#“A dismal failure!”

[waddlephone]

"I'm not calling you 'good boy', Sholmes, that deduction was shit!"

I really wanted to draw Gregson

[tentacledwizard]

what time is it

[dailymtgflavortext]

"Two magi could trade spells all day and never crown a victor. The real battle is not one of power but of will. If your confidence breaks, so too shall you." —Venser

-Dismal Failure

[ampharos-posts]

wet glop... :(

[thenerdykneazle]

Amorous Tension

Summary: Poppy is quite sure her best friend has feelings for our favourite heir of Slytherin. MC is quite sure she doesn't, despite abundant evidence to the contrary. When Ominis asks MC to help him study for an upcoming potions exam, she jumps at the chance. TL;DR: Two idiots in love brew amortentia together.

A collab with the lovely @darch7995, who created the audio version of this story. Listen to the first part here and the second here.

Ominis Gaunt x F!MC

Warnings: the mildest of hand kinks, kissing, a surprising amount of schoolwork, stressing about exams, failure to communicate

Word count: 4185

You tapped your quill anxiously on the edge of your parchment, forming an ever-growing blot of ink in the margin. You were re-reading a paragraph in Flesh-Eating Trees of the World on a South American anteater-eating shrub. The words made as little of an impression in your mind as they had the first time.

A hand settled on top of yours, startling you.

“You’re going to put a hole in the table if you keep that up. And I doubt Madam Scribner would be pleased,” Poppy said teasingly.

You sighed, setting down the quill before dropping your head onto the table. “I’m going to fail. I know nothing. Less than nothing, even. Garlick is going to laugh me out of the greenhouse,” you said hopelessly.

Poppy rubbed your back comfortingly. “No, she’s not,” she assured you.

You let out a frustrated groan. “I’m never learning the difference between Jacaranda muscipula and Delonix geogalinivorae. They’re both just bloodthirsty ferns.”

A smooth voice came from behind you. “Jacaranda muscipula is native to South America, and its diet consists largely of deer mice. Delonix geogalinivorae is found in Madagascar and feeds exclusively on tenrecs.”

Your head shot up off the table. “Ominis,” you said in a higher pitch than you’d intended. You twisted in your chair to see your aristocratic classmate standing there looking effortlessly flawless.

“Hello, MC, Poppy,” he said with a pleasant smile. “I take it you’re dreading Garlick’s exam as much as Sebastian is.”

You scrunched your nose. “More, probably,” you said dismally.

“Well, I had come to see if you might be able to help me study for Sharp’s exam on Monday,” he said. “I could help you with herbology after. Of course, I’d be happy to help even if you don’t have time for potions practice.”

You gaped at him. He was asking you for help? Amit and Sebastian both had top grades in potions. You’d taken to it quite well, but the two boys had several more years of experience than you did. Garreth knew every ingredient and recipe inside and out, though he almost never stuck to the instructions – you could see why Ominis wouldn’t have asked him for help.

Your stomach leapt at the idea of spending time at the bench – just you and Ominis, brushing elbows at the cosy workspace. It was always dizzying being in such close proximity – the effect of his expensive cologne, surely.

Poppy would probably argue differently. She’d just been pestering you just that morning about your alleged feelings for the sarcastic Slytherin.

“You’re the biggest flirt I’ve ever met, MC,” Poppy said, rolling her eyes as you walked to the Great Hall.

Garreth had just been talking to you out in the courtyard about needing to acquire Thornback Matriarch venom for a new potion he was working on. You had told him he’d probably be better equipped than you were at charming the ladies into giving him what he wanted.

“I think you’re jealous and just need to ask the Gryffindor out, already,” you argued, shooting her a quelling look. “I was just being funny.”

“Mhmm,” she replied sceptically. “Well, I think it’s funny how I’ve seen you flirt with Garreth, Leander, Sebastian, Amit, and even Imelda, but when a certain serpent with stormy eyes and chiselled cheekbones comes around, you turn into a frightened little puffskein. You go all ruddy-faced and start stammering.”

She was poorly suppressing a smirk as she looked at you.

You scoffed. “I do not stammer!”

“Yeah, and I don’t fancy Garreth,” she replied sarcastically. “Admit it, you’ve got a crush on Ominis.”

“That’s ridiculous,” you asserted, glaring at her.

She raised a hand to her lips to stifle a giggle. “Then why’s your face match Garreth’s luscious locks right now?”

“Oh, shut it!” you said, increasing your pace so that Poppy fell behind.

She just laughed at you. “You’re only proving my point, you know!” she called after you.

Poppy elbowed you sharply between your ribs. You’d gone far too long without replying. “Ow!” you hissed at her.

Ominis had a nervous look on his face. “Sorry?” he asked.

“Oh, no, that wasn’t at you,” you said quickly. “I mean, I’d love to study with you.”

His expression immediately brightened. “Wonderful! When are you free?” he said.

“How about now?” you suggested as you began to pack up your things.

“Oh, I don’t want to interrupt,” Ominis said.

“No, it’s fine,” you insisted. You shot Poppy a reproachful look. “I’m suddenly feeling unsafe here in the library.”

Poppy stuck her tongue out at you. “Yes, I need to go help Professor Howin feed the thestrals, anyway. You two have fun,” she said much too giddily.

You sent her one more glare as you slung your bag over your shoulder. “So, shall we use the Room of Requirement?” you asked Ominis.

“That sounds perfect!” he replied brightly.

You led Ominis out of the library and started the long climb up to the 7th floor of the astronomy tower. You were glad to stretch your legs after sitting in the library for so long.

