Jurgis @jurgisnurgis - Tumblr Blog

What if Luke and Leia were "switched at birth" (or rather, the difference is how they were split)? Prince Luke Organa? Leia Skywalker?

When she is nine, Leia sits her uncle and auntie down and, small face screwed up with determination, asks for an increase of her allowance. She has prepared points and counterpoints. She cites both local and intergalactic codes of labor law.

Her uncle frowns at her for a long minute once she’s done. She holds his gaze, stare for stare, chin untrembling, because that’s how he’d taught her to when they went to barter for parts at Toshi Station.

“Alright,” he says.

“My bedtime should be pushed an hour later, too,” Leia tries and her aunt laughs and tells her to go do the dishes.

When Leia is twelve, she organizes all of the children of local farms into a union. Their parents think they’re kidding until they hold their first strike.

Luke grows up in a green world. He still learns to fly early, eager to get empty air under his feet and never quite sure why. His father is a senator. His mother is an academic and she tells him stories and stories about faraway worlds– snowy planets and desert ones, lava and ocean, the places fire and ice meet.

Luke does well in schooling, or well enough for how often he spends staring out the window at blue skies, staring at the bottoms of clouds and imagining what they look like from above or within. Every elective he has to take he turns toward flight– physics, physiology, aeronautics, history.

He listens at the dinner table when his father talks about right and wrong, about justice and democracy, but he responds with engine makes and models and what new simulator scores he’s earned.

His parents wanted a child, though, more than anything, and this is the one they got. They wanted a child and they wanted peace. There are so many ways to save the universe. When Luke asks for their blessing to apply to the flight academy, his father kisses his cheeks and his mother tells him how proud they are of his choices.

When his father’s favorite protege goes off on what is supposed to be a routine diplomatic mission, Luke is the pilot. He sees the Imperial cruiser coming in and cannot outrun them, though he tries.

When he sees the junior senator (Isabel, 22, she came to dinner at his parents’ and made his mother laugh about ancient literature) face Vader and spit calm lies in his face about diplomacy and innocence, Luke wishes he could be so brave.

He is bundled off with the rest of the civilians on board. They are herded into pens like cattle somewhere in the Death Star’s bowels, waiting for shipment to mines or weapons factories or, who knows, gladiatorial arenas– whatever it is the Empire does with prisoners.

Meanwhile, on Tatooine, Leia’s uncle has just bought two new droids. When she cleans the R2 unit she finds a recording of a beautiful young woman in senatorial white calling for Obi Wan Kenobi.

But the R2 is a flight risk and Leia ends up out in the badlands, chasing it down. She is in Old Ben Kenobi’s little house when the Stormtroopers come to burn her farm. She feels it happen, but she doesn’t recognize it in the pit of her belly. She has never lost anything before, nothing that large.

She thinks it must be excitement, as she turns her father’s lightsaber over and over in her hands. Her stomach sinks to her toes. Bile rises in her throat. She smells smoke and she thinks she must just be nervous. New futures do that sometimes, spreading out open wide at your feet.

(Luke feels it when Alderaan dies.

He doesn’t know what it is, but he feels it all the same as he sits crammed in a windowless metal room with the rest of the crew. Someone is crying. Someone is praying.

He gets a waft of his mother’s perfume– lilacs and old pages and dried ink– and it hits him like a blow. A world is dying, gone. He doesn’t know.

He feels his father’s broad hand wrap about his shoulder. He thinks he is just homesick.

He will be homesick for the rest of his life.)

Obi Wan and Leia find Han in the bar, hire the Falcon, hit the sky. Leia’s never been off world before and she feels the ground disappear from under her feet. (The ground vanished the moment she stumbled out of her speeder, smoke on the wind, and saw skeletons fused into the sand).

Luke waits in the dark. He thinks about his mother’s stories of epic adventurers, great deeds, heroes. He feels very small. He thinks about the young senator stuck somewhere in this base in a cold room, secrets buried under her ribs. Someone here in the dark is crying. Someone is praying.

Luke moves once, slowly, around the room. He spots the calmest person he can see (a fifty-something woman with wide hips and her knitting needles out). “We need to figure out what we have among us,” he says. She looks at him and he adds, “I don’t want to die here. Do you?”

“Su-Lin from Maintenance has got a concealed blaster in her purse, I think,” says the woman, whose name he will discover is Mabel. “And Ricky from the cafeteria plays a lot of strategy games. Let me fetch a few people. You go talk to the flight crew.“

“Yes’m.”

The Millennium Falcon arrives as Luke’s escapees are marched onto a supply freighter ship by four of their own in stolen Stormtrooper armor. Luke slips off the freighter right before they close up and Mabel lets him. “I’m going to see if I can get the senator,” he says. “You get these lot off, okay?”

“You take care of yourself, kid,” says Mabel. “You need another pair of hands?”

Luke shakes his head. “It’s a long shot either way. Just get them home.” (None of them know yet that home is no longer there.)

He meets Leia and Han in the hallways, because they almost shoot him before he yanks his helmet off and his flailing hands convince them he’s for real.

When they get the senator out of her cell she groans aloud at the sight of Luke. “Your dad’s gonna kill me,” Isabel says, and then she goes pale, remembering. Luke’s belly fills with ice.

She tells him about Alderaan. She stumbles over a sorry but Luke grabs her hand and tries a smile and says, “No, c’mon, Isa, senator, ma'am, we’re going to get you out of here.”

They do. They lose Obi Wan to Vader, none of them knowing it is a fight between brothers happening in the belly of that ship, that it is a death long overdue, one Obi Wan has clutched to his chest for years.

But Obi Wan was the last piece of home Leia had with her, except for the clothes on her back. She cries, curled up in a seat on the Falcon, and not even Han is brave enough to say anything about it.

Luke sits behind Chewy as they fly through the rock and debris that had once been Alderaan. The only thing he has ever wanted to do in life was fly. He closes his eyes. Someone is weeping, here in the dark.

When they reach the base, Luke, an Alderaan pilot’s wings still on his uniform, volunteers for the rebel attack force. Leia shadows Isabel, swallowing up the chaos and rapid-fire conversation of the rebel base as people shove report and requests and questions and admonishment and greetings at the rescued senator.

The first time Leia hands Isabel the report she was looking for before she even reaches for it, Isabel turns and takes it and grins. “What did you say your name was again?”

“Leia,” she says. “Skywalker.”

“Well then, Ensign Skywalker, you stick with me till this over, okay by you?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

When Luke fires the shot that takes out the Death Star, it is not with Obi Wan whispering in his ears. It is his old flight instructors, his fellow pilots– a bunch of adrenalin junkie kids, desperate to fly. He wonders if any of them were off-planet, if a single one survived. When Luke fires that last shot, he hears his father’s voice at the dinner table, talking about right and wrong, diplomacy and faith.

The shot flies true.

Leia touched the lightsaber first, but it’s still Luke who goes to train with Yoda. Leia doesn’t have time for that– she’s stumbled into a rebellion she’d barely even heard rumors of and she’s drowning herself in it. Isabel makes excellent introductions for her. Leia eats breakfast with Biggs, one of her old union buddies, one of her first henchmen, and it’s almost like having a little piece of home with her.

Luke had grown up on his mother’s stories, and he knows how badly she would have wanted to meet the last Jedi living. Yoda tries to teach him to lift planes and face fears, to listen to silences, but Luke keeps on asking him about their Code, their history, how all this came to be. He takes notes. He has Yoda teach him how to build a lightsaber before he ever lets him teach him to wield one.

When the dreams come– about Leia, about Han, about pain– Luke doesn’t let Yoda stop him. He had already been absent, once, when the people he loved had died.

But they lose Han. Luke loses a hand and Leia finds him.

While they plan their attack on Jabba and their rescue of Han, Luke takes a few minutes to digest what Vader told him on that platform and he decides he doesn’t give a crap. He has a father. His name was Bail Organa.

