Sade Olutola
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AnasAbdin
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Product Placement
I'd rather be in outer space 🛸
shark vs the universe
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
Love Begins
taylor price
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i don't do bad sauce passes
roma★
blake kathryn
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@scribblesofmymind
just stumbled across Francisco Soria Aedo's work and first off: really good painter, super talented. He mainly did portraits and neoclassical but I really like are his expressions, which do show up in his neoclassical work. lots of people smiling and having fun and it's just very cute
this is one of my favorites
heres a couple more examples!
...i dont thing I’ve ever seen this style with people smiling...
Thinkin bout a Steter Twilight AU written through my personal dumbass lens.
Like Stiles shows up at school, get partnered with Derek in chemistry and is all “wow you definitely don’t look young enough to be in high school what the fuck.”
Derek just stoically stares at the whiteboard, wondering why he can’t hear this kid’s thoughts.
“You know if this were a summer blockbuster and I were the new hot chick, this is totally when you’d be falling in love with me.”
Derek continues to stoically stare at the whiteboard, no longer curious about why, only grateful that he doesn’t have to put up with whatever idiot thoughts are happening in Stiles’ head.
Lunch time rolls around, and Stiles looks over at the Supernaturally Beautiful Kids Club and gestures dramatically at them, saying, “Come on! Early 20’s AT LEAST. They can’t ALL have been held back four years!!”
Erica and Boyd snigger while Lydia and Allison glance apprehensively at Derek, wondering if the new kid knows something.
“He’s a fucking moron. Just let him run him mouth to distract from how uncomfortable he is to be in a new school. He’ll stop paying attention soon.”
Spoiler alert: He Does Not.
Stiles is always Stiles no matter what universe he’s in, so he goes into the woods near the Hale’s house to “gather evidence.”
“Evidence of what, Stiles?” the sheriff asks, not entirely familiar with Stiles Being Stiles.
“Evidence. They’re not normal, Dad. My current theory is either aliens or escaped genetic experiments done by the government.”
“…………”
“Don’t worry. If I get caught I can just toss my money clip in the opposite direction to throw them off.”
“What.”
“Street smarts.”
And again, in the vein of Stiles Being Stiles, he’s climbing a tree to get a look into the upper windows of their house, thinking maybe that’s where they keep the cryochamber, when he falls and breaks his leg.
He’s just starting to get really inventive with his litany of “fuck” when he notices someone standing over him.
“You seem to be in a bit of a bind. I’m a doctor, would you like some help?”
Peter looks at this boy, the one Derek had grumbled about at dinner earlier this week. He crouches down, placing a hand on his arm to subtly draw away some of the pain. Derek had gone on at length about how irritating it was to finally meet a person whose thoughts he couldn’t read, only to realize that person never shuts up anyway.
Derek had failed to mention how beautiful he was. Too bad Peter was going to have to gaslight him.
Stiles stares at him, mouth hanging open as the blood momentarily tries to redirect from his new injury to his dick, before suddenly looking furious.
“You are in your early thirties AT THE MOST,” he says accusingly. “For you to have gone through medical school AND residency, complete the qualifications to become a single foster parent and then ALSO complete the adoption process for FIVE KIDS would be ABSURD.”
“… I can see your tibia.”
And then Stiles passes out.
Peter may or may not add a touch of rohypnol to Stiles’ IV drip at the hospital. Just enough blur the memories a little, so that he might start to question himself and back off of the family.
Did u kno that certain ADHD drugs reduce the effectiveness of benzos? Cause Peter’s about to be reminded.
A week later, Peter opens his front door to see Stiles leaning on his crutches, leg in cast, already talking before the door is even all the way open.
“-to say thanks again for getting me to the hospital and fixing my leg and thanks for giving me and Derek a place to work on our chemis…” his voice fades away as he watches the sheriff pull away from the house, and then turns to face Peter again.
“All right fucker, what the hell were you doing to my arm before I passed out, huh? Were you laying your alien egg babies in me??”
Peter’s mind is working so hard to turn that into something that makes sense, that he doesn’t stop Stiles from crutching his way past him into the house.
By the time Peter catches up with him, he’s in the middle of the living room looking around. Erica, Allison, and Lydia are sitting on the couches, tensed and clearly ready to attack, Derek and Boyd poised at the top of the stairs and ready to jump down at any moment.
Stiles is looking around, eyes lingering here and there. His gaze passes over the lunar model on the mantle, the potted anise, and the lint brush hanging next to every door.
“Oh fuck me, werewolves? Really?”
Peter can’t help his delighted smile. It’s not often that someone figures it out so quickly.
“Sorry to disappoint,” he replies.
“I was expecting weird genetic clones at least,” Stiles complains before plopping himself down on the couch next to Erica and carefully placing his leg on an ottoman.
When Peter comes to sit down in the living room, everyone finally starts to relax a little, and it’s not long after that that everyone is showing off their favorite parts of being a werewolf. It’s not something they get to share often, so it doesn’t take much to get them talking.
Stiles keeps coming over after that, but eventually he gets curious.
“Why do you keep inviting me over?” Stiles asks. “I’m pretty sure I pose, like, a security risk or something right?”
“It annoys Derek to have you around. He can’t read your thoughts and it pisses him off,” Peter answers immediately. “That’s definitely worth a security risk.”
Stiles eyes him speculatively.
“What about you?”
Peter smirks.
“I don’t need to read your thoughts, Stiles,” Peter says, leaning into his space to whisper in his ear.
“I already know what you’re thinking.”
Anyway New Moon would go super differently because Peter’s not a fucking idiot who thinks he can make decisions for other people.
Let’s say the Hales all have to go to Italy to appear in Werewolf Court For Unspecified Reasons and Peter’s like “Babe we can’t take you it’s super dangerous, they’re not very pro-human there.”
And Stiles is all “Danger is my middle name, I can take ‘em. Also I want to see Venice. It’s fucking floating Peter, how cool is that.”
“You fell out of a tree last year. ‘Danger’ might be your middle name, but I don’t think it means what you think it means. I’ll bring you home a souvenir.”
Cut to Peter settling into his first class seat, checking out the Skymart, considering getting a ten foot tall wooden Sasquatch for the yard, when Stiles drops into the seat next to him.
“I hacked your email for the flight information, stole your credit card to buy myself a ticket, and then threatened your seatmate with outing her affair to get her to trade with me.”
Peter stares at him for a minute before saying, “I’ve never been more in love with you, but oh my god I am going to murder you.”
“Cool. Murder me after Venice.”
They get to Italy, Peter puts Stiles up in a rad hotel and is like “Stay here or I’m not touching your dick for a month” and Stiles is not willing to risk that, so he stays cozied up in the hotel, not leaving at all, right up until he gets kidnapped.
The Hales show up in Werewolf Court, and Werewolf Judge is like “Y’all have been charged with outing the werewolf secret to a human.”
And he Hales are all “W H O, M E ?????”
And the Judge is like “ya you.” And then the bailiff brings in Stiles, who waves and is like “what’s up guys. Werewolf court is pretty nice, they gave me snacks while I waited.”
The trial proceeds, looking shitty as fuck because of course the Hales are SUPER GUILTY of EXACTLY what they’ve been accused.
It’s all real bad right up until a consultant gets brought in to determine the best way to erase the human’s memory, and the consultant is like “uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
he’s not human.”
And that’s how everyone finds out that Stiles is a spark.
I’ll be real, I don’t remember what happens in Eclipse. Breaking Dawn is the one where we find out Edward is pro-choice and Bella won’t stop tryna smash, though, right? Or do I have those reversed?
Anyway, in this AU Stiles comes back from Italy and immediately dives into learning magic.
“I’m Harry Potter, Peter.”
“You can’t do anything yet.”
“I’m Gandalf.”
“Literally the only thing you can do related to magic is unconsciously block your thoughts from nosy telepaths.” (HEY Derek yells from another room)
“I’m Merlin AND Morgana.”
