#i hardly have the bear minimum for their background or personality yet but i still love them

[freuleinanna]

It's always trauma o'clock somewhere! Especially for these kids who had to come home and lie about why they returned from the camp a day later. They hardly had a chance to unpack the recent trauma, but I think this is how the HQ massacre affected their lives afterwards.

Jacob, as many others, chose a half-truth and told his parents that some jerk broke the car to stay with his girlfriend. He omitted the part where that jerk was him. Couldn't bear that guilt.

He was a decent swimmer and wanted to maybe take it professionally, but the next time he found himself at the pool, he completely froze at the signal. He never dived in that day. He stared at the blue-tiled water, and he saw the chains and the overblown body.

He found Emma on Instagram and, for a while, he was checking it obsessively, hoping she'd talk about what happened or mention it in some way, any way. He wanted to stop being so alone in knowing the truth and living with it. Emma never did that.

Emma, actually, fell silent for almost 2 months after her return. She'd speak the bare minimum, but never an actual conversation, never a joke. The happy, bubbly girl simply wasn't there. Her parents even took her to a teen therapist with little to no result.

Emma had stopped streaming for a while, although she still kept her Insta. One time she almost posted a selfie from that day, before the nightfall. Almost.

Some time later, she set up a really non-Emma-esque live stream. She was sitting in silence, looking at the sunset, the comment section was overflowing, and sometimes Emma would pick a question to answer from there. Many thought she was doing some sort of spiritual cleanse. She only spoke without a prompt for the first time when she saw Abi joining the stream.

For Abi, it was nightmares. That simple, that efficient. Dark forests, mist, dangerous beasts lurking around. What else to screw with the sleep of a sweet, tender person?

Movies on the background didn't help. Music didn't help. Drawing made everything worse, because in every shape, form, and shadow, beasts were lurking. Whenever she'd pick up a pencil to sketch, she left monsters on the paper. Wherever she looked, she saw monsters. Monsters always looked just a little bit like Nick.

It went on until the night she looked Emma up on Insta and, by pure coincidence, got to her live stream.

Nick blocked most of it out. There wasn't much to remember, but some memories still bled through.

He became the snack guy, the guy who always had something to chew on. It was a small quirk nobody was really paying attention to, but its trail led back to the only thing he did remember: hunger.

Whenever he emailed, Abi never replied.

Ryan, on the contrary, was replying to and receiving a LOT of emails. He was the one to send all the evidence to the Bizarre Yet Bonafide studio, and he also kept in touch with a few other Hacketteers, including Kaitlyn and Dylan.

Another thing he did is meticulously go through all his favorite media (TV & films mostly) and unbooked/deleted everything that dealt with guns being shot or vivid descriptions of wild animals (or their victims). This took him several hard days, but he finally felt safer when he did it.

He only watched something new if Dylan watched it first and gave him an okay.

Dylan, as opposed to Ryan, consumed horror content like his life depended on it. At some point, he even had a special notepad with details of how to defeat or protect yourself from all supernatural dangers and their mother. He kept this notepad on him at all times and often re-read it.

Getting used to not having a hand was slightly easier than he expected. What wasn't easy? That one time when his dad asked him to bring him sth to work. His father, a crane conductor on a construction site, did not expect his grown son to have a full-blown panic attack over a pb&j.

On the other hand (his joke, not mine), he got really close with Ryan and Kat, and they were planning a getaway together.

Kaitlyn was the one to propose the getaway. Despite the general total mindfuck, she managed to keep a cool head on the night of, and, surprisingly, it didn't cost her a hand and a leg (her joke, not mine!)

Thus, she became a healer. Reaching out, making sure. Helping. She didn't make it her sacred goal to help all others, but she tried, and that's what counts.

She kept tabs on Jacob especially. She knew he'd never ask for help. He didn't have to ask. That's what best friends are for.

Max never met any of those people, except Emma. That one time he bit his lip and nearly puked because he thought he remembered the taste of blood.

He topped his steak-cooking up to inventing the well-well-well-done steak without any possibility of there being blood.

Mostly, he just wasn't sure if he knew his own nature anymore. As the whole night was blocked in his mind, he could only trust Laura. And he did. The fact that she looked at him even more lovingly than before told him that if she trusts him, if she loves him, than it's okay.

Laura did trust him and loved him. But she also ran a gazillion of drills per week and kept at least two take-and-run bags in the house, and one in a special place. Clothes, flashlights, crackers, compass, you name it. She was an amateur that last time. Now she was ready for anything.

She took up running as well. She continued with vet studies. Even years after, the first thought that sprung to her mind if someone was butten by an animal was: CUT THE FUCKING LIMB.

Max kept her grounded with his laugh and his honest, sincere warmth. She could have gone really cold inside if it wasn't for him.

#i.... i want to send them to therapy #the quarry #the quarry spoilers #the quarry thoughts #the quarry game #supermassive games #laura kearney #max brinly #jacob custos #emma mountebank #abigail blyg #dylan lenivy #nick furcillo #ryan erzahler #kaitlyn ka

[just-french-me-up]

If you haven’t already gotten “Wait a minute. Are you jealous?” for a dream x reader prompt, that is a. criminal because b. the possibility of jealous dream? incredible

Rating : M / E  Light Smut & Angst

Author’s note : We’re going by Nada rules AKA “The Endless can’t be fully intimate with a mortal otherwise tragedy will befall said mortal” because it makes the tension *chef’s kiss*

Also, for all intents and purposes, feel free to picture Sam Smith’s Unholy playing in the background during that one part (you’ll know the one, trust me)

Also also : Nameless 3rd person Reader, no (Y/N)

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There were many things Dream of the Endless did not care for in this twenty first century Waking world. Single use plastics. Turnstiles. Increasingly complex and flat communication devices. The energy humanity put into destroying its own world to benefit but a select few. And nightclubs.

The appeal of nightclubs befuddled him. Cramped spaces filled with loud booming music, blinding stroboscopic lights, bodies flushed against each other, the sweat and sultriness of it all. A place fit for Desire, not the Lord of the Dreaming.

Yet, there he was, his back to a dark wall, his presence barely noticed by those surrounding him, his gaze fixed on the dancefloor. Yes, nightclubs were a ridiculous and tasteless invention, but he could bear it. As long as got to see her dance.

She had begged him to join her before, many times, to no avail. He much prefered to be a spectator. And what a spectacle it was.

Under the lights, her dress shone like a thousand stars, shimmering, burning in the darkness. Her skin was painted with flashes of ever-changing colours, hues shifting over her in a bewitching dance of their own. She was nothing short of mesmerising.

Which, to his utmost displeasure, he was hardly the only one to notice.

Seduction seemed to have been reduced to its bare minimum in the last century. Gone were the days of courting; now men simply hovered around women in confined places, vaguely swaying left and right to catch their attention. Dream would have found it laughable, had a man not closed in on his lover.

She was quick to notice, taking a subtle, yet notable sidestep to thwart his advances, turning her back to him. Oblivious to her refusal, the man came closer still. Dream clenched his jaw, his eyes intently following the man's hands. His crude fingers ghosted over her spine, travelling down the small of her back. Dream tensed. The man lowered his hand, seeking flesh.

The loud music covered a sharp pained shriek.

“Man, what the f-”

“I think that is quite enough,” Dream said, his voice low and threatening as his grip on the man’s wrist tightened even more. He yanked him back, letting go of him once he stood at a reasonable enough distance. The man stared at him with a mix of confusion and anger, his other hand massaging his sore wrist. For a second, he seemed to steel himself for a fight, before retreating to another corner of the dancefloor.

“I could have dealt with him.”

“You certainly would have,” Dream agreed, his eyes glowering at the man until he was out of sight. 

A warm hand settled on his chest, soothing the tension in his body somewhat.

“Finally decided to join me, then?” she gently teased, in an attempt to distract him further. Dream blinked slowly at her. Specks of glitter glistened on her cheekbones. Gods, she looked exquisite.

“I’m afraid I have yet to be convinced. Although, perhaps, it would keep these vultures away.”

His hand itched to settle on the small of her back, where the stranger’s hand had been. To keep her close, he told himself, although he knew it was nothing but a half-truth.

“I told you,” she soothed. “I can deal with one man and his delusions.”

Dream let out a humourless huff.

“There is far more than one man having unconscious wanton thoughts about you.”

His lover frowned, taken aback.

“Morpheus... Is this-. Are you-? Are you jealous?”

He did not answer. What was there to say? How could he word the torment it caused him, to know other men desired her? Men who could have her. Men who would not doom her to ruin if their let their desires get the best of them?

Her hand traveled down his chest to link her fingers with his. She gave his hand a soft squeeze. If physical touch in public was not his way, he welcomed it, for once. For the comfort of it. For the warmth.

“They’re nothing.”

She flashed an encouraging smile, tugging slightly at his arm.

“Let’s go, shall we?”

“You were enjoying yourself!” Dream protested.

“Perhaps, but I’ve decided I would also enjoy myself at home.”

“My love-”

The rest of his sentence was drowned in another boom, as she walked off the dancefloor, pulling him forward. He let her lead, thankful to be freed from the stifling atmosphere soon. As she walked on, he caught himself gazing at her, wondering what she would have done, had it been him touching her on that dancefloor. There was nothing unconscious about his wanton thoughts.

They made their way to an empty corridor leading to the exit, its walls painted red by the dim lights hanging overhead. The sequins of her dress shone like a beacon in the low light. Otherwordly. It was not anger raging in Dream’s chest anymore. It was something deeper. Wilder.

He tugged on her arm, stopping her in her tracks. Pulling her against him, he lead her to a wall, resting her back against it.

“It is not jealously I feel, love of mine,” he murmured, his lips ghosting over hers. “Jealousy is a trifle thing, a childish thing.”

His hands slowly slid up her thighs, delighting in the heat of her skin. Their eyes met in the darkness.

“It is envy I suffer from. I envy the hands of every man who has ever touched you.”

His own hands ignored the hem of her dress, pulling the fabric up until he uncovered the top of her thighs, his fingers digging into her skin. He could feel her shivering at the touch, her chest rising against his. The heady scent of her perfume made his head spin.

“I envy every man who has ever given you pleasure.”

“Morpheus...”

His fingertips met the fabric of her underwear. His breathing hitched as he felt her legs shift slightly, inviting him closer. How easy it could be. How natural it would be to fall into this embrace and take her, love her, pleasure her right there. To listen to her moan his name and to answer with hers. How good, utterly perfect it would be, for an eternal second, until the Universe rained down its fury upon them. 

Dream swallowed hard and lowered his gaze. Reluctantly, his hands slid back down her legs, smoothing down the fabric of her dress. He could feel the tension melt away from her body.

“Forgive me,” he whispered witsfully, pressing his forehead against hers.

She raised a hand to his cheek, holding him close.

“There’s nothing to forgive,” she breathed out

“I have been reckless.”

She lowered her fingers under his chin, coaxing him into looking at her.

“Take me home, yeah?”

“Of course.”

Send me a prompt? [1]  [2]  [3]

#the sandman #sandman #dream of the endless #dream #dream x reader #dream x oc #dream x y/n #morpheus x reader #morpheus x y/n #I GUESS #spoiler alert she does have a name a a full back story but hey that'll be for another time #i've written an awful amount of fics set in a club for someone who's never set foot inside of one #there's something about the LIGHTS I guess #also if Dream doesn't worship the ground his lover walks on then what's the point #also i kinda like independent!reader who has a regular life and also loves her endless lover to bits #he doesn't particulary understand EVERYTHING she likes doing but hey #he's there for the ride in the name of LOVE i guess #just wait until that dweeb figures out he can fuck in the Dreaming consequence free #smut #smutty things #KINDA #dream's a mess because the tension's getting too much #and you gotta love that in an endless man #my writing #mine

[robininthelabyrinth]

Nocturne (FFXV) - 1/30

Fic: Nocturne (1/30) - Ao3 Link

Fandom: Final Fantasy XV Pairings: Mostly Gen (variety later to come)

Summary: In which Cor Leonis loses his temper, accidentally acquires a kid, and tries to single-handedly dismantle the Lucian immigration system – and that’s before he and his lawyers find out about this Prophecy business. If the Astrals think Cor’s going to let his kid’s best friend die without a fight, they’ve gotten the wrong cheetah ‘taur.

(a young adult novel set in @kickingshoes' 'taur AU)

A/N: Some background almost certainly necessary here for those who aren't yet familiar with @kickingshoes' wonderful 'taur AU:

In this AU, everyone in FFXV is a 'taur of some sort, 'taur being short for "centaur" but not limited to horses: there are cattaurs, dog-taurs, deer-taurs, the traditional horse-taurs, etc. Each 'taur has a human head, arms and torso extending up from the bend in the spine, and the lower half of some sort of animal, including all four legs and tail. See the art for that here!

They've even gone ahead and create anatomical drawings for the 'taurs, including interesting features such as two hearts: one located in the "human" chest (the supernal heart) and one located in the "animal" body (the infernal heart). See the art for that here!

For context: a 'taur baby is called a "kitling" (general term) or after their type (kittens, puppies, etc.), then they grow up into being children, and then teenagers, and then adults.

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A seat on the King’s Council is a rare privilege, typically given to individuals who have given many years of service to the royal family of Lucis. An offer to take a seat at the Council is more than a mere honor – it is a request to share one's wisdom and experience with the King and so, in turn, with Lucis itself. It is a position of both power and influence, and of great prestige, and it is widely coveted by those who would be in the center of the seat of power. Wise kings of the past have sought to protect the Council from those who would befriend young and impressionable Princes in search of a seat at the table, decreeing that only those with a minimum of a decade of extraordinary service to the Crown would be permitted to join the august body.

Unfortunately, they didn’t really account for the problem of prodigies.

After all, if one counts his years first in the Crownsguard, then as part of the personal bodyguard of King Mors, then as the personal bodyguard of Prince, later King, Regis, and now most recently in his appointment as Marshal of the Crownsguard, there is no question that Cor Leonis, nicknamed "The Immortal", has served the throne loyally and with distinction for the required ten year period, despite the fact that he is currently still only twenty-three, and a young-looking twenty-three at that.

Indeed, although there was some grumbling about his age, mostly from the older scions of the nobility, there was widespread approval among the populace when the news spread that their beloved Immortal would be joining the Council: his skill at fighting, now honed by caution and discretion after his experience in the Tempering Grounds; his extraordinary and intuitive grasp of tactics and strategy; and his surprising talents in the management and organization of armies were all considered extremely valuable additions to the Council’s wisdom.

It’s just that Clarus sometimes wishes his young friend had learned a little bit more diplomacy alongside his undeniable martial skills.

“You’ve got me all wrong,” Cor says mildly, his hands laced together in front of him. His manner is easy, his shoulders relaxed, his face habitually stern but almost casually neutral; if Clarus had never seen Cor mid-battle, that same expression of mild concentration on his face as his sword destroyed the enemy, he might even be deluded into thinking that Cor is just making friendly conversation. Unfortunately, Clarus does know better. “Entirely wrong, even. It’s not that I have a problem with taxonomy – after all, as we all know, there are many benefits to classifying species, both sentient and non-sentient, natural and daemonic, by easily identified typological traits –”

The esteemed Councilor Cor is speaking with – Taceo Dovinius, who was appointed in the days of King Mors and who has not ever seen Cor fight – looks pleased by what he mistakenly thinks is acquiescence, smiling condescendingly at his younger colleague across the table.

“– it’s just that I think it’s a crock of shit,” Cor concludes.

The smile vanishes.

“Listen here, young kit,” Taceo snaps, “you might think that you’re some hotshot because you can swing a sword well, but swinging a sword doesn’t change the facts of the world: the people of Lucis are felidaetaurs, or cattaurs, the upright taurus cousins of the family Felidae, while our sworn enemies of Niflheim are canidaetaurs, or dogtaurs, who are more akin to the family Canidae, and as anyone can tell from looking at nature itself –”

“Yes, yes, we’re cats, they’re dogs, ‘fighting like cats and dog’ is axiomatic, I’m familiar,” Cor says, his calm voice cutting through Taceo’s rising voice as sharply as his sword would. “But that’s irrelevant, and not just because the scientific community has largely replaced the Felidae classification with Feliformia and Canidae with Caniformia. It’s irrelevant because it is absolutely useless for making any determinations about sentient individuals such as ‘taurs. A person with the hindquarters of a cat can be a traitor and one with those of a dog a friend, if that’s what they decide to be; that’s what sentience means. And even if you were planning on going entirely by pure animal taxonomy, there’s no system of classification that even makes any rational sense – would you condemn every person with the legs of a fox as an enemy, and accept every hyena as a friend, just because that’s how science has arbitrarily broken them down? Why do we get the mongooses and the civets, and they the weasels and raccoons? And what does any of that say about our ungulaetaur friends from Tenebrae, with their goats and deer and elks? Where do they fall?”

“You’re splitting hairs,” Taceo snaps.

“Hardly,” Cor says. “Since your proposal is that we differentiate our treatment of individuals based on the species they resemble – indeed, not merely their treatment but their access to the very rights to which they are entitled under the Charter of Lucis – and given both the known arbitrariness of nature itself and the historical unreliability of taxonomical science, my question is quite to the point: who, exactly, should be entitled to make so important a decision as to which person is classified as what?”

Taceo has gone pale with rage. “Our taxonomists –”

“Oh, taxonomists,” Cor says, and for the first time his voice is actively scornful. “Yes, they know so much, don’t they, with their always excellent classification that always right on the first try, and never any issues. Is that right? Or need I remind you of my own history with taxonomists?”

Clarus winces, as do many of the others at the table.

It’s all rather notorious now, of course. Being born (or at least, found) within the Crown City, Cor, a foundling orphan left on the doorsteps of the city foster home, had been immediately taken to the nearest hospital to be given the standard taxonomic analysis.

The taxonomic analysis program has its origins in the insurance system, given the fact that different ‘taur breeds often have vastly different medical requirements even within the same family or sub-family. After all, genetic drift and mutations exist: a pair of felidaetaurs would generally have a felidaetaur child, of course, but while it is still common for a two-tiger pair like Clarus and his wife to have another tiger as a child, or two lynxes a lynx, it is perfectly possible for a child of two species-alike parents to come out as a different felideataur species entirely, like a bobcat or a puma. Even if you exclusively married other ‘taurs of the same felidaetaur breed and had for generations, you could end up having a different-breed felidaetaur child, just because of the drift. After all, even the Lucis Caelum line, which is rather famously almost all lions and almost always married other lions, has supposedly sometimes produced a non-lion child that modern genetic tests confirmed to be their own natural child.

The insurance system therefore developed taxonomic analysis as a method of testing for and classifying species at birth. The system became even more popular once the scientists definitively established that ‘taurs are not bound by any cross-species breeding restrictions the way that their animal cousins are, enabling any 'taur of any variety to have children with any other variety of 'taur, and, around the same time, any remaining legal prejudice against mixed-species relationships was definitively eliminated. Of course, in the face of all scientific knowledge, such prejudice hasn’t entirely disappeared as a cultural phenomenon – a lingering bigotry of a less enlightened age, when genetic drift wasn't as well understood and paternity tests were not trusted as much as they should have been, and there were accusations of infidelity every time a ‘taur came out a different type.

Of course, the principles of genetic dominance means that a mixed-species child will look like a single animal species, no matter how mixed, and will generally take wholly after one parent or the other in terms of their appearance, but that just means there is even more of a chance of species variation – Clarus’ own mother was a bear, as it happened, but he himself took after his father the tiger, and he married another tiger in his wife Cyrella, and his son Gladio is also a tiger despite there being a decent chance of him being a bear like his grandmother. While mixed-species relationships are still a minority, they are a sizeable one, and have been for generations and generations, and that means that no matter what you are or who you marry, you could end up with a surprise.

Given that, and given the wide range of medical treatments – not to mention medical insurance requirements – that depended on knowing what your little kitling is from the moment of birth, the taxonomic analysis is therefore considered crucial. Even though the kitlings and, later, children who are so classified run the risk of being stereotyped simply because of their classification, parents regularly opt for analysis in order to better prepare for the future, especially as Insomnia grows increasingly more cosmopolitan.

And so the taxonomic analysis system remains in place, with all of its benefits and drawbacks.

In Cor’s case, of course, it was mostly drawbacks.

At the time of his initial testing, Cor was stamped with the standard Felis catus taurus (domestic housecat 'taur) designation that the majority of the population of Lucis has – out of sheer laziness, Clarus presumes, since well before the time Cor was officially re-tested at age fifteen, it was obvious to everyone with a pair of eyes that he was actually an Acinonyx jubatus taurus, the far rarer (indeed, almost unheard of) cheetah ‘taur.

It might not have been such a big deal if Cor wasn’t quite so famous: the great prodigy of the Crownsguard and, by the age of fifteen, already starting to be widely known as the Immortal for his daring, almost suicidal feats of bravery and his equally amazing ability to survive them. Indeed, if Cor had been any other child, growing up in relative poverty as he had, he likely wouldn’t have had any choice but to take what he was initially offered: his designation quietly changed on the books without anyone in the medical or insurance industries having to admit that they’d made a mistake and thereby open the door to incurring liability.

But Cor was not any other child, and he was not exactly inclined to take insults lying down – especially not at fifteen, mere months before he’d gone to the Tempering Grounds, back when he’d been a regular firecracker, hotheaded and rash and so very, very angry at the world. After all, he’d received years and years of incorrect medical care as a result of his misclassification; worse, his foster parents had turned him out of their house when the expense of his medical requirements turned out to be considerably greater than what was allowed for under his category of insurance, and he’d lived for some months (no one is quite certain as to the exact timeline, and Cor won’t say a word about it) on the streets of Insomnia before he’d forced his way into the Crownsguard by lying about his age and only revealing the (incredibly obvious) truth when he’d already beaten the tests and defeated four current Crownsguard members in one-on-one duels. So instead of simply agreeing to a change of classification, he’d demanded an official recognition of his misclassification.

A court-sanctioned recognition.

The medical and insurance industries had (unwisely) decided that instead of admitting the mistake and opening the door to future suits by misclassified individuals, they would simply refuse to reclassify him, arguing instead that they’d been right the whole time and that he was actually simply a spotted tabby with a peculiar resemblance to a cheetah.

It was a scandal, of course; the entire city was appalled at the obvious untruth being spouted by otherwise respectable doctors, especially with Cor visibly growing into the so-characteristic spots and infamous speed of his species. It didn't help that Cor, being a foundling, was surnamed Leonis, the traditional foundling surname in honor of the royal family of Lucis (all lions, of course).

A cheetah named after a lion being misclassified as a housecat? The political cartoons all but drew themselves.

Realizing belatedly that they had seriously thrown their own credibility into jeopardy, the medical and insurance agencies quickly retracted the argument, but the damage was done and Cor’s lawyers proceeded to definitively rip them apart in court.

All together, that history makes for a pretty strong argument against Taceo’s profiling proposal on Cor’s part, especially given the fact that Cor virtually never makes reference to his past in any context, much less as a rhetorical argument. In fact, Clarus doesn’t think Cor has so much as mentioned the lawsuit since the day he won an unconditional victory in the courthouses.

Taceo seems to realize that he’s losing his audience, as many of the other Councilors are nodding in agreement with Cor, so he quickly says, “You misunderstand the nature of my proposal, young Marshal –”

“Just Marshal is fine,” Cor says, his voice reverting back to pleasant. “You lost all rights to refer to my age when you called me a kitten. But please, do go on.”

“You act as though I were suggesting that we rely exclusively on speciesist assumptions and stereotypes,” Taceo says, pretending as though he hasn’t heard the interruption. “Nothing could be further from the truth! I merely suggest that given the limits of our resources and the well-known fact that our enemy is largely canine, that we focus our security forces on examining individuals with canine characteristics –”

Cor arches his eyebrows. “Still sounds a lot like discriminatory stereotyping to me, oddly enough,” he drawls. “You’re aware, of course, of the large numbers of refugees that have come to our city are canidaetaurs?”

“That’s precisely my point!” Taceo exclaims. “The influx of refugees is a perfect opportunity for a Niflheim spy to –”

“If I were an idiot,” Cor says flatly, “and I assure you I’m not, even then I would still have the bright idea of seeking out my spies via the usual method of recruiting dissatisfied individuals already living here instead of trying to sneak them in as refugees – without money, without food, hurt and alone and having lost everything. Your suggestion is little more than anti-immigrant bigotry dressed up for public consumption.”

“Now listen here, you impertinent little youngster – ” Taceo starts.

“Cor,” Regis says from the head of the table. “That was uncalled for.”

Cor bows his head. “You are correct, of course,” he says. “I spoke too hastily. The fact that the idea is based on no science, no reasonable rationale, and would undoubtedly result in increased internal strife within the city boundaries is obviously no reason why we should not continue to entertain the idea suggested by Councilor Taedeo –”

“Taceo!” Taceo roars, rearing back on his haunches.

“Really?” Cor asks, blinking. “I hadn’t noticed.”

Clarus very nearly chokes trying to keep himself from laughing. The root of Taceo’s name comes from the old word for ‘silent’, while the similar-sounding ‘taedeo’ originates from the word for ‘disgusting’; a fact that Cor is well aware of, given that as a teenager, he briefly all but moved into the library to make up for his missed education, at least whenever he wasn’t on the training field.

“I think that’s enough for today,” Regis says quickly, though Clarus can tell from the way that his lips are pressed together that he’s also having trouble keeping from laughing. He rises, his lion's tail flicking majestically behind him, and everyone automatically rises as well. “Our time is up, and unfortunately I have another appointment following this one. Perhaps we can take up the subject again next week?”

Cor smiles with teeth, his hands behind his back in military style. “Certainly, your Majesty. Anytime.”

Taceo stalks off with stiff legs, his wildcat tail stiff with anger; the other Councilors disperse as well, most of them shaking their heads in amusement or disapproval, depending on where their politics fall. Cor heads off back to the Crownsguard grounds without another word, shrugging off the traditional Council cloak almost before he reaches the door.

Regis nods at Clarus before heading back towards the throne room, an obvious hint, and Clarus falls into step beside his king. They’re of a size – Regis is, of course, a lion, and Clarus a tiger – and it makes it a little easier than it might have otherwise been. Of course, ‘taur physiology means that no matter what species make up their lower halves, people are generally proportionate to their upright humanoid halves, typically ranging between five to six feet tall, but Clarus distinctly remembers how annoying Cid found the casual walk-and-talk style generally prevalent in Insomnia, his jackrabbit stride being totally out of sync with their relaxed feline prowl. While that certainly wasn’t the reason he was no longer really talking with them, Clarus can’t help but think it might have contributed to his decision never to visit, at least a little.

“What do you think?” Regis asks.

“Of Taceo’s proposal to focus our security on profiling canidaetaurs? Absurd, of course; the second Niflheim got wind of any such rule, no matter how secretly implemented, they would double their efforts to conquer territory which is primarily felidaetaur, and we obviously don’t want that. Not to mention the effect it would have on morale in the local non-felidaetaur population –”

“I meant Cor,” Regis says, amused. “I’m aware of the flaws in Taceo’s proposal.”

“What about Cor?”

“He was speaking,” Regis says. “Quite a bit, if you’ve noticed; I think the amount of words he uttered in session today is about equal to everything he said the first month he was assigned to travel with us.”

Clarus doesn’t disagree. Cor tends towards silence, most of the time, whether due to shyness, as it was when he was just a kit of fifteen, following along and trying to protect a group of 'taurs at least ten years his senior, or to sternness, as after his experiences in the Tempering Grounds. The only exception is when he loses that fiery temper of his – rarer after his experience with the Tempering Grounds, but definitely not gone for good.

Still, Clarus isn’t sure what Regis is getting at.

“He has good reason to be especially bothered by proposals that hinge on classification,” Clarus points out.

“Bothered, yes,” Regis says. “But such a proposal has no room in my kingdom and he knows it. There was no reason for such an outsized reaction.”

“You have a theory,” Clarus interprets. He knows his friend well.

“I have a theory,” Regis agrees.

“Would you be interested in sharing that theory?”

Regis snorts. “He’s twenty-three, Clarus.”

“So?”

“Do you remember being twenty-three?” Regis asks. “When all those adolescent hormones have finally started evening out –”

“He would’ve told us if he was going to go into a premature heat,” Clarus hisses, face flushing. “Honestly, Regis!”

“I’m not concerned about his heat schedule,” Regis says dismissively. “Besides, you know for a fact he wouldn’t tell us a thing about it – you remember that time with the mesmenir den in Duscae?”

“Six, do I remember Duscae,” Clarus mutters, conceding the point: Cor had technically been on heat-leave at the time, bedding down in an abandoned mesmenir den while they continued onwards, but that hadn’t stopped him from going straight into battle against the Niflheim forces in the area when they’d ambushed the rest of the party, and never mind that it had made him the target of every single Niflheim soldier out there. Yes, his intervention was likely the only reason they’d survived that particular ambush, but still…“Then what are you suggesting, Regis? Stop pussyfooting around the issue already.”

Regis rolls his eyes at Clarus. “He’s the only one of us without a mate or a child, Clarus. I have Aulea and Noctis, you have your lovely Cyrella and little Gladiolus – Six, Cid has a granddaughter already. And Cor certainly doesn’t mind playing with them when we’re having dinner, for all that he likes to loudly claim an inability to understand how children function.”

“Weskham doesn’t have kids, if I recall,” Clarus grumbles, though now that he thinks about it, Cor has been vaguely antsy recently, in what could be interpreted as a courting-season sort of way but is probably, in Clarus’ view, more of a Cor-sometimes-loses-his-temper sort of way. “I take your point. But I thought that Cor isn’t interested in courting?”

“He’s not yet, according to him,” Regis says dryly. “That doesn’t mean his biological clock hasn’t started in on him – and you know how his anxiety issues act up when he’s dealing with his body doing things he doesn’t agree with.”

Clarus makes a face. Cor is perhaps typical for a cheetah, brutally efficient and terrifyingly fast, but paying the price in heightened perceptiveness that often manifests as severe anxiety. When Cor is anxious, he doesn’t eat; when he doesn’t eat, he's grouchy; when he's grouchy, he snaps at people – much like he did in the Council chamber earlier today.

Damn, it probably is an anxiety issue. And yet the stupid ‘taur refuses to see a regular shrink about a single one of his issues, despite being dragged to a first visit with at least half a dozen in the last few years. Not that Clarus could really blame him, what with his experience with doctors…

It doesn’t mean the rest of them don’t worry about him, as his friends and colleagues. Or, for Regis, as his king.

“He’s too young for baby kitlings, anyway,” Clarus adds, still grumbling and unwilling to admit he missed this. “Not counting Cid, who had kitlings before we ever met him, the oldest one Cor knows is my Gladio, and he’s only two. And we’re both well over ten years older than him!”

“Only twelve years, Clarus; we’re not ancient. Regardless, he’s a cheetah; you know what they say –”

“Fast to grow, fast to bed; fast to run, fast to wed,” Clarus recites the old poem with an eyeroll. “Didn’t we just get out of a meeting discussing why we should not apply traditional species-based stereotypes to people? You just want it to be all about romance, you old tomcat.”

“Says the person who keeps trying to pair him up with company for the Chocobo Festival?”

Clarus coughs. “Enjoying some pleasant company and having a mate are two totally separate things,” he says archly. “A ‘taur’s needs are not all intellectual upper heart, you know; the secondary lower heart, the animal instinct, also needs to be satisfied…have you considered that he may just be lonely, Regis, and not necessarily for want of a mate? There aren’t many other cheetahs in the city – and none quite like him.”

“Perhaps,” Regis concedes. “But at any rate, we need to do something about it. Get him to exercise all that restlessness out, something like that.”

“Exercise,” Clarus says dryly. “The head of the Crownsguard doesn’t get enough exercise.”

Regis makes a face. “Oh, you know what I mean.”

They enter the throne room. Instead of going to the throne, Regis heads towards the windows overlooking the Crownsguard training arena. Clarus joins him and looks down to where Cor is – well, to be frank, where Cor is kicking the ass of ten highly regarded Crownsguard.

At once.

“He’s going to be unpopular if he keeps up with that,” Clarus observes.

“I know,” Regis says with a sigh. “Perhaps some time outside the Wall will do him good.”

“You just named him the Marshal of the Crownsguard,” Clarus reminds Regis. “You can’t just reassign him.”

“Not reassign him, no. Perhaps a covert mission of some variety...?”

Clarus snorts. “That’s a terrible reason to send someone on a covert mission,” he warns, but he can already feel himself giving in. He’s always been protective of Cor, ever since old King Mors had come back from his travels with an overgrown fluffball at his side as his bodyguard, of all preposterous things; Clarus hadn’t believed it until Cor had demonstrated at some length why Clarus ought to let Cor guard him instead of the other way around. Clarus still secretly thought it more than a little ridiculous; ridiculous prodigy or not, best fighter in the kingdom or not, thirteen years old is far too young to be on the front lines of a war. “Very well; we can pick a mission for him to go on, something reasonable…hmm. We did get that one letter from Niflheim, do you recall – the one about the factories?”

“Didn’t we think it was some sort of trap?”

“We thought it was likely a trap of some sort, yes,” Clarus agrees. “But this is Cor we’re talking about. He can be trusted to scout out the situation fully before going in.”

“And very likely to survive coming out,” Regis says wryly. “If anyone ever finds out we sent him on another death-defying, impossible-to-survive mission, he’ll never get that Immortal nickname off of him.”

“He’s never getting rid of that nickname anyway. If we send him solo with - at most - some back-up within radio distance, he’ll at least avoid being afraid that everyone around him will die,” Clarus says. “Again.”

“It’s not his fault he’s so much faster than everyone around him,” Regis sighs. “It’s just the way he was born, and how talented he is; anyone else would have died along with their squad. He’s not somehow to blame because he survived where they didn’t, no matter what he might think. Do check with the Crownsguard that he’s been eating enough, will you?”

“You already know he won’t be,” Clarus says gently. “But I’ll tell him he can’t ship out unless he eats a full meal.”

“That’ll be something, at least,” Regis says. He shakes his head and pads up onto the throne, settling in for his next meeting. “Very well, we're agreed; let's send him out. Do remind him to be cautious about it, will you?”

“Don’t worry,” Clarus says firmly. “He won’t do anything rash.”

