and style her messy mop of ginger hair. But she didn’t. She liked it messy. It gave her an excuse to have her fringe covering her left eye. You see, Ginn had heterochromia. Her right eye was a bright, electric blue, whilst her left eye was a shining light brown, almost orange when the light hit it just right. Ginn preferred to cover her left eye with her hair, as it blended in with the orange strands better than the blue did. That, and the brown colour was not the genetic colour. Her mother had blue eyes, and her father had green eyes, so brown was definitely not a family eye colour.
Ginn could tell people were looking at her as she wondered the fancy hallways towards the administration office, though she couldn’t tell if this was because of her rough, stand-offish appearance, or the fact that it was early November, and she was a new student entering year 10. Honestly, Ginn didn’t care which one it was. She didn’t expect to form relationships with these people.
She managed to reach the administration office, where she was expected to pick up her time table and ID card, after a few minutes of cluelessly wondering around, following strange signs written in the worst font for someone like her; cursive. How is that acceptable, you may ask? It honestly isn’t, but this school had an aesthetic to stick to. Ginn was dyslexic, so anything that wasn’t block letters or her own handwriting was torture to read. As she reached the old looking, oak wood door, she straightened her back and readjusted her backpack, forcing her face to change from confrontational to neutral. This was the face she preferred to show in front of adults, as they could never figure out what emotion she was feeling so they struggled to ask her questions. She opened the door and walked up to the desk, waiting for the old woman sitting, typing on her computer, to look up at her. She did quickly, luckily.
“Hello there! What can I do for you today?” Her voice was far too perky and high pitched. It irritated Ginn’s ears. Ginn forced her face to remain neutral, pushing down her natural, uncomfortable reaction, so she could respond as quick as possible.
“I’m the new student. I was told to pick up my stuff here.”
“Ahh, yes! Ginn Ranger, am I correct?” The woman squeaked, smile never faltering.
“Yeah, that’s me.” Ginn avoided eye contact, uncomfortable with her full name being announced.
The woman rooted around the organised mess that sat on her desk, until she found the right envelope that held Ginn’s ID card and timetable. She handed it to Ginn and asked her to sit down for a moment, as the headmaster wished to speak to her before classes started. Ginn forced herself to swallow a groan as she nodded and took a seat next to the desk, facing the door to the headmaster’s office. Her leg bounced quickly as she stared into space, trying to concentrate on her thoughts rather than the loud world she lived in. She slouched in her seat after finding a comfortable place in her imagination to rest. Sadly, it only took two minutes for her to be called into Headmaster Windsor’s office.
“Hello, Miss Ranger.” Mr Windsor was far more serious. much more pleasant to Ginn’s ears. “It is a pleasure to finally have you here.”
Ginn only forced a smile as she sat awkwardly in the chair. Her eyes quickly scanned the room, taking in every detail she could. the shelves behind Mr Windsor mostly held the textbooks this school studied. Two of the four shelves held the textbooks. one held a collection of frames, some holding pictures of what Ginn assumed to be Windsor’s family, other holding certificates. One was a certification of first aid, one an inclusivity certificate, another being Windsor’s degree in teaching. The inclusivity certificate intrigued Ginn, as she knew for a fact that this school was pretty exclusive.
‘Guess it’s for everything except class.’ She thought to herself.
The final shelf held folders, ordered by category. The first was labelled ‘Enrolment’. The second was labelled ‘Disciplinary Reports’. The third was ‘Human Resources’. The fourth one was what Mr Windsor pulled off the shelf and flicked through. It was labelled ‘Inclusive Support’. Yay.
“So, Miss Ranger-” Ginn interrupted Windsor.
“Call me Ginn.” She said quickly and sheepishly, shoving her hands under her legs to avoid her usually gesturing that annoyed so many adults. “I prefer just Ginn.”
“Ok then.” Mr Windsor peered over the top on his reading glasses, unhappy with the interruption. “Ginn. Your old school transferred us your files and records last week, and I feel we must discuss some things before you head to classes.”
Ginn bit her lip and nodded. She had always gotten pretty good scores in lessons, but she was by far the favourite student to any teacher she ever had. She had a tendency to speak her mind, even when out of terms. Especially then, actually. She also did not have the best track record when it came to peer relations. Most of her past incidents were not her fault, but she had to claim some as her own doing. What could she say? She knows how to stick up for herself.
“These records say you are a very smart young girl, you could thrive in an academic environment, if provided with the right resources. This is why our scholarship program chose you to be our first representative of the… less fortunate.” Windsor hesitated with that last part. He really needed to brush up on his appropriate language book.
‘Just say I’m poor and move on.’ Ginn thought to herself.
“However,” the dreaded sentence conjunctive. “You do have a worrying amount of negative peer relations reports. I must tell you, Ginn. Fighting is strictly prohibited on the campus of this school.”
Ginn let her voice take the lead. “What’s your stance on fighting in self-defence? Mine is that is fine to fight, as long as you don’t start it. Pretty sure those records say that’s what I did.”
Oh dear. She really should have thought before speaking.
Windsor looked exasperated. Ginn was clearly not the first wise crack he had dealt with. “I believe anything can be sorted with the right words. As long as it is reported, it will be dealt with.”
“What about the times it can’t be reported?” Ginn’s voice deepened as she became serious. “That’s what happened in my experience. I couldn’t report it, and if I could, nothing happened, so I sorted it myself. Sure you wont have to worry though. This doesn’t exactly seem like the place where fights happen.”
Windsor chuckled and nodded. “You are an interesting young lady, miss- Ginn. I’m sure you will fit in with the class I have placed you in. All of your teachers have been informed of your mental heath and learning difficulties, as per your request.”
Ginn hated how that was phrased, but she thanked him anyway. ‘Gotta try and be polite’, after all.
“I have assigned a young man to help guide you around school as you settle in.” Oh no. forced interaction. “He should be outside now.”
as Windsor finished his sentence, the phone device on his desk beeped, and the voice of the receptionist through the door sounded out, saying ‘a Mr Peterson was here to see Headmaster Windsor.’ Windsor told the receptionist to send him in, and the device buzzed, causing Ginn to cringe. That sound was horrible!
Before she could fully recover, the door opened behind her and a boy around her age walked in. He had pale white skin, with bright blond hair, shaved at the sides and combed over, the parting favouring the right side of his head. His eyes were cornflower blue, shining and bright. He had a small, wonky smile on his face as he greeted the headmaster and took a seat on Ginn’s right side.
“This is Alex Peterson. He will be, what we call, your class escort.” Windsor introduced the boy to Ginn, and the boy turned to Ginn and smiled, offering his hand to shake, which she just looked at nodded to him. Windsor broke the awkward tension between the two and continued. “He will show you around until you are comfortable with your surroundings.”
Ginn hated this idea. She could see why they implemented it, many people would want it, but she was not one of those people. She would much rather just figure it out on her own, even if it meant being late to all her classes.
“The bell is about to ring. You two should head off now.” Windsor gestured to the door, and the two teens picked up their bags and walked out.
 “So…” The boy, Alex, said, drawing out the ‘O’ sound. “Can I see your schedule? Just so I know for sure where you are?”
Ginn wordlessly shoved the piece of paper into Alex’s hand, still avoiding eye contact with him. Alex shot her a strange look, realising this was going to be so much harder than he originally thought. He did think she would be quiet, being new and all, but dang.
“Cool, you’re in mine and my friend’s form.” he handed back the paper to the new girl and started walking, being closely followed by her. “You’ll like Mr Caxton, he’s fun.”
Ginn hummed in response. God, she was not making it easy for Alex.
The bell rang and Ginn tensed, her shoulders squaring, and her fists clenching. Another loud, irritating noise. This school was just made to make her uncomfortable.
Unfortunately, Alex had noticed her reaction to the sound. “You ok? It’s just the bell, no need to worry.” he chuckled.
“Fine.” Ginn grumbled through gritted teeth. She started storming off down the corridor without a plan, and luckily Alex jogged to catch up to her before she reached the turning point.
Alex desperately wanted to break the awkward air between them, but did not know how. This girl seemed tense, understandably, as she seemed quite strange to the standards of this school, so he did not know how to approach anything with her.
“So… where you from?” Alex asked, trying to study her body language. She walked like she was trying to look tough, as well as be silent in her steps. She succeeded on both aspects as she definitely looked intimidating, and her steps barely echoed around the halls.
Ginn subtly looked Alex up and down, figuring out his motive, in both the question and with helping her. He stood straight and proud, taller than her by a good few inches. Although, that wasn’t hard, as Ginn was only 5”3’. She estimated him to be about 5”9’, and she guessed he still had room to grow. He was looking at her expectantly with a small smile, his blue eyes shining in curiosity. She could see no malice in his wonderment, so she answered.
“Liverpool.” She said, bluntly. To be exact, she lived in a small terrace house, in Roscoe Street, very close to her primary school, Pleasant Street Primary. Ginn had hopped around several high schools in the past four years, so she couldn’t say how far she lived from them. She did not live in a great area, but it was close to the city centre, and she always felt safe there with her parents. She missed Liverpool.
Alex nodded, biting the inside of his mouth in mild frustration at Ginn’s refusal so converse. “Cool. Good city. What brought you to London then?”
“Family stuff.”
The two sighed, knowing that conversation was not going to happen right now.
 The two arrived at the classroom after everyone else had arrived and sat down. Alex greeted the teacher with a cheerful ‘good morning’ and he sat down on a table for four, with two other boys, whom he greeted and immediately started chatting and laughing with. The boy sitting next to him had slightly more tanned skin than Alex, but he was still quite pale. He had neat, honey brown hair, with a full fringe that was cut just under his eyebrows, the top of head was thick with hair facing forwards, and what Ginn estimated as one inch clipped shaving around the rest of his head. His eyes were forest green, thoughtfully staring at Alex as he spoke, but also at someone on the other side of the room Ginn couldn’t locate. The other boy had his back to Ginn, but from what she could see, he had dark, sun kissed skin, and the only messy head of mahogany brown hair she had seen in this school. Well, there was an order to this mess, unlike the mess that sat on her own head. His hair was methodically spiked up, then brushed forward. He appeared to have every portion of his hair cut to a similar length, apart from the front.
Ginn heard her name and she turned, seeing the teacher beckoning her towards his desk. she walked over, head down.
“You must be Miss Ranger!” Oh god, he was perky. “Now, I like to ask before I start teaching new students, if you don’t mind, what would you like me to call you, and what pronouns shall I use for you? And are they the same in class, privately, and in front of other adults?”
Ginn blinked at the sudden questions as she let her mind catch up with her ears. “Just Ginn, thanks. Female pronouns, all the time.” She said quietly.
“Perfect.” Mr Caxton smiled softly at Ginn, then continued. “I have been told of the support you require, so don’t be afraid to approach me any time!”
Ginn felt extremely awkward, biting her lower lip, and nodding, avoiding eye contact. She always hated it when her personal stuff was brought up by other people. She knew they were only trying to help, but it never helped Ginn. all she did was nod.
“Ok, so everyone in this class has their seat. I had everyone choose to sit somewhere at the beginning of the year and that is where they sit for the rest of the year. The only available seat is across from your guide, Alex. Go sit down, and we’ll start up, ok?”
Ginn glanced over at the table of three boys. She would be sitting next to the dark-skinned boy. He looked like the more energetic person in the trio. Freaking fabulous. At least the seat was on the left side, so she wouldn’t be bumping elbows with the seemingly right-handed boy.
Ginn had nothing against boys. Truly, she didn’t. She was just very insular, and teenage boys tended to be pretty rambunctious. She also didn’t exactly have a perfect track record with relations. Not just with boys, girls too. But, well, Ginn’s short, slim stature was not a good match up when she fought with boys. Luckily, she is quick, so at least she has that going for her.
She sighed and walked over to the table, unslinging her bag off her shoulder and sat down, immediately leaning on her hand and staring at the floor. She dazed, and started thinking about what she could draw. She thought of characters from tales she enjoyed, and she started moving her finger on one spot of the table, mimicking drawing. This was something she did when uncomfortable. Actually drawing is much better, but she hated showing others her stuff, so rarely drew when sitting at a table with strangers. Or classmates, as she should call them.
the three boys had noticed Ginn sitting down, and turned to her to smile and greet her, but she was avoiding all eye contact. Alex shrugged, realising this was going to be his week. Boy to Ginn’s right decided to break the awkward silence by introducing himself.
He went to speak, nudging her first to get he attention, but before he could speak, she jumped at the sudden touch, tensing her shoulders and clenched her fists, straightening her back and gasping lightly. Her duel coloured eyes stayed locked staring forwards, and she took a few breaths before she snapped her head to look at the boy and growl, “What?”
Now she could see his face, she took in his features. He looked nervous, likely due to Ginn’s aggressive nature. He had warm, russet brown eyes that where currently wide in shock. He was handsome, with a square jaw, and strong cheekbones. His mouth was tight in shock at her reaction. Luckily for him, he recovered quickly. His eyes softened into a more relaxed form, and his tight mouth morphed into a cool side smile.
“Hey,” his voice was smooth and joyous. Enjoyable to Ginn’s ears. Wait what? “I’m Martin Williams. This is George Groden, and you’ve met Alex. It seems like we’re desk mates!”
Ginn struggled to relax her muscles from the sudden touch. She swallowed and forced her hands to open as she shoved them under her thighs. Her voice was failing her, so she just looked back at the table and nodded, humming ‘mm hmm’.
The boy, Martin, made eye contact with the other two, concerned by the reaction. He decided to pry a little, tying to get Ginn out of her shell. “Ginn, right? Interesting name, never heard it before. Where’s it come from?”
Ginn was shocked by the question. Usually when people found out about her name, they made a joke about alcoholic parents, or threw out guesses as to what it was short for. Her name was Ginn. Not Ginera, or Ginevra, or even Geneva, shockingly. This question made Ginn happy, and her vocal cords decided to work.
“It’s a combination of Gill and Finn.” Ginn kept her head down but was smiling lightly for the first time in a while. “Gill was my mum’s mum, and Finn was dad’s dad. They wanted to honour both of them, so it was either Ginn or Fill, and Ginn was pretty gender neutral.”
She huffed in amusement at that last bit. the story of her naming was always interesting to her, especially when you think of the whole story of a young pregnant woman and her husband staring at each other, trying to make the other back down, until they came to the compromise of combining the names.
“That’s cool!” Martin said, enthusiastically. “You have such an interesting story! I’m just names after my grandad!”
Ginn smiled, amused by the boy’s excitement.