When they attack the second Death Star, Luke does not turn himself in. He gives Anakin Skywalker no second chances. He pilots an X-Wing, guarding the fleet as they wait for Leia and Han to bring down the shields, which they do. Vader and Palpatine burn on the unfinished hull of the second Death Star.

Luke hugs his sister and tells her about Vader. She hugs him back and doesn’t bother with the rest of it. She didn’t have a father, but she had an uncle and an aunt and they had been enough.

After things settle, Luke gets Han to take him on as a third hand on the Falcon. He wants to see every world his mother ever told stories of, and there is Leia to make sure that the Falcon is doing Good in the universe as well as just making the occasional reasonable profit.

Leia goes from rebel lieutenant to politician– it’s a line she’ll cross back and forth many times for the rest of her life, complaining that she doesn’t quite see the difference.

When Leia finally gets important enough to be worth kidnapping, Isabel makes sure she’s in the rescue party that brings her home just so Leia can laugh and roll her eyes and tell her she’s too short to be a Stormtrooper. (”Stormtrooper?” says another rescuer to his friend, glancing down at their New Republic greys.)

Luke writes Mabel every now and then to let her know he’s still breathing. She sends him back pictures of her grandchildren and knitted caps to keep his silly head warm. It’s cold out there, after all.

commune-or-nothing

Should we really be surprised that young people are rejecting the economic status quo?

Imagine that you’re twenty years old. You were born in 1996. You were five years old on 9/11. For as long as you can remember, the United States has been at war.

When you are twelve, in 2008, the global economy collapses. After years of bluster and bravado from President George W. Bush — who encouragedconsumerism as a response to terror — it seems your country was weaker than you thought.

In America, the bottom falls out fast. The adults who take care of you struggle to take care of themselves. Perhaps your parent loses a job. Perhaps your family loses its home.

In 2009, politicians claim the recession is over, but your hardship is not. Wages are stagnant or falling. The costs of health care, child care, and tuition continue to rise exponentially. Full-time jobs turn into contract positions while benefits are slashed. Middle-class jobs are replaced with low-paying service work. The expectations of American life your parents had when you were born — that a “long boom” will bring about unparalleled prosperity — crumble away.

Baby boomers tell you there is a way out: a college education has always been the key to a good job. But that doesn’t seem to happen anymore. The college graduates you know are drowning in student debt, working for minimum wage, or toiling in unpaid internships. Prestigious jobs are increasinglyclustered in cities where rent has tripled or quadrupled in a decade’s time. You cannot afford to move, and you cannot afford to stay. Outside these cities, newly abandoned malls join long abandoned factories. You inhabit a landscape of ruin. There is nothing left for you.

Every now and then, people revolt. When you are fifteen, Occupy Wall Street captivates the nation’s attention, drawing attention to corporate greed and lost opportunity. Within a year, the movement fades, and its members do things like set up “boutique activist consultancies.” When you are seventeen, the Fight for 15 workers movement manages to make higher minimum wage a mainstream proposition, but the solutions politicians pose are incremental. No one seems to grasp the urgency of the crisis. Even President Barack Obama, a liberal Democrat — the type of politician who’s supposed to understand poverty — declares that the economy has recovered.

kenyatta

I know stuff like this has been a topic of conversation on my dash for years but this bit was a nice articulation:

Capitalism, in other words, holds less appeal in an era when the invisible hand feels like a death grip. Americans under 20 have had little to no adult experience in a pre-Great Recession economy. Things older generations took for granted — promotions, wages that grow over time, a 40-hour work week, unions, benefits, pensions, mutual loyalty between employers and employees — are increasingly rare.

As a consequence, these basic tenets of American work life, won by labor movements in the early half of the twentieth century, are now deemed “radical.” In this context, Bernie Sanders, whose policies echo those of New Deal Democrats, can be deemed a “socialist” leading a “revolution”. His platform seems revolutionary only because American work life has become so corrupt, and the pursuit of basic stability so insurmountable, that modest ambitions — a salary that covers your bills, the ability to own a home or go to college without enormous debt — are now fantasies or luxuries.

black-to-the-bones-deactivated2

He was an activist who inspired millions to fight for their rights. He knew what was wrong with our country and risked his life to help his people achieve equality. In the society where black were treated like animal he did everything possible to change this. His brave soul, his will and courage changed the history of America , changed the people. He made us believe we can win this war. He payed for it with his life. He will always be remembered.

thecheshirecass-deactivated2018

Respecting his memory also means acknowledging that his fight is far from over, black people are facing the same issues that ha birth to the Black Panthers, and that the FBI is basically trying to launch COINTELPRO 2.0 against BLM and other black activists. Hampton should be more than a history lesson, he should be a rallying point.

powells

Console-free Camping

If you like to play The Last of Us, then try Rot & Ruin by Jonathan Maberry

If you like to play Beyond: Two Souls, then try The Girl With All the Gifts by M.R. Carey

If you like to play Call of Duty: Black Ops (Zombies), then try World War Z by Max Brooks

If you like playing Grand Theft Auto, then try American Psycho by Bret Easton Ellis

If you like playing Sid Meier’s Civilization, then try A Game Of Thrones by George R. R. Martin

If you like playing Final Fantasy, try playing Fullmetal Alchemist by Hiromu Arakawa

If you like playing Mass Effect, then try Illuminae by Amie Kaufman and Jay Kristoff

If you like playing Alice: Madness Returns, then try Madness So Discreet by Mindy McGinnis

If you like playing Halo, then try Starship Troopers by Robert A Heinlein

If you like playing Portal, then try House Of Stairs by William Sleator

If you like playing Mario Kart, then try The Lovely Reckless by Kami Garcia

If you like playing Dark Souls, then try Anna Dressed in Blood by Kendare Blake

If you like playing Life Is Strange, then try We Are Okay by Nina Lacour

If you like playing Stardew Valley, then try How I Live Now by Meg Rosoff

If you like playing Fable, then try Young Elites by Marie Lu

If you like playing Borderlands, then try Velocity by Chris Wooding

If you like playing Dishonored, then try Airman by Eoin Colfer

If you like playing The Oregon Trail, then try Under a Painted Sky by Stacey Lee

If you like playing the Elder Scrolls series, then try The Naming by Alison Croggon

If you like playing Red Dead Redemption, then try Vengeance Road by Erin Bowman

If you like playing Bioshock, then try Dark Life by Kat Falls

If you like playing Fallout, then try Razorland by Ann Aguirre

If you like playing Assasin’s Creed, then try The Way of Shadows Night by Brent Weeks

If you like playing Dragonage, then try Ember in the Ashes by Sabaa Tahir

If you like playing The Legend of Zelda, then try Graceling by Kristin Cashore

If you like playing Until Dawn, then try Ten by Gretchen McNeil

If you like playing Sonic, then try Maximum Ride by James Patterson

If you like playing Overwatch, then try Bluescreen by Dan Wells

If you like playing Uncharted, then try Passenger by Alexandra Bracken

If you like playing Pokemon, then try Fantastic Beasts & Where to Find Them by JK Rowling, and Newt Scamander

If you like playing Mario Party, then try Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins

gamingallnight

This is amazing!!

scaliefox

I have to reblog for two reasons:

1)This is actually a good way to get people into reading.

2)That passive aggressive joke in the last one is pure genius.

shanastoryteller

wouldn't you think I'm the girl, the girl who has everything?

so i know i already wrote a retold fairytale for the little mermaid, but please consider:

ariel is the youngest of triton’s children – the most treasured, the most coveted and protected.

ariel is triton’s only son, and the heir to the kingdom of the sea.

his mother had given him his name. the healers hadn’t had time to tell her that she had borne a son, not a daughter, before she died.

they all call him ari.

he is beloved. his eldest sister fawns over him, attina trying her best to be a mother to six children even though she’s barely a teenager. she may be queen on day – no one yet knows who will succeed her father, but she is the eldest, and clever and not a bad hand at magic. she may be queen one day, and if she cannot comfort six mourning children, how will she rule a nation?

they have many nannies, people to make sure they are fed and dressed and bathed. but it is attina they turn to with their nightmares, their cries, and their hurts. it is attina who first forces ariel into their father’s hands. “he’s your son,” she says, desperately.

triton has been as affectionate as always with his girls, has embraced them and kissed their cheeks when they come to him sad and scared at the loss of their mother. but he has not yet picked up the child his wife died to give him. triton looks down at the small babe and says, “he has her hair.”