#final fantasy xv #cor leonis #regis lucis caelum #clarus amicitia #nocturne #my fic #I hope people enjoy this!

[burberrycanary]

Like Me Reckless: Fear, Denial & Protective Coloring

This excessively long meta is dedicated to @village-skeptic.

So, true fact, the kiss from 2.03 in the Red and Black’s office was fantastic:

But the conversation between Betty and Jughead right before this included several puzzling lines of dialogue. The real doozy was Jughead’s baffling assertion that Betty likes him being reckless. My mind has been boggling at that one ever since. But that was just one of several off moments from Jughead in that conversation.

So let’s take this one piece at a time. 

A little humor about fear and violence to get started

Jughead: “You cannot be here at night unless you are armed.”

The “unless you are armed” part of this line is strange. Betty isn’t likely to be carrying any sort of weapon. (Unlike *cough* Archie.) What would make sense for Jughead to say is either, “You cannot be here at night,” full stop, or, “You cannot be here at night alone.”

Jughead has advised Betty before and helped her think through her next move, but he doesn’t really have a precedent in their relationship for telling Betty what she can and can’t do. That isn’t how their dynamic works.

So I read this as Jughead reaching for a joke or at least his familiar sarcasm as a response to being worried for Betty’s safety while not feeling comfortable just coming out and saying so. Safety has become a psychologically stressful thing for Jughead to consider too closely. 

He can’t come up with a joke or anything clever on the fly though. He can’t even land the sarcasm, really. What I hear him actual manage is a flat sort of deadpan delivery.

Betty is always going to bulldoze ahead. That’s who she is. She hardly ever backs down even when she’s been warned that an action is dangerous. Jughead has every reason to be acutely aware of Betty’s tendencies to be reckless given the fallout from her recent exposé on Riverdale turning the Serpents into scapegoats.

Given that asking Betty to stop tends not to work so long as she thinks she’s in the right (and even sometimes when she knows she’s not) Jughead would have to admit a lot more than he’s willing to—either to himself or to Betty—about how dangerous his present situation is in order for his concern to be communicated effectively here.  

Betty: “Well, I am.” Betty pulls off her joke in response about being armed with a coffee pot with more aplomb. Her delivery is funny and, come on, just look at this face:

Her giggle tries to shift the tone to something lighter. (Good luck with that, sweetie. Still, A for effort.)

At the same time, however, she ends up brushing off his concern for her safety and the underlying attempt to ask her to not do something. As Jughead becomes more aware of the danger around him, this will likely become an increasing point of conflict.

Jughead: “Ok, honestly, Betts. I hit pay dirt.” The “honestly” here is another strange word choice. A more logical transition from them joking around about basic physical safety would be “seriously.” Whether consciously or subconsciously, Jughead is thinking about his lack of honesty with Betty. And here this awareness is creeping into his choice of language.

The core of their recent, intense intimacy is built on being amateur investigative journalists who go around sleuthing together. On this safer ground, Jughead feels comfortable still being honest with Betty. But leading with “honestly” is not very smooth there, Jug, and to me indicates how conflicted he is about lying to and concealing things from Betty.

Betty: “But is it wise to be writing about gangs and drugs while you’re going to school here?” Um, Betty dear, if you were going to Southside High, you’d do exactly the same thing and to hell with the consequences. A message written in pig’s blood and the implied threat of the hanging Betty doll did nothing to slow her down in 1.13. The ambient danger of Southside High wouldn’t stop her chasing this story either. But Betty is perfectly okay with feeling intense concern for the safety of others combined with a reckless disregard for her own. That’s just how she rolls.

Betty and Jughead are vulnerable in different ways, of course. The threats against Betty were explicitly sexualized: “Serpent slut.” Betty is vulnerable to sexual violence in a way that Jughead culturally is much less vulnerable to and Betty has even less of a shot at defending herself physically than Jughead.

But Betty also has a lot class-based privilege that Jughead doesn’t, which keeps her safe in ways Jughead never will be.

And Jughead here is taking a bigger risk chasing this story than Betty did publishing a controversial editorial at Riverdale High.

Jughead: “Are you worried about me?” If Jughead wanted to shut down or dismiss Betty’s worry, asking if she’s worried is not a very effective approach. Jughead could come up with any number of comforting or placating things to say to Betty here.

But he doesn’t.

Forget the smoke screen of swagger in his body language and the smirk. I translate this question as, “Please reassure me that you’re worried about me. I need to hear that someone gives a damn what happens to me.” Because Jughead has to already know that Betty is worried about him. Jughead is aware that one of Betty’s default modes is intense worry. Betty has told him before that she is worried, repeatedly and in a lot of specific detail. Betty just asked him a question obviously motivated by worry. Betty’s expression is communicating an almost pleading sort of worry at him right now.

Think about where Jughead is, mentally—how scared he must be and how alone he must feel—to still need to hear yet more reassurance that someone cares about what happens to him in the face of all that.

Betty: “Well, yeah, Jug.” Betty’s voice contains so much hurt and frustration when she says this. And notice how Betty crosses her arms over her stomach because Jughead is asking her to be vulnerable while seeming not to take her feelings seriously. Consider how that smirk must land, how obnoxious and invalidating this question must feel to Betty in light of everything she has already told him.

That record scratch moment of “you like me reckless”

Jughead: “I thought you liked me reckless.” And here we have the most puzzling line in a conversation full of Jughead saying puzzling things that don’t add up. This line isn’t delivered as a joke. It’s not even delivered with effective sarcasm. The best description I can come up with for Jughead’s tone here is flirty. And as @onceuponamirror put it very succinctly and accurately: Jughead’s dialed up flirting is fundamentally driven by the boy being just fucking scared.  

Because Jughead is not a reckless person. Jughead is, in fact, by far the least reckless person in his social circle. Betty? Reckless as fuck when she is on the warpath. Archie? Not even smart about how he is reckless. Veronica? At the very least, a bold and cagey sort of cavalier. Kevin? Not that Jughead would be likely to use Kevin as a benchmark, but really freakin’ night jogging for anonymous sex in the woods with the killer on the loose reckless.

And you know who else is reckless? FP. Anyone whose sad, slow descent into criminality starts with stealing supplies from his own company is reckless. Most of the reckless things Jughead has done like riding that bike or sort of joining a gang have been either voluntary or involuntary emulations of FP. In fact, “I thought you liked me reckless” sounds like exactly the sort of thing FP would be able to say with conviction right before he turned around and fucked up his life again.

Jughead knows Betty doesn’t like him reckless. She has explicitly told him that one of her biggest fears is that he’ll get hurt or hurt other people as he slides into the same life of crime and violence as his father. Betty continues to be devastated by Jughead’s seemingly reckless decision to continue down this path that can’t end well for either of them.

My theory is that this baldly false statement is a test balloon to see what Betty says in response. Jughead is afraid that he will have to become more like his father to survive. I’d call this a change in his protective coloring. The most common kind of protective coloring for animals is camouflage. But protective coloring can also be used to convey warnings, like the way venomous creatures often have bright, distinctive patterns to warn off predators by visually signaling that they are dangerous.

For Jughead, being bullied isn’t a matter of taunts and shoves anymore. And as the son of FP in a world where that means something, Jughead no longer has the option of trying to disengage and mostly being left alone.

But Jughead is also terrified that he is going to lose Betty in the process of doing what he must to maintain a minimum level of safety in this new world. Jughead is flirting with Betty here about recklessness as a convoluted and ineffectual way to try to gauge whether she’ll still like him if he changes his protective coloring from weirdo sardonic loner to something a lot more like his father’s recklessness—doubling-down on the bike, the jacket, the gang, and maybe finding a way to add in a believable threat of violence that’ll get him the respect he needs to keep himself and the people he loves safe. Or, well, safer anyway.

That’s the path forward for him from here.

But Betty is in no position to fathom what is going on with Jughead. Her life experiences don’t give her any background or context for this. And it’s not helping that Jughead is actively trying to keep Betty from understanding because he can’t bear to admit to himself what is happening and what the consequences will likely be.

Jughead is in the unenviable position of being afraid that Betty—as loyal and fierce and reckless as he knows she is—will stand by him and get hurt as a result. At the same time, he is also afraid that, like everyone else, Betty will reach the familiar breaking point where she decides he is just not worth the trouble anymore. So Jughead is stuck: desperate to avoid the looming confrontation with Betty about what this all means for him and for them while also desperate for reassurance to take the edge off the fears and doubts that are tearing him up inside.

So let’s switch to a different channel

However, as little as Betty is able to understand what’s going on with Jughead, I do think she can tell that talking about this isn’t working well. I also think that she is tired of putting her emotional vulnerabilities out there over and over when Jughead isn’t acting like he takes her concerns seriously and isn’t opening up to her in return. Crossing her arms over her stomach is such a telling, self-protective gesture.

So it’s Betty who leans in to kiss Jughead here; Betty who is nudging Jughead’s mouth wide open, holding his face and pushing him down on the nearby table. It’s a response that narrows in on what is still working between them and the one form of closeness where their connection is stronger than ever—at a time when so much else between them feels like it’s falling out of sync and slipping away piece by piece.

But switching over to making out instead? That feels a lot better than talking in circles. Because their feelings—how much they love and want each other—haven’t changed. Think how vivid and intense that rush of feeling connected again must be when they’re able to let all the white noise of external circumstances drop away in these moments.

I read Jughead smiling into the kiss as relief—although the relief gets filtered through his current coping mechanisms into a kind of smirk. And, because Jughead tends to communicate emotional responses non-verbally, to him this feels like the reassurance he was fishing for combined with the heady kick of a welcome distraction from the reality of his situation.

Of course, sex won’t fix anything between them or solve any of the external problems they face. I think Betty is more aware of this than Jughead, who’s deeper in denial, in more desperate circumstances and more acutely afraid.

But at least desire is something that feels good and neither of them has much in their lives right now that does.

Yet another terrifying social experiment

2.03 for Jughead was an experiment to see if he could keep his previous identity in this new context: a test of whether he could still be the kid who’s smart and not afraid to be a bit dickish about it as a form of protective coloring; who's an aloof loner opted out of as much of his surrounding social structure as possible and riding out the miserable slough that is high school; and who just maybe could build on his cautious new willingness to be part of something bigger than himself by creating a sister publication for the Blue and Gold and reaching out to Toni the way Betty reached out to him.

In the back of his mind, he had to know how unlikely this was to work. But I love Jughead’s stubborn, improbable optimism for trying anyway.

Of course, it failed and badly, as Jughead hit a literal dead end and took the beating he’d been warned was coming. In response, Jughead escalates from concealing things from Betty to actively lying to her, out of shame and an understandable desire to keep her as far away from the nasty, brutal parts of his life as possible. But, all the same, the distance between them stretches that much wider and the signal of their connection gets degraded with that much more white noise.

And the inevitable, irreversible changes slip a notch closer. Some couples make it through or find their way back to each other afterwards.

Others don’t.

Jughead and Betty have come back stronger and closer after hurtful conflict before. I hope that happens again here.

But either way, for better or worse, you don’t come back the same from what Betty and Jughead are lurching towards: that long bad skid out to a hard fall.

Or, as Jughead puts it, that’s what happens to kids in fairytales who get lost in the woods. If you come back at all, you come back different.

#bughead #betty x jughead #bughead meta #riverdale #jughead jones #betty cooper #character analysis #riverdale meta #@village-skeptic my partner in brooding #otp: we're all crazy #otp: on borrowed time #riverdaleedit #riverdale spoilers #riverdale season two #my meta #mine #by burberrycanary #a short novel of meta