Before they could continue, the teacher cleared his throat and started the lesson. It was English. This was not the best subject for Ginn due to her dyslexia, but she had a creative mind, and enjoyed story telling, so it wasn’t so bad. Well, unless they were reading old stuff, like Shakespeare or Jane Austen, they were utter torture for Ginn’s brain. Sadly, that is exactly what they were doing. Romeo and Juliet, to be exact. They started the lesson reading the play, the characters being assigned to a random assortment of students. Ginn struggled to follow along as they worked, not understanding anything they were saying. The words were floating around the page, lines and letters flipping and swapping place, it was giving her a headache. It didn’t help that the most dramatic character in the play, Mercutio, was being voiced by Martin, who was slowly becoming more and more dramatic in his reading, his movements rocking the table, making reading even harder for her.
After they had finished the first four scenes, Mr Caxton instructed the class to discuss them as a table. Ginn was thankful for this as she could finally rest her eyes for a minute. She rubbed her eyes and led her hands up to brush her hair up out of her face, letting it fall how it wanted, which was apparently not in front of her eyes. She looked at the trio of boys expectantly, waiting for a conversation to start, when she noticed they were all staring at her. Alex looked shocked, staring curiously, eyes switching between each of her eyes. George seemed curious, one eyebrow raised, and a small smile spread on his lips. Martin was far too excited for Ginn’s taste.
“Woah!! You have heterochromia?!” He said far too loud. “That’s so cool!”
Ginn quickly dipped her head and brushed her fringe over her brown eye, feeling her face flush red.
“If you say so...” She muttered under her breath.
This conversation was clearly going nowhere, much to the dismay of the three boys. Ginn was obviously not a conversation person, and the boys were not interested in discussing Shakespeare, so decided to further press.
“You don’t think so?” George questioned.
“Let’s just say it’s not my favourite thing about myself.” Ginn grumbled, shooting them a sarcastic and awkward smile. The boys shared a look, all expressing different thoughts and emotions. Martin locked eyes with his friends, then looked at Ginn quickly, and back at them, wiggling his eyebrows and smirking. The boys shot him warning looks, but he ignored it, turning around to look at Ginn, leaning his elbow on the table and putting his head on his hand, wearing his flirtatious, lopsided smirk.
“Well,” He said, making Ginn look us at him. Once she saw his face, she huffed, rolling her eyes, and looked back down at her work. “I think they are beautiful, completing the gorgeous image you hold all over.”
Ginn felt panic rise in her chest. She had never been complimented like that before from the mouth of someone who... had little to no obvious ill intentions. This boy did not seem to be particularly threatening, but still, Ginn could not be help but be wary. She clenched her fist around her pen in panic, as her defence mechanisms snapped into position.
“Say anything like that again,” She turned and glared at Martin through her hair. “And I break your hand.”
Martin tensed up, squeaking in fear as his arm slipped off the table in surprise. Ginn did not break eye contact, however, needing to maintain her tough exterior.
“Well ok then.” He squeaked. Pleased with herself, Ginn looked back down at her work, deciding to do the work herself. The boys fell silent and just did the work, quietly discussing Shakespeare out of fear for their hands.
At the end of the class, after a long lesson of awkward silence between the four tablemates, the boys packed up and met with Elsie and Louise. Ginn had rushed out of the classroom a lot quicker that the others, so Alex had already failed at his job of making sure she was ok. This was going to be a rough day.
 The final class of the day was P.E. Luckily for Ginn, sport was something she excelled in. Unluckily for Ginn, she had to get changed in front of other people, which was less than ideal.
Alex instructed her to follow Louise and Elsie to the girls’ changing rooms. Ginn kept her head down and shuffled along with the other girls as they chatted, complaining about the lesson they were going into.
“P.E. sucks, I hate it so much!” Louise groaned, dramatically. “I mean, I like exercise, but the structure of P.E. is so messy, and its so boring!”
“I know!” Agreed Elsie. “It’s even worse right now, doing those weird drill things.”
Ginn perked up at that comment. If they were anything like the ones she used to do in Cadets, she was golden! She didn’t look at the other girls, but she did smile and huff in satisfaction.
“You like P.E., Ginn?” Said Louise, sounding surprised. The girl looked Ginn up and down quizzically. She did not exactly fit the typical description of a fit girl. She looked very skinny, but Louise guessed that was mainly due to her oversized uniform.
Ginn hesitated with her answer, wondering how to answer without sounding weird. “Yeah, kind of. I like exercise, and I’m used to pretty strict sessions, so nothing really bothers me much anymore.”
The other girls seemed satisfied with her answer luckily.
After only moments, the three girls had reached the girls’ changing room. As the tried to find a free section of bench to place their bags and clothes, Ginn was silently praying that no one would pay attention to her so she could change and slip out unnoticed. She utterly hated changing in public. Sadly, her prayers were not answered, as the only available space was on a bench in the middle of the room, with a group of chatty girls surrounding it. Perfect. The three set down their bags and started undressing, quickly swapping from blouse to P.E. polo shirt. Ginn was particularly mad about their easy method of swapping from skirt to shorts without presenting their underwear; slipping the shorts on under their skirts, then taking off the skirt from above. Ginn, wearing trousers, had no such luxury, so had to take advantage of her too big shirt and take off her trousers, hoping they would cover her behind as she slipped the shorts on. Now for the bit she dreaded: changing from shirt to polo. She wanted to do this as quickly as possible, but struggled due to her ever growing anxiety. She slipped off her tie and unbuttoned her shirt, then readied her polo shirt to be the correct way to slip on as soon as she rid her back of it’s professional cotton attire. Quickly, she took off the shirt, and immediately heard what she feared.
Louise and Elsie had gasped, quietly. They had finished changing and lacing up their trainers, and were waiting for Ginn to finish changing so they could walk out together, and happened to glance up when they saw her take off her shirt. The two girls were sitting on Ginn’s right, so they could see what Ginn was worried about clear as day. Right across her back, from the bottom of her shoulder blade, creeping up to the top curve of her right shoulder, were two long, pale, jagged, and bumpy scars. They looked awful, and the two girls were certain that they were from a horrible incident from a long time ago. This scared them, as they worried about Ginn’s safety and current situation.
Before they could say anything, Ginn tugged her polo shirt over her head, hiding the scars before anyone could ask questions, or, god forbid, anyone else saw them. Louise opened her mouth to speak. She was not sure what she would say, but it was instinct. Before she could make a sound, however, Ginn shot her a warning glare, her blue eye shining like a lightning storm, her amber eye shimmering like a raging fire. Her lips were tight and eyebrows knitted in a tight V-shape. Her ginger hair had fallen before her face, blocking the light from reaching her face, only making the looming pit of aggression in Ginn’s aura stronger. Her fists were tight. Louise only just realised the new girl’s flat and scarred knuckles. Louise immediately shut her mouth. She offered an awkward, slightly scared smile, but Ginn just straightened her back, slipped on her battered old trainers, and started towards the door. Louise and Elsie shared a concerned look, then darted up and dashed to keep up with Ginn, who had suddenly developed a quick, strong stride.
Once all of the students had gathered in the sports hall, the P.E. teacher, Mr Dullan, called registration and introduced the aim of today’s class. The class knew they would not like this lesson. Mr Dullen was clearly in a bad mood, he was completely stiff and glaring at everyone who made eye contact with him. Ginn was not happy when he grabbed her shoulder and pulled her to face him when she marched into the hall, so he could interrogate her about who she was. He seemed satisfied after a full 30 seconds of comparing her to the ID picture that was on his register. But, this was a respectable school that definitely would not accept her doing what she wanted to do at that moment, and tuition was far too expensive for her to be kicked out on her first day, so she let it go.
“Ok, everyone!” Mr Dullen shouted, making a huge, distracting echo ring around the room. Ginn knew she would barely be able to understand him immediately. “I don’t want to deal with teaching you all today, so you’re just going to do run laps around the school grounds all lesson.”
The entire class groaned and started quietly complaining to themselves and their friends. Well, all except Ginn, who enjoyed running. Also, the echo in this room was getting to her, and she was finding it hard to concentrate. She silently thanked every deity she knew of that the run was outside.
“Alright, alright, quit the complaining!” Mr Dullen yelled, making Ginn bunch up the hem of her polo shirt in her hand to squeeze. She found early on that this was a better coping mechanism than her automatic reaction, which was covering her ears and gripping locks of hair and pulling. Distractions from bad noises are always oh so fun. Mr Dullen carried on, interrupting Ginn’s thoughts, “Everyone get your butts outside!”
The crowd of grumbling students headed towards the doors leading to the yard so they could start the run. Before Ginn could disappear into the crowd and go off to enjoy her run, Louise had grabbed her wrist and started to speak.
“Hey, are you ok? We should talk abo—”
“Do not touch me!” Ginn growled, ripping her hand away from Louise, immediately marching off in a strong, quick pace.
As soon as she set foot on the outside area of the school grounds and witnessed part of the crowd all heading in the same direction, she started her rounds of the school with a light jog, preparing her body and lungs for a long, pleasant run. She really needed to calm her mind, after everything that had happened today, especially in the last few minutes.
 Louise was incredibly confused by that reaction. She had noticed Ginn tense up and ball her shirt in her fist, and she knew Ginn had not calmed down from whatever emotion she was feeling after presenting those scars in the changing rooms.
“What was that about?” George said, the four friends walking up to Louise so they could walk the laps of the grounds together.
“She’s seemed pretty tense all day.” Alex offered. “Maybe you just scared her and she reacted.”
She definitely has something she’s hiding.” Elsie said, as the group wondered outside and started walking. “She had two huge scars on her back. She got real tense, more than usual, when we saw them.”
“Let’s go find out what’s up with her.” Louise said, determination in her voice. Then, she sounded unsure. “If we can catch up to her...”
Ginn was no where to be seen as they walked their round. They knew this because Ginn was extremely noticeable in the crowd of students, being one of the only people in the school with ginger hair. She was even more noticeable because her hair was messy and choppily cut short, and her P.E. kit, like her uniform, was too big and looked it. They walked quickly around the grounds, talking and looking around. Ginn was nowhere to be seen.
“She must actually be running.” Martin shrugged. “That girl is an enigma.”
“An enigma you’re crushing on!” Alex said teasingly, elbowing his friend in the side and laughing.
“Shut up!” Martin pushed Alex to the side, a crimson blush rising in his cheeks. “I am not!”
“Then what was that comment in the changing room about?” George smirked and raised and eyebrow.
“Ok!” Martin’s dramatic flare revealed itself as dramatically waved his hand in the air and pointing at nothing in particular. “You have to admit, she is quite pretty!”
Martin stared a the group, waiting expectantly for their response, to which he got a couple nods, but mostly just looks of ‘my dear boy, calm yourself’.
The group continued to walk around the school grounds, giving up on searching for the strange new girl, she was far gone and they could not see her at all. The lesson went by relatively quickly, the group only lapping the school once and only going another 20 yards before Mr Dullen blew his whistle and called everyone into the changing rooms five minutes before the final bell rang. The five friends wondered back into the school, avoiding the stares of disapproval from Mr Dullen.
Louise and Elsie were slowly changing out of their kits when Ginn finally appeared by their side. She was sweating slightly, despite the November chill outside, and her breaths were long, quick, and laboured. As expected, she did not greet the girls, she just started changing, first preparing her shirt to be quickly thrown on after she removed her polo. Louise and Elsie tried not to look at her, feeling her haste and discomfort with being around people after what happened earlier. However, Louise is a pretty stubborn girl, so waited for Ginn to finish changing before she confronted her.
“Hey, where were you all class?” Louise tried to keep her voice perky and welcoming, rather than the interrogating tone she almost used. “we were looking for you when you ran off.”
Ginn let out a small growl of annoyance. “Ahead of everyone. Just needed to run.”
She removed her shorts, her shirt covering her underwear, and slipped on her trousers, then sat down to put on her school shoes. She never looked at Louise. Not that that was expected. This girl is so strange.
“You must be quick then!” Louise laughed lightly. Ginn just hummed. “It’s pretty impressive, running is pretty hard.”
This made Ginn’s head snap up, shooting Louise a confused look. “How is it hard?”
Louise and Elsie shared an amused look. Elsie laughed lightly and said, “You know, keeping pace without losing your breath, stuff like that.”
Ginn hummed thoughtfully whilst finishing up lacing her shoes. Once she was done, she stood and picked up her bag, just in time for the final bell to ring. Ginn attempted to supress her cringe at the sound, but her efforts were in vane, as the other two girls noticed. Luckily for Ginn, all they did was share a look and stand with their bags.
“Not sure I follow, but ok.” Ginn broke the silence, starting to walk out alone. However, Louise and Elise had other plans, both speeding to catch up to her and standing on either side.
“You’re a real enigma, you know?” Louise chuckled. That was apparently the wrong thing to say, as Ginn glared at her, a quiet and low growl echoing from the bottom of her throat. Her eyes raged, like a fearsome lightning storm and a blazing fire. Even though she is a very small person, Ginn knew how to make herself look large and terrifying.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Erm... well, I... I just meant that you, well,” Louise stuttered and squeaked, as if she were learning how to speak again. “I just mean that you’re, you know, pretty mysterious...”
Ginn grunted and said something like ‘that’s the point’ as she stormed off, out of the building and around the corner towards the front gates, not to be seen again that day.
“Well, you kinda fucked that one up, huh?” Elsie chortled anxiously.
“Thanks for helping there Els. Come on, let’s just go find the boys.”
Alex, George, and Martin exited the boys changing room a few minutes later. The girls explained what happened as they walked out of the school and back home. The only thing they could all agree on when it came to Ginn: She would be very difficult to befriend.
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ts1989fanatic · 4 years
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Taylor Swift Bent the Music Industry to Her Will
In the 2010s, she became its savviest power player.
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In late November 2019, Taylor Swift gave a career-spanning performance at the American Music Awards before accepting the statue for Artist of the Decade. (Swift was perhaps the perfect cross between the award’s two previous recipients, Britney Spears and Garth Brooks.) Clad in a cascading rose-colored cape and holding court among the younger female artists in attendance — 17-year-old Billie Eilish, 22-year-old Camila Cabello, 25-year-old Halsey — Swift had the queenly air of an elder stateswoman. After picking up five additional awards, including Artist of the Year, she became the show’s most decorated artist in history. “This is such a great year in music. The new artists are insane,” she declared in her acceptance speech, with big-sister gravitas. That night, she finally outgrew that “Who, me?” face of perpetual awards-show surprise; she accepted the honors she won like an artist who believed she had worked hard enough to deserve them.
