#the bit about the chaplains too like oh my God????

[shirkers2018dirsanditan]

Larger, more established companies are taking similar steps. UnitedHealth Group has 350,000 employees, a perch high on the Fortune 500 list and annual revenues of hundreds of billions of dollars. It also has strict systems for measuring “idle time” that some employees say are deeply flawed.

Jessica Hornig, a Rhode Island social worker who supervised two dozen other UnitedHealthcare social workers and therapists seeing patients with drug addiction and other serious problems, said their laptops marked them “idle” when they ceased keyboard activity for more than a short while. They were labeled derelict during sensitive conversations with patients and visits to drug treatment facilities.

“This literally killed morale,” Ms. Hornig said. “I found myself really struggling to explain to all my team members, master’s-level clinicians, why we were counting their keystrokes.”

this is a gift link

#horrific……… #the bit about the chaplains too like oh my God????

[atozphantomsquadron]

V - Darkness

(cw: suicide)

After the rigors of basic training, classes began.  Every day went much the same way: class in the mornings, training in the afternoons, spend what I had of the evenings either socializing with the nine other women or writing letters home.  One of the big reliefs I had about the school was that fraternization between the cadets was strictly prohibited, which was fine by me as all of my experiences with matters of the heart or sex were of a negative nature.

During that time, I made more female friends than I could remember having before, considering my only previous friend had been Heather.  The first of these was my barracks-mate, an African-American girl named Jeneal Morris.  Jeneal was louder than many of my other friends had been before, but then again that loudness also made her friendlier.  Then there was another of the small group of female cadets, Ginger Snyder, who I later learned was a bit of an agnostic.  Jeneal took it upon herself to try to convert Ginger, but there was never any pressure, and every conversation was in good fun.

Unfortunately, the rigors of the school were too much for many of the women who tried to enroll.  By the end of my freshman year, six of the nine female cadets had withdrawn.  Jeneal, unfortunately, was one of them: I guess she was too gentle of a soul to manage the overbearing training.  My old friend, that isolated feeling, returned in force with Jeneal’s exit, especially since Ginger was no good to talk about matters of faith with.  My second year there, I withdrew into myself, content simply to write letters home to my mother, only emerging from my private hole in the wall infrequently to attend informational sessions or further training.

In that second year something both horrible and miraculous occurred.

On a cooler spring day, midway through the semester, I returned to my barracks after a particularly rough day of training to find a note affixed to my door.  The note was from the school’s assistant chaplain, the same man who had brought me there in the first place:

-Ariel-

-It pains me to inform you that your former bunkmate Jeneal Morris was found dead outside her home.  I felt you should hear about it from me before the news tells you.  I know she was a friend in Christ and very close to you, so I urge you, if at all possible, come to my office if you need counsel.  I will be more than willing to excuse you from classes or field training.

Jeneal’s death was a shock to me.  Such a happy person, such a cheerful soul, suddenly extinguished like a used cigarette.  It made my heart hurt.

A tap on my door broke my sadness.  Ginger was on the other side, in tears.  I quickly ushered her inside.

“You heard about it too?”

Ginger sniffled and nodded.  “All that time she spent, knocking me with the Bible … it’s just too much.”

I gently put my arms around Ginger’s slender shoulders.  “It’s okay.  Jeneal was a believer, she will find a place by Christ’s side.”

Oh how I wish I had not said those words.  Ginger erupted at me, wrenching away.  “How the hell do you know?  What the hell kind of God lets a good person like her get killed?”

My heart dropped.  “What do you mean?”

Ginger paced, her agitation palpable in the room.  “What do I mean?  What the hell do you think I mean?  Jeneal didn’t just drop dead, girl, she was gang-raped and shot in the head!  What kind of merciful, loving God lets something that … that sick happen to one of His most loyal worshippers?  I’ll tell you how.”

“Ginger, don’t say anything rash …” I pleaded with her from the bed, tears starting to flow.

“I’ll say what I damn well please, Ariel.  There is no God!”  Ginger slammed the door behind her to punctuate her point.  Her words had found purchase, though, and my faith was now fully on trial as their logic started to sink in.

How could God have let that happen to Jeneal?  Didn’t she sing loud enough, didn’t she pray hard enough?  If God was truly up in Heaven, would He have “rewarded” His servant with such a violent entrance to His Kingdom?  Why did such a bad thing happen to Jeneal?

Then it hit me.  No bad things had happened to me, not a single one, since I had come to the Institute.  No boys had tried to paw me, no girls had tried to rape me, nobody had teased or made fun or denigrated me.  Was Jeneal’s murder my punishment for getting too comfortable?

It must have been.  In that case, why should I live and Jeneal die?  What right do I have to continue living when such a wonderful example of Christian living cannot?  The questions raged from one side of my brain to the other, threatening to rend me limb from limb, spiritually kicking my heart up into my throat and down into my gut.

Then an even worse thought came to mind.  What if Ginger was right?  What if there was no God, and it was simply life, or fate, or whatever that had caused Jeneal to be in the path of danger?  What could have stopped it?

I could have.  I could have been a better friend, I could have helped her stay at VMI, I could have kept her out of harm’s way.

The guilt was too much.  My tears would not stop flowing, they coated my face in a dull wet sheen.  I tore apart my barracks room, searching through my possessions.  There had to be something …

A razor.  I found it hiding under my towel.  I felt along my left arm, searching for my pulse.  It tapped against my finger, gently, weakly, much like I was feeling at that moment.  The tool’s blade felt honed and straight.  I brought it over to my wrist.

Two quick slices.  Quick, almost painless, like paper cuts.  The vein was open.  Dark red blood flowed down my arm, covering my wrist and the palm of my hand in seemingly no time.  The liquid pulsed along with my heartbeat, pouring out of the wound.  My thoughts became cloudy as the blood left my brain, leaving me lightheaded and off-balance.  I staggered against the door and slid down it.  Blood stained my clothes, blood stained the linoleum floor of the barracks room, stained the furniture and my skin and my eyesight.  I closed my eyes and thought only one thing as I plunged into darkness:

“Jeneal, I’m so sorry.”

I don’t know how long it was, but the darkness opened up to a light.  It was gentle at first, almost like the first rays of pre-dawn.  I saw a vague shadow in the weak light, a male shadow.  He looked up at me from a crouched position, his hand touching the ground.  I then noticed that he had most of his weight on a sword, an old-time longsword.  When the man looked up at me, I recognized him as the young man from my dream: his eyes were pleading with me.  His voice was barely a hoarse whisper, but I could make out his words as surely as I could make out his shape.

“Not yet.  Go back.  Need you.”

My heart sank.  “Why?  No one needs me, except to die.”

He stood up.  Now I could see that his silhouette appeared to be encased in armor.  He continued his hoarse whisper.

“Need you.  Important.  Must live.”

I shook my head violently.  “No, no, please … please let me go.  Please let me pass.  I’m no good to anyone here, no good to defend anyone, no good …”

“Must live so others may live, so others may love.”

This statement stopped me short.  No one else had ever loved me, other than my mother and possible Aunt Irene.  Certainly no one else was dependent on my existence in order to live.  Right?

“So others may live?”

“So others may love, be saved by your love.”

This man, whoever he was, had a very persuasive argument.  If I were to love someone in the future, then I would save their life?  It made no sense to me, but that was when I decided I probably needed to find out.  It was about this time that my eyes opened in the hospital.

The first person I saw was a nurse, who quickly summoned a doctor to look in my pupils and check them.  The stale, sterile smells of a hospital room quickly came to my nose, while the doctor scribbled notes on his chart.

“You’re a very lucky young woman, Ms. Vibria.  Not a lot of people cut that vein like you did and live to tell about it.”

I gently raised my left hand and looked over.  The wrist was simply encased in gauze.  I also noticed a pink bracelet hanging gently above all of the dressings marked “SUICIDE WATCH” in black block letters.  My voice was barely a cough as I asked the doctor, “how did I get here?”

“In an ambulance.  They called from campus, I think it was a couple days ago.  You’d been bleeding out for a while, so it’s no surprise you have no memory of it.”  The doctor wrote some final notes on his clipboard.  “I’m keeping you under observation for another day.  If you don’t show any other suicidal tendencies, we’ll release you.  Now, I think you have some folks who want to see you.”

The doctor retreated, only to be replaced by a friendly face, the assistant chaplain.  He had a gentle smile as he took my good hand.

“I’m sorry I didn’t get to you sooner, and I’m sorry you took the news so hard.  I’m here to talk to now, if you want.”

I gently tried to sit up, but in my weakened state could only manage a slight movement of the pillow.  I smiled up at the assistant chaplain sheepishly.  “I’m sorry, I would try to come to attention if I could.”

“It’s all right, Ariel.  I’m sure you have questions.”

I nodded.  “The main one is who called for me?”

The door of the room opened, and Ginger walked in.  She looked like she had not slept in days as she approached the bed.

“I’m so sorry I upset you, Ariel.  I didn’t think you’d try … well, this.”

I sighed.  “It’s not your fault, Ginger.  Have you been here the whole time?”

The assistant chaplain nodded.  “We both have, Ariel.  We’ve been praying for you every day.”

I raised an eyebrow as I looked back over at Ginger.  “You’ve been praying?”

Now it was Ginger’s turn to smile sheepishly.  “I guess there’s a God after all … ‘cause He brought you back, and that’s what I’ve been praying for.”

She came to the other side of the bed from the assistant chaplain and gently hugged me.  With both of these people in the room, I felt secure and at least cared for, but I still pondered what my near-death vision had meant.  It would be a long time before I came to realize what the message had meant, as well as who that messenger had been.

(Transcriber’s Note: At this point, the sun was starting to set and Alanna came back into the house insistently, asking her mother to come outside.  I joined them both in the back yard, where much to my surprise both Alanna and Ariel sprouted wings and flew into the air above the canyon.  After the harrowing story of her suicide attempt, I felt I could not blame Ariel for wanting to blow off some emotional steam, so once both of them returned to earth I offered to come back the next day to continue the interview.  Ariel graciously offered me a room for the night.  So ended my first day’s worth of interviewing, and while it was fascinating I had learned absolutely nothing about CIBO #A13.  I left a note to myself on the recording, hoping that she would progress into the more shady parts of her history the next day.—DAM)

#phantom squadron #dinetah dragon

[acknowledgetheabsurd]

dr bernard rieux . I finished reading the plague yesterday and am now taking a small break from camus by rereading orwell (definitely not because of iop...), but let me talk about this book for a sec because this is another one I won’t be over for a while; massive spoilers ahead . That was a hell of an emotional journey, holy fuck, I could taste the philosophy and (almost) context it’s too good. It’s so much longer compared to the stranger but good god both of them hit me right in the feels—Meursault was with that final monologue yelling at the chaplain and here sanitary squad and co with just... everything. Lemme just talk a bit about the doctor and Tarrou because 1) my favorite characters and 2) caption word limit which I’ll definitely reach. Dr Rieux—hats off (ha!)—I gotta say you did an amazing job trying to help everyone and just doing your duty as doctor. Rieux along with Tarrou were my favorites; they were both so real in their own ways (Rambert too but on the human feelings side of things, stubborn little journalist); I think Rieux was also a very nice representation of the absurd man when faced with the absurd, though he was definitely different to the stranger’s Meursault when it comes to this—I love both of these men anyways. Rieux as the narrator wasn’t surprising—I sort of guessed at the him and Tarrou going swimming part because it was either one or the other (otherwise no one else know of this event) but when Tarrou died I knew it could only be the doctor. Though I will argue that in a way they were both the narrator because Tarrou’s diary was referenced constantly as a source of information, but that’s probably just me. Tarrou, oh my goodness Jean Tarrou, you are my hero of the book; rest in peace. I still have yet to mull over the question whether he did achieve his goal of becoming a saint without believing in god. Either way, he was a brilliant character. In my opinion he had to die, because he was honestly too good of a character to be allowed to live; he just had to go (like 1984’s Syme... he was just too intelligent, rip) otherwise it wouldn’t be a Camus novel.

Photo credit: dsalcoda_

#albert camus #camus #absurd #absurdism #drawing #art #artwork #the plague #dr rieux #absurd man #peace #saint #saint without god #god

[robinruns]

An update on where I’ve been. This post is gonna be long, and emotional, and I fully understand if you want to just scroll on.

Some background because at this point I cannot remember what exactly I’ve posted here and what I haven’t. My Dad had been struggling with shortness of breath just not getting better. He had had a cardiology appointment at the end of March and they had said everything was okay. He saw the PA at his cardiologists and they were concerned about swollen lymph nodes so they made an appointment for a biopsy. Cut to Monday the 12th. My Dad’s feeling worse so his doctor has him admitted. Ugh I’m tired of writing this, I’m gonna cut it short. This Monday he got moved to the ICU. On Tuesday morning, I got the call that the doctor wants to meet with all of us. Fuck.

Basically it was colon cancer, undetected probably because it came up after his last colonoscopy and he was due to have one in December, but covid so. But there probably wouldn’t have been able to do anything about it anyway by then. Something something (I couldn’t listen that much) it spread and for some reason it led to his heart having to pump harder to get the blood moving and get it oxygenated and well basically heart failure that was basically inevitable and due to happen anytime.

We had a good afternoon with him talking and I said everything I wanted to say and I heard everything I needed to hear. We went home, ate dinner, and I went to bed around 10. I had barely slept like half an hour when my mom woke me up and said we had to go back to the hospital. I couldn’t really be in the room, I didn’t wanna remember him like that, but he was so out of it I don’t think it mattered. I talked with the chaplain, who was a very nice older lady who used to work up in the town where I live now. Around 2 AM I was exhausted and my mom said why don’t you just go home. So I went home, got back to sleep and she called about 5:20ish to say he’d passed just after 5 AM. It immediately struck me because he always got going that early. When I got in the car, I left the radio on a different station than I normally listen to, and Let It Be by the Beatles was playing. It felt appropriate for the moment. I went down and picked up my mom. It very quickly became evident how the next few days, weeks, months, are going to be. 

A bit of background for this next part. My dad was the sole earner for the family and my mom stopped working when I was born (sorry for existing I guess?). The problem is that my mom is also basically a compulsive shopper and if I’m being honest, on her way to becoming a hoarder, although to be fair, she has been cleaning lately which is good.

But the problem is they didn’t have a lot of money in savings. There’s two life insurance policies, and social security coming in, but now not as much social security. My mom’s reeling because now she’s going to actually have to have a budget. She’s going to have to cut back on things. I just spent so long trying to convince her to drop her home phone line because it’s pointless, but she “doesn’t want to change her contact information with the banks and stuff” and “it’s too many more steps to check her voicemail on her phone” versus the home phone. I get being apprehensive of change, but FUCK it makes me so mad. I try to have patience, but it’s wearing thinner and thinner.

This sounds mean, but it’s honest: When I started growing up and kinda realized how things really were with my family financially, I realized that I don’t want to be like her. People talk about their mom being their best friend, or their hero and I’m just sitting here like I can't relate. She got money from when her mom passed four years ago, and she has that in an account where her social security also gets deposited, and she told me today that she’s “proud of that money because it’s her money.” How is that “her money”? She didn’t earn that! Oh my god. How do you not see this coming? I know no one wants to think about the loss of a spouse or the loss of income, but you have to. You have to think about the bad shit to properly prepare for it! And now she also can’t afford to get hearing aids that she desperately needs, and she basically refuses to learn anything with technology and gets easily frustrated so she’s never gonna be able to get a job! Fuck, I just saw a commercial for one of those life alert things, I should get her that. 

I just see this all coming back to me. I bought dinner tonight, and we’ll probably add her to my phone plan to save money. All day I’ve had to keep her on track. If it wasn’t for me she would have been late to everything today. I feel like I have to be kinda mean, telling her that she’s just gonna have to suck it up and deal with the change, and I mean I get that she’s freaking out and overwhelmed, but fuck I’m feeling it too ya know! It’s exhausting having to talk someone down from the proverbial edge all the time!

On that note, I really appreciate all the people who have been there for me over the last few days. I really appreciate the check ins, the cute photos, the videos, all that stuff. I sorta liked feeling disconnected from social media this week. I’m slowly getting the word out, but I really don’t want a ton of attention from this, ya know? (maybe this should have been the first paragraph, I doubt anyone read this far down) I feel like everyone who has  I know my self care has been non-existent the last few days. My sleep schedule is WAY off, I don’t really know what day it is, I’m not drinking enough water, my eating has been, well, strange. Eating lots some days, next to nothing other days. That’s the same way my emotions have been. Sometimes fine, sometimes sad, sometimes mad. But when I went for a run yesterday, I felt connected to him, like as I ran, in my head I was like “Hey Dad, so the Brewers have been doing good the last few nights!” that sorta thing. I asked is there something I can see and be like there he is, and he said a bald eagle, which is great because my town has a lot of them.

I should probably edit this, but I’m tired and I don’t wanna re-read it. I’m just glad I got everything out in one post.

#tw death mention #personal

[ask-mortarion-the-death-lord]

some continuation i guess

this time with the emperor

we get the basic rundown, born to human parents, massively gifted, immortal, hidden among humanity and all that. It’s here where his motivation to shepherd humanities psychic awakening is really first brought up [something thats given overall more prominence in the book as well]. a much more interesting note however

now, this probably seems inconspicuous enough at first glance. Indeed even in modern canon 40k’s imperium is first actually created over ten millennia ago. However, take into consideration this little bit earlier in the lore section that i didn’t think to much off at the time

now, taking this into consideration, the implication here is that the age of strife, something that is typically thought to end right before the unification wars in modern 40k lore, is only considered to have ended after the emperor’s internment upon the golden throne, and that further the imperium seems to only officially be a thing upon the that internment. Now this suggests some things to me, two large ones possibly being

a) the unification wars and the great crusade were more so part of the same wider war, ie that the wars ‘only the emperor remembers’ were a large conflict between various warlords to determine who got the rightful rulership of the crumbling pre age of strife human civilization. or

b) the emperor started the age of strife in order to dominate humanity to control and shepherd the psychic awakening he saw humanity stumbling into.

take your pick i guess. food for thought and all that. also

in my earlier post i jumped the gun, the 1st edition emperor is still a punk who needs human souls to survive. Though in this case its not some vague need to bind his soul to the chair or anything, no, its just that he apparently cant eat or drink anything else and hes really god damn hungry and thirsty all the time. Which is hilarious and i almost feel is just a better explanation in general.

to be fair he does look like this 10 millenia later

makes sense he would need to eat unconventionally.

as well, as opposed to specifying 1000 psyker souls a day it just mentions a vague ‘hundreds dying every day’ which is still a lot but also likely less then modern emps eats everyday.

some explanation/emperor wank on why the emperor needs to be fed everyday. not much to say, just that i feel like the implications here atleast lean a bit more towards the emperor being pitiable in his own right as someone so dedicated to this vague future ideal of humanity that hes forsaken most of his own physically and mentally. 

apparently humanity underwent no genetic changes over 38,000 years that werent the direct result of mutation from environmental hazards.

@ lordsofmedrengard  early dark angels lore, here we can see where they got stuck with the moniker of “first legion” from in 30k modern lore, and its cause here in the first 40k book they’re noted as being ‘honored as the first marine chapter’. Guess it was something they felt needed to carry over... I like the copious more amounts of wine in the old dark angels chapter, and they seem a lot more aristocratic here then in modern 40k. Which makes an interesting contrast compared to the barbarian stocks of soldiers mentioned earlier in the book as being preferred for “legiones astartes”

we get some rundowns on the branches of the adeptus terra next, not much particularly new to note outside of them all being part of this larger governmental priesthood. some highlights though

the old school custodes uniforms are in fact the traditional uniform of the custodes in 1st edition. 

custodes wielded ‘lasers built to resemble the traditional and symbolic guardian spear’ whatever the fuck that means

tech priests and the adeptus mechanicus were monastic monks who primarily lived on earth and didn’t stick metal parts into and all over their bodies. they were consequently much more boring as the echlissiarchies IT department.

arbites basically doubled in the sisters of battle’s role as the militant branch of the state religion.

arbites fashion choices and the arbites acting in a similar manner of chaplains as well really.

the more voluntary nature of the astronomican in the first edition, the trainees learn how to safely let the battery drain them but it still seems to be a demanding job with a high fatality rate

they also share monastic tendencies and a uniform with the mechanicus, though theres is a fashionable blue.

included the entire bit on the administratum cause honestly, i find it incredibly fascinating. The parallels are certainly there between modern and 1st edition administratum, but i feel how its presented here just has more teeth and intrest to it. That is to say, its not just the ‘oh what fate, administration has become even more horrid, tedious and soul draining in this grim dark future, woe be us!’ that tends to get tossed around when mocking administration. Instead its a literal organization of religious monks dedicated to tax filings, school administration, rezoning and what have you. Blessed be the regulations and all that. Is there small cults dedicated to paper clip gods? what holy rites are involved when faxing documents compared to when faxing fourms? This is shit i want to know more about.

all adeptus terra adepts carry a knife and are likely legally allowed to shiv you here as well incidentally. 

the inquisitors are mostly the same, though with no mention of chaos whatsoever. less sub divisions from the looks of it too. this bit did catch my attention though.

psychic powers seemed to be a hell of a lot more common among inquisitors back then as well.

quirky inquisitors, who’d have thunk it. [its not that surprising, i just like that they took the time to mention it is all]

don’t know wtf is going on here though, especially as to whats going on with dudes armour on the left. looks like a knight crossed with an oven.

we get the usual spiel of psyker background, but then we get some interesting differences in opinions here on psykers compared to modern 40k imperium. How justified or not it is, is up to you but its definitely a shift in tone i would say.

possibly the proto servitor narrative wise? As said, 1st edition 40k readily uses robots, so servitors would be unnecessary. technomats on the other hand fall between that as menials who likely operate these things but dont full on replace them like servitors eventually will.

astropaths are basically the same, though the 90% statistic im not sure if it holds over to modern 40k. im thinkin likely but i could be wrong.

navigators outside of not ubiquitously having the third eye mutation also seem to have much more personal freedom and respect in imperial society in 1st edition. probably pretty comfy to be a navigator back then really. Aside from that, navigator families are still a thing.

space marine time!

well we get the same ‘feral world recruits as warrior god soldiers’ sortta stuff, it is mentioned and stressed that hive world criminals apparently make better stock in terms of raw aggression. Entire gangs will even be rounded up for the purpose of making new space marines.

the early process to create a space marine. no special organs, but bio-chem and the black [plastic?] carapace were there from the start, and hypno indoctrination is alluded to. Apparently this is still barely controlled chaos though. [and on a personal note, nothing that indicates it was male exclusive either, outside of general attitudes of the 1980′s]

early organization graph of a space marine chapter.

chapter markings and armour

AND THE POSSIBLITY OF SPACE MARINE BAGPIPES, WHERE ARE THEY GW WHERES MY SPACE MARINE BAGPIPERS!

iron hands apparently only had the one iron hand?

list of chapter symbols with names and colours, these keep appearing in the book. seems i was wrong on only the imperial fist symbol, its actually the crimson fists chapter symbol so thats 3 of the modern big 9 that didn’t exist back then.

we get a break down on the typical structure of a fortress monastery for space marines next, using the space wolves funnily enough who were far more normal as it were in 1st edition [and also their home world was lucan isntead]. and its got a lot, and well its all fairly interesting ill just shotgun blast some highlights

that the space wolves had an entire fuckin ship hanging in their great hall i find endlessly amusing, so thats why its there. the rest are interesting in terms of the domestic situation of space marines.

#space marines #space wolves #the emperor #mechanicus

[ashandboneca]

Racism, abuse, and why I don’t consider myself a part of the ‘community’

I’d like to talk about the event that pushed me away from the idea of a pagan community, and forced me inwards to further develop my own practice - and about the events of the last few years in regards to continued abuses in the pagan community. About 6 years ago, I started to look into the Norse pantheon. I had worked with Thor in the past, and about 6 or 7 prior to that I did an experiment where I worked with the Aesir for a month. At that point in my life, I didn't connect with them. I don't know why I didn't, I partially blame the terrible book I had for guidance, and the fact that the person who initially agreed to guide me flaked out. However, this time around I endeavoured to learn as much as I could from a reputable source, because the last time I had no idea what I was doing. I approached my friend, who is a practicing forn sidr heathen, and they agreed to teach me what they knew. We spent a number of sessions discussing cosmology and theology. I felt confident going forward, armed with book recommendations and a passion to learn further. I wrote a bit about my experiences openly on my previous blog with Odinn. Interactions with him were not sought after, but something that merely happened. When gods or spirits or ancestors come calling, you answer in some way out of respect. I wrote more about my experiences, and different techniques I utilized to connect with him. None of them were specifically Heathen - but I don't soley identify as Heathen, so I figured if that was an issue, Odinn wouldn't have shown up in the first place.

Some time later, my friend had messaged me to let me know they had gotten some hate mail about me via Witchvox (which no longer exists, but used to be a connection board for finding pagans and witches in your area, as well as open groups, etc). I was initially gobsmacked. Why the hell is someone emailing her in regards to something I did? Wouldn't have been more productive to email or message me to resolve whatever issue? I found it who it was. This person was, at that time, a member of a well recognized organization locally who put on events and rituals - an organization whose first mandate is "We hold that each one of us has their own path to follow to truth and spirit." To be honest, I had never really interacted with this person beyond being paid to do so in my former job at a pagan bookshop. We attended a few of the same events, but never really interacted. There was no real beef. I wasn't particularly fond of said person, but I had no real issues with them - so this came sort of out of left field. I sat on it for a bit.  I did not reply to the sender. Instead, I decided to post the initial email on my previous blog. Inevitably, someone is going to disagree with how you practice or what you do, even if you're not doing anything wrong. The  point I think is important to underline is that you do not need to stand for other people trying to tear you down, assert some kind of moral superiority over you, or telling you how and when you should be practicing, unless your practice is appropriative - in which case you should be taking a long, hard look at yourself. As heathenry is an open tradition, I had no concerns. I also think transparency is very important, and when people behave badly they often do so to gain something from it. Whether it is attention, drama, or they feel they are in a safe space to do so due to anonymity.  So, by posting the email (albeit in edited format - I removed all identifying information about said person, because I wanted to focus on the behaviour, not the person), I felt I was addressing something that more people should have been addressing. Afterwards, my friend received a few more emails about how I was 'pissing on their ancestors' and etc. My friend told them, in no uncertain terms, that the emails were unwelcome, the issue was none of their business, and to fuck off. I also got a few emails, a few messages on Witchvox, a few comments, and a lovely comment from a sockpuppet account here on tumblr, as well as finding out my writing was posted to be mocked because I wasn't 'heathen' enough - with screenshots! I did not respond to anything, just kept record of everything in case it was needed. I disagree with the idea of bringing in some third party who is uninvolved to do one's dirty work. If someone has an issue with how someone else is practicing, they need to question whether it's something to address. Bringing in someone uninvolved is both cowardly and childish. They did not ask to be involved, and I'm not sure what involving another person serves to carry a point. Fight your own battles, or say nothing.

There were a few other instances. A series of screencaps of this person’s continued racist, sexist, and abusive behaviour was provided to a few of us. A known leader was accused of racism and verbal abuse by other members of the community with credible evidence. This leader had a pattern of setting up multiple Facebook accounts and when one was found they would set up a new one with a new name. They talked at length about their feelings on immigration, POC in the Heathen community, and interfaith. They advocated violence and celebrated terrorist acts. Some really troubling, disgusting stuff.

We did what we thought was right - we emailed the organization to tell them and offer proof via said screencaps. In the response, we were told, and I am not bullshitting, that this person was a valued member of the community, that they are 'proud' of their heritage (uh, so am I, but I don't run my mouth off about diversity being white genocide), and that we could essentially go pound sand. I quote "own personal outlook on (their) culture and (their) path. (They are) entitled to (their) own practice as much as anyone of us are, and (they) cares deeply for (their) culture.  (They) makes a significant contribution to the Pagan community with (their) efforts through (group). (They are) a hard worker and has accomplished a great many things in (their) time on the board, a commitment that is not to be taken lightly. (They) fulfill (their) duties as a board member admirably."

Do I agree with their hot take on this? No. I think if someone comes to you with an accusation of that kind of wrongdoing, you have a duty to do some manner of preliminary investigation, because if you are in a position where you are teaching people and have authority, those students need to feel safe. You need to determine if the accusations have any truth, and if they are found to be false, feel free to stand behind and assert your belief in the accused. I truly believe the harasser/abuser showed their group the email, and they spun it in some way to discredit us.

Complicity via ignorance is still complicity - it's enough to tarnish an organization's good name. In the working world, business owners have been hung out to dry because of their racist, homophobic, or sexist employee's actions. The whole Kenny Klein situation happened for years because people excused his behaviour and allowed other people to be abused.  We are all finger-wagging and clucking when people try to bring up this behaviour  - don't be starting drama, oh that's just how (name) is, oh that's just rumours. Look, everyone - assholes, creeps, criminals, and predators exist in every faith, every organization. We are so quick to sweep it under the rug, so rushed to prevent judgement, that we always forget that one important fact. While I think it's important not to jump on every bad thing you hear about people, I do think it's important to have an open and frank discussion about proper behaviour while in a position of power. Especially if proof of misdeeds are being offered.

This group, and their lack of action, stood complicit in this person's bad behaviour. If they made the choice to stand behind a racist, bigoted person who spends their time trying to harass people online (I am not the only one, I have been told - there have been multiple people, including some of their own family members), that is their choice. They have made that choice, and they have chosen to accept any repercussions going along with it. They chose to stand behind an abuser.

Sarah Lawless, back in 2018, named a number of known abusers in the wider PNW community. The flack she received for being brave to stand up and call that shit out was disgusting.

Abusers are coddled and protected in pagan communities. They are viewed as elders, as productive members of the community,  as local heroes. While I have been fortunate to encounter very little sexual harassment in the pagan community, I have suffered other abuses and harassment that has shown me that, just like the priests and cardinals in the Vatican, pagans protect and believe only those in their clique. And there are cliques in the community, have no doubt about that.

Sarah pointed out that the ideal community is a fantasy - I agree. Stories I have heard from others about their own experiences in the 'safe and welcoming' pagan community would break your heart. One person I spoke with said 'it's scary to even fathom trying to approach anyone, because it's hard to know who to trust, who might lure you in and take advantange of you'. That is a sad statement, and one I know too well. I have a tendency to keep abuse like this close to the chest because I have been burned by people in the past. There is no spiritual support for people who get abused - no chaplains, no pastoral care, no therapists.

These were people who were putting everything on the line to be heard, and the vitriol and hatred and lies I had seen made my blood boil. This is precisely why people do not come forward. They could put everything on the line - in Sarah's case, the safety of her partner at the time and children - and people will still find a way to claim the survivors are lying. Why? What do the survivors get out of lying about their abuse? What person would come forward, knowing they will be attacked, confronted, slandered, and encounter more abuse, if they weren't telling the truth? Why would any survivor put themselves through that unless there is truth? The most stalwart defenders claim 'they couldn't have done it, I've never seen them do anything to me!' Humans are complicated and complex beings, with many facets and many faces. The face you see may not be the same face others see. The John Doe you know and the John Doe I know may be the same person, but very different relationships. 

It comes down to this: You can't 'believe survivors' if you're supporting abusers.

You can't support survivors if you're sheltering abusers.

You can't help survivors if you're siding with abusers.

You can't call it a safe community if you don't protect it's members.

Standing up for myself and others lost me “friends” who ditched me about the ‘drama’, and my community.  Something needs to change. It is inevitable that change will befall the community, and those denizens had better wise up quickly. There are a lot of young, vulnerable people looking for guidance and safety, and the community better fucking step up and prove they are willing to protect their members, or they have become no better than the Christian groups who continue to enable their abuse. We need willing leaders to push forward to make the community better. We need dedicated, smart, and savvy people to navigate a new and better future for paganism, because it's got a death rattle going on and it needs the kiss of a new life.

Burn the whole of the modern pagan community down. Burn down the groups that perpetuate abuse, that enable abusers, and grow something better and safe from the ashes. Dismantle the sexist, enabling, racist, oversexed community with it's abusive elders, cleanse it with fire, and create a place where people can come together without having to fear predators.

The only I have learned from watching my and other’s experiences is that we shouldn't call out wrongdoing in the community, because I have gotten abuse hurled at me for it and I have seen others who have done the same get more and worse abuse. People get mad, they accuse those who come forward of 'causing drama' or 'rocking the boat'.

That is a terrible lesson. A witch is sovereign unto themselves.

Bitches, this boat is rocking. Grab on, or drown.

This is my own story. I have posted links for further review down below.

Further reading:

Dealing With Toxic People in the Pagan Community

Sarah Lawless’ post about her suffered abuse, via the Wayback Machine

Abuse, the Pagan Community, and Our Commitments

Abuse Within Paganism - a taboo topic?

A Crisis of Faith

Authenticity and Racism in Contempory Paganism

This is not a new issue - via livejournal, 2006

Cultural Appropriation in Neopaganism

#Ash and Bone #ashandbone.ca #witchcraft #traditional witchcraft #heathenry #The Crooked Path #tw abuse #tw racism #pagan #paganism #yes i wrote a whole damn paper

[bazypitchandsimonsnow]

Mages Don’t Meddle

Rating: M

Genre: Angst/Mild Fluff

Word count: 16091

Summary: In a world where magic users must fear each other, Baz Pitch, a British born hex hiding in the 19th century American southwest, is just trying to stay alive. But when he meets a fellow British hex, his world is turned upside down in the most awful, amazing ways possible. PLEASE READ FIRST AUTHOR'S NOTE!!!!

Read on AO3

AN: Alright some of you may know that my favourite book series of all time is The Hexslinger Series by Gemma Files. It’s a gory but brilliant horror/dark fantasy weird western trilogy about gay cowboy wizards fighting Aztec gods. (It's also where my AO3 username comes from). I've been writing this AU on and off for like two years now lol. So when I saw this event, I saw it as motivation to finally finish it. And I did! Idk how many people are gonna like this, considering the obscurity of the books. The mythos is a bit complicated so here are the basic rules of the Hexslinger world:

1. Magic users exist, called "hexes" or "hexslingers” by most English speakers. They’re commonly known of and feared by some humans because of their immense, usually unstable power. Their magic is usually called "hexation" and a common descriptor for anything to do with them is "hexacious." Being a hex can either be passed down from parent to child or appears randomly. Most are children of a hex man and a human woman as pregnancy for a hex woman can be very risky to mother and child, but it's still possible.

2. Hexes aren’t usually born having magic. Their powers manifest at some point later in their lives except in very rare circumstances. For women it usually appears after their first period, while for men it’s usually after some sort of grievous bodily harm, e.g getting hanged or beaten. Before manifestation, some hexes show no sign of magic at all, while others have hints like perfect aim or weirdly good luck. It depends on the person and their power level.

3. Hex magic varies between people based on personality, culture, family history, and power level/type. For example, an experienced Chinese born hex with refined power will have a very different kind of magic than a newly manifested American born hex with more chaotic power. (That’s literally just from the original books lol.) Even hexes similar in multiple aspects can be completely different in the way their magic is expressed.

4. The only universal trait between hexes is that they all have the urge to feed off each other’s magic. They’re like magic vampires (wink wink). If they get too close to each other, they have the immediate urge to absorb the other's power and kill them. It’s completely instinctual and very hard to resist. Hence why hexes can’t be around each other. Or, to use the common phrase from the universe, “mages don’t meddle.”Okay that's the basics. There's A LOT of other stuff but I think that's all you need to know for this fic imo.

TRIGGER WARNINGS: So there's some period typical racism scattered around due Baz being brown in the 19th century American south. It's not too harsh imo but I still want to warn people. I hope I handled it alright, considering I'm a white af Canadian Irish-Jew, but if I didn't I'm very sorry. There's also a bit of period typical homophobia at the start. The closest I get to slurs is the use of "red" and "Indian" in reference to Indigenous people, "queer" in a negative context, references to sand because Baz says he's Egyptian, and Baz being called "darker folk." I felt it would be disingenuous to not include bigotry of the past and pretend things would be all okay for a queer POC like Baz. Especially since Hexslinger itself has major themes of homophobia, racism, and not being accepted in the majority of society. A few mentions of suicide, self harm, and torture too in relation to hex powers emerging too, which is also major in Hexslinger. The series itself is pretty brutal and dirty with lots of bigotry, blood, guts, and death. So those elements have gotten in here. There is some flesh burning stuff but I don't think it's that graphic, feels pretty typical for Carry On imo. Hopefully this all works well/makes sense.

As always, big thanks to Raegan of @carryonmylovelies Now with that all out of the way, enjoy!

———————————————

I gingerly take a sip of my whiskey. It's a horrible rotgut shite, but there’s worse stuff out in the wild west. This Slipfoot Joe’s seems to be okay by my now very, very low standards for this area.

“Well well, if it ain’t a pretty red boy,” the man behind me croons. His voice makes evey inch of my skin crawl.

I let out a deep sigh. I’ve been expecting this, but I’m still not pleased. “Piss off, arsehole.”

“Oh! Didn’t know Indians could sound English!”

“I’m British Egyptian, you twit.”

The man leans on the bar, smiling wide. It’s easier to count the few teeth he has than guess how many he’s lost. “What brings your sandy ass to our great country?”

The Call. The unending Call that signals all of us to come here.

I take another long sip. “Your gorgeous face, obviously. How much do you charge? I’ve heard American men are cheaper here than in England.”

The man reels back scowling. “You think I’m some queer?!”

“Well, I assumed so. Considering you were just flirting with me, a man.”

He snarls, whipping out his pathetic little pistol. The barrel shakes nonstop. “You got some nerve, boy!”

I finish the whiskey and delicately place the glass rim first on the filthy bar. “And you’re a racist bastard. You don’t see me getting all pissy.”

The gunshot happens in slow motion for me. I don’t even need to turn. I simply hold one hand in front of me and let my magic pour from me like a dragon’s breath. It curls out in front of me, a circle of blacks and charcoal greys and burning scarlets. Every hex’s magic is different. Mine is like a constant roaring fire, always threatening to consume me.

The bullet hits the shield with a tinny clink. Racist Man is frozen with wide, terrified eyes. I turn to him, orange and red reflecting in my grey eyes.

“You- You’re... a hex?!” He splutters.

“Thought that was pretty bloody obvious. Now go, before I drink your blood.”

Racist Man and his buddy scamper out of the tavern. I let the force field dissipate, crackling and popping in the air like a dying campfire. Joe, the bartender and eponymous Slipfoot, sighs as he cleans another glass.

“You know,” Joe says, “I’ve met other hexes. They’re stupid reckless assholes but they ain’t ever drank blood. Just suck each other’s magic.”

I chuckle. “Well they don’t know that, do they?”

“No, lucky for you. What’s a Brit like you even doin’ here anyway?”

My mouth presses into a thin line. I envy him. He can't hear The Call from that damned Hex City. I heard it all the way in Washington, and before I knew it I was on a train southeast. The only reason I haven’t actually gone to the horrid place is sheer stubbornness.

“I’m a hex. Where else would I be going?”

Joe freezes. He stares at me with more concern than fear. “I’d be careful, son. Those hexes I met? One of them was Reverend Rook himself. He’s beyond bad news, ‘specially with that heathen goddess by his side.”

“I know.” I trace my finger on the old wood, trying to focus on that instead of the ringing in my head. “But what choice do I have?”

———————————————

1867, two years after America’s bloody civil war, and it seems they’re about to be plunged into a new one. Except it won’t be slavery versus abolition this time, but humans versus magic. 

The news has spread like wildfire. In the final days of the war, a confederate soldier and unofficial chaplain named “Reverend” Asher Rook was sentenced to hang for abandoning his regiment. But he survived, and the suffering of the ordeal caused his hex powers to emerge. Rumour has it one Bible verse from his lips can level an entire town. Rook decided to use his new powers to steal and murder his way through the west, aided by his ruthless gunslinging lieutenant (and rumoured lover) Chess Pargeter.

He should’ve been just another hex outlaw for those American Pinkertons to take down. But somehow, a mere month ago, Rook made a pact with an Aztec goddess. And together they’ve created New Azteclan, or Hex City to the common man. According to the magical homing signal I hear, that every hex hears, it’s a place where hexes can lose their insatiable urge to feed off each other’s magic. We’ll no longer have to be loners by nature, picked off one by one by humanity. We could be together. We could be safe.

But at what cost? Nothing in life comes without a cost. I know that too well. My magic cost me my home, my family, and a good part of my sanity. I’d do anything to not be a danger to others anymore. And the possibility is right there. All I need to do is go further south and cross the border into Mexico to reach Hex City. But once I do that, there’s no going back. The temptation of the Call will be too strong. And whatever price The Reverend wants, he’ll get it from me.

I sit at the fire, chewing on some absolutely horrific jerky. I’m trying to focus on the flames instead of the voice in my head. I’m not sure whose it is. Maybe Rook’s, maybe his witch goddess’. It doesn’t have a discernible tone, just sort of an indistinct everyman sound, or a thousand voices speaking the same thing. Either way, it’s very annoying.

Come, it whispers. Come seek out Ixchel, the Mother of Hanged Men. Come stand before Her priest-king, to offer up your service. Come to build the First City of the Sixth World- the world of wonder, the world of power. Come, and join New Azteclan.

“Shut up, shut up, shut up!” I shout into emptiness, slamming the side of my head with my fist.

“I haven’t said anything yet,” someone replies weakly.

I bolt up. My magic roars to life inside me, a fireball forming in the palm of my hand. “Who said that?!”

The man slowly steps out of the darkness. He must be no older than myself, with his young, round freckled face. He has curly bronze hair, capped by an old second hand cowboy hat. His brown leather coat, plaid shirt, riding boots, and jeans are all filthy with desert dirt. A horse with saddle bags stands behind him. His blue eyes are wide and nervous. I notice a smell on him. Like green fire and smoke, with a strong scent of something brown and sweet. He smells like something I would gladly eat.

He’s a hex.

“Don’t you dare come any closer, you prick,” I say between gritted teeth. “I won’t hesitate to burn you to a crisp.”

The other boy shakes his head. “I’m not here to drain you. I...I just wanted to ask for some help.” He sounds British like me, but more rough and nervous, stumbling over his words.

“Yeah, right. Do I look that gullible? ‘Mages don’t meddle.’ We’d all drain each other dry if we were given the chance.”

He sighs heavily. “Well, of course I want to by instinct, but I’m not going to. I was just wondering if you had any food. All of mine got stolen by some angry humans.”

I consider just turning him away, or draining his magic and leaving his dried out corpse for the vultures. But he looks so desperate. How long has this young man been out here alone? My aunt had always warned me to be wary of all other hexes. We’re a bloodthirsty species, Basil. Never trust another hex, ever. Not even me. But I’m not my aunt.

I sit down again. “Fine. You can have some jerky. Just don’t come too close alright? I’d like to keep my magic and soul where they are, please.”

The man smiles (he has a nice smile) and sits opposite me at the fire. I throw a bag of jerky, and he catches in one hand. He shoves it in his mouth like a ravenous animal.

“So,” I say, “what’s your name?”

“Simon Snow,” he rep;ies, mouth still half full. “Your’s?”

“Baz Pitch.” Simon chuckles a bit, and I frown. “What’s so funny?

“Well, Baz Pitch is a pretty ridiculous name.”

“No more ridiculous than Simon Snow,” I snap. “What, were you named by circus performers?”

“Maybe. Not sure, actually.” Snow looks at the fire, but it feels like he’s looking right through it, his gaze very far away.

“Why’s that?”

Simon shakes his head. “Hey, are you going to Hex City?”

I huff, blowing some loose, dirty hair out of my eyes. I’m too tired to stop him from changing the subject. “I don’t know. Are you?

He shrugs. “Maybe. So far I am. The stories and Call do make it sound so wonderful.”

I scoff loudly. “Of course they do. Rook wants people to come. Then we’ll get there and be sacrificed to his bloodthirsty goddess. That’s probably what happened to Pargeter. No one’s heard from him lately, according to the locals.”

“But we’ll lose the hunger! What if the Reverend just wants us to be safe? Y’know, as a kindness to his own people.”

“No one does anything out of kindness, Snow. Least of all hexes.”

“You gave me food out of kindness, didn’t you?”

I glare at him over the flames. He shrugs with a faint smile. Fuck. He has a really nice smile.

 “I’m going to sleep,” I mutter. “But I’m putting a shield around me. Touch it and you’ll be burned alive. So don’t get any ideas about taking my magic.”

Simon throws his hands up in innocence. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

I lay down on my pallet, throwing up my force field. The crackle and hiss of magic around me distracts from the beautiful mage no more than seven feet from me. Whom I’m not sure I want to kiss or kill. Maybe both.

———————————————

I wake when the sun's centre in the sky. I’m breathing, so this Simon Snow hasn’t drained me dry. That’s good, I guess. 

I sit up bleary eyed. Snow is passed out on his own cot, drooling profusely with his mouth wide open (mouth breather). He’s put up his own shield, of course, (at least he’s somewhat sensible). It sort of looks like an electrical explosion, white bolts constantly combusting around him in bubble form. He smells so powerful. It’s taking all of my willpower to not hurt him. To not submit to my basic hex desires.

I take my sweet time to pack my things and douse the fire pit, secretly hoping Simon will wake up before I run out of excuses. Luckily, with a very loud snort, Snow bolts upwards. There’s terror in his eyes, and his breath is uneven and shallow. I know that look. I’m no stranger to nightmares myself.

“A good morning to you, Snow,” I say.

Simon lets out a long breath, waving a hand to dissolve his shield. “You didn’t kill me.”

“And you didn’t kill me. What a miracle.”

“I’ll say. Are you leaving?”

“Obviously.”

“Where to?”

I sigh heavily. “Well, my map says, there’s a town southeast from here. I haven’t been there before but it probably isn’t too bad. I was going to hide there for at least a bit.”

Simon picks at his nail beds, even though they’re already ragged and bloody. “Can I...can I come with you? I haven’t been around anyone in so long, y’know. It’d be nice to have someone to talk to”

I look at him with the most neutral gaze I can muster. “Are you going to kill me?”

He shrugs. “Haven’t killed you yet, have I?”

“There’s still time.”

Simon stands up, brushing the dust off his pants. “Alright, then I’ll make myself very clear. Baz, I’m not going to kill you. I’m not going to fight you at all, alright?”

I must admit that I’ve been lonely these few months in the desert. Hell, I’ve been lonely for the past few years. I’ve actually missed the company of others. But it’s not like humans or hexes want to be around me. Except for this one, it seems. Maybe this wouldn’t be too bad. If we don’t kill each other first that is.

“Alright, fine. Just don’t try anything or I’ll burn you from the inside out.”

Simon keeps smiling. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

We mount our horses and ride off. I try to keep my eyes ahead instead of on Snow.

———————————————

“I can’t believe the food here,” Snow says. “It’s so much more spicy than in the North.”

“We are closer to Mexico, Snow,” I reply. I’m trying to figure out our route, while also listening to Snow when he’s more than six feet away. The hunger is manageable from this distance. Mostly.

“Well, yeah, but it’s so insane! Why can’t the north people get some spice from here? It would make their chicken more tolerable. London street food was awful but at least it had some flavour!”

That makes me snort out a laugh no matter how much I try not to. Snow grins at me, and his face is literal sunshine. Why must he be so perfect? It’s not fair. “London street food? You mean fish and chips? Those aren’t half bad, if I’m remembering correctly.”

Snow’s tawny face gets a little pink. He rubs the back of his slightly sunburnt neck. “Y-Yeah, they weren’t too bad. Just...other stuff was terrible...”

“Like what?” It’s not late at night now. I’m less inclined to let his dodging go. Call me crazy, but I’d like to know about the man I’m travelling with.

“Um...” He looks down at his horse’s neck. “I-I lived on the London streets, literally, until I was old enough to work for room and board. Finding anyone who would house a hex though, that was a challenge.”

His laugh is tinny and hollow. My heart, or what dark horrible mass we hexes have in place of one, twists at the words. I wish I was surprised. His story is all too familiar.

“You don’t need to be ashamed,” I say firmly. “We all have our own rough pasts. It’s practically required for hexes, in my eyes.”

Snow doesn’t look up, but his (pretty) plain blue eyes flick over to me. “Really?”

I nod. “Yes, of course. Hexes are usually shunned and harmed. Finding one who hasn’t been in a dire situation is more rare.”

“Have you met a lot of hexes?”

“Some. Mostly, I’ve heard stories. Far too many are like your’s.”

“Is your’s?”

My grip on the reins is so tight my knuckles are going pale. Memories rush through my head no matter how much I want to stop them. The darkness, the pain, the fire, then the stench of burnt human flesh, all capped off by years of trying to survive on my own.

“Unfortunately, ye-”

“What the fuck?!”

Simon’s screech is ungodly in volume and tone. His horse lets out a similarly panicked bray. She bucks up, but can’t get very high with the red vines tangled around her legs.

“Oh fuck,” I hiss. I try to pull back my own horse, but his legs are similarly wrapped up. The vines circle up and around us. I kick and stamp them with all my might. The blood red flowers look like the gaping mouths of monsters.

“What the fuck are these things?!” Snow bellows. He tries to rear his horse back, but nearly throws himself backwards off his saddle instead. “Fucking shite!”

“Don’t do that, Snow, it won’t help!”

“Then what should I do?!” 

“Just stay still!”

Thankfully, Snow does as I say. Not thankfully, I’m not sure what to do. I know that human blood gets rid of the Weeds, but even if I count as human in this regard, you need a relatively large amount of it. So unless I want to pass out, I’ll need to think of something else. But what else can curb evil bloodthirsty Aztec plants?

“Baz!” Snow’s horse pancis the more the weeds wrap around her, which makes Snow panic in turn. He looks at me with desperate wide eyes. “Baz, do something!”

Oh, fuck it. I’ll solve this the way I solve my other problems.

I reach deep within myself, down to the flames that burn in what’s hopefully my soul, or at least what hexes have instead. I grab that power and let it out through my arm. Fire roars to life in the palm of my hand, and I unleash the full force of it on the Weeds. A tidal wave of blackened-red flames engulf the plants.

“Jesus Christ!” Simon shouts. The plants don’t burn per se, I’m not sure they even can. But they still shrink away from us. I keep pushing more magic out until they Weeds a good distance away. 

“Run,” I say, “now!”

Snow and I both wrench our horses 180 degrees and run like the wind. We ride fast and far with no destination, but we keep each other in sight. Only when my pulse is no longer hammering in my ears do I start to slow down. Snow follows, and eventually we stop near a large tree. All four of us are breathing hard.

“Bloody hell,” Snow says. “W-What the fuck were those?”

“Red Plague Weeds,” I reply, dismounting my horse. “They’ve been popping up all around here. No one knows where they come from, but we’re all pretty sure they have something to do with Rook and his witch goddess. Just like every other bizarre thing nowadays.”

“How come I haven’t seen them before in the towns?”

“Because the way to get rid of the Weeds permanently is blood, Snow.”

Snow’s eyes go wide with horror. “Blood? Any blood?”

I sadly shake my head. “No, only fresh human blood. I’ve heard a bowl full collected from the townsfolk is good enough. I don’t even know if hex blood counts. No one’s ever tried, as far as I know. We’re extremely lucky we got away.”

“So I gathered,” Snow sighs. “Now what? We’ve gone a good way backwards now, if I had to guess.”

“Agreed. We’ll have to try and move around the Weeds. If we’re lucky, the town will still be reachable.”

“No one has ever called hexes lucky.”

We both laugh a little. Sometimes laughter is the only way to deal with our horrible existences. I pull the waterskin out of my bag and take a deep, long drink. “Let’s stay here for a moment, though. That blast took a lot out of me.”

“Y-Yeah, that makes sense. Um, I’ll just...”

He turns his horse to the side, trotting away from me. My stomach drops out. Where’s he going? Am I going to be alone again? I’ve only been with Snow for one day. That’s nothing compared to the last two years I’ve been on my own. But now I can’t imagine going back to that crushing, never ending loneliness.

“Heading out, Snow?” I keep my tone neutral, holding back the desperate tremor that threatens to bleed out. “Suppose I’ll see you around, then.”

Snow whips his head around. If I were a more hopeful person, I’d say he looks even more panicked than when we were tangled in the Weeds. “W-What? No, I was just gonna go a little further away...”

“Do I smell that bad?” I probably do. Hygiene is not a priority in these parts.

“No! The opposite, actually...” Snow looks to the side, a little red on his face. “You used a lot of magic before. I can still smell some of it. I, uh, want to keep my promise...”

Oh. Right. I should count myself lucky that he didn’t drain me the minute we stopped. “Yes, yes, of course, makes perfect sense.”

“Unless...you want me to go...”

I gulp down the massive lump in my throat. “Do you want to go, Snow?”

Snow scratches his neck. He points his thumb to the side. “I’ll be waiting over there, until we’ve both cooled down. Alright?”

I would never admit how much relief that brings me. “Alright. We’ll set off again in an hour or so.”

“Okay.” Snow trots over to a good distance away. His brown, sweet smell still lingers in the air, but it fades just enough for me to rest properly. I sit back against the tree, drinking a good portion of my waterskin. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Snow doing the same. I try to not watch him. But it’s very, very hard.

———————————————

Nightfall hits before we reach the town. Snow can’t ride very fast, and I’m still more than a bit drained. So once again, I have to sit opposite the man who will most likely kill me soon.

He fidgets endlessly, picking at his nails and sleeve. It’s infuriating. He gnaws on the jerky like a crazed cat or something. I huff and shake my head. Snow looks up at me.

“What?” he says through a bite.

“Do you ever stop moving? We’ve been sitting here for over an hour and there hasn’t been a single moment of stillness from you.”

Snow snorts. “I don’t see how that affects you.”

“It’s annoying.”

He snorts again, but there’s a small smile now too. “Maybe this is the real reason hexes don’t interact. We're all arseholes.”

“That is hardly a hex thing, Snow. I’ve known humans and hexes alike that I can’t tolerate.”

“Am I one of them?

I hope my face doesn’t flush too hard. “You’re still here, aren’t you?”

He chuckles quietly and goes back to eating his jerky, with far less fidgeting this time thankfully. We sit in silence for a while. I keep sneaking looks at him, then tearing my gaze away every time. The firelight makes Snow’s tawny skin almost glow and his bronze hair sparkle gold. He’s a constellation of moles and freckles. He’s a gorgeous mess. Just looking at him, I can almost forget that we’re supposed to be enemies.

“What part of England are you from anyway?” Snow asks through a mouthful of dried out meat.

“Hampshire. Though if you asked the people here, they’d say I’m from Buckingham bloody Palace.”

Snow throws his head back laughing. It’s a ridiculous, wonderful sound. “Damn true! I’ve lived on the streets of London for the past ten years and an American asked me if I’m related to the bloody queen! They have no idea about accent differences. They think every Brit is royalty.”

I freeze. Snow’s laughs slowly subside. He must notice the utter panic in my eyes. “You lived on the streets of London for a decade? That long?”

He pulls in, curling his thin body in on itself. This Simon is a hex like me, a terrifying being filled with unimaginable power, yet right now, he looks so...small. “Well, not the whole time. It’s been on and off. I found some places to live for a bit but they never lasted. Thank God for magic. Or thank the Devil, if the humans are right about us.”

He chuckles nervously. I shift uncomfortably in my spot, trying to hide the way his laugh makes me face heat up even more. “I guess so. It’s taken care of me since-”

There’s a crack. It’s small, far off, almost indistinguishable from the regular sounds of the desert, but it’s there. My aunt always said I have the ears of a bat. I swing my head around.

“What is it?” Snow says.

“Hush! I think I heard something.”

Slowly, I stand up, crouched over with my fists clenched. My magic sizzles and sparks inside me, begging to be used. I see Snow stand too at the edge of my vision.

“Die hex scum!”

The man launches himself out of the darkness, jagged knife in hand. He knocks me flat down to the ground. All the breath is forced out of me as my back hits the sand.

“Fuck!” I wheeze.

I push at him with both arms, thankfully keeping my pretty face out of his slashing range. He writhes and struggles like a rabid wolf. His dirty crazed smile, missing most of his teeth, looms over me. I recognise him.

“You,” I growl. “Did you really follow me all the way here from Slipfoot’s, you pig?!”

“Die!” He says that like it means absolutely anything, like I haven’t heard it a hundred times before.

Racist Man has no technique. He just screeches and flails with his knife. Aunt Fiona’s words come to my mind immediately. “Every self respecting hex needs to know how to defend himself, Basil.” She said just before pinning me to the ground in one move. I hook my leg around his and flip him onto his back. He gasps and lets out a rattling cough. I hover over him, knee on his chest, pinning his knife hand to the ground.

“You don’t deserve to live, you sand demon.” He spits at me, splashing against my cheek. I flick it off with ease.

“Such an original opinion.” I feel the fire blazing in my gut, threatening to consume myself and everything around me. “I should scorch off all your skin.”

“Course you would. All you hexes, just filthy murderers. No wonder y’all are fleeing to Rook’s heathen paradise. Your kind don’t belong around civilized folks.”

I growl again. First he despises my skin colour, then he thinks he knows anything about hexation. This bastard, so stupid and ignorant. We’re only monsters because we have to be. Because men like him come at us with knives and guns and nooses. There’s no holding the fire back. My hand heats up around his wrist. He screeches as his skin sizzles under my fingers. He drops the knife, but I don't stop. All my rage pushes out through my hand and onto his increasingly scorched skin.

“Get off me!”

I turn to see Simon, struggling against another man. His fingers spark and sputter uselessly as he pounds against the guy with a hand around his throat.

“Better save your man over there,” Racist Man hisses.

I give him one last good death stare. I see him shiver just slightly. At least he has some good sense. “Run fast and far. If you come near us again, so help me God I’ll melt through your entire brain.”

The look of terror in his eyes is enough of an answer. I jump off him and run towards Snow.

“Oi! Off him, now!” I roar.

The other man turns to look at me. He has the same crazed look as his friend. “Or what, you piece of devil shit?!”

“Or this.”

I turn to the fire. With only one hand outstretched, my magic wraps around it, and pushes my power into the very core. The flames shoot nine feet upwards, illuminating the vast dark in blinding light. I turn back to the terrified human. With one swing of my arm, the pillar slams into him. He’s sent flying in a shower of flames and skids on the ground, tossing up a cloud of dustin his wake. I start to march towards him. But Snow throws up his arm to stop me.

“Let me,” he growls.

The tone of his voice stops me in my tracks. Simon stomps towards him, his entire hand now covered in tiny sparks like fireworks. His assaulter sits up, panting heavily.

“You better run now,” Snow says.

He sneers. “Don’t tell me-”

“GO!”

Snow’s magic explodes like a fucking bomb. It’s a bolt of violent and powerful energy that hits the assailant square in the chest. He flies back even farther. I stumble from the sheer force of it. The magic disperses as quickly as it appeared. Snow is panting, bronze curls still staticy with stray sparks. The human scrambles and runs away into the darkness.

We’re left there, breathing hard in the darkness, the embers of the now dead fire our only light. Simon tries to pull out the crackling electricity still clinging to his hair. It curls around his fingers and won’t dissipate no matter how much he shakes his hand out. Finally, I find my voice again.

“That was...”

“Awful?” Snow mumbles. “Yeah, I know. Half the time my magic doesn’t work, the other half it explodes. Pretty fucking annoying.”

I turn to look at him properly, still trying to dust off the little sparks. “No, it was incredible. I’ve never seen magic that powerful, or beautiful.”

Oh fuck, why did I say that? I’m going to explode myself any second. Simon freezes, then turns to me. His lovely plain eyes are soft. Half of his mouth pulls up into a smile. My pulse is pounding in my ears. “N-No one’s ever called it beautiful before. And...no one’s tried to save me either.”

He starts to reach out to me with his spark kissed digits. I see the little bolts pulling towards me like I’m a magnet. My own magic flares to surface, reaching back towards him. Tiny flames from my fingers curl around the lightning. And a part of me, that horrible instinctual part, desperately wants to grab his hand and add his beautiful, terrifying energy to my own until his body is nothing but an empty husk.

I take a large step away, hands behind my back. Simon does the same. His eyes are wide with terror now. We both know how close we came to giving into temptation.

“We should go to bed,” I mutter.

Snow nods furiously. I speed walk to my side of the dead fire. We both lay down and pull the blankets to our reddening ears. The only sound for ages is the desert wind whistling through the cacti. Until Snow decides to speak up again, God help me.

“Baz?”

“What, Snow?” I snap. I can’t talk to him anymore, it’s too damn painful.

“Have...Have you ever actually fully drained anyone?”

Oh. I wasn’t expecting that. The question hits me in my heart. All that comes to mind is my aunt’s face as I saw her for the first time in weeks. Her happiness turned to utter horror in seconds. The memory still aches deep inside me. I can almost feel that horrible hunger when I first manifested. I squeeze my eyes shut and take a deep breath. “No. But I’ve come close. You?”

Snow pauses too. I can hear his shaky breathing clearly. “I had a hex friend back in London. Penelope. She was really good at magic, like you, so she tried to help me. We could only see each other for an hour a day for safety’s sake, and it worked for awhile. But one time, my magic got so out of control that I came this close to draining her.” He makes a loud sniffing noise. I hate imagining the tears I know are rolling down his face. “She told me it wasn’t my fault but I didn’t care. I didn’t want to hurt her. Next day I got on a boat to America. That was almost a year ago. I’ve been alone ever since, and it’s awful.”

“Is that why you want to go to Hex City?”

“Yeah. I mean, I just want to be able to have some choice, you know? Not make choices because of this power I never asked for. Don’t you feel like that?”

I think about my mother, who lost her life because of what we are. Or my six weeks of torture by that madman. Or how I had to run away from my family in fear of what I’d accidentally do to them.

“Yes,” I whisper, closing my eyes, “all the damn time.”

———————————————

We ride leisurely under the blistering sun. The desert has melted into more of a hot, grassy plain. Surprisingly, the climate and terrain actually gets less tortuous the further south you go in this awful state. I’ve only gone this far south once before. The Call somehow gets even stronger here. It threatens to fill every nook and cranny of my brain, but I beat it back. No disgraced Confederate chaplain or Aztec witch woman gets to decide what I do.

Snow is mumbling to himself about it being too hot. My head is whirring with a terrible, awful idea, but it won’t go away. My eyes keep drifting towards his beautiful face, and my mind keeps thinking of his beautiful magic. I got only a taste of the endless, consuming feeling of it, and it was exhilarating. If only he could control it.

I groan. “Snow, stop your horse.”

He looks at me confused, but does as I say. “What is it?”

“Get off. I’m going to help you with your magic.”

His eyes bug out of his skull. “What?! Why?”

“Because as incredible as your magic can be, I’d rather not have you explode when you sleep ten feet away from me.” 

It’s a convincing lie. Honestly, I want him to be able to protect himself. I don’t know exactly how long it will take to get to the south, or what could happen before then. Simon might’ve been killed if I wasn’t there. And I don’t know how long I will be with him.

I swing off my horse and Snow follows. We walk out into the empty plateau. He shuffles his feet nervously, chewing at his nails.

“Stay here,” I say.

I walk out and place my old empty flask on a cactus (it’s rusting anyway). Snow looks at it confused. I gesture to the metal bottle, then put my hands behind my back. “Hit that with a blast but avoid the cactus.

“O-Okay...” I watch his throat as he gulps. God, I want to touch that throat, I want to touch everywhere. But I’ll kill him if I do. It makes me hate my magic even more.

Simon raises his hand and takes aim. Small sparks dance between his fingers. One by one, they begin to increase. A small ball of lightning collects in his palm. Snow curls his fingers in, but they seem to be struggling. The ball starts to grow larger and Snow clenches harder. With little to no warning, a lightning bolt shoots out and hits the side of the flask. A blackened mark is left in its wake, but that’s nothing compared to the cactus. A massive chunk has been blown out of the top. It’s charred remains lay strewn on the gras.

“Fuck,” he groans. “Sorry, I was losing control, I had to let it go. Would’ve been much worse if I didn’t.”

“That’s alright, Snow. You technically did hit the flask.”

Snow scoffs, running a hand through his beautiful, sweaty hair. “Sure, I guess...”

I pluck the flask from the half destroyed desert fauna. Another horrible idea is coming to my mind, and I just might be mad enough to do it. “Maybe you need a greater motivator for staying in control.”

“Huh?”

I place the flask on my hand and hold my arm out to the side. “Hit the flask, but not me.”

Snow goes wide eyed again and inhales sharply like he’s been kicked. “A-Are you serious?! You just saw what I did to that cactus, right?”

“Well, you’re going to have to be accurate, unless you want me to end up like said cactus”

He pulls at his curls anxiously. The tiniest of parks fly off the ends. “I don’t know, Baz. I don’t want to hurt you...”

I try to ignore my rapidly beating heart. It’s been so annoying this past week, trying to get what it can’t have. I just flash a smirk at him. “Well, I believe that you won’t. Care to prove me right?”

A red colour spreads across his face. Part of me hopes that’s not just the sun affecting his pale, freckled complexion. “Alright, I’ll try.”

He rubs his hands together. His skin simmers with magic once again. It smells intoxicatingly good. Snow holds his right hand out, palm flat. The electricity builds on the surface. He keeps his hand clenched, but the energy threatens to spill over his fingers. I resist the urge to run in as fast as I can. I didn’t lie, I do trust him. But living on my own for almost three years has given me quite the self preservation instinct.

Sweat prickles Snow’s brow. He uses his opposite arm to keep the other one steady. “C’mon, Simon,” I whisper. “You can do it.”

The jagged white bolt shoots from his skin, far less formless than the last one. It zigs and zags, but in the end hits the flask straight on. The bottle explodes in a shower of jagged metal. I throw up a makeshift shield just in time. When I look at Snow, he’s flat on his ass, panting hard.

“Holy shit,” he says.

“‘Holy shit’ is right,” I respond with a chuckle.

He looks at me with a wide grin. It shines brighter than the midday sun. “I did it! That’s the most controlled my magic has ever been! Thank you, Baz.”

I nod. “You’re welcome, Snow. My aunt always said danger is a great motivator to learn. Especially when it comes to magic.”

Snow lays down on the grass, panting hard. It seems he’s not going to get up any time soon. “Your aunt, was she the one that taught you about magic?”

I kick at a piece of rusted shrapnel, my back to the resting Snow. “Yes, before it manifested, obviously. She wanted me to be prepared just in case. Her whole side of the family has a history of magic. It only appears every few generations or so. We both drew the short ends of the bloodline straw I guess.”

“You’re lucky with that, y’know. I never had anyone to teach me properly. Penny tried, but we never got far enough to make a difference. When I first got magic, this guy called the Mage offered to help. But it turned out he just wanted to drain me. I killed him by accident when he tried. I really didn’t mean to hurt hum, but he wouldn’t stop...”

I turn to him. There’s far too much pain in his eyes. “You had every right to defend yourself. Don’t feel bad.”

He lifts his head up. His smile is sort of sad, but it’s still gorgeous. “Thanks, Baz.”

I smile back as best I can. “You’re most welcome, Snow.” I place my hands in my pockets, desperately clenching my fists in hopes to keep my emotions at bay. “Unfortunately, I’m out of flasks. But we do have an oversupply of fauna. Want to try and not destroy a cactus this time?”

“Okay.” Snow nods, breathing steadily. “Okay, I’ll try.”

Snow takes his stance across from another unfortunate cactus. I watch him and give advice, but slowly have to back away as Snow’s sweet scent permeates the air. I try not to imagine being close to Snow, not having to fear him, him not having to fear me. Oh, what a life that could be.

———————————————

After another week of dodging the Red Weed, we finally get to somewhere. Covent Gardens, a town I suppose is named after the London borough. It’s sizable enough to have a slightly good inn; as in none of the panels are falling off and the sign is missing only a single letter. That’s practically a palace in these parts. I walk in with gusto, making the shutters rattle, Simon following behind me with his head.

Everyone looks at us. I’m not sure how obvious our hexation is, but I suppose we look enough like trouble. Plus my skin tone isn’t an asset here. Or anywhere, honestly. So I sneer and most turned away.

“They’re afraid of us,” Simon mumbles.

“As they should be,” I reply deadpan. I go straight to the barkeep, a bulky white man with truly horrific mutton chops. “I need two rooms.”

The man crosses his unnaturally large arms. “We don’t serve... people like you.”

I grip the bar lip, nails digging into the half rotted wood. “Like me how? Hexes or brown people?”

He sneers at me. “Neither.”

The fire blazes in my eyes. Wood blackens under my skin. “Now listen here, you stupid bastard, you better rent us a room or-”

“Now, now, Basilton,” a familiar voice says, “no need to be so rude. I’m sure we can come to an agreement.”

“Hello, Nicodemus.”

Nico moves to stand next to me. His suit is cheap, the stitches fraying at the seams. He’s still got that sort of menacing look, but he looks tired too.

“Fancy seeing you here, Pitch. How’s your aunt?” He smiles, showing off his missing eye teeth. It makes me want to punch him in his stupid face.

“Why would you care, Petty? You’re the one who left her after everything she did for you.”

He hangs his head back with a groan. “Still defending your family’s honour, I see. Ain’t my fault I wanted to realise my full potential.”

“What, by getting your teeth pulled out so you could get magic? Even when my aunt warned you what a curse being a hex was? You’re still an arrogant idiot then.”

Nicodemus growls and grabs my wrist. His magic reaches out to clash with my own. It’s slick like oil, wrapping around my fire like a snake. But there’s a roughness to it. A sort of mangy, wild energy that I remember all too well from the hex duel with my aunt. Now, I can smell the acrid tang of it too. It leaves a sour taste in the back of my throat. I’m not surprised his magic is as disgusting as he is.

“Looks like you went through some shit too, Basilton,” he hisses. “You’ve got the same fire as dear old Fi. What, the guilt of letting your mum die finally get to you? Try to end it all? Too bad, you just became the monster she never wanted you to be instead.”

His power gnashes at mine, trying to rip it apart and eat it. But Nicodemus has made a fatal assumption; that he’s more powerful than me. I push back against him hard. The fire rushes through my every vein. I revel in the way Nico’s eyes go wide. My hand shoots up to his throat and I shove him down so hard his back bends against the wooden bar.

“You bastard,” I growl. “After all these years you still don’t know how to keep your bloody mouth shut.” I hold his throat even tighter. His eyes bug out of his skull. “Maybe I should shut it permanently.”

I open the gates within, and his magic begins to pour into me. It’s the world’s greatest adrenaline rush. I’m invincible, powerful, a bloody god. Nico gasps and tries to push me away. But I’m still stronger. He could never stop me.

“Baz!” Snow shouts. “Stop it!”

I turn to him with burning eyes. Everything I see is cloudy, like a smoke screen or rippling water. “Why?!”

“Because,” his voice is desperate, and maybe even caring, “we shouldn’t be the monsters they think we are. Just look at them, Baz!”

I still have enough sense to hear what he says. The patrons cower in fear, eyes wide with terror as they look at me. It’s not an expression anyone wants to be subjected to, or cause. And though I hate him, Nicodemus is right. My mother never wanted me to be this. Another terrible, murderous, evil hex.

With all my strength and good sense, I find the will to let Nicodemus’ neck go. His power rushes back into him with a sputtering gasp. I glare at him as I pull away, fingers still trailing with flames.

“Leave,” I say flatly. “Now.”

Nicodemus runs faster than I’ve ever seen a man run before. I take a few deep breaths. It takes a moment for my magic to balance out. It still yearns for Nicodemus’ power, but I beat it back into submission. I won’t let the hunger control me. Then I walk towards the now terrified barkeep.

“Rooms still not available?” He shakes his head frantically. “Good.” I slap down some American money. “Two rooms, please. Also throw in some whiskey. I need a drink after all that.”

The man picks two keys out of a box, then a bottle and glasses from the shelf. He shoves them both forward on the bar and takes two large steps back. I snatch them up with a tip of my ridiculous cowboy hat.

“Cheers, mate.”

Snow and I take a table in a corner. No one dares to look at us. I pour drinks for both of us and shove his glass to the other side of the table. We’re as far apart as we can be but it’s still risky. My power is still hungry. And Simon still smells delicious. But I won’t hurt him. I can’t.

“So,” Simon says, vowel drawn out, “who was that?”

I throw back the whiskey. It’s sour and burns my throat, but it's better than Slipfoot’s at least. “His name is Nicodemus Petty. He and my aunt Fiona were friends growing up. They bonded over their mutual family history of hexation. But when my aunt and his sister, Ebb, manifested magic as teenagers, Nico was jealous. Fiona and Ebb both tried to tell him that hex magic was far more of a curse than a blessing, but he never listened. He wanted the power. When I was about nine, he finally succeeded in activating his own latent magic.”

“By having two of his teeth ripped out...”

“Mhm. First thing he did was stumble all bloody mouthed to my aunt’s flat.” I clench the glass so hard I nearly break it. “The bastard attacked her by surprise, and tried to steal her magic. He almost killed her, but Fiona got a lucky shot and threw him out the window.” I take a deep breath, trying to stay calm. “As you can guess, I was there. It wasn’t pretty.”

“I can imagine.” He pulls in, picking at his nails nervously. “Um, if you don’t mind me asking...w-what was he talking about? With your mum?”

I pour myself another helpful shot of whiskey. I want to drown my brain in the stuff, honestly. I’ve never talked about my mum, it’s too painful, like ripping out a fingernail. But Snow has shown so much of himself to me. It seems unfair to hide. “My aunt and I aren’t the only hexes in our family.”

His eyes go wide as the revelation hits him, “Your mum is a hex too?”

I nod slowly, then drink the alcohol in one gulp. The warmth tingles in my veins and loosens my tongue. I stare at the glass, watching the light refract through it’s bends. “She was, but my father is human. They loved each other enough to not be scared, I guess. They never meant to have children. I was an accident, but my mother wanted me in spite of the risks. My father said she cried with happiness when she saw I was a boy. She thought if she kept me safe, I’d never become a full hex.” I flick a paint chip off the table with more force than necessary. “Then she died protecting me, doing what she promised.”

“How? Was it another hex?”

“Even worse, scared humans.” 

Snow’s face falls even more. He takes a long sip from his own drink. “So they tried to kill her?”

“They tried to kill all of us. Someone heard of my mother’s hexation, and they rallied a group together to fight our family. It wasn’t a real fight though. The cowards snuck in and tried to stab us. My mother killed almost all of them quickly” My fists clench so tight it hurts. “The last one nearly got me, but my mother stepped in front. He burned to ash just after he stabbed her through the throat.”

“Oh. Not even a hex could come back from that kind of wound...”

“I know,” I say between gritted teeth. “I know that very well, Snow.” I delicately place the glass down with a strained hand. “I...I tried to stop the bleeding but there was nothing I could do. I had no magic then. Even so, I doubt my powers could’ve helped.” A little flame pops up in my hand with barely a thought. Making fire is more natural than breathing for me, after all. I watch the scarlet snake dance between my fingers. “My family’s abilities have always been better at destruction.”

Simon takes another long sip, polishing off his drink. “I don’t know what my family’s like, but I hope they’re not like me. This power...it’s too much for anyone to have. I’d give it up in a heartbeat.”

“We all would, Snow. That’s what the humans don’t get. Most hexes are just as scared of themselves as humans are.” I pour my third drink. It’s been awhile since I’ve drank so much in one sitting, but if I’m going to get sozzled, tonight is a good time. “But that’s not up to us. We’re born like this. Nothing we can do but try to survive.”

“Believe me, I know that. All I’ve ever done is survive. In the orphanage, on the streets, here in America.” He lets out a small, sad laugh. “Hexation is how I ended up on the street, actually.” Snow looks directly down at the table. “When I was 11, I, uh, had a dream that I was exploding. When I woke up, the entire orphanage had been blown to pieces. Luckily no one was hurt, but the matron couldn’t very well keep a hex among other children.”

“So she thought sending you to roam among other humans was safer?”

He shrugs. “I don’t think she cared as long as I was far away from her.”

I scoff, swinging the glass between two fingers. “Sounds about usual for humans. What made you manifest? A particularly bad paddling from the matron?”

Snow chews on his bottom lip. His fingers drum the wood slowly. “I, uh, actually didn’t have to suffer. I’m one of those rare cases of sudden manifestation, apparently. That’s what Penny called it anyway. She said it was rare but possible.”

My grip on the glass gets even tighter. A sudden jealous rage consumes my mind. So Snow just exploded one day at eleven. That’s awful, of course, I’ll never deny that. But all I can think of is the coffin. The endless night of being trapped in that box, waiting for a relief that wouldn’t come, until I finally broke and became the last thing I ever wanted to be. I went through absolute hell. Of course I assumed Snow had to, like all other male hexes. But he didn’t. He’s never had the acute kind of torture I did. It’s not fair.

“Excuse me,” I say more harshly than I mean to, “I’m tired. I think I’ll turn in.”

Snow’s pretty plain eyes go wide. “O-Oh...okay. Good night, then.”

“Night.” I snatch the bottle up and leave the key for his room. Then I stomp up the stairs with irrational anger still burning me up. I know it’s stupid, but I can’t get past it. Male hexes get their magic through suffering. It’s a well known fact. How could Snow be like me without the same kind of pain? How could he ever fully understand me the way I thought he could?

The second my room door is closed, I drink down the last of the whiskey bottle. I’ve tried to avoid alcohol over the past few years. It would be far too easy for me to drink away the pain, the memories, the horrible guilt. Eventually, I’d drown myself in a bottle. That’s not a way I want to go. But one night of indulgence will be fine.

I wobble towards my bed, shedding my outer layers as I go. I collapse face first onto the old mattress. Whiskey clouds my mind. And when I finally pass out, all I see is empty darkness. I’m not sure if that’s better or worse than the nightmares.

———————————————

“...safe?”

“Out cold...”

The voices stay patchy as I slip in and out of consciousness. I try to force my eyes fully open, but the pounding in my head is too much. Indistinguishable figures move on the edges of my blurry vision. There’s little to no light. It must still be night, maybe only a couple hours since I passed out.

“Is..right thing?”

“Hex...Rook and Pargeter...dangerous...we...safe.”

“Fine.”

Something grabs both my wrists and my ankles. I try to struggle but I must still be too drunk. I can’t get my limbs to move save for some squirming. I try to summon my magic, but my mind can’t concentrate. It’s no use. Bloody hell, I’m trapped.

“Night night, hex,” a horrible voice says. Something soft is pressed hard against my face. I can’t take in air, I can’t breathe, I can’t fucking breathe. It’s like the coffin. No, I can’t do this again. I try to thrash harder and scream but it’s still no use.

Oh Lord, I’m going to die here. I wonder if I’ll see my mother on the other side. I wonder if I even have a soul to go to the other side. And I wonder how if Snow is okay. Christ, my last conversation with him ended in anger. If I had known, I would’ve said everything I’ve wanted to say this past week. But the first thing would be ‘I’m sorry.’

I’m sorry, Snow, for everything I said and thought. And I’m sorry for leaving you alone.

“Hey! Get off him, you bastards!” That voice is familiar even in my half drunken state. Thank whatever gods are listening that he’s okay.

“It’s the other one!” one of my assailants shouts. “Wasn’t Garth supposed to take care of him?!”

“That damn idjit fucked up!”

I hear the telltale signs of punches and kicks thrown about. One of the hands on me pulls off. All this excitement has thankfully sobered me up some. I kick some stupid bastard right in the stomach.

“Fuck!” they wheeze. The other humans are wise and let go of my wrist. I’m on my feet in a second.

“Bloody humans,” I growl out, still slurring slightly. “You can’t even let me fucking sleep?!”

The burly barkeep scowls at me. My would be murder weapon is still in his hand. “Eat shit, you demon.”

I scowl right back at him. “Oh, you want a demon? I’ll give you a fucking demon, love.”

The fire blazes up in me, all shining black and scarlet, and I make little effort to contain it. I let the flames fly out and encase the man almost completely. He screeches as his skin bubbles and burns under my powers.

“Stop it!” a woman yells. She comes at me with a knife raised. A whip of fire forms in my hand instantly. With one crack, it wraps around her wrist. She screams in the exact same way and lets her weapon clatter on the floor. She goes to her knees, clutching her blackened, blistered skin.

“You bastard,” she cries. “How could you?!”

“How could I!?” Even more fire plays over my hands. “I could ask you the same thing, human.”

“We’re trying to protect ourselves, monster!”

In that moment, in her eyes, I see every human who’s hurt me. The people who mocked me, who killed my mother, who turned me into this. All sense leaves my mind in an instant. “I’m a monster only because of you!”

With one wave of my hand, she’s thrown against the wall hard enough to make it shake. I spin around to see a man trying to crack Snow’s skull open with a butcher’s cleaver. One well aimed blast sends him flying as well. Another casts two aside. They don’t move much afterwards, but I find myself caring little. Let them die like my mother did.

“Baz, stop it!” Snow shouts. I ignore him as I send the last assailant against the wall, listening to their screams as I burn their chest. “Baz!”

“Fuck off, Snow!” I roar. “I- Ack!”

Pain rips through my shoulder. I clutch it and my hand becomes wet with what I assume must be blood. I fall forward. My nose cracks against the floor. I scream in pain and flames roar out of me in a massive plume They hit everything, including my shooter and the walls of the room. I can feel the whole space burning around us.

“Baz!” Snow’s voice is beyond panicked. I hear his footsteps rush toward me. His hands hover over me but won’t touch. He can’t touch me.

“Get out, Simon,” I rasp , turning my head to the side to look at him. He’s covered in bruises and ash. Yet he’s still so beautiful. “Run before more of them come.”

“Shut up, arsehole! I haven’t turned my back on you yet, and I’m not going to start now!”

If the world weren’t literally on fire right now, I’d find that touching. I close my eyes. At least my dying image will be of him. “Don’t be an idiot, Snow.” Surprisingly, the bastard fucking laughs. My eyes snap open again. The bloody back of his hand is pressed against his mouth as he giggles. “What the fuck is funny about this?”

“You,” he laughs, “called me Simon before.”

My face heats up, and it’s not from the fire. “No I didn’t.”

“We’re fucking dying and you can’t admit you used my first name?”

“I’m dying. You’re being an idiot and not running away like you should!”

“You’re too stubborn to die, Baz, and we both know it.” He jumps to his feet. “Get up, we’re getting out of here.”

“Snow-”

“Or are you too much of a yellow belly to get up and try?”

Oh, this bastard. In only two weeks, he’s learned me too well. I scowl at his stupid pretty face as I push myself up on my good arm. At the same time, thundering footsteps can be heard from the stairwell.

“That route is out of the question,” I say. “Where are we to go, Snow?”

“This way.” He holds his hand and in a mere two seconds, the opposite wall is blown to pieces in a rain of spark. “Now let’s go!”

“We’re on the bloody second floor!”

Snow runs towards the gaping hole and throws himself out. I rush to the edge, blood pounding in my ear. No, Snow cannot die, I can’t let him die. But to my utter shock and awe, Snow is floating his way down to the ground. He stops and starts and still hits the ground in an uncoordinated roll, but he’s okay.

“Oh, Snow, you brilliant moron,” I whisper.

“They’re probably still in there!” someone shouts from the hallway. I take a few steps back, breathe deep, and run off the splintered edge just as the humans burst through the door.

Instead of sending my fire outwards like usual, I keep it within me. I will my body to rise high like flames from a candle. My legs move slowly like I’m running in the air. Fuck, this is actually working. Slowly, I let my flame flick and die down, lowering myself along with it. I reach the ground with my own thud but stay on my feet. Snow grins at me. In all this horror, that is the greatest thing to see.

“Let’s get the horses and get out of here, Snow.”

“Agreed, Pitch.”

We sprint to the stables and thankfully find our steeds unharmed. I count ourselves lucky that our attackers didn’t consider them demonic too. Mounting is difficult with my left arm fucked up, but let it never be said that a human bullet could stop Basilton Pitch. I hold the reins with one hand as I spur him into a dash.

The wind whistles in my ears. Snow and I run even faster than we did from the Red Weed. Our kind is always good at running. It’s our natural state.

———————————————

Snow and I ride until it’s nearly dawn. The sky turns purple then crimson with the rising sun in front of us. When I see orange, my horse finally starts to tire out. Snow’s does the same. We slow down then stop.

“Think we’re far enough away?” Snow asks, breath short and strained.

“Yeah,” I reply, sounding the same. “I think they would’ve caught us by now if they were still after us.”

“Good point, good point.” Snow leans forward, putting his forehead on his horse’s neck. “God, I’m fucking knackered. I barely slept.”

“Me too. We should both sleep.”

“What if someone comes after us?”

“Point. Sleep in shifts?”

Snow nods. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

“Good.” I slowly dismount my horse, but get my footing wrong and start to fall. I grab the reins with my left arm and practically scream in pain.

“Baz!” Snow rushes towards me, but stops when I raise my good arm.

“Don’t...” I pant, “don’t come any closer. I’m injured, Snow, and my self control is severely weakened. So unless you wish for death now after just barely escaping it, back away.”

“Oh, yeah, right...” Snow backs far away just as he should, but my heart still aches. “What are we going to do about your shoulder?”

“I can fix it, but I’m going to need your belt”

Snow’s brows shot upwards. “My belt? What for?”

“Just throw it to me, Snow, for Christ’s sake.”

Thank God he doesn’t ask another stupid question. He just unbuckles the belt and does what I ask. I try to not let my hands shake as I fold the belt in half. The last time I did this was three years ago, when I sat in a London alleyway after a drunkard broke my leg, a mere four days after fleeing my home for good.

“Baz, what are you-”

“Snow,” I say firmly, “I need you to do me a favour.”

“Okay...?”

I sit on the ground, belt held tightly in my hand. “I need you to stay right there no matter what. Don’t move, don’t try to help. The best way you can help is to stay fucking still.”

“What the fuck is-”

“Promise me you won’t move, Simon.” I look him right in his blue eyes, my mouth a thin, serious line. “Promise me.”

Snow gives me a once over, then thankfully nods. “Okay, I promise.”

“Good.” I put the belt between my teeth. When I check on Snow, he looks beyond panicked. “If it makes it easier,” I say clumsily between the leather, “you don’t have to watch.”

“Baz-”

I slap my right hand over my left shoulder, and it feels like I’m burning from the inside out. My magic scorches my body as it wraps around my injury. The buck shot is pulled through my muscles and skin, ripping and tearing as they go, and I can feel every bit of it. I can also feel as my tissue and bone stretches to knit back together piece by agonizing piece. It’s an indescribable kind of pain. It’s what I imagine hell must feel like. I scream, I can’t help it, but luckily the belt is muffling as well preventing me from biting off a chunk of my tongue. Snow gasps in horror but he doesn’t move. He keeps his promises. I knew he would. He’s a far better man than me.

The burning fades as the skin finally seals shut. I cautiously move my hand, shaking off the shrapnel and gooey viscera that trails between my fingers. God, it's a nasty scab, mangled and uneven and horrifically inflamed. I can only hope the scar won’t be too bad. The one on my calf has faded overtime.

“Are you-”

“Not yet,” I say, cutting off a frightened looking Simon. “This one won’t take as long though.”

I touch my nose, feeling for where the breaks are. I squeeze my eyes shut, and with a horribly painful crack, I move it mostly back into place. I let out a short yell, but just pant and seethe as the bone and cartilage knit back together. I try to wipe the bloody snot from my hand but it's no use. Disgusting, but better than a broken nose. I feel around to make sure things are okay. Well, the tip is a bit crooked, but I can live with that. Right now, I’m thankful to be alive at all.

“Okay,” I sigh, finally taking the teeth mark covered belt out of my mouth, “now I’m done.”

“What the fuck was that?” Snow’s voice is somewhere between fascination and absolute horror. In short, a proper reaction.

“Something my aunt taught me. Hexes are essentially manipulators of energy and matter. And what are bodies but living energy and matter? With practice, you can fix any part of yourself.”

“But isn’t it painful?”

“Was that not obvious?” I snap. But Snow’s genuinely worried face softens my demeanor. “Yes, it’s excruciating. Hence why I try not to use the technique as much as I can.” I massage my still aching shoulder. “Today it was unavoidable, unfortunately.”

Simon runs a nervous hand through his dirty hair. “Fuck...”

I cough out a small laugh. “Yes, that sums it up pretty well.”

He laughs too, just as shaky and sad. “Sums up the whole night.”

The two of us keep chuckling softly in the wee hours of the morning. The ascending sun hurts my tired eyes. Using so much magic has taken everything out of me. I let out a long, deep yawn.

“You sleep first,” Snow says. “I’ll keep watch.”

“No, no, I can-”

“Baz.” He sounds firm, but also tired, and maybe even a little fond. I’m probably imagining that last one though. “Go to bed. I’ll wake you up in about eight hours.”

If I weren’t sleep deprived, magically drained, and recovering from grievous injuries, I would protest more. But Snow is damn lucky today. I simply sigh and stand up to get my cot from my saddlebags. I count our lucky stars we didn’t bring in too many of our supplies to the inn. Maybe God hasn’t completely abandoned us heathen monsters.

“I don’t have the energy to put up my shield,” I say, hoping my tone conveys enough.

“Okay,” Snow replies, “I’ll stay away, don’t worry. I keep my promises.”

My pulse flutters involuntarily. A smile creeps across my face no matter how hard I try to stop it. “I know you do, Simon.”

Snow gifts me one of his sunshine smiles. That’s the last thing I see before turning over and letting myself rest.

———————————————

Snow lets me sleep longer than eight hours. I’d be more mad if I wasn’t so exhausted. In return, I let him oversleep too. We’re both passed out by the time it’s dark again. Even hexes with all our inhumanity need to rest sometimes. Snow and I are lucky we get the chance this time.

In the morning, I reluctantly go to the next closest town. We did leave some of our things behind sadly, including most of our clothes. I’m damn well not going to keep roaming around the south of Texas in my bloody socks, and neither will Snow. I get us some new jackets, boots, and hats, ignoring the strange looks I get from the lily white shopkeeper. 

I grab us some more of that disgusting jerky too. If only good food could keep in these horrific conditions. When I reach the counter, the shopkeeper frowns at the things I lay out.

“You can pay for all this?” she asks. I scowl deeply. I’m too tired for this shit.

“Are people like me not allowed to have money here?” I snap.

“Ya can now, but in my experience, y’all darker folk are better at stealing my stock than paying.”

Bloody hell, I’m too tired for this racist shite. I slam two bills on the counter. “There. Hope I didn’t dirty these up too much for you.”

She glares at me hard. As she reaches for the money, I deliberately brush my finger on hers, and she yelps loudly. The edge of her index is red and inflamed. An undeniable burn mark, but far too small for anyone to believe it came from an evil, bloodthirsty hexslinger.

“Oh dear,” I say deadpan. “Your register must have gotten in the sun. Do be more careful.” I shovel the supplies in my bag as she looks at me wide eyed. “Have a nice day, ma’am.”

I can feel her scared eyes on my back as I leave. I get on my horse and ride out fast. No reason to stay in this shithole any longer. And I need to get back to Snow, where I belong.

———————————————

“Everything okay in town?” Snow asks.

I toss the bundle of clothes at him, along with a bag of jerky. “No one attacked me, if that’s what you mean. I didn’t get made for a hex. But I did get some flack for my skin tone.”

Snow’s face falls a bit. There’s something far too close to pity in his eyes. “Oh. I’m sorry-”

“Don’t, Snow. You’re in no place to apologize for some racist American bastards, it’s not your responsibility. Sorry from you means nothing.”

“But-”

“Would you accept an apology from me on behalf of all the rich men who have treated you like trash before?” Snow’s gaping mouth slowly closes. “Exactly. Now get those on. They’re slightly less dirty than our current garments.”

Snow nods and does what I say. I unbutton off my bloodstained shirt and wince as the tacky fabric peels off my skin. The scab has gotten a little better. That’s something I suppose. My eyes slowly move over to Snow without realising it. I steal a glimpse of his broad, bare back, golden like the rest of him. There are some jagged pink scars but they take nothing away how brightly he shines. I look away before I’m too tempted by what I can’t have.

“Much better,” Snow sighs as he slips on the new boots. “I’m surprised my feet haven’t been ripped to shreds yet.”

“Me too. I’m glad though, I didn’t want to do any more healing.”

“I don’t want you to either, fuck.” I hate how his concern makes me feel so good inside. “I’ll start setting up the fire. It’s going to get dark again soon.”

“By all means, Snow, do all the work. I won’t stop you.”

Snow snorts out a laugh, giving me a cheeky smile I can still see at this distance. Christ, I’m on fire, and for once it’s not from my magic. It’s so much better. I have to look away again before I do something ridiculous and deadly.

By the time the sun is down, Snow has made a wonderful small fire for the two of us. We both warm our hands from opposite sides. I don’t need to do it too much. My magic has almost fully replenished, for better or worse. And I’m so hungry that I actually enjoy the extremely salty bison jerky. Bloody hell, I’m turning into an American.

“Where are we going to go next?” Snow asks, mouth still full. “I’m guessing we should avoid any more towns.”

“Agreed. I don’t know about you, but I’d rather not jump out of another building.”

“We certainly agree there. Christ, I was worried I was going to die.”

“Me too, Snow, me too.” I nervously fiddle with the string on my cloth bag. The words are coming out, and I can’t stop them. “I’m sorry, Snow.”

His brow adorably furrows. “Sorry for what?”

“Sorry for the way I acted that night, before I went to bed. I was very rude to you and I deeply apologize.”

“Oh...okay. Thanks.” He looks down, rubbing the back of his neck. “I-I was confused. Did I do something bad?”

“No, Snow,” I sigh, “you did nothing wrong. It was all me being stupid.”

“Okay...”

I sigh again. God, I can’t dance around it anymore. I have to tell him. After putting up with me for this long, he deserves to know.

“I was angry and...somewhat jealous of you.”

His eyes get very big. “Jealous? Of me?!”

“Yes, in a way. Because...you didn’t have to go through the same kind of suffering I did when I manifested. Which isn’t fair, because you lived on the streets while I grew up in a bloody mansion. It’s just not the same suffering I had, and I was angry I had to go through it when you didn't. Which is absolutely ridiculous, and I’m sorry I pushed that on you.”

“If you don’t mind me asking...what happened?��

I stare at him for a long moment over the fire. He holds my gaze, eyes round with worry and care. It hurts me in the most exquisite way. “It’s not a pretty story, Snow.”

His mouth pulls into a sad, slight smile. “Weren’t you the one who said that all hexes live through hardship, and we have nothing to be ashamed of?”

I chuckle and shake my head. “Using my words against me, a tactic of a true devious hex.”

He shrugs, still wearing that little smile. “What can I say? I can live up to our reputation sometimes.” Snow’s face falls again. “So what happened?”

With a deep sigh, rubbing my forehead, I start the horrid tale.

“My family always knew there was a chance I could be a hex,” I say. “But since my aunt couldn’t sense any magic on me pre manifestation, we assumed that I wasn’t too powerful, and manifestation could be avoided if we were careful. So I lived in the aforementioned secluded mansion all my life and I was never allowed to leave the grounds. All my time was spent reading, doing school work, or learning about hexation from my aunt, just in case. Everything in my life revolved around my mere potential to be a hex. I could never do or see anything. I felt like a prisoner. And when I was 18, I had enough.

“One evening, I snuck out of my room and went into the nearby town. I just wanted to see what was outside my home. But I was a naive sheltered kid. Of course I got lost on my way there and went into an area I never should have. Someone had knocked me out cold, and next thing I knew, I was in a cramped, dark box.”

“A box? What do you mean a box?”

I clench my fists tight until the shaking stops, then slowly let go. “It was a coffin, Snow. I had been trapped inside a coffin.”

I can almost feel the way Snow’s stomach must drop out at those words. I know, mine did the same when I realised where I was that night. “W-Why?!”

“It was hard to hear him through said coffin, but I got the main idea. He came from some old witch hunter family but had never caught an actual hex, until me. He’d heard the stories about my mother and had been secretly spying on me for months. When I escaped, he took his chance to kidnap me.”

“So he took you just to taunt you from outside a coffin?”

“I wish that was all he did,” I grumble. “He told me that the coffin was a test. There was a chance the hexation had skipped me over. If I was a hex, being stuck in the coffin would make me manifest, then he could kill me in good conscience. If I wasn’t and didn’t manifest, well, as he put it; ‘there are always casualties in the war for righteousness, boy.’”

Snow’s jaw drops to the grassy ground. “So even if you were human, he would’ve killed you anyway?”

“Mhm, mad bastard.” 

“How long did he keep you there before you escaped? A few days?”

I take long, steady breaths, beating back the old fear that creeps up my throat like bile. I can almost still smell that unique rotten scent from the coffin. I’ll never forget it. I never can.

“Snow,” I say slowly, “I was in that coffin for six weeks.”

And I thought he looked horrified before. Snow drops his jerky bag, hands shaking. I want to grab them, hold them still, comfort him in whatever way I can. The urge is almost stronger than the Call.

“S-Six weeks?! How are you still alive?”

“Thank the witch hunter,” I grumble. “He drilled very small air holes in the lid, and gave me enough food and water to keep me alive but starving. I think, hex or not, he wanted me to suffer because I was my mother’s son. A hex’s child was just as guilty of sin in his eyes.” I rub the bridge of my nose. It aches with the pain of my past. “At the time, I had no idea how long I was in there. It was just one endless night of torture. I begged and pleaded with the hunter to let me go, but he only laughed and called me pathetic hex scum. After six weeks, well, he finally got what he wanted.”

“You manifested.”

“Almost as violently as you did.” I trace the lines of my hand, the skin rough from my fire. I remember my mother’s hands being the same. “The details are blurry, but I remember enough. It started as just a tingling in my gut, but soon it became a burn. And then it spread as quickly as a forest fire.”

“Is it always fire with you?” The corner of Snow’s lip quirks up. The bit of teasing lilt in his voice makes me feel a bit lighter. I can't help but smile back a little.

“Usually, yes. It's always run very strong in my family.” I bounce a flame between my fingers. The movement is strangely calming to me. “I quickly learned I was no different. Before I knew it, I let out a massive ring of fire in every direction. It blew the coffin apart, of course, and turned my captor into a charcoal husk.”

Snow scoffs, a surprisingly vicious expression on his face. “Better than he deserved.”

“Agreed. I have no idea what happened to his body. I left almost immediately, though I wasn’t fully conscious. Six weeks in the coffin had deprived me of most of my mental faculties. Luckily, he kept me not far from home, and I could wander back on pure muscle memory. But going home turned out to be a terrible idea.” I grab the small fire and snuff it out in one go. But my fist stays clenched. “My aunt had been staying there while everyone searched for me. The second I walked through the front door, I could easily smell her. She was overjoyed to see me, until she smelled me too. And as I said, most of my mental faculties were gone.”

“So you attacked her on instinct.”

I chuckle sadly. “Quick study there, Snow. I didn’t even know what I was doing. I was just so bloody hungry all of sudden. I can’t even describe it.”

“You don't need to describe it to me, Baz.” He brings his knees under his chin. “I’ve felt hex hunger too. It’s...awful when you’re in the middle of it.”

“And when you’re not, you try to drown it out or distract yourself. But deep down, you know one day you’ll give up and listen. Then it will take over.”

Snow nods, looking at me in the eye. I’ve seen so much profound sadness in a person’s face. “And you’ll hurt someone, no matter how much you’ll regret it later.”

If I have a soul, it’s aching horribly. How could fate be so cruel as to give me Snow? So wonderfully brave and kind to a fault, and who actually understands what my life is like. The perfect man. And someday soon, he’s going to kill me. There’s no doubt I’ll be the one to die. I won’t kill him, not ever. I’d let him take everything from me before I’d kill him.

“Did you hurt your aunt?”

Thankfully, I can shake my head to that. “No, not at all. She was an experienced magic user, while I was a starving, half crazed newly minted hex. She took me down in seconds. When I woke up again, I was cleaned up and in my room. It took a second to regain my bearings, but I soon remembered what had happened...what I had become. There wasn’t any debate in my mind. Within an hour, I had packed my most practical clothes along with any small valuables I could pawn. Then I ran away and never looked back.”

“Which is how you ended up in America.”

“What better way to protect my family from me than by putting an ocean between us? At first, I stayed in an empty little corner of the American frontier. I just wanted to live out my lonely hex existence as long as possible. I didn’t expect the Call or this looming hex war.”

“No one did,” Simon sighs. “Hexes working together has never been possible before. Who could’ve imagined some American preacher would team up with an Aztec goddess to do just that?”

“Fair point. But now he’s made our existences much harder in a way. Look what those humans tried to do to us at the inn. They were even more scared because of Rook”

“Yeah...”

I groan, pushing my face into my hands, rubbing it up and down. “I never asked to be like this. I tried my hardest to avoid being like this. Then that choice was ripped away from me by some madman. Now I’m trapped between murderous humans or a bloodthirsty witch goddess. Why am I here? Why do I have to be here?!”

“Baz-”

“I don’t want this,” I choke out through my building sobs. “I want to see my family again. I just want to go home!”

I breathe hard and fast, holding back tears with all my strength. No, I refuse to cry. I swore to never cry again after the coffin, because I wasn't sure I could survive falling apart again. Yet here I am. I thought I had shed every tear I have there. I’m so pathetic.

“It’s okay,” Simon says. His voice is far louder than before. “Whatever you’re feeling is okay. It’s...it’s okay if you’re not.”

Slowly, cautiously, I lower my hands, blinking away the tears that had collected. I inhale sharply. Snow is less than two feet away from me. I can count the moles on his face, see the golden highlights in his bronze. But worse, his unbelievably delicious scent fills every cavity of my nose.

“You really shouldn’t sit so close, Snow,” I whisper. My eyes fall down and become completely fixed on Simon’s plush lips.

“I know,” he says under his breath, “but I don’t care.”

He touches my hand, and I feel his magic run through me. That explosive sensation pulses through my veins so hard it almost makes me gasp. The instinctual part of my brain goes fucking mad. It wants me to grab his throat and drain every drop of his magic, his essence, his very soul. My breathing gets shallow and laboured.

“Simon...” I say.

And then he kisses me.

It’s cautious and shy. His lips barely brush against mine, but I feel it everywhere else, especially in the way our powers rise to meet each other. The magic collides, but doesn’t clash. They meld and twist together at our points of contact, desperately needing to connect.

Snow opens his mouth, turning the kiss into one of pure heat and hunger. I gladly do the same. He grabs either side of my face and shoves his tongue down my throat. I grip his collar and push back against him. My entire body is filled with endless energy. I’m a star going supernova. And I want to explode with Simon. My nails scratch viciously across his neck. He clenches his fist in my hair, pressing our faces closer. I shudder as Simon bites hard on my bottom lip. I’m wrapped in cold heat, wrapped up in him. I feel so alive. It feels so right. But it’s wrong.

With all the strength I have, I shove Snow off me. We both fall back on the ground, breaking our closed circuit of feeding on each other simultaneously. Simon scrambles further away panting. I’m similarly out of breath. Both our lips trail white smoke, like they’ve been singed by ice. My magic readjusts after being sucked away and added to all at the same time. A bit of Snow’s explosive energy still sits in me, swirling around like a miniature star. We just stare at each other wide eyed for a long time.

“Shit,” Simon whispers.

I sigh heavily, running a shaky hand through my hair. “Well said.”

“We nearly killed each other.”

“Mages don’t meddle, Snow. We both know that.”

Simon groans, clutching his hair in his fists. “I know, I know. I almost killed Penny last time and I swore it would never happen again. But look at me now. Of course I fuck up.” I can see tears forming under his eyes. “What’s the point of being an all powerful hex if it means being alone forever?! I can blow up a building with my mind but I can’t even bloody kiss you! It’s not fair!”

I pick at my shirt sleeve with shaking fingers. “Maybe God is punishing us.”

“We didn’t ask to be like this, Baz!”

“That doesn’t change what we are, Simon! We’re freaks of nature, cannibalistic monsters!” I nearly rip through the fabric of my shirt. I'm so angry and so fucking tired. “Maybe we truly are devil spawn or something, like all the humans say. Maybe they’re right to be scared of all of us...”

I turn away from him, just staring at the fire. The sting of the smoke keeps me from sinking too low into my self loathing. Snow moves in my peripheral. We sit side by side. My skin prickles as he hovers his hand over mine. It takes every bit of my will to not try and drain him again.

“There’s somewhere we can go where we aren’t 'Devil spawn,'” he says.

I tense up. “Simon, that’s risky. It could all be a farce.”

“I don’t care if you think it’s just a farce, Baz! It’s still a chance. For you and me, for us.” He lightly brushes one of my fingers. I have to rip my hand away before I hurt him again. His pretty eyes are filled with pain. “See? Wouldn’t you like to stop doing that? Isn’t it worth the risk?”

I’ve been running for most of my life. I ran from my mother's legacy for as long as I could. I ran from my family when I feared my own hunger. And I could run now, from Simon and the fear of killing him. But I’d also be abandoning the chance for some sort of happy life. It may not be perfect, but it would be far more than my ancestors ever had before. Can I sacrifice that for fear?

“I’m tired, Snow,” I say weakly. “We should both get some rest.”

“But Baz-”

“Let me sleep on it, alright? Please?”

Snow takes in a deep breath, and lets out a long sigh. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

I want to kiss him so badly right now. Just grab his gorgeous, sunshine face and kiss him goodnight. Since I can’t, I smile as genuinely as I can at him. It’s not easy for me, but I mean it with him. “Goodnight, Simon.”

Snow stares at me for a long moment. But slowly, a smile creeps across his face too. The fondness threatens to melt me, “Goodnight, Baz.”

We keep our eyes locked for as long as we can. When I finally lay down, putting my crackling shield around me, the image of Snow’s wonderful face relaxes me into sleep.

———————————————

I bang my fists against the wood over and over, ignoring my already numerous splinters.

“Help!” I yell. “Someone help me! Please, get me out of here!”

All my pleas fall on deaf ears, as usual. No matter what I do, no matter how loud I scream. I’m stuck in this damned coffin. I scratch at it until my fingernails tear from their beds. Blood drips into my mouth, leaving an iron taste in the back of my scream sore throat.

“I’m not a fucking hex! I just want to go home!” I sob so hard I nearly choke on my own breath. “Just let me go home.”

My aching arms finally fall. I curl in on myself as much as I can within my confines. I close my eyes, but there’s little to no difference in the endless pitch black. Tears run hot down my face. They leave small trails in the dirt that’s accumulated over...however long I’ve been here. I don’t know anymore. Time is meaningless where there’s no sunrise or sunset. Life is meaningless in here.

“Baz?”

His voice is far away, but it still rings clear. My eyes slide open. “Simon?”

“Oh lord. Hang on, Baz! I'll get you out!”

I can only hear as Snow desperately tugs at the coffin lid. It should be impossible, the thing is nailed shut, but somehow Snow rips it open. The light is dim yet still hurts my eyes. I can't help but hiss at the pain.

“It’s okay, Baz,” he says in that unbelievably soft tone.

His hand reaches to me through the blinding light. Slowly, I reach back. And when I hold it, I know I’m supposed to be in pain, but I’m not. Instead, I’m just calm, happy, safe. Snow slowly pulls me out. His arms snake around my back, holding me up. He looks me over, taking in my decrepit, decayed state from ages in that damn box. And miraculously, he smiles. Even like this, he looks at me with such care.

“You’re alright now, Baz. I’m here.” He cups my face. “I’m here for you.”

Emotions clog up my throat and tears run down my cheek, but this time they’re for a good reason. I put my own shaking hand on his golden face. He’s so warm. “Yes, you are. And I’m here for you too, Simon.”

He’s still grinning as I lean forward, pressing my lips to his. But this time there’s no fear I’ll kill him. There’s just the utter joy of being with the one who understands me best, the one I want the most.

Oh, how I want this.

———————————————

I blink awake slowly. The morning sun is just rising over the horizon, turning the grassy landscape violet. I sit up and see the now familiar body on the other side of the fire. Snow sleeps in a knot, arms and legs pulled in. The furrow in his brow says he’s in the middle of a nightmare too. Though mine wasn’t one by the end. Not when he was there.

My mind is made up.

Once again, I’m packing my things lowly, waiting for Snow to wake. Luckily, he stirs while I’m only halfway through tying up the cot. He rubs the sleep from his eyes in such a terribly adorable way.

“Morning,” I say.

“Morning,” he yawns. “Are we going now? Or...are you?”

My heart seizes, but only for a moment. He’s right to be concerned. The fact that we’ve travelled together for two weeks without killing each other is a miracle among hexes. After last night’s close call, a sensible man would leave and never return. I was once a sensible human man. But I’m a deranged, bloodthirsty hex now. Why not act like one?

“You should get up and start packing, Snow. If we’re going to make it to the Mexican border before nightfall, we’ll have to ride fast.”

His eyes go rounder than a full moon. “You mean...”

I pull the pack tie tight. “We’re going to Hex City.”

“What changed your mind?

I sigh heavily, then walk over to him. I stay at a safe distance of course but Snow’s magic pulls me to him, my body begging me to take it. Instead, I simply hold out my hand to him. Snow stares for a moment but does catch on. He offers his own to me. Once again, our magics reach out to each other, wisps of fire and lightning twining together. It sends a faint whisper of that explosive adrenaline through my veins. So incredible and so wrong.

I snap my hand away, fists clenched hard. “Because of that. If I were a more selfless person, I would simply leave, but unfortunately I’m not. Are you?” Snow looks me over. His eyes pierce me in a way no one’s ever has before. He slowly shakes his head. “Exactly. I may be scared of Rook and his goddess, but I’m more scared of hurting you. There’s only one place where I won't.”

“Hex City.” He chews on the corner of his bottom lip. “What if you’re right though, and Rook’s price is too high?” 

“Then at least we’ll pay it knowing we tried to have a real life, instead of running like we’ve always had to.” I stand straight with my head held high. No matter the fear, I’m sure of this. “I think we’ve both suffered long enough, Simon.”

The way Snow’s face relaxes means the world to me. I love seeing that, seeing what he looks like without the heavy burden of hexation on his shoulders. Maybe I’ll be able to see that more in Hex City.

“It’ll probably be nice there,” he says. “I mean, a city made for hexes by hexes is going to be weird, but I bet it’ll look amazing in it’s own way.”

I chuckle and nod. “Agreed. Buildings and roads made by magic will certainly be interesting.”

“Penny would probably want to study them.” He sighs, but there’s a lightness to. “Maybe Penny will come one day, and I could see her again.”

“Maybe. I would love to meet her. I might be able to see my aunt again one day, too. I could introduce you to her.”

He beams so bright at me I fear I’ll get sunburnt. “I’d like that a lot.”

“Me too, Snow. So let’s get going.”

We finish packing very quickly. Snow gets on his horse as clumsy as he usually does. I snort at the way his American cowboy hat nearly falls off his head. The death glare he gives me has little impact, what with the way he’s grinning. He hasn’t stopped grinning almost since he woke up. I can’t blame him. I have trouble controlling my smile either.

“Ready?” he asks. As if he even has to. I’ve made my choice, and I’m sticking to it.

“Ready,” I say. “Let’s go.”

Snow and I both send our horses into gallops. We soar across the grassy plain, the Texas sun illuminating our way. The impending hex war still looms over us. But I will fight until my last breath to keep any happiness Simon and I can find.

I can almost see our future. Soon, we’ll reach the terrifying and wonderful Hex City. Rook will ask for his price, and we’ll pay, because it’ll mean a freedom we've never known before. We’ll be able to hold hands, kiss whenever we want, sleep in the same bed, simply be around each other with no fear of our hexacious hunger. It’s more than I could have ever dreamed of even a few months ago.

For once, I’m going to run towards something good, instead of away from the darkness inside me. I cannot wait.

———————————————

AN: And that's all folks! I hope people enjoyed that, even if y'all have never read Hexslinger. If you wanna read the books, I highly recommend them, tho be warned they require trigger warnings for all the stuff here and more. Almost anything that usually needs a trigger warning is in those books. I'm okay with reading it, but I also completely understand others not liking that shit.

In the positives, it's an extremely interesting and complex series dealing with survival, discrimination, identity, the pain that can come with love, and the unlikely bonds formed between people. The world building is amazing and the magic system is super cool. What I love the most are the characters, who are all very interesting and complex. No one is 100% good or evil, they're just people trying to find ways to achieve their goals or simply live. What actions they take are up for moral debate, but a lot of the time they're at least understandable. There's a lot of period typical bigotry, and it's much more vicious than what I wrote here, but what I love is that there a lot of diverse characters who say "fuck that" and fight back against the shit they get. You've got queer, Indigenous, black, latinx, Chinese, and Jewish main characters in a wild west story who are all well rounded and interesting. That's pretty awesome imo.

Okay enough gushing about Hexslinger lol. Hope this story was good. No guarantee when my next fic will be out. Work and school are killer. Until then, see you later!

#carry on #snowbaz #simon snow #baz pitch #hexslinger #hexslinger au #period typical homophobia #period typical racism #blood tw #mild body horror tw #canon typical vioence #mysnowbazfic #carry on through the ages #cotta 2020

[dis--parity]

get to know the mun!

repost, don’t reblog.

———  basics! ♡

(PEN)NAME: Aria (some may know me as Verseau)

PRONOUNS: she/they

ZODIAC SIGNS: Aquarius sun, Cancer moon, Saggitarius Rising

TAKEN OR SINGLE: taken by two lovely people,,,

———  three  facts! ♡

I’m trans! I’ve only just started HRT this year after jumping through a couple hurdles but I’m over half a month in now and I couldn’t be happier with my progress so far! I’m hoping to be even more outwardly feminine in my daily life in 2021 and I’ve already taken a lotta good steps towards that!

I’m a student of mechanical engineering (though I kinda wish I was doing electrical engineering or software engineering bc I’m so much better at that)! My early aspirations for robotic science kinda got birthed into Alex’s interests in-character, and though I definitely retain an interest in it, if not just for writing her character then because robots are fuckin awesome, I dunno if I’ll be able to find a career in it myself... I’ve yet to really figure out what I wanna do with it but I’ll get there someday!

Alright this is a bit of a weird story but listen... I went to this like, catholic private school when I was doing secondary school (high school for you yankees) so we had to have mandatory services in chapel. And, y’know, kids don’t wanna be sat there listening to bible stories for half an hour of their lunch break so our chaplain occasionally spiced things up by bringing shit in. So, one day, he’s telling the story about adam and eve and the snake in the tree, two other kids played adam and eve (they weren’t naked before you ask, why would you think that) and I played... the tree. So I just,, stood there? And then we got to the part where the snake appeared in the tree, at which point the science teacher pulled out this FUCKING BALL PYTHON HE KEPT AND WRAPPED IT OVER MY SHOULDERS. SO,, i just had to stand there and stay calm while this snake was coiling around my neck and everyone else was looking at me all :monkaS: like,,, I got out ok but that’s all I was known for for like a week after that service, god.

———  experience ! ♡

Ooosh, I’ve been in the RP scene since, uhh... 2014? 2015? Embarrassingly enough my first few roleplays were in the F/NA/F scene on shamchat and chatzy with a group of friends (which I got to via reddit of all places). After that, I migrated to tumblr and got involved in the scene while re/born/ica’s AU was The Scene in that rpc, eventually my character (it was only Iris at the time, but I eventually brought Alex in too) evolved into fandomless OCs and I stuck around the tumblr rpc for the next few years to come. I also love roleplaying on discord and I’m generally better with activity there and better at organising threads so if y’all wanna move any threads to a private discord server just hmu! My discord is V.Aria#3817

———  muse preference !  ♡

Oooh,,, I think my OCs are actually pretty flexible when it comes to this kinda thing. Alex is the poster child of the blog (always has been tbh,,) but I love love LOVE getting interactions with yeong-hui and garis as well!! The theme of this blog is actually about their diverging stories and how they both coped with similar trauma in vastly different ways (highlighting the disparity between their ways of life, their circumstances, and who they are as people). As for the kind of people I prefer to interact with,,, let’s get this straight, I like a bastard character who’s kinda tastefully awful to others but not in a severe way but if your character is just Asshole then like. chances are we won’t get along. I’m also vvv much a fan of chaotic muses, smart muses, and definitely muses with a more compassionate personality bc y’know what? that’s kinda exactly what they need!

———  FLUFF / ANGST / SMUT! ♡    

FLUFF: Oh yes!!! I love love love both romantic and platonic fluff, just the kind of quality time and gift giving and shit that forges a bond between characters? Good shit, all the time! I love plotted romances so if you have an interest in that don’t hesitate to hit me up bc I’ll definitely do that for you whenever I get the chance

ANGST: OHOHOH... I haven’t actually had the chance to write a lot of angst recently, but both of my characters are BUILT for that shit! I wanna be able to have a plot where just, outbursts happen, trauma gets the better of the muses and they break down and they need comfort, or one of them gets badly hurt or in a bad situation and we’re forced to see how the other one contends with the situation!! I haven’t written that in so so long and I wanna see more of it!!

SMUT: I get it’s not for everyone and I tag all my nsfw on here bc of that (i’ve been thinking of making an nsfw sideblog but idk if there’s any interest,,) but! Writing smut and intimacy between muses is peak shit and I’m ALWAYS down for it!! Both of my muses are down for one night stand stuff as well - although romantic smut is the GOOD good shit always, it’s also really interesting to see how relationships develop as a result of sleeping around and just,,, otherwise casually interacting!

PLOT / MEMES: I find it easier to jump into interactions with a good open starter or an ask meme - I’m actually embarrassingly reliant on ask memes to really get any interaction going one way or the other so I encourage reblogging them and sending some in to me as well!! However! A plotted relationship dynamic is also very very good, I love exploring dynamics like two muses being coworkers/business associates, or roommates or just, someone they met at a bar or something. That’s just for setting the foundation but I also love throwing out ideas for interactions between our muses!! When I get sent a sentence starter meme I always have fun answering them and always look for a thread to sprout from them!!!

tagged by: @aemiliiu​ (thanks so much hun!!!) Tagging: uhhhhh,,,, I dunno who else would appreciate this but if you wanna have a crack at it, do it and tag me!

#[The Voice From Beyond] OOC

[alittlextrathatway]

Places #18

A/N: set during 803 “Badlands” just because.

18. A barbecue

you can find more info on the prompt game here.

————————–

The best reason to attend a Firehouse 51 barbecue will always be to people watch. In all the years Stella Kidd has been a part of this family, the barbecues reveal the most about the ever shifting dynamics within her home away from home. This year’s barbecue is particularly interesting and she’s ended up with a front row seat to the Brett and Casey show.

Kelly sits down next to her and shifts a glance from her to the couple sitting across from them. Okay, they’re not a couple. Yet. But it will happen. It’s just a matter of when they decide to get their asses in gear.

Brett’s been back for a couple of weeks now and Stella would have to be blind not to see the way Casey has been keeping his distance. She knows they were in a weird almost-but-not-quite into each other place when Kyle came back out of nowhere but really this gaping space between them is ridiculous.

Also, she feels like she’s one of the only people privy to both sides of this will-they-won’t-they ridiculousness. She’s watched Casey show small signs of jealousy. She still remembers the biggest red flag of all. His reaction to the Chaplain showing up at the firehouse. He’d very subtly tried to send Kyle away before Brett got back to the station. It’s possible Casey didn’t realize what he was doing at the time, but she did. And then just last night, he’d asked her if she knew the guy Brett shared a drink with at Molly’s. He tried to play it off as casually curious. He didn’t fool her.

So, naturally, she’d fibbed and told him Ryan was more than just a social worker helping Sylvie out with exposing an abusive juvenile detention center. Casey needed to remember that Sylvie Brett was the best of the best and she wouldn’t be single forever. (Then again, maybe she would. The woman seemed determined not to date.)

Today, she plans to watch them try and fail to maintain that space.

And maybe meddle.

But only if the situation calls for it.

“So,” Stella asks, breaking the silence at their picnic table. “Any updates from Ryan?”

Sylvie brightens while Casey’s expression turns cloudy. Stella bites back a smirk.

“Nothing yet, but the minute he has anything he said he’ll call me. He’s hoping to get me incident reports to review. Anything that might be useful should we meet with the Warden,” Sylvie informs them, anxious hope brimming from her expression.

Stella shakes her head and widens her eyes to exaggerate her amazement. “Man, how lucky was it to run into Ryan at the courthouse the other day?”

Severide gives her a knowing grin and shakes his head.

“Foster and I had somebody on our side that day, for sure,” Brett agrees. “It had to be more than just right place, right time.”

Casey clears his throat while peeling a bit of the label off of his beer bottle, using that same casual tone from last night. “You know, if you need it, I may have some contacts from my Alderman days that could help too.”

Stella rests her chin her hand and props her elbow on the table to cover her knowing grin. Subtle, very subtle, Captain Casey.

“Oh! Thank you, Casey,” Brett says, smiling brightly at him. “That would be great. I’ll let you know for sure. I just can’t stand the thought of someone torturing these kids who already have it pretty rough, you know?”

They all nod their agreement. No one can blame her for working overtime on this. If someone is hurting those kids, they need to be stopped.

“I need another drink,” Sylvie declares, starting to stand.

Casey stops her by standing before she can and picks up his own empty bottle. “Me too. What are you having? I can get it while I’m up.”

“A hard cider, if there’s any left,” she requests with a sweet smile. “Thank you.”

“Sure, of course,” he replies, clearing his throat awkwardly as he leaves.

“Yeah, you know, I think I need a second helping,” Stella announces while reaching out for Severide’s arm and nodding toward his empty plate. “Looks like you do too. Come with me, Kelly.”

She yanks him up from his seat and toward the food table, linking her arm through his as they walk.

“Did you see that?” She asks him in a hushed tone.

“See what?” He asks with a laugh. “Casey being a good guy?”

She groans and buries her head in his shoulder. “Kelly, I love you, but you have the emotional depth of a teaspoon. He’s jealous!”

“Of who? Some social worker Brett just met?” Severide asks with a barely contained smirk.

“Yes!” She exclaims in frustration. People stop and stare at her outburst so she lowers her voice as she continues. “Casey wants to be the one helping her with this instead of this new Ryan guy.”

Kelly’s brow furrows in confusion. “You’re suggesting Casey has a thing for Brett?”

“He’s your roommate. How do you not know this before me?” Stella asks him with a shake of her head.

“I know this may come as a shock to you, but I don’t go around asking him who he has a crush on. We’re not fourteen,” Kelly quips with a sharp grin.

She rolls her eyes. “You don’t have to ask him, Kelly. Just pay attention.”

Severide looks thoughtful for a moment and then lifts one shoulder as if he’s resigning himself to her theory. “He was really weird after the Chaplain proposed. He did not look happy about it.”

“See! I’m telling you. Brett and Casey are happening right under our noses and we should do something about it.”

“Like what? Lock them in a closet until they make out? Again, we’re not fourteen.”

She laughs and smacks his arm. “God, you’re a jerk.”

“Leave them alone, Stella. If it happens then it happens. Let them figure it out,” he requests. “Us rushing them will not help.”

He’s right. Deep down she knows he’s right. But the part of her that wants to see her friends as happy as she is, can’t help but try and persuade Severide one more time.

“But they’d be so cute together and you have to admit they’re the best of all of us. If anyone deserves to be happy, it’s them.”

“Hey, I want them both to be happy too, but if we force it then it may not go the way you want. Are you willing to risk that? Because I’m not. Also, I don’t think it’s any of our business.”

She pouts and rolls her eyes but eventually nods her agreement. “Fine,” she whines. “I get your point. I don’t like it, but I get it. For the record, though, I called it. I want the right to say I told you so when one of them actually makes a move.”

“Granted,” Kelly agrees leaning toward her to place a quick kiss to her temple. “Now, can we get back to the most important part of all this? Food and beer?”

#starrcrusher #brettsey #stellaride #prompt game #chicago fire #matt x sylvie #fanfic #my fic #angellwings writes

[fericita-s]

The Bloom Is On The Rye

After the crossing at the Kansas River when her family had been lost, looking at the muddy Black Vermillion had her hiding under her bonnet like a bird tucking its head under its wings to sleep.

Emmry Forced Marriage Mercy Street/Oregon Trail crossover! Chapter 2 below, also on AO3

a continuation of In having new eyes by @jomiddlemarch​ and beta-ed into being better by @the-spaztic-fantastic​.  Thank you both for your contributions to this story!

Mrs. Foster helped her again with breakfast, as if they planned it, all the while keeping up a cheerful chatter about her husband, Dr. Foster, and the medical practice they would be setting up in California. 

“You won’t be going to Oregon!” Emma said, surprised and disappointed.  She had hoped this new friend might be a neighbor of sorts, though she knew Oregon was large and their party was likely to split up several times as they passed through different territories.

“We won’t head that way until after Soda Springs, that’s months away yet.” 

Emma found this a comfort and somewhat distressing - still months to go before they still had over a month to go.  She knew the journey would last about five months but it had been harder to keep track of time lately. Their days took on a rhythm: waking, cooking, gathering what useful foodstuffs they could on the trail.  Walking, riding, crying a bit less each day.  It seemed to stand still, go very quickly, and stretch on all at once but her legs felt stronger and her arms too, the tasks that seemed to drain her at first now coming more easily.

“Henry said he has bacon, shall I look for it to add to the spider? There’s enough to share.”

“Yes! Jedidiah would stop complaining so much about dried apple pie for our only sweet if I start his day off with bacon,” Mrs. Foster said, taking over the spider completely while Emma rummaged through the store of goods. “Where are you two settling?”

Emma produced the bacon and then paused, wondering as Mrs. Foster lifted the pancakes out and arranged the bacon. “I don’t know,” she said, and then after a brief moment of panic, laughed.  “I don’t know!” Mrs. Foster joined her laughter as Henry walked up with a bucket of water, smiling tentatively at their mutual delight. 

***

“Where exactly are we going?” Emma asked that evening when Henry finished with the nightly Psalm.  After he finished reading he’d put his arm around her while they talked. He still slept by the fire instead of in the wagon and Emma didn’t know how to tell him she wished he wouldn’t.

“Black Vermillion River is next.”  

“No, I mean to homestead.  Where do you - do we - plan to be?” 

“Oh. Dalles.  I thought you knew.” He furrowed his brow as he answered. “Is that where you wish to go?”

“It doesn’t matter to me where we go, as long as it’s not back to Virginia.” She wanted to say something about how even though this trip had begun in tragedy that multiplied in staggering ways, she found comfort in his presence and in his kindness.  But she couldn’t think of how to phrase it, so instead she asked him why he decided to go west.

“I was in seminary.  Thought I’d be a preacher or maybe a chaplain.  But then -” he paused and Emma reached for his hand, trying to encourage him to keep speaking with touch she hoped would be welcome.  “A friend and I went swimming.  I dared him to, he didn’t want to .  Said he wasn’t a good swimmer but I goaded him into it. And he drowned.  I tried to save him but I couldn’t.”

“That was an accident. Surely you believe God has forgiven you.”

He took a breath and spoke evenly, though she would tell it was an effort.  She was well practiced in it.  “It was hard to believe then. It’s sometimes hard to believe now.” 

“You saved me.  I would surely have drowned had you not been there, had you not been so quick.”

“God guided my hands.”

“If you believe that to be true then believe you are forgiven, too.”

“It’s becoming easier to believe that,” he said, squeezing her shoulder and she relaxed into him.    

The sounds of Silas’s fiddle washed over the camp and she wished Henry would hold her like this in the bed of the wagon, instead of leaving her alone to go sleep by the fire.

***

She couldn’t do it. 

After the crossing at the Kansas River when her family had been lost, looking at the muddy Black Vermillion had her hiding under her bonnet like a bird tucking its head under its wings to sleep.

Emma remembered an arm grabbing her tightly around the waist as the current pulled at her skirts, the relief she felt when Henry deposited her on the shore.  She had been drenched and gasping, Mrs. Foster’s arm around her, as she watched the canvas of her family’s covered wagon float swiftly downstream.  It had tilted at wild angles before flipping over and then it was gone - under the water and around a bend. Dr. Foster and a few of the men had run downriver to see what - who - they could rescue, but Henry was still in the water where the wagon had first pitched to the side and floated away.

She had watched as Henry stood with a body in his arms. It was a man - her father? Jimmy? But the face was so covered in blood that she couldn’t make out who from this distance. When she saw it was Jimmy, she had been disappointed. 

She hated that he had been the only body to bury.  

The one she had least wanted to mourn was the only one with a gravesite.  It was unfair.  Henry had conducted a short service naming them all, and Samuel Diggs, the wagon master, had made crosses with all four names burned into the wood.  But it was only Jimmy’s body that had been buried. 

And she hated it.  She hated Jimmy for that last act of displacing her family from its rightful place.

“We’ll take the ferry,” Henry said, gripping her hands and looking worried, bringing her back to the present and this new river to cross. “We won’t ford it.”

But even that couldn’t stop her panicked breaths and so eventually he consulted with Dr. Foster and then dosed her with whiskey, calling it medicinal.  She grimaced as it burned its way down her throat, then breathed deeply at the sensation of warmth spreading through her and the way she could feel her pearl drop necklace against her chest, her boots laced tightly around her ankles, her bonnet tied neatly under her chin.  All these pieces of clothing keeping her from flying apart and Henry there too, holding her around the waist like he had in the Kansas while pulling her to safety.  

When it was over, they rumbled along a bit more before nightfall, but the feeling of warmth did not subside.  Her brain felt like it was sloshing around inside her head and when Mrs. Foster brought her a dried apple pie, Emma thanked her without protesting that she hadn’t helped make it and called her Mary for the first time.

“I’ll show you how tomorrow. On rest day,” Mary said as she handed over the pie. “Perhaps have another drink tonight, to calm those nerves.  You’ll sleep better for it.”

“I didn’t mean to serve you this for dinner,” Emma told Henry as she sliced the pie clumsily.  He had given her another drink and taken one himself after reading from his Bible.  He said he would have skipped it but it was his favorite one, Psalm 23.  They both cringed when he read ‘He leads me beside still waters’, not relaxing again until he finished the verse with ‘he refreshes my soul’. 

“We had apple trees at home,” Henry said.  “I remember climbing one far from the house and then eating about a dozen before they were really ripe and making myself sick.” He looked at her, smiling. “Maybe we can plant two or three in Dalles.”

“I’d like that.  We had an orchard at home. Alice and I would steal them from the kitchens, the ones that had been sliced for pies. When they were mixed with sugar and sweet and syrupy.  I remember how it ran down our fingers and made our chins sticky.” She laughed and bit into the pie they shared now, worried she was missing her mouth with part of the crust but also too warm and full to really care.  “Once, when Alice was telling Mother she definitely had not stolen the pie filling, a bee came right up to her chin! Mother said even the bee knew she was lying!”

They laughed together and seeing him happy made Emma feel bold.  “Will you sleep here with me tonight? I think I would sleep better with you here.”

She watched as Henry stopped smiling and stopped chewing.  He nodded solemnly, like they were taking their marriage vows anew.  “Yes, Emma, I’ll stay here with you.”

His answer felt as good as his calling her Emma.

He turned his back as she undressed and she heard him securing the ends of the canvas cover so there was no longer an opening out the back.  With her whiskey-clumsy fingers she took twice as long with the buttons on her bodice and could not manage the corset at all. “Can you help undo these laces? I’ll sleep in my chemise, that’s on underneath.”

Henry moved towards her and she could smell the whiskey on his breath.  His hands felt warm against her skin and her heart, which had been beating out a strange rhythm since she asked him to stay, was so loud she thought he might ask her about it.  His hands finished their work on her laces, delicately unthreaded the loops entirely and she worked at the ribbons of her skirt until finally the petticoat and skirt fell into a heap on the wooden bed of the wagon.  

They stood frozen, looking at each other, as Henry reached for the pearl drop necklace now visible as it lay just above the low neckline of her chemise. He lifted it and ran his thumb over the smooth surface before gently placing it back against her chest in the valley between her breasts. “Beautiful,” he said, and she wanted him to press his hand against her fully, so he would hear what that word did to the beat of her heart.

Henry turned away and didn’t come join her again until she was on the bedroll.

She made herself as small as possible so he would join her on the pile of blankets and quilts, but when he laid down she only felt his hand on her back.  She wondered if she should turn to face him, then stilled as his hand traveled up her back and to the bun that gathered her hair against the nape of her neck.  He gently reached for the pins and combs holding it in place and took them out, brushing his fingers through her loose hair lightly.  She closed her eyes like his fingers were singing a lullaby and slept with his hands still stroking her hair.

The next morning he handed her one of his shirts as she swallowed against the dryness in her mouth and winced at the fuzziness in her head that now seemed to have sharp edges. 

“Use this to sleep in.  At least until you can make a new dress.  It should be more comfortable than wearing the same thing day and night.” She looked at him, taking in his rumpled pants and mussed shirt.  He hadn’t even taken off his outer coat or boots, had laid beside her fully dressed.  

He left their wagon abruptly and she ran her hands across the cotton, rubbed the collar between her thumb and forefinger and unfolded it to look at the long sleeves and how far down her legs the shirt would go. Then she hugged it to herself, wondering if he would sleep with her again.

Author’s Note:  Apparently bacon was such a common food staple on the trail, overlanders wrote of getting tired of it in their diaries. Can you imagine?! Tired of bacon!? Burying people along the trail was common, so much so that the Oregon Trail has been called this country’s longest graveyard.  About one in ten emigrants did not survive the journey, the most common reasons being accidental shootings, drownings, and disease. 

#mercy street #mercy street advent #emmry #the oregon trail

[ansgar-martinsson]

The Best Intentions - Part 22

“Oh, that,” he said, glancing at his right shoulder as he sat back against the chaise. “That’s nothing.”

She chuckled sardonically. “Feels more like something.”

Ansgar’s muscles trembled for a split second at her touch on the sensitive, raised and smooth skin, in spite of the barrier of his linen shirt between. He covered her exploratory hand with his, stilling her.

“Tell me. Please.” she implored.

He squeezed her hand, but did not pull it away from his ruined arm. “I nearly lost everything that day,” he began. “My brother, my own life, and I thought, when I came out of it all… I thought I’d never play piano again,” he smiled sadly, “as cliche’ as it sounds.”

“What happened?” She shifted on the chaise, her legs still over his thighs, but she curled up beside him, replacing her hand on his arm with a pillowing of her head. “Tell me as much or as little as you want.”

He took a deep breath. “I trusted her, trusted this… person,” he sneered, “with my company. She was the director of finance, so… in charge of the money, of the financial direction of my company. And well, she got greedy, decided that… for whatever reason I wasn’t living up to her expectations as a CEO, I don’t know, but whatever it was, she… well, let’s just say she attempted to defraud me out of a lot of money. And beyond that,” he paused, swallowing down a wave of renewed anger, a reminder of the fury and furious ire he’d felt years ago. He took a heavy breath and squirmed, suddenly uncomfortable.

“It’s okay,” Joline whispered, placing her warm hand gently upon his cheek. “You don’t have to – “

“No,” Ansgar clipped, licking and wiping his lips. “It’s in the past. I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

He nodded, a small, tight-lipped smile crossing his face.

“Can you continue?”

“Yeah,” he huffed, and then took a deep breath. “She arranged for… no, that’s not right… she outright murdered my VP of field ops - a very good friend of mine. Murdered him so that she could pocket the proceeds of a key employee insurance policy she took out – and she took it out in my name, with my bank account information and a mockup of my signature.” He chuckled mirthlessly. “And when the police investigated it, of course the motives all pointed back to me. She not only tried to ruin my business, not only took the life of someone close to me, but she tried to frame me for it.”

“Shit, Sgar.”

“Yeah. Shit. Shit is right. Anyway, long story short, we… meaning Magnus and I - he was still a detective at the time, and he was on the case - we caught up to her. Figured it all out. She didn’t like that, not one bit, so she shot my brother in the shoulder but not before she ran me off the road. My car, well, Magnus’ car with me driving it, flipped three times before I landed in the median off the E4. Pretty spectacular, really. Ball of flame and the whole nine yards.” He grinned, but the smile did not reach his fiery eyes.

“Oh my God!” She gasped and covered her mouth with a shaking hand. Her eyes went wide and her brow furrowed in concern. A coating of saline appeared over her irises, sluicing down to form a single tear from the canthus of her right eye. “Ansgar….”

“I’m fine now, obviously,” he said. “I somehow managed to walk out of the wreckage, but not unscathed. Two broken ribs.” He lifted his ruined shoulder. “And that. Compound fracture of the humerus and a dislocation that they couldn’t reduce in the ED. Worst pain I ever felt in my entire life. Had three surgeries on that puppy. I could barely lift my arm for months. Spent nearly a year and a half in physio before I could move my fingers properly or even lift that hand to the piano again.”

“Wow,” she huffed.

“Yeah,” he said. “I can’t go very long without playing, so it drove me a little mad for a while. A friend of mine told me about this episode of an American TV show where the chaplain in an army base told a wounded soldier about this piece composed for one hand. I did some research, and found a few pieces - Prelude Opus 9 by Scriabin, one by Ravel, and some by a more modern composer called Theodore Edel. I played a lot of that Ravel piece and a lot of Edel’s music for a long time.” He laughed. “Not my favorite composer, not Philip Glass, but at least I was able to play.”

“Did you play it for anyone?”

He shook his head. “I don’t play for other people, typically. I play for myself,” he confessed. He lifted his hands from her thighs and considered them, flexing his fingers as he turned his hands over, back and forth, his head bowed, his gaze distant and glassy upon them. “It’s… it’s my sanity, my… my meditation, if you will,” he declared. “It’s my way of starting the morning, my way of decompressing, of distancing myself from reality for a while without drugs or alcohol or the like. Well,” he chuckled, “one of my ways. I have others, one of which you’ve already experienced last night.”

“Well, then,” she took one of his hands in hers, once again taking up the study of the lines of his fingers, the plane of his palm. She raised her eyes to his with a wry smile, her gaze half-mast and flirty. “I like the way you decompress.”

Ansgar opened his mouth to speak, leaned in with his eyes hooded, to hopefully initiate a session of stress relief, when the doorbell rang.

“Ah, shit. That’s crap timing.”

“Who’s here?” Joline frowned.

“Dinner’s arrived,” Ansgar gently moved her legs off his lap and unfolded his own, stretching slightly as he stood. “I’ll go let them in so they can set up. Stay here.”

“Oh,” Joline pouted mockingly. “And here I thought you’d cooked for me.”

“I don’t cook.” Ansgar snorted derisively. “You don’t want me cooking for you, believe me. When the primal cells that became Magnus and myself divided in my mother’s womb, my brother sucked up all the gastronomic protoplasm for himself.”

“Really!?” she chimed, shifting forward on the chaise, her elbows upon her knees in rapt interest. “Are you saying, in your really, really weird way, that you can’t cook?” she wriggled further forward, her face lit up with a child-like excitement. “Do you mean there truly is something the great and mighty Ansgar Martinsson, the Lion of Stockholm, can’t do? I’m shocked!”

He laughed, and tipped his head in acknowledgement of her well-placed jibe. “There are many things I can’t do, my darling Joline. However, I’m far too arrogant to admit it.” He gave her an elaborate yet silly bow. “Now, if you will excuse me, I need to go show my friend the Michelin-starred chef where to prepare our meal, and criticize her sharply for not cooking the meat to my specifications.” He winked. “Or something arsehole-ish like that.”

“Go on then, you do that.”

He stepped quickly to her, bent and kissed her. He pulled back, his tongue snaking out to taste her upon his lips as he brushed his nose against hers, as he gazed at her, a soft, longing shape to his eyes. His look was as delicate as his touch on her cheek, as warm as the curved bow of his smile. “Be right back. Don’t move.”

At first, Joline obeyed. She knew better than to test Ansgar when he issued a command, but the story of his brush with mortality smacked of her present circumstances. With her mother as sick as she was, Joline considered every day with her a gift, a guardian angel on her shoulder.

As she crossed her arms on the rear of the sofa, she felt a twinge of gratitude for whichever guardian angel spared Ansgar on that day, the day he nearly lost his life, his arm and his brother. She enjoyed watching him walk away, the expansive shoulders, the slim waist, the tight ass, and the hard lines of his legs. Shallow, of course, she admitted to herself, but to her credit, she didn’t know him well. She appreciated his generosity with her nephews and naturally herself and her ambitious plans for the opera house.

But she had to wonder if he worked some angle that she couldn’t see or imagine. He was a business man, a successful one, and business men displayed unattractive qualities. Would those spill over into his private relationships?

Joline’s brain didn’t work in the crooked or the mischievous. She liked logic, and to a certain extent, rules and boundaries. She liked diplomacy, an acceptable outcome of compromise between disagreeing parties. She didn’t work in scheming. That could be why she couldn’t see who sabotaged her theatre on her watch under her own nose.

With a double kiss, Ansgar greeted, a svelte blonde woman in a pristine white chef’s coat. “Rose,” he said in a robust decrescendo. “Bless you and your stars for coming.”

“Martinsson, where the devil have you been? They revoked one of my stars because my best customer fucked off to parts unknown.” The wide eyed, rosy faced woman entered the kitchen as if she owned the place, a sous chef only a step behind, and set up without a single order from Ansgar.

“Bullshit,” he argued, a chuckle followed. “They would have awarded you another for feeding the rest of Stockholm.” He glanced over his shoulder in Joline’s direction to ensure she was still there, and winked at her.

She took advantage of his attention to point at her mobile and indicated one of the many doors to the wrap-around balcony of his flat.

Ansgar furrowed his brow briefly but nodded, granting her his permission.

Joline wiggled her fingers in a wave and crossed to the outside door. She overheard Rose talking enough for all of them, “You rung me to impress a date, huh? I’m glad for it, Martin—“ Joline slipped out before she heard anymore. She got the impression that Ansgar and Rose were old friends, and she might have known of his marriage. Joline didn’t want to hear any more of the other woman if she could help it.

Using her one touch dialing on her mobile, Joline phoned her mother.

“Dearest daughter,” Emelie’s voice sounded resolved, “Tell me you’re not ringing me on your date. You’re not mugged again?”

Joline stepped fearlessly to the railing, taking in the best view of Stockholm she’d ever seen. There was very little noise, only the warm summer breeze. “No, not mugged again, mama. Only wanted to hear your voice.”

“Feeling sentimental?”

“That must make me a shit daughter, huh?”

“Unwise.”

Following along the railing, Joline walked to keep her feet busy. “Only worried for you.”

“You’re allowed to live your own life, I don’t—“

“How are you, mama? I haven’t been there as much as I should.”

“Joline, it’s two days. You’re dating again, good for you. I’m hanging up now.”

And the line went silent. Joline smiled down at her mobile before pocketing it again. She could’ve predicted how that conversation was going to go and her mother’s response to a spontaneous phone call.

The horizon pulled her focus and she breathed in the familiar smell of Stockholm, seawater, barbeque and petrol. It wasn’t pleasant but it was home, conjuring memories of her childhood, of chasing her brother, trying to fit in with the boys. She caught sight of the opera house in the distance, filling with pride at being there and working at one of her favorite buildings in the city center.

Joline felt him, rather than heard, before Ansgar touched her. His hands attached themselves at her hips as he lined her body with his. She stood to feel all of him behind her.

“Did you find it? Do you see the opera house?” He curled his arms around her.

She nodded first, then pointed to it. “This is a breathtaking view, Sgar! I think I can see Lidingo from here.”

He buried his lips against her neck, earning a whimper for his effort. “Am I keeping you from–?”

“No, no… I’m happy to be here.” She breathed out, crossing her arms to hold him to her. “A quick phone call to-to… my best friend.” It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth.

“Tell me about her.”

Joline paused, figuring a way to tell the truth without revealing too much. It was against her makeup, her nature, but she didn’t trust him with her emotions. Her body, absolutely, but her emotions were fragile. “I’ve known her all my life. I’d trust her with my life, and she’d take the piss out of me for it. Quick wit, sarcastic and smarter than me.” She shrugged. “And I owe her a pair of Louboutins.”

“Surely, she’d forgive a mugging.”

“Maybe if I’d done it myself,” Joline laughed at her own joke. “She’s wicked, more wicked than me.”

Ansgar gave her notable lead, choosing not to dig beyond the vague, allowing her to determine just how much to tell him. He’d played her enough with her family that afternoon, he could draw it out and patiently wait her out. He turned it around to them and their evening. “How wicked are you, Joline?”

She turned around in his arms, treading the easy path of the intimate rather than the emotional. Hooking her arms around his neck, she shoved her lips into his, his will surprisingly pliant to her. She demanded and her answered the torrid press of lips and searing tongues. She scraped her teeth along his lower lip when she pulled back and ended the kiss. “Did you friend cook your dinner to your specifications?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Pity. I’m a bit distracted by that strap of leather that I was promised.”

Ansgar groaned, lifting her up to press his face into her cleavage, his teeth gnawing at her tender flesh.

Joline only made it far worse with her next statement. “I can think of better things to put in my mouth than food. I’m under the impression that men like that men prefer that as a stress reliever.”

“SGAR! Hey!” Rose’s voice cut through the distance. Her timing hadn’t improved in the fifteen minutes since she arrived. “You eat now, arse, or the salmon will crumble like bread crumbs if you wait any longer.”

#the best intentions

[beatrice-otter]

Fic: Light a Mourner's Candle (Goblin Emperor, Maia)

My last fic I wrote for Yuletide was also a treat. I was planning on writing more--I had the time!--just not the inspiration or desire. Still, I'm happy with what I got done.  Also, my betas Gammarad and Samson were a great help, especially with sorting out pronouns and such. Title: Light a Mourner's Candle Fandom: The Goblin Emperor Author: beatrice_otter  Written for: bethynyc  in Yuletide 2019 Betaed by: Gammarad and Samson Rating: General Audiences Word Count: 1859 Summary: The Archprelate finds a chaplain for Maia. At AO3.  Dreamwidth. Pillowfort.

Maia had attempted to meditate for, oh, a long time, the night before, and had achieved nothing more than frustration and greater nerves than he had had when he started. His disquiet was stupid, and he knew it was stupid. Whatever cleric the Archprelate had chosen would surely count it a great honor to be appointed the first chaplain an Emperor of the Elflands had had in several generations, and would court his favor. If the chaplain the archprelate found for him displeased Maia in any way, it would be a simple matter to have him replaced. Maia would not even have to tell him directly, merely ask Csevet, and Maia need never see him again.

Maia took hold of his thoughts as firmly as he could. It is absurd to assume that thy new chaplain will displease thee before thou hast even met him, he told himself. Archprelate Teru Tethimar had supported Maia since his coronation, and been kind to him, and was a man of intelligence and devotion to his calling, from everything Maia knew of him. Even were he a man of worse character than he seemed, he would not wish to squander the opportunity of placing a cleric so highly in the Untheileneise Court. Everything would go well. Maia should not assume trouble before it happened.

And yet, Maia was painfully aware that his religious training had ended at the age of eight, with his mother's death. What he knew had sustained his mind and soul through all the endless petty cruelties of Edonomee, but it was paltry indeed compared to what an adult ought to know.

It was fortunate that his day was as busy as always, and so he had little time to dwell on the matter. The Archprelate had sent word the day before that he had selected a chaplain and asked when would be convenient to make the introduction; Csevet had suggested a time the next day where a previous appointment had been cancelled. And so Maia had had little time to fret.

The Archprelate was punctual, and brought the prospective chaplain with him.

Maia scarcely noticed the formalities of greeting and introduction, so surprised was he at the chaplain's appearance. Archprelate Tethimar had promised a cleric experienced in the Barizheise rites; Maia had not expected an actual Goblin . But no, given his bone structure and his name, there must be Elvish in him; he was merely very dark-skinned. The Ethuveraz court will whisper about thee, and thy goblin superstition, and thy hobgoblin soothsayer , Maia thought, and the voice in his head sounded very much like Setheris.

"Mer Dulcar," Maia said, his voice sounding thin in his own ears. "We thank you for your service."

"The honor is mine, Serenity," Mer Dulcar said with an accent as smooth and polished as any elf.

The Archprelate then gave a listing of all Mer Dulcar's qualifications and history: degrees from the university here in Cetho and a seminary in Barizhan that was apparently quite prestigious, posts in prestigious Othasmeires in both Barizhan and the Ethuveraz. Commendations and recommendations from people he had served as spiritual director for, or given counsel to, some of whose names Maia recognized as important personages. He seemed to have been a very busy man.

At last the Archprelate finished his presentation of Mer Dulcar's credentials and took his leave, sweeping out with Csevet in his wake, and Maia was alone with Mer Dulcar and his nohecharei.

Maia knew that, as Emperor, it was his privilege and duty to begin the conversation, but he could not think of a single thing to say. Cat got thy tongue, hobgoblin? His internal monologue had not sounded so much like Setheris in many months. But then, Setheris had always been particularly harsh when it came to Maia's practices of religion. He had learned to speak as little about his spiritual practices as possible, but that habit would be broken today.

"So, Serenity," Mer Dulcar said, when Maia did not speak. "I am at your disposal. I know you wanted a chaplain familiar with the Barizheise practice, but is there any particular aspect that you wish further guidance in? Or anything you would like to discuss, anything weighing on your heart? I am, of course, bound by oaths of silence; I may not share anything you tell me with another, unless you give me leave to do so."

He was probably trying to make Maia more at ease by using the informal first person to refer to himself. If Maia were even a hair less on edge, it would probably be welcome. "We … we do not know what it is exactly a chaplain does," Maia said miserably, acutely aware that he had not had to expose his ignorance before a stranger so nakedly since his first day in the Ethuveraz, when Csevet had had to explain all his correspondence to him. Even during those first few weeks with the Corazhas, he had had Csevet's explanations to give some context.

Mer Dulcar shrugged. "A chaplain can do many things, depending on what it is you want and need, Serenity. Theological education and discussion, performance of private rites, spiritual and moral guidance and coaching, counsel for the heart and mind, training in the spiritual disciplines: these are the more common aspects of a chaplain's duties."

Maia nodded when he paused, to show he was listening. "All of those sound … acceptable," he said cautiously, overwhelmed by all the possibilities he had been longing for. They were more than acceptable, and were it not for Setheris's iron training he could not have maintained his composure. His gut was churning, and it was no little frustration that he could not sort out what he felt, or whether he wanted to laugh or cry.

"Are there any that seem particularly pressing, to you?" Mer Dulcar asked.

Maia shook his head helplessly. "We … do not know enough to know which is most pressing," he said at last.

"Mm," Mer Dulcar said. His face was open with compassion, and his ears had not so much as twitched at Maia's ignorance, for which Maia was deeply grateful. "Well, then. Perhaps the best place to start is by telling me about yourself—what training and spiritual formation you have received, what practices and disciplines best suit you and which do not, and what experiences you have had in matters of religion."

"When I was a child in Isvaroë, I prayed and meditated with my mother," Maia said. "As I grew older, we spent a great deal of time in the Othasmeire, as my ability to sit still increased." He bit his lip. It had also been because, as his mother's health worsened, there was little she could do but sit and meditate, but he could not bring himself to share so personal a detail with a person he had just met. He realized he had slipped into the informal first person without realizing it; intimacy on Dulcar's part prompting a like intimacy of his own.

Yet it seemed somehow right, to use a child's pronouns and informality when discussing his childhood. In any case, Mer Dulcar showed no shock at Maia's intimacy. "Ah," said Mer Dulcar. "And I would imagine that even now, when you meditate, you feel close to her."

Maia felt his cheeks warm and blessed his dark coloring. "I know that such sentimentality is not what meditation is for , and I should not—"

"Serenity," Dulcar said gently, "it does not make your meditation less profound, or less devout, to have such a motive. There is no harm in it, and if it nourishes your soul in other ways besides the ineffable, so much the better. We do not exist only for the gods' sake, and neither do our meditations."

Maia stared at him, mouth open, aware on some level that he looked every inch the moon-witted hobgoblin Setheris had so often named him, and yet not able to care. "It was the only thing of our mother that we could keep," he whispered, "besides a pair of earrings she had given us. All the rest of her things—and our things—were taken from us when she died, and we were sent to Edonomee."

"Oh, Serenity," Dulcar said, face open with … pity? Compassion?

"And then at Edonomee, our cousin Setheris who had charge of us … was much of our father's opinion of religion in general and the Barizheise forms of it specifically," Maia said. "He wished us to cease what he called superstition."

"And in so doing, took away your connection with your mother," Dulcar said softly. "Serenity, that was very cruel of him."

"Yes," Maia said, blinking back tears. He had always known Setheris was cruel, of course; how could he not? And yet, he had always known, too, that his opinion of it did not matter, and few would agree with him. But here was affirmation of the sort he had dreamed of, when a lonely, heart-sick boy at Edonomee.

He could not keep back the tears, and they spilled out of him against his will. Blinking, he stared up at the ceiling, struggling for composure. He had not cried at his mother's funeral, so why, now, so many years later, could he not manage the same restraint?

"Serenity, may I hold your hand?" Dulcar asked.

Maia nodded, not trusting his voice, and clutched at the cleric's hand when he was offered it. They sat there, in silence, as Maia's tears trickled out. Dulcar's hand was warm in his, and he gently stroked the back of Maia's hand with his thumb. It was … soothing, and Maia was abruptly aware of how few people touched him, in the course of his daily routine. His edocharei might touch him briefly, lightly, in the course of dressing and undressing him, and he clasped hands and arms and shoulders with Csethiro in their dance lessons (and even, sometimes, put his hand at her waist for an eight-count), but this was different. There was no need or purpose to it besides comfort, and he found that meant more to him than he could put words to.

When Maia was done crying, he found that Cala had crept up beside him and laid a handkerchief on the table for him.

"Thank you," Maia said, taking it, using it as much to hide his face as to dry his tears. What a fool he must have looked! But his nohecharei were on his side, and, if not friends, at least trustworthy and non-judgmental; and Dulcar did not seem to hold it against him, either.

"I should ask," Dulcar said when Maia finally looked back at him, "whether you wish to speak Ethuverazhin or Barizhin. I do not imagine you have many opportunities for speaking your mother's tongue."

"I— We do not know it," Maia said. "Our mother was forbidden from teaching us of her homeland."

Dulcar took in a deep, slow breath, and let it out. "Serenity," he said at last, "if you wish to learn, I can teach you."

Maia twisted the handkerchief in his hands. "I think … I would like that," he said.

#fanfic #fanfiction #the goblin emperor #goblin emperor #yuletide

[wildcard47]

green pastures (pg); fitzier

prompt: James proposes to Francis; Francis misunderstands and thinks he’s being officially asked to marry James to someone else a la that scene in The Vicar of Dibley.

I promised @full-of-terrors this adorable little prompt fill ages ago and finally get to post it! Hope you enjoy!

When the knock sounded at his front door just after three bells, Francis could find no reason to avoid answering it, even if he had meant to go to bed within the next few minutes.

He’d been so damn dispirited since James’s stupid bloody boyfriend came into town. Not that he would have admitted this to another soul.

Not as if Le Vesconte was actually James’s boyfriend, either. By all accounts they were only mates; Henry never seemed like the type to go bi all of the sudden, given how much harping on he’d done about his on-again, off-again girlfriend.

But James did keep mentioning all these hot bumbly dates he’d had while he was down in London – whatever that meant – and since Francis did not drink anymore, the only way anyone could find out he was depressed about this turn in events was if they came to his living room and stopped him eating bagfuls of crisps while watching a bunch of old Frasier episodes.

What did it matter if his ex-boyfriend was going on other dates? They’d only gone out six and a half times, more than three years ago. And now he’d moved back to town all of the sudden. The man was free to go anywhere he liked.

Expecting it was Jane Franklin come to complain about Neptune, Francis was startled to see James standing there when he opened the door.

“Hi.”

James smiled at him; it looked strained and unnatural. “Hello.”

“So, er.” Francis’s mind was full of questions it was probably rude to voice, especially to someone you’d been avoiding for nearly a week. “How – how are things?”

“Actually,” James did not even hang up his coat, just turned by the rack, one hand now tracing over the spine of a closed umbrella. “Can I – I’ve something important to ask you, if you don’t mind. Well. Obviously I can ask you questions without you minding them, only this pertains to the type of question rather than the principle of the thing.” He scratched at the back of his neck. “Not here to give a lecture on forms of the interrogative.”

“Er. Yeah, obviously. You can talk to me about whatever you like.” Francis narrowed his eyes. “Are you all right?”

You seem…. anxious, he wanted to point out.

“Me? Fine. A bit jumpy, you know, but had a lot of caffeine today, so that’s understandable. Four flat whites. Can you believe – sorry. I’m rambling now. Suppose I may as well ask this right out. Francis, have you ever thought about, er, marrying anyone?”

“Oh.” Francis could not have said why this question left him so disappointed. He didn’t think topics as boring as Naval protocol would bring James to his front door at eleven thirty at night. “Well, yeah. I mean, strictly hypothetical, mind. Not had reason to yet.”

Most of the people he’d served with so far were already married or far too young to try. And barring that, none of them had wanted to be married on the ship. Or by Francis.

“Yes. Not as if you’re imagining it daily. You’ve always been a practical sort. Aren’t given to flights of fancy.”

“No,” agreed Francis.

“No.” James swallowed hard, bit his lip. “Anyway, you’ll remember from – I mean, the conversations we had – that I have always admired marriage. As an institution. Even before I actually aspired to be part of it. You know? It’s a, ah, very good thing to my mind. Or it should be, given the many benefits.”

“Time can change even the most stubborn man, I suppose.” Francis tried to smile. “So, you’re, ah, ready to take the plunge at last, hm?”

“Yeah. Yes.” James seemed to steel himself. “I mean. Not just for the sake of it. I want to. Have wanted to, really. For a long time.”

“Makes sense,” said Francis, in an attempt at being neutral.

“Does to me, as well.” That brief, strained smile was back.

“Well, that’s – great news.”

He had not decided what the rest of his sentence would be, but it apparently didn’t matter, because James blurted out something very loudly.

“Francis, would you – do me the honor of marrying me?”

Francis’s heart sped up, and his stomach twisted with distress, but he tried not to showcase any of these feelings to James. Can’t hurt him.

“You… want me to marry you?”

Christ, he could picture it now: James blindingly handsome in his dress blues, in the local church or outside in the park or even aboard Battalion, standing hand-in-hand on the quarterdeck with some stupid blonde blockhead while Francis stood between them, a borrowed, well-worn Bible in his hands, thumbing through the chaplain’s notes on love and honour and duty and wanting to pitch himself off the crow’s nest instead.

“Can’t imagine asking anyone else,” said James, voice hitching slightly.

Oh. Damn it.

“Well, ah – I don’t mean to make you wait for an answer, obviously, it’s just – I’m a bit – surprised, is all. No one’s ever – asked me before.”

“Really?”

Why was James looking at him like that, as if he were afraid taking his eyes off of Francis for even a second meant he might disappear? The man seemed to be one sentence away from a total nervous breakdown.

“And it’s been a long time since we’ve. Er. I mean, of course it would be – wonderful – ”

“Yeah.”

“Let me just have a look at my diary,” Francis said, by way of stalling, hoping against hope that James had his heart set on a specific date and time and that he was going to be out of the country on that blessed morning. Or perhaps dead. Dying would get you out of marrying your ex-boyfriend to his new boyfriend, wouldn’t it? “Knowing you, you’ve already got your heart set on a specific month.”

“God, no,” answered James in a rush. “Honestly, Francis, if it helps, you can pick any day of the year you damn well please.”

“Right.” Francis turned another page, then another, with no clue as to what he was bloody reading. “Well. Er. That’s….a lot to choose from. Plenty of options.”

He meant to say something about how most people liked summer weddings, or that all the good reception places would be booked years in advance so James shouldn’t get his heart set on having it done anytime soon – the sort of vapid, oddly-prophetic comments Sophia used to say to him all the time when she was turning him down. Course, Francis was actually asking her to be his wife, then, so it was different.

When James spoke again, after a long, agonizing silence, it was in the quietest voice Francis had ever heard. As if he might weep.

“You don’t want to do it, do you?”

“What?” At James’s raised eyebrow, Francis deflated. “James, it isn’t – obviously, I don’t want to rush into an answer if it’s the wrong one. You – well, you’re important to me.”

“I know that.”

“And I’m really touched that you’d ask me after all this time. Truly I am. But I – should probably think about it, before I answer one way or the other.”

James’s expression slammed closed, then, almost as suddenly as it used to whenever Admiral Franklin walked aboard.

“Don’t tiptoe around it. Not with me.” He cleared his throat, gave Francis a jerky nod. “It – if that’s what you feel, then your answer’s already no. Which is all right. Erm. Silly of me to have thought…”

It was as if Francis were reliving the day they broke up, three years before; he could not understand why saying I’ll think about it would provoke such a fierce reaction.

“I should go,” murmured James.

Oh, god, why was he going so soon? Was he angry? James couldn’t be angry when the words he was saying were so kind and understanding.

“You don’t have to.”

“I do. I really do.”

They had reached the door; James opened it, clearly ready to step out without another word. He’d leave forever and it would be all Francis’s fault. Fucking hell, why could he not agree to put his own bloody pride aside when it came right down to it?

“Stop – bloody walking, damn it!” Francis squeezed his eyes closed, summoned every last ounce of strength. “I’ll do it, all right? James, I’ll – if you want me to perform a ceremony, I can do. For you. I – owe you that much. I want you to have that.”

A terrible silence settled over the room as James turned away from the open door.

“Perform the ceremony?”

“Yeah.” Francis opened his eyes, tried to tamp down the avalanche of curse words that were building in the back of his mind. He would not stutter. He would not weep. “Ship’s captain, powers that be, whatever. I’ll do it, you’ll be married, and then you’ll – well. Be happy.”

Without me.

“Francis, no.” James opened and closed his mouth, threaded the distance between them before taking Francis’s hand in both of his. “No, no, no. That’s not what I meant at all. I – good god, man. Who the bloody hell else am I in love with? I’m saying I want to marry you. I’m asking for your hand, Francis.”

“Mine,” was all Francis whispered.

James peered closely at his baffled expression. “I – you know how I feel about you. Don’t you?”

Francis was now so shocked he couldn’t speak.

“Why d’you think I’d come here in the middle of the night and ramble on about marriage if I didn’t want to propose? For Christ’s sake, I’ve not stopped thinking about us for three years. Every day I wanted to call you. Write to you. Just – see you getting coffee on the way to work. And then we end up living in the same town again, going to all the same events, and it – I mean, you’ve no idea how terrified I was, to think you’d moved on with your life. And now….Francis, I honestly can’t imagine being anywhere without you at my side. I want to marry you. I want us to get – old and fat and weird together. Think we’d be rather good at that last bit, actually.”

“So you,” Francis could hardly draw air into his lungs. “You mean you’re – ”

“Marry me, Francis.” James squeezed his fingers, encouraging. “Please.”

Unable to say anything else, Francis sat right down on the carpet, because his knees would no longer hold him up, and covered his mouth with a shaking hand to suppress the high-pitched squeak trying to claw its way from his throat.

“I’m all right,” he kept whispering, although he was not: he was swiping big fat tears from his face with the back of one hand, and James was hovering at his side, still babbling away although Francis couldn’t hear any of the words; meanwhile, Neptune was barking like a bloody demon dog, rushing in and out of the open door in obvious confusion, wagging his tail and licking Francis’s salt-damp fingers every so often, and Jesus bloody Christ.

James wanted to marry him.

“Francis.”

Glancing up with a very unromantic snort, trying to swallow the knot of tears in his throat, Francis met James’s concerned gaze and finally – finally – managed to say something.

“Okay.”

James’s face brightened. His grip on Francis’s shoulders tightened. “Oh my god. Really?”

“Yeah.” Francis was grinning now. “I’ll marry you, James.”

Squealing in delight, now peppering Francis’s face with kisses and hugging him tightly, James eventually pulled away and let out a victorious howl of a cheer. Hearing this, Neptune decided to join in, baying joyously at the open front door before trotting forward to see what was going on on the front stoop.

James had already jumped to his feet to join him, calling out to the entire neighborhood with his hands cupped around his mouth. “Francis is gonna marry me!”

“Jesus Christ. I have neighbors!”

“Francis is gonna marry m – oh, Neptune, no!” A black blur darted out of the doorway, running pell mell toward the street. Cursing, James took off after him, now sounding much less cheerful. “Come back here this instant – no! Right – now!”

Judging by how fast James was now sprinting down the driveway and toward the curb, as well as the yowling, Neptune was probably after Mrs. Franklin’s tomcat again.

Laughing hysterically as James tried and failed to capture a boisterous Newfie with nothing more than his bare hands, Francis watched with faint pride as his fiancé – a romantic, dashing hero of a man – stumbled and fell into the side of next door’s recycling bin, knocking it backwards onto the lawn. A delighted Neptune stopped his mischief to come back and run circles around James and all the now-visible rubbish, occasionally stopping to look back at Francis and bark loudly.

“Well, he’s killed me,” James called theatrically from his prone position, as a very happy dog decided the best thing to do was sit in James’s lap. With a huff, Neptune sat down, then flopped sideways, draping his chest directly over James’s ribs. Four enormous paws splayed out around James’s middle. James groaned and winced as he absorbed the full weight of this gift. “I might die before we get to celebrate.”

“Yeah, you’re stuck now,” offered Francis as he walked closer. On an impulse, he tossed the jacket in his hand onto the damp ground and lay down next to them.

“Nnngh,” whined James, but he was grinning.

Francis leaned over, pressed a kiss to James’ forehead. “See? Completely stuck.”

#prompt fill #full-of-terrors #fitzier #francis crozier/james fitzjames #this is the small-town vicar of dibley AU of our dreams

[bigskydreaming]

So this is...its a thing. Let’s go with that. I’ve been calling around LA for pretty much all of last week, going through every oral surgeon I can find to see if they do the surgery I need and what their schedules are like, how soon I could get into surgery, etc, and also I’ve been asking literally everyone I know if they know of anyone, have a referral, etc. Even reached out to this old client of mine from back when I was doing sex work, years and years ago, to see if he knew anyone in LA with connections at Cedars Sinai or another hospital, like, to see if they could even just check with their hospital to see what visiting doctors specialize in that kinda thing. Keeping in touch with people from my sex work days, lol, is not something I normally did, or do. He’s literally the only one, and that’s because it just....kinda happened? *Shrugs* He's not a regular presence in my life or anything like that, just the only one from those days that for various reasons, I kinda kept in casual contact with - which for me pretty much meant that I called him or he called me like, a couple times a year to just be like hey how you been. And it’d been a couple years to be honest, cuz like....*gestures at the last two years* 

LOLOL. I guess I just have very low standards for people keeping in contact with me. Who knows why. One of those inexplicable mysteries I guess.

But point is, he got back to me like, the same day, and acted as a go between for me with this old friend of his, who works at Cedars Sinai as a chaplain, their non-denominational one...last week, at the time, I was only focused on the advice part of the email he sent after he asked around the hospital for recommendations, and it kinda didn’t even register that this guy wasn’t just....had connections at Cedars Sinai, but was actually working there himself (for some reason, I thought he was in a different state when first put in contact with him, whatever). Let alone what his title there was. So he gave a recommendation that I’m following up on today, and I just called the old client of mine who put me in touch with him to clarify a few things he’d say, and it only then hit me where this friend of his worked, and so I asked how long he’d worked there and turns out it was two years.

Which was...when my aunt killed herself. And that was where she worked.

So. Like. This random guy who I’ve never met before, doing a favor for me as a favor for this guy who used to pay me for sex and kinda almost accidentally ended up as like...a casual but distant friend, is literally the guy who was hired to replace my aunt as the non-denominational chaplain at Cedars Sinai when she died two years ago.

And I don’t have the first fucking clue what to do with that?

Like....I’ve always considered myself ‘comfortably agnostic,’ like I’m more than willing to believe a higher power exists, I’m just not all that concerned with forming a definitive idea of what that might be or look like or want. I hate organized religion with a passion because lol, repressive Catholic upbringing, and I’ve just never felt a particular need to go out and look for faith in anything other than myself and like....the things in life I actually value, y’know? I’m of the mindset that like, I figure if I do things cuz they’re the right things to do and try and live a good life where I’m helpful to people and empathetic and compassionate, whatever that Higher Power’s specific deal is, they’re either gonna decide that’s good enough for them when I die, or if its not good enough on its own merits, like...idk why I would even want anything from them or anything to do with them anyway? Like sure God, send me to hell because the only thing that really matters in the end is I didn’t sign up for your official email mailing list or whatever the fuck. Nope. 

So religion and faith and spirituality have never been a big...thing for me, or part of my life, its not something I really feel like, a void for not having or whatever. I don’t have an issue with what anyone else believes or why, up until the point where their personal faith apparently requires them to like....impinge upon my actual life and ability to live it the way I choose to....but I’m not like that dude who goes around trying to poke holes in peoples’ faith, just like...respect that I’m not interested in a sales pitch and we’re cool, y’know? Like my aunt was a chaplain, literally the only person in my family who ever kept in regular contact and like, made a point to check on how I was doing and shit and like...idk, loved me, is I guess the word to use? LMFAO. But like....yeah, she was the only relative I actually felt valued by, and thus the only one I really had anything like a regular or ongoing relationship with....*shrugs* So like yeah, whatever. She believed things that I don’t necessarily NOT believe, but more just have never felt a need to explore or try and decide just WHAT exactly I believe or put a name or a description to it.

And I’ve never been someone who sees signs in stuff that happens, nooooooot a fan of fate or destiny as a general concept and like....I’ve got no problem believing that things like ghosts or demons or anything like that could exist, y’know, things that just can’t be explained by science or anything near to our current understanding of reality at least....I’ve just never had anything remotely close to something I would describe as an encounter with the supernatural, or demonic or divine or anything really...spiritual, I guess?

So.....I don’t know what to feel about this, lol. Like, I’m trying not to read anything into it, like y’know....a sign, haha, not because I wouldn’t like to think that my aunt is still looking out for me in some way, I guess, maybe? Like, of course I’d like to think that, I miss her. A lot. And actually have been randomly thinking about her a bunch lately, like at weird times like, I don’t know what it is that made me stop and think of her, my thoughts go there? So I mean....I’m just saying....it wouldn’t break my brain or upend my entire worldview to accept that could actually happen or be a thing, its more just that I’ve gotten my hopes up so many damn times this past year in specific, that I’m just like....I cant afford to pin my hopes on THIS, like that this is ‘a sign’ that this time, its going to work out? But at the same time, its SO FUCKING SPECIFIC a connection like, and in such a WEIRD fucking round about way, that its pretty much impossible NOT to try and read something into it? Like, the guy who replaced her never even MET her, she’s literally just the woman who had his office before him and well. Is probably just remembered as a depressing story around the hospital, to be totally honest, cuz like, there’s not a lot of follow up that tends to happen when you ask so what happened to her and the answer is well, she killed herself, y’know?

So its like, how do you not get your hopes up even just a little bit, from thinking about that......which I figure means, oops, further to fall and crash and burn if this lead fizzles out too and I got my hopes up for nothing, but if it does pan out, like....I guess that’s kinda the point of faith in a higher power in the first place, lol, to hope for better or believe that there’s a point to all this or a place this all is headed, idk.

But then also now I just fucking miss her too, like, even more than usual, and thinking the shit I’ve tried really really really goddamn hard not to think about for the past two years, like how I know she had her own mental health struggles and even physical health issues, and I know better than to fucking blame her and yet there’s that part of me that wants to fucking throw a tantrum about how i need her and how could she leave me alone with just the rest of my useless fucking joke of a family, but then there’s the other part of me that’s like well I obviously wasn’t the help she needed either, so its not like I’ve got any right to think I was owed her presence or help or anything like that, its just. Idk. I miss her. I need her. I love her, like there’s so many things I want to tell her that I never got the chance to because I didn’t just fucking take the chances I had when they were actually available and there are so many more things I wish she’d told me, and just. I knew she cared, at least. No matter how detached I felt from the rest of my family or just like...fuck family in general, lol, she was the one person there who I never doubted like...just cared. About me. Gave a shit, showed up, wanted me to actually be happy and wanted that to look like whatever I wanted it to look like, didn’t give a fuck what other people thought my happiness should look like or require.

And its just like, maybe this is just a really weird, strange, major coincidence or maybe its a sign of something or proof of something and maybe it doesn’t even matter, bc like...I was just gonna say that its not like I even NEED the answers or to know, but like lol, dumbass, the fact that I’m actually asking the questions or getting worked up over whether or not I actually believe this means something or I just WANT to believe it means something, like, would tend to suggest I’m shitting myself and I DO actually want the answers which suggests maybe I’m not actually as agnostic or at least not comfortable with being agnostic as I’ve told myself, which....oh fucking hell. Am I having an existential crisis? Is that what this is? Jfc I better not be having a fucking spiritual awakening or whatever the fuck, like that is not what I need, this is NOT the time for that, literally nobody asked and I should know, Ive been here the whole time and nope nope nope this guy is not your ‘but the real salvation came from finding strength and purpose in something greater than myself in my most dire time of need’ narrative or whatever like I FUCKING REFUSE, my belief system can go to the BACK OF THE LINE until I’m good and ready to deal with it on MY time, I didn’t sign on to do a rewrite of some modernized Book of Job shit, literally any other thought in my brain is invited to step the fuck right up because THANK YOU, NEXT, I just willingly made an Ariana Grande reference because I can think of nothing more suitably over the top dramatic short of tossing my hair which is much too short to toss but again I insist nooooooooooooooope.

Like, love you and miss you Aunt Diane, and if that is you looking out for me plz know I’m very grateful even tho it totally doesn’t sound like it, but like, you know me well enough to know that I like....object to this timing and context on principle, WHICH YES HELLO I AM AWARE SOUNDS FUCKING STUPID NOW THAT IM TYPING IT OUT YET IT PERSISTS SO LIKE WHATEVER AND STUFF....just. I am me, and thus I shall super gratefully take like....just a smidgen of hope and optimism or whatever from this offering so like, I don’t want to be RUDE, but then Im gonna put the rest of it back in its box and shove it alllll the way to the back of my Pressing Priorities and unpack all that at a very fucking much later date, thank you ever so much, because like....I gotta be me, and I have been partners in crime with my Cynicism for way too long to just bail on him now, like, what kind of person would I be if I just cut and run on the anthropomorphized negative outlook that has helped see me through life oh so jadedly until now? 

Ugh wtf, why am I like this, is it free will or is it God or is God even real or did Cthulu eat god or is God’s actual name Sonya and like I have no clue where I’m going with any of this, look the answer is obviously that a faithless blasphemous heretical fucker has phone calls to make today, and nobody’s finding the light here, nope, nope, NOOOOOPE, my motel’s one shitty lightbulb works GOOD ENOUGH FOR ME.

#what was the point of all this? #idk #do I ever know? #no #the answer to that is no #oh and also plz dont reblog #this is just me screaming into the void #but like....digitally #because the metaphorical version of the void that exists in my head stopped taking my calls #fucking rude asshole

[crazedlunatic]

Hero

“Hey, I thought you were going to pick me up after work!” Adrian walked into Matt’s kitchen.

Matt, who was sitting at the kitchen table and still in his uniform, looked up. The fact that he was still in his uniform was unusual. He generally took it off as soon as possible because usually it was disgusting. It could have anything on it from blood to urine to serious drug residue on it.

“Hey.”  Matt said, taking a bite of a cereal bar.

“Are you… okay?”

“Sorry. I, uhm, was going to call but I just got home.”

“You were supposed to get off at 4:00. It’s 10:00.” Adrian looked at him, confused.

“I had to stay late.”

“Did someone call in?”

“No. I had to talk to a chaplain.”

“Like… a preacher?”

“I guess but it’s kind of more of a counselor thing for us. He only brings religion into discussion if you bring it up first.” Matt sighed as his personal cell phone started to ring. He held it up to his ear. “I’m fine, Mama. I’ll call you in the morning. I’m going to bed… yeah, I promise… Yes, I’ve eaten.”

Adrian sat at the table next to him, confused. Any other time Matt talked to anyone from his family on the phone, it was usually laughing and joking. Something was definitely going on.

“Yeah, Mama. I know. Yes, I know Logan is down the street. You do know I’m almost 23, right?” Matt gave Adrian an annoyed look. “Good night. I love you too.”

“What happened?”

“I haven’t eaten since this morning and if I don’t eat this before I talk about it, I won’t eat and then I’ll be sick on duty tomorrow. Can you wait?” Matt said.

“Yeah.” Adrian, who had leaned forward, sat up straight against the chair. He moved his foot back and forth anxiously because it was literally taking forever for Matt to finish his Cheerios breakfast bar. Forever. He’d seen Matt down two in the span of three minutes however it seemed to take Matt a whole minute to take one bite and swallow it.

It was just weird.

Matt let out a frustrated sigh when his phone rang, picking it up. “I’m literally going to turn my phone off if you people don’t quit harassing me. I am in bed trying to sleep.”

Adrian gave him a look seeing as he… obviously was not in bed.

“Fine. I am at my table. But I’m also fine and I would like to eat so I could go to bed and be back in hell bright and early in the morning… God, Mark. No, I don’t want a three day weekend… you guys are driving me crazy. I will stop by Mom and Dad’s in the morning and I’ll report to your office like a good boy as soon as I make it in… Sorry, I’m not trying to be a dick… okay, bye.” Matt shut his phone off.

“Matt…” Adrian bit his lip as Matt’s work cell phone started to ring.

“I can’t. I’m done.” Matt stood up, walking out of the room and leaving his cell phone to ring.

Did he ignore his personal cell phone? Only all the time.

The work one? Absolutely not since he was over forty people who often needed approval for stuff or who even knows what they needed.

Adrian followed Matt into the living room and sat next to him.

“Why don’t they just hang up?” Matt groaned.

“Matt…”

Matt glanced at Adrian, his eyes teary.

“What happened today? Why do people keep calling you?”

Matt covered his face when his cell phone started to ring again.

Adrian hopped up and quickly went back into the kitchen. He saw it was Matt’s dad and answered it. “Hey, I think he needs some downtime right now.”

“Can you stay there tonight?” His dad asked urgently.

“Yes.” Adrian’s response was instant—like he would have left Matt like this alone anyway. Because this just wasn’t even his Matt.

“Call me on either phone if you need anything and try to make sure he eats more than just a stupid breakfast bar, okay?”

“I’ll try to get him to.” Adrian said.

“Go ahead and turn his work phone off. Is it okay if I call you if something comes up?” Matt’s dad asked.

“Of course. You can always call me.”

“Thank you.” Matt’s dad sounded relieved. “Let me know if you two need anything, alright? I’ll let everyone in the family know that you’ve got your phone on you but hopefully they’ll leave you alone.”

“You don’t have to thank me.” Adrian glanced at Matt in the other room, who was staring at his shoe and clearly lost in thought.

“Just… Make sure he falls asleep before you do, okay? Otherwise he won’t get any. I’m going to see about getting his shift tomorrow covered.”

“Okay.” Adrian said, eyes still on Matt.

After a few more sentences which were mostly Matt’s dad saying without saying to keep an eye on Matt, they ended the call and Adrian turned Matt’s work cell phone off. He then came back into the room slowly and sat next to Matt on the couch.

Matt leaned against him, slouching down so his head was on Adrian’s shoulder.

“Do you want to talk yet?”

“No.” Matt whispered as Adrian stroked his hair.

“Do you want to watch something?”

“No.”

“Can I do anything?” Adrian pulled back a bit to look at him.

“Just… be here.” Matt let out a shuddery breath.

Adrian continued to run his fingers through Matt’s hair for nearly an hour, his stomach in knots. The only time he’d gone this long without hearing Matt’s voice when they were together was if Matt was asleep.

Finally, Matt pushed himself into a sitting position and he looked at Adrian.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” Matt said, his voice sounding more like his own. Not quite there, but… not like it had been an hour prior.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“I don’t want you to have to think about it.” Matt frowned.

“I want to know.” Adrian insisted.

“It’s… pretty bad.”

“I know.” Adrian nodded. “But I still want to know. You need to talk about it.”

“I was riding alone today and… uhm… I got a call about an unresponsive kid but nothing other than that.” Matt sniffled a bit. “And I got there and this, uhm… this mom r-ran over her son b-but not all the way so, like this three year old little boy’s face and skull is crushed in and he’s barely breathing and there’s nothing I could do but hold this dying baby as this mom is freaking out and I didn’t know what to do. Like… what? How do you hold this dying baby and just… sit there like a fucking kid because you can’t do anything? And why didn’t the parents hold him? Why? And why did the ambulance take so long? Not that they could do anything either.”

“I don’t know.” Adrian whispered, his heart breaking. Maybe it was horrible but he was still more worried about Matt. He had never seen Matt like this and he didn’t want to ever again. And if Matt’s dad was that worried, how bad had it been for him to stay six hours after his shift ended talking to a chaplain?

“And it’s so messed up. I’m sitting here thinking why didn’t she just finish running him over so this poor kid isn’t in this pain? And why couldn’t I do anything but just sit there? Why couldn’t the EMT’s tell me something to do over the phone? Why didn’t she know where her kid was? I know it’s not her fault but why? Why do all these horrible things just perfectly align and end up in this horrible, horrible thing? I felt so useless. I couldn’t do anything and he was still alive. I’ve never felt so useless in my life. I always make it better but I couldn’t d-do anything. And I just love the kids.” Matt covered his face, beginning to cry loudly.

Not even normal cries. It was louder and much harder than that.

“I can’t… Like, I’ve cut people down from ceiling fans and I’ve seen these mangled bodies and I’ve walked into welfare checks with dead old grandmas and grandpas but nothing hurts like this. And she knew. The dad knew. We all knew this baby boy was going to die. You don’t live without a skull, Adrian. You can’t.” Matt sobbed. “So, what’s the fucking point? God. Why didn’t she just run all the way over his head so he didn’t have to—oh my God.” Matt leaned over, throwing up.

Adrian pulled Matt into his arms when he stopped puking, wrapping his arms around him tightly.

He didn’t even know his heart could feel this broken. The last time he’d seen Matt, earlier that morning, he’d been so excited. They were going to go to a festival in Boston when he got off work at 4:00. Sure, they’d only catch the end but it was something to do. And he’d been so happy and laughing like he always did.

And this was exactly the opposite.

Matt cried harder into Adrian’s chest, hand gripping Adrian’s side—not painfully. Just enough to know Adrian was there.

“Shh.” Adrian rocked him a bit. “Shh, shh, shh. It’s okay.”

“It’s not.” Matt protested, sitting up and looking down at his vomit. “It’s not okay. Nothing is okay, Adrian.”

“It will be.” Adrian touched his wet cheek.

“God. I’ve got to clean that.” Matt moved to stand.

“No. You stay there.” Adrian stood and went into the other room to get some old towels. He could feel Matt’s eyes on him as he cleaned it up. “I’m going to throw these in the washer and I’ll be back, okay?”

“Thank you.” Matt’s voice was soft.

Adrian forced a smile before going into the laundry room. He took a deep breath, pulling dry clothes out of the dryer and putting them in a basket. He then moved the stuff in the washer to the dryer, turned that on, and then started the towels in the washer.

He came back into the living room, placing the clean clothes basket on a chair next to the couch.

“You didn’t have to do that.” Matt said.

“I know.” Adrian sat next to him again. “I love you, Matt.”

“I love you too.” Matt gave a very forced smile.

“You are such a special person to do what you do… and you’re so brave. I know tonight was really hard and I’m so sorry, but you’re my hero… and you are also that boy’s parents hero because you did something they couldn’t and you comforted that boy in his last moments.”

“He wasn’t conscious.” Matt shook his head. “It didn’t even matter. He didn’t know.”

“I don’t care.” Adrian shook his own head.

“It just… hurt more than when it’s adults in speeding accidents… or kids in speeding accidents. Or anything.” Matt sniffled and wiped his eyes. He then whimpered, “I don’t know. Adrian, sometimes I love this job but sometimes I r-really hate it.”

“You can do anything you want to do.” Adrian whispered even though it wasn’t like anyone else could hear.

“No. I’m not smart like you.”  Matt shook his head.

“You want to know a secret?”

Matt gave him a weird look.

“I know you are. I talk to your mom, you know? She told me that you got into NYU, Boston University, Harvard University, and Amherst College. You couldn’t pick one so you decided to take a year off to figure out what you wanted to do, you got an associates in law enforcement, and began police courses the day you turned 19.” Adrian looked him in the eyes. “There’s a reason you’re over people twice your age and that reason isn’t just because of who your dad is. You can do anything you want to do… and for the record if  you do go to school, I will go wherever you go… because I know you can do it and you’ll deserve it a lot more than me.”

“I can’t quit my job… The force has put too much money in me. In three years, I start active SWAT training. They’ve spent thousands sending me to classes on management and training, tactics…”

“And you’ve used it well and you’ve saved hundreds of lives.” Adrian said. “I just hope you know that your happiness comes first. I’m here whether you’re a law enforcement officer or not… and I’d love you even if you worked at Taco Bell… Blaine would really love that because he’s a big Taco Bell fan.”

“I have thought about it.” Matt admitted. He then added, voice softer, “Mama really wants me to go back to school.”

“What do you want?” Adrian asked.

“You. To be with you.”

Adrian smiled and kissed the top of Matt’s head. “Besides me?”

“I don’t know.” Matt bit his lip.

“Well I’m here for you whatever you decide.” Adrian stood. “Come on. Let’s at least try to get some sleep, okay?”

“I have to get up so early.” Matt sighed.

“Your dad texted me. Your shift tomorrow is covered.” Adrian held out a hand to help him up.

A look of relief flooded Matt’s face and Adrian wrapped an arm around him.

“You are my hero. I hope you know I wasn’t just saying that.” Adrian looked at him.

“I better be because I didn’t give you a ticket that day.” Matt attempted to joke.

“Tomorrow will be better.” Adrian promised once they got into Matt’s bedroom. He immediately went to Matt’s dresser and pulled out two pairs of pajamas.

Matt took one pair and pulled them on. “I don’t know why you don’t bring your own. I told you that you could have the two drawers I never use.”

“You know I have to steal everything that you love. Food, blankets, clothes…” Adrian changed into the pair he usually stole—which also happened to be the pair that Matt wore the most.

Matt laid down as he rolled his eyes.

Adrian laid next to him, draping an arm over him and scooting right up to his back.

“Can you wait for me to fall asleep before you do?”  Matt asked, voice soft.

“I already planned to.” Adrian kissed the back of Matt’s shoulder.

“Thanks.” Matt said, relaxing against Adrian. “I love you, Adrian.”

“I love you too, Matt.” 

#adrian/matt #wbuct drabble

[lookbluesoup]

OC Interview Meme

Tagged by @tarberrymentats and @wastelandwandererstuff​ B)

SORRY IT TOOK ME A WHILE TO GET TO THIS GUYS spring break kept me busy xD But I AM BACK NOW AND READY TO ANSWER THESE TAGS THANK U ALL <33 It’s been a blast getting to read about everyone’s Fallout characters ;w; I’m trying to get braver about leaving comments/reblogs but in the meantime just know I SEE YOUR AWESOME CHARACTERS and I APPRECIATE THEM.

This was actually a challenge answering from Nate’s POV xD There’s stuff that I KNOW ABOUT HIM AND WANT TO SHARE but he wouldn’t volunteer or he wouldn’t view the same way so… take it for what it is! And feel free to ask questions! ;w;

It is long. Long long long. Not sorry. 16, 19, 28, and 33 are my favorites c;

1. What is your name?

Oh. Wow. We’re starting this interview off with some tough ones, hunh? Uhh… hm. My name. My name… Let me think. (overly dramatic pause) Nathaniel Christian Ronan? Yeah. That sounds right.

2. Do you know why are you named that?

I was told my name means “God has given,” because my parents didn’t actually think they’d be able to have a second kid. That and Pops was an army chaplain - wanted me to have a name reflecting the faith. He was very literal in his approach. Ronan is an Irish surname, which seemed a lot more important 200 years ago than it does today. It means… uh, oh, shoot, I used to know… Don’t worry, it’ll come to me.

3. Are you single or taken?

(chuckles) Sorry folks, my roving days are over. Got a nosy reporter waiting for me back in Diamond City... whatever time I’ve got left I’m giving it to her.

4. Have any abilities or powers?

Powers? What, like, superpowers? That’d be awesome but, hah, no. Though I’ve been told my ability to talk myself out of trouble is uncanny. My martinis were legendary, and still would be if I find the ingredients for them in this apocalyptic wasteland. Friends say I’ve got a good ear for music… Oh, and ventriloquism. That’s always fun.

5. Stop being a Mary Sue.

I know you are but what am I?

6. What’s your eye color?

Blue, like my grandmother. (blinks dramatically several times for emphasis)

7. How about your hair color?

Coal back. (runs a hand through it almost nervously) And holding up better than the rest of me, considering the complete lack of well-deserved grey hair.

8. Have any family members?

I have a son, Shaun. Piper gave me roots, and Nat’s pretty much my little sister, too, at this point. The Railroad’s been more family to me than most of my own blood ever was.

9. Oh? How about pets?

Legs Washington, an orphaned radstag I brought to the Castle. He’s a bit of a mascot for the men, follows Shaun everywhere. Yeah, it’s adorable.

10. That’s cool, I guess. Now tell me something you don’t like?

You guess? Look, after this interview, I’m taking you to the Castle to meet them yourself. Your life will be changed. There’s plenty to dislike about the Commonwealth, enough to go mad over. It’s not exactly the charming old homestead of days gone by. But we’re making it better one day at a time.

11. Do you have any activities/hobbies that you like to do?

Hah! “Duck and Cover” is a big one. Got me suspended from Railroad HQ once, though. I still say that was Deacon’s fault. I like long walks through the woods, playing baseball with Shaun, and a General’s work is never done but it does bring fulfillment. I like all those activities infinitely better when Piper’s around. Is that mushy? God, that sounds mushy. (smiles shamelessly)

12. Have you ever hurt anyone in any way before?

Yeah. Some deserved it… some I’m still trying to make up for.

13. Ever… killed anyone before?

(stops smiling) Yeah. I have. You want a kill count? Six-word soundbites about all the blood and screams and the way men look when they realize they’re about to die? It’s not a fun fact. It’s not fun. Next question.

14. Name your worst habits?

I’m afraid that information’s classified. I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you. OH! LITTLE SEAL. That’s what Ronan means! Yeah, you know, like, selkie babies.

15. Are you gay, straight or bisexual?

Aha… seriously? I’m Pipersexual, end of story. Unless you count the undying affection between my best mate Deacon, and me, which I’ve been told occasionally inspires jealousy. Honestly, I never gave putting a name to my romantic inclinations much thought. It’s always been women, but maybe I just never met the right man.

16. Do you look up to anyone at all?

Piper, for sure. She’s - the way she sees the world? It gives me hope. She’s brave, brave enough to fight for what she believes in. No matter how bad it gets she always finds a light to hold onto, somehow, and keep going. And she’s genuine. I didn’t know what courage really was until I met her. Scribbles’ friendship is… a hell of a lot more than I deserve. I wouldn’t be the same without it. And, God, she’s funny. Sweet, and - a-ha, hm… we’d be here all day if I tried to list all the reasons why I love her.

I also have immense respect for Nick Valentine. He’s a good guy. Without ‘im, I might still be chasing my tail out in the woods somewhere. Or worse. Nick was a friend to me when I needed it most, put everything on the line to help me find my son - didn’t even hesitate. I’ll never be able to repay him for that.

17. What kind of animal are you?

One of a kind. (winks)

18. Do you go to school?

The Commonwealth has a way of schooling everyone, doesn’t it? I’m a bit too old for arithmetic and hall passes, but I never stop learning, if that’s what you mean.

19. Ever want to marry and have kids one day?

I’-ve… been down that road before. (breaks eye contact abruptly) Times were uncertain enough when Shaun was born. Now? Scribbles and I roll the dice every day of our lives. Asking her to marry me – starting over – was the scariest thing I’ve ever done. A baby would be, uh, a really big change. (smiles briefly, uncertain) Maybe if – no, I don’t know. Piper’s never shown any desire for something like that. If she did – even if she did... (sighs) I – look. Let’s just move on, okay?

20. Do you have any fangirls/fanboys?

Oh yeah, I have an ensemble of groupies that follow me around the wasteland with a pack brahmin and an eyebot.They pitch my tent for me and cook all my meals. I pay for services with my autograph instead of caps. (rolls eyes, but keeps a smile)

21. What are you most afraid of?

Losing someone I love. I know we don’t get any guarantees out here in the wasteland, but… loss never gets any easier. It makes it hard to open up, y’know? I spent a long time keeping folks who cared about me at arm’s length, and some days it’s still a challenge.

22. What do you usually wear?

What you see is what you get! Derbys, slacks, a shirt as white as I can get it in these conditions, and a black vest, because that never goes out of style. My favorite hat is - take a look at this. It’s a bicorne. Has anyone worn that since the French Revolution? It’s great. I love it. Piper doesn’t.

23. What’s one food that tempts you?

You know what I miss? Chocolate. I’d kill for chocolate. … kidding.

24. Am I annoying to you?

Hah! I married a journalist. This is just another Tuesday.

25. Well, it’s still not over!

Look, if I’m not back by seven…

26. What class are you (low/middle/high)?

I mean… it’s not like anyone’s ‘wealth’ compares to what it was like before the war. I’m not living off charred molerat, but I certainly won’t be moving into the Upper Stands anytime soon. Most of what I have, I made myself.

27. How many friends do you have?

More than I deserve. Piper and Deacon are probably my two best friends though. Nick, Preston, and Kent oughta be mentioned, too.

28. What are your thoughts on pie?

You mean those damn perfectly preserved slices stuck in the Port-A-Diners? God, I’ve tried everything. I spent an entire afternoon trying to break in. What is the glass even made of? I couldn’t put a scratch on it. You have to just keep pushing the button. Over and over. I’m convinced it’s all some Vault-Tec conspiracy. There is no pie. The pie is a lie. Piper says she managed it once, but I don’t believe her.

29. Favorite drink?

Nuka cherry! No question.

30. What’s your favorite place?

There’s a spot up at the top of Diamond City. I mean the top top, even higher than the Stands. Clear night with a full moon? You can see for miles. Can’t be beat.

31. Are you interested in anyone?

You’ve - been listening, right? Aha, was I unclear about being madly in love?

32. That was a stupid question…

You’d be surprised how often it gets asked. (chuckles)

33. Would you rather swim in a lake or the ocean?

Lake. Definitely. I’m marginally less likely to get eaten there. That being said, I was up in Maine once, went out to pick lure weed. You know, those radioactive yellow flowers that grow in muddy ponds? Bad idea.Terrible idea. Maine is a terrible place and I will not be building a summer home there e-ver.

34. What’s your type?

Kickass reporters with the brightest hazel eyes you’ve ever seen, hair like Aphrodite, and a smile to make you melt.

35. Any fetishes?

Look, you’re very nice. Really. And I appreciate the interest, but ah, this isn’t any of your business. Only one person gets to ask me about those and - you aren’t her.

36. Camping or outdoors?

Camping? Oh man, those were the days. An RV trip would be the bomb. It’s not much of an option these days. But I’m used to sleeping rough, and I gotta admit, it has its charm.

#anyone who hasn't done this is tagged #nate ronan #meme #tag #oc interview #screenshot #pipan #piper x sole #fallout #fallout 4