“and her eyes,” she says, “don’t you want to see mom’s eyes again? look into his, and you will.”

he heaves a great sigh and hold out his hands, something guarded and stony in his features. attina carefully places ari into them, anxiously watching as her baby brother breaks into a huge grin, grabs onto their father’s beard, and tugs.

she wants to scream. why couldn’t he have giggled or smiled or done something else adorable and lovable –

but triton’s whole face softens and he throws back his head and laughs, the first one she’s heard since their mother died. the sadness is still there, but as he gazes down at ariel the first hints of true happiness peak through.

“he’s just like her,” he says, and when he looks up at her, she realizes she’s smiling too. she hadn’t done that since her mother died either.

ari is two years old, sitting in his father’s lap in the middle of a council meeting, when he topples forward and grabs onto the trident for balance.

“no!” triton yells, horrified, pulling him back even though it’s too late, even though one touch is all it takes.

but his son is unharmed. he’s not a pile of ash, he isn’t crying, there are no deep bloody wounds on him. instead he reaches for the trident again, and this time no one tries to stop him. he bites it, liking the feel of cold metal on his sore gums as his teeth start to poke through. all that happens is a little spark of electricity travels up the trident.

the advisors are staring. triton has no choice but to make a public announcement.

prince ariel, the youngest of his children, is the chosen heir to the throne. there is no longer a question of succession.

the trident has spoken.

if this were normal circumstances, then the confirmation ceremony would commence immediately, and ariel would be named a regent.

but this is not normal circumstances. ari is not of age, is a baby who touched the trident by accident, who was named crown prince of the sea by accident. “we do not know how the trident will react to my daughters,” he objects, “perhaps it likes all my children equally, and it is simply ari who touched it first.”

“regardless, he has touched it and been declared worthy,” his councilman says, unimpressed. “let your daughters hold it then, and we shall know for sure.”

there’s a chilling fear up his spine, because if they are not so favored it may kill them. they are of the royal line and magic blood and it will not mean to, but there is a reason he himself did not hold the trident until he was a man.

this must all show on his face, because his councilman softens and says, “we shall move up the timetable from eighteen years old to ten years old. your two eldest daughters will attempt to hold the trident immediately, and each daughter shall attempt the same on her tenth birthday. then, if the trident chooses any or all of them, we shall know for sure who shall be declared regent on the day of their eighteenth birthday.”

it’s a compromise, and one he doesn’t like, but one he must stomach. news of ariel using the trident as a teething toy has already spread even farther than the oceans, is being whispered about by the gods and spirits of the surface and the sky. “very well,” he says, pretending he has a choice in this at all.

attina manages a full five seconds with her hand on the trident before she releases it with a cry of pain, her palm coming away bloody. alana barely places her hand against it before she pulls it back, shrieking, the skin where she touched it gone completely.

triton cleans their hands and heals them, kissing the wounds even as he comforts them. somehow, he’s feels like this is how each of his daughters will fair when the time comes.

he’s not wrong.

ari is slightly less beloved after that. it is unavoidable – he is a treasured, a crown prince when they are only princesses, and even as a child his talent with magic is obvious, his affinity for controlling the power of the ocean plain for all to see.

he spends long hours with tutors, with old men and women who teach him the basics of wielding power, and then even more when his talent and intellect demands it.

but he is still a child.

“this isn’t fair,” ari pouts, clinging to his sister’s hand as she tries to tug away, “i want to go to!”

“you’re too little,” aquata says, finally shaking him off, “father doesn’t want you leaving the castle.”

he runs to the window and calls out, “when can i leave?”

“when you’re older!” andrina answers, laughing. he watches his sisters’ tails create a rainbow as they all swim away from him.

andrina is only a year older than him. this doesn’t seem fair.

he is five years old when he realizes he’s not just jealous of his sisters’ freedom. but even that young, he knows he can’t have what he wants, so he says nothing.

ari has big blue eyes and hair a brighter red than anything else in the ocean. he looks like their mother, or so everyone tells him, and he wonders if that’s part of the reason their father doesn’t let him stray.

he grows his hair long, and it raises a few eyebrows, but not too many. triton has long hair, even if it’s not the current style. ari’s is different, though, and he knows it. he spends longer than his sisters combing it each day, and loves it’s softness and it’s shine.

alana grabs him one day and shoves him into their room. he loves his sisters’ room. as the only boy and crown prince, he has his own quarters, away from them. he wishes he didn’t.

it’s bright and glittering, littered with jewelry and hair ornaments, with sparkly shell tops that he loves to touch. he wears his hair in a long braid down his back because it gets in the way when he’s reading, when he struggles to summon the power his father uses so easily, and memorize spells and languages no one else in the kingdom will ever know.

there are other magic users in the kingdom, of course, but the extent to which they can utilize their power and effect the world, and the extent to which the ruler of the sea can do such things, are so far apart as to be laughable.

“sit still and let me practice on you,” alana commands, undoing his braid with impersonal, practiced motions.

arista sits by them, “wow, his hair is the longest of us all. trying to look like a girl, ari?”

he freezes, a cold lump at the bottom of his throat. is she – do they know – is he so obvious?

“be nice,” attina says absently, head buried in a book. “you’re just jealous because your hair keeps breaking midway down your back.”

arista scoffs, but takes one of his hands, “here, brother, you should have the nails to match.”

for the next hour arista polishes and shapes his nails before painting them the same shade as his tail. alana twists his mass of red hair into several styles, before deciding on a complicated updo dotted through with pearls and abalone shells carved into floral shapes.

“this looks fun,” adella decides, and takes her own spot in front of ari. she brings over a set of pots and a couple delicate brushes. she swipes on eyeliner and paints his lips red, then grabs some of the expensive glittery green powder from that attina’s vanity.

attina rolls her eyes but doesn’t move to stop her, “that’s only for special occasions.”

“be quiet, it’s perfect,” adella says, using delicate fingers to smudge the powder onto his eyelids.

finished, they all lean back to look at him. his other sisters crowd in close, and even attina looks up from her book. “huh,” arista says, “it was meant to be funny, but – you look really pretty ari.”

heart in his throat, he turns and finally allows himself to look into one of mirrors. he raises a hand to his reflection, then lowers it. it’s so close to perfect that he wants to cry. “guess it’s time to take it all off,” he says, but doesn’t move to do so, only keeps staring at himself.

no one says anything until attina snorts, “they spent so long making you look pretty, ari. you should at least keep it all on for the rest of the day.”

he snaps his neck around to look at her, but she’s already focused back on her book. “okay,” he says, and the wave of relief is pathetic.

“you might as well keep the pearls,” alana says, trying for nonchalant and failing miserably, “they look better on you than me.”

“i don’t know how to put them in,” he says, and winces. he should have said that he didn’t need them because he was a boy, and boys didn’t wear pearls in their hair.

“well,” alana says, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips, “i guess i’ll just have to teach you then.”

“when can i use the trident for my spells?” he asks hungrily, the dizzying power of having it so close crackling up his spine.

triton sighs, “only when you have progressed to the point where you do not need it.”

what’s the point of being able to handle and use the trident if his father won’t let him? what’s the point of spending so much time cooped up in the castle, reading and learning and practicing, if he can neither explore with his sisters nor fully explore his magic?