Swift cut an imposing adult figure up there, because somewhere along the line she’d become one. The 2010s have coincided almost exactly with Swift’s 20s, with the subtle image changes and maturations across her last five album cycles coming to look like an Animorphs cover of a savvy and talented young woman gradually growing into her power. And so to reflect on the Decade in Taylor Swift is to assess not just her sonic evolutions but her many industry chess moves: She took Spotify to task in a Wall Street Journal op-ed and got Apple to reverse its policy of not paying artists royalties during a three-month free trial of its music-streaming service. She sued a former radio DJ for allegedly groping her during a photo op and demanded just a symbolic victory of $1, as if to say the money wasn’t the point. Critics wondered whether she was leaning too heavily on her co-writers, so she wrote her entire 2010 album, Speak Now, herself, without any collaborators. In 2018, she severed ties with her longtime label, Big Machine Records, and negotiated a new contract with Universal Music Group that gave her ownership of her masters and assurance that she (and any other artist on the label) would be paid out if UMG ever sold its Spotify shares. Yes, she stoked the flames of her celebrity feuds with Kanye West, Kim Kardashian West, and Katy Perry plenty over the past ten years, but she’s also focused some of her combative energy on tackling systemic problems and fashioning herself into something like the music industry’s most high-profile vigilante. Few artists have made royalty payments and the minutiae of entertainment-law front-page news as often as Swift has.
Within the industry, Swift has always had the reputation of being something of a songwriting savant (in 2007, when “Our Song” was released, then-17-year-old Swift became the youngest person ever to write and perform a No. 1 song on the Billboard Country chart), but she has long desired to be considered an industry power player, too. A 2011 New Yorker profile of Swift circa her blockbuster Speak Now World Tour noted that she initially intended to follow her parents’ footsteps and pursue a career in business, quoting her saying, “I didn’t know what a stockbroker was when I was 8, but I would just tell everybody that’s what I was going to be.” In an even earlier interview, she fondly recalled the times in elementary school when she stayed up late with her mother, practicing for school presentations. “I’m sick of women not being able to say that they have strategic business minds — because male artists are allowed to,” she said this year in an unusually candid Rolling Stone interview. “And I’m so sick and tired of having to pretend like I don’t mastermind my own business.” Of course, she still spent plenty of time sitting at her piano or strumming her guitar, but in that conversation she painted herself as someone who is also “sit[ting] in a conference room several times a week,” coming up with ideas about how best to market her music and her career.
And so over the past decade, Swift’s face has appeared not just on magazine covers and television screens, but on UPS trucks and Amazon packages. Her songs have been featured in Target commercials and NFL spots, to name just two of her many lucrative partnerships. That New Yorker profile also found her to be uncommonly enthused about the fact that her CDs were being sold in Starbucks: “I was so stoked about it, because it’s been one of my goals — I always go into Starbucks, and I wished that they would sell my album.”
“Taylor Swift is something like the Sheryl Sandberg of pop music,” Hazel Cills wrote recently in Jezebel. “She has propelled her career from tiny country artist into pop machine over the past few years with little shame when it comes to corporate collaborators.” Such brazen femme-capitalism will always be a turnoff to some people (“the Sheryl Sandberg of pop music” is even less of a compliment in 2019 than it was when Lean In was first published), but it’s undeniable that it has helped Swift maintain and leverage her status as a commercial juggernaut more consistently than any other pop star over the past ten years.
In the 2010s, with the clockwork certainty of a midterm election, there was a Taylor Swift album every other autumn. (Yes, there was a three-year gap between 1989 and Reputation, but she all but made up for it with the quick timing of August’s Lover.) The kinds of pop superstars considered her peers did not stick to such rigid schedules: Adele released two studio albums this decade, Beyoncé released three, and even Rihanna — who for the first three years of the decade was averaging an album a year — eventually slowed her roll and will have released just four when the 2010s are all said and done. The only A-plus-list musician who saturated the market as steadily as Swift did this decade was Drake.
Still, Drake’s commercial dominance was more of a newfangled phenomenon, capitalizing on the industry’s sudden reliance on streaming and his massive popularity on platforms like Spotify and Apple Music. Drake might be the artist who rode the streaming wave most successfully this decade, but — with her strategic withholding of her albums from certain platforms until they better compensated artists — Swift was often the one bending it to her will. And she could do that because she didn’t need to rely on it solely: Somehow, against all odds, Taylor Swift still sold records. Like, gazillions of them. When Swift’s 2017 record, Reputation (some critics thought it was a critical misstep, but it certainly wasn’t a commercial one), moved 1.216 million units in its first seven days, Swift became the only artist in history to achieve four different million-selling weeks. And, of course, all four of these weeks came during a decade when traditional album sales were on a precipitous decline. At least for those mere mortals who were not an all-powerful being named Taylor Alison Swift.
“Female empowerment” has been such an ambient, unquestioned virtue of the pop culture of this decade that we have too often failed to take a step back and ask ourselves what sort of power is being advocated for, and if its attainment should always be a cause for celebration. Is “female empowerment” any different from the hollow, materialistic promises of the late ’90s “girl power”? Is “female power” inherently different or more benevolent than its default male counterpart? Maybe this feels like such a distinctly American hang-up because we have not yet experienced that mythic, oft-imagined figure of the First Female President, and have thus not had to contend with the cold reality that, whoever she is, she will, like all of us, be inevitably flawed, imperfect, and at least occasionally disappointing.
As she’s grown into her own brand of 21st-century American pop feminism — sometimes elegantly, sometimes gawkily — Swift seems to have come to a firm conviction that female power is essentially more virtuous than the male variety. This was a side of herself she celebrated in her AMA performance. Swift opened her medley with a few fiery bars of “The Man,” her own personalized daydream of what gender equality would look like: “I’m so sick of running as fast as I can,” she sings, “wondering if I’d get there quicker if I was a man.” She wore an oversize white button-down onto which the titles of her old albums were stamped in a correctional-facility font: SPEAK NOW, RED, 1989, REPUTATION. Plenty of the millions of people who scrutinize Swift’s every move interpreted her choice of outfit and song as not-so-subtle jabs at Big Machine’s Scott Borchetta and the manager-to-the-stars Scooter Braun, with whom Swift is still in a messy, uncommonly public battle over the fate of her master recordings. (The only album title missing from her outfit was “LOVER,” which happens to be the only one of which she has full ownership.) She has framed the terms of her battle with Borchetta and Braun in strikingly gendered language: “These are two very rich, very powerful men, using $300 million of other people’s money to purchase, like, the most feminine body of work,” she told Rolling Stone. “And then they’re standing in a wood-panel bar doing a tacky photo shoot, raising a glass of Scotch to themselves.” Though she is herself a very rich, very powerful woman, she reads their message to be unquestionably condescending: Be a good little girl and shut up.
It is true that many record contracts are designed to take advantage of young artists, and that young women and people of color are probably perceived by music executives to be the marks most vulnerable to exploitation. But it is also true that Swift signed a legally binding contract, the kind that a businesswoman like herself would have to respect if it were signed by somebody else. Braun, who has been asking to have these negotiations in private rather than on Twitter, claims to have received death threats from her fans.
Even as she’s grown into one of the most dominant pop-culture figures in the world, Swift sometimes still seems to be clinging to her old underdog identity, to the extent that she can fail to grasp the magnitude of her own power or account for the blind spots of her privilege. “Someday I’ll be big enough so you can’t hit me,” she sang on Speak Now’s Grammy-winning 2010 single “Mean,” seemingly oblivious to the fact that, compared to 99.99 percent of the population, she already was. The mid-decade backlash to Swift’s thin-white-celebrity-and-model-studded “girl squad” — none of which was more incisive than Lara Marie Schoenhals’s hilarious parody video — took her by surprise. “I never would have imagined that people would have thought, This is a clique that wouldn’t have accepted me if I wanted to be in it … I thought it was going to be we can still stick together, just like men are allowed to.”
“Female power” is not automatically faultless, and can of course be tainted by all other sorts of biases and assumptions about class, race, and sexual orientation, to name just a few more common pitfalls. Swift’s face-palm-inducing 2015 misunderstanding with Nicki Minaj revealed this, of course, and plenty of people felt that her sudden embrace of the LGBTQ community in the “You Need to Calm Down” was a clumsy overcorrection for her past silence. Maybe she would have gotten where she was quicker if she were a man. But it would take a more complicated, and perhaps less catchy, song to acknowledge she might not have gotten there at all had she not also enjoyed other privileges.
Art has its own kind of power — sneakier and harder to measure than the economic kind. The reason Taylor Swift has been worth talking about incessantly for an entire decade is that she continues to wield this kind, too. “I don’t think her commercial responsibilities detract from her genuine passion for her craft,” a then-17-year-old Tavi Gevinson wrote in a memorable 2013 essay for The Believer. “Have you ever watched her in interviews when she gets asked about her actual songwriting? She becomes that kid who’s really into the science fair.”
After so much industry drama, much of the lived-in, self-reflective Lover is a simple reminder that Swift was and still is a singular songwriter. Yes, this was the decade of such loud, flashy missteps as “Look What You Made Me Do,” “Welcome to New York,” and “Me!,” but it was also a decade of so many quieter triumphs: the pulsing synesthesia of “Red,” the nervous heart flutter of “Delicate,” the sleek sophistication of “Style,” the concise lyricism of “Mean,” the cathartic fun of “22,” the slow-dance swoon of “Lover.” But like so many of her fans, and even Swift herself, I still find the most enduringly powerful song she’s ever written to be “All Too Well,” the smoldering breakup scrapbook released on her great 2012 album Red. “Wind in my hair, I was there, I remember it all too well,” she sings, an innocent enough lyric that, by the end of the song, comes to glint like a switchblade. In a decade of DGAF, ghosting, and performative chill, remembering it all too well might be Swift’s stealthiest superpower. She felt it deeply, can still access that feeling whenever she needs to, and that means she can size you up in a line as concisely cutting as “so casually cruel in the name of being honest.” Forget Jake Gyllenhaal or John Mayer. That’s the sort of observation that would bring Goliath to his knees.
“It is still the case that when listeners hear a female voice, they do not hear a voice that connotes authority,” the historian Mary Beard writes in her manifesto Women & Power, “or rather they have not learned how to hear authority in it.” At least in the realm of pop music, Swift has spent the better part of her decade chipping away at that double standard, and teaching people how to think about cultural power a little bit differently. She sprinkled artful emblems of teen-girl-speak through her smash hits (“Uhhh he calls me and he’s like, ‘I still love you,’ and I’m like, ‘This is exhausting, we are never getting back together, like, ever”) and did not abandon her effusive love of kittens and butterflies in order to be taken seriously. As an artist and a businesswoman, she made the power of teen girls — and the women who used to be them — that much more perilous to ignore. Because they’ve been there all along, and they remember all too well.
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optomisticgirl · 5 years
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To the Ends of the World [8/?]
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A/N: Well, it took 7 months, but I’m here to update! For the 10 people who read this story at least, haha (no one can ever blame me for not being a self-deprecating author). This is a sequel to my S4 canon-divergent fic, Days of Future’s Past. So, A LOT of credit to be given this chapter because that’s how I roll. Tip of the hat to @wellhellotragic for her medical expertise on bruise development and helping me to not look a moron in that department. Many thanks to @distant-rose for letting me use the ‘scullery maids’ line for Killian and being the Queen of Witt when it came to crafting Liam’s ‘entertainment’ remark in the last scene. My undying love to @xpumpkindumplingx for literally slapping me in the face with a few transition sentences because, if there’s one thing I loath more than fighting scenes, it’s transitions. (Double thank you to Ro and A for being two of my biggest cheerleaders.) And every ounce of thanks in my mortal body goes to @spartanguard for being one of the all time great betas. She puts up with my constant complaining about scene flow, character action, if THIS sounds right, and... well, everything to do with producing content really, haha The kick-ass banner above was made by the ever lovely and equally kick-ass herself, @thesschesthair !
Six months after the events in Days of Future’s Past all is eerily calm for the heroes - until Maleficent finds a way to circumvent the prophecy that foretells her demise. Emma and Killian must now race against the clock to save one of their children from a fate worse than death while battling their own internal demons. With long held secrets revealed and love tested, can the Charmings and Jonses save one of their own and finally defeat Maleficent before she becomes an unstoppable evil?
Rated: M FFNET | AO3 Prologue - Ch 1 - Ch 2 - Ch 3 - Ch 4 - Ch 5 - Ch 6 - Ch 7 - Ch 8 
Chapter 7: Confidentiality is a Virtue of the Loyal
Placing his fork into his empty breakfast bowl, Killian leaned back in his chair and sighed in contentment as he surveyed those in the dining hall with him.
David, who was in his usual spot at the end of the long table, was absentmindedly flipping through the large stack of parchment that lay to his left while eating. To his left was Arthur with Will next to him, both men too engrossed in their food to contribute much to the conversation other than singular words of acknowledgement. On the other side of Will sat Belle, a book open next to her nearly empty plate, while Killian and Hope were in the chairs directly across from the kings of Camelot and Wonderland. It was fairly early for a Friday morning—the sun had just began to rise high enough to send its warming rays through the castle windows and chase away the nightly chill when he left his bedchamber a half hour ago—and as a result, the dining hall was empty save for the six of them and the few staff members milling about.
The other two people who were part of the early riser crowd were nowhere to be seen, however. Not that Killian was surprised by that fact.
He'd been on his way to the dining hall when he ran into Erin and Hope on the family wing, and his daughter had practically jumped at the opportunity upon seeing him to have Killian escort Hope to breakfast. He didn't mind—Killian never minded spending time with his granddaughter—but he also knew Erin asking the favor had nothing to do with a desire to get a head start on going over the Jewel of the Realm as she had claimed. No, his daughter was doing everything she could to keep from going to the dining hall because she assumed Eric would be there.
He wasn't, of course, and in fact Eric hadn't joined them for breakfast since the morning after Liam and Elizabeth's engagement ball because he was avoiding Erin as much as she was avoiding him. If he hadn't lived through a similar experience himself nearly thirty years ago with Emma, Killian would think they were both being silly. But he understood both sides of the coin. He knew that Erin was retreating behind her walls because of what she had allowed to happen five nights ago, and he also knew that Eric was putting space between him and Erin instead of being his normal persistent self because he was genuinely hurt by her actions. Killian had felt the same way when he thought Emma pulled away from him in favor of his future counterpart during their second time travel adventure.