“You’re an 18 year old who just barely graduated high school. Your skills include a 50% success rate at laundry hamper basketball and exceptional blow jobs.”
“I fuck like a champion too.”
“Yes, but that’s not magical.”
“I could make an argument otherwise, but it doesn’t matter Peter. You know why? Because I found a teacher in Seattle.”
So Stiles starts attending lessons with this guy who knew a guy who knew a guy who knew the Italian Consultant guy who discovered that Stiles is a spark. Cue Peter having a little bit of a jealousy problem, and constantly being like “But what do we really know about this teacher? How do we know he’s legit? How do we know he’s not really an villain in disguise? How do we know he’s not trying to seduce you away from me?”
“Sweetheart, dearest, love of my life: he’s approximately eight billion years old and smells like hot seaweed. If he’s trying to seduce me away from you then he’s guessed the wrong kink. You have nothing to worry about.”
“… are you sure?”
“Yes. But I’ll marry you if it makes you feel better.”
“Deal.”
And that’s how we get to the super duper inadvisable marriage scene. The sheriff loses his fucking mind when he finds out that Stiles is marrying Peter, until he realizes that this will make Stiles the step father of five of his high school friends, and then he loses his mind in the opposite direction. In any case, he goes fishing for a weekend and comes back reconciled to the fact that all he can do is love and support his son. And son in law. And five adult grandchildren.
When they get back from the honeymoon and resume life as usual, Stiles catches a virus. Tired, kinda barfy, has to pee a lot-
“Oh my GOD did you get me werewolf pregnant you bastard?” Stiles screeches when he realizes what those symptoms point to.
“Why do you assume it’s the werewolf part that got you pregnant? What if your magic is what knocked you up??” Peter counters, frantic at the idea of actually having a kid. “Jesus Christ-”
“I don’t think he was involved in this. You are gonna hold my hand through the whole goddamn abortion, Mr. Werewolf Sperm.”
He’s not pregnant, of course, what the fuck, but something is wrong with Stiles. He gets a little sicker every day, but they can’t figure it out.
Then Italian Consultant Man comes for a visit, because he was super thrilled to have discovered a spark. They’re so rare, the guy obviously thinks of him him as an exotic specimen, but he’s not rude about it.
As soon as he sees Stiles, though, he’s like “Oh my god, who’s been cursing you?” And he undoes the curse and tells them everything he can about the type that was cast.
BLUES CLUES TIME leads them to discover that holy shit, Peter was totally right, the teacher in Seattle is in fact a villain in disguise. Hot seaweed is apparently the smell of black magic. Who would have guessed.
Anyway, because I’m not Stephenie Meyer I’d definitely end with a bloody murder massacre because The Couple That Slays Together Stays Together.
The End
When you are writing a story and refer to a character by a physical trait, occupation, age, or any other attribute, rather than that character’s name, you are bringing the reader’s attention to that particular attribute. That can be used quite effectively to help your reader to focus on key details with just a few words. However, if the fact that the character is “the blond,” “the magician,” “the older woman,” etc. is not relevant to that moment in the story, this will only distract the reader from the purpose of the scene.
If your only reason for referring to a character this way is to avoid using his or her name or a pronoun too much, don’t do it. You’re fixing a problem that actually isn’t one. Just go ahead and use the name or pronoun again. It’ll be good.
Someone finally spelled out the REASON for using epithets, and the reasons NOT to.
In addition to that:
If the character you are referring to in such a way is THE VIEWPOINT CHARACTER, likewise, don’t do it. I.e. if you’re writing in third person but the narration is through their eyes, or what is also called “third person deep POV”. If the narration is filtered through the character’s perception, then a very external, impersonal description will be jarring. It’s the same, and just as bad, as writing “My bright blue eyes returned his gaze” in first person.
Furthermore,
if the story is actually told through the eyes of one particular viewpoint character even though it’s in the third person, and in their voice, as is very often the case, then you shouldn’t refer to the characters in ways that character wouldn’t.
In other words, if the third-person narrator is Harry Potter, when Dumbledore appears, it says “Dumbledore appears”, not “Albus appears”. Bucky Barnes would think of Steve Rogers as “Steve”, where another character might think of him as “Cap”. Chekov might think of Kirk as “the captain”, but Bones thinks of him as “Jim”.
Now, there are real situations where you, I, or anybody might think of another person as “the other man”, “the taller man”, or “the doctor”: usually when you don’t know their names, like when there are two tap-dancers and a ballerina in a routine and one of the men lifts the ballerina and then she reaches out and grabs the other man’s hand; or when there was a group of people talking at the hospital and they all worked there, but the doctor was the one who told them what to do. These are all perfectly natural and normal. Similarly, sometimes I think of my GP as “the doctor” even though I know her name, or one of my coworkers as “the taller man” even though I know his. But I definitely never think of my long-term life partner as “the green-eyed woman” or one of my best friends as “the taller person” or anything like that. It’s not a sensible adjective for your brain to choose in that situation - it’s too impersonal for someone you’re so intimately acquainted with. Also, even if someone was having a one night stand or a drunken hookup with a stranger, they probably wouldn’t think of that person as “the other man”: you only think of ‘other’ when you’re distinguishing two things and you don’t have to go to any special effort to distinguish your partner from yourself to yourself.
This is something that I pretty consistently have to advise for those I beta edit for. (It doesn’t help that I relied on epithets a lot in the earlier sections of my main fic because I was getting into the swing of things.) I am reblogging this so fanfic writers can use this as a reference.
A good rule of thumb: a character’s familiarity with another character decreases the need for an epithet (and most times you really don’t need one at all).
Good writing advice.
I was reading my writing today, and let me tell you, it may not be good, plot is not the best, and characters are a bit stereotypical, but boy do I have fun writing it
This is such a good mindset to have. There is positive energy in this post
Free worldbuilding idea:
Wizards have the same trust in magic that software designers have in software, which is to say, almost none at all.
“Are you fucking kidding me I worked in a reagrent shop for a few years I don’t trust any of that stuff. Who the hell knows what other components are in the ashes.”
“Yeah I was in the circle that made Alston’s Divine Circle of Teleportation. There’s some pretty nasty corner cases you can get into but the headmaster published it without us. I just take ships. It’s way safer.”
“I call bullshit on that Necromancer channeling spirits of loved ones. What did he say he was using? ‘Medium Conduit Ruinic Circles’? That’s just a bunch of buzzwords slapped together, and they don’t even interact with each other.”
“I’ve been looking at this scroll all morning and I’m 90% sure that the scribe didn’t even look at the standard for pyromancies.”
half of fic research is rereading the fandom wiki four times for obscure character info and the other half is googling shit like “when did we start using drywall in home construction”
we’ve all heard of the fake dating trope… but have u considered.. fake exes trope…..
‘my new romance-obsessed friend asked me who my last date was with and i was too embarrassed to say i’ve never been on a date so i blurted your name and it turns out they know you’ au
‘i didn’t want to tell my friend who my real date last night was so i just pointed at a random stranger (you) but now they’re storming over to interrogate you and you’re playing along??? okay’ au
‘a mutual friend tried to introduce us, but we already knew each other from LARPing but we’re both too embarrassed to admit that so i jokingly said we used to date and oh god now our friend wont stop interrogating us about it’ au
‘im egging your house for a dare but your parent is a cop and they’re yelling at me so i told them that you were my ex and you wronged me and now you’re coming outside and please go along with this i don’t want to go to jail’ au
‘my current partner is a huge asshole and i need a reason to break up with them so will you pretend to be my possessive and violent ex’ au
‘we’re contestants on a reality show and we kind of hate each other so the producers told us to pretend to be warring exes for the ratings so now we keep inventing crazier and crazier things the other did while we were dating’ au
A dating service where matching is based on people’s search history exists. You’re a serial killer. You go on a date with a writer.
Serial Killer: metaphorically, if you were to kill someone, how would you do it?
Writer: Air shot between the toes, it’ll look like a heart attack.
Serial Killer who is obviously in love already: *sucks in a breath* ok
Writer: how long would it take to die if you were to potentially stab someone in the guts
Serial killer: anywhere from 2 to 30 minutes
Writer, already bringing a ring out: *shaking* thanks
A++ addition
Dialogue Prompts
Hello again, here’s another list of dialogue prompts because I really liked doing them and they make me super creative compared to other people just telling me what plot to write. My writer’s block is killing me so I think this might help. I’ll probably close my ask box once I reach like thirty requests though so do it while you can!
“Marry me.”
“Do you want me to leave?”
“You are not going without me.”
“I can’t believe you!”
“I swear it won’t happen again.”
“What did you say?”
“I’m not jealous.”
“You’re jealous, aren’t you?”
“We can’t keep doing this.”
“Isn’t this amazing?”
“I’m going to take care of you, okay?”
“Stay the night. Please.”
“You can’t die. Please don’t die.”
“Run away with me.”
“Quit whining.”
“Get outta my sight!”
“Why are you so annoying?”
“Were you ever going to tell me?”
“Never in a million years.”
“Don’t ask me that…”
“I might have had a few shots.”
“What’s with the box?”
“W- What are you doing?”
“Say it!”
“I could kiss you right now!”
“Are you done with that?”
“What’s going on here?”
“Stop pinning this on me! You started it!”
“It’s your fault we’re in this mess.”
“Did you do this on purpose?!”
“Kiss me.”
“Are you still awake..?”
“Excuse you?”
“This is all your fault!”
“I can’t believe you dragged me into this.”
“Don’t give me that look! It wasn’t my fault!”
“I shouldn’t be in love with you!”
“It’s not fair!”
“I could kill you right now!”
“Knock it off!”
“Screw you!”
“You’re a complete moron!”
“I can’t be in love with you!”
“Make me.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
“I hate you.”
“You are infuriating!”
“Just shut up already.”
“That doesn’t even make sense.”
“Bite me.”
“Eat me.”
“Kiss my ass.”
“Just admit I’m right.”
“Just admit you’re wrong.”
“You are being ridiculous!”
“That’s irrational.”
“Listen to me!”
“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”
“Don’t yell at me.”
“That’s it. End of discussion.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“You shouldn’t have said that.”
“Fuck you!”
“Shut your mouth before I shut it for you.”
“How dare you?”
“I dare you!”
“It’s you, it’s always been you.”
“Well this is awkward…”
“Just pretend to be my date”.
“Are you really gonna leave without asking me the question you’ve been dying to ask me?”
“I just did some calculations, and I’ve been able to determine that you’re full of shit.”
“Do you ever think if people heard our conversations they’d lock us up?”
“Do things that make you happy within the confines of the legal system.”
“Can I touch your boob?”
“It’s not that you’re wrong, exactly, you’re just extremely not right.”
“You shouldn’t be trusted with small children, should you?”
“Give me cake or give me death.”
“On a scale from, ’I can sometimes make important phone calls without crying’ to ’I have a stable job with a steady income, a spouse who loves me, a dog, and two kids who are screwed up minimally at worst’, how much of an adult are you?”
“You think I’m dumb enough to fall for that stupid move?”
“Despite the cliche, it’s not me, it’s you.”
“Obviously you can’t tell a woman you just met that you love her, but it sucks that you can’t.”
“No, it was my fault for thinking that you might care.”
“When you love someone, you just don’t stop. Ever. Even when people roll their eyes or call you crazy… even then. Specially then!”
“If you’re not scared, then you’re not taking a chance. If you’re not taking a chance, then what the hell are we doing anyway?”
“I think I’ve been holding myself back from falling in love with you all over again.”
“What have I told you about the toilet seat?”
“I tried to change the duvet and I got stuck inside.”
“I vote today to be a pajama day.”
“You have to tell me why we’re committing a felony before we do it. Not that that’s going to stop us, but at least I’ll have all the facts.”
“I don’t leave messages. If I wanted to talk to a machine, I’d talk to my VCR.”
“You know we’re suppose to be together. I knew it the first time I saw you, and you know it, too. I know you do.”
“Those things you said yesterday… Did you mean them?”
“I’m not going to apologise for this. Not anymore.”
“What I hear when I’m being yelled at is people caring loudly at me.”
“I am NOT crying, okay?! I’m allergic to jerks!”
“This would not happen if I had a penis!”
“That’s almost exactly the opposite of what I meant.”
“All nighter, you and me. First one to fall sleep buys the other dinner.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever played spin the bottle.”
“Sorry! I didn’t mean to touch your butt.”
“I’m ok, thank you. Just please, stop talking to me.”
“To the night you’ll never remember!”
“Could I sit here? All the other tables are full.”
“You weren’t supposed to laugh! I’m so embarrassed!”
“It must be hard with your sense of direction, never being able to find your way to a decent pickup line.”
“This is the dumbest thing you’ve ever done.“
“It’s a real shame nobody asked for your opinion.”
“I could do that, but could doesn’t mean would.”
“You cannot fathom the immensity of the fucks I don’t give.”
“You’re like, five feet tall. How you gonna reach me, shortie?”
“I recognize that you have reached a decision, but given that it is a stupid ass decision I have elected to ignore it”
“Do you need me to kill someone for you?”
“I’m gonna lay down and die for like half hour okay?”
“It’s midnight, what do you want?”
“You are completely unfit to handle a child.”
“We have to get out of this place. It is EVIL.”
“Don’t you dare throw that snowba-, goddammit!”
“When in doubt curl into the fetal position and give up on life.”
“It’s not a double date, we’re just third and fourth wheeling.”
“Your hair is so soft…”
“You’re so cute when you pout like that!”
“Just relax, I’ll wash your hair for you.”
“I’m not going to stop poking you until you give me some attention.”
“Are you wearing my shirt?”
“You are ridiculously comfortable…”
“I’ve had a rough day and honestly all I want right now is a drink and someone to cuddle with…”
“You’re so cute when you’re half asleep like this…”
“You’re beautiful, you know that?”
“We should get a puppy!”
”Don’t apologize. That’s not the point. Did you mean it?”
”This is an apology pizza. Please take it or I will start crying right here.”
”I thought I lost you”
”Okay, when you say love, do you mean love as in like loving pizza or as in love, love?”
”They don’t like dogs. It wasn’t going to work out.”
”The hills are alive, with the sound of bullshit.”
“I feel like I’m losing control.”
“Okay, am I drunk or did you really just say that?”
“I’m too sober for this shit.”
“God, I missed you.”
“I let you down. How am I supposed to forgive myself for that?”
“Okay, the blood isn’t mind, calm down.”
“Did you really think I’d leave?”
“There’s a difference between being brave and being stupid.”
“You’re proud of me?”
“If love was easy, we’d be writing songs about better things. Like pizza.”
“Is this supposed to be this hard?”
“They’re going to hate me.”
“Like I’d choose the laws of physics over you.”
“Did you just blue shell me!?”
[text]: What do you want now?
[text]: Do you want to bet on that?
[text]: So I might be in a hospital right now…
[text]: We can’t keep doing this anymore!
[text]: Can you pick me up from the bar? Too drunk to drive.
[text]: You have no clue how I feel so shut up.
[text]: I call bullshit.
[text]: You thought you could get away with that, didn’t you?
[text] Living alone for four weeks has given me unrealistic expectations of pantslessness.
[text] Also, my bed has glitter in it for reasons I do not recall.
[text] Who says no to sex and donuts?!
[text] I know what you did last summer…
Sources: x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x
Send me a number and a ship and I’ll write out a fic. I have free time tomorrow and I want to write. ❤️❤️📝
I’m trying to get one fic done a night, send me requests!!!
90. “I don’t leave messages. If I wanted to talk to a machine, I’d talk to my VCR.
Wow how old is this meme?
an (old) new look!
If you pop over to the @hannigram-a-b-o-library blog you’ll see we have had a fresh coat of paint!
We’ve been meaning to make over the blog for a while now, hopefully making it a bit more user friendly in terms of colour scheme. But also, we decided to revert back to our original banner image - kinda.
If anyone can remember our original posts of a couple of years ago, we used an image of this same scene as it is just so A/B/O! But we weren’t completely happy with the edit and somewhere along the way it got ditched.
It definitely is an image that better fits the theme of the blog, so we’ve decided to go back to it with this new fab version.
So please enjoy this image of alpha/omega Hannibal scenting alpha/omega Will, normal service will not be interrupted!
You know, in all those “humans are the creepy/fucked up alien species” posts I can’t believe we haven’t touched on organ donation yet.
When they heard that the human general had fallen ill to a disease of the organ known as the liver the troops began to hope that it might turn the tide of the war. Research indicated that such diseases could be fatal after all. The organ did something similar to the flagulaxin in that it filtered out toxins so when it stopped functioning the human would slowly be poisoned to death by his own body. Or so they believed.
But then he came back.
A foot soldier was captured and answers demanded. Was it a medication? Had the sickeness been a ruse to fool them?
“Nah, man. This kid on a motorcycle wiped out on the I9 freeway so they gave the general his liver since they were a match.”
“They…what?”
“They gave him his liver. The kid was dead, and he was an organ donor. And he was a genetic match to the general.”
“They…cut the liver out of one of your young and placed it in an elder and it…worked?”
“I mean, he wasn’t that young. Mid twenties or something. But yeah, that’s essentially it.”
The interrogator and his assistant both regurgitated their most recent meal and ran from the room. Living in places like the “Australia” were one thing, but taking the organs of dead bodies and placing them in the living? What was WRONG with this species?
This is me cackling. Because if I did it out loud I’d wake the household.
Let’s go one step further.
Let’s discuss immunizations. Early variations included sticking bits of the dead disease into living tissue.
“So, let me get this straight- you used to take remains from a potentially fatal virus and inject into a healthy person in order to get them sick with a weaker strain so they wouldn’t get the more virulent strain?”
“Yes.”
“And it worked?”
“Yes.”
On that note. Let’s discuss the idea of surgery itself. Or hell don’t get me on the idea of dialysis and other medical interventions of once deadly diseases. We as a species have discovered through horrifying means how to heal ourselves and each other. There is a reason the operating room is known as the Operating theater. It used to be an open vent that other doctors and nurses and even the public -though sometimes discouraged- could sit in on and observe and learn. Even now some surgeries are only done on local anesthesia. If you have a strong stomach you could watch them cut open your knee and repair it. We use metal and carbon fiber to put ourselves back together again; screws and struts and plates and wires and we don;t think a thing of it. Hip surgery with ball bearings essentially. Let’s put a mesh trap in your vein to hold it open! We poison ourselves to make ourselves better. Willingly and knowingly because we as a species refuse to fucking die.
And aliens are livid because we are a /weak species/. We don’t have tough outer shells, we can have allergies to foods most normal of our species can eat, we can develop allergies to our own planet’s pollen, if given the wrong blood we will be poisoned and die. Our own offspring act as parasites and must come out of us early or it will kill us. We are born weak and can’t even walk. How the hell did we make it this far?! The more the aliens look at us the more terrified and confused they become. It would be like looking at a cute non-threatening species and seeing that they are tyrannical war-mongering conquerors who sew themselves together with archaic technology and somehow survive. We share blood, we share organs, we developed the means to save the weakest of our species from disease and broken insides. We poison ourselves with alcohol and drugs for /fun/. We are terrifying and we are confusing. Because for all our terrible medicines and repair work we still do weird simple cute things. We decorate our sweet food so it looks pretty I’m our days of birth. We listen to music and shake to it. We like watching pretty light explosions in the sky. We like making pictures out of stars. We decorate our nests with colours and soft things and sometimes things that make noise. We have no night vision, most of us never hunt for our food, we don’t have good hearing, we laugh at the stupidest things, and we decorate our fur and skin with shiny objects and markings because we don’t have many. We confuse the hell out of aliens.
my dad is a cop and i just called him and he was like “hey i have a 17 year old boy in the back of my cop car right now that i’m running him to the station” and i asked if he was cute and my dad said “Hey, my daughter wants to know if you’re cute” and the guy said “i want to say yes, sir” and my dad started laughing so hard
“Stiles-”
“Dad, where is the ground beef I had in the fridge? That was only eighty percent lean, you better not have-“
“Stiles, I can’t really talk right now. I have a seventeen year old boy in the back of my car and I’m running him to the station.”
“Is he cute?” Stiles asked absently as he rooted through the fridge, more to irritate his dad than anything else. Except-
“Hey, my son wants to know if you’re cute,” the sheriff said off the speaker, but loud enough for Stiles to hear.
“No-“ Stiles hissed, but it was too late.
There was a hesitation, but then a tinny voice, obviously far from the phone said “I want to say yes, sir.”
Stiles pulled the phone away from his ear as his dad’s laughter reached unsafe decibels. He snorted and laughed until Stiles heard him sniff, and just knew his dad had laughed so hard he cried. Eventually Stiles rolled his eyes and hung up, knowing he’d see his dad in thirty minutes anyway.
Half an hour later, he pulled into the station with his dad’s dinner. Walking past the front desk, he stumbled when he saw a boy his age sitting on one of the benches outside the interview rooms.
He knew his mouth was hanging open, but he couldn’t stop focusing on the beautiful blue eyes and insufferable smirk long enough to close it. The boy opened his own mouth, a terrible pickup line already written across his face, when the sheriff popped out of his office.
“Hey son, thanks for bringing dinner.”
Stiles’ head snapped over to his dad, finally closing his mouth with a click. “Uh, yeah. Dinner. This is dinner.” He shoved it at his dad and then immediately strode over to the bench to sit next to the boy, who had possibly been arrested for criminally beautiful eyes.
“Oh my God, Stiles,” the sheriff said when he heard Stiles use that exact line. “Really? Do you have to?”
“Yes,” he answered without looking away from the boy, who was glancing between the two of them with a bemused expression.
The sheriff sighed from the bottom of his soul and opened his dinner to start picking out the cranberries, right there in the hallway.
“He was picked up for TP-ing Adrian Harris’ house,” he said, raising a meaningful eyebrow in Stiles’ direction.
Stiles’ eyes lit up and he leaned in closer to the blue eyed boy. “Marry me,” he demanded, enchanted.
“You can’t propose to someone just because they TP’ed your least favorite teacher,” the sheriff argued. “You don’t even know his name!”
“Peter,” the boy finally interjected. “My name’s Peter. Are you the one who asked if I was cute?”
“Yes. I take honesty very seriously in my relationships, so it’s good to see you weren’t lying,” Stiles said, leaning a cheek into one hand and smiling.
“I’ll probably be on house arrest for a month,” Peter mused, looking Stiles up and down. “But I’d love to take on a date as soon as I can,” he purred out, leaning into Stiles space.
“You’re lucky I love the anklet look,” Stiles said with a grin.
“Oh Lord,” the sheriff pleaded to the ceiling.
In medieval culture, an event like a royal christening is not a private party; it’s the public social event of the year. To not invite any person of rank to such an event is a deadly insult.
Maleficent is certainly someone you wouldn’t want at a party, but she’s also someone powerful enough that only a fool would ever dare treat her with such blatant disrespect. The only way the King and Queen could possibly have gotten away with not inviting Maleficent was to not invite any of the fairies at all; inviting the other fairies and excluding her is explicitly taking sides in the conflict between the fairy factions.
Which means they made themselves her sworn enemies, and she responded by treating them as such from then on. If you actually get into analyzing the social dynamics of the scene, it’s very clear that Maleficent was willing to show mercy at first by giving the King and Queen a chance to apologize for their disrespect to her. She doesn’t curse Aurora until after she gives them that chance and they throw it back in her face with further disrespect.
And yeah, if the King and Queen had done the properly respectful thing and invited her, Maleficent would have given Aurora a scary awesome present. Moreover so would the other fairies, because at that point both sides would be using it as an opportunity to show off and one-up each other. What they gave her before Maleficent showed up was basically just trivial party favors by fairy standards.
How do you know so much about the social dynamics of medieval fairies
Because the very first things anyone reading a legit fairy tale will realize right away is A) there are Rules and B) ignore them at your peril
…okay, now I just want to see baby Aurora being told by Maleficent that she will be a conqueror and a ruler without peer, the master of all Europe, to whom kings and emperors bow and scrape.
ahhhhhh i need
Sleeping Beauty AU with warrior queen Aurora leading her armies across the country to glory and victory
YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSS
@providentially-demonic
“Not only will you be a powerful ruler,” the next fairy after Maleficent steps up, “You will be just, honorable, and skilled, respected by friend and foe alike. What you take you will keep, and you will be remembered kindly by history.”
“Furthermore,” the second fairy steps up, “Any land you rule will prosper. Under your hand the people will thrive, the crops will flourish, and the stock be in good health. There will be wealth enough for all, with enough left for generosity.”
With this, all eyes turned to the third fairy, wondering what gift she would offer, what favour could be grand enough to follow these wonderous blessings of power, strength, and prosperity. Slowly, the third fairy approached the bassinet, standing before it a moment in contemplation, before finally speaking.
“All dogs with be your friends. Even the wild ones. Wolves too. If it’s a canine, it’s your friend now, yet they will never jump on you, make you smell weird, or get you all covered in fur.”
“Show off,” muttered Maleficent under her breath.
People in badly written fantasy stories will usually talk about the major historical events of their world and how magic has affected the lives of everyone, but ask a person in the real world to describe the effects of WWI and the invention of the combustion engine on modern life and they’d probably couldn’t tell you.
Broke: every character seems to know everything about the history and lore of the world
Woke: most characters can’t tell you much besides the basics but there are some that can tell you more complete but specific parts
H Y P E R W O K E: Every character tells you a wildly different version of the past and what effects it has on the present, ranging from the government is an imperialist, colonizing body obsessed with power to the one true ruler was sent by the gods and has smote down anyone who got in his way to “Oh you mean Jeff, the quote unquote tyrant of the west? I knew that guy! He was alright, never did anything wrong really just wanted some soup.” And there’s no way to tell what actually happened
I like your thinking
Plot Bunnies, Plot Chickens, Etc.
As a lot of people aren’t familiar with plot creatures, I thought I’d shed some light on the members of the mental menagerie…
The Plot Bunny - Story ideas that come bounding in and start multiplying.
The Plot Chicken - They squawk, flap around, and shit everywhere, but when you actually need to do something with them, they scatter.
The Plot Sloth - Takes its sweet goddamned time turning into something useful.
The Plot Mule - When you mash two plots together and get something cool, but you can’t get a sequel out of it to save your life.
The Plot Cat - Lazy little bastards who take up your headspace, scare away all the other plot bunnies, but won’t actually do anything except lay there.
The Plottweiler - Barks loudly and viciously so you can’t ignore it, distracts you from everything else you want to write, but leaves you too paralyzed with fear to actually put words down.
The Plot Squirrel - Cute, distracting, full of nuts, and just TRY to keep up with that train of thought.
The Plot Bedbug - Shows up during the night, chews on you so you can’t sleep, and disappears in the daylight.
The Plot Tick - Burrows in, bleeds you dry, and leaves you with the creepy-crawlies. Mostly preys on horror writers.
The Plotroach - Totally unappealing, but so tenacious they’ll survive anything until you finally give up and write them.
What Plot Creatures have you encountered?
I was reading my writing today, and let me tell you, it may not be good, plot is not the best, and characters are a bit stereotypical, but boy do I have fun writing it
This is such a good mindset to have. There is positive energy in this post
A faerie introduces himself. Then, holding out a hand, asks, “And your name, please?”
And, like a fool, you give it to him.
I got asked for clarification on this (but can’t reblog that particular post cuz on mobile), which I’m more than happy to provide.
In this post, a faerie is asking for ‘your’ name. The way he is wording it, however, and the accompanying beckoning motion, makes it seem as though he is asking for you to physically hand your name over. Which, because of how some faeries operate, he is.
In this instance, saying your name aloud to the fae would be literally giving your name over to him, the exact consequences of which are left up to the imagination–usually, a fae even knowing your name gives it some measure of power over you, but giving something your name would likely let it completely take over your life.
In this instance, the wording you want to use is something like “I will not give you my name, but I will tell you that it’s [name].” Alternately, you can just lie to him.
Might i suggest the less direct yet still name-preserving “you may call me…”? It dodges the request while still giving an answer of a name, which does not even have to be yours, but any name you feel like telling the fae they can use to refer to you. I would recommend “Ainsel”.
The first time he asks for your name is the first time you meet him. He appears as you walk by the færie ring, that you have not entered because your grandmother has repeated so many times not to do so, and, curious of your presence, watches as you jump when you notice him.
You recognize him instantly. It is the Fæ whose influence your village is under, the one the elders have told you and your friends to be wary about, for the people who have been seen walking away with him have never come back.
You don’t know what he does to them. The villagers have never dared to confront him about it, never dare to address to him at all. He is not evil: he sometimes speaks blessings upon the cattle, talks the horses to calm after a storm, ensures a good harvest for the farmers, makes the flower bloom in spring even when the weather is still too cold. He is, simply, a Fæ, whose ways humans cannot understand.
“Hello, little one,” he says as you stand very still, back straight, hands fidgeting with the fabric of your skirt.
You do not go away - you cannot. This, your grandmother has taught you, would be considered as an offense, and you could be cursed, or he could take out his wrath onto the village. You do not shy away from his stare, however, even not knowing if this will displease him or not. You are eight, have the courage and the recklessness of your childhood innocence, the boldness of those who have not yet learnt how to fear; but you have been warned against the Fæs, who like to toy with humans and play tricks upon them, so you do not defy him either.
He walks up to you. You pray he will stay in the færie ring, as it feels like a protection, and fortunately, he does. He isn’t too malicious to the youngest ones, you have been told once - just do not know if this is true or not. You knew a girl your age called Nimia, that has been caught a year ago, and she has never come back to the village, and her parents have cried all week cursing the Fæ.
You summon to your memory everything your grandmother has taught you to ward off Fæs, and protect yourself against their tricks. You do not want to be the next Nimia.
He introduces himself as Áed, although you suspect it is merely a nickname. Then, holding out a hand, he asks, “And your name, please?”
There is your grandmother’s warning at the back of your head: names give power over people. The Fæ is asking you to literally give him your name, and who knows what he’ll do with it - he might as well use it to take you away, like he surely did to Nimia. To all the people who have never been seen again. To your own mother, two years after you were born, even though she was too clever to be caught by a Fæ’s trick.
So you remain quiet, watching him with wide eyes, until his own stare darkens, and he shakes his hand under your nose.
“Your name, little one.”
You pull yourself together. He might curse you if you don’t answer. You gather your courage, and, with the spontaneity of children who have freedom in their veins and do not bend to rules, you stretch out your hand back without touching his.
“I am sorry, lord Fæ. I haven’t heard you very well. Can you give me your name, please?”
He looks at you with surprised amusement. “Oh, well played, little one. You’re clever. Just for this one, I will let you go.”
He retreats his hand, and you scramble back as quickly as you can, bowing to him clumsily before taking your leave.
You had passed by the færie ring to go the well to wishes, even though the elders forbid the youth its access, disobedient little child that you are. You just wanted to wish for your father to let you wear your mother’s necklace - ‘not yet’, he always says, ‘when you are thirteen’. You forget about going there, after this encounter. You go back home, and your grandmother scolds you for having been gone for so long.
You do not tell her about the Fæ. She has already lost her daughter to him. If she knew he had tried to lure you, you would not be able to leave the house again - and you value your freedom too much for that.