“you have more important thing to do than your sisters,” triton tells him, “you will be king one day, and you must study your magic. on your eighteenth birthday, you will be tasked with proving your claim to the throne, and you must also be able to wield the trident.”

ari holds out a hand, and his father willingly passes him the trident. if anyone lacking great power attempts to hold it, if anyone deemed unworthy of being the ruler of the sea tried to use it, they would be killed.

that ari is able to hold it with nothing more than a spark of static electricity on his fingertips is the only sign of his rank and status of heir that matters. his sisters have all tried to hold it more than once, and it left angry, blistering welts on their hands. it did not kill them, but neither will the trident allow them to wield it.

it is ari, and ari alone, who will one day wield the trident of the seven seas.

ari is five years old when he figure out that he’s not a boy. he’s a girl. and he wants to say something, to go to his father and demand he use the power of the trident to make him look like his sisters, to tell everyone to only call him the name of his birth, to wear pretty things in his hair and seashell tops.

but he doesn’t. not as a child, and certainly not as he grows older. he knows what’s at stake.

he can’t be a girl. if he’s a girl, the trident will reject him just as it rejects his sisters.

if the trident rejects him, there will no longer be a clear heir to the throne, and the kingdom will weaken. triton’s rule is peaceful, but not uncontested. there are sea gods who seek to claim the oceans for their own, water spirits who would snatch it away at even the hint of opportunity.

if atlantica loses its crown prince, if there are signs of unrest in the kingdom, it will be as good as inviting war onto their doorstep.

he can’t be a girl.

when’s he’s fourteen, he masters illusions.

he leaves a double in his bed, and sneaks out past the palace grounds for the first time in his life. he’d feel guilty about sneaking out from his father’s watchful eyes, except –

he doesn’t know how anyone can expect him to rule a world that he does not know.

ari does this, night after night. he explores, visiting all the places his sisters talked about and he could never go. he goes down caverns and takes naps on the back of blue whales. he rides rip currents and plays tag with tiger sharks.

at night he has all the freedom that’s denied to him during the day.

but even at night, he refuses to think of himself as a girl, because he’s worried if he thinks it too loud the trident will know, and the next time he goes to pick it up it will sense it and reject him.

ari doesn’t have friends. he has his sisters, and he has servants. those are the two types of people that are in the castle, besides stuffy advisors and dignitaries.

he meets a boy one night at the edge of atlantica, a boy with bright yellow hair and electric blue eyes. he’s an orphan, and too-thin, but he teaches ari to pick locks and steal food from the cook first thing in the morning.

his name is flounder. ari starts to bring food with him to all his nighttime adventures, and flounder doesn’t steal so much. “what’s it like being the prince?” flounder asks one day, both of them lounging on a rock on the surface under starlight. triton would be furious if he knew ari went to the surface, that he went not just once but nearly every night.

ari frowns and doesn’t look over at his friend, “lonely.”

flounder rolls over and pokes him in the shoulder, “you’re not lonely now, are you?”

“i’m not a prince when i’m with you,” he says, smiling. he can’t be lonely around flounder, who knows him better than anyone else in the sea.

flounder rolls his eyes, “you are a prince always, no matter where you are. that doesn’t change.”

“i suppose,” he says, but won’t say anything more than that.

ari is sixteen when flounder grabs his wrist and says, “you know you can tell me anything, right?”

“obviously,” he says, tearing his eyes from the shipwreck they were so close to exploring. he loves ships, and all the things they contain, all the things from the surface. sometimes he worries he’ll never be satisfied by the world he was born in, but will instead always be searching for something more. “why?”

“why doesn’t anyone call you ariel?” flounder asks, and suddenly all of ari’s attention is on his friend and not on the ship.

he crosses his arms, “don’t be ridiculous. my mom gave me that name because she thought she was having a girl.”

“she did have a girl,” flounder says, “didn’t she?”

his skin’s hot and too tight, and he wants to cry. “why are you doing this? i thought we were friends.”

“we are!” flounder darts forward and takes his hands in his own, “we are friends! and – and i’m a boy, and i would get really upset if my friends treated me like a girl, because i’m not one. i’m a boy. but – so – if, i mean, i think you’re a girl. and if you’re a girl, and my friend, then i should call you a girl and treat one like one, if that’s what you are. because you’re my friend.”

he’s definitely crying now. “i can’t be a girl. i can’t.”

“i don’t think that’s the type of thing you can control,” flounder says gently, “look, how about – how about if i treat you like a girl, and call you ariel, okay? because you look sad so much, and i think this might be why. i mean, what do i know, i’m just an orphan street urchin and you’re the crown prince – crown princess – but i think that – that we should call people what they are. and you are a girl.”

“i can’t be a girl,” he repeats, shoulders hitching.

flounder’s face screws into determination and he darts to the sea floor and then back up, a smooth round rock in his hand. “this is a shell.”

“it’s a rock,” ari says, confused, trying to regain control over himself.

“it’s a shell,” he says, rubbing a layer of caked on mud to reveal a pale orange layer below. “maybe some people would think it’s a rock, and say it looks like a rock, maybe everyone would call it a rock and treat it like a rock. but it’s not. it’s a shell. and no amount of calling it a rock will change that.” he places the muddy shell in ari’s hand, “just because everyone calls you a boy and thinks you look like a boy doesn’t mean you are one. if you don’t want to correct them, i’m not going to try and make you. but – it’s okay if you’re a girl, ari. it’s okay.”

they stare at each other for long moments, the silence stretching out to the point of being uncomfortable, flounder not sure if he’s crossed a line that he can’t come back from, not sure if he should apologize or just leave or what. then his friend breaks the silence with an almost hysterical laugh.

“call me ariel,” she bawls, throwing her arms around flounder’s neck and clinging to him. “i’m a girl!”

“i know,” he says, nearly weak with relief as his arms encircle ariel’s waist. “i know.”

Keep reading

helmsdeepwa

A friend of mine on FB wrote this and, with their permission, told me that I could share it. I got more than a bit choked up reading it. Enjoy.

I’m 6 years old, and I’m Luke Skywalker, blowing up the Death Star in his X-Wing and using the Force… until I go outside to play Star Wars with the neighborhood kids, and I’m told I can’t be Luke because I’m a girl. I have to be Leia instead. Nothing wrong with Leia, but she’s the girl. She’s my only option, otherwise, I’m not allowed to play.

I’m 7 years old, and I’m She-Ra, with a pegasus and sword and… and no one wants to play She-Ra, because He-Man is better, stupid girl, duh. No boy wants to play a girl character. Duh. Stupid girl.

I’m 8 years old, and I’m Liono, with the Sword of Omens, telling me the future and defeating my enemies… until I can’t, because I’m a girl. I have to be Cheetara, even though I don’t like to run around really fast. She’s the girl. She’s my only option.

I’m 10 years old, and I’m a Ninja Turtle. I have these cool weapons and know martial arts… until I can’t be, because I’m a girl. I have to be April. She doesn’t get to do much, but she’s the girl. She’s my only option. If the other girl wants to play, she gets to be April, and I’m out, because she’s prettier.

I’m 14 years old, and my father yells at me again to stop being such a girl. Stop being weak. Stop being stupid. Stop being you.

I’m 17 years old, and set foot in a comic shop for the first time, only to be told girls don’t read comics. I must just be trying to impress my boyfriend. I don’t even get to ask if they had that book I read part of, with the beautiful woman who was Death, who saved a teenage boy.

I’m 24, and I’m Jean Grey, the powerful Phoenix, but turned into some weird Scarlet Witch hybrid who must die at the hands of Wolverine, because Logan just needed a little more angst.

I’m 28 and I’m Commander Shepard at the helm of the Normandy, but just having the OPTION of a female player character sends hordes of men into a blind rage, intent on stamping out any joy I might derive from this. I have to mute tons of keywords online and play in friends-only groups if I want to avoid being called a cunt for the sin of logging into multiplayer with a female avatar.

I’m 32 and I get a job running a comic shop. I tell my boss I’d like to have ladies nights. He asks, “But when is men’s night?”

I’m 33 and I’m Rey, facing down Kylo and digging deep to survive, despite being terrified. I’ve been fighting my whole life, though, and I manage to get out of it alive. I spend the next 6 months listening to every other guy who comes into my shop informing me that she’s a Mary Sue and how stupid it was to crowbar her in just for the sake of appeasing the females and pandering to feminazis.

I’m 34 and I get to be a Ghostbuster! My heart sings as I dual-wield proton guns, but when the battle’s over, I have to listen to all these guys trash it and talk about how women just aren’t funny and should stop trying.

I’m 34, and I am NOT MCU Black Widow, who categorizes herself as a monster because she can’t have children, who laughs as her male coworkers make rape jokes at the office party. I am NOT MCU Scarlet Witch, who is a problem for the men to deal with, who has to stay home and cook dinner while they take care of business, because she’s just too emotional.

Today, I’m 35, and I’m Diana of Themyscira, striding across a battlefield as everyone follows her lead. I’ve been waiting for this battle my whole life. Going into the movie, I had yet to see a single bad review, from anyone, regardless of gender. I had heard no one saying the movie was pointless or stupid or just another instance of women ruining everything. There is this tall, powerful, beautiful female hero, and no one is acting like it’s their job to tear her down. I look at the trending topics today, and everyone still loves it. The naysayers are a fringe minority. There is valid criticism, as the movie isn’t perfect. It has some problems, but overall, it’s GOOD. Finally. This is what it feels like. So yeah, I cried. I cried a lot. I’ll probably mist up a lot more times when I watch it. Everyone should get to feel like that.

texnessa

Read the fuck out of this of the day.

victoire-wife-line

Petition to free Katie McGrath and Eliza Taylor from their lesbophobic disasters of television shows so they can star in a buddy cop show where they ultimately fall in love. And they get to keep their accents. So there

quinnfabrayapologist

It’s never made clear where they actually are. The uniforms give nothing away. Literally no one on the show has the same accent.

jpinchy

One is a whiz with knives and the other is a skilled sharpshooter.

And their boss is played by Queen Latifah.

quinnfabrayapologist

Laverne Cox is there. I don’t know in what capacity, but she’s there.

jpinchy

She’s the instructor that taught them everything and serves as the mentor for all three.

Lucy Liu is there too as the genius detective.

eeyore9990

Write Your Story

I just showed my 11-year-old son how many coffee shop AUs there are on AO3.

Why?

He sat down the other day to write a Minecraft story about three kids who go through a portal in their back yard and end up in the world of Minecraft where they have to battle all the big bosses (I didn’t even realize there WERE big bosses in Minecraft but that’s beside the point). He wrote three chapters with a little input from me – his first beta – and y'all?

He was fucking excited. To be writing a story.

Today he came home from school and seemed a little down, so I asked him about it only to find out that some little asshole at his school told him, “There is already a Minecraft story.”

Me: Okay? So what?

Lucifer: If there’s already a story, no one will read mine.

Immediately, I dragged him in and pulled up my AO3 account. My boys know I write fanfiction, so I showed him my account and how many subscribers I have. Then I showed him how many Teen Wolf stories there are. And then, because it seemed like the perfect analogy, I said, “What if I wrote a story where two characters meet in a coffee shop and fall in love? No werewolves, nothing at all to do with the actual Teen Wolf universe. Just Stiles and Derek meet in a coffeeshop and fall in love.”

He laughed.

I showed him Mornings Aren’t For Everyone. Showed him how many hits it had, how many kudos, how many lovely comments.

Then I said, “So do you think, if anyone else wrote a story about those exact same characters meeting in a coffee shop and falling in love… would anyone read it?”

He laughed and said, “No because you already did.”

So I clicked on the Sterek tag and refined to coffee shop AU. His mind was blown to see that they ALL had thousands of hits and kudos and comments. Then I clicked on JUST the coffee shop AU tag and showed him all the fics across all the fandoms written by countless different people.

I’m going to tell you all now what I told him because it applies to everyone.

Write your story. It doesn’t matter that someone else has written a story about that subject. They didn’t write YOUR story. Only you can do that.

And I want to read your story.

mojoflower

This makes me so happy. Kudos to your son for writing about what gets him excited (omg, I’ve got one all immersed in Minecraft; it’s an 11-year-old THING, isn’t it?). And more kudos to you, for showing him what a big world it is out there, and how easily he can fit into it. That it’s INCLUSIVE, not competitive.

therealmartinsgrrrl-deactivated

This is beautiful and important on so many levels. What a wonderful and thoughtful mother you are, and also what a message for fic writers, who often feel so competitive with one another. We all have something to say, we all have a story to tell, the worlds we create are not finite. Love this.

kyraneko

The only thing better than a story is two stories.

lareinecersei

Captain America would kick Wonder Woman's ass just sayin

As someone who loves my son Steve Rogers, I have to say that he could never kick Diana’s ass, like literally, and also he would never do that, because Steve Rogers would grow up idolising the mysterious hero from WW1, and would probably swoon if he got to meet her, would call her “ Your Majesty” unironically, until Diana has to literally punch him to make him stop, and even then, he’d call her “Ma'am” with the utmost respect, and also he’d follow her to Hell and back without blinking.

rootmacklin

@next-great-adventure AND THEN THEY WOULD START A PODCAST

weegit-deactivated20200522

They would meet in Vichy France, and after he settled down around her they’d be fine. She’d call him Steven (because it still hurts a little to say Steve). She would teach him the Shield move, and when she called for it in battle he would crouch down with his shield raised, waiting to feel the impact of her boots, then launch her forward – at a line of panzers, across battlements. He would take half a minute to watch in awe as the dust billowed around her landing, watch her upend tanks and pulverize fortifications. Then he’d sprint after, taking out machine gun nests and artillery, and the Wehrmacht would have another tale of the two Allied soldiers with shields who they could never, ever defeat.

mosellegreen

I so love the idea that little Stevie Rogers read about and idolized the mysterious superwoman who aided the Allies in the Great War.

I love “Patriotic Leotards” as a friendship OR a romance. Or as a mutual admiration society long before they meet in person.

stephrc79

I’m officially taking it as canon now that the reason Steve knew how to properly launch Natasha at the Chitauri is cuz Diana taught him, and no one can tell me different.

tora42

Imagine Peggy introducing them though. After Steve gets his round shield and is messing around trying to figure out how to use it, Peggy says, with a sly smile on her face, that there’s someone he needs to meet who can help him out.

Like, Steve at first is thinking this tall, dark haired woman with the maybe greek??? accent is just one of Peggy’s friends in the SSR. Competent and skilled but a normal human. At least until she takes his shield, hefts it without any sign of strain, and then whips it across the target range and decapitates a practice dummy. She and Steve spend a good three hours working out how to get the shield to come back to him, they bounce it off defunct tanks and walls and Ms. Prince may or may not have accidentally/on purpose split the tank’s gun in half with one shot.

Later the conversation turns to how Ms. Prince is a dear friend of Peggy’s mother, Etta Carter nee Candy.

geekerypeekery

This just keeps getting better. Reblogging especially for that last headcanon.

bigscaryd

ETTA CARTER.

randomthingsthatilike1

do you ever think about the billions of Kryptonians who died when Krypton exploded, completely blindsided, never even knowing that this was a possibility. only kara and kal-el getting out in time, astra, a general being sentenced to the phantom zone, where some of the worst criminals in the galaxy are sent since krypton doesn’t have a death penalty, for trying to get the information out there and not complying with the counsel’s orders to be passive, to just let it happen.

Almost no one knew that Krypton was about to die. Hell who knows for how long Kara knew, or if she was even told at all before they sent her in that pod. Kara would have wanted to tell everyone and well–look at what they did to Astra.

Lmao “kryptonians can be arrogant” trust me i think kara learned that lesson long ago, while she watched everything and everyone she ever cared about go up in a swirling ball of flames (and if she didn’t know as a child? she now has alura’s hologram. “why am i the only survivor, besides kal-el” is something she has definitely wondered)

Kara is someone who watched a world die because politicians decided to play god, to decide exactly what her people could and couldn’t know about their own livelihood. Do you ever think about in that context, Kara wanting to be a reporter–someone who serves the public, someone who reveals secrets powerful people do not want the world to know–and remember that Kara has very different reasons than her cousin for following that career path?

onefootone-deactivated20171203

yes to all of that. to all of karas pain, and give me the plot where kara really comes to understand why she wanted to become a reporter in the first place. give me kara the reporter seeing a small story and chasing it and chasing it until all of a sudden she’s face to face with exactly the kind of story powerful people do not want told and give me kara having this full realization as she’s face to face with the complexities of the story she’s got in her hands.

and give me kara challenged - not just by the powerful people who do not want this story told, but challenged morally. give me a storyline that is focused on kara the reporter understanding that with great power (in this case her voice, her way with words, her platform within catco) comes great responsibility. and how thats not a lesson she thought she wouldn’t have to learn again, not after learning to control literal superhuman powers.

and god, i honestly just want a plot where kara gets to acknowledge her trauma and the effects that it has on her. i want kara to be able to talk about her pain and her past and her every day struggle to be good. i want, in aforementioned big plot, i want kara to face her anger and see her anger can be dangerous, but it can also be her strength. a lesson she sees learned before, and not one she thought she would have to learn again.

randomthingsthatilike1

and honestly in this context? kara going around snapper and publishing her story makes sense. “there is a story that people need to know about for their own safety. and i’m being blocked.” like. of course she’s going to go rogue, better for her to make a mistake and be wrong than for innocents to die.

(and even more ironic? Going around her superior, doing exactly what she thinks is right, getting fired from her job?

)

writing-prompt-s

You are a guard in a fantasy world. You notice a man in elegant armor kick a chicken in the streets. In your lawful rage, you manage to kill this man in the name of justice. To your dismay, you realize you just killed The Chosen One. You just doomed the world.

delotha

In my defense, it was self-defense.

I saw him saunter through town in his expensive, fancy armor, nearly bowling over Granny Fairchild when she didn’t get out of his way fast enough. I didn’t think much of him - no one did, that I knew - but what was I going to do? The man was clearly some sort of lord or higher, and I’m just a guard. Not even a captain or sergeant! Just a normal, everyday run-of-the-mill guard.

In short, there’s nothing special about me. No special training, no special knowledge - unless you count laws, which I memorized - nothing whatsoever.

I didn’t say anything when he demanded prices to be lowered, and forced his “goods” on us. Spoils of adventures, he said. You can’t get them anywhere else. What are we going to do with forty preserved wyvern eyeballs! It’s not something any of us can use. I don’t care how much some wizard in a city we’ve never been would pay for them.

I didn’t say anything when he aggressively flirted with all the women, to the point that little Maria started crying and her brothers looked for sharp objects. Thank the gods that Maria’s wife is so quick-thinking, and got his attention elsewhere! It would have been a very ugly, very deadly brawl, and Maria would have lost her brothers.

I didn’t say anything when he co-opted the blacksmith’s forge to make a few daggers to push on us - because his skill is so legendary, however were we to survive without his priceless daggers? Ahmed was unable to fulfill his orders that day, and will now have to work twice as hard to catch up! And I wanted him to look at my gauntlet, too, because it was starting to look a little warped at the wrist.

But when I saw that man start to kick around Granny Fairchild’s chickens, I couldn’t keep my mouth shut any longer. Those chickens are all she has! Every morning, Granny Fairchild comes to market with a basket of fresh eggs, and we all buy some - even if we don’t need eggs - to make sure she doesn’t go hungry. Like most of us, she refuses handouts and charity, preferring to get by on her own.

“You can’t do that,” I told him, using my sternest voice.

“Do what?” he asked, kicking a hen and sending her scuttling.

“That,” I said. “Kicking chickens. Or any animal. You can’t do that.”

“Who’s going to stop me?” he asked arrogantly. He looked me up and down, mockingly. “You?”

And just to be an ass, he took out his sword and killed one of the chickens right then and there.

Now, killing someone’s animal isn’t necessarily an arrestable offense. You get a fine, you pay it, and you go on your way. Especially something small, like a chicken. A cow, now, or a horse, that’s a different story. But a chicken - no.

But by this point, I was so tired and so fed up with his attitude. Who was he to walk into our village in his fancy, expensive armor and harrass our people? Making our shy girls cry, assaulting our widows and grandmothers, nearly robbing us blind by forcing his “goods” on us in exchange for ours, and putting good people out of work for his barely average daggers? An entitled ass, I tell you.

So I took out my sword and intended to bash him at the back of his head to bring him to his knees. It’s not a very brave act, to attack someone from behind, but you must understand that even then, he was some mighty adventurer while I am a lowly village guard. In a fair fight, I had no chance.

Apparently, I hit him too hard, or just right, because he went down like a sack of potatoes and didn’t get up. I looked him over, then call for our healer. When she arrived, she pronounced him dead and congratulated me.

Imagine that, being congratulated for being a murderer.

Well, we gathered his things and I sent out a report to my sergeant in the next village over, who must have forwarded it to the captain, because the next thing any of us knew, we had an entire garrison marching on us. The captain demanded to see me, and I reluctantly made my way up.

I murdered a lord’s son, I thought. They’re going to arrest me for murdering a lord’s son! There goes my career!

I hadn’t murdered a lord’s son, of course. I did something much worse.

“You killed Adam Draxon, Hero of a Thousand Lands?” the captain demanded. He looked me up and down, much like the man did, but less mocking and more incredulous.

“I never knew his name,” I managed, nearly biting my tongue in two I was stammering so bad.

“He wore the Crest of King Ellifry!” the captain said. “How could you not know?”

“Is that what it was? I thought it was a fat eagle…”

The captain and all his men stared at me for a long moment, where I was certain that time must have stopped, because it lasted an eternity.

“He was on his way to slay the vicious dragon plaguing Balewood Forest! And you killed him!”

“It was an accident!” I protested. “I was trying to arrest him.”

“Arrest him?!” The captain was apoplectic. “You were trying to arrest the Hero of a Thousand Lands? For what? What could he have possibly done to make you arrest him?!”

“He, ah, well, you see… Hm. It was like this…”

“Go on, I’m listening. I’m very eager to hear your reasoning.”

I took a deep breath. “IwasarrestinghimforkillingGrannyFairchild’schicken.”

“What?”

“He killed Granny Fairchild’s chicken,” I said again, slower. I didn’t dare look up. The captain wears some nice boots. Shiny. Tailored. “So I was arresting him.”

“You murdered Adam Draxon, Hero of a Thousand Lands, Defender of the Free People, for killing a chicken?”

“It was an accident!” I protested again. “I was just trying to… subdue… him…”

“And who, pray tell, is going to slay the dragon plaguing Balewood Forest?” the captain asked me scathingly. “You?”

“I can’t kill a dragon!” I said. I’m pretty sure I squeaked, too.

“You killed the Hero of a Thousand Lands,” he told him, sarcasm practically dripping from his voice. “You must be a mighty warrior, so a dragon can’t be too difficult a task for you.”

I stared at him in disbelief for a long moment. In that moment, I saw something. Okay, a lot of things, but mostly the one. I saw fear. Not of me, gods no. The captain was afraid. I had - accidentally or not - killed our only hope against the forces of darkness in our world. Who was going to slay the dragon? Certainly not me; I’d be lucky if I got close to the beast. And certainly not the captain. Really, there was only one person who was capable of such a feat, and he was moldering in an unmarked grave in our village cemetery.

The next few hours went by in a blur. I was given the Hero’s old things - things we had carefully packed away and inventoried to prevent theft - to protect me. I was told some of it had magic, like protection against evil and the like. It looked pretty, but ultimately worthless. What would a shiny ring do against a dragon, except make it envious and eat me for the ring?

Really, what else did I expect? If I had stayed, I would have been hanged for murder, at best. At worst, I would have been drawn and quartered in some public place while my entire family was arrested and enslaved for my crimes. In a way, the captain was saving me. This was a chance to redeem myself - albeit a very small, very dangerous, and very, very stupid chance. But it would keep me from a very public execution, which was generally better.

It’s not like the thought of chucking all of the Hero’s things the minute I got out of sight and running never occurred to me. It did. Numerous times. I thought about it as I lay awake at night. I thought about it as I heard story after story after story of the Dragon of Balewood Forest. But someone had to try, damnit. Someone had to at least try.

I never did get my gauntlet fixed.

When I had finally made it to the dragon - which, by the by, involved talking wolves and a bargain with a witch that I’m pretty sure she now regrets as you can’t exactly extract a dead person’s first born if they’ve never had children - I was tired, and hungry, and terrified out of my wits.

The mountain wasn’t as big as I pictured. It was a large hill, at most, with a shallow cave. I climbed up - a feat, I assure you, that sounds more daunting that it was. I mostly walked, and like Balewood Forest, it was a pleasant walk. And when I reached the mouth of the cave, I mustered all my meager courage to shout my challenge to the Dragon of Balewood Forest.

“H-hello?” I called out. “Anyone home?”

A roar echoed from the cave - a massive sound that had me quaking - and smoke curled out. I felt a blast of heat roll out of the cave.

“Look, I’d just like to talk for a bit,” I said. “If you have time, that is. I can come back tomorrow, if now’s not a good time for you!”

Heroic bravery at it’s finest, I tell you.

I felt an impact that was like being hit by a mountain. I thought at first it must be some sort of cave-in or avalanche, but not. Just dragon. I rolled down the hill a ways, losing the sword and shield almost instantly along with my bearings. I had barely stopped moving when a clawed paw pinned me to the ground, and I was face-to-face with a wall of long, sharp teeth and sulfuric breath.

“Adam Draxon!” the beast roared at me. “You murdered my parents! You have left me an orphan! Do you have anything to say for yourself before I kill you?”

“Um, I’m not Adam Draxon,” I said.

“What?!” the dragon screeched. It pulled back just enough to look at me with one beautiful sapphire eye. Really, if you get the chance to look at a dragon’s eyes, you should.

“I’m not, um, I’m not Adam Draxon,” I repeated. “I’m not anybody.”

The dragon pulled away, glowering at me. “You’re wearing his armor. You’re wearing his Crest!”

“I still think it looks like a fat eagle,” I muttered as I took the Crest off and tossed it aside. “Look, I know you were expecting Adam Draxon, and I’m sorry, but I’m here. So can we talk, please?”

“Where’s Adam Draxon?” the dragon demanded, arching itself up to look bigger. For all the stories I’d ever heard, the dragon was really about the size of a large draft horse. Certainly not the size of a house, like I was told. And it’s scales - while very bright - weren’t exactly what you’d call shiny.

“Um, he’s, uh… well…” How do you explain that the Hero of a Thousand Lands is dead? Especially to someone who wants to cook and eat him? “He, uh, he died.”

The dragon cocked it’s head to look at me with one eye. “Dead? You expect me to believe that the Slayer of a Dozen Dragons and Terror to the Dark is dead?”

“Yeah, I was surprised, too,” I admitted. “It was an accident.”

“Accident?” the dragon roared. “An accident?!”

“Well, how else was he going to die young?”

The dragon lowered itself and stared at me for a long, long, long time. “You don’t smell like you’re lying.”

“I’m not.”

“But you don’t smell like you’re telling the truth.”

“It’s… complicated.”

“Tell me.”

I took a deep breath. “I was trying to arrest him. His back was turned, and I hit him too hard with the pommel of my sword.”

“… he’s really dead?”

“He’s really dead.”

“But he killed my parents!”

I walked up and patted the dragon on it’s shoulder. “I know, I’m sorry.”

And that’s how I “defeated” the Dragon of Balewood. He told me his story, and I listened for a while, and when night fell, he invited me to stay with him. A dragon lair is surprisingly clean and comfortable, and we talked most of the night. The dragon - Lorcanthan - was in need of a permanent home. The terrorizing was merely to get Adam Draxon to his location, so he could get revenge for the murder of his parents. There was very little terrorizing, I learned, as Lorcanthan mostly showed up and bothered the horses and maybe burned a field by accident.

That morning, I decided to go to the villages around Balewood Forest. For the better part of a season, I went to each village and spoke with the people. In truth, very little actual damage occurred, and even then, it was mostly by panicking animals. The mayors and headsmen were very reluctant to speak with me about the matter, at first, but slowly listened to what I had to say.

Later, I went to Lorcanthan and had him come with me to the outskirts of Balewood, where the mayors and headmen were waiting. I helped negotiate a deal for them, between the dragon and villagers. And so the Dragon of Balewood went from plague to protector.

Really, that’s how it started.

Afterwards, I went to speak to the witch about the bargain, and she was willing to wait. Being as the bargain was struck when I was under extreme duress, I managed to talk her down to shared custody. We’ll figure out the details when I do have a child, I guess. She sent me to talk to her sister, who was across the country, about a matter involving kidnapping.

That was a horrible, horrible case, where I discovered the the Wicked Sorceress of the North was being blamed for the actions of a vile man. The less said, the better, but when I had settled that matter, word go around.

And when a Horde of Orc Barbarians led by Thorid the Bloodthirsty threatened, I was sent to deal with them. I don’t know how, exactly, it happened, because I had a few drinks with Thorid, but I ended up accidentally challenging his eldest to a duel and - purely by chance, I promise! - killed her. Which made me, by Orc law, Thorid’s heir. Somehow. And second-in-command.

When Thorid died from gangrene from an untreated injury by boar, I became the leader of the Horde of Orc Barbarians.

From there, things got complicated fast. And now I’m the Leader of the Dark Forces, and it’s the eve of war. I sent King Ellifry a letter asking that he meet with me to negotiate this matter, but I haven’t heard back yet. I’d really rather avoid the whole war thing, but honestly, when you actually sit down and listen to the Dark Forces, you learn that there’s a lot of inequality and oppression that really needs to be addressed.

And as a guard sworn to uphold the law, it’s up to me to see that it is addressed.

Never did get my gauntlet fixed.

kyraneko

Variant: the guard, instead of accidentally challenging and killing Thorid the Bloodthirsty’s heir, accidentally gets engaged to her, and when their firstborn half-orc daughter arrives, she gets magical training due to the joint-custody agreement with the witch, and so the next person to rule the Barbarian Hordes is a half-orc warrior-sorceress with a dragon for a godparent.

shanastoryteller

my what a guy, gaston!

okay so i know i already did one of these for beauty and the beast (for fuck’s sake shana write about some new fairytales why are you like this) but i listened to sam tsui’s cover of a tale as old as time and OH BOY, OH MY HONEY OH MY DARLING

okay, so in the very early stages of the original beauty and the beast, gaston was an aristocrat. that eventually got scrapped, but oh what if it didn’t

so say gaston is the son of someone very high up in the royalty chain, someone who’s parents are important enough that he spends an awful lot of time at the castle? and our prince adam isn’t really down with this whole ~being a prince~ thing, he’s a brat, like so many other kids are brats (but these kids don’t get turned into beasts by random witches, like i’m sorry but i’ll never not think that beast didn’t get the short end of the stick there) and so he spends the least about of time possible parading about with a crown on his head. he likes going outside, like riding his horses and playing in the woods, and all sorts of other things that make his parents shake their heads and despair at the inability to have another child, because their son is a small disaster.

and here comes gaston, who’s older and more long suffering. gaston in naturally dramatic, okay, he likes being flashy and fun and loud, all the things the son of a noble shouldn’t be. so by the point he meets adam he’s listened to his parents, folded himself up nice and tight into this quiet boy who just doesn’t want any trouble. adam loves trouble. if he can’t find it, he invents it.

so he grabs onto gaston like glue, and gaston is irritated, but he’s the prince, he can’t say anything or his parents will kill him. so he lets adam keep dragging him out horseback riding and hunting and rock climbing and all sorts of things little noble boys aren’t supposed to do. they spare, and no matter that gaston is bigger and older he never wins, adam always ends up pinning him to the ground with his arm to his throat and he’d more irritated about it if the prince didn’t look so delighted every time he won. adam loves all the animals that he’s not interested in eating, and gaston tries to point out that it’s a little weird how thrilled adam is to take down a deer when two minute later he’s trying to entice a wolf to come closer so he can pet it, and also holy shit adam that’s a wolf what’s wrong with you

adam loves his staff, the people who do their best to reign in this little terror but don’t try that hard, because the thing about bratty kids is that they’re rarely brats all the time, as an adult you swing between wanting to strangle them and finding them so adorable and charming your chest hurts. so mrs. potts indulges him, likes the way he’s only ever really patient while he’s playing with her son chip when he’s snuck into the kitchen to beg her for some extra cookies. lumiere and cogsworth are his tutors and spend more time arguing with each other than teaching him, and he’s delighted by that.

and so adam is this loud, exuberant little prince who slowly but surely picks at gaston’s barrier until gaston almost feels like himself again, and adam doesn’t do what his parents did. adam doesn’t make fun of him for how much he cares about his hair, about how he hates dirt under his fingernails. as long as gaston keeps following him into dangerous situations, adam doesn’t care about much of anything, and gaston loves him for it.

and gaston’s on the cusp of teenagerhood when he realizes he loves adam, the prince, this is awful and he immediately has a panic attack over it, he’s to be lord and adam is to be king, it will never work, oh, and adam probably doesn’t like boys, and – oh my god, all those schoolyard taunts about him being gay we’re right this is a nightmare.

he’d freak out about this properly and probably go charging to the castle to confess his love in true embarrassing 12 year old fashion – except his parents set him down, pale, and say, “they’re gone, they’re all gone, the king and queen were found dead and the prince is gone and now a monster lives in the castle.” and of course gaston takes this to the most logical conclusion – a beast broke into the castle, killed the love of his young life, and now he’s claimed the castle for his own.

this is gaston’s defining moment okay, this is the point where he snaps and never goes back. he rebels against his parents, refuses to fit himself back into the mold of the perfect son, tries to live his life like adam would have wanted him to. that means being exactly who he is and damn the consequences. he focuses on his hair and his clothes and his looks, he pursues hunting because it reminds him of adam, because so much of their friendship took place in the woods, covered in mud and laughing. he pursues hunting because, one day, when he’s the very best he’s going to go the castle and kill the beast that killed adam. and his parents are furious about all of this and they disown him in favor of his young siblings and he just. doesn’t give a shit.

so he moves to the town, and everyone loves him, of course they love him. he’s loud and arrogant, but – he’s not cruel. he’s beautiful and brings in more pelts and meat than any other hunter and gaston doesn’t miss the days of being a young lordling in the slightest. but girls keep throwing themselves at him and he doesn’t know how to keep refusing either outing himself or hurting their feelings, so he goes to belle. belle, who is every inch as pretty he is. belle, who is smart and quiet and kind in a reserved sort of way. if there’s anyone who won’t judge him, it’s her.

so he goes to her, and tells her the truth – that he only likes men, that he’s not interested in advertising the fact, and asks her to pretend to be his lady. and belle, kind sweet belle, agrees. she does it out of sense of duty to help those in need, because nothing she knows of gaston says she will enjoy this. but she’s proven wrong, because gaston was raised to be a lord of course he’s educated, just because he doesn’t really care about any of that stuff doesn’t mean he doesn’t know it. and belle can speak with him like she can no other, because gaston has more formal education than anyone else in this village. and to their surprise, gaston and belle become friends, become the closest of friends, and gaston hasn’t known this closeness since adam, although it’s different because he loves belle but he’s not in love with belle.

and one day belle and her father are out traveling and sudden snowstorm forces them into the castle. belle knows there’s some sort of monster that supposedly lives there, but it’s either the castle for refuge or dying of cold outside, so into the castle they go. and instead of a hideous monster there’s adam, the beast. he’s rude and gruff and calls them twelve kinds of idiots for getting caught in a snowstorm in the first place. he offers them a room before sulking back into his study, watching the last petal threaten to the fall from the rose.

the castle is so excited to have guests, to have a young girl that may be their saving grace, and beast doesn’t know how to tell them that he likes girls well enough, but the only person he’s ever loved is a prickly, stuffy little boy who used to wring his hands together whenever they went looking for wolves. the storm doesn’t abate, and belle and her father stay. beast likes belle, likes how much she loves his library and the courteous way she speaks to all his staff even tho they’re all furniture, and he wishes he could love her, she is a woman that deserves to be loved. but he can’t.

back in the village, gaston has had it. the beast took adam from him, and he wont allow that thing to take belle. he rallies the villagers and goes marching to the castle, determined to save belle and her father, determined to kill the thing that killed adam.

so they storm the castle and he and the beast fight. belle and her father rush forward to stop the rest of the angry village men, and belle is screaming at gaston to stop, that things aren’t as they seem. but he’s mad with bloodlust, with revenge, and he’s about to take the beast’s head off with his axe when the beast lunges and pushes him to the ground, pinning him with an arm to his throat. and the muscle memory is so sudden and visceral that gaston freezes and stares at the snarling beast and whispers, “adam?”

and the beast blinks, and pulls back a little, and goes …… “gaston!?”

literally everyone is so confused, but they only get more confused when gaston throws himself at the beast and there’s a rush of magic as the last petal falls and the spell is broken. gaston sees beast for who he really is, loves him wholly and completely in the way only children can, and the curse is broken.

so gaston goes from having the beast in his arms to having a man, and he kisses him, outing himself in front of the whole village and not caring in the slightest. “i’ve missed you,” adam says, reaching out a hand to cup gaston’s cheek.

his staff are people again, and the cloud of darkness that had fallen over the castle is lifted. the old and irritable third cousin twice removed who’d been running the country is more than happy to hand it back over to adam, so happy in fact that he doesn’t question anything about this incredibly weird situation.

gaston and adam were children with a children’s love, but as adam gets his castle and kingdom up and running again, gaston is there. and their love deepens, and strengthens, and becomes something much more real and true than it ever was before. and gaston knows he can’t keep this, that adam will need to take a queen and gaston won’t be able to be with him after that.

except no one told adam that, because he goes to belle who just, never left the castle because she likes it and it likes her and her two favorite people are here. and also they’ll pry her from that library over her dead body. “hey,” adam says, “so, i’m kind of the king now.”

“i noticed,” belle answers, and doesn’t look up from her book.

adam considers closing it, but also considers that he likes his hands attached to his wrists. “want to get married? we’ll need to produce an heir or two, but beyond that you’ll get all the books you want and a whole country to boss around.” one of the things adam had quickly learned was that belle loved bossing people around.

belle doesn’t look up from her book. he hadn’t honestly expected her too. “okay. I’m dating plumette. im going to keep doing that.”

“nice,” he says, because plumette is a lot prettier now that she isn’t a feather duster.

so adam find gaston and tells him that he’s marrying belle, and gaston’s whole heart breaks but it makes sense, adam and belle make sense together, and he wishes he could make himself hate either of them but he can’t because he loves them both. but then adam is talking about how belle will have the rooms next to theirs, and gaston should probably stop paying rent for his house in the village, he lives in a literal palace, come on now.

and gaston figures out that adam is planning to stay with him, that belle is his wife and queen in name only and and gaston will continue to be the one in his heart and in his bed. adam is talking about how they all really need to sit down and do something about the redistribution of tax revenue, and they should probably do it before the wedding because otherwise their subjects will only show up to throw fruit at them. gaston cuts him off by pressing his king and love of his life against the wall and kissing him breathless.

cogsworth and lumiere walk by and pause mid-argument to wolf whistle at them before continuing on their way. gaston and adam end up having to hold each other up as they laugh so hard they can’t breath.

and everyone lives happily ever after.

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