He had hoped after her talk with Emma that Erin would take action and correct the divide that was growing between her and Eric, but he'd underestimated just how stubborn his daughter was. She was still going out of her way to avoid him, even with Emma shedding light on some long overdue truths and outright telling Erin that she was, in fact, in love with Eric, and Killian was certain at this point that it would take divine intervention for his daughter to willingly stay in a room with the younger captain for more than thirty seconds. Perhaps his joke to Emma the other day—about saying the hell with Erin's emotional walls and Eric's pride and locking them in the brig until they talked—wasn't such a bad idea...
Seemingly appearing next to him from out of nowhere and startling him from his thoughts, one of the castle staff smiled warmly while gesturing to his empty bowl.
"Finished, Captain?"
"Aye," he replied, returning the young man's smile with one of his own. "Please give my regards to the chef for one of the most magnificent spreads I've had in over two centuries."
"It's just porridge and bacon, mate."
Killian's attention swung across the table to Will as the staff member left, and he raised an eyebrow in amusement. He was about to remind his best friend of a certain incident but Belle, whose own plate was being removed from the table by another staff member, beat him to it.
"I wouldn't let Granny hear you calling her cooking just porridge and bacon after what you did the other night," she stated without ever moving her eyes from the book she was reading.
Arthur practically inhaled the water he had been drinking, and David barely managed to hide his grin behind a piece of parchment as Will's cheeks turned bright red at the mention of that incident.
It was no one's fault but Will's that he was currently on Granny's bad side, after all. Two nights ago all of them—Will, Killian, David, Arthur, Liam, Henry, and Eric—had imbibed in too much alcohol during what Emma termed their 'weekly guy's night' and, as it tended to, one thing had lead to another. Will, with no one sober enough to tell him not to, had decided to sneak into the kitchen and procure some of the ham Granny had left to cook overnight. It had apparently went off without incident until Granny paid a surprise visit to the kitchen for one reason or another, and the Widow Lucas had been more than a little angry at finding Will scoundering away with the fruit of her labor. In his haste to get out of firing range of Granny's crossbow—plus his inebriated state—Will had somehow ended up dumping the entire ham into the fireplace.
Killian had never heard Granny use the language she did while chasing Will around the kitchen with her crossbow.
"It wasn't that bad," Will muttered before biting into a slice of bacon.
David snorted. "She banned you from stepping foot in her kitchen for two life times, Scarlet."
"She also threatened to eat him at the next full moon," Belle added while smirking at her ex-husband. "I think it's safe to say it was that bad."
"I don't know the Widow Lucas as well as the rest of you, but with as vehemently as she was cursing your ancestors, I am surprised she hasn't poisoned your food," Arthur added, eyeing what was left of Will's porridge and causing the White King to dramatically swallow the bacon he had been chewing.
"Grandpa?"
Looking to his left, Killian saw Hope studying him with a curious gaze as she chewed on a bite of the apple he had insisted she eat alongside her porridge and bacon.
"Yes, little eala?"
"Can I ask you a question?"
"After you finish that bite," he replied, grinning when she sighed dramatically. He had raised his own children not to talk with their mouths full, and he was determined to help pass that manner of good form onto his granddaughter as well. Once she had done so, Hope tilted her head in a way that had Killian feeling like he was looking at a smaller, feminine version of himself.
"Did you really fight a Jaccerwobby all by yourself?"
Killian blinked in confusion. "A what?"
"The Jagger…" Looking between her aunt and uncle, she asked, "Japperwonky?"
"Jabberwocky," the librarian and Will supplied at the same time, both slowly saying each syllable so the six year old could better grasp the unusual word.
"Jab-ber-wock-e." A smile broke out on Hope's face when Belle nodded to show she had said it properly. "That's it!"
While he was proud of his granddaughter for being able to articulate such a complex word, even with a little assistance, Killian was still as confused as before.
"What made you ask that, little eala?"
"I saw a picture of it in Uncle Will and Aunt Ana's story book yesterday and asked Uncle Will what it was."
Taken aback, Killian looked at his best friend in disbelief.
"Henry included that in your story?"
Will shrugged while shoveling another spoonful of porridge into his mouth. "Why not? Ridding Wonderland of those beasts was an adventure in of itself, not to mention the first one Ana and I were a part of as a couple."
"You also know how Henry's role as the Author works," his father-in-law reminded him without moving his eyes from the parchment in his hand. "His job isn't to pick and choose which stories or what parts of them are told. Every aspect from them is recorded."
Well, they both had a point there. The Jabberwockys, an ancient race of dragon-like creatures, had overrun Wonderland in Ana's sixteen-year absence. Unlike normal dragons, however, a Jabberwocky didn't seclude themselves in a cave and do everything in their power to avoid human contact. They were an aggressive species that thrived on terror and destruction, a remnant of times long past when creatures ruled the realms and the race of Man was nothing more than a dream to Prometheus. Expelling them from Wonderland had taken time and considerable effort, and had included some of the most ferocious battles the centuries-old pirate had ever been a part of.
A tug on the sleeve of his shirt had Killian redirecting his attention back to his granddaughter. "Is it true?" she asked more adamantly and with the hint of command in her voice that all children had when they wanted to know something.
"Aye, I fought a Jabberwocky," he conceded with a nod of his head, "But I didn't do it alone. Your papa helped me."
David scoffed. "Don't let your grandfather sell himself short, Hope. He battled one by himself for nearly twenty minutes before I could get there. All I did was show up at the last second and distract the Jabberwocky long enough for him to get the fatal blow in."
"That's still helping, mate."
"Doesn't negate the fact that you went toe-to-toe with one of the most ferocious creatures in existence for an extended length of time and held your own," Belle said, her tone almost daring him to contradict her. He wouldn't, of course—contradicting praise that Belle had given him was something Killian Jones had learned long ago never to do. While on the surface Killian was a self-confident man, in reality, he had always been uncomfortable when individual praise was given to him.
Feeling the tips of his ears burn, Killian looked to find his granddaughter staring at him in awe.
"Will you tell me the story? Uncle Will didn't know the good parts."
Chuckling at Will's muttered, "Well you have to be present to know the good parts," Killian was about to launch into the tale when he caught sight of the look on Belle's face as she stood and made her way around the table. Ah, yes. Morning lessons. Carefully using his hook to move a piece of stray hair that had come undone from Hope's ponytail to behind her ear, he smiled.
"Another time, little eala. You've got morning lessons to attend."
"It won't take long to tell the story though!"
"Oh, but it will because your grandfather couldn't make a story short if his life depended on it," Belle interjected as she came to a stop on the other side of Hope's chair. Ignoring the mock look of indignation Killian gave her, she added, "Besides, if we start your morning lessons late it'll mean less play time later on, and I heard that someone is planning an elaborate tea party with her stuffed animals this evening."
"Princesses should never be late for their own tea parties," Will intoned dramatically as Arthur and David nodded their heads.
Sighing, Hope placed the remains of her apple into her empty bowl and looked up at him. "Can it be one of my bedtime stories tonight?"
"I think that can be arranged." At her dazzling smile, Killian leaned over to place a kiss atop her head. "Now run along with Aunt Belle. Who, by the way, also can't tell a short story to save her life."
"Never said I could, pirate."
Killian laughed at the quick witted reply as Hope hopped down from her chair and the two women made their way out of the dining hall.
"Do you think that'll be one of the twelve bedtime stories you have to tell her or will she weasel that as the thirteenth one?" David asked, his eyes not moving from the parchment he was once again reading.
"Oh, that will most definitely be added to the normal twelve," Killian replied as a courier bearing Arthur's personal arms walked into the dining hall and handed the King of Camelot a rolled up piece of parchment. "Did Neal finally make it home last night?"
"He did, actually. He arrived while you were in your meeting with the Naval officers."
"All is well with the renewed trade agreement between us and Queen Tiana then, I presume?"
"Signed by both parties, and Neal got her to agree to a lower tax on certain items imported from Misthaven without us having to lower our own taxes."
Killian chuckled. "I'm not surprised. Neal always did have a way with wrangling better agreements out of anyone wearing a crown."
"It's what will make him a great king one day," Will interjected.
"Yes it will," David said proudly before setting down the piece of parchment he'd been half paying attention to for the last few minutes. "I did mention to Erin last night when I ran into her that Neal would be taking over the council meetings she's been overseeing now that he's back, and I must say my granddaughter didn't seem too pleased about that. Which is odd considering she normally runs from those duties any chance she has. Any idea why?"
He knew exactly why his daughter wouldn't like that fact, and from the way David was looking at him, Killian also knew that his father-in-law had an inkling as well. After all, a blind man would have been able to see the tension that had developed between Erin and Eric since the engagement ball. No one except those who had been in the cloister that night knew why the young princess and pirate were suddenly doing everything they could to avoid each other, and Killian wasn't one to needlessly talk about his children's problems to others—even if they were family.
Before he could answer the question, however, Killian caught sight of Arthur's worried frown as he read the message that had been delivered to him.
"Is everything alright, Arthur?"
"I'm not entirely sure. Sir Percival says that he received word of a portal opening about five hours ride from the castle, but when he and a few other knights went to investigate, it didn't appear that anything had come through it. He also notes that there seemed to be a barrier of some sort around it that stopped anyone from getting close, and at the time he was writing this message it had been open for three days."
"Well, portals randomly opening is never a good thing," Will pointed out.
Killian nodded in agreement with his best friend. "I've also never heard of a portal staying open for that long. They usually close within minutes, even if something hasn't gone into them."
"A barrier protecting it is also cause for concern," David mused.
"I hate to suggest it because of the implications it would lead to, but could Maleficent be behind it?"
David was shaking his head before Will had even finished the sentence. "Thankfully we can rule her having played a part in this oddity out. I received word just this morning from Blue that Maleficent was still holed up in her Dark Fortress." Turning his attention to Arthur, he added, "Is there anything we can do to help?"
Looking up from the parchment, Arthur said, "Actually, there is. Could Emma go to Camelot and investigate to see what magic was used to open it? I'd send Merlin, but the last message I received from him said he'd be in Atlantica for at least another week as treaty negotiations were becoming hostile again."
"Of course. She and Killian will have to travel there the old fashioned way instead of translocating since Merlin recast the barrier spell six months ago with only his magic behind it, but they should be able to leave before noon today."
"Thank you, my friend," the King of Camelot said while standing, his voice full of gratitude. "I'll use one of Snow's birds to send word back to Percival so he'll be prepared for their arrival."
Dread instantly clawed at Killian's stomach as Arthur quickly left the dining hall with the courier that had delivered the message a few paces behind him. While he normally wouldn't have thought twice about he and Emma being sent on such a mission, the continued onslaught of her nightmares had him questioning the validity of that idea. Emma was still only getting a few hours of sleep on the nights she was plagued by them, and in the last week there had been no less than four nights when he heard her waking up and gasping for breath after having one. He'd seen the deepening of the already present dark circles under his wife's eyes that she'd tried to hide with makeup and magic, as well as watching her almost nod off before dinner had even been served. Emma was clearly exhausted and in no physical shape to take on the three day trip to Camelot.
The only problem was no one but he knew about Emma's predicament, and just like he didn't gossip about his children's problems, he most certainly didn't do so where his wife was concerned. There was a reason she hadn't talked to anyone, including him, about the nightmares. Killian would honor her decision on the matter—even though he in no way agreed with whatever that reason may be—but there was no way he could, in good conscious, let her undertake Arthur's request.
"Dave, Emma can't go."
His father-in-law and Will looked at him in confusion.
"What?"
"Why can't she?"
"She—" Killian broke off as his eyes landed on one of the staff members standing against the wall of the dining hall. The people who helped run the Charming castle had always been discret when it came to things they heard the royal family talk about, yet this was one subject matter that Killian didn't feel comfortable having them overhear since it concerned Emma's privacy. David seemed to read his hesitation perfectly and, with a quick wave of his hand. dismissed the handful of castle staff from the dining hall before turning back to his son-in-law.
"Go ahead, Killian."
"She hasn't been sleeping well recently. She's been worrying about what Maleficent's next move will be since we're drawing closer to the kids' birthday, but it's to the point she's only getting a few hours of sleep each night. I don't think she can physically handle the journey right now, let alone expend the energy she'll need to decipher whose magic was involved in creating the portal."
David frowned. "You nor Emma have mentioned this before now."
"You know how she is when it comes to things like this, mate. She doesn't like to worry the rest of the family, and I'm not one to broadcast what my wife wants to be kept secret."
"But you are now."
"Only because I'm concerned this journey may further damage her health, and I know I can trust the two of you not to even mention my having discussed this with you to Emma."
At least he wasn't having to lie about that.
"She did look ready to drop the other day during a meeting about the wedding," Will supplied, which filled Killian with a momentary flash of hope. If other members of their family were beginning to see the toll Emma's nightmares were taking on her, even without knowing about them, it wouldn't be much longer until she was forced to talk to someone. "Though I must admit I assumed it was because of Snow going on and on about different napkin colors for an hour."
David sighed. "I obviously don't want to risk my daughter's health in any way, but with the amount of times Arthur has helped us, I also don't want to leave him with an unknown threat. Who else that has magic could we send? Regina will be in Nottingham for a few more days because of the coronation festivities, and Rumple has been holed up in Stormhold since the ball researching what we'll need to do once we find an Avalonian artifact. Even if Emma has the energy to translocate a messenger—which by the sounds of it she would be too exhausted to do anyway—her magic wasn't a part of the creation of Nottingham or Stormhold's barrier spells. The best we could do is translocate a messenger to the outskirts of each barrier, but the kingdoms are vast and it would take them a week to reach where Regina and Rumple are respectively."
"Which isn't the kind of time you want to waste when it comes to a strange portal that doesn't seem in any hurry to close," Will added before taking a large gulp from his goblet.
"Elsa is also out because her knowledge of magic doesn't extend to portals or being able to detect other forms of magic unless they are similar to her own elemental kind."
While the two kings continued to go through the list of magical users they could send—and the various reasons why none of them could do it—Killian's gaze fell to the stark white tablecloth that covered the dining table. He knew who they could send, although it would require him to divulge the reason why the more experienced Emma wasn't going. Not that that was a problem considering he had decided almost a week ago to talk to his children about their mother's nightmares. He'd wanted to do it the day after the ball, but between War Councils, wedding planning, and Erin's self imposed avoidance routine of Eric, it was a conversation that had fallen by the wayside.
"She's new at detecting another person's magic, but Erin could do it."
David contemplated the suggestion for a long moment before nodding. "I hate to ask it of her when she's only just returned from a retrieval, but she's really the only person that is here other than Emma that has the capabilities. Since we don't know if friend or foe is responsible for the barrier around the portal, I'd feel more comfortable if someone—or multiple people, really—went with her. Not to say that my granddaughter can't protect herself if need be."
"Numbers are always an asset when dealing with unknown magic, and Erin would agree," Killian replied. "I've made plans to take Emma on a short sailing trip in the hopes of her finally getting some rest, so I'll ask Liam and Henry to make the journey with her to Camelot."
Will snorted, the action causing his entire upper body to jolt. "Liam will probably jump at the chance to do something other than attend Snow's wedding briefings."
"If only the rest of us could get out of them," David mumbled good naturedly before turning his attention back to Killian. "I'll inform Arthur of the change in plans and you'll talk with the kids?"
Nodding in agreement, Killian stood and made his way out of the almost deserted dining hall.
"Strike!"
Eric grunted as the flat side of a sword struck his right forearm with enough force to send not only reverberations up the arm and into his jaw, but cause him to instantly relinquish the hold he had on his own weapon. As the dulled sword he had been using clattered to the cobblestones, he brought his free hand up to rub the point of impact and glared at his sparring partner.
"Did you have to hit that hard?"
Propping his dulled sword on his bare shoulder, Henry shrugged nonchalantly. "The objective of sparring is to mimic actual battle, D'Harper."
"That doesn't mean you have to pepper me with bruises."
"Well, if you don't like how hard I hit then don't let me get through your defenses so often."
Eric scowled at the casual reminder that this wasn't the first time Henry had landed a blow that morning. Not that he needed reminding of that fact. The red spots on various parts of his own bare upper body—and more than likely a few beneath the leather pants he wore—that would more than likely turn to ugly bruises by this time tomorrow bore witness to just how often the Author and Knight of the Round Table had gotten through his defenses. Eric normally never let an opponent get this many hits on him, and the fact that he was allowing it to happen all because he couldn't focus rankled him more than he was willing to admit. He could call an end to the sparring session and protect his already wounded pride—and body—but he needed the distraction. Even if he was losing terribly and would be covered in bruises for the next week because of it.
He'd barely slept the night before, tossing and turning as his mind refused to shut off in regard to the situation he'd found himself in with Erin. The rising sun hadn't even begun to clear the horizon by the time Eric was knocking on Henry's bedchamber door with blunted swords in hand, a fact Erin's brother had only grumbled about a little bit before dressing and following Eric to an empty courtyard. He didn't have to question Henry's lack of berating for having been woken so early because he knew that Erin's family had sensed the tension between the two of them for days, and Henry was more than aware of what had brought Eric to his door for a pre-dawn sparring session.
Now it was only a couple of hours after sunrise, both of them shirtless to combat the sweat rolling down their torsos, and Eric was no closer to finding mental peace than he had been when he stepped into the courtyard with Henry.
"I can continue to beat up on you if you want," Henry suggested with a slight smirk when Eric didn't reply, "Or we can be civilized human beings and talk about what has been bothering you."
The reason behind him needing to spar might have been known to Henry, but that didn't mean it was something he wanted to discuss. His scowl deepening, Eric shook the last vestiges of tingles out of his arm and bent down to pick up his sword. "There's nothing bothering me," he muttered.
"We both know that's a lie, but have it your way, D'Harper."
Ignoring the slightly smug and all-to-knowing look on Henry's face, Eric's grip tightened on the pommel of his sword and he wasted no time in launching another attack. For a few moments his mind went blissfully blank as they parried each other's thrusts, a decade worth of fighting experience taking over and his body instinctively moving to counter each of Henry's strikes. It wasn't long, however, before the thoughts that had been distracting him all morning roared back to the surface.
Five days. It had been five whole days of him and Erin leaving a room as soon as the other walked in, or barely saying two words to one another when they couldn't make a hasty retreat. Erin had even started resorting to dramatic measures to avoid being in his presence. He'd been making his way down the family wing of the castle yesterday morning when she rounded the corner and, upon making eye contact with him, had paused mid-stride before practically barrelling into the nearest bedchamber. Rumple and Belle's, no less. It was by far the longest they had ever went without talking while being in the same place, and while Eric loathed the undeniable tension it was creating between them, he was too hurt to try and fix it.
A part of him knew he should have expected it given her history of pulling away when things became a little too serious between them, but the night of Liam and Elizabeth's ball, the idea of her doing that yet again had been the furthest thing from Eric's mind. After their dance, he'd walked Erin to her bedchamber and had gone to sleep convinced he had had finally broken through her walls. He had clearly been wrong, however. From the moment Erin stepped into the dining hall the next morning, he had known something was wrong. The woman who had allowed herself to be carefree and laughed without restraint while in his arms was gone, replaced instead with an emotionally distant and guarded version. She hadn't even looked at him once during that breakfast. Instead of building on the revealing conversation like he had hoped and taking a step towards becoming the thing they had danced around for years, they were now even further apart emotionally than they had ever been.
While it certainly wasn't the first time he'd encountered a guarded Erin, the fact that she pulled away from him after what transpired between them had cut him deeper than any sword ever would. Normally he could take running head first into her emotional walls in stride—Hera knew he had more than enough experience in doing so—but this time, Erin wasn't the only one who had allowed herself to be vulnerable. He'd opened an old wound that was as jagged as the one she had over Matthew's death in order to help her, and as a result, his own emotional walls had shot up when Erin shoved him away in the dawn of a new day.
Perhaps her doing so is a consequence for you deceiving her, a voice inside his head whispered, and Eric's jaw clenched as he narrowly managed to block Henry from landing yet another blow to his shoulder.
That was something that had begun slipping into his internal thoughts by the second day of him and Erin avoiding each other. Intellectually he knew it was just the guilt gnawing at him, but as a man who observed superstitions while on the ocean and who believed the governing forces around him were sentient, Eric couldn't help but wonder if there was some merit to the thought. After all, he had deceived her. He may not have lied about how his parents were murdered, or that he only escaped the same fate because of his mother's determination, but he had most certainly left out some rather crucial facts about that night.
He had to though. Although he desperately wanted to tell her everything, there were facets about his parents' murder—about himself—that had to remain hidden. "Your safety, and the safety of anyone connected with you, depends on no one ever finding out the truth." It had been a mere two days after his parents' deaths when Merlin first whispered that warning as they watched the funeral from afar, the wizard's hand falling to his shoulder in a silent show of support for the burden that was being placed on a then eight-year-old Eric. He'd heeded that warning for twenty-four years now, and he couldn't begin to ignore it simply because he wanted to share the truth with the woman he loved.
That still didn't stop the guilt, however. At the end of the day, no matter how he justified it, he'd deceived her. Not that he hadn't been doing that since the moment he met her...
Eric winced as the tip of a blunted sword suddenly dug into his lower abdomen in the same heartbeat that Henry's self confident call of "Strike!" came. With his wandering thoughts effectively coming to a screeching halt, anger bubbled within Eric's chest and he snarled in irritation before flinging his own sword across the courtyard.
"Fuck!"
He'd allowed himself to become distracted yet again, and just as he would have if the roles were reversed, Henry had taken full advantage of it. That is definitely going to bruise, he thought while glancing down at the point of impact. It wasn't nearly as red as some of the other places on his body, but Henry had managed to get a fair amount of power behind the hit that belied the physical mark left behind.
"You ready to talk?"
Looking up from his bare torso, Eric once again found himself glaring at Erin's brother. "I told you there's nothing—"
"Bothering you. Yeah, I know," Henry cut in before sighing in exasperation. "Look, you can repeat that phrase until the sun sets in the west but we both know you're lying every time you say it. I have eyes, Eric. I've seen the way you and Erin have been acting around each other for days now, and it doesn't take an innately perceptive individual to know that that is linked with your sudden inability to block a strike."
"Perhaps I'm just having an off day," he countered, a statement which immediately caused Henry to give him a skeptical glare.
"You were a pirate captain for eight years. A feared one at that if your reputation is anything to go by. I'm a Knight of the Roundtable, and Killian might have trained me to use a sword, but even on one of your 'off days,' I shouldn't have been able to get through your defenses as many times as I have. You're distracted because of whatever is going on between you and my sister, and the fact that you deflected my observation speaks volumes more than if you had actually agreed with it."
Bristling at the fact that he was right—on both points, even—Eric scoffed. "Why do you even care about it?"
"Because you're my friend," Henry instantly responded. "Something is bothering you and I want to fix it, or at least understand. I know why Erin would avoid you, but the only reason you'd be avoiding her is because you were genuinely hurt by something. All I'm asking is that you just talk to me, Eric."
Because you're my friend. The evolution of his friendships with Henry and Liam over the last six months, the bonds that were solely theirs and outside any of their connections with Erin, still took him by surprise sometimes. After all, following his parents' murder, his life hadn't exactly been one that allowed for friends. Merlin constantly moved them for Eric's safety, the pair never staying in one place long enough for a young Eric to get to know anyone beyond their name, and then he'd entered the world of piracy. Men died, either by the sword or through illness, before genuine connections could be made, and when he became a captain, he had never once entertained the idea of forming friendships with his crew. Friendships meant vulnerability, and that was something he couldn't afford in that position.
Things were different now, though. He had friends, and one of them was currently standing in front of him with genuine concern in his eyes. The problem was that while it was tempting to give in and talk to Henry—to have his feelings of being hurt after he'd offered Erin a deeply buried part of himself possibly validated—he couldn't do it. At least not with Henry.
"Thank you for offering to help, Henry. Truly. It… I haven't had many friends in my life, and it's comforting to know that I have your ear if I ever need it. That being said, I can't discuss this with you," he said before moving to one of the stone benches circling the grassy courtyard. Picking up the waterskin that lay next to the shirts they had discarded at the start of their session, Eric took a long pull from the container and hoped his own sincerity, combined with his firm words, would put an end to the discussion.
Eric had clearly forgotten, however, that Erin wasn't the only stubborn Jones sibling.
"Well, why not?"
Lowering the waterskin, Eric half turned to find Henry had followed him and was now standing next to him.
"You don't give up, do you?"
"When someone—particularly a friend—isn't making sense, no, I don't."
Eric sighed while passing the waterskin to Henry. "I can't discuss what happened with you because Erin is your sister."
"So? Can't I be her brother and your friend?"
"Generally speaking yes, you can, but when it comes to something like this, no. I would feel like I'm putting you in a position to choose sides and that's something I'm not willing—"
"Sir Henry?"
The unexpected interruption startled both men who, upon simultaneously turning towards the voice, found a member of the castle staff not far from them.
"Bloody hell!" Eric muttered under his breath at the same time Henry asked, "Yes, Spencer?"
"Sorry for interrupting, but Captain Jones needs to speak with you. He says it's urgent and of an official nature."
"Where is he?"
"Captain Jones was in the library when I saw him, but he said to meet him out on his ship as soon as you could."
Henry nodded. "Thank you, Spencer. I'll head that way now."
With a bow of his head the staff member turned and left, once again leaving the two men alone.
"Well, that doesn't sound good," Eric said, a frown pulling at his lips as Henry reached for his shirt.
"No, it doesn't," he agreed with a slightly annoyed sigh. "Probably has to do with the naval patrols in the Sea of Eternal Darkness. We've combined our resources with Camelot's to keep a watchful eye on Maleficent from the water, and the new Admiral of Camelot's Royal Navy is making the entire process more painful than it needs to be. So much so that I thought Killian was going to reach across the table at the last meeting and throttle him."
Tossing his own shirt over his shoulder, Eric chuckled while moving towards the sword he'd thrown in frustration. "Best hurry and get to the Jolly Roger then. Arthur is a close friend of the family, but I doubt even he would condone the son-in-law of Misthaven's King impaling his Admiral with a hook."
He'd only taken a few steps, however, when the sound of his name had the young pirate captain turning around. Henry was still stood by the stone bench, the shirt he'd pulled on askew and hazel eyes studying Eric in a way that reminded him of when Emma looked at someone while she was determining if they were telling the truth or not.
"I get it," Henry said at length. "You don't want to put me in the middle of whatever is going on between you and Erin because you think if I were to take your side over hers it would mean I was being disloyal to her, but Eric… I don't have to blindly agree with everything she does just because we share blood. My sister has a lot of amazing qualities, many of which I hope my sons emulate one day, but she also has flaws. I can find an action of hers to be in the wrong without it lessening my loyalty to her. So when you're ready to talk about what happened and not just have me beat on you, I'll be here."
Taken aback since he had thought that particular conversation had been dropped with the arrival of Killian's summons, all Eric could do was stare in surprise at Henry's back as the Author left the courtyard.
Erin sighed in resignation as she made her way down the docks in the direction of her father's ship.
She'd been toiling away at some much needed repair work on the Jewel of the Realm when Spencer had appeared on the gangplank, the staff member's sudden and unexpected arrival nearly giving her a heart attack. After muttering more than a few curses in Elvish and calming her racing heart, she'd listened to the message he'd been tasked with delivering to her and then watched as he left as quickly as he came. Erin's own steps down the gangplank of her ship had been less hurried while she threw her hair into a ponytail and mulled over her father's message.
Captain Jones wants to discuss something with you. He says it's highly important and that you need to meet him on his ship within the next ten minutes.
It had only taken until her boots hit the wooden planks of the dock for her to realize just what her father would want to discuss with her that was 'highly important', and Erin wasn't one bit surprised that he was summoning her over it. She had, after all, told her mother it was fine to fill him in on what they'd discussed Tuesday night. Her parents didn't keep secrets from one another, and she wasn't going to ask her mother to pretend like they hadn't had this big, emotional conversation.
The downside to that, of course, was it put her avoidance of Eric under an even bigger magnifying glass when it came to her father. She knew he had sensed the tension between her and Eric from the moment she volunteered to take on the council meetings in Neal's absence. He was a perceptive man, and there weren't many things that got past Killian Jones where his children were concerned—particularly when one of them was doing a fairly piss-poor job at hiding something. With the reveal of what Erin and her mother had talked about, he probably thought she'd finally stop avoiding Eric but that clearly hadn't happened, and she'd seen the look on his face when she'd asked him to take Hope to breakfast a few hours ago. It was assessing, that knowing quirk of his eyebrow saying more than if he had actually made a comment about the request. Her father knew what, or more accurately who she was avoiding by not going to the dining hall, and he'd apparently decided it was they had a chat about it.
Explaining to her father why she was still avoiding Eric was not something she looked forward to rehashing, but there was no getting around it. He would expect complete honesty from her and, despite still being emotionally drained from the late night conversation with her mother three nights ago, she would give him that.