“I don’t know how you can keep those carnivorous trees straight in your head,” you commented as you strode down a long corridor. “They look exactly the same to me when they’re not in bloom.”

“Do they?” he replied, sounding intrigued.

For a moment, you wanted to sink through the floor. Obviously, the fact that the two trees looked alike was of little consequence to him. “Sorry, I wasn’t even thinking.”

Ominis chuckled. “It’s all right,” he said, clearly amused. “It’s strange to think that they seem so similar to you. They feel quite different. The jacaranda tree has very rough bark, and the geogalinivore has waxy leaves. Plus, it has a sweet smell – sort of like oranges.”

“That’s actually very helpful. Thank you,” you said.

He smiled softly at you. You couldn’t help but notice how one of the beauty marks on his left cheek disappeared into his dimple when he smiled. “I’m glad to be of service,” he replied.

You could feel your face flush, though you had no reason to be blushing. You were relieved when you reached the 7th floor and the door to the Room of Requirement appeared. You cleared your throat. “Right, well, we’re h-here,” you said, cringing at yourself for tripping over the words.

Ominis held the door open for you as you entered the Room of Requirement. “I appreciate you helping me practice. Sharp’s class was hard enough when I knew what I’d be expected to brew. Having to prepare to make any one of four potions has been quite stressful.”

“It is a bit ridiculous,” you agreed as you started pulling ingredients out of your cabinet.

“Honestly! It’s hard enough keeping the ingredients for one potion straight – let alone for the Elixir to Induce Euphoria, Draught of Living Death, Veritaserum, and Amortentia,” he said.

“It is a lot,” you said. “Where should we start?”

“Hm…Well, I don’t think I would be very productive after testing potions for sleep or euphoria. We’d best leave those for later,” he replied. “What do you think? Amortentia or Veritaserum?”

“Amortentia’s easy enough to test. We can tell if it’s right just by how it looks and smells. Let’s start with that,” you suggested.

Ominis smirked. “You just don’t want me getting you to spill all your secrets,” he teased.

You chuckled. “You’re right; I don’t,” you agreed honestly. You weren’t exactly a secretive person ever since you didn’t have to hide your ancient magic anymore. However, the thought of not being ableto hide anything if you wanted to was terrifying.

“Amortentia it is, then!” Ominis said. “It’s the one I’m best at, anyway.”

He lit the flame to heat the cauldron before beginning to grind the moonstone with a mortar and pestle.

“So, what does Amortentia smell like to you?” he asked, chatting as he worked.

“I’m not sure,” you admitted as you leaned a hip against the bench.

“What do you mean you’re not sure? Were you holding your breath when we brewed it last week?” he teased. He cracked two ashwinder eggs into the cauldron before adding the powdered moonstone and stirring it together.

“No! I just…Well, I guess it’s that it doesn’t smell like anything to me,” you admitted.

“You must be joking. Surely you smelled something,” he replied incredulously.

“Just the usual musky dungeon,” you joked. “I thought I’d just brewed it wrong at first, but yours didn’t smell like anything to me, either.”

His brows drew together. “That is curious. I know I made mine right, because it…Well, it worked for me,” he said, his cheeks colouring a bit. “Do you just not find anyone attractive, then?” he added casually as he began cutting the thorns off of some rose stems.

“I don’t know. I mean, I used to think I did, but…now I’m not so sure,” you replied. “I don’t know what could be wrong with me to not smell anything if I did like someone.”

“I’m certain there’s nothing wrong with you, MC,” Ominis replied.

You sighed. “I hope not,” you replied before biting your bottom lip anxiously. “I thought maybe everyone was lying about smelling different things, and it’s really just an odourless potion. But I checked three different texts in the library, and they all said the same thing Professor Sharp did about the smell being unique to what each person finds attractive.”

“It’s definitely not odourless,” Ominis replied with a smirk. He shook his head as if to snap himself out of something before clearing his throat. He turned his attention back to the potion.

He added the thorns to the cauldron before beginning on the petals. You watched his hands as he plucked the petals off the stems, stacked them neatly, and rolled them together before slicing them into thin, even strips. He was quite skilled in his technique. Despite sharing a bench in potions all year, you’d never really noticed how fluidly he worked. There was an almost entrancing nature to the graceful movements.

“So, what does it smell like to you?” you inquired as you forced yourself to stop staring at the veins winding over his wrists and across the backs of his hands out to his slender fingers. You had always thought there was something nice about his hands.

“Oh, there is no way I’m admitting that,” he replied.

“But I told you when you asked,” you argued.

He rolled his eyes at you. “Nothing doesn’t count as an answer.”

“But it’s the truth! I can’t help that I didn’t smell anything,” you argued.

“I’m still not telling,” he insisted. He added the rose petals to the potion. His brow furrowed as his fingers skimmed over the fronts of several bottles. “Which is the pearl dust?”

“Third from the right,” you said before letting out a laugh as a realisation struck you.

“What?” he asked a bit defensively. “Did I grab the wrong one?” He shook the sealed bottle by his ear to listen to its contents shift within.

“No, that’s the pearl dust. I just…” You giggled again, and his scowl deepened. “I just realised that’s the last ingredient and the first thing I’ve helped you with. Seems like you barely need me here.”

He relaxed almost instantly, even laughing a bit himself. “Well, it’s much easier to brew here,” he explained. “I know which ingredients are which when they’re in my own containers – and even most of yours at this point – but almost all of Sharp’s bottles are identical. I have to figure out what’s in each one every time I pick it up. Sometimes it takes four or five tries to find what I’m looking for. It wastes so much time.”

“That sounds extremely frustrating,” you said sympathetically.

“It is,” he lamented as he added a spoonful of pearl dust to the cauