#it’s almost as bad as a face to face conversation in terms of rules to keep track of and follow so people don’t misconstrue my words

[kinda-garbage]

I used to hate emojis until I realized I could just use them to end a conversation, since I don’t know how to do it in a polite way with words.

The number of times I’ve felt exhausted by a conversation, and really really just wanted to go back to listening to music and used the thumbs up emoji as a way to end it? At least 5, but that’s 5 conversations that I didn’t have to sit through until the other person decided it was done.

#I legit do this #I might be perceived as an asshole- but at least I don’t get bone fukin tired from a too long text conversation #it’s almost as bad as a face to face conversation in terms of rules to keep track of and follow so people don’t misconstrue my words #or intentions #autistic problems #more like a solution if I’m honest- but that wasn’t a tag

[yourtongzhihazel]

Hello. I am curious about the state of LGBT rights and healthcare in China. I think you are the kind of person who would recognise both the good and the bad parts, so if you are willing to, it'd be cool to have a bit of a rundown with links to relevant articles/reports? Thank you in advance.

Sure! Indeed, there are good and "bad" parts. "Bad" in that they're not ideal and/or needs improvement. In comparison to how these policies compare to the rollback of LGBT rights in the imperial core, no comparison need be made. One is, by far, significantly worse and getting worse by the day (here's an interesting map showing a comparison). The way I see it, there's two parts to the question. The first is one of social acceptance (e.g., personal bigotry). The second is of government and party policies. In that regard, there's areas where the state/party leads the people and areas where the people lead the state/party.

In terms of social acceptance, in my experience trans people are better (relative term) accepted than LGB people. There's a whole discussion to be had about gender roles, and specifically conformity, in modern Chinese society but I won't be doing that here. There's a definite generational divide between the socially progressive younger generations and the more conservative older generations. There's also a urban-rural divide as well, with urban areas leading rural ones. Generally, most of the discrimination you face will probably come from your family, statistically speaking (and also from personal experience). Despite this, there's quite a large LGBT scene in most major Chinese cities (I've heard ChongQing is a top spot).

On the state side, the courts will, generally, protect LGBT people. Notably a trans woman who was fired for being trans won a case against her employer. Sex education is also a step above what I received in the states. More clinics for trans youth (and adults) are popping up. All good steps in the right direction, but there's still a long road ahead. China doesn't yet recognize same-sex marriages nationally, though some cities do. Certain practices like conversion therapy isn't outlawed yet even though courts almost always rule against its use. There's still a general lack of access for gender affirming care for trans people and gender marker changes still require SRS and a gender dysphoria diagnosis.

Something I've been personally keeping my eye on is a move by the central gov to ban online sales of HRT. Here, opinion is divided; some say its a a step backward while others say its a safety measure (this is an ongoing debate in LGBT circles). The problem here is moreso with lack of official channels to access HRT. I do see the case for safety, but without offsetting the removal of third-party HRT with more official clinics there will present a supply and access issue. We shall see how this develops.

In short, I would describe LGBT+ rights in China as better than average (definitely more than where I live rn) and improving.

What if we kissed in front of Mao's portrait?

Supplemental material:

A) An op-ed by subject of the victims of Chen Weihua memorial foundation, Chen Weihua about LGBT rights (the man rarely misses).

B) A documentary about trans people across several generations.

C) CGTN documentary about LGBT people in China.

#Hazel's press releases #A larger focus on trans issues because well kinda self explanatory

[feybeasts]

For funsies, and to flex my writing muscles again, I thought I'd write up a little faux-research-article on the wereplush concept I've been playing with and y'all seem to enjoy- what follows is both a vague lore framework and description of the curse via one of its first bearers... yours truly!

If it's a fun idea and you wanna subject yer own OCs to it, by all means, feel free! I'm not gonna act like I have the last say in a fun little idea, ehehe.

Below the break, then, I present to you:

THE CURSE OF THE WEREPLUSH: An Examination of Virulent Arcana

by Lena Hart.

Foreward

If there is anything I'm known for among my kind- and the many friends I've made across the greater multiverse- I would hope that chief among these qualities is my dedication to my work. In the scant few years I've acted as the Spirit Archives' caretaker, I've worked hard to document, understand, and put names to its many lost pieces of arcana, its once-nameless denizens, its peculiar quirks. I've treated my responsibilities with the utmost care no matter what sort of proverbial wrenches are thrown in the works, whether that be restless spirits, outside intervention, or- and I will fully admit this one is significant, even if it embarrasses me somewhat- my own... let's say poor luck with volatile artifacts. Such a dedication is not always easy, for when one's form is often altered, one's mind assailed, and one's breaks frequently disturbed, properly-written research papers can be the last thing on one's mind.

Even so, I endure not because I'm stubborn- though I AM that- but because this work is important. Because I believe in it.

So, with that prefaced, I hope you can fully appreciate the gravity with which I say now that the following report is... one of the most difficult things I've ever had to write. Not because the subject matter is transgressive or challenging; no, if anything, it's anything BUT that. What I've taken to calling the Curse of the Wereplush is, if anything, frankly ridiculous on the face of it- but what makes it difficult to write is... well...

...The effect that selfsame curse has had on me, as patient zero.

As far as I can surmise, I am the first wereplush in the modern age, as any mention of such creatures is... all but nonexistent before now. Before me, there was simply no such thing, no papers written, no need for classification, and that the curse has now reached such a pitch that I feel the need to write all I know on it... well... that stings a little.

"My bad," as they say.

Of course, I'd be a bad scholar if I proclaimed my difficulty in writing about a subject is borne entirely of my proximity to it. No, the challenge in writing this paper has been almost exclusively physical, as you'll soon understand. The transformation I've undergone has been so drastic both in its effect on my body and the changes in my very mind, that I've had to rely on voice transcription to write, which may lend this paper something of a more... conversational... tone than you'd expect.

Still, I carry on, and I hope that the information provided in the following pages serves some use to anyone in the future who needs it- even if it seems more and more likely it's... too late for me.

Section One: Overview

The Curse of the Wereplush is a transformative contagion of wholly magical origin. Insofar as this scholar can tell, there are no records of its creation, no mention of its original creator, and no previous cases before... well, before myself. Though it bears some outward similarity to the likes of lycanthropy in its physical transmission and transformative effects on the victim, hence the name I've given the curse, it differs significantly both in its physical effect and its... peculiar... set of 'rules'.

Upon becoming afflicted with the curse, a victim experiences a rapid set of physical changes after a brief delay, and then further set of physical and mental changes over time. In the short term, usually a few minutes to hours after transmission (depending on, as far as I can ascertain, one's magical resistances,) a victim experiences a rather dramatic physical transformation. Their body, whether previously biological, mechanical, or even magical in nature, becomes a simulacrum of itself made of living fabric and some manner of thick, soft polyfill. Defined shapes become simplified forms, digits lose dexterity, and their eyes become simplistic pseudo-plastic dots. In essence, the victim is transformed into a living plush toy, complete with knitted seams (though no actual yarn or string is visible, as far as I've been able to tell,) and a tag somewhere on their form. In addition, the newly-made Wereplush gains a squeaker somewhere within their body, usually within what was once their abdomen. Though the transformation is dramatic, it isn't painful, and in some ways, the added weight, plushness, and soft, fuzzy "skin" is... rather pleasant...

Given the wildly varied natures of the faefolk, this alone wouldn't register as much of a shock- I've personally met everything from living boulders to a rather talkative sentient volleyball, but this initial set of changes also isn't the most pressing thing about the curse. No, it is what comes next, in the ensuing days, weeks, and months, that truly makes the Wereplush curse unique- and in some ways, insidious.

To be a Wereplush is not an unpleasant thing, if I'm wholly honest. One loses the need to eat, gains impressive flexibility without bones getting in the way, and it's hard to deny just about all victims of the curse are... rather delightful to observe. It would be hard to call it a curse when one is first affected, and indeed, once you're used to your new body, you may even consider it an improvement. But one must not forget that they don't stop changing after this initial metamorphosis, and it is these slower, persistent changes that represent the more... concerning... aspects of the curse.

The first of these changes is mental. Slowly, the pleasantness of being in this new shape changes into a sort of dopey self-affection for the victim. One finds they greatly enjoy squeezing and handling their new form, a sort of mental stimulus not unlike a cat's desire to scratch furniture or a dog's need to wag their tail. Slowly, this need to be handled and squeezed begins to become their primary concern, rendering most other thoughts an easily-forgotten haze at its worst. The harsher edges of one's personality fall away, it becomes harder to grow angry or agitated, and laughter comes easily. A developing Wereplush becomes someone who is delightful and huggable, and this is only made more pronounced by the second change that occurs over time. This characterizes itself as what I can only describe as "pillowfication".

Simply put, the longer one remains a Wereplush, the plusher they become. Limbs become thicker, bellies swell rounder, cheeks fill and fill to crowd out one's snout. After a week or so, a formerly skinny Wereplush may seem to have grown chubby, but after a month, they can hardly hold their increasingly-orbicular body upright. Stuffing eventually crowds one's body in such density that they become a sort of enormous, living mattress, and this process, as far as I can ascertain, does not cease. Even if I wanted to, having been this way for so long now, my digits are too thick to hold a pen, and I could hardly lift either of my arms to do so if I wished, nor see past my own... prodigious... abdomen to boot.

Less... nuanced friends have told me I quite resemble a pink hippopotamus now... if said hippo was the size of a house.

To say I'm soft to the touch, squeezable, well, that would be the understatement of a lifetime, but it is exactly this nigh-comical plushness that presents a problem, for though one is tempted to cuddle a developed Wereplush for all they're worth, it is exactly this process by which the curse is spread- for as I mentioned previously, every Wereplush has a squeaker within their cursed form- and if a non-Wereplush manages to squeak it, usually through such unrestrained contact, the curse is transferred to them.

It almost seems ridiculous, doesn't it? Accidentally get a Wereplush to squeak, and you turn into one. And make no mistake- even at my size, one can easily still strike my own; with how deeply the curse has taken root within me, they even get a rather... dramatic headstart on their pillowfication. The last poor soul who couldn't help themself nearly instantaneously became so round they had to be rolled away, though they did seem quite pleased with themselves...

But I digress. These aspects combined have made the curse quite... astonishingly virulent, and yet they've done so simply by exploiting a desire nearly every living being has- the need to squeeze something soft.

Section Two: Origins, Treatments, Cures(?)

As I've mentioned previously, the origins of the Wereplush curse are a mystery, though I am in a unique position to speak on the original transmission vector. Deep in the Spirit Archives' storerooms, where I've tried to organize yet-uncategorized artifacts before they are studied and displayed, I have boxes upon boxes of smaller objects- pins, buttons, tags, odds and ends. In a moment of clumsiness, I was pricked by a rather nondescript sewing needle, and thinking nothing of it, I tossed it out. That the spot I was poked did not heal, instead forming a patch of strange, felt-feeling fur should have been my first indication that something was amiss, but it was only later that evening, as I readied for bed, that the curse overtook me. By then, the needle was long gone, and all that remains of its origin is the tag now affixed to one of my flanks- one that depicts the very same needle, pulling a length of pink thread, as if taunting my mistake.

Having no shortage of magical know-how at my disposal, I've tried every method I could think of to cure the curse. Brute-force dispelling has no effect, and as a Wereplush cannot eat or drink, potions and alchemy are hardly viable. I've even tried transformation magic in desperation, but even the wildest polymorphing only makes oneself a Wereplush in the shape of a given animal, it does not restore the old form. I must admit, then, that without the original implement of my transformation to study, I am without any other avenues to seek a cure, and finding it- well, that's like finding a literal needle in a proverbial haystack.

With no apparent cure, then, I must turn to treatments, ways to minimize the more... dangerous effects of the curse. Chief among these, for the safety of others, is that under no circumstances must one allow themselves to be cuddled or squeezed by a party not affected by the curse. Though a Plush is a lovely, huggable thing, soft and squishy beyond compare, though it brings us no greater joy than to be needed, loved, cuddled... transmission of the curse under such circumstances isn't simply probable, it's all but assured. To nullify this, I've found that cuddling with other plushes can satisfy the need somewhat, if not entirely. If a non-plush coming in for a hug is unavoidable, try at least to direct them to your tail, if you have one, or less important limbs- squeakers are known to migrate, but this at least helps to reduce risk until the mortal can be made to... restrain themselves.

As for pillowfication... I'm afraid there are even fewer ways to mitigate the onset. There is no visible cause of it, one does not gain weight in the traditional sense, and though one may be tempted to try to pull apart a seam and empty themselves of fluff, as far as I can ascertain, our fabric "skin" is completely unbreakable. Pillowfication is an inevitability once you bear the curse, so the best one can really do is find loose-fitting, comfortable clothing, and get used to their newfound bulk as it grows. Though it isn't much of a silver lining, I can wholly attest that the process is quite comfortable, and if nothing else, the lack of a biological body means one will never become wholly immobile.

I would like to consider this paper a living document, and rest assured- if in my research I can find a cure, I will do my best to disseminate the information promptly, but for now, the best any of us can do is try to mitigate the effects on ourselves and others.

Section Three: Miscellaneous Points

As I've been asked a number of questions that I cannot place within the broader text, and there are peculiarities to the condition I've only recently discovered, I'll try to provide a few below in bullet-point.

As mentioned above, Wereplushes appear to be functionally indestructible. We're fireproof, waterproof, can't be cut, and flattening is really just inconvenient. More aggressive victims have been kept at bay with large weights laid atop them, which work well enough, until they're too plump for the weights to find purchase, anyways.

The process of pillowfication feels not unlike having eaten a large meal, albeit the sense of "fullness" permeates one's entire body. Quite honestly, by this point I feel quite like I've been feasting for ages...

Though lighter than one's biological body at first, as a Wereplush's condition grows more advanced, their internal fluff grows denser. A new plush may be quite soft and malleable, but a deeply pillowfied plush feels like memory foam, and is just as heavy to boot!

A Wereplush's voice can change over time, some becoming squeakier and higher, some deeper and more syrupy, some not changing at all. It is unclear if this holds any significance.

Even if they were once human, a humanoid synthetic, what have you, all Wereplushes seem to take the form of anthropomorphic animals, with more animalistic folk more closely resembling their original form when transformed.

A Wereplush's tag seems to embody some aspect of themselves or the circumstances of their transformation, and is usually a simple pictogram depicting some aspect of their personality or history.

The rate at which a Wereplush pillowfies seems to vary from victim to victim, and the extent of the process appears to be limitless, though it slows once they've grown ploddingly large.

The sensations one feels if they've hit a Wereplush's squeaker, and warning signs that they've been afflicted by the curse, are an immediate sense of lightheadedness, butterflies in the stomach, and difficulty standing upright. These feelings intensify up to the point of transformation, at which point their body changes into their new, plushie self.

It is unclear how many Wereplushes now exist, but given the multidimensional nature of the Spirit Archive, and the decent number of initial and subsequent victims, there could be hundreds, even thousands...

#feylore #oc lore #c:lena #fey's writing #plushie #tf #wereplush

[storiesforallfandoms]

at the hip ~ steve harrington;stranger things

word count: 2425

request?: yes!

“About that Steve Harrington request firstly thank you so much for responding♥️ and secondly yeah I would like to request smth specific like when the reader is clingy to him but he loves it? And it's all cute and fluff pls?😭♥️”

description: his girlfriend can’t go more than a few hours without him and, although his friends tease him about it, he loves that about her

pairing: steve harrington x female!reader

warnings: swearing, the hawkins gang teasing steve and reader but it’s all (affectionate)

masterlist (one, two, three)

Steve had come to terms with the fact that he had lost all of his high school charm. It was like he graduated and, suddenly, he had no game. He barely even knew how to talk to girls anymore the way he once could. He was doomed to have zero “ruling” points on Robin’s “You Rule/You Suck” board.

But then she walked in.

It was a particularly slow day for Scoops Ahoy. Steve and Robin had resorted to counting the tiles on the floor and ceiling to keep themselves occupied. Robin was on the cash when she saw the pretty young girl in a floral sun dress walk in. A sly gin spread across her face as she turned to call, “Steve!”

“I’m still on my break!” Steve called from the back room.

“I gotta go to the bathroom!”

She heard Steve groan and the shuffling of chairs as he stood and exited the back room. Robin quickly raced back, leaning in to whisper, “Good luck” into Steve’s ear before she disappeared. He was confused at first, until his eyes landed on the most beautiful girl who had ever graced Scoops Ahoy.

“H-Hello,” he stuttered. “Welcome to...to...”

He gestured to his hat, which had the name of the establishment on it.

God, you’re already blowing it!

She was giggling though. That had to be a good sign, right?

“What can I get for you today?”

“Can I get a chocolate chip cookie dough cone, two scoops?”

Even her voice was the most beautiful sound.

Steve found himself distracted by her beauty that he barely even noticed that she had actually ordered. She was watching him with amusement, which caused him to snap out of his thoughts.

“Yes! Right! Cookie dough, two scoops, cone. Coming right up.”

He made sure to give her the biggest scoops he could muster onto the cone and passed it to her. She gave him a bill and as he was punching it into the cash register, she said, “You can keep the change.”

“Are you sure?” Steve asked, stupidly.

She giggled again. “Yes, I’m sure. Keep it as a tip.”

Steve watched her go, a dreamy look on his face, before he realized he didn’t even ask her for her name and would probably never see her again.

“I’m marking that under You Suck,” Robin commented.

He turned to glare at her, but decided not to dignify her with a response this time around. He definitely felt like he sucked for not trying to converse with the beautiful girl.

Steve was pleasantly surprised, and extremely happy, when the familiar pretty face walked into Scoops Ahoy again, dressed in another beautiful, floral dress, with her hair pulled back into a braid to reveal more of her beautiful face.

“Well, hello again,” Steve said as she approached the counter. “Welcome to Scoops Ahoy. May I get you another cookie dough ice cream, two scoops?”

She smiled and Steve felt like all the bad things in the world were gone away. All there was in this world was this pretty girl, smiling at him, in his presence again after he had convinced himself he’d never see her again.

“No,” she said. “Well, actually, now that I’m here I kind of do want some ice cream, but that’s not my main reason for being here.”

Steve raised an eyebrow at her. “Oh?”