Reaching the Jolly Roger, Erin quickly made her way up the gangplank and was halfway across the enchanted deck before she noticed the two figures standing on the bridge of the ship.
"What are you two doing here?"
Liam and Henry, who had been standing with their backs facing her, turned upon hearing her voice and stared at her in surprise. "You too?" they asked in perfect unison.
Taken aback by the question, Erin frowned in confusion while climbing the short staircase to join them.
"What do you mean 'you too?'"
"Spencer found me in one of the courtyards and told me that Killian needed to speak with me on the Jolly Roger as soon as possible," Henry replied. "Only, when I, arrived Liam was already here."
"I was stopped while heading to a wedding meeting by Spencer and told the same thing, so I'd be willing to wager my monthly income as an officer that you're here for the same reason."
Erin slowly nodded. "He stopped by the Jewel a few moments ago with a message and I came straight here." Glancing between her brothers, she added, "So, what's going on? Why are we all here?"
"That is the question of the moment. I was told the reason for me being summoned was of an official nature, but Liam was told it had to do with—" Cutting himself off, Henry looked to his brother. "What was the exact wording?"
"A matter that was long overdue in needing to be discussed."
"Right. I assumed Killian wanted to talk to me about the incompetent Admiral from Camelot, and Liam thought he was being brought here because he refused a captain position. Yet again."
The youngest Jones sibling rolled his eyes. "You just had to add that last bit, didn't you?"
"Well, it's the truth, isn't it?"
Scoffing, Liam turned his attention back to her. "What was the reason you were given, Em?"
Momentarily letting the fact that her twin had once again not taken a well deserved promotion slide without comment—they'd certainly be having that conversation again later—Erin replied, "Just that we needed to discuss something and that it was important."
"Well that could be any number of things."
"Or one thing in particular that concerns a certain captain," Henry said with a pointed look towards his sister. Erin's eyebrow rose in response to the less than subtle comment at the same time Liam's knowing, "Ohhhhh," filled the space between the three of them.
She should have been more covert in her avoidance of Eric.
"The major flaw with that is Dad wouldn't have sent for the two of you if he wanted to talk to me about it," she pointed out. "And the same goes for the reasons each of you were given."
That was the crux of the situation they currently found themselves in. It had never been their father's style to hold frank conversations with an individual—particularly when it concerned one of them—while in the company of others, and discussing Erin's avoidance of Eric was one such example. He wouldn't do it while Henry and Liam were around, just as he wouldn't vent to Henry about Camelot's Admiral if her and Liam were in the same room. Nor would he, in fact, reprimand Liam for being an idiot and not taking the promotion with her and Henry in hearing distance.
Sighing, Henry voiced the question that was at the forefront of all their minds. "So why were we summoned here then?"
"Not just that," Liam added, "But why would Dad give a staff member reasons—none of which are connected in any way—for us to meet him here that he would never discuss in front of all of us?"
As Erin went to shrug, a familiar voice tinged with laughter sounded from the open hatch next to them.
"Because they are connected, and you might find out how if the three of you stopped gossiping like a bunch of scullery maids and came down here."
Erin shared a look of surprise with her brothers before raising her right hand to chest level and quickly moving her slender fingers to articulate the second language all three of them had learned. How in the seven hells did we not know Dad was already on board? Henry and Liam could only shake their heads at the silent question and follow her as she moved towards the hatch.
She was halfway down the ladder that lead into her parents' cabin when she spotted her father. He was sat at his desk, the ship's ledger—the legal one, she noted—open in front of him, although his attention wasn't on the parchment pages. No, those blue eyes she could pick out of any crowd were watching her descent, and she didn't miss the way they twinkled with unrestrained mirth.
"When did you get here?" she asked while stepping off the ladder and onto the floor, mindful to leave enough room so her brothers could do the same.
"I've been here, lass. I was coming up from making preparations in the galley when I heard you ask your brothers what was going on."
"And you… what? Just decided to sit here and listen to us 'gossip like scullery maids?'"
Killian quirked an amused eyebrow at her rather spot on—if she did say so herself—impression of his accent as Henry came to a stop beside her. "An old pirate has to get his entertainment somewhere," he replied seriously before chuckling at her raised eyebrows. "Besides, I was hoping you'd take the opportunity to lecture Liam, but that obviously didn't happen."
A scoff came from behind her in the vicinity of the ladder. "Alright, enough about my life choices." The sound of Liam's boots hitting the wooden flooring filled the otherwise quiet cabin, and in a less than three strides he was next to Erin. His arms were crossed and eyes narrowed in a way that made him look even more, if at all possible, like the man in front of them.
"So in what universe are the reasons you brought us here connected?"
"Considering the reason I had the three of you brought here has nothing to do with any of the ones you imagined, I'd say this universe." Closing the ledger he'd obviously been writing in at some point and moving it off to the side of his desk, Killian gestured to the three chairs in front of him. "Have a seat and I'll explain."
More confused than ever—but also intrigued—Erin moved to take the middle chair while Henry and Liam sat on either side of her.
"As I said, the reason you are here has nothing to do with a half-witted Admiral Fitzgibbons—and I use that term lightly—or the exasperating choices you two have made," he began, blue eyes swinging meaningfully between Erin and Liam at the end of his sentence. "The messages I had Spencer deliver to you weren't a lie, however, and each one does pertain to what I have to tell you in some form. While we were at breakfast this morning, Arthur received word of a portal that had opened within Camelot's borders in the early hours of Tuesday morning. According to Percival nothing sinister or otherwise had come through from what he could gather, but at the time he wrote to Arthur the portal had been open for three days. Which, considering the amount of portals this family has dealt with over the last thirty years, I'm sure you realize is an oddity."
"That's more than an oddity," Erin murmured before looking to her older brother. "Have you ever heard of that happening in your travels?"
Henry shook his head. "Never. Portals are, by their very nature, temporary openings because the objects used to create them aren't infinite. Beans become dehydrated and potions, like the one we used to create time portals, absorb into whatever surface they're thrown at. Even Jefferson's hat only allows for a momentary opening to wherever he's going before it closes."
"So this is definitely an anomaly when it comes to portals," Liam summarized while crossing his arms.
It was Erin's turn to shake her head. "It's not an anomaly. It is impossible for a portal to remain open as long as this one has. It—it breaks all known laws of magic, and I don't know of a single object that could be used to sustain a portal for more than a few minutes. I don't even think Merlin would be able to list one and he's the most experienced magic user in existence."
"There's more," Killian added. "Percival also mentioned there was an invisible barrier around the portal that stopped anyone from getting close."
"Well that's strange. Although promising," Liam noted, which prompted Henry to frown and lean forward so he could see his brother around Erin.
"How is that promising?"
"Because it speaks to their intent. If they were an enemy then there would be no barrier to stop someone from falling into it."
"But if their intentions were good then why even open the portal?" Henry countered, to which the youngest Jones sibling could only shrug in response.
Erin, who was still trying to wrap her mind around how a law of magic was being broken and seemingly rewritten, rubbed at her temple.
"We're missing the obvious culprit here. This sounds exactly like something Maleficent would do to facilitate her next move against us."
"That was a suggestion your Uncle Will made this morning, and we can rule her out," her father replied. "Blue reported this morning that the Dark Fairy still hasn't left her castle so, for once, this has nothing to do with her."
Erin sighed. "That's a relief, I suppose. So Arthur's concerns must be did a friend—for whatever reason—or foe create the portal, why would either do it, and how in the seven hells have they managed to keep it open."
"They are," Killian acknowledged with a nod of his head, "Which is why I'm asking the three of you to travel to Camelot and investigate the portal."
Her eyebrows rose significantly at that. "Us?"
"Unfortunately Merlin, Regina, nor the Crocodile can do it as they are still dealing with their respective tasks in other kingdoms. Sending a messenger to one of them was discussed, but because of the barrier spells surrounding Atlantica, Stormhold, and Nottingham, it was decided that would take too long to reach them. This is obviously a matter that Arthur doesn't want to leave unattended for longer than it needs to be. You're the only magic user here that can make the journey and, considering the strangeness of the situation and all the unknowns, I want Henry and Liam to accompany you in case something goes wrong."
There was something odd about her father's choice of words, her perceptive sense kicking in almost immediately, but before she could probe the sensation or even respond Liam spoke.
"It makes sense that Arthur doesn't want to wait to have the portal investigated. We certainly wouldn't want to if the situations were reversed, and I feel confident enough to speak for my siblings when I say we're willing to help Arthur in any way we can. Hera knows he's come to our aide without question multiple times over the last twenty-five years. I am, however, confused. Mom isn't currently in some far flung kingdom—unless something has happened in the last hour that I'm unaware of—and this sort of thing is really more her and your territory than it is ours. This wouldn't have anything to do with Camelot's custom when a Knight is within its borders, would it?"
Erin hummed in approval of that question. To show his thanks for the Charmings helping him reclaim Camelot from Morgana, Arthur had knighted her father, grandfather, and Uncle Will. It was the highest honor anyone could receive from the King of Camelot and yet, even at six years old, she could distinctly remember her grandfather and Uncle Will having to physically drag her father into the throne room for the ceremony. Her father largely hadn't thought he deserved the pomp and circumstance that surrounded the event, but it was also because Camelot's law dictated that anytime a Knight was within its borders they had to be referred to as 'Sir' as a sign of a respect. And if there was one title Killian Jones hated just as much as Prince, it was Sir.
It certainly wouldn't be the first time her father tried to weasel his way out of having to touch Camelot soil just so he didn't have to deal with that particular custom.
"It is true that this is normally something your mother and I would handle, but… she can't make the journey."
Henry frowned. "Why not? Is she sick?"
The impercitable way her father's shoulders tensed didn't go unnoticed by Erin, nor did the ticking of his jaw, and the sensation that something was going on caused the hair on the back of Erin's neck to rise. What was keeping their mom from going to Camelot for a simple detection spell, and why did their father currently look like he was warring with himself on even speaking about it? Was Henry right? Maybe she was sick, but a simple illness wouldn't have elicited that reaction from their father—not unless it was serious. A quick glance to her brothers told her they had caught the shift in their father's demeanor as well, and trepidation settled low in Erin's stomach as silence continued to fill the cabin like a physical entity.
"Dad?"
With a heavy sigh, Killian ran a hand through his silver streaked hair.
"She's not sick, at least not in the traditional sense. Your mother has been battling with nightmares since her past self freed her from the physical manifestation of her and Ingrid's powers combining."
"I thought nightmares were a normal byproduct of going under a sleeping curse?" Liam asked, his eyes briefly moving between his father and brother for confirmation. Both men nodded.
"It is," Henry replied, "Though I'm not sure why Mom having nightmares would stop her from going to Camelot."
"Because of the effect they are having on her." Erin watched her father's jaw tick once again in a sign of barely restrained emotion as his hand dropped back to the desk. "They were sporadic at first, weeks passing between each one, but it wasn't long until their frequency increased. She's having them multiple times a week now, and it's beginning to impact her health. Your mother wanders the castle for hours and hours after she's awoken by one, only coming back to bed near dawn and getting a few scant hours of rest before starting her day. Emma hides it well, but the signs are there and other members of the family are starting to notice. She's consumed more coffee in the last month than I've seen her have in an entire year yet she's still nodding off during meetings, and in order to conserve what energy she does have she's been using her magic less. She's putting off going to bed later and later in an effort to avoid them, and wearing makeup to hide the circles under her eyes. I can't even recall the last time she went without it. I wish me requesting that you do this was simply about me being uncomfortable with Camelot's customs, but it's not. Your mother is so exhausted that I fear the physical trip to get there, coupled with the energy she'd need to exert while using her magic, would completely drain her and have even more consequences on her health."
Erin, along with her brothers, could only stare at their father in stunned silence once he'd finished speaking.
It wasn't like she was a stranger to the physical toll nightmares could have on a person. She herself had experienced that same exhaustion and drive to put off going to sleep as long as possible when her own had begun shortly after Matthew's death. What shocked her, however, was that she hadn't noticed any of it when it came to her mother. The signs were there, that she could clearly see now as she looked back over the last few months with the gift of hindsight, but she hadn't picked up on any of it at the time. That emotionally charged night in the study with her mom suddenly flashed through her mind, and Erin inhaled sharply.
"Mom had one Tuesday night, didn't she?"
Her father, who had been twisting the silver band that rested on his ring finger since revealing her mother's nightmares, immediately ceased the movement of his thumb against the metal and fixed her with a curious gaze.
"She did. How did you know?"
"I—Well, I couldn't sleep that night myself. I had too many things on my mind." She could practically feel the knowing looks Henry and Liam gave her at that but she ignored them, her own eyes resolutely focused on her father. "I went wandering and found her in a barely used study on the East Wing in the middle of the night, drinking your best rum. She said she couldn't sleep because her mind wouldn't shut off so we… talked."
Understanding, along with another emotion she couldn't quite put her finger on, filled her father's face as she stressed the last word. He knew she was referring to the conversation her mother had told him about, and she had never been more thankful for his perceptive nature than in that moment. Detailing what was discussed in front of her brothers was the very last thing she wanted to do.
"Ah. Yes, she did mention running into you," Killian said with one of the most forced smiles Erin had ever seen him give. "That was the first of four she's had this week alone."
Henry sighed. "I just… I don't understand. If things had gotten this bad, why hasn't Mom said anything to us?"
"She probably didn't want to worry the three of you, especially with us being on alert for Maleficent's next move and preparing for the wedding."
"She still should have told us," Erin murmured. "She'd be furious if one of us tried to keep something like that from her."
"Aye, indeed."
To anyone else it was a simple agreement, but Erin knew her father well enough to pick up on the bitter undertone that accompanied his words. She also didn't miss the hurt that briefly flashed through his eyes, or the way the edge of his hook seemed to press into the wooden table. There was clearly something about the situation with her mother and the nightmares that angered him, and she made a mental note to broach the subject upon her return from Camelot.
"In any event," Killian began with a clearing of his throat, "I'm going to ask that the three of you keep this quiet. People may be noticing the symptoms but they aren't privy to the cause, and you know how your mother is about things like this."
All three of them nodded.
"You know," Liam began with a tilt of his head after a few seconds, "What I still don't understand is why all the secrecy in giving Spencer a different message to deliver to each of us? Wouldn't it have been less confusing if you just said you needed to talk about something?"
"I wasn't that secretive, lad."
"You were a bit over dramatic, Dad."
"No, I simply sent specifically themed messages that ensured you would come and not lollygag around because this is a rather urgent matter. You're the ones that made a mountain out of a molehill."
Liam scoffed. "When have we ever not answered a summons from you in a timely manner?"
Both of Killian's eyebrows rose nearly to his hairline. "I can think of a few times, the main one being the time the three of you got drunk off my 300 year old rum and destroyed the Jolly Roger's galley. It took you four hours to come out here and answer as to what had happened."
"In our defense, we were severely hungover that time," Erin said, chuckling as she stood. "We should start preparing for the journey though. It's going to take us at least three days to reach the outskirts of Camelot, and Hera knows how many more to wherever the portal—"
"I think Eric should come with us."
Erin's head snapped towards Henry so fast that her ponytail swung around and smacked the side of her face. "You what?!"
"I think he should join us," he repeated, a faux look of innocence on his face.
"Why in the seven hells do you think that?"
He shrugged. "The more the merrier? Besides, we don't know if a friend or foe is responsible for this portal, and having another sword on our side certainly wouldn't hurt matters."
It was sound logic, and even something she'd suggest under normal circumstances. The tense situation that had developed between her and Eric since the ball, however, was anything but normal, and her older brother damn well knew that.
"I don't think that's a good idea."
"Well I think it's a great idea. I always need entertainment while traveling and Eric coming along is the perfect definition of that, what with you two currently dancing around each other."
If looks could turn someone to ash Liam would have instantly evaporated with the one she shot him, and her glare only sharpened when he smirked in reply to it. "Dad, help me out here," she pleaded while turning her attention towards her father. Out of anyone in their family, he'd be the reasonable voice amongst the meddling ones of her brothers in this situation. "Tell them we'll be fine with just the three of us."
"I'm sorry, ychydig iawn o mor-leidr, but I'm going to agree with your brothers on this one."
"Oh you have got to be joking."
A dark eyebrow rose in response to her exasperated tone. "Not in the slightest."
"Dad—"
"Erin, you were taught defense strategy by myself, your grandfather, and your Uncle Will. The first rule when walking into a potentially dangerous environment is you can never have too many allies standing beside you. That is the very foundation for why I'm sending your brothers with you to Camelot, and why I'd send twenty more people if I could. You know Henry is right to suggest that D'Harper go with you, and the only reason you're arguing against it is because of your current pursuit to avoid him like he's contracted the plague."
She scoffed. "He's avoiding me as well."
"We both know he wasn't the one who started it," her father dead panned. "Having another swordsman on this endeavor—particularly one as skilled as D'Harper—can only give you more of an advantage if something should go wrong, and I'll sleep a little more soundly knowing he's watching my children's backs."
Erin stared at her father, her peridot eyes pleading with his unwavering cerulean gaze, and after a long moment she sighed in defeat. She was a stubborn woman who was known for her inability to back down once she had set her mind to something, but even she knew when an argument had been lost. Because as much as she hated to admit it, her father—and Henry—were right. They didn't know what situation they were walking into when it came to this portal and, despite every part of her that was still afraid of getting too close to him, she also knew she'd feel safer with the knowledge that Eric had her back.
They may not be speaking to each other but he would still protect her without a moment's hesitation—that she had no doubt of.
"Fine," she murmured, ceding her stance in the discussion vocally.
"It's settled then," Henry said while standing and looking a little too smug for Erin's liking. "I'll find Eric and fill him in on what's going on."
Killian nodded. "Your horses and supplies are being prepared as we speak, and I'll see to it that another horse is readied for D'Harper."
With that the three of them wordlessly moved towards the ladder. Just as Erin placed her boot on the bottom rung to follow her brothers up to the deck, however, her father called out her name. Looking over her shoulder, she found him watching her from his still seated position with a mixture of empathy and sternness.
"Obviously I know why you didn't want Eric to come with you," he began softly, "And while I'm sympathetic to the emotional ledge you stand on after what you've endured in the past, I am in agreement with everything your mother said. It's time to take a leap of faith, ychydig iawn o mor-leidr, and my advice would be to use this journey to begin mending that bridge so you can."
Erin swallowed thickly under the clear meaning behind his words but nodded her head. "I'll try. Take care of Mom while we're gone, yeah?"
"Always."
With another nod, Erin began her ascent of the ladder, but she couldn't shake the feeling as she did that she wasn't the only Jones currently standing on an emotional ledge.
Tagging some loves: @seethelovelyintheworld @teamhook @annytecture @fergus80 @bmbbcs4evr @followbatb @laschatzi @kday426 @searchingwardrobes
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kootenaygoon · 4 years
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So,
The sky glowed light purple as Chelsea wandered down the train tracks to Red Sands. Our friendship had fizzled a bit over Christmas, while she engaged with a short-term boyfriend, but as summer approached we’d been hanging out again. She lived in a party house up in Rosemont that was covered in psychedelic paintings, and through her I’d been introduced to a local tattoo artist named Joe Nillo who specialized in avian artwork. He was in the midst of creating a trippy metaphysical version of Mother Nature, using one of her roommates as a model, and I’d written a glowing feature about him for the Star.
"There’s two quotes from that Joe Nillo story that I really love. There’s one where he compares watching Alex Grey work to ‘watching God with a sore back watering some flowers’,” I told Chelsea.
"Then the other was: ‘God made man in his image, but that doesn’t mean he looks like us and wears T-shirts. It means he’s a creator and he wants us to create.’”
Chelsea took a slug from the beer in her hand. “I like that. Except God is a she, for sure. The divine feminine giving birth to the universe.”
“I’ve always figured God would be a mix of both, like masculinity and femininity mashed together into a giant cosmic mix. Do you even believe in God?”
She shook her head. “Not God like most people understand it, but there’s definitely an energy that’s bigger than all of us. A power to the universe that’s beyond our comprehension.”
“I like that quote ‘a God comprehended is not God’.”
She turned to me, intrigued. “I’ve never heard that.”
“I picked it up in this comparative religions class in college. It’s this German hymn writer named Tersteegen. I get a kick out of that idea, that we can’t even try to wrap our heads around God, like we shouldn’t even try.”
“But we do anyways.”
“Exactly.”
As we rounded the bend towards Red Sands Chelsea was balancing on the track with her arms out, clearly tipsy. We’d been drinking for a few hours and had smoked three or four joints during that time. She always had killer weed. At least one of her roommates was a pot dealer, if not all of them, and they sustained a party lifestyle I was already too old for. At one point she lived with Blayne, who was now permanently settled out in Victoria, but now the house was occupied by her, her adorable friend Aussie Chris, and Joe’s ex Kylie.
“For me, it’s not even a choice,” she said. “I just have to create. My work just sort of flows out of me without my permission. I don’t even like thinking about a life without that creative outlet, without my writing, because it would just be empty.”
I nodded. “Plus you have that performance element. Most of my work is designed to be read in silence, but your poetry begs to be sung.”
She laughed. “I’m not singing for you tonight. Not while I’m drunk. I’d be too embarrassed.”
When we reached the opening in the forest that led to the beach, I walked in front of Chelsea so she wouldn’t slip out of her sandals as we worked our way down the slope. The horizon had darkened to a royal purple that made the ground lilac.
“So how does your friend feel about Joe spending all this time painting her? They broke up, right? Isn’t it kind of awkward he’s obsessing over an art version of her?”
“Kylie was kind of weirded out at first, but she gets it. His art is his whole life. And I think secretly she’s flattered. Even through all their fighting, he’s still spending all this time trying to get her exactly right. And I bet when he’s finished he’ll give it to her.”
“I saw the painting in his studio, with the universe growing out of her palm. Trippy shit.”
“Yeah, it’s dope. He’s been slaving over it for like a year now, adding details and layers and new elements. He works on it live at music festivals, feeding off the energy of the crowd.”
“That’s so cool. He told me he’s going to be at Kamp and Shambhala this year, and I’m going to both. I told Ed that this is the year I want to go to all the major festivals, become the resident expert.”
Chelsea took another long haul of her beer as we settled on a spot, right in the middle of the beach, to lay down a towel. This was becoming an increasingly romantic encounter and I was feeding off her flirtatious energy, even though I knew she was on the verge of road-tripping down to California for the summer. We’d established the platonic nature of our relationship many times, but tonight felt like a good opportunity to nuke that plan. I maneuvered my body under hers and she settled on my chest with her eyes heavenward.
“I heard you took naked pictures of Blayne here,” she said, after a long comfortable silence. “She showed them to my roommates.”
I took a sip of beer, not sure how to play this. “She asked me to do a photo shoot with her last year and there were just a few, yeah, that were nudes. She wanted to show off her new tattoo. I knew her from burlesque world.”
“And you guys weren’t even hooking up?”
“It wasn’t about that. It was the images I was most interested in. I feel like it’s more intimate than sex, letting someone see you like that. I actually wrote a non-fiction piece about it while I was at UBC years ago called ‘What I look like naked’.”
She rolled over, pressing her body tight to mine. She was close enough that I could smell the alcohol on her breath. “Have you done that a lot? Taken erotica shots for women?”
I shook my head. “I don’t think of them as erotica. I mean, I’ve sexted before and I’ve taken photos that are pornographic, but shoots like that are about worship. I want the women to feel worshipped. I want the images to reflect that. Reflect my obsession with the female form.”
She blinked for a long moment, her eyes in shadow.
“I hooked up with this girl in Thailand right around the end of my trip overseas a few years ago. She was a geneticist from Berkeley and she showed me these nude photos her boyfriend had taken of her in Yosemite Park,” I said.
“She took them in the exact place her mother had taken nude photos thirty years earlier. Her mother had told her that when she grew older she would want these mementos of how she looked in her prime, with the flush of youth and love. They weren’t crass or sexualized at all. They just showed this empowered girl mid-hike in love with her body and in love with life.”
“Cool.”
“I figure if that’s a gift I can give someone, then that’s pretty fucking meaningful. And honestly, those pictures of Blayne are some of the most beautiful images I’ve ever captured in my whole life.”
“I didn’t actually see them, but Kylie described them to me. She said there was one where you had her hold a little leaf to cover herself, Eve-style?”
I laughed. “Yeah, and I used the smallest leaf I could find. The whole shoot had a Garden of Eden vibe, an innocence to it. It was like going backwards in time back to Genesis, before the shame God rained down on us, and finding something pure.”
For a while we were quiet, as the wind picked up and pulled at our clothing. Chelsea kept her face against my chest, one hand stroking my ribs, as we segued back to the topic of God. I told her about my Christian upbringing, about Camp Qwanoes and how I lost my faith. I told her about how I’ve never really gotten over it.
“You’re going to find a way to believe again. I’m sure you will. I don’t know what you’re going to believe in, but you’ll find something.”
I sighed. “I hope you’re right.”
Then she was kissing me. We rolled together until I was looming over her on the blanket. She watched as I undid her jean shorts and shimmied them down her legs. Our mouths surged back and forth while my left hand stroked her legs, massaging them. I hooked her underwear with a thumb and pulled. When she began to moan moments later it sounded exactly like her singing voice, a rhythmic ululation.
“Hold on,” she said. “Hold on, hold on.”
I stopped, pulling my head back.
“I’m really into this and everything, but I can’t go there tonight. I’m sorry. My heart’s too raw, I don’t want to leave for California with any attachments, I just need to stop here, okay? Is it okay if we stop?”
I nodded. “Of course. That makes perfect sense. We’re okay.”
For the next few moments we fumbled our way through getting her clothes back on, my erection screaming disappointed. I stroked Chelsea’s hair and held her face with both hands. Sometimes I forgot she was a decade younger than me, but it was very apparent in these moments. She was a girl, open-minded but still inexperienced. I’d been consumed in the grey chaos of the Kootenays’ sexual landscape, but ordinary monogamy was the only mode she understood. It was either fall in love or don’t engage at all, which was how I used to be when I was her age. Her purity was heart-breaking.
“You’re such an awesome guy, really,” she said, apologetic. “It’s not about you.”
“Don’t say anything else about it. I understand. No worries.”
Chelsea stood up, cracked a new beer, and gazed up at the black silhouette of Elephant Mountain. She was visibly trembling. I wondered if I’d done something wrong here, if I’d fucked up our friendship irrevocably. Was everything going to be different now? It had felt right, connecting with her, but maybe I needed to fundamentally course correct how I approached relationships. I finished my beer, threw it down, then walked over to embrace her from behind. She sighed into my hug, pressing her face against mine. Then she turned to face me.
“One day I want you to take my picture.”
The Kootenay Goon
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fayegracexo · 5 years
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What “Witch” Means to Me, and a Call to Action.
“Witch” is an interesting word, with many meanings to many different peoples and cultures; some meanings good, and some bad.
Some people imagine the Wizard of Oz type of witches, green with a ridiculous nose and wart, or pink and fluffy like a fairy princess. Some imagine witches as costumes, around for Halloween with the pointy hats and cackling laugh, and some more modern folk just think witches are Harry Potter wannabes, or freaks in their Moms’ basement chanting and sacrificing lambs on Sundays when we should be in church.
Obviously, none of these stereotypes are correct, and they’re just that, stereotypes. Witches don’t “look” any certain way for one thing. Sure some of us (like myself) are decked out in crystal necklaces and moon tattoos, but the guy or gal in the business suit you know could just as easily be a witch too. Never assume, were not all as out there as the rest, and that’s totally okay.
But what does “witch” even mean?
When I say ‘witch’, and call myself one, I am referring to the folk (both men and women, witch is also a male term) that have heard ‘the calling’ and answered it. However for the sake of this post, I’ll be referring mostly to female witches, as I find a calling back to the divine feminine a large part of my craft. I just wanted to be clear here that anyone of any gender or lack thereof can be a witch, and witch is not a gendered term, it’s used for everyone. Also anyone can hear the calling of the witch, or the calling of the divine feminine, no matter your birth, gender, or identity. Just a disclaimer before I begin ;)
A witch to me, is an empowered woman, confident, strong, and faithful in her own power. She is awake and aware; of the cultural and physical problems the earth and the people on the earth face. She is connected to the elements, and whatever form of energy or God/Goddess she believes in. A witch trusts her own authority, and communicates with deities freely, without a middle man. She is imbued with feminine wisdom, intuition and trusts in herself and her strength. She is confident in her sexuality, and uses the power place between her legs in her craft and to her advantage. A witch remembers who we were as women, as a whole, before we were ‘dis-membered’ and frightened into forgetting our own power and who we were. Before we were ashamed of ourselves, our bodies and our blood. Before we were made to feel less than and inferior. Before our gifts were called ‘taboo’ or sinful. A witch is not afraid to fully express herself, and all her power. She is a paradox, both light and dark like the moon, both love and anger, peace and war, a whirlwind of emotion all at the same time, but still in control, and she accepts this, owns it. A witch knows there is more than what meets the eye in this world, and they are not afraid to see what's out there, and work with it. A witch ‘re-members’ herself, and puts the pieces back together, becoming whole again. A witch remembers that before we were domesticated, and made numb by food, drugs, shopping and social media, we were healers, seers, oracles, shamans, leaders, wise women. She remembers we were powerful for thousands of years, until we were made to forget. She also, questions everything.