The second time he asks for your name, you are fifteen, and you have ran to the well to wishes again, forgetting the elders’ warnings. You have sworn to yourself you would not go back home anyway. You are not sure what you want to wish for, but at least for all this pain within you to fade; just to be more, or maybe less, like your mother, to accept the village’s rules better, to simply fit in and be happy that way.
Eyes full of tears, breath uneven, barefooted on the grass, your mother’s necklace beating against your chest as run, you have not made a detour to avoid passing by the færie ring. You trip and fall in front of it, and Áed finds you curled there, crying and cursing to the world.
“Those are not pretty words,” he says.
You freeze. You push yourself on your elbows, sees the færie ring, feels dread slip into your head. It is only the second time you see him, and you are not a child anymore. You have learnt to fear.
The Fæ, who has taken Nimia, then Lettie, on the day of her wedding, and even the old Mack, hovers over you curiously, at the edge of the færie ring. You remember to keep still, not to offend him. You feel the fear you should have felt when you were eight; and yet again, as tonight sadness and despair have already filled your heart, you do not manage to remain terrified.
“I don’t care,” you answer, sitting on your knees.
He finally sits down, too. He does not talk, so you do not feel compelled to talk either, and silence stretches between you for a while.
“Were you going to the well to wishes?” he asks eventually. You nod. “It does not work anymore. Whatever you wish for, it will not grant it.”
You feel your chest tightening.
“You might not say the truth.”
He smiles. “Indeed. I might not. But you can try yourself.”
It might have been his way to allow you to leave - but you do not find it in yourself to do so. You are tired. You have run as fast as you could from your home. Your grandmother must be worried about you, and she will probably never let you stray from the village again. Your father’s shouts still resonates in your ears, saying you are not a good daughter, that you will never be, asking why you feel such a need to always run free, just like your mother, then asking why you cannot be her.
You know you should listen to your elders, tame yourself, learn to properly take care of your household, and stop fleeing from your duties and your classes to explore the wild. You just cannot help it. You were already a disobedient child; but the teenager you are now cannot bear authority.
Freedom.
Is it too little to ask?
“Are you going to stay here?” Áed asks.
You shrug, unable to answer properly. You feel too pitiful to try to talk with a Fæ - a tricky exercise, as Fæs like to twist words as they like and get human souls from a clumsy sentence.
“You can,” Áed then says. “I will watch over you.”
“This sounds too nice, lord Fæ.” You haven’t been able to prevent the dryness of your tone. “It might be another trick.”
And yet, you lay on your back, somewhat desperate, arms crossed behind your head, not knowing where else to go or what else to do. The Fæ, after all, is not evil, you remind yourself. He also does good things, occasionally. You might just be lucky.
“Aren’t you afraid, little one? I know you do not trust me.”
“I am too tired for that.”
He laughs. “Will you not give me your name, then?”
“I cannot give you my name,” you reply. You know what it would lead to. Giving your name to a Fæ is giving him the power to take over your life. “But I will tell you that it’s…”
You hesitate. The Fæ knowing your name would also give him some power - that is what has lost Lettie, you’ve been told.
“Elaine.”
You close your eyes, and Áed simply laughs. He does not speak afterwards; yet you remain wary, and heavy thoughts are on your mind, so you do not find sleep easily. You end up turning towards him, and opening your eyes again, wondering if he has left, too bored to stay watching over a sleeping human.
But he’s still there.
“Little liar,” he says, not smiling but not sounding angry either. “This is your mother’s name.”
You are somehow not surprised he has noticed. Your grandmother said your mother used to go the well to wishes often - she might have met him too, talked with him, before he took her away. Just like you, your mother didn’t fear the way to the well to wishes and the færie ring. The same recklessness, the same need for freedom runs into your veins. That might be why your family is so afraid to lose you.
“You remember her?”
“I do. I remember Nimia, also. That foolish girl, Lettie. The old Mack, who tried to cut the færie ring. And all the others.”
“Why do you take them away?”
He looks at you. “Humans are fascinating. You poor little things, so weak and powerless, your lives are so short, and you do not know half the wonders that exist. And yet. You manage to find happiness.”
You feel yourself drifting off to sleep, listening to the soothing velvet of his voice. Exhaustion has caught up to you. Your eyes are already closing off.
“It is no reason to take it away from us,” you murmur, tiredly.
He keeps on staring at you, but does not answer. After a while, you simply close your eyes again, and this time, sleep finds you after a few minutes.
When you wake up, Áed is gone. You go back home, and your grandmother cries when you arrive. She forbids you to leave ever again. Your father apologizes for his harsh words, and you apologize for your rebellious attitude.
“Where were you?” your grandmother asks, once the calm has returned to the household.
“I slept by the færie ring,” you say. “But the Fæ wasn’t there.”
You can hear it in your head, ‘little liar’ said with his voice, and it somehow makes you want to smile.
“You shouldn’t,” your grandmother admonishes. “Your mother used to do that too, and look where that led her. You were lucky.”
“Yes,” you reply, and this time you think it, too.
The third time he asks for your name, four years have passed ever since you have slept by the færie ring, and your grandmother has still not allowed you out of the village. She does not like the longing looks you throw to the forest and the valleys beyond either, says you are now of age to be married, and should do so before she picks you a husband herself. This annoys you. She has, however, loosened her strict watch, and you can come and go out of the house mostly as you please.
For a few months, now, Kevan has been courting you, and you enjoy having the freedom to spend time with him. He is the blacksmith’s son, has had several lovers before you; but he assures you he can only look at you now, that you are the special one, and he swears if you marry him, he will make you the happiest woman of all Qelt.
You always laugh at that. He is cute and charming, but freedom is still your keyword, and you do not see yourself speaking vows to anyone yet. He shrugs, whenever this is your answer, then takes you in his arms, and makes you laugh some more.
But tonight, he doesn’t shrug. He has drunk, you know, maybe too much, and you look at him in slight fear when he grabs your arm too tightly after you have refused him once again.
“Why?” he groans. “I’m nice to you.”
“I know, Kevan,” you reply, trying to keep your calm. He is simply drunk. You have talked to more drunk boys than one, nothing has ever happened to you. “Now let go of me, please. I told you, I simply do not want to marry yet–”
“You do more than that. You refuse yourself to me. I’m courting you, but it never goes further than an embrace.”
“I do not owe you more than an embrace. If this bores you, you’re free to woo another woman.”
He pulls you to him, and his grip hurts, this time. “I do not want another woman!”
“Kevan, you’re drunk!”
You put a firm hand on his chest to keep some distance between you, keeps your head away from his. You know what he wants, but you do not want it.
“Why don’t you love me?” he asks, accusatory.
Part of you feels guilty. Part of you feels angry.
“I don’t owe you feelings.”
“You’ve seduced me. You’ve let me court you.”
You thought you loved him. You simply wanted to take it slow, to grow a friendship with this charming boy, before doing anything. You enjoyed his attention. You enjoyed playing this little game of cat and mouse with him, thinking it would end well for the both of you once you would have decided your freedom could also be with him.
But not anymore.
Your freedom cannot be with a man who will not wait for you, yet will not move on to someone befitting him better.
“I just wanted time, Kevan,” you try, despite knowing the idea of a future with him is over. “Can you understand that?”
“No!” he roars. “I’ve waited enough. You’re mine, you hear me?!”
“You’re drunk, you don’t know what you’re saying, you-”
“YOU’RE MINE!”
He pulls you closer, and you break free. He screams your name, but you’re already running out of the inn, under the confused eyes of the other villagers who have always seen you two getting along so well, and do not understand what has happened.
Kevan screams your name again, chasing after you.
Fear takes over.
What is he going to do? He is drunk, simply, he surely himself does not understand his own acts. But what if he catches you? Will he just shout? Will he cry? Will he stop himself, being the charming boy he has always been?
Unless this charm of his was nothing but a way to get into your bed, and this friendship you wanted, he has never had any use of it?
And if he catches you, he will get his way with you, whether you want it or not?
No, he wouldn’t do that. He isn’t like that. He might not go that far.
But you can feel his need for bruising kisses, for his hands on your skin, at least, and you can see yourself crying as he holds you tight and calls you his, because it is not how it was supposed to be - and this, you do not want at all.
He calls you names. Yells insults. You run, never turning back, never slowing down. You cannot lead him to your home, you think. Your grandmother and your father are sleeping and you should not even be out, and he would get you before the door.
So, you keep on running.
Your legs carry you to the only place where you’ve found safety outside the village, and when you hear Kevan’s voice louder, his steps closer, you scream before diving into the færie ring.
“ÁED!”
He receives you in his arms. You fold against his chest, trembling and still unable to believe the man you thought could become your husband has gone as far as chasing you outside the village, to the færie ring all villagers avoid.
You do not even want to know how Kevan has reacted. You breathe in and out, slowly, letting Áed hold you and stroke your hair.
“Easy, little one,” he whispers to your ear. “Easy.”
“What are you doing?!” Kevan’s shout. He sounds afraid. “Get back here! It’s–”
“Hush, human.” You have never heard Áed speaking so coldly. Kevan falls silent - drunk or not, every villager knows to respect the Fæs. “This one is under my protection.”
There are no words exchanged for what seems to be a long, long time. You can hear Kevan’s ragged respiration behind you, just one meter away. The færie ring feels like a protection once again; yet you’re inside, this time, and that’s where you feel safe.
“Leave.” There is the hint of a threat in Áed’s voice. “Now.”
Kevan’s steps finally hurry away after a few seconds of hesitation, and you break. You cry. You cling on Áed’s tunic, and you shed your tears, resting your forehead on the crook of his neck.
“It’s okay, little one. He’s gone. You’re safe.”
You somewhat forget he has taken your mother, Nimia, Lettie, the old Mack, and all those other missing villagers from before you were born, during the centuries he has lived. You somehow forget of what you risk, being in a færie ring, in a Fæ’s embrace.
And Áed does not lie to you. You’re safe. He lets you cry in his arms, without asking anything of you, without taking you to Fæqelt, the holy land where his kind resides, without any tricks or malice.
“I do not want to go home,” you murmur.
“It is okay, little one. You can stay here. The færie ring is safe for you.”
You pull away to look at him. “Are you not going to trick me?”
“I won’t.” He is grinning. You believe him, even though you should not.
“Not even ask me for my name?” you try to joke, pathetically.
He raises a brow. “Would you give me your name?”
“No,” and this time you’re smiling, even just a little. “But you may call me Ainsel.”
He laughs and ruffles your hair, and keeps on calling you ‘little one’ - he’s a Fæ too old to be tricked back that way. You end up laying down side by side in the færie ring, and he talks with you until you fall asleep.
When morning comes, you’re in your bed. When you finally stop avoiding him, a few days later, Kevan apologizes to you, then never talks to you again.
You prefer it that way.
The fourth time he asks for your name is very soon after. You come to the færie ring at night, darkness being the only way to escape your grandmother’s watch to leave the village, though you do not enter it.
Last time seemed like an emergency situation. You are not sure you can be so lucky not to be tricked by the Fæ again.
You are not so sure why you have come here either. Maybe it is the fact that you have started appreciating Áed, despite all his evil deeds - that he yet does not see as evil, simply as a Fæ’s doings. Maybe it is because you are starting to understand that your parents’ wedding and your birth was, for your mother, more of a curse than a blessing; and that the same fate of having to bend yourself to what everyone is expecting you to do might be awaiting you as well.
But maybe, it is just the freedom of being able to run under the moon wherever you want, and feel the wind into your hair, away from a village you love but which has started to grow too small for you.
“Little one!” he calls when he appears. He seems surprised, but pleased. “I did not expect to see you so soon. Are you going to the well to wishes?”
You shrug. “No, I wanted to see you. Please do not ask me why.”
“Why?” he maliciously asks.
You shake your head, raise your eyes to the sky. That makes him laugh. He is infuriating, in a way; yet you cannot help but smile.
“How are things, with the ruffian?”
“He has apologized, but has stopped talking to me. He thought me going into the færie ring was a dream, though. I’m glad of it. Had he talked about it, it would have caused me troubles.” You grimace. “My grandmother would have locked me in the house, and married me off immediately.”
“And I could not see you again?” he exclaims. “Horrible. Why would she do such a thing?”
You look at him quietly, and his expression shifts to a less mischievous one.
“She has already lost her daughter to you,” you say, voice soft. “She does not want to lose her granddaughter.”
He opens his mouth to talk, closes it. You are convinced that years ago, he would not have reacted the same way. Would not have taken it so seriously.
“Do you miss her?” he asks.
“I was two, when you led her away. I did not know her well. But my grandmother and my father miss her, and I have always been able to feel there was something lacking in our home.”
He nods. You nod back. There is something strange, in the atmosphere, though you cannot say what. You are not sure he regrets what he has done - how could he? He remains a Fæ, after all -, but you know he has no intention to talk about it with any kind of pride anymore.
“Come here, little one,” he finally says. “And I promise, nothing will happen to you. I will not bring you any more harm.”
You step into the færie ring, standing proud in front of him. Your heart is strangely beating hard in your chest, and he smiles at you, eyes gleaming with a light which is not mischief, but something much softer.
“Will you give me your name, little one?”
It is not a bargain. He already knows your answer.
“You will let me refuse, won’t you?”
He winks. “I will.”
“Then, I can’t give you my name,” you decide, amused. “You are still welcome to call me Ainsel, however.”
“Oh, ‘little one’ suits you better.”
You laugh, and you two sit in the færie ring to talk again, and you tell him things you cannot tell anyone else - you tell him about your dreams of freedom, your wish to explore the world, even Fæqelt, the fact that the village has started to be a prison for you, instead of a home, that your family is your anchor but not your guide, about your need to leave.
He listens. He gives you some answers. Tells you about Fæqelt, about how færie rings can be used to travel within all Qelt and beyond, about himself, also.
And you start thinking it wouldn’t be so bad, traveling with him.
You start coming back to the færie ring more and more often. You are curious about him. A strange bond has started developing between you two, and the more you know about him, the more you notice the constellation of golden freckles on his cheeks, the way his eyes glint with a reflect of starlight, how his laugh sounds when he’s particularly happy, the softness of his smiles which are not tainted with mischief.
Soon, you find yourself craving for those interactions.
There is no one else in the village able to understand you, to support your desire to wander around the world. No one else to talk about travels and adventures with. Even your childhood friends, who have shared all your ups and downs, cannot get why you do not want to become a fine housewife, and live the rest of your life surrounded by what you have always known.
You know, now, why your mother has walked with her hand in Áed’s, while she was too clever to be taken away.
It was the craving for freedom.
She should have known better than abandoning her family; but you can understand how trapped she must have felt in this little village, especially if a marriage and a baby was not what she had wanted. She must have looked longingly to the forests and valleys beyond the village, as you now do, and must have thought it would be better to be led astray by a Fæ than to remain chained down and become a shadow of herself, needing freedom as one needs oxygen.
You understand.
You would have done the same, had you married Kevan as you planned to, all those months ago.
But one night, you stay too late, and your grandmother is waiting for you when you come home at dawn. She notices the grass on your dress, asks for explanations, does not believe any of your lies.
So you tell her the truth, for she has always been one of your pillars, but she screams the moment she hears you have bonded with the Fæ - and her screams wake your father who cries and despairs when learning what you have done.
For the first time in years, he says again you will never be a good daughter. He cries that you are too much like your mother, with the same craving for freedom, the same desire to leave the village, that if he does not keep an eye on you, you will run away to Fæqelt and never come back. He accuses you not to love him, for your mother surely did not love him and the idea of a family with him - or not enough to stay.
Your grandmother locks you into the house, does not allow you out again except under her watch. She promises to marry you soon, as she did for her daughter when she understood her daughter would one day leave her if she did not. The world is too wild for humans, she tell you. Binding you here is the only way to protect you.
This is for your own good, they say, but it does not do you any good.
The village learns about it. Kevan understands what he had seen that night was not a dream, reveals you have stepped into the færie ring, into the Fæ’s arms. And then the villagers, those people who have raised you, seen you grow, watched you live, whisper that you are lost, and that you are a Witch. They say you will bring bad luck to the village, that you are a channel through which curses and tricks from Fæqelt will pass; but they cannot get rid of you and risk the wrath of Áed.
You are not even sure they know what a Witch is. You do not, not really. Witches are wanderers who have strange powers, people say, obtained through a pact with a Fæ. It is like making vows with mischief itself: Witches might be human, but like Fæs, they cannot be trusted.
You cannot go anywhere without hearing the whispers, or feeling the heavy stares in your back. One day, at the market, you receive a stone from Lettie’s former husband, who did not know better. Your grandmother, ashamed, as she cannot even marry you off to a villager anymore, does not defend you.
After that, you stop leaving the house at all.
And you understand your mother’s decision even better.
The fifth time he asks for your name, it’s Early Summer Night, the beginning of the warmer days, celebrated by the entire village around a banquet. Your grandmother and your father have left the house. They are convinced you will not. No one would want to see you at the banquet, after all.
But your need for freedom is still there.
You escape your home which has become your prison, and you only feel like living again once the wind is in your hair, the grass under your feet, and you can breathe in fresh oxygen. You run. Your legs welcome the dearly missed sensation blissfully, take you to the færie ring.
You do not know where else to go.
“Áed,” you whisper when you step into the færie ring, and he’s there, and you’re in his arms, and he’s holding you so tight you realize he must have missed you like you have missed him.
“Do you know how scared I was, little one?” he asks in a strangled voice. “I thought– I thought you would never come again.”
You break in tears. Everything is too much, feels too much, has been too much ever since your grandmother has discovered you had approached the færie ring. You feel like shattering - and in a way, you do, pressed against his chest, pouring your heart out and wishing this night would not end.
“I thought they had killed you,” Áed murmurs, caressing your hair.
“They wouldn’t,” you sob. “They scorn me, now, but they’re not murderers. And I have done nothing evil.”
“What’s inside you, what you are capable of, it scares them. And scared people lose their minds far too easily.”
You shake your head like a child. “They would not harm me.”
“Not physically. But they could have harmed you in other ways. Your beautiful mind, for example. They could have killed this spark in you.” He pauses. “Forced you to give up on your freedom.”
You think of all those days spent the same way, cleaning, cooking, sewing, all nice tasks as long as they’re not the only ones in your life, looking by the window and desperately wishing to feel the warmth of the sun on your skin again, to walk around without fearing to be called names or to receive stones.
You think of how, had you not known him so well, you would have already escaped and given him your name, for getting lost forever in Fæqelt will always be better than the life you now have.
“They almost did.”
You realize, belatedly, how terrified you sound. Áed takes your face between his hands, looking so worried you think he might cry too.
“Little one, you do not have to remain here. You can leave. That is what you have always wanted.”
“But,” you weep, “they are my family.”
“Family should push you forward, and not hold you back. They might warn you, but they should not bind you. Leave, little one. Take your freedom. They do not own you. Come back to this village a fine traveler and a proper Witch, and show them they were wrong to outcast you.”
You manage to smile weakly. “You make it sound so easy.”
“Because it can be. Witches are travelers who venture into Fæqelt and explore it, little one. That, you can be easily. You have the wit and the courage for it.”
You take a breathe, in and out, the despair in your stomach slowly turning into a glint of hope.
“Aren’t humans supposed to lose themselves in Fæqelt?”
“Not with the blessing of a Fæ,” Áed replies softly, and your heartbeat fastens.
The future, all of a sudden, seems open with a thousand possibilities. You see the roads, the travels through færie rings, the foreign people in the inns, the new towns, the vast, vast world you have always dreamt of seeing, the holy land of the Fæ, mysterious and enthralling, only ever told in myths - and Áed by your side, being his usual self, smiling at you so brightly.
“Yes,” you say to this future, to this everything. “I would want that.”
There is relief on Áed’s face, relief and fondness - as if he had wanted you to say that, for your sake and because that was something he wished for, but was not sure you would bring yourself to do so.
“I will come for you during Midsummer Night, when Fæs can leave the færie rings, and blend in with humans. Be strong until then, little one. Do not let them bind you.”
“Thank you, Áed. Thank you.”
“Just give me your name in exchange,” he jokes to cheer you up.
It makes your chest so warm the tears pour out again. Áed smiles, kisses your humid cheeks gently.
“Next time”, you promise, crying. “Next time.”
You still want to give your village a chance.
Or at least a goodbye.
The last time he asks for your name, you are ready to leave. You are but the shadow of yourself, now. The days until Midsummer Night have been endless. Your grandmother has suspected you had gone out during Early Summer Night, but has not been able to prove it - she now barely talks to you at all. Your father has managed to marry you to a farmer in the next village, who hasn’t heard of you.
You have long wondered why their worry has turned into anger and resentment, why they have caged you, when they simply wanted to protect you. No matter your apologies, your explanations, they won’t listen to you at all.
Now, you suppose it is easier to hate than to forgive, especially when there is finally someone to blame for your mother’s disappearance - for all those disappearances. But they have not realized what they are doing is what drew your mother away from them, what is also drawing you away.
They cannot understand. And what they cannot understand, they fear; and what they fear, they try to keep it locked somewhere until it dies.
“Gather your belongings,” your father tells you when the night is falling. “Tonight, you will meet your future husband. We will celebrate the wedding when the dances end.”
They are taking you to celebrate Midsummer Night in the next village, and are getting rid of you the same day, so that no villager will have to bear your presence ever again. You tell them all goodbye in your head, sat in your father’s cart, the bag containing your few belongings on your lap as you watch the little houses and the streets where you have grown up fade away into the night.
Your future husband is introduced to you as soon as you arrive. He is nice, and his family welcomes you warmly; but you can see they are just like the people of your own village, thinking everyone should be content doing what they’re expected to do, and they would frighten of your need for freedom. You already suffocate when they say everything is ready for the wedding, insist on celebrating Midsummer Night first - and fortunately, they all agree.
You embrace your father and your grandmother before joining in the dances. They do not quite understand when you already bid them farewell.
You share a few dances with your future husband, a charming man who would never be able to understand you, and would fear you if he really knew you. He feels guilty leaving you to go dance with his sister, but you laugh and encourage him to do so.
You do not tell him you will dance again anyway.
That would be a lie.
You watch as he nods and hurries to his family, then change partners yourself, taking the hand of the first man who approaches you–
“Hello, little one.”
–and you nearly cry when your eyes meet his. He is so beautiful, in the light of the high flames lit in the middle of the village, you almost think he is a dream - but he is not, oh, he is not, and you have never been so happy.
“You are of exquisite, tonight,” Áed says.
You are wearing the wedding dress you have sewn yourself, all those days spent in your house, and your mother’s necklace resting on your chest, that necklace you longed for so much when you were just a child, which is the only thing from her your father has allowed you to keep.
“Thank you,” you tell Áed, for calling you exquisite, and for everything else.
He laughs and makes you twirl, and for the first time in what feels like centuries now, you laugh too. He does not let go of you. You do not want him to.
“Will you give me your name, little one?” he asks; but this time, you know what he will do with your name, with your life.
He will set you free.
So you stand on tiptoes, and you give him your name, finally, and he wraps his arms around your waist to whisper his own, real name into your ear - then, when the dance comes to an end, you run hand in hand to your father’s cart to pick up your bag, laughing like children, before disappearing into the night.
No one sees you leave.
It means you might come back one day.
This is the most beautiful thing i have ever read and i hope everyone it comes across reads it and feels the same intensity that i felt beacause it is truly a work of art