She reached into the purse that was hung over her shoulder, also floral print (he’d never look at flowers the same way again), and pulled out a slip of paper. She passed it to Steve with shaky hands, almost like she was nervous. Steve took the paper and unfolded it to see the name (Y/N) written in bold, black ink, with a phone number underneath it.

“I kind of regretted not staying around for longer yesterday,” (Y/N) explained, “but I was very...nervous. I was afraid I’d say something stupid and make myself look...well...stupid. But I couldn’t stop thinking about you, and I understand that this is a hugely bold gesture to try and do with someone I don’t know, but I’m just...hoping for the best I guess.”

She gave him a nervous smile once she finished her rambling. Steve kept looking between the note and the person in front of her. He could hardly believe this was happening. He was sure he was dreaming and going to wake up at any moment.

“Steve,” he said, suddenly, surprising both himself and (Y/N).

“What?”

“My name. It’s-it’s Steve. Since I know yours now, you should also know mine.”

She was trying to hold back the amused smile that was fighting to cross her face as she said, “I know. It’s on your nametag.”

Steve tried not to cringe. “Yeah, it is. You’re right.”

He pocketed her phone number and quickly started to make her ice cream cone. He needed the cool freezer air to cool down his burning face. But, he wasn’t embarrassed. It was hard to be embarrassed with a pretty girl just gave you her number and said she couldn’t stop thinking about you.

Steve packed the ice cream down into a giant waffle cone as much as he could before passing it to (Y/N). When she went to pass him the money for it, he said, “Don’t worry. This one’s on me.”

Her smile could’ve lit up the entire mall.

From that day onwards, (Y/N) and Steve were practically inseparable. The only time they ever spent apart was at night when they had to sleep in separate beds, but even then Steve would sometimes sneak over to (Y/N)’s place and stay the night without her parents knowing. Dustin liked to tease him about it all the time, calling Steve “whipped” whenever he would ask to bring (Y/N) with him or rush off after hanging out with everyone to be with her.

“You’re the one who created an entire ham radio in order to contact your summer camp girlfriend,” Steve pointed out.

“Yeah, but I’m not attached to her hip 24/7.”

“That’s because she lives, like, forever away and her family is super Mormon. They’d never let you spend all that time with her.”

“That’s besides the point.”

Despite all the teasing, though, Steve knew his friends loved (Y/N). They liked when she would come along on their outings, and Dustin practically keeled over with excitement when she told him that she had an interest in playing Dungeons and Dragons. She even did something that Steve thought was impossible - she impressed his parents.

She was perfect. There was no other way to describe her. She was perfect and Steve loved her; like actually loved her.

Steve and Robin were closing up the shop one night when they heard footsteps approaching. Steve called over his shoulder, “We’re closed!”

A familiar giggle filled his ears, followed by, “Good thing I’m not here for ice cream then.”

He already felt his spirits lifting as he turned to see (Y/N) stood at the enterance to Scoops Ahoy.

“Hey,” he said. “What are you doing here?”

“Well, I knew you were working,” she said. “I figured I’d come down and see if you wanted to hang out when you’re finished. I rented a couple movies that we could watch if you wanted.”

“That sounds great, but I actually have plans with Robin and the guys. There’s this new horror movie out that Dustin has been begging everyone to go see with him and we were gonna go once Robin and I finish closing up.”

“Come with us!” Robin said as she stepped out of the back room. “I’m sure everyone would be okay with it. As long as you don’t mind horror movies, that is.”

Steve knew that (Y/N) was far from a horror fan, so he figured she would pass up the offer and they would see each other the next day instead. He was surprised when she said, “That sounds like fun!”

“Are you sure?” he asked her.

“Yeah! Besides, I wanted to tell Dustin about the D&D character I came up with. He said I could potentially join their school campaign in September as long as their DM is okay with an outsider.”

Steve playfully rolled his eyes. As much as he teased Dustin and (Y/N) about their love of D&D, he thought it was adorable how much (Y/N) seemed to be enjoying it. He knew how much it would mean to her to join the campaign, although he also knew that meant he’d have to go watch her play D&D every now and then. A small sacrifice to see her when she was happy.

She waited outside the store until the two of them had finished closing up. Steve was glad he had brought a change of clothes instead of going to the movie in his Scoops Ahoy uniform like he originally intended on doing. He stuffed his uniform into a bag and quickly hurried out of the store to find the two girls were already waiting for him. (Y/N) smiled and Steve took her hand.

Dustin, Mike, Will, Lucas, and Max were already waiting for them outside of the theatre. All eyes immediately landed on (Y/N) as the trio approached and a knowing look was shared among the group.

“You two are basically one person at this point,” Max teased. “Those hands have probably morphed into one weird limb that’s permanently connecting you now.”

“We actually got surgically connected at the hip,” Steve said. “You just can’t see it because the surgery was that good.”

Before Max could retort, Dustin said, “Enough jokes, movie starts in ten minutes and we still haven’t gotten our tickets or our snacks. We’re going to get the absolute worst seats if we don’t hurry.”

“I can go save us some seats while you guys get the snacks,” (Y/N) offered. To Steve she added, “Just get me a popcorn and a soda?”

“Of course, babe.”

“I’ll come with you,” Robin said. “I don’t need any more sweets after all that ice cream I kept ‘taste testing’ today.”

Luckily, the snack line up moved quickly enough that they got into the theatre while the previews were still playing. Steve got a large popcorn to split with (Y/N) and two sodas. He placed the popcorn on his lap and automatically wrapped an arm around her. She rested her head on his shoulder as the lights went down and the movie started.

(Y/N) ended up watching the movie between her fingers once the scary stuff started happening. She didn’t want to chicken out from the movie, especially after coming all the way to the mall to see Steve, but she really did not like horror and she was really regretting her decision to stay. Every time something scary would happen on the screen, she would jump and gasp. At one point, she almost let out a scream and felt Steve silently chuckle beside her at her reaction.

When the movie finally ended, (Y/N) felt grateful. Everyone else was boasting about how good it was, but she stayed silent. In her opinion, she hated the movie, but everyone else seemed to have enjoyed it and she didn’t want to ruin their fun.

“(Y/N) looks like she saw a ghost,” Mike said, poking her side and causing her to jump.

“Back off, man,” Steve said.

“What? I didn’t mean anything by it! It was a horror movie, you’re supposed to be scared,” Mike defended himself.

“You don’t have to point out that she was so scared specifically,” Max said. “Especially not when you were the one who screamed all high pitched when the killer stabbed that one guy through the eye.”

Mike tried to argue that he hadn’t been scared, but everyone was now turned to tease him. Steve put an arm around (Y/N)’s waist and pulled her towards him.

“Do you want a ride home, babe?” he asked.

She nodded. “That would be nice. I kind of walked here.”

“I’m gonna take (Y/N) home. I’ll see you guys around.”

They all said goodbye to one another as Steve and (Y/N) walked off. They walked in silence to Steve’s car. (Y/N) leaned his body, taking in his warmth as they stepped out into the chilly Hawkins night.

“I didn’t mean to crash your friends night,” she said. “You didn’t have to invite me to go.”

“Well, technically, it was Robin who invited you,” Steve pointed out. “But if she hadn’t, I probably would’ve. You know everyone likes you, especially Robin and Max. They’re glad that the boy to girl ratio is finally starting to get a bit more even.”

(Y/N) giggled. “I like your friends, too. I just don’t want them to think I’m always going to crash your nights together or something.”

Steve stopped walking just as they reached his car. He turned to look at (Y/N). “They don’t think that, babe, you know that.”

She shrugged. “I know that’s what they say, but I don’t want them to think it and not tell us.”

Steve took her hands in his. “I promise you that they do not care about you coming along all the time. They like you. You’re basically a part of our group now. But regardless of how they feel, I like you. I like you a lot, actually, and if they don’t like that then they’ll just have to deal with it.”

(Y/N)’s eyes were sparkling in the moonlight as she looked up at him. “I like you a lot, too.”

Steve smiled and cupped her face, pulling her in for a kiss. They had kissed so many times, but every time felt like the first all over again. Every kiss made it feel like a bundle of butterflies was released in his stomach, and a warm and fuzzy feeling would take over his body.

When he pulled away from the kiss, he continued to hold her face for a moment and gaze down into her beautiful eyes.

“My parents are gone for the night. Do you think yours would be okay if you stayed over tonight?” he asked.

“I could ask,” she said. “But I am 18 years old. They can’t really tell me no.”

Steve smiled. “Well, let’s not waste anymore time standing here in the cold. I have a nice warm bed waiting for us.”

#steve harrington #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington x reader #joe keery #joe keery imagine #joe keery x reader #stranger things #stranger things imagine #imagine #one shot #request #fanfiction #fanfic #fandom

[dreamwritesimagines]

Garden of Secrets [8] - Begonias

A.N: Thank you so much for your amazing feedback and support my loves!❤ I hope you’ll like this chapter as well, and please don’t forget to tell me what you think, thank you! ❤

Thanks so much to @theskytraveler​ for helping me with the chapter!

Summary: Impatience can be dangerous. 

Warnings: Regency era society and social rules, some gender specific language and terms.

Word Count: 4200

Series Masterlist

The following week after that conversation at the rooftop was actual torment for you.

You had tried everything to divert your attention elsewhere, but for the first time in your life, nothing seemed to work. Even while tending to your garden, that night refused to leave your mind, as if your mind had sworn to make you remember it over and over again.

If your sister were here she would’ve said you were heartbroken, but even the thought was absurd.

You weren’t the type of person who got heartbroken.

Even if you were -which you weren’t- one simple glance at Lady Whistledown’s lines throughout the week would be enough to snap you out of it. You had managed to avoid balls, pretending you were still in a delicate condition after the heat exhaustion incident, but Benedict on the other hand had been quite busy as far as you could tell. Day after day, Lady Whistledown wrote how he only stayed at the balls he attended for less than an hour and spent the rest of the nights somewhere else, returning home only around dawn, looking quite disheveled. It had to have been bad because the latest Whistledown issue had mentioned his brother Anthony pulling him aside just when he was about to leave the last ball for a short argument which he had walked away from.

Anyway. It wasn’t like you were interested in his whereabouts.

“My lady, are you sure…?” the cook trailed off while Teddy giggled happily, sitting on the counter and covered in flour from head to toe, and you winked at him before turning to the cook.

“You have no reason to worry Mrs. Booth,” you said. “We will not burn the house down.”

Mrs. Booth did not look relieved at all, but she chose not to comment on it and instead walked over to the other side of the kitchen to check on the soup for tonight’s dinner. You turned to Teddy and put your hands on your hips, sticking your nose up in the air.

“Now,” you said. “Are you ready for this incredibly important task?”

“I am!” Teddy said, dangling his legs off the counter, excitement almost radiating off of him. You tilted your head.

“Are you sure? It’s quite the responsibility, you know.”

“Yes!” he said, jumping in his spot and you pointed at the other side of the counter.

“Over there,” you said. “We have our cookie dough. And of course we must have a theme for our cookies, it goes without saying.”

“Of course!”

“You are to decide what our theme will be and help me shape them.”

Teddy had such a concentrated look on his face that one simple observer would think he was to decide the fate of the country and you repressed a laugh, waiting for him to decide. He held his breath as the idea hit him, his whole face lighting up.

“A garden!” he said. “With people in it!”

You gasped. “That’s such a perfect idea Teddy!”

“And—and—” he said, flailing his arms. “We will have trees and flowers and people—you can shape the flowers and I can shape the trees and people!”

“That sounds like a good deal,” you said as you grabbed the cookie dough and gave him the half of it before you took a small amount of it out of your half, and started making a small flower. Teddy was humming a song to himself, his tongue sticking out, his whole concentration on the stick figure he was making from the cookie dough and you leaned over to press a kiss into his hair, making him let out a whine.

“Y/N I love you too but I’m working!” he said in a serious manner and you let out a laugh, then held up your hands, gesturing surrender.

“Alright, alright. Sorry.”

“You can kiss me afterwards, not now though. This is very important.”

“Got it,” you said, still smiling as you got back to making flowers from the cookie dough and he stole a look at you, then shifted in his spot.

“Y/N?”

“Yes?”

“What does propose mean?”

Your head shot up from the dough. “Hm?”

“I heard auntie and uncle talking about a lord wanting to propose to you.”

You cleared your throat and put aside the flower to start on another one.

“Propose means someone asks someone to marry them.”

Teddy held his breath, shaking his head fervently. “But you’re not going to marry someone are you?” he asked. “You can’t!”

You pulled your brows together. “Why not?”

“Because then you’d leave!” Teddy said, tears already rushing to his eyes and you heaved a sigh, then wrapped your arms around him to pull him into a hug.

“I’d never leave you,” you said, placing a kiss on top of his head. “I promise. Even if I married someone, which I will not anytime soon.”

“But people leave when they marry.”

You frowned, pulling back to look at him better. “Who told you that?”

“No one,” he mumbled with a shrug of his shoulders. “But Josie isn’t here and she’s married. You always say she is our sister but I don’t even remember her.”

You could swear your chest was hurting but you managed to smile at him.

“Teddy, Josie isn’t here because she had to leave,” you said with a sigh. “One day I will tell you why, alright? But for now, the only thing you need to know is that she loves you and misses you so much. I read you her letters, she always asks about you, remember?”

Teddy nodded, still pouting.

“But you won’t marry anyone?”

“Not anytime soon,” you said. “And regardless of whether I get married or not, I will never leave you. I swear to you.”

He lifted his head and gave you a big smile, then hugged you tight and pulled back.

“Do you think this cookie man looks nice?” he asked, holding up the cookie and you smiled, then nodded your head.

“Yeah,” you said. “It looks perfect.”

                                               *

One of the many bad things about being a debutante was that there were only so many balls you could avoid. Seeing that you would have to attend one eventually, you figured you could do it tonight and get it over with.

Besides, according to Lady Whistledown Benedict barely spent any time at the balls nowadays so you were going to be just fine.

“So how did Lord Shaw take it?” you asked your aunt as you stepped out of the carriage when it stopped by the garden, the music of the ballroom reaching there already. Your aunt linked her arm with yours and you both started walking through the garden.

“Well, apparently he was quite sad about it,” she said. “Your uncle was very clear though, he said you two would not make a suitable couple in matrimony.”

You squeezed her hand in yours while you two climbed the marble stairs. “Thank you.”

“Of course!” she said. “I know you cannot stand him.”

“It’s not that,” you muttered. “It’s just… He does not fit my criteria.”

Your aunt hummed. “Are you sure it’s not also because you have affections for someone else?”

“I don’t have any affections for anyone,” you said way too fast and your aunt stopped when you two reached the entrance of the ballroom.

“Whatever you say Clover,” she said. “Just promise me something?”

“Of course.”

“Try to have fun,” she said and you heaved a dramatic sigh.

“I’ll try.”

“Good,” she said. “Now, I can see Lady Bridgerton and Lady Danbury, if you’ll excuse me.”

She made her way to them and you nodded at them with a small smile, then turned your head when you heard your name being called.

Oh God damn it.

Benedict looked as frozen as you were unlike Charlotte who seemed incredibly cheerful as usual, waving at you. You swallowed thickly and looked around, considering leaving the ballroom for a second but you knew you couldn’t do that to Charlotte, so you made your way to them.

“Good evening,” you said curtly, making sure to keep your gaze only on Charlotte who squealed, rocking on the balls of her feet.

“Oh finally you’re here!” she said. “I was beginning to think you were going to avoid balls forever.”

“I’m not that lucky, it seems.”

“Benedict was just asking about y—” she stopped talking as Benedict elbowed her and she rolled her eyes while Benedict cleared his throat.

“Miss Y/N.”

“Mr. Bridgerton,” you greeted him back and Charlotte looked between you two, then put her hands on her hips.

“Well,” she said. “Anthony looks annoyed yet again, so I’d better go and ask what that is about.”

“What?” Benedict asked as your eyes widened and Charlotte shrugged her shoulders.

“I’m curious about the reason so I must go.”

“Lottie—”

“Charlie—”

“No to both of you, I will see you later!” Charlotte said and walked away from you in a haste, making you shake your head.

“Not very subtle, that one.”

“She has many strong suits, subtlety has never been one,” Benedict commented and took a deep breath, then shot you a crooked grin. “Hello again.”

You raised your brows. “You know we don’t have to do that, right?”

“Do what?”

“Have a conversation,” you said and he took a deep breath.

“I was actually hoping for it.”

“You were hoping for—Jesus Christ, no,” you were distracted mid-sentence as soon as you saw Lord Shaw’s eyes stopping on you, and he fixed his waistcoat before he started to approach you.

“No to having a conversation?”

“No to the universe having a grudge against me for some reason,” you said through your teeth and Benedict followed your line of sight, then turned to you and offered you his hand.

“A dance, my lady?”

You pulled your brows together. “I’m sorry, what?”

“It’s a ballroom,” he said as the music started. “People tend to dance at balls, in case it has escaped your notice.”

You stole a look at Lord Shaw coming closer and let out a breath, then placed your hand in his.

It was like a lightning. As soon as your skin touched his, you could swear sparks ran through you, that familiar warmth engulfing your hand and judging by how his hand twitched over yours, you could tell he felt the same. He hesitated for a moment, letting out a breath, then led you to the dancefloor with the other couples. For a moment you feared everyone else in the ballroom could hear your heartbeat because of how deafening it was in your ears as soon as he had put his hand on the small of your back, but you tried to repress the excitement and took a step towards him as the dance required.

“I appreciate your help,” you said after a moment and he smiled softly.

“I was going to ask you for a dance anyway,” he said, his smile widening at the apparent confusion on your face. “So, did Lord Shaw bore you that much?”

You rolled your eyes. “Worse.”

“Worse?”

“He proposed.”

Benedict’s whole body froze mid-dance and you shot him a warning glare, raising his hand above your head to twirl yourself as if he was the one still leading.

“Did they not teach you how to dance? Or can you only put up a decent performance in bed—”

“What did you answer?” he cut you off and you scoffed.

“I said no, obviously,” you said. “I told you. He does not fit my criteria.”

His eyes flickered over your face. “Y/N…”

“That was not an invitation to talk of that now,” you said. “It has been a nice evening so far, I don’t wish to ruin it.”

“But we must talk of it.”

“Not really,” you said, those sparks hitting you with their full force when his fingertips brushed over your wrist. “What did you want to have a conversation about earlier?”

He didn’t even hesitate. “The rooftop.”

Your breath got caught in your throat and you stole a look at him before averting your gaze to the other dancing couples.

“I don’t think that we should.”

“Y/N.”

“We can just pretend it did not take place,” you managed to say and he let out a dry chuckle.

“I cannot.”

“Why not?”

“You know why.”

Your throat tightened as you let him lead the dance, barely aware of your own movements as if you were in a haze. You knew there were couples all around you but somehow it felt like you two were the only people in that ballroom, like he was the one person whose presence mattered.

Especially when he was looking at you like that.

“Talking of it will not change a thing,” you forced yourself to say. “I told you; you mustn’t even think of it. I will break your heart terribly—”

“Alright.”

You blinked a couple of times, gawking at him.

“What?” you asked, “What do you mean, alright?”

He pulled you closer the moment the note of the music changed, signaling the slow end of the tune and he grabbed you by the waist to lift you up as the dance required, taking your breath away. You grasped at his broad shoulders, your heart leaping to your throat and he gently put you down, your hands still on his shoulders. His pleasant scent filled your lungs and you swallowed thickly, your eyes still locked in his.

“You said you would torment me,” he said, his voice low as the music came to a stop. “So be it. Torment me if you wish to.”

He bowed his head and walked away from you, leaving you there completely dumbfounded. It felt as if the whole room was spinning as you watched him walk out of the ballroom -probably to the garden- and you looked around to see whether your aunt would notice your absence, but she was nowhere to be found, neither were any of her friends. You licked your lips, then walked out of the ballroom as well, the cool air hitting your burning face as soon as you stepped outside. You pressed the back of your hands on your cheeks and checked whether anyone was around, but it seemed safe enough.

It was considerably a small garden, at least not as big as the last ball’s so it took you only five minutes to find him. He was at the far end of the garden, leaning back to the wall of the gazebo, exhaling the smoke of the cigarette in his hand into air. Your heart skipped a beat but you refused to let it intimidate you, so instead you passed by the begonias and stomped over to him, your brows pulled into a frown.

“Are you insane?” you asked, making him turn his head and he pushed himself off the wall.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“Why would you say such a thing?” you insisted. “You long for heartbreak, is that it? You could not find a lady within the ton to break your heart for some sort of inspiration for your art, that’s why you keep saying these things to me—”

“Is that what you think?” he cut you off and let out a breath. “Come on now.”

“Then what is it?”

“Do you really want to hear it?” he asked you. “Because I think if I say it out loud, you’re going to run away as fast as you can.”

You scoffed a bitter chuckle. “As always, you put too much importance in your words’ impact on me.”

“Is that right?” he said, looking you in the eye. “Why are you here then?”

You blinked a couple of times. “I…I don’t have to explain my actions to you.”

“Why are you here, Y/N?” he asked again, his voice on edge and you gritted your teeth, then stuck your nose in the air.

“I cannot have you hope for something impossible,” you managed to say. “You must cast that thought out of your mind—”

“You don’t think I tried?” he cut you off, and shook his head. “What on earth do you think I’ve been trying to do since I met you? It’s not working like it’s supposed to.”

You let out a dry laugh, the familiar bitterness that tasted terribly like jealousy reaching your throat.

“Right,” you said. “Spare me those lies, will you? I’m not as clueless as others in that ballroom. Whatever you were doing was done for your own pleasure, it had nothing to do with me.”

“You—”

“Nothing could ever happen between us no matter how much you may hope for it.” you cut him off and he stared at you, a flash of pain crossing his handsome face.

“It’s just me then?” he managed to ask and you pulled back slightly.

“Pardon?”

“It’s just me who feels this fire,” he said, taking a step towards you, his gaze pining you to your spot. “It’s just me who cannot cast you out of my mind, it’s just me who is in lo—”

“Don’t,” you said, the warning word like poisoned honey on your tongue, half sweet and half painful. "Don't say it."

“Why not?”

Because I don’t believe it.

You gritted your teeth, your jaw set firm in determination. “I do not wish to hear it.”

A soft smile curled his lips.

“Alright,” he said after a beat. “Then tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“Tell me you feel nothing for me,” he said. “Tell me it’s just me who feels this, and I swear on my honor I will never bother you again.”

It was supposed to be easy.

The whole ton could say lots of things about you, but no one could say you weren’t an expert on keeping your emotions under control. That required you to come up with lies whenever you needed to, but somehow you couldn’t will the words out of your mouth, they all got stuck in that lump that was growing bigger and bigger in your throat.

Your uncle was right, unfortunately.

Silence was enough of an answer sometimes.

“You—I—” you stammered, averting your eyes for a moment. “That has nothing to do with the discussion right now.”

He stared at you for a moment, that light in his gaze growing soft before he took a deep breath, looking down at the cigarette between his fingers.

“Y/N,” he said. “Here’s what’s going to happen. You either go back to the ballroom or—”

“What exactly makes you think you can tell me what to do?” you interrupted him, narrowing your eyes into a glare and he repressed a smile, then shook his head.

“I’m not telling you what to do, I’m telling you what I am going to do,” he said. “You either go back to the ballroom, or I will kiss you. You have time until this cigarette is finished, so think carefully.”

That…

No.

No that was a bluff. It just had to be, of course he was not going to kiss you. Being under the delusion of infatuation and fooling himself into believing he was in love in order to experience heartbreak was one thing, but him actually kissing you was another.

Deep down he didn’t want or love you. He simply could not, even if he tried.

By some miracle, you managed to find your voice even though you felt as if excitement had already taken over you. “Am I supposed to be intimidated?”

He shook his head and took a drag of the cigarette.

“Not at all,” he said. “I’m just telling you what is going to happen.”

“You do remember I have a knife for times like these, do you not?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “I’m willing to take my chances.”

You needed to leave. Any rational woman would leave immediately so as to protect their reputation, but somehow all your logic that would normally scream at you was drowned by the sound of your heart beating in your ears.

You were never the one to back away from a challenge after all, and the fire that was roaring through your veins was too powerful for you to even consider fighting against it. It was as if you were in a dream, and you were nearly trembling with anticipation, your whole body refusing to just take the step to go back to the ballroom.

It was just going to be one time.

You would only kiss him once, you would only taste that desire that had been haunting your dreams, tantalizing you every single night to wake you up gasping only once, and then—

Then you were going to go back to your original strategy. You were going to forget about him and this night, and find yourself a very old husband as you had planned and move on with your life.

Just once.

Just once couldn’t hurt.

You felt yourself take a step towards him before you pulled the cigarette from his lips to flick it to the ground, as if daring him to make his move. The fire in his eyes was so intense that for a moment you felt as if your whole face was burning, but you raised your brows, looking up at him before you scoffed a laugh.

“Just as I thought,” you said and turned around to leave, but felt him grab your upper arm to spin you around, drawing a gasp from you as your gaze snapped up to his.

“You, my poisonous flower,” his voice was a low murmur, making your heart skip a beat and he ran his knuckles over your burning cheekbone. “You will be the end of me.”

With that, his lips claimed yours.

Oh.

This was the infamous euphoria that every artist chased through centuries.

You could swear you felt yourself melt in his arms as he pressed you back to the wall of the gazebo, his hand cradling the back of your head, messing up your perfectly coiffed updo your maid had spent almost half an hour on but you couldn’t find it in you to care about it.

You couldn’t find it in you to care about anything else but him and his touch as long as he kept kissing you like this.

Desire spread through you like wildfire as you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, blindly chasing that feeling which made you feel like you were falling off a cliff, your heart pacing in your chest, your whole body taken by this newfound high—

And then someone gasped.

It was as if you had been splashed with ice cold water. Benedict pulled back immediately and you turned your head but as soon as you saw who it was –who they were— you felt your stomach drop.

Lady Featherington’s mouth was open in shock, her eyes wide while your aunt looked almost frozen in her spot. Lady Bridgerton was covering her mouth, obviously as shocked as the rest of them and Lady Danbury let out a breath, shaking her head.

You could feel the fear smothering every single trace of happiness that was rushing through your system just a moment ago and you swallowed thickly, digging your fingernails into your palm while Benedict took a step sideways in your direction, almost shielding you from their gaze.

Through the fog of absolute fear, your mind managed to notice that tiny detail. You could claim he had no understanding of responsibility, that he was one of the most privileged men in the ton who never thought or cared about consequences, but it didn’t change one single fact:

Benedict Bridgerton; the unbridled philanderer, the spoiled second-son and free-spirited artist, had quite literally placed himself between you and the ton’s scrutiny.

Lady Featherington was the first to break the silence.

“A scandal!”

“Benedict…” Lady Bridgerton whispered and you shook your head, looking at your aunt while you blinked back the tears.

“I knew Lady Whistledown was right!” Lady Featherington said. “I knew it!”

“I’m sure there is an explanation,” Lady Danbury said through her teeth, glaring at Benedict, “Is there not?”

“What explanation?” Lady Featherington said with a small laugh. “Did you not see what I saw?”

“Y/N, what on earth do you think you are doing?” your aunt managed to ask in a whisper as if she was as shocked as you were, and you tried to gulp down the lump in your throat, keeping silent.

“This is unacceptable,” Lady Featherington said and motioned at you two. “Unchaperoned and—and— doing that!”

Air.

You needed air but somehow, you couldn’t seem to get enough of it into your lungs.

“You should be ashamed of yourselves,” Lady Featherington continued as Benedict stole a look at you, his hand curtly brushing over yours as if he wanted to remind you he was there before he turned to them. “This is no position to be found! Y/N, your reputation will be ruined when—”

“That is not going to happen, Lady Featherington,” Benedict cut her off, his voice completely calm and collected, the opposite of the mind-numbing fear that was nearly smothering you at the moment.  

Lady Danbury raised her brows. “Is it not?”

Benedict shook his head.

“Not at all,” he said, his words piercing through the chaos in your mind. “We’re going to get married.”

Chapter 9 

#benedict bridgerton #benedict bridgerton x reader #bridgerton #bridgerton x reader #regency fic

[bringmemyrocks]

Can you say more about the Conversion Industrial Complex? Is that referring to the method of study in which student go through the process, or is it more the really new-age non-halachic stuff like the "sound bath" or w/e?

First, it's mostly my own term. Google won't get you much. “Conversion Industrial Complex” refers to the centralized bureaucratic process that converts to Judaism have to endure in order to become Jewish. This is not an exhaustive response, nor is it a “how to” guide. I approach this issue from a practical standpoint as much as a halachic one. I used accessible language and summarized wherever possible because the more people (Jewish or gentile) who understand this, the better. Questions are always welcome. Frame of reference is anti-zionist. 

Halacha (Jewish law) requires the following for conversions. Very few Jewish communities do not require the first two. 

Beit din (religious court) of 3 adult Jews

NB: does not have to be composed of rabbis, although this is more and more common as conversion becomes managed more bureaucratically/centrally

Immersion in a mikvah (ritual bath--can be indoors, or many natural bodies of water work) 

Circumcision for males (not always required for Reform)

Trans-related rules differ and are beyond the scope/point of this post. 

Here are the general means of getting a “recognized” conversion through different movements. (Again, not exhaustive, differs community to community, focusing on the USA.) 

Class cohort model: Few months of class with other students, accompanied by holiday observance for a year-ish. Students don’t automatically convert at the end and still have to finalize things separately (so it’s not like RCIA/bar mitzvah class/Alpha Course). 

Individual model: You study 1:1, requiring more self-study and self-advocacy, but still go via a larger denominational body or still-bureaucratic offshoot. This option tends to take longer, although if you have a lot of money it can go very quickly. 

Via the army: Israel will convert you to Judaism via the IOF, learning about Judaism-as-Zionism as part of the process. In case it’s not obvious, this is religious zionism and should not be supported. I won’t be going into this too much, but others are welcome to add. 

I am assuming that option 3 is bad on its face and will spend the rest of this post explaining the issues with the first two options. TL;DR Institutions that make it easy to exploit vulnerable people need to be changed. Conversions are meant to never be questioned, but in practice that happens a lot these days. Top-down control was never required for conversion and only leads to exploitation. 

Political influence: Conversions today are done or overseen by large Jewish denominations. There is no halachic basis for this; it is merely a consolidation of power. Even if your congregation is independent, your conversion will likely be done through a denomination. And every denomination has zionism as a core tenet, whether just politically (Reform) or also religiously (Conservative and Orthodox), or unspoken by heavily emphasized (Reconstructionist/most non-denom). 

How is this possible? Both conversions and ordinations require a rabbi, and for decades almost every rabbinical school (including every non-orthodox one in the USA) has required students to not be anti-zionist and to spend a year in occupied Jerusalem. This is why there are so few anti-zionist rabbis in comparison to the huge numbers of anti-zionist Jews. And this makes it very hard to convert as an anti-zionist. 

Note that Judaism being this centralized, with heads of denominations and countries having chief rabbis is a very new phenomenon. 

Minus political influence, there would still be racist elements because institutional Judaism in the west is extremely white. For clarity I will use examples, see below: 

Ethiopian Jews/Beta Israel: In addition to the racial violence/sterilization faced in Israel, Ethiopian Jews were forced to undergo orthodox conversion upon moving to Israel despite being one of the oldest Jewish communities in existence. In 2017, ultra-orthodox hechsher Badatz removed its certification from the Barkan winery because Ethiopian Jews worked there. 

Ongoing treatment of US-based Black Jewish groups, such as Beth Shalom B’Nai Zaken Ethiopian Hebrew Congregation led by Black Rabbi Capers Funnye. (Read this article) This congregation is halachically Jewish, even according to orthodoxy, but they are still regularly called not Jewish because they are a majority Black congregation and use the term “Israelite.” (That term has been used by Black Jews for over a century, much longer than the Christian anti-Jewish groups that use it. There are also plenty of shady white Christian groups that use the term “Israelite” without the US Jewish community batting an eye.) 

Lemba tribe in Zimbabwe: Much of this tribe has been Jewish for centuries and can trace their Judaism back many generations, at least as far as many Ashkenazi Jews of European descent. But they can’t trace their Judaism back to Europe or the SWANA region, so most Jewish institutions don’t recognize them. 

Minus politics or racism, there would still be a hugely damaging power dynamic between converts and the huge institutions that control conversions. When conversion is so heavily institutionalized, even in a totally non-racist society, there would still be inexcusable power dynamics. Example below:  

Barry Freundel, former head of the RCA (Orthodox Rabbinical Council of America) in charge of a huge number of conversions in the DC area, and had huge amounts of authority over all US orthodox converts because he was head of the RCA. In 2014 he was exposed for sexually exploiting dozens of female converts (NB: most converts, especially those to orthodoxy, are female). 

I know several converts who faced abuse from their sponsoring rabbis, including those who converted through liberal movements, but Barry Freundel is the only example that has received publicity. 

All of these oppressive systems continue to this day. There are hundreds of Barry Freundels out there. A top-down system with no systems of accountability will mimic the power dynamics around it: racism, Jewish supremacy, and interpersonal violence of all kinds. 

This is why I call it “the conversion industrial complex.” And this is why I side-eye anyone who insists that someone who has been living a Jewish life for a long time but struggles to get their final paperwork signed (whether due to racism, zionism, or some combination of the two) is not Jewish in any way. This gatekeeping does not keep Jews (or “Jewish identity”) safe; it protects institutions that have no halachic or human right to exert this level of power in the first place. Again, I think it’s worth specifying that these are online interactions between strangers where someone’s halachic status genuinely does not matter. 

I know that de-centralizing this system would not get rid of issues overnight. Power dynamics and exploitation can exist between rabbis and conversion students, but huge orgs like the RCA, CRC, USCJ, etc. compound the issue. 

Either way, pikuach nefesh (Hebrew for preserving life--in this case, not subjecting people to racism and abuse) is more important than comfort with “doing things the way we’re used to,” aka “making converts grovel/perform Jewishness more than we ever do/do literally anything a rabbi tells them to.” Conversions were not always done this way. We can take away these power structures, and people’s conversions would be just as halachically sound without any of the trauma (which many converts I know refer to as “obligatory.”) 

I could go on for thousands more words, but I kept it relatively short so it was digestible. 

(This is not about any particular Tumblr fight. This is not about whatever petty drama you think it is--this is based on people’s painful, real lived experiences and it is a privilege that I’m sharing it with you at all. Please remember this before commenting. Anyone who adds Zionism to this post will be blocked.) 

#jewish convert #conversion to judaism #conversion industrial complex #judaism

[typellblog]

The contradiction of Illya in Fate/stay night

Duality is at the core of Illya’s presentation in FSN. She displays both kindness and brutality, childishness and maturity, being at the same time Shirou’s younger and older sister.  This can lead some to the conclusion that she has two different personalities, but is that really true?

I would argue that what’s going on here isn’t a swapping between innocence and ruthlessness, but rather a juxtaposition – both present at once. In her first encounter with Shirou, she’s smiling sweetly, ordering Berserker to kill him in a sing-song tone. Many of her funniest moments are when she seems like she’s behaving and then casually says something insane.

Shirou is initially surprised by her conduct when he meets her during the day, but as she herself says, the rules of the Grail War are that it’s to be carried out at night. It’s not as if the sun going up caused her murder gremlin transformation to wear off – she would be perfectly happy to do all those things in the daylight if she had a good enough reason.

As a result, Shirou hypothesizes that she doesn’t know what she’s doing. She doesn’t really want to kill people, right? She seems so nice . . . (only Shirou would think this about someone who literally almost had his stomach removed from his body)

But after she kills Shinji and threatens Saber and Rin, Shirou realises that this behaviour isn’t inconsistent at all – Illya simply has no reason to believe killing is wrong in the first place.

Here, Illya is described as not seeing Saber as human because she’s a Servant.

But consider Illya’s understanding of the term ‘Servant’: something that belongs to her, stays by her side, and protects her. It's why she asks Shirou to become her Servant, and why she ends up developing such a close relationship with Berserker.

I think her attitude towards Saber isn't specific to Servants - she likely feels that way about most people.

There's actually a really simple explanation for this: almost all of the people she interacted with while growing up were Einzbern homunculi! The kind of person that you would be most justified in not considering a person. When you think about it that way there's a self-deprecating element to it, because of course she's aware that she's also a tool designed to complete the Third Magic.

Her intentions towards Shirou only make sense if she thinks of him as an object, rather than a person. Look at her room in the Einzbern Castle – it’s filled with dolls, and there’s a pretty strong implication that Shirou, tied up in a chair, is just another one of them to her. Her feelings for Shirou are characterized by her wanting him – and if she can’t have him, nobody can.

This initial mindset also explains some of the confusion surrounding her Bad Ends (I will touch on these in more detail in a later post).

 For example, when Shirou jumps in front of Berserker to save Saber, Illya is shocked and leaves, but in the Bad End where he runs away she happily goes ahead and finishes him off.

I think it’s clear that what she was surprised by was Shirou's willingness to sacrifice himself to protect Saber.

It can be interpreted as a flash of empathy from Illya - realising that Shirou has his own internal life and people he cares about beyond the role she slotted him into as ‘Kiritsugu’s stupid kid’ means she can't enjoy torturing him like she planned to.

Now, there is one respect in which it might be reasonable to argue that Illya adopts a different persona from normal.

For ease of reference, I’ll call it ‘Master mode’ and it happens when she makes a face like the following.

The furrowed brow and direct look are characteristic of Illya when she’s acting as a magus, and it’s striking to see her suddenly switching to this mode in the middle of a conversation.

In this mode, she’s capable of both being more demeaning towards others, but also much more formal, curtseying and introducing herself.

It’s important to note that in both cases, she’s talking about matters related to the Grail War and her position as a mage/Master. Indeed, the invocation of her family name is what gets Rin to react to her self-introduction.

This is intimately connected to her role as Master insofar as she’s a Master because she’s an Einzbern – another way of putting it is that she’s interchangeable with any other Einzbern homunculus besides the fact she’s a Master.

In this way the Einzbern name becomes totalizing and turns Illya into a tool.

Illya finds it easy to flip back and forth between Master mode, though. The moment when she threatens Shirou in the shopping district is only a moment, and she instantly goes back to how she was before once he agrees to go with her.

On the subject of how she was before, I suppose we ought to discuss what provokes this change in the first place.

In their first encounter in daytime, Shirou pushes Illya when trying to get her to stop, which results in her making this face.

This is her ‘default face’, the first one that comes up in the VN files.

Usually these portray a character’s default setting, when they’re not expressing any emotion in particular, but Illya is usually so expressive that this one comes off as quite cold in comparison.

Which is what it’s used for!

It comes up when Shirou asks her to stop being a Master, when Shirou ignores her just before she captures him, and when Shirou is about to decide whether he’ll let her stay with him or not.

And in many of these situations, it’s a moment of pause, where she shuts off her emotions before entering Master mode.

Looking at this, it seems clear to me that Master mode emerges here as a defense mechanism. Illya chooses to adopt a persona that’s colder, harsher, and less vulnerable that her usual mode of behaviour – one that she’s learnt as a response to painful situations in the past.

In other words, Master mode is just a mask that she will temporarily put on in some situations. The ‘real Illya’ -  if such a thing exists - is more aligned with her playful and less serious side.

On the subject of Illya's playful side, the fact that what provokes Illya initially is not anything Shirou said, but rather a physical action, is a motif that comes up a few times.

In general, there’s a physicality to interacting with Illya that isn’t there as much with other characters – for example, this sprite seems specifically designed so that it looks like Illya is close up to you and grabbing your hand, trying to drag you around, even.

Saber will get close but mostly just by zooming into her regular sprite. Illya will just directly invade your personal space. So sometimes, Shirou gets fed up and tries to push her away, as we have seen. He repeats this again much later in the dojo, and Illya briefly shows a frightened face.

Another more fun way in which a similar dynamic plays out is when Saber is chasing Illya and trying to get her off Shirou.

The sprites used tell a pretty clear story of Illya playing around, Saber trying to grab her, Illya being frightened, Saber going ‘oh shit did I just hurt this child’, and then Illya smiles like she’s having a great time.

Saber wonders if Illya was just faking her earlier fright, and as if to confirm her suspicions, Illya sticks her tongue out. And Saber’s back to impotently chasing her around.

Clearly, Illya is experimenting with boundaries. She’s not used to being physically close to other people, so she doesn’t know what the limits are, and she’s not used to other people using force on her either.

If anything, this reminds me of an animal that isn’t used to being around humans yet - Shirou even explicitly compares her to one.

This is around where it hit me that Illya isn’t human, exactly. Multiple times Shirou refers to her as a ‘winter fairy’, and there’s definitely something otherworldly about her.

Take the very first scene she appears to warn Shirou and then immediately disappear again. It feels almost like a dream, especially as the narrative transitions right into the next scene without referring to it ever again.

The fact that she’s the child of a homunculus isn’t what I mean by ‘not human’ – homunculi can clearly have a similar experience and range of emotions to humans. Her general strangeness is far more a product of spending most of her time alone and secluded inside a winter castle.

It’s part of the reason why Shirou gives her food in the first place. Look at what they’re talking about directly beforehand. Illya mentions that she was locked up in her room for a long time, so she wants to sneak outside now she’s in Japan.

It’s ‘she swings her legs and it seems she’s having fun just doing so’ that really gets me, though. Like, just that is enough for you?

From the beginning of the story, Illya is presented as both wealthy and powerful.

However, the symbol of that power, Berserker, caused her physical harm and was forced on her without consent.

Similarly, the symbol of that wealth, the Einzbern Castle, is used as a prison to keep Illya inside.

She seems far more authentically free when she’s living at Shirou’s place without any of those things.

This is the third of about thirty analytical essays on Fate/Stay Night that I will be reposting here (with significant edits) from Reddit.

I'm trying to move in roughly chronological order here, hence a lot of Illya's HF characterization isn't addressed yet, but I really like how she's portrayed in the Fate route as well, so this is a good start I think.

#fate/stay night #fate #type moon #fsn analysis #illyasviel von einzbern #illya

[snakegorl212006]

Diasomnia  Journal Entries

---------------Malleus Draconia----------------------------- -Called him Tsunotarou/Hornton for the longest time -Vil,surprisingly, told me his actual name -despite being a ghost who’s supposed to reside and be found mostly in his own wing, he’s actually mostly founded in the woods outside my house -i did some digging to this guy and all i see are legends -malleus was cruel and cunning individual -he ruled the land with a iron fist and would punish anyone getting in his way -i asked him about it to which he only made him said -”even now stories. The only history they see of me is only filled with blood and brimstone” -he tells his own story and the many names he has been called. -over the years even after death, people seek any means into destroying him   -i asked him what made him bite the dust (and then explaining that i'm asking him how he died as he doesn't know who Queen is.) -he told me he placed a curse on these grounds which cost him his life -whatever ritual he did permanently made him part of this castle of a wing -though,especially after what happened to my door, i don’t underestimate the guy -but he acts like a complete and total sweet heart -unlike azul who half of the time he’s most likely faking, he’s completely genuine -but i would say. Possessive should be his middle name -literally would not like for me to leave at all -i sometimes accidentally overhear conversations between lilia and him about some diabolical plans to lock me away or finding out some elaborate way to get an attachment. -i’m hoping still i don’t have to figure out what he’s like when he doesn't get his way (Aka; me not consenting to have an attachment.)

-----------------------Silver------------------------------ -that explains why there’s so much wildlife -something about this guy literally makes him the embodiment of every disney princess -he’s also a little sleeping beauty -not only he has a pretty face but, he’s prolonged to sleep spells -he says he always had this problem as long as he could remember -he sometimes pops out of nowhere and i blame lilia and malleus for this behavior -an illness is what got him unfortunately -he’s also very sweet. -he protects me from lilia’s cooking(forever grateful) -silver also comes to me for advice as lilia,unlike everyone else here, keeps up with modern times -i had to become his personal google translator so he can understand his father lilia -he’s also almost as gullible as kalim -I just happen to idly spin my broom stick around and now Silver thinks I know my way around weapons,specifically a sword. -he had a desire to train with me one day -i asked him what killed him and he told me he got caught with a plague -i felt bad for him for he’s genuinely pretty sweet -terrible way to go down that’s for sure -he told me that lilia saved his life with a last minute attachment,by choice, which allowed him to become a ghost -”sebek and others though i recovered fully due to this no knowing the truth that i was just a ghost like lord malleus and sir lilia”

------------Sebek Zigvolt------------------------------------ -loud -ill tempered -borderline racist -has a high distance for humans which is ironic to say the least -bost about his abilities often and love to talk about malleus -he is super smart and knows a lot in terms of core subjects -he actually doesn't walk around with that heavy armor 24/7 -very protective of his master and idolized him -i did ask him how he pasted which got him boating how he was slain by the hands of his master -i said i was sorry and he got angry and said “Being slain by Wakasama is the greatest honor a warrior could achieve” -i played along and apologize -he’s strong and often helps me with cleaning and arranging things -he expressed great happiness when i gifted him a old painting of malleus(who i bought from sam) -aside from the usual complaining and worshiping the grounds that malleus walks across, he’s really……obsessed with my demise -half of the time i can’t comprehend if he hates me or wants me to become a ghost like them -i mean i’m human and he doesn't like me much but he always is present and advocates with any idea on how to get me to turn into one of them…

--------Lilia Vanrouge------------------------------- -a cryptic old man with the personality and body of a young man in his early twenties - i also feel like he really wants me dead, yet he treats me like he’ve been best friends for the longest time -likes to tell interesting stories of his youth and his time with malleus -he actually gains a camera at some point in time and took pictures which weren’t half bad. -there is a painting somewhere in this wing were a old full body portrait of lilia back when he was army general(still tying to find but he keeps actively moving the dang painting 😤) -based on this i can confidently assume that they have been alive for over 700 years -he said i wasn't far off yet never elaborated further -he makes many,and i mean many, attempts to make me feel comfortable in the Diasomnia wing -this involves in locking me in the wing possibly taking the same idea from jamil’s attempts -bats sometimes flutter around him which ended up being one more creature to take care of -for some odd reason he’s more connected to modern day news ,topics and trends. -he has requested to have a laptop but the way the wing is set up, he has to used electrical outlets from other wings -which then he elightens me of the capacity of the ghost that resides here -this is when i figured out about their paranormal magic and energy usage -this explains on how malleus was able to travel to the woods outside the main house and how some ghost actual know each other -for example leona,who hates him, and vil knows about malleus

#twisted wonderland haunted au #twsited wonderland ghost au #yandere twisted wonderland x reader #yandere twisted wonderland #lilia vanrouge x reader #silver x reader #sebek zigvolt x reader #malleus draconia x reader

[jaywalking-rogue]

I was allowed to post silly/interesting And make Them Bloom facts on Tumblr and will henceforth use it for the greater good.

Anyway I want to talk about Yakamoz members' levels of English because there's some interesting deviations from canon and also I'm an English major, so enjoy.

Shiraishi An: around C1-C2 levels, fluent, much better than in canon. Taiga encountered a huge issue with language barrier when he first moved to America (although he wasn't half bad himself), and understood immediately that An would need English to survive in musical world going forward, because he definitely had plans for her to go beyond Japan. So he taught her a bit and basically made it so he would only talk to her in English & make her talk with him in English as well. An was initially frustrated, but as he was coming from the place of care, and it was kind of an interesting experience, she got interested in English and went out of her way to learn it even more by herself, at times taking it almost as seriously as she did singing.

She also met a lot of English-speaking people during her opera shenanigans, watched a lot of foreign productions and masterclasses and such. An was kinda interested to learn English at school too but soon got very bored with drills and grammar and in general felt like she's too ahead of the class to enjoy it. She still gets good grades in it though!

She's very good at keeping conversations, knows a lot of idioms and slang terms, but has a considerable accent since she never bothered with correct pronunciation and wouldn't know a grammar rule if it bit her in the face. Her writing is also lacking.

Additionally, An knows a bit (very little!) of German and Italian, because these languages has a lot of operas written in them.

Asahina Mafuyu: around C1-C2 levels, fluent, about the same/better than in canon. She is in very similar situation to An and is learning English because of Suzune's (Mafumom) concerns that she will need it in the future. Which, to be fair, she probably will! She started learning it seriously quite a bit earlier though, around the first year of junior high.

She's about as good at is as she is in canon, and is able to write essays and even poetry quite well. Her accent is also not as noticeable as An's; however, because of her often overthinking her correctness of speech, she struggles with keeping a casual conversation and sounds a bit "like a textbook". She's also not as familiar with slang terms and cultural context as An is.

She and An are known to exchange brief talks in English during practise or breaks, usually initiated by An. Although Touya could probably understand what they're saying, he prefers not to.

Aoyagi Touya: B2-C1 levels, about the same/slightly worse than in canon. Touya's primary source for English knowledge is school, and while he succeeds in it quite brilliantly, he never goes out of his way to learn more of it and couldn't be bothered to. Like Mafuyu, his speech is very proper and refined, and sounds very official. Could probably keep up with a business conversation, and he sometimes reads English books as a hobby, but not much else. He has very little practice with spoken English.

Tsukasa Tenma: A2-B1 levels, worse than in canon. Although canon Tsukasa's English is already... Debatable, Yakamoz!Tsukasa is considerably worse in it because he was never as interested in learning it. He only was invested in musicals briefly, soon focusing on his piano, and haven't watched much, if any, English media/musicals since, which hasn't helped. He keeps up with English at school and is okay-ish at it, on a normal level for a teen his age. That's about it, thought.

Kusanagi Nene: A2-B1 levels, about the same as in canon. Nene still spends a lot of her free time gaming, including online games, and has learned some English from chats with other players and watching reviews and playthroughs. She also keeps in touch with western musical scene, but it isn't much, and she's self-conscious when using English anyway.

Yoisaki Kanade: A1-A2 levels, about the same/worse than in canon. Although Kanade is distantly aware she'll probably need it if she wants to further her career, she doesn't have the time or energy to study English, and dislikes the idea of planning that far ahead anyway. She relies on Mafuyu when she encounters something she needs help with, and it has worked out for her so far.

#project sekai #and make them bloom au #project sekai au #project sekai shuffle au #yakamoz #jay chats #I just think they're neat okay

[silverefflux]

Theory: Sova x Agent 8? (and how he lost his eye)

Ok, hear me out on this one. Again.

My Proposition

Sova and Agent 8 are lovers, and the former’s eye injury has something to do with failing to save the now-missing agent (and possibly sparing mirror Sova).

Who’s Agent 8?

For context, Agent 8 is this unknown agent who isn’t mentioned by anyone

Could be dismissed on bad terms, dead or missing

But let’s say they are missing because if they were gone entirely, the VP could’ve just put Phoenix (Agent 9) as the new Agent 8

So I believe the VP is accounting for a chance that 8 will return.

Oh and Riot Parmcheesy did say that Agent 8 could return so yeah

Agents 6 and 8

Sova is Agent 6, so he most definitely knows this person

It’s also possible that they’re close, being one of the first few VP agents.

Agent 8′s locker number being scratched out in the Warmup cinematic could make sense if their loss was still a bitter topic for at least some of the VP agents

Spotify Playlist 

Since the agent’s Spotify playlists most often have songs meaningful to the agent’s persona, let’s look at something in Sova’s playlist

There’s a song there called Medina by Jah Khalib which is about a man separated from his love but hopes they will see each other again

I know there’s also a chance that the “missing lover” is someone else, but to simplify things I have this theory. Occam’s razor, right? Valorant has way too many characters already lmao

Fade’s dossier tells something about Sova missing his shot before, and I think this means that Sova missed his shot in some mission at it cost him greatly, particularly his eye and/or the loss of a loved one.

Connecting the Eye and the Lover

Maybe there was some sort of major face-off or mission involving Sova, Agent 8 and mirror Sova. Sova spares his double, but this backfires, resulting in the loss of Agent 8 and his eye.

Why did I bring his eye into the conversation anyway? I admit this is a bit of a tangent but if Sova was shot in the eye with a bullet it would most likely count as a lethal headshot, from which Sage can just revive him because agents have clearly been headshot before

But nope it just looks like an X-mark from stitches after an eye surgery, so it must have been something not as lethal but still able to cause injury...like an arrow from mirror Sova.

If this is the case, it would also make sense that his zealousness (we all know about the latest Danger Room incident) is a combination of him being a soldier and him overcompensating to avoid another incident from his mistakes.

As dark as this may sound, grave injuries are fairly common talk among soldiers, so the only possible reasons I can think of as to why there’s so much emotion placed on Sova’s eye loss is if it almost cost him the job he’s so passionate about---or cost him a special someone.

Other Agent’s Voicelines

Omen has a voiceline saying he senses a fury within Sova, so I really sense some unresolved personal issue here

Brimstone tells Sova that the latter has lost an eye for them already and that one is enough, which supports the idea that Sova lost his eye in a mission.

Cypher, meanwhile, says he accessed Sova’s background file and the explanation there about his eye loss isn’t entirely true. The way I’d interpret this? Sova didn’t lose his eye in some pure act of martyrdom like Brim’s voiceline paints it, but rather as a result of him softening up and sparing mirror Sova. And if this really did end up in the loss of an eye and a lover, this would look more incompetent than heroic on Sova’s part.

Chamber’s interaction with Sova supports this too. Chamber teases Sova about having broken rules before. Looks like for Sova, it’s (1) fraternizing with other agents and (2) being good to your double. With Mr. Frenchie choosing to form some sort of “friendship” with Cypher so his own secrets stay safe, he must’ve picked up some intel from Cypher about the other agents in return. Sova dislikes both of them for their secrecy...or is it really just that?

Conclusion? Hypothesis? IDK whatever you call it

Sova and Agent 8 are a pair. On one mission, Sova spares his double which becomes the one time he fails at work. As a result, he gets hit in the eye and as some indirect result, Agent 8 gets taken away. He still holds a grudge in himself and the other Sova because of this whole incident. Sova also hopes to see Agent 8 again.

#valorant sova #sova valorant #sova #Valorant #valorant headcanons #sova headcanons #valorant agent 8 #agent 8 #valorant lore

[undercoverbastard]

Of Stab Wounds and Misunderstandings

It was around the age of 16 that Stiles finally started to come to terms with the implications of his words and he had made peace with it. On occasion, he thought that maybe they’d be able to work past whatever issues his soulmate had with him, but when even Scott would forlornly glance at his bicep with those big round, pitiful eyes - he knew. So he accepted it!

But one good thing that came out of that whole situation was Lydia. When Stiles had swiftly redirected himself down the opposite end of the hall and ducked into a somewhat empty classroom to escape prying eyes and laughing jeers over the words stamped across his skin, Lydia had followed. She stayed quiet, let Stiles collect himself and get a hold of his breathing again, then calmly said, “Fuck fate.”

+.+.+

OR: the soulmate au one based off an old tumblr post or something i read when stiles' words make him think his soulmate hates him so he avoids speaking to them so they won't know who he is. needly to say, that plan doesn't pan out too well and idiots are forced to communicate

Archive of Our Own Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/44451616

Stiles had made peace with it. Truly, he had.

At first, he tried to fight it. When he was a child, he didn’t understand it. He knew his parents became wary every time their thumbs traced the words. He knew his mom teared up every time her eyes read over them silently. He knew his dad’s jaw clicked when his teeth clicked together when he caught sight of the mark.

As a child, he was none the wiser. He kept the words covered, as much of the other kids in his class did, and was blissfully unaware of what they meant. Some of the other kids giggled, talking in hushed voices about their marks. Ms. Jacobs often told them it was rude to ask about them and to avoid discussion about them - they’d have plenty of time to do so when they were older.

But that never stopped excitable 6-year-olds. Heather gushed over the word ‘pretty’ and how it must mean her soulmate will think her pretty as a princess. He heard of another boy laughing about how his said the word ‘howdy’ and how he hoped that meant his soulmate was a cowboy (spoiler alert: Anthony Garcia’s soulmate was not a cowboy but an actress at the local county fair who somehow got wrangled into doing horse rides and took her job very seriously - though she did look the part of a cowboy during her shifts).

Stiles at the age of 6, on the other hand, knew almost none of his words, especially when strung together. He knew some of the basic words like ‘you’ and ‘know’, but none of those words gave him much to go off of. He had attempted to sound some of the other words out, and Ms. Jacobs almost had a stroke when he asked her what prick meant. That was a long day - his parents were red in the face, Ms. Jacobs looked like she was on the verge of tears, and every adult told Stiles over and over again not to mention his soulmark to anyone else for two hours straight.

It wasn’t until middle school he understood.

By then, at the tender age of 12, Stiles understood what his words meant. Had for a while, but just then he finally understood what they hinted at. His soulmate was going to hate him on sight; he was going to be disgusted by Stiles before Stiles even had a chance to show who he was to the other person.

Stiles went through a phase the next year where he only spoke to someone new if they spoke first. He was terrified he would upset his soulmate by saying a bad joke or something else along those lines. So he refused to speak first - making it a blanket rule almost.

That only lasted so long as there were too many instances where he had to initiate the conversation first and he too often forgot about the plan that he abandoned it altogether.

It was around the age of 16 that Stiles finally started to come to terms with the implications of his words and he had made peace with it. On occasion, he thought that maybe they’d be able to work past whatever issues his soulmate had with him, but when even Scott would forlornly glance at his bicep with those big round, pitiful eyes - he knew. So he accepted it!

The first person who told Stiles it wasn’t the end of the world was Lydia Martin. He’d had a crush on her in elementary school, claimed she was too pretty to be a princess and thus was a queen, but when her first words to him were “I need the blue crayon” in 3rd grade, he’d not bothered to fixate on it too much. Then, in sophomore year, her boyfriend caught sight of the first bit of Stiles’ words. Jackson Whittemore, for whatever reason, decided to draw attention to it, announcing to the hallway at large that ‘even fate couldn’t find someone to put up with him’. Stiles refused to ever go without a flannel or a long sleeve shirt after that.

But one good thing that came out of that whole situation was Lydia. When Stiles had swiftly redirected himself down the opposite end of the hall and ducked into a somewhat empty classroom, Lydia had followed. She stayed quiet, let Stiles collect himself and get a hold of his breathing again, then calmly said, “Fuck fate.”

After that, Lydia and he had become two peas in a pod - commiserating over their not-so-hopeful words. Lydia’s weren’t as bad, and Stiles had told her it was equally likely hers were said in jest. Lydia rolled her eyes, but the quirk of her lips and the far-off look she directed at her wrist wasn’t missed by Stiles.

For Lydia’s sake, he hoped her words were said in jest. Stiles didn’t have that hope, but he could have it for Lydia.

+.+.+

Now at 20, Stiles mostly ignored his soulmark. Sure, he still stared at it a bit too long when he got out of the shower, and his fingers subconsciously traced the words when he was anxious (which, well, didn’t really help with said anxiety), but he didn’t actively think about it. He was mostly content with the fact that he had yet to meet this person, hoping to put it off as long as possible.

Instead, he focused on his day-to-day life, embracing the current moment. And with that current moment, he decided he was going to take advantage of the nice weather and walk to his favorite coffee shop instead of driving.  Well, he less so decided as he was without other options seeing as his car was currently in the shop, but that’s neither here nor there - he was still basking in the ambiance of the day and enjoying himself, so it still counted.

Humming softly, Stiles stuffed his hands in his pockets and kept walking, a small skip to his step as he bounced on the in-step to the beat of the song stuck in his head. He had walked about a mile so far, the bookshop long since out of sight, and he had probably a little under a mile left of winding sidewalks and crosswalks before he made it to the coffee shop.

As Stiles thoughts over what his caffeine-addicted heart was in the mood for today, he heard a low growl and then a pitiful whine echo faintly from a narrow passage between two buildings. He had just walked by the small walkway, the space barely large enough for someone to walk through let alone much else.

Ignoring his apprehension and instead focusing on his curiosity and concern, Stiles backtracked slowly, stepping cautiously into the opening between the two buildings. He took careful, measured steps and kept an ear out for whatever could have made the sounds from before. He was willing to bet some sort of animal, maybe a dog or a cat. It sounded as if they were scared or in pain.

Running through the hundreds of possibilities, Stiles walked further down the passage until it opened up into a larger clearing. It seemed to be a merging point between several businesses on either side, old rickety fire escapes decorating each building. It didn’t seem the most ideal in the means of fire safety and escaping danger, but Stiles figured it was the best one could do given the cramped nature of the buildings. Most of them were older than a resident in the town, the fact that they didn’t mean any fire safety standard within this decade (hell, maybe this century) wasn’t all that surprising.

Glancing around, Stiles didn’t see anything and was about to retreat, having not heard any new sounds. But as soon as he took a step back, he heard another whine. It was high-pitched and desperate, seemingly begging despite the lack of words.

Without further thought, Stiles darted towards the sound. What he expected to find was an injured animal, maybe stuck on something or maybe with a broken leg, unable to walk any further. Instead, he found a girl - maybe around his age - pushed up against one of the walls leading into another narrow walkway on the opposite side of where Stiles himself emerged.

The girl was pushed up against the wall and a man was in front of her, teeth bared at her in some mockery of a smile while his forearm pressed into her throat. Stiles could barely see half the man’s face and only saw the faintest profile of the girl, her arm and hair the most visible parts of her.

“Hey! What the hell are you doing, man?!” Stiles yelled out. It seemed to work, the man having startled. And when he stepped back, a slick, wet sound accompanying the clatter of footsteps, Stiles saw the blade clutched in his hand.

The man narrowed his eyes and took a step forward, his knife already raised once again. In a panic, Stiles reached into his back pocket. The only thing he had on him was a flashlight, an old clunky metal one that barely worked half the time but that he always forgot about replacing.

He hesitated for only half a second, wondering if he could possibly fight the guy off with the flashlight. It was fairly large and it was heavy as hell being metal, but he felt like he was still outmatched. Instead, thinking on his feet, he went with his next best option. Or, well, the next best Stiles’ Patented Idea option.

He kept his hand in his back pocket, pulling the flashlight up just enough to reach the button but not enough to show it. He clicked the button on it twice, the heavy slide of the worn and ever so slightly rusted metal button sliding back and forth giving off a decent enough sound.

As he did so, he spoke, hoping the click would still be audible enough but that he could distract the guy, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

The man seemed to falter, his eyes jumping to Stiles’ arm that was still tucked behind his back. After a couple of seconds, Stiles realized he’d have to somehow keep the charade up of his flashlight being a gun or he’d have to out himself to being weaponless and pray to god his flashlight was a fair match to the knife in front of him.

Just as Stiles was about to pull out the flashlight and try to surprise the guy, a low growl came from behind him. This one wasn’t pained, it was angry and threatening - low and gravelly. It made Stiles shiver ever so slightly and his back straighten out.

In the next instant, Knife Guy was darting to the side, out another entryway, and out into the street, not casting a single look back. Stiles somewhat understood the sentiment after being present for the threatening sound that just came from what he assumed to be the girl now slumped against the wall.

Stumbling forward, Stiles dropped down onto his knees next to the girl, hands already reaching out to see how bad the damage was.

“Holy shit, that growl was impressive dude! Like seriously, you made the guy turn tail,” Stiles said as he slammed down next to her. He froze as he saw a hole at the bottom of her shirt, a dark stain coloring the dark blue shirt a near-black color. “Oh fuck, oh fuck - fuck! Okay, uhm, wow, this isn’t- come on. Let’s get you out of here.”

The girl seemed to hesitate, her eyes dancing over Stiles’ form, which - understandable, she did just get mugged or jumped or… whatever the guy was attempting with a knife. Stiles would be pretty hesitant of himself as well. Obediently, Stiles lifted his hands in the air and spread out his fingers, trying to imitate the universal sign of relenting. He wanted her to know he just wanted to help.

After a couple of stifled, silent seconds passed, Stiles watched as her head cocked ever so slightly, her nostrils flared, and her eyes seemed to narrow. It was odd, almost like one of those police dogs when they were investigating a scene and trying to determine if a certain scent was dangerous. It would be funny if she weren’t currently bleeding out.

Finally, she nodded, and Stiles quickly moved to wrap an arm around her waist as he pulled one of her arms over his shoulder. The girl wrapped her other arm around her abdomen, a soft groan leaving her lips as Stiles helped pull her to her feet. After they were standing upright, he began the tedious task of guiding them back out the passageway he first came down. It was quite narrow, so he had to walk nearly sideways so he could brace the girl’s weight on his shoulder still.

Once out to the street, Stiles let go of the arm she had thrown around his shoulders and immediately called his dad, phone cradled between his ear and shoulder as he tried to look around and get an idea of where he could take them that was safe.

“Hey, kid, wha-”

“Park Place and 7th. There’s a girl who got stabbed and- and we- she… please just send someone,” Stiles rushed out. The girl who was now leaning a bit heavily into his side was groaning small protests, her words ever so slightly slurred as she gave a half-hearted attempt at dismissing Stiles’ words.

“What?” his dad demanded, alarm settling in quickly. “What do you mean, Stiles?”

“I mean,” he said a bit frantically, “that I am currently holding a girl with a stab wound in her stomach and need some help! An ambulance, maybe a police officer - someone!”

“Okay, okay - I’ll dispatch my closest guy and call into the hospital. Hang tight and don’t go anywhere.” And with that, his dad ended the call, seemingly to see who was closest and to arrange for an ambulance for the girl who was currently smearing blood all over Stiles’ favorite flannel and becoming heavier by the minute.

“S…” the girl began, “St.. Stiles? You… you’re Stiles?” she asked, her voice a bit uneven but her eyes wide and questioning. She was already fumbling her bloody hand toward her sleeve, trying to shove it away but being mostly unsuccessful. Stiles could only nod dumbly, lost on how she knew him and what she was attempting to do exactly, before he remembered the gravity of the situation and opted to figure out what she seemed to know him at a later point in time.

He searched around until his eyes landed on the donut shop across the street. It was closed by now since they only opened in the morning, but they did have a couple of small tables out front that he could set her down at to try and keep her comfortable and maybe tend to the wound in the meantime. So, without further hesitation, he began to pull her across the street, eyes darting both ways to ensure no cars were coming while doing so.

The girl - whose name he really should learn, Stiles realized - groaned in pain once more and hunched in on herself as they took the first step off the sidewalk. The shift in stance and imbalance of weight sent Stiles momentarily stumbling. He dropped his phone on the sidewalk and opted to come back for it, not wanting to juggle the girl while trying to lean over to get his phone. 

Swiftly as he could, Stiles pulled them both over to the front of the donut shop. He used one of his feet to pull a chair out and pushed the girl into it as gently as he could. He knelt down and rearranged her so she was leaning back into the chair, the rest of her weight supported by the table next to her. His hands danced in the air a bit frantically, unsure if he should check the wound and try to apply pressure to it or if he should wait since his flannel wasn’t exactly the cleanest and he wasn’t sure if staunching the bleeding was more important than avoiding possible infection.

“Give me one second, I need my phone, Mel will know what to do,” Stiles said, his hands gripping the girl’s shoulders briefly before he turned to dart back across the street.

He glanced back over to her as he crossed, the sound of nearby sirens beginning to fill the air - thank god - and then searched for his phone. He knows he dropped it just as they began to cross the street but he hadn’t actually seen where it fell to. Staring at the ground and darting his eyes around momentarily, he finally caught sight of the screen glinting off sunlight, the phone having partially slid underneath one of the old Post Office Mail Boxes on the street (Stiles was like 85% certain the Post Office had stopped using those things, or at least, had stopped using this particular one).

When he finally retrieved his phone and turned back to cross the street, he heard the thunk of a door slamming shut. Someone from BHPD had finally arrived - Stiles felt a lot more relaxed, seeing as he obviously didn’t know what the fuck he was doing.

Jogging across the street, Stiles saw a man knelt down next to the girl in the chair Stiles had propped her against. He seemed fairly young, a newer recruit - someone that must have joined while Stiles was away at school during the year - and he had dark hair and decently tanned skin. If there wasn’t someone possibly-maybe actively dying six inches away from the guy, Stiles would be taking advantage of the opportunity to survey the view.

Pausing right behind the pair, Stiles waved his phone in the air, about to tell the girl he was going to call a nurse and ask about what to do for the stab wound in the meantime, but she found her voice before he did.

“Der, it- it’s him,” the girl said, her voice a bit of a wheeze. She didn’t sound upset or accusing, more in awe. And Stiles was a bit stumped, his eyebrows knitting together as the girl held out a finger towards him and thus caused the man - ‘Der’ - to turn toward him. Immediately, the most beautiful set of eyes Stiles ever had the privilege of looking into narrowed at him. They almost seemed to lighten a bit, the color getting sharper, but it seemed almost threatening rather than ethereal, as the guy took a step towards him and was letting out a low snarl in his direction.

“You fucking prick,” the man hissed out, and Stiles felt his stomach drop - the sharp sting of tears already ushing at the backs of his eyes. “You are a pathetic excuse of a person, you know that?” 

Stiles subconsciously grabbed at his bicep, a small burning warmth tickling his skin as the same words seemed to re-etch themselves into his flesh, reminding him. Taking a step back, Stiles opened his mouth to try and defend himself. The man had already taken another step forward, the snarling growl heightening in volume, and this time for certain, Stiles saw the change in color of the man’s eyes.

Breath hitched, Stiles couldn’t form a response. He was fucked. He was so majorly fucked .

“No, no!” the girl finally protested, leaning forward and fumbling to grab the guy’s arm, a weak attempt at pulling him back. “Not the stab wound, jesus, no. He’s Sti–”

Before she could finish, the arrival of a secondary police car and an ambulance were announced as they pulled around the corner of the street and screeched to a halt. Stiles had been so wrapped up in what seemed to be his inevitable death that he hadn’t even heard the new sirens of either vehicle until they had already pulled up.

“Stiles!”

Stiles looked away from the duo, finding his dad who was darting toward him with two paramedics close on his tail. Stiles obediently fell into his dad’s embrace, listening as the man asked if he was okay, how he found the girl, if he saw who did this, and ten other things. He tuned most of it out, watching as the paramedics loaded the girl up while the officer from earlier held a phone to his ear, eyes glued to the girl now being carried on a stretcher toward the ambulance.

“Stiles,” his dad finally grabbed his attention with a firm shake, “I’m going to need you to give a statement, son.” His dad looked like he was in literal pain, the worry clear as day in his eyes. Stiles felt gently guilty for causing his dad to have that look, but he also couldn’t find it in himself to regret getting involved either.

“I… I will,” he finally responded, “but… not yet. I need to talk to her first.”

Frowning, his dad followed his line of sight until they were both watching the paramedics finish loading up the ambulance. Stiles had to ask first, had to confirm.

+.+.+

Cora Hale.

That’s her name. After the ambulance finally pulled away, the murderous officer (AKA, Deputy Hale) in tow, Stiles followed his father into his cruiser and back home. Stiles had argued, insisting his dad could take them back to the station as he undoubtedly had work and paperwork to tend to, but his dad stubbornly declined.

“I need to tend to my son first,” he said evenly, his sharp gaze daring Stiles to argue. Stiles opted not to.

Once back at the house, Stiles asked if he could find out who the girl was. He needed a name if he was going to visit the hospital. After the Knowing Look shared between the two of them, his dad agreed. He promised Stiles a name once he finished showering and changing - instructing him to bag his clothes (shoes included, Stiles begrudgingly complied) for possible evidence.

When he came back, freshly showered, with new clothes, and less comfy but also new shoes, his dad relayed the newfound information.

“Melissa said she should be fine. Apparently, her sister is a nurse at the hospital too, and immediately took on the case. After a quick debrief, Laura declared it was a non-fatal hit and just needed a few stitches. You should be able to go visit her as soon as the next hour,” his dad explained, a curious glint in his eyes as he spoke. Both he and Stiles were questioning the story, knowing it wasn’t that cut and dry. Which was exactly why Stiles needed to talk to the girl - Cora - before he gave his statement.

“And that deputy…” Stiles found himself asking, earning a raised eyebrow from his dad. He ducked his face to avoid giving too much away (which he already did).

“Deputy Hale,” his dad reiterated, “Cora’s brother. Derek.” The sheriff studied his son curiously for a moment, head tilted. “Is there something I need to know, Stiles?”

Stiles shook his head but abruptly stopped, sighing. He hesitantly curled his palm around the spot on his bicep, his eyes flitting upwards and latching onto his father’s that were now staring at his hand. Once the two of them met eyes, he gave a simple nod, just a single, sharp jerk of the head downwards.

“Good grief,” his dad mumbled, a hand coming to rub over his face tiredly.

“He thought…” Stiles said, shaking his head a bit. “He thought I- that it was-” he finally cut himself off and fell into silence again, his eyes now trained on a random spot on the wall as he finally let everything sink in.

His dad gave a simple nod. He expected the man to be angry, furious even. He had always had such disdain for Stiles’ soulmark, his eyes filled with despair and pain whenever he saw it. It looked like it physically pained him every time. But he was just… accepting. It didn’t fully excuse the mark, but he knew his dad understood. Knew he wouldn’t be able to properly hold it against Derek even if he’s hated the words printed on his own son’s skin his entire life.

“Well… guess we should drop by the hospital, then,” Stiles said, attempting to change topics. He wasn’t all that successful.

+.+.+

Knocking on the door, Stiles waited until a voice softly told him to come in. It didn’t sound like Cora’s, but it was female. He could be mistaken, since Cora hadn’t been in the best of scenarios when they originally met, but he was fairly certain the voice belonged to someone else.

Bracing himself, Stiles entered the room, softly shutting the door after he walked in. He trekked into the room until he could see the hospital bed behind the thin, white curtain that previously blocked most of his view. As suspected, the voice didn’t belong to Cora. Instead, he found another woman - this one seeming a bit older than Cora - hovering at the foot of the bed Cora lay in, decked out in scrubs and eyes looking towards Stiles questioningly.

“Stiles!”

This time, it was Cora. She seemed to beam at him with a wide smile. Stiles nervously returned it. He let his gaze skate across the room, but when he made eye contact with Derek, he felt himself falter. Instead of freaking out of running back out the door like he so desperately wanted to, he instead schooled his expression - letting his face go as blank as he could - before refocusing on Cora.

Tentatively, he stepped further into the room, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

“Uhm, hi,” he said a bit awkwardly. Cora just grinned at him, seeming a bit too happy considering her recent events and overall day. But he wasn’t one to judge (at least, not out loud).

“So, uh, listen, “ Stiles said, his eyes flicking towards the ceiling, unable to meet anyone’s eye, “I’m supposed to give a statement about the uh… the incident but I… I wanted to ask what you want me to tell them. So that it matches whatever it is you’re going to tell them - or have. Maybe you already have, I don’t know, I-... either way.”

When he was met with silence, he finally dared a glance back at the room. Cora had a small frown on her face while her sister looked at him curiously, her arms now folded over her chest. Stiles pointedly avoided looking at Derek to see his reaction.

“And why would your stories need to… match?” the other woman spoke up, drawing Stiles’ eyes toward her. Involuntarily, he let out a huff of air - a mock of a laugh. He gestured vaguely with one hand towards Cora.

“I’m, like, 99% sure she doesn’t have a single mark on her stomach now and I can’t exactly tell the police I watched a guy pull a six-inch blade out of her stomach and then her not have an injury to photograph - which they will want to do, I can promise you that. So…” Stiles trailed off. The woman got a hardened look in her eyes, her stance rigid, while Cora seemed to study him further.

Stiles groaned quietly, his hands coming up to dig the heel of his palms into his eyes and he bowed his head.

“I’m not- I didn’t- it’s kind of hard to not recognize you’re werewolves when your brother flashed his eyes while trying to decide on how to kill me,” he explained, refusing to look up. “I came to ask to… avoid you having issues with the reports and everything. I just want to make it as easy as possible, however, that is.”

Looking up once more, Cora seemed to relax, a quirk of a smile lining her lips. Her sister seemed to still be studying him but was no longer on the defensive. Instead, she seemed curious, her eyes never once leaving his form, causing him to squirm under the gaze.

“I wasn’t going to kill you.”

Stiles grit his teeth, refusing to look at the person who spoke. Instead, he kept his gaze on Cora and focused on her intently. “You can get my number from Nurse McCall, just- let me know. I have to go.”

Without further explanation, Stiles darted out of the room. If he was in there for any longer he was likely to break down sobbing at some point. He wasn’t sure how he was going to broach that topic but he did take a bit of satisfaction in knowing Derek was unaware of their matching marks as of yet. And the longer Stiles could avoid that, the easier his life would be (or so he kept telling himself).

+.+.+

Cora ended up getting his number from Scott’s mom as he mentioned and texted him. Just like her text, Stiles’ own story was vague. He gave his statement, worked with a sketch artist to try and get a decent sketch of the guy he saw, and that was that. His dad tried to keep it on the down low and avoid further pushing which Stiles sincerely appreciated because even with all the vagueness of his report and his intense focus on the actual suspect, he knew his story was a bit... iffy. He just hoped no one bothered to push it further.

That had happened three days ago. Cora was still texting him and Stiles was doing his best to respond. He had been more or less avoiding Cora’s text and vehemently avoiding the sheriff’s station. In fact, Stiles had attempted to leave the house as minimally as possible. He had called out of work for the rest of the weekend, with no plans to return until after the weekend, and with almost no pushback from Mrs. Gievars who insisted he needed to rest and to take all the time he needed. Which he was happily taking advantage of, going on day three of ‘resting’ and avoiding most other living beings.

Stiles’ avoidance of his phone, sudden anti-social tendencies, and overall absence from the general world is what brought one Lydia Martin marching into his room. All it took was one missed phone call from one day ago and she was walking her positively pissed-off self into his house and telling him off. Loudly.

“What do you have to say for yourself?” Lydia demanded as soon as she walked in. Her arms were crossed, her lips taut and pulled down ever so slightly. Aside from the small glint of worry in her eyes, she looked angry. Angry with Stiles, specifically.

“Gee, thanks, Lyds,” Stiles grumbled, burrowing further into his pillows, “I’m doing great, thanks for asking. No, no physical wounds. No, I am not experiencing any symptoms of PTSD or anything like that. Yes, I am 100% a-okay. All systems go. Yep, that’sa me - totally good, nothing wrong here! I am-”

A frustrated huff cut Stiles off. Gone was any and all trace of worry. Now, Lydia was 120% livid with a generous helping of flat-out annoyed. She glared at Stiles, her shoe now tapping an angry pattern into his floor as she glared him into submission. Stiles squinted his eyes but gave in, groaning as he rolled himself into a proper sitting position so he could face Lydia Martin’s wrath head-on and with his full attention.

Raising an eyebrow, Stiles gave a vague wave of his hand to indicate Lydia get on with it. When nothing came, Stiles looked at her expectantly, his second eyebrow climbing to join the first. 

“What is it? What’s wrong with you?” Lydia finally demanded, her foot quieting and her glare losing its hard edge. She was now staring at Stiles as if all the world’s answers would appear if she just looked hard enough - long enough.

“I don’t know what you me-”

“Bullshit. Answer me, Stilinski,” Lydia cut off pointedly. “You’ve been ignoring your phone - even Scott, who texted me acting like a pathetic puppy, by the way. Super annoying. You haven’t left your house in three days. And you’re acting so… pathetic. So what is it?”

Stiles gave a noise of protest at the mention of him being pathetic. Sure, she was right on the money, but it was still rude.

Glancing around his room, Stiles debated on how to broach the subject. He played with the idea of not telling her, but he also knew it was futile. He got away with not telling Scott because he had effectively avoided him. He also avoided going too in-depth with his dad because neither of them were well-versed in talking things out. Lydia, however, was unavoidable. She was a force of nature unlike any the world had yet to see. It was alarming, in retrospect.

Sighing, Stiles looked at his hands, trying to be succinct (which, yea, that should tell Lydia right away just how he feels about this whole situation). “I found my soulmate.”

Silence.

Refusing to break the silence or see Lydia’s reaction, Stiles steadfastly stared at his hands. He hoped to hear the click-clack of Lydia’s shoes exiting his room. He possibly even hoped to hear her groan or sigh of frustration before she told him how dramatic he was being. But he got neither.

Instead, he felt arms wrap around his waist and a head tuck itself against his shoulder. Lydia fit herself against him quickly and easily, offering no words. It wasn’t often they did this. Sure, they nudged one another, shoved at each other, and Stiles was notorious for throwing an arm around every one or grabbing at someone’s shoulders as he spoke. But… this? Hugging? Comforting touches? Intimacy? It was a bit more rare between the two of them.

Lydia and Stiles’ friendship was built on understanding. It was built off of both of them saying ‘fuck this’. It wasn’t built off of tears or one-on-one therapy sessions about how unfair fate was. They never did that. Instead, Lydia dragged Stiles out shopping and berated him for wearing so much flannel and bought him greasy burgers and fries while rolling her eyes and repeating how unhealthy it all was. And Stiles in turn shoved Lydia in his car and drove for three hours while playing her favorite music. He snuck into her bedroom at 3 am with a handle of vodka and crappy soda and stayed up until the early morning, listening to her list off the statistics of soulmates and their various outcomes and possibilities for probably the hundredth time.

There was no crying. There were very seldom emotional talks or hugs. They didn’t work like that because it’s what worked for them. So yea, the hug was a bit weird. But it was also exactly what Stiles needed from the person he needed it from most.

Lydia finally left about two hours later, and no further words were spoken by either party. Instead, they had somehow slowly moved into the position of Lydia sitting at the foot of the bed with Stiles curled on his side, head in her lap, on the cusp of sleep while Lydia made tiny braids in his hair and unraveled them over and over again. When she left, she fluffed up a pillow before sneaking it under his head while she slipped out. 

+.+.+

“Cora Hale?”

Cora looked up at the mention of her name. Derek was sitting next to her in a visitor’s chair, eyebrows scrunched as he tuned into the exchange happening just outside the door. It seemed neither of them knew the newcomer.

“Correct,” Laura answered, seemingly waving the person in as there was only a second before the click-clack of shoes sounded against the linoleum. 

The clicking footsteps were followed by a somewhat petite red-headed girl. Her hair and makeup were in perfect order, her posture and stance looked like she’d be graded on it later, and her smile was poised and practiced, but sincere. She gave an ever so slightly larger smile to Cora, nodding her head once as she presented a vase of flowers. The vase was filled with yellow roses and a plethora of white baby’s breath. The stems of the flowers were tied together with a large white bow and the arrangement looked stunning as well as expensive.

Before Cora could even question who the girl was, she was pivoting towards Derek. Her head cocked slightly to the side and her eyes scanned him in an assessing manner. After a few seconds, she pursed her lips and looked the older man in the eye.

“Derek Hale, yes?” she asked politely. Derek gave a slow nod, his eyebrows raised in question.

“Good,” she said. And once more, before anyone could question her on who she was or what she was doing there, she promptly slammed a fist into Derek’s shoulder. Despite the girl being short in stature and unassuming in strength, even Cora knew the hit had a bit of a sting to it.

Derek growled, a hand reflexively moving up to grasp at his bicep. “What the-”

“That’s for ruining my best friend’s life and making me deal with his pathetic moping for the past 5 years,” she said, her voice leaving no room for argument. Derek opened his mouth to try and ask, once more, what the hell she was on about when her hand shot out once again and slapped him roughly upside the head, causing his head to snap forward from the force and another growl to slide out of his throat. “That’s for being an utter moron and not addressing this issue sooner.”

Cora couldn’t help it, she burst out laughing. Both Derek and the yet-to-be-introduced girl turned toward her. Derek was scowling while the girl was giving a half-interested, curious look. Cora clutched her stomach as she doubled over in laughter.

When she finally pulled herself together, Cora looked up and met eyes with the girl and gave her a wide grin. “God, you’re a fucking bitch,” she said. Derek cut in, mumbling, “I’ll fucking say.” Cora promptly rolled her eyes before meeting the other girl’s eyes again, grin widening as she finished her - rude interrupted - sentence, “I love it.”

The girl stared, her lips parting ever so slightly as her eyes scanned Cora intently. She seemed shocked, rooted to the spot. When enough time had passed for the silence to become stilted, Cora opened her mouth to begin moving the conversation along, but the other seemed to finally kick back into gear.

“The one time Stiles’ is right,” she said with a long suffering sigh. Her lips twitched upwards, however, and the look she was giving Cora was now more intrigued than incredulity. Cora, in response, stared wide-eyed before giving a shout of surprise.

“Holy shit! It’s you!” Cora breathed. “What’s your name?”

Smiling, the girl responded, “Lydia. Lydia Martin.”

Lydia and Cora took the next couple of minutes to assess the other. Gentle smiles and roaming eyes were the only exchange between the two, both content with committing the moment to memory and examining the person who was meant to be their other half pure the laws of fate. The moment was only broken by Derek shuffling in his chair and clearing his throat a bit awkwardly. This movement seemed to remind Lydia of her initial mission, as she rolled her eyes and her lips turned downwards slightly before she turned to focus back on Derek.

“Right,” she said, as if she was already tired of dealing with him, “you. You need to fix this. Go apologize.”

“Apologize to who and for what?” Derek growled. Lydia gave an unimpressed look in response.

“Stiles. Go makeup and end the moping, I don’t like it when he’s all…” Lydia huffed, her hand flicking through the air absently as if the words themselves were too bothersome to convey. Her answer only made Derek narrow his eyes further. 

Lydia seemed to realize something as she groaned softly, her eyes rolling upwards. Meeting Derek’s eyes once more, she perched her hands on her hips in a condescending manner, giving him a withering look.

“Have you talked to him?” she asked, then shook her head. “Better yet. Has he talked to you ? At all?”

Derek frowned, thought momentarily, then shook his head slowly. Lydia frowned and tapped her foot twice, her anger somehow sounding throughout the room with that one action. She eventually sighed lowly and shook her head, as if disappointed.

“Pearce Ave and Main Street. He works at the bookstore. He’s there until 4.”

After a moment of silence, Derek was stirred into action by Lydia’s pointed look and a scoff from Cora. After exiting the room, he could hear the shuffling of Lydia’s shoes and the soft words being exchanged between the two. Their voices died off the further he got from the room, his mind slowly processing the entire last ten minutes and what the hell Lydia was on about.

For whatever reason, he was listening to her and was making his way to the bookstore off of Main and Pearce. He wasn’t sure if it was due to his own curiosity or due to Lydia unnaturally commandeering nature - though if anyone asked he’d say it was the former.

+.+.+

Derek slipped into the bookstore unnoticed. He watched as Stiles thumbed a couple of pages of a book laid out in front of him and sipped from a mug. Derek could smell the leftover coffee in the pot behind the counter and the sickeningly sweet scent of the creamer and syrup added to the coffee. He could also smell the comforting aroma of the books filling the space and the underlying scent of worn leather from the could of old couches placed against a couple of different walls.

Despite the cloying, sweet scent of Stiles’ coffee, it was a relaxing environment. Derek almost forgot why he was there.

Shaking his head to himself, Derek stepped up to the counter and cleared his throat. When Stiles looked up and met his eye, the younger man froze - going completely still. His eyes widened a bit and he seemed to become apprehensive, a tentative look in his eyes as they darted between Derek’s in a silent question.

“Hi,” Derk said, his voice a bit rough. He cleared his throat once more after a long stretch of silence. “I… came to apologize. For before. It was a misunderstanding but I still acted… rudely. You were helping Cora. And I wanted to… thank you. For helping her. And for the report.”

Derek shuffled a bit. It was more than he planned on saying originally though his words were just as stilted and sharp as usual. It wasn’t that he was a bad conversationalist, per se, he just didn’t know how to carry a conversation. He often relied on others for that or hoped they didn’t notice his penchant for nodding in silence.

However, after several minutes passed in silence, Stiles’ quick thumping heartbeat the only noise in the otherwise quiet store, Derek was losing his mind. 

“Are you… going to say anything?” he finally asked a bit roughly, his eyebrows raised in question. Stiles, in turn, went bug-eyed.

See, the issue here was this: Stiles hadn’t spoken to Derek yet and therefore Derek wasn’t aware of their connection to one another. This was a comfort to Stiles as it felt like he was able to hide behind the fact. However, he was also at a loss. Because he always thought the words on his bicep were in response to something he said - like a crude joke or a misdirected question or something else stupidly absurd. Sure, they were in response to something he did but not to anything he said. And he suddenly felt overwhelmed.

He could say something just as scathing back to Derek. He could say something common and simple, bank on the fact that Derek won’t notice until later and would have interacted with several other people who said similar things that he wasn’t sure who it was. Or, he could say something… nice.

It wasn’t really a question. Stiles knew he wasn’t one for simple and common - it may start out as a simple ‘hey’ but it would somehow turn into the introductory paragraph of the growing epidemic regarding the black market for organs or whatever else his mind happened to be thinking of in the background. Also, Stiles knew he couldn’t be scathing or rude - not knowingly, at least. Sure, he would be the first to admit he was an ass, a bit of an arrogant jerk, and definitely a major dick - but that was in jest. It was between friends and his dad. He could be sarcastic but he didn’t want to… mar someone’s skin like that either. While he now understood where the words came from, he didn’t want anyone else to have the same damning words and sentiment etched into their skin. Not like him.

Realizing he was a bit of a sap (he was blaming Lydia for forcing him to watch The Notebook every week since sophomore year; the romance and sappiness had leaked out and been absorbed by his traitorous, eclectic personality), Stiles took in a deep steadying breath and willed the next words to be kind.

And, well… no one can ever say Stiles Stilinski is predictable. Because not even he saw the next words out of his mouth coming.

“I don’t think the words to describe you have been created yet; you’re too breathtaking to be confined to words alone,” Stiles said, his voice soft. He paused, breath caught in his throat. It was as if his mind threw out the controls and just… let his thoughts roam free. He didn’t know what was being said until the words had disappeared into thin air. Derek’s wide-eyed stare was the only indication he actually said them.

The two of them stared at one another in complete silence for what felt like hours but what was only a couple of minutes. Finally feeling the weight of the silence, Stiles cleared his throat and averted his eyes.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Derek finally asked, causing Stiles to snap his eyes back over to him. Stiles gave a weak smile and shrugged.

“I… it wasn’t a good time. And I kind of wanted to avoid it. If I didn’t speak to you, you wouldn’t know who I was,” Stiles said, providing yet another shrug. Derek seemed confused and a bit… hurt? His eyes were dancing across Stiles’ face as if looking for both the questions and answers he wanted.

Shaking his head with his lips turned down in the slightest of frowns, Derek finally spoke back up, “You didn’t want me to know? What did I… What did I do?”

Without bothering to respond or try to explain himself, Stiles instead opted to pull down the sleeve of his flannel and roll up the bottom of his shirt sleeve, exposing his soulmark.

‘You fucking prick. You are a pathetic excuse of a person, you know that?’

Derek took in a sharp inhale, his hand coming out to ghost over the words. His eyes were wide, his lips pulled tautly, and he looked pained. Stiles felt a rush of guilt at seeing the expressions and hurriedly pushed the fabric of his shirt back down and readjusted his flannel. He gave a small smile to the other when Derek finally looked him in the eye, an almost haunted look reflecting back at Stiles.

“I get it now that it wasn’t me you hated or were mad at or whatever but-... yea, ya’know, growing up with it I just- I guess I was preparing myself to piss you off? Or to have you… hate me? Or something? I don’t know. I just wanted to avoid it so I kinda… ran,” Stiles explained, his hands waving a bit wildly as he tried to piece his train of thought together. “Sorry,” he added belatedly.

Derek scoffed, startling the younger of the two. Derek was now glaring off to the side, his arms crossed over his chest in a defensive pose as he glared at whatever it was he had his sights set on.

“Sorry?” he repeated, “You? You’re the one apologizing? After I gave you that mark? Jesus.”

Stiles couldn’t help but snort, grinning at the small start Derek gave and the look of surprise he shot Stiles’ way. “It wasn’t like you intentionally did it, dude,” Stiles argued, “I’m sure you would have chosen literally any other words than those. I get it now, though.”

Derek opened his mouth, looking like he was ready to argue against himself once again and demand Stiles see Derek’s error and failure, but Stiles waved it off, a dismissive noise promptly ending the conversation.

Once more, the two lapsed into silence, though it was more welcome than the last bout and more comfortable than stifling. Eventually, though, it had to be broken.

“Can I make it up to you? Starting with a dinner?” Derek asked, “Or coffee? Whatever you want.”

Stiles paused, looking at Derek a bit quizzically. He let a timid yet playful smile curl over his lips, letting the question sink in. After a moment of silence, Stiles had a wide grin painted on his face and he had a challenging look in his eye as he leaned forward on the counter, closer toward Derek.

“Whatever I want, hm?” he asked, a smirk toying at the corners of his mouth.

“Whatever you want,” Derek said, his lips twitching in response. 

Humming, Stiles stood back up, straightening his posture and nodding his agreement to the idea. “We could start with dinner,” he murmured, “but I might have another request or two.” Derek simply grinned and gave a half-hearted shrug, seemingly uncaring one way or the next - though his smile indicated he was more than willing to oblige Stiles with his additional requests.

“I think I can work with that.” +.+.+

True to his word, Derek obliged and tended to the requests without fret. Even when he was asked to dinner with Stiles and his dad and was forced to sit through two hours of mostly silent gun cleaning, a box of wolfsbane bullets precariously left out in the open. The subsequent glares given by the sheriff while at work were just as unsettling but Derek took it in stride.

He could work with this.

#derek hale/stiles stilinski #derek hale #stiles stilinski #sterek #teen wolf #teen wolf fic #teen wolf fanfiction #ao3 #ao3fic #random drabble #soulmate au

[belethlegwen]

The Faerie Spell - Chp 5

Chapter One: Click Here Previous Chapter: Click Here Story Directory: Click Here Words: 3957 Summary: The spell has worn off for another little while, and Daphne has to run some errands. Mak's offered to take her grocery shopping, and they try to have some heavy conversations while it's happening. CONTENT WARNING: There is description of non-consensual, possibly romantic/intimate contact. It isn't a lot, but is in there, and may make readers uncomfortable.

The wind was blowing my hair back as we drove down the city streets, a smile on my face as I watched the buildings and the people whizz past at the proper size again. 

It had been a couple of days now since I was back to normal, but being that I needed a sitter whenever I had to venture out or risk getting further and further lectured by my friends-- and also that me and Sheridan still weren’t on the best of terms, exactly-- I hadn’t left the house at all except to hang out in what counted as a backyard for our little town-house-complex-thing. 

“Can you close the window?” Mak asked from the driver’s seat, and I pouted a little bit but complied all the same. His car, his rules.

“Sorry,” I said with a sigh, turning back around to look out the front of the vehicle. “Thanks, again, for doing this with me, Mak.”

“I was off today,” he said dismissively. Mak had always been a little… kind of blunt, at least with me, but not in an unfriendly way. I always kind of chalked it up to his accent a little. It was barely there, and Cal had always told me that when they first met, Mak and his father had sounded almost identical. Now, aside from clipping some of his words a bit shorter than the locals would, you could barely tell.

“Do you have to pick up a lot?” He asked, glancing over at me. I whipped out my phone, the To Do widget already tabbed to the grocery-specific list.

“Yeah, Sheri took the time while I was having my episode to add things to the list that should’ve been on it last week when I was supposed to go, but I imagine her excuse is going to be that she was too upset to bother getting anything herself while she was off.”

Mak gave a huff and a grunt in acknowledgement and I felt my face screw up. I couldn’t hold back the bitterness, and that made me somehow even MORE bitter, mostly toward myself. This last bout of faerie-fuckery had been… particularly stinging, I couldn’t lie.

“I know she had plans with one of her friends from work,” Mak seemed to give as an excuse. Part of me wondered if this was true or if this was just part of their ‘Problem Solver’ strategies to try and calm me down. In truth I had no idea if they had ‘problem solver strategies’ or anything from that stupid secret group chat, but my mind had been twisting around those worries ever since my night with Gem.

Speaking of which…

“Hey does… does Gem ever talk about my… thing, with you?” I knew I was being awkward as all hell right now, but I really didn’t know how to broach the subject otherwise.

“How do you mean?” Mak replied quickly, almost tensely. I decided now would be a bad time to cop to knowing about the group chat, I didn’t want to make this whole thing worse than I already had by just… being this way.

“Like… has she ever said anything to you about the way she feels about it?” I didn’t know how to word it.

“Did something happen the other night?”

Mak never did like beating around the bush. It was quick, to the point, but there was… some kind of genuine concern in there, and not in the ‘oh god she’s onto us’ way that I was worried it was going to be. I squirmed a little in the seat, pressing my knees to the dash as I sank down as if hiding from the people outside the passenger-side window as we stopped at another red.

“Well… no…?”

“Daph.”

I sighed as he turned to stare at me, his thick eyebrows furrowed skeptically. “Ok, well… she just… she had things set up for me, y’know… furniture and stuff, for when I went over--”

Mak’s eyes went back to the road and he cleared his throat gruffly. “Yeah I mean, she owns a bunch of that stuff, and--”

“No man, I mean like… this was new stuff,” I blurted out, glad that this stupid god damn curse never factored me into it for once, because I felt like I was ready to shrink into nothingness as I tried to explain. “Me and Gem used to talk about dolls and miniatures and stuff and I had seen her collection, like… this is all new and it just… it feels like she had it for me, and--”

“I mean, she’s the one who told you where to get stuff for when you’re…” he trailed off, quickly redirecting what he was saying. “Yeah she probably ordered things from the same spots or whatever. Maybe not for you specifically, maybe just to like… have but…”

He sighed and I crossed my arms, glancing at him from my nearly pill-bug position in his passenger seat. “Isn’t it good that she has them though? I mean it helps you out, doesn’t it?”

“Not really,” I said bluntly. I felt like I could be at least a little more honest with Mak for some reason. Maybe it was just because he was also blunt and honest about things, at least that’s how it felt. “A bunch of it is just super uncomfortable, and she tried to get me to stay on this little couch on her coffee table for a movie while we were there even though I told her trying to look up to watch was hard on my neck, and it wasn’t like…”

I sighed, and Mak adjusted his grip on the steering wheel while I continued. “I told her I would be fine if I was just chilling on the cushion on the back of the couch because everything would be at eye level a little more, and it’d be more comfortable but she like… insisted and I just--”

“She probably thought it wouldn’t be safe,” Mak blurted, turning to me quickly and telling me to stop sitting like a weird kid.

“I think she just wanted to watch me,” I muttered, and Mak shook his head in confusion, eyes watching the intersections as he passed.

“What?”

“I think… it’s just… it feels like she likes it too much, Mak, and I-- do not tell her or anyone that I told you this, I swear Mak--”

“I won’t, I won’t,” he replied quickly, frowning at me with a pointed stare that seemed to scream that I was an idiot for thinking he would.

‘Don’t give me that look, you’re in a secret group chat about me, I’m allowed to think it,’ my bitter thoughts rang and I sighed, leaning against the door and staring out my window again.

“So like… I told her about the back of the couch thing and she said no, and I was trying to tell her that we’d be able to have conversations better and stuff and I wouldn’t need to hold my stupid rock and she just… wouldn’t, and literally said it would be because she didn’t want to keep looking between me and the TV, and…”

It was bubbling out of me, and I didn’t even really have time to fixate on the weird doubts I’d been having since that night that I was probably just blowing this whole thing out of proportion. Mak just kept driving, making weird faces as he listened, his eyes darting around the intersections and traffic still.

“Like, I told her she shouldn’t need to? Why would she need to look at me? We could just talk, we don’t have to make eye contact or whatever, like… but anyway I just gave up because I was so fucking tired of everything that day already so I got on the stupid little couch and she got weird about me moving it so I could maybe see things better so I just kept it where it was but every single time I like, took a glance, she was watching me?”

I shuddered, hugging myself tightly. “It creeped me out a little, and I just… I don’t know… if she had maybe said anything to you that would maybe explain it a little?”

“Gem just wants you to be comfortable and safe,” Mak offered, though there was something in his voice that was just… weird. He wasn’t confident in that answer, but he said it anyway, like he was just trying to get me to shut up about it all.

“It wasn’t just that,” I mumbled, my stomach rolling at the thought. “I fell asleep because I couldn’t actually like, watch what we were watching, and she had a bed and everything set up in a dollhouse in her room, so--”

“We don’t have to like, talk about this,” Mak said, and I finally bothered to look over at him as we finished parking at the grocery store. “I thought you said that she was like… gentler than Cal and Sheridan and stuff. Didn’t you like that?”

“Well yeah, I’m glad she doesn’t like, swing me around or bruise my ribs,” I snapped and Mak rolled his eyes as I unbuckled my seatbelt. “But it was just weird and--”

“I mean the whole thing is weird,” he said, his eyes scanning the cars he could see from where we had parked, a good distance away from anybody else’s vehicle. He mustn’t be great at parking. “She had some things set up to try and make you comfortable, like… would you prefer she stick you in a drawer or something rather than a dollhouse?”

I opened the door and swung my legs out of the car with a huff. “It wasn’t the dollhouse, Mak, it was--”

“Shut up,” he hissed, and his eyes were wide-- almost scared-- as someone a few lines of parking spots away shouted.

“Makhesh! Suprabhat!”

“Namaste, Chaaya!” He called back, a forced smile across his features. He turned to me nervously, “uh, you can… you can wait for me by the vending machines and I’ll be there soon.”

I stuck my hands in my pockets as I took the long trek toward the front of the supermarket, still feeling gross from the conversation as I leaned back against the rough brick and watched him chatting with a woman in a gorgeous… sari? Salwar? As she put her groceries away. 

I tried to organize my thoughts a little better. Tried to find a less awkward way to mention that I had to make it into the dollhouse and the bed myself after Gem had fallen asleep.

I don’t know if it even would’ve happened the way it all did if I had just… not pretended I was still asleep when I felt her picking me up after the movie. I dunno why I did… I kinda wanted it? She was always gentle, her hands felt nice compared to everyone else’s when I just let myself relax a little more and she wasn’t trying to compress me into a ball to hide me from people. I just thought that maybe if she thought I was asleep, it’d be even extra comforting, somehow.

But there was something about the way she had pressed me to her chest and stroked me that felt… I don’t know. It felt like too much and it made me uncomfortable only because she never asked.

Well, it was more than that she didn’t ask, it was that she seemed to be only willing to do it because she thought I was asleep and couldn’t ask. There was something about it happening when she thought I wouldn’t know about it that just made me shudder when I thought about it. If she had asked, would I have cared? I actually don’t know, but… doesn’t change the fact that it happened and that it gave me the heebie jeebies now.

…She had been so careful, too, which-- again-- I do appreciate. If I had been asleep at the start of it all maybe I wouldn’t have woken up until later and just would’ve had to go through the awkwardness of waking up on her and getting myself to the dollhouse.

I squirmed uncomfortably, wishing Mak would hurry up so I could tell him about this while it was still fresh again. I wanted to tell him that it was just… really weird that she had gotten into bed and held me, and touched me the way she did. When I had shifted, trying to protect my chest and front from her clammy finger and its weirdly gripping ridges and ripples, I thought maybe she’d put me in the dollhouse bed. It felt kind of like she was leaning do that and then the lights went out…

My cheeks were red and I squeezed my arms and legs together at the memory of just suddenly being pressed by her hand into one of her breasts, through her sleeping shirt. I still don’t know why she did it, like… did it just… was it supposed to be a hug or something? We had done hugs before and none of them were like this and I just lay there with this thing pressing into me and it’s weight pushing down on top of me and I had no idea what to do and--

Did she want that? Did she think I wanted that? It had felt like forever; I thought-- I hoped at first that maybe it was just an accident, something awkward that was happening while she moved me somewhere else, but then her other hand started to pet my hair and…

I had tried shifting and squirming a little to like… maybe give her the impression that I didn’t like it but I didn’t want her to know I was awake, suddenly. I was super worried, all of a sudden, of how the whole conversation might go or what she might do if I was awake and this was happening. It had kind of worked, but I just remember this weird, soft sound of her giggling and pressing me into her more for a second and then I was back out in her hand getting pet as she lay herself down and then just… put me on her chest.

She had asked me the next morning if I had slept ok, if the bed was comfortable. She told me she had hoped she didn’t wake me up when she put me in the bed, which just made me still feel weird even if she had intended to do it at some point… When she carried me back to the kitchen for breakfast and stuff her hands were still really gentle but her fingers and thumbs kept bumping into me or resting on me or like, vague little strokes. I don’t… I don’t think they had been doing that before, but now I didn’t know if they had always been doing that. Had she always just been so… touchy? She touched me probably as much as Cal did, definitely more than Sheridan but Sheridan only touched me when she thought she had to… but her touches were different. They were gentler, but now they were… something else.

It also wasn’t like, overbearing, it just… I mean, I had liked the way her hands had felt before, the way they didn’t try to pinch or grab if it could be avoided, the way they cradled and held and still gave me freedom to move, that it wasn’t poking or jabbing or anything, but now it was petting and that felt…

I mean, it was nicer than most of the other things that had been happening to me, but…

“Sorry,” Mak muttered as he came at a fast stride across the parking lot, looking antsy. “Let’s go, I didn’t mean for this to take so long.”

I snapped out of my discomfort and worries, my ears feeling hot. “Oh, sorry-- yeah, let’s. Anyway, it’s not about the furniture or anything, it’s just that Gem is touchy when she’s got me in her hands sometimes and--”

“Don’t--” Mak stammered, and his face blushed as his eyes darted around the mid-week-day crowd of the supermarket as we walked into the produce section together. “Don’t talk about that, here.”

“I, uh--” I stuttered, not knowing what had changed. I glanced around, was this like… was this an anti-magic grocery store or something? I watched someone with literal sparkles twinkling behind them pass us on their way out and frowned. “I can be vague about it, if that’s better, I just--”

“Just don’t,” he said firmly. “I know people here.”

I felt my jaw clamp shut like all of my teeth were supermagnets and shirked my shoulders in response. I hauled out my phone, opening the grocery list again and just simply set to work heading toward the right aisles. Mak seemed to notice after a while, but the damage was done.

“We can talk about it in the car and stuff after,” he offered, though that tone that reminded me of just being placated by my parents as a child came through and I shrugged.

“I mean, I’d like to,” I admitted, knowing I probably looked like I was sulking. “But if you don’t wanna, I won’t force you.”

“Don’t be like that,” he muttered, though it was genuinely soft. His hand landed on my shoulder and I jumped a little at the feeling of being touched. Mak didn’t do that often, unless you were insistent on a goodbye hug or something. “We’ll talk it out more on the drive back to your place.”

I smiled, it was nice to feel listened to. Honestly, this whole day was feeling just… normal. Mak didn’t make me feel like he was trying to wrap me in bubblewrap or anything, or that he was rushing me or being over-protective or anything. He was giving me space and letting me do my own thing a little, kind of just keeping watch for me as I went up and down the aisles and putting things in my cart, chatting with me a little but for the most part just keeping a pretty companionable-- at least to me-- silence as I got the errand done.

“Hey,” I said, feeling better, the thoughts of earlier firmly pushed aside as I enjoyed wandering and chatting with the other grocery store folks. Some faces were familiar to me from when I used to run more errands, before this all went down and that dumb faerie ruined my life. “We could totally go talk over coffee or something when we’re done here. My treat. There’s this place just down the road, it’s my favourite, we could even walk and--”

“Uh,” Mak blurted suddenly, as if I had caught him by surprise. As if I had snuck up on him somehow, or he had forgotten I was here. “We can’t do that.”

“Oh?” I blinked, scratching the side of my head as I turned to look at him. “I mean… if you don’t want to leave your car here, there’s definitely street parking, I was just thinking where the weather is good we--”

“Daph,” he said, his voice low. He was barely moving his lips as he spoke to me, his eyes darting around to everyone who happened to pass close-by. “You can’t… I mean, this thing can happen anytime, right?”

He mirrored whatever dumbfounded look must’ve crossed my face back at me and gripped the front of the cart, walking to try and continue our progress toward the cash registers. “I mean… It's only been a few days. I usually get at least a week…” I started, confused. “If I start to feel it happening or anything we can head home right away, I’ve got my stones with me, and your coat has pockets and--”

“That’s weird,” he muttered like a hiss, “I don’t wanna deal with that in public, like… c’mon.”

His pace was getting quicker and when he felt I had control of the cart again he let it go again and took his position a few more steps away, shoving his hands in his pockets and tensing up. He glanced over his shoulders and seemed to tense even more at whatever look was on my face now.

“Just… just get Gem to take you sometime. She can handle this stuff better.”

“I’m literally trying to talk to you about Gem making me uncomfortable,” I whispered quickly, my cheeks going hot and that twisting feeling in my gut coming back. “I mean we just talked--”

“Well I don’t wanna have to like… carry you or something, ok?” He snapped. “Stop talking about it while we’re out here.”

The rest of the checkout went in near silence as Mak kept finding people to say hi to, always telling me to go on without him.

Now I got it. Now I understood.

Now I get why the word weird kept coming up, I get why he wasn’t as hovering, as bothersome to me while I was doing things.

It was so he wouldn’t be seen with me like that. It was so he could pretend I was just… there, and that he was around, and that it was probably an accident that we were so close.

The few times my stupid bullshit curse had gone off while he was around, Mak had been the most hands-off. Honestly, I don’t think he had ever so much as said anything directly to me during the two… maybe three? Times I had had to be small around him. He was always just taking directions from someone else to do the driving, or to get things ready, or to go get something that someone else needed-- for me or otherwise.

“Listen,” he said, awkwardly, apologetically-- or at least more apologetic than he normally sounded-- as we finished packing my bags into the car. “The Gem thing. She’s just… she’s the one who’s most equipped to be handling whatever your… you, when that thing happens…”

I nodded faintly as we both got back into the car and closed the doors. “She’s the one who’s gonna be able to like… help you do all of that stuff you want to do, usually. So just… try to aim for days when she’s off work or wait until she’s done her shift or something.”

“But…” I started quietly, but the sputtering and grinding of his car’s old engine turning over drowned it out. 

“If it wasn’t just me I’d have been better about the coffee shit, ok? Promise,” he sighed, pulling us out of the parking lot. “Besides, Gem would love to go to coffee with you.”

I shuddered again, sinking into the seat and moving to put my knees back up against the dash before he made a disapproving noise at me about it.

Yeah, Gem probably would love it, and yeah, Gem would be the nicest about it if something happened while we were out…

But the vision of her look of disappointment after I had said I felt like the damn curse was ending that morning at her house, after she had finally agreed to take me back home for the day while I thought about her offer of spending another night with her… the vision of her standing there with little box of furniture she wanted to ‘loan me’ for the bungalow back on my desk…

…The vision of her in a shirt that had a breast pocket…

Yeah, she’s the most equipped to handle me.

Yeah, she’s gentler about it than anyone else.

But it just… it felt weird now.

And I didn’t have anyone to talk to about it. ------

Next Chapter: Click Here

#CW: Noncon #Daphne's going through the ringer #and is running out of people to turn to in her 'trusted circle' #something is gonna have to give #g/t #giant/tiny #giant tiny #g/t author #g/t writing #gtauthor #Daphne's Curse #The Faerie Spell

[sunnydaleherald]

The Sunnydale Herald Newsletter - Monday, February 27th

XANDER: You said it yourself, Will ... the magic's too strong, there's no coming back from it. WILLOW: I'm not coming back.

~~Villains~~

The Sunnydale Herald is looking for at least one new editor. Contributing to the Herald is a great way to get your Buffy on! Find out more here.

[Drabbles & Short Fiction]

the farthest thing from a monster (Buffy/Faith, T) by thatnerdemryn

[Brazilian Portuguese] you are the bad girl I always dreamed of (Buffy/Faith, G) by odd__girl

[Chaptered Fiction]

Not Back to the Future Rules Chapter 10 (Buffy/Spike, NC-17) by Lady Emma

Origins Chapter 35 (Buffy/Spike, NC-17) by Niamh

Sculpture of Dance Chapter 3 (Buffy/Spike, PG-13) by Desicat

The Office Hellmouth Chapter 1 (Buffy/Spike, R) by Willow25

It's Easy Time, Until It's Not Chapter 20 (Buffy/Spike, Adult Only) by hulettwyo

who could ever leave me, darling—but who could stay? (you could stay) Chapter 12 (Buffy/Spike, NC-17) by MillenialCryBaby

Bleeding Poetry Chapter 71 (Buffy/Spike, NC-17) by Dusty

Drowning Chapter 1 (Buffy/Tara, T) by BeatriceEveryTuesday

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[cinghialefedele]

LITTLE CHARACTER THINGS

just a fun little character game. fill in the below categories with 3-5 things that your character can be identified by. repost & tag away !

tagged by: @za-baransu tagging: Whoever wants to do this!

EMOTIONS / FEELINGS:

001. Devotion / Loyalty.

002. Reservation.

003. Pride.

004. Adaptability.

005. Gratitude.

GREETINGS / LANGUAGE PATTERNS:

001. Outsiders: Tesla is often rather reserved around those he doesn't know. He spends much of his time observing and feeling out the situation and person if there is no immediate danger. He's curious, but will keep his distance. He acts polite, and rather stoic, not comfortable enough to express himself more.

002. Enemies / Opposites: He is wary, cold at times, but keeps up his politeness by almost all means. He often does not fight unless commanded, prompted, or forced to, and therefore prefers to avoid conflict with enemies. Depending on the situation though, he may find it wise to simply kill an enemy rather than try to reason with them. For people he simply does not like, Tesla will sometimes drop formalities and politeness, and speak rather blunt and coldly towards them, even expressing annoyance that he's even conversing with them.

003. Comrades / Friends: Once he became a Fracción, he began addressing and strictly adhering to proper titles according to his place within Las Noches. Even after the fall of Aizen's rule over Hueco Mundo, Tesla continues this strict respect of rank and hierarchy, finding it almost physically uncomfortable to address his former superiors without titles. With friends (which he has only one real friend right now), he is very casual, often relaxing to a point comparable to how he was before he lost his eye, speaking on equal terms, unafraid to argue, crack jokes, etc., and even giving nicknames (ie. Celeste is "Doll" or "Dollface").

004. Tesla has a way of speaking that's calm. He speaks in a polite, relaxed manner most of the time. I'd dare to say he may even be softspoken at times, taking a passive part in conversations unless talking about something he's passionate about or prompted to excited/angry/worried outbursts.

PREFERED COLORS:

001. White: He appreciates the pristine cleanliness of his uniform.

002. Black: the color of his gloves, boots, uniform accents, you can never go wrong with black.

003. Brown: Shades, beiges, warm muted colors, like his eye and Verruga's pelt.

004. Gold: Accents, usually small, or thin pieces of jewelry.

005. Teal: Accessories on clothing, or perhaps jade in jewelry, it matches the estigma on his face.

SCENTS:

001. Iron: The scents of blood that linger, ever so subtly on him.

002. Cedar: A natural, woody scent, earthy undertones.

003. Dried Lavendar: His favorite flower/color, dried or preserved ones are the only thing that will last in the desert air of Hueco Mundo.

004.  Worn Leather: He is almost never found without his leather gloves.

CLOTHING:

001. Everyday: His typical Arrancar uniform, the tunic-like garment, gloves, etc. His attire hasn't changed drastically over the years, it's comfortable and simple.

002. Casual: He does not usually wear "casual" clothing unless (and this hasn't happened here yet) he's in a gigai. I think the type of "modern" clothes he's most drawn to is a dark academia style, with long sleeves, long coats, slacks, etc., keeping his more stiff silhouette from his long tunic uniform.

003. Before Death: Tesla was born in 1905, and died in 1930, he wore...a lot of suits, fitting of the '20's, favoring waistcoats along with his look.

OBJECTS:

001. His sword, Verruga.

002. Two battered, worn gold bangle bracelets, dug out of the sand from the battlefield from Nnoitra and Kenpachi's fight; he often wears them, fidgeting with one on each wrist, or keeps them in a pocket, they are never not on his person.

003. Small notebook and pen; he journals, occasionally.

004. A spare pair of gloves, in case the pair he's wearing are torn or destroyed in battle. 

VICES / BAD HABITS: 

001. Obsession: He fixates on certain people in his life, and, on rare occasion, becomes unhealthy obsessed, to the point in extreme cases of starting "collections" of said person's belongings. These items may include hair, bloody articles of clothing, or simply any item you hand to him, whether a gift or something you wish for him to throw away (ie a used paper cup).

002. Cruelty: Tesla has shown several times that he finds interest in violence and cruelty. Examples include him throwing Orihime to the ground by her neck to simply stop her from running away, breaking Ichigo's limbs one by one then deciding to attempt to crush his skull in his hand, as well as even questioning why Nnoitra chooses to let Chad live after Chad is deemed no longer able to battle. If given the chance, Tesla seems inclined to cause suffering first, and then finish things off, preferably with no survivors.

003. Covet/Desire/Lust: There is one thing in existence that he desires, longs for, covets entirely. He, with few exceptions, will do anything in his power to obtain it, unless the object of his desires commands he do otherwise, and that is the ONLY way he will cease. That which he covets supercedes all else, he holds no true allegiances to anyone else, and a snap of fingers is truly all he needs.

BODY LANGUAGE:

001. Tesla has rigid posture, standing at attention constantly, with his arms neatly held behind his back. When relaxed, his stance is slightly wider, and instead of arms folded, they are 'lax, one hand holding his wrist behind his back, shoulder slacking ever so slightly.

002. He is rather stoic, expression wise, unless shocked or prompted into extreme reactions. He offers gentle smiles and soft expressions, otherwise his neutral face is often accompanied by knit brows. He is more expressive the more comfortable he is.

003. He fidgets with his wrists often; massaging the joints or rubbing his fingers together. When he's wearing the worn bracelets, he fidgets with those, often to soothe the nerves that he refuses to show on his face.

AESTHETICS:

001. Touching back on his modern fashion sense with Dark Academia, that would be the most befitting aesthetic for him in death, and as an Arrancar.

002. In life, growing up in New York, he was actually a big fan of the Art Deco aesthetics and architecture growing in peak popularity at the time. A bit of a socialite of the times, and frequent speakeasy hopper, Tesla's home was decorated to the most recent trends, in case he had over esteemed company.

003. Neat, Tidy. Tesla is very organized, and everything in whatever space he works in is in it's place for a reason. There is only one person in existence allowed to wreak havoc on the order of his spaces.

004. Autumn: Grey skies, warm colors to bare branches, chilly winds, sweater weather, hot cocoa. Nostalgia and change, premonitions to colder days. The instinctual need to find warmth in another.

SONGS:

001. Cherubim - serpentwithfeet

002. I Wanna Be Loved By You - Marilyn Monroe

003. Desafío - Arca

004. Howl - The Family Crest

005. Sweet Talk - Saint Motel

#『✬』 Headcanons ; Who is Verruga? #this was so so so so fun to do

[troynovant]

me using this site as a weird semi-public diary

I'm trying to take stock of my life and it's an odd inventory. I'm 32, I have an Ivy League degree and and Ivy League Ph.D. Both, unfortunately, are in English literature. I have a job that affords me a good deal of respect in the sense of cultural capital but very little renumeration in the sense of actual capital. I am also completely at the mercy of an academic department that can, at any moment, simply not rehire me; for all I know it won't rehire me in the fall. I have enough savings to last about a year if I find myself unemployed. My employment prospects are altogether somewhere between mixed and grim. I am highly qualified for a profession that no longer exists and over-qualified for most others. I have repeatedly failed to gain any form of long-term work in my field, live with two housemates, and have to replace those housemates whenever they move out. I am materially comfortable in most other regards.

Socially, I'm really very lucky: I have lots of friends, far more than most people in their early thirties, though it's unclear if those friends, some of whom are relatively wealthy, could help me find work if things went south in my current department. Romantically, things could quite literally not be worse. It turns out, and I should have known this, that extended multi-year flirtations with men who are mostly straight and ultimately fall back upon that do not make for a satisfactory emotional life. I have almost no experience socializing with other gay men; this would have been a real surprise to me as a teenager, but my friends are, other than a few girls, primarily straight men. I take a revolting sort of pride in that even though it is at this point clearly not setting me on the path towards any sort of long-term happiness.

Physically, I think I have a nice face but am clearly out of shape. I'm proud of my hair, which is pretty healthy for a man my age even if it's thinner than it once was. You'd think, given all my hangups, that I had a weird dick or some sort of obvious physical problem but that's not the case, almost surprisingly. I have an absolute standard dick; I also have a completely crippling pornography addiction. My biggest strength, I think, is that I am smart. That sounds arrogant but I've never had much reason to doubt it. I can say the right things about books and movies and art and architecture and history and travel and even science -- I guess engineering would be my blind-spot but even then I can usually follow along. I'm good at conversation, I have character and personality, I'm not boring. People like to talk to me and I'm good with people, but this is all in the arena of socializing. I'm always a hit at parties and then spend Valentines day alone.

I know, objectively, that I could date if I wanted too -- I'm really not bad looking, and I can usually win people over in conversation -- but I'm just scared of putting myself out there. I'm scared that someone will look at me and think that I don't live up to my photos (I photograph well, basically the opposite of the more common phenomenon of a good-looking person who looks bad on camera) but my fear of rejection is equal to my fear of rejecting someone. I know, on some level, that I could never go on a date and then not go home with the other person if they were pushing for it, because whenever I'm one-on-one with someone all I can do is try to please them.

I feel like if I were to actively date I'd have to do it like this: send only the most unflattering photos so there's little chance that they'll be disappointed, get too drunk to be nervous, and just commit, in advance, to the idea that I'll pretty much do whatever they want regardless of whether or not I'm actually all that attracted to them. I think I would also have to make it a rule not to go on a date with anyone who is even a few degrees removed from me socially because I'd hate it for gossip to get back to my friends somehow -- "hey, apparently my friend went on a date with your friend C**** and he was drunk and weird and then kind of bad at sex" lmao truly a nightmare. But then, this is all hypothetical -- I'm so stuck in my ways, so unlikely to actually try. I think people around me have started to notice something -- I'm very spontaneous and open to new experiences, but only in ways that are somewhat superficial. I'll travel to new places, eat anything however exotic, wear whatever, try any drug given to me, try most things at least once, really, and yet in bigger ways my life never really changes. At the end of the day, I'll come back home on my own and maintain my little instagram account and nothing will change even if it looks like things have. At this point, I think my fear that my friends, family, colleagues etc. will think that I'm a loveless, sexless freak is exerting a stronger pressure on me than any actual desire for companionship, which is so characteristic of course -- again my priorities are just social. I've put all my eggs in the same basket, my social life, but I know on some level that my friends are all going to get married, have kids, move away, and basically grow up in the way that I seem to be incapable of.

#just purely rambling about my life lol trying to see if there's anything therapeutic in the act of #what is basically 'Virtual Confession' #What would Foucault say...

[rain-tumbling-through-a-vent]

I’m disgusted by my own body. I’ve been spiraling for THREE AND A HALF weeks now and I’ve forgotten to brush my teeth the whole time. I think I’ve got, like, 3 or four cavities. My parents also stopped paying my medical bills so every treatment I get comes out of my own pocket. I need wisdom teeth surgery too, I spent FIVE WHOLE YEARS in braces only to fuck my teeth up after I get them off. I suck so fucking much. I can’t stop scratching out holes in my face either. I started the week with nothing but small acne sores that’d go away in a week and now I’ve got three massive gashes on my face. That’s not even to mention the fact that I didn’t take a shower for THREE WHOLE WEEKS. I’m so fucking disgusting, why can’t I hyperfixate on being healthy or making myself beautiful? Oh yeah, MY MIND IS A PRISON THAT I CANNOT EVER ESCAPE. When I finished my shower yesterday, I pulled a hairball the size of both my fists put together off of my wet brush. I have curly hair so shedding in the shower is pretty normal, but that much hair? It’s too much! I’m scared to take a shower again and pulling enough hair out to create a bald spot. I already broke a whole lick of hair off right at my hairline so that it looks like I have the worst bangs ever. It also doesn’t help that my arms, back, and thighs are covered in scars from where I picked at sores. And when I say covered, I mean fuckin COVERED. I look like an ambidextrous heroine addict with really bad aim and a lying mother. And even on top of all of that, I’m a trans girl as well. So all of my failings only serve to compound the dysphoria that I feel at a base level every fucking day. I know that these behaviors are indicative of chronic anxiety and/or depression and/or adhd, but I’ve never been this bad. I’m borderline suicidal and incredibly lonely, I think I’m an extrovert with such terrible anxiety that it prevents me from refilling my energy. I think that the worst part of all of this is the fact that I have friends that want to talk to me, they just live far enough away to be too expensive to drive over for an afternoon. And I cannot properly put into words how much I HATE talking on the phone and texting. It’s too stressful trying to figure out how to get the time of a message across, and talking on the phone is just terrible. I had a long term partner of two and a half years until relatively recently. I initiated a break in the relationship because we were extremely co-dependent and had been driving apart for a few months anyways. Long story short, he ended up crossing my boundaries and being an asshole to my friends so I ended the relationship. He didn’t take it very well and now we aren’t in communication with each other anymore. The wild thing about it is we were unhealthily codependent, but I didn’t realize how much I needed him. I’ve been in a prolonged spiral ever since I pushed him away, just feeling absolutely empty and all at once overwhelmed. He was my purpose and I threw him away. All of that was pretty terrible, but almost nothing trumps my mostly fiscally supportive parents. My home life sucks and not just because I’m a fucking loser 20 year old that lives with her parents. There’s only one rule for them, one line I can’t cross, don’t be visibly trans at their house. I must note that I’m the eldest of four and all of my siblings hate me for causing my parent’s terrible mental health. They’re not wrong, but I was outed so I didn’t mean to. So one rule, you’re in the closet over here, okay that doesn’t sound so bad. Literally every conversation I have with either of them always ends up being about their feelings towards my transness. They seem to think I’ve been brainwashed by the trans agenda and am going to mutilate myself and immediately regret it. Every conversation ends like this, over and over again I’m constantly reminded that I’m an abomination or that I’m ruining my life. But here’s the real kicker, they continue to support me financially; even going so far as to offer to pay for college if I can ever get my shit together and get back over there. (1/?)

#personal vent #I’m just rambling about my problems #not looking for advice