A witch knows we carry the stories and power of the women before us and those that were silenced in our DNA. She knows she’s a creatrix, oracle, sorceress, and force of nature not to be reckoned with. A witch knows that she, along with others, are waking up, remembering, and taking back the power we gave away in fear of shame and judgement. She remembers we are taking back the word ‘witch’, and becoming whole again, and this she knows, frightens people.
As anyone knows, whole people can be a huge threat to the broken; and an empowered, outspoken woman, makes a weak man fear. But as in the old days, does wanting to kill us (or in this day and age, silence us, though witches are still killed in some parts of the world.) not prove our magick and power? Wanting to persecute a witch, only shows you admit that magick is real. No one would kill or silence what they didn’t believe would work anyway right? The fact is, we’re found to be threatening, by people who want to keep power. It’s why it was taken from us in the first place. Some of us, are even scared of ourselves. How intimidating it is to realize we are a paradox, of light and dark and everything in between, and scarier still, that we can wield that power? We must learn to take it back for ourselves, and break free of the silence and invisibility we’ve endured. We must make it safe to feel powerful again, for ourselves, and other women and witches.
We must break free of the fear of being ‘too much’ or ‘too little’. We need to break free of caring what others think of us, especially men, and stop listening to the patriarchy that’s telling us how we need to be fixed, with more makeup, and less body hair. We need to take back our sexuality, get rid of the stigma of ‘sluts’ and ‘whores’ and let women own their sex again, as we allow men to do. People forget, that ‘virgin’ before Christianity had a different meaning. Ishtar and Diana for example, were called ‘virgin’ Goddesses, but the meaning didn’t mean ‘chaste’ as in the Virgin Mary, but instead, ‘sexually independent’. Virgins were free women not yet owned by marriage, who were one in themselves. It was Christianity, that came and perverted the term to mean something degrading and shameful. 
“Witch” and “Hag” have been used as insults since our power was taken and burned away from us. I take the word back, and use it as my own, as a reminder of the women like myself, over 13 million, who’ve been burned, hung, tortured and persecuted for their knowledge. I remember who I was, and who the women before me were, before the patriarchy was a thing and we all learned to hate ourselves and be at war with our other sisters. Before we were consumed with eating disorders, and vulnerable to makeup and clothing ads making money off of our insecurities we were taught to have; before plastic surgery was the fastest growing medical procedure.
Misogyny and sexism make money, the shaming of women and harsh male-oriented pornography, make money, but it wasn’t always this way.
Before religion (Christianity if we’re being clear) came in and made women sexless, obedient, and submissive; before our periods became sinful and dirty,before our mistrust of other women and self-hatred, and our physical obsessions, we were relied upon by the townspeople, village people, yes, men included. We were cunning women, healers. We communed with nature, the moon, the stars, the seasons, and our cycles, to help provide for those we loved. We birthed the babies of our communities as midwives, we made potions and tinctures with our knowledge of herbs and plants to heal and aid our sick and frail. We were looked up to, respected. We knew medicine, we knew magick, we were witches.
But as Christianity came around and men wanted to dominate the fields of astrology, medicine and more, intelligent women became demonized. We were taught to not trust and instead betray our other sisters. The accusations became ridiculous, but they worked in trying to erase us. Women who had cats, knew about plants and herbs, spoke to animals, had a birthmark, knew astrology, science, had a neighbor that didn’t like them, or knew how to birth babies, all met untimely ends for their knowledge, all because they were in the way of the power and control others wanted. Outspoken women became ‘loud’, ‘crazy/mad’, and my favorites ‘hormonal’ or ‘hysteric’.
So when I call myself a witch, I am using it in the old sense. I am saying I remember who I am, my power, and the women before me. I am saying I do not fear, and instead will be loud about who I am, and not try to fit myself into a small, quiet box any longer. I was not made to be submissive and silent. I remember my sisters and brothers are just that, sisters and brothers, and we should not be fighting against one another. I remember I am dark and light, wise and strong. I am saying I listen to my intuition and live my life accordingly. I am saying I use the tools at my disposable, to change the world around me. Astrology, tarot, crystals, oracle decks, meditation can all help me create the impact I want not only in my life, but the lives of others, and the world. I'm saying I remember what we were, and who we were, and what we did.
I remember...
“We are the granddaughters of the witches you could not burn.”
(For more on this topic, the call, and the waking of the witch, I highly suggest reading “Witch” by Lisa Lister! I’ll be posting about it on Instagram shortly, and remember this blog connects with my Instagram account ;) @selfcarewitchxo )
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archaeopter-ace · 5 years
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The Girl in the Mirror
Day 3 - Mirror or Masquerade @talesofarcadiafemslashweek​ Aja/Shannon (Shanaja) wordcount: ~2k Rated: PG
(Quick note: the reason Aja uses she/her for herself and he/him for Krel is an artifact of imperfect translation. Akiridians don’t have genders as we’d understand them, so their use of gendered terms like ‘brother’ and ‘sister’ really just reflect that the Akiridian language has more than one word for ‘sibling,’ and that Aja and Krel use different terms for each other.)
Aja washed her hands slowly at the row of sinks in the school bathroom - she was not eager to get back to English class. It was, by far, her least favorite class. There were so many assumptions made, so many fundamentals her classmates had spent years learning, comparisons being made to other books that everyone else had already read.
She was forever thankful that she and her brother had Universal Understanding, that the technology had been acquired by her people in trade with the Babelpisces several generations ago. It was essential for interplanetary negotiations, and, now, to analyze eyeball symbolism in The Great Gatsby.
Aja turned off the sink, taking a moment to examine her features in the mirror. She did not know when she would get used to her fleshy human appearance, but she hoped it would be soon. She poked her nose, moving it from side to side, opened her mouth to look at her teeth. She was a girl now, apparently, whatever that meant.
All she knew for certain was that it meant using certain pronouns and not others. Akiridian pronouns did not, so far as Aja could tell, correspond to gender, but she was still a little unclear on what ‘gender’ was, and had been racking her brains - a funny human idiom - to see if she could think of an Akiridian equivalent.
On Akiridian-5, a person’s pronouns told you a lot about them - their approximate age, social rank, and sometimes even area of expertise. They had over a dozen third-person pronouns, but it was easy to know which one to use because they also had a over a dozen corresponding first-person pronouns. In Arcadia, everyone was “I” this and “I” that - it was honestly one of the most startling things about being human, how the same everyone seemed.
Aja and Krel used the royal pronouns for first born and second born, respectively. Krel had once confided in her that he had toyed with the idea of using an engineer’s pronouns, but ultimately his sense of duty to the crown won out. That, and their parents would have thrown a fit if they had known.
Aja had not told Krel that she sometimes disguised herself and used artisan pronouns when she went to the skeltag pits to watch the fights.
(Neither of them had quite gotten the hang of the new king- and queen-in-waiting pronouns they should now be using.)
Mother had implied that gender was a social rank modifier when she said that Aja would be overlooked if she were a girl - Aja had, at the time, assumed it meant something like the suzinx, those who moved unobtrusively through the palace - but Aja was unsure how true that was since Krel was less girl than she was but he was more ignored. (Possibly Aja was just exceptionally bad at blending in and lying low.)
Aja had yet to reliably identify who was and was not a girl in daily life. At first she thought being a girl had to do with clothes, but she had given up on that idea after it turned up so many false negatives. It also had nothing to do with eye color or hair color or how much time they spent talking or whether they liked burritos.
Being a girl seemed to be positively correlated with hair length quite strongly, so that was her current working theory: the longer someone’s hair follicles, the more girl they were.
Aja had the longest hair of anyone she knew; she supposed that made her a full girl. Mary was a close second - 90% girl, maybe? Her best guess was that Krel was at least half girl, about the same as Claire. Aja had been momentarily stymied by the fact that Claire was apparently considered a girl while Krel was not, since both had shoulder-length hair, but then she realized that all the clips Claire added to her hair probably increased her girl quotient.
Aja was startled from her introspection by the sound of rushing water behind her. Shannon stepped out of a stall and blinked at Aja, offering her a tentative grin, before she moved over to the row of sinks.
(Splitting hairs into clumps seemed to have a similar effect as adding clips, because Shannon’s hair looked like it might be shorter than Krel’s but she was also a girl.)
She looked on in curiosity as the other girl washed her hands - Aja quickly realized that she’d forgotten to use any soap, and hurried to correct her mistake, washing her hands a second time while carefully imitating the human’s motions.
“Oh!” A flash of color had caught her eye, and she abandoned her own sink to try to get a better look, reaching over with the intent to pull Shannon’s hands from the faucet for closer inspection - but the girl eeped and jerked her hands away. “Sorry, sorry.” Aja held up her dripping hands in apology. “I was just admiring your colorful fingers. How did you do that?”
“You mean my nail polish?” She finished rinsing the suds off, revealing dark blue fingernails that seemed to shimmer in the light. For some reason her face got very red, like Aja had seen on some humans in gym class when they breathed in and out more than usual. “You, you like it? um.”
“Yes, very much! Very lively!”
“Oh, thanks.” Her face got even redder, and Aja started to grow concerned. “Um, I could - I could do your nails for you sometime? If you want?”
Any color she added to her nails would not survive her transition back to her Akiridian form, but as she thought about what ‘doing her nails’ would entail, going to Shannon’s house and sitting down together, spending time with her, she decided that it didn’t matter to her that the finished product would not last longer than a day.
“Yes, I would like that very much. Thank you! And oh! Maybe you could help me with a problem I have been having. Could you help me understand what a girl is, please?”
“You - you what?” Shannon sputtered, wide-eyed.
“We don’t have girls on Ak - on Cantaloupia. Being here is very confusing. I would like to learn to be a girl, please.”
“Oh, I thought you meant - nevermind what I thought.” Shannon looked at her for a very long time, the red color slowly fading from her face. Aja was not sure what she was looking for, though she had an inkling.
She tried to reassure her, “I know my hair is tucked up right now, but I promise you, it is definitely long enough to be a girl.”
Shannon’s expression seemed to… crumple, and she bit her lip. “Are you just… wanting to learn performative femininity because it’s expected of you?”
“Per-for-wha?”
“Sorry, my mom’s a therapist. I meant, do you just want to learn to act more like a girl because you think it’s expected of you?”
“I am supposed to do what people expect of me, it is part of being in hiding and remaining unnoticed. Ah, I mean…” Aja blanked on trying to explain away her slip-up, decided to ignore it and hope Shannon didn’t notice. “Yes, I suppose it is a little bit what you said. Mostly, I think I am just curious. I have been watching the television and there are many girl things I would like to try - like your fingernails! They are so colorful and lively! I would like to do that.”
Shannon still did not look satisfied with her answer. “You can do girl things without being a girl, that’s okay too.”
Not be a girl? Was that an option? “But I am a girl.”
“But you just told me you don’t know what a girl is!”
“Yes? What is yout point?” Aja was a girl now and that was why she needed to know what one was.
“Do you want to be a girl?”
“I… I don’t know. That is why I want to better understand what a girl is.”
Shannon rubbed at her temples. “Okay, okay, I think I understand. You’re exploring your gender identity, and you want to see if being a girl is right for you; is that about the gist of it?”
Aja did not particularly understand the question, but she thought she could guess at the answer. “Yes?”
Shannon nodded. “Okay, alright. Yeah, I’d be willing to coach you in girl stuff, hang out and show you the ropes. But, um,” she wrung her hands together, “while we’re being open and honest, I want to say that… I’vegotacrushonyou.” She immediately buried her face in her hands. “Argh, why did I say that?! Stupid Shannon, stupid.”
“Oh. Was it mistake to say that?” Aja cocked her head to one side.
Shannon peeked at her between fingers still firmly affixed to her face. “Do you…” she began hesitantly, “know what a crush is?”
Aja waggled her hand back and forth in a so-so gesture she learned from watching her classmates. “I have been observing hu-uh-hyour culture and I know it does not mean flattening someone with a zorkgast. I think,” Aja picked her words with careful deliberation, “it means the same as like-like, yes?”
“Yes.” Shannon removed her hands from her face, and drew herself up to her full height. “Aja. I think you’re cool and amazing, and I like-like you. Do you want to go out with me?”
Aja gave that some thought. She knew what ‘going out’ meant, and dating - she was a princess, she knew all about courtship. She had never expected to have the freedom to do so without political consideration, and it gave her a heady rush.
But it would be selfish to say yes just because she could, just because she wanted to learn what this girl could teach her, just because it sounded like an adventure. She could see that that would not be fair to Shannon.
And yet. Shannon was nice. She told funny jokes, and she carried extra pencils to loan to anyone who needed one. She read a lot of books that looked a lot more interesting than the books they had to read for class. Thinking about it, Aja realized she would like to spend more time with her, find adventure together, learn more about her and hopefully more about herself.
“Shannon,” Aja began, uncertain if she would be able to find the right words. “I like you too. I do not know if I like-like you - there is a lot I do not know, yet - but I am willing to find out, if that is okay.”
Shannon smiled softly at her, “Yeah, yeah that’s okay.” Suddenly she squealed loudly, “EEEEEEIH! Sorry, sorry, I’m just so excited, I couldn’t help it!” She glanced at the door, shifting her weight back and forth. “We’ll talk more later, yeah? We should really be getting back to class - Ms Janeth hates long bathroom breaks, she’s gonna give me the stink eye.”
“I do not think Mr. Clemens is all that fond of them either,” Aja admitted ruefully.
“Here,” Shannon pulled Aja’s arm towards her and fished a blue pen out of her pocket with her other hand. She wrote a string of numbers on the inside of her forearm. “Call me, yeah?” Her face had gone that funny red color again.
“Yes, I will!”
Aja felt lighter than she could remember feeling, the prospect of figuring her life out seemed less like a weight she had to bear and more like journey she could share, and she skipped her way back to class.
(Mr. Clemens was very unhappy with the length of time she had spent in the bathroom, and said she would not get any more bathroom breaks in class for the rest of the week, but Aja did not particularly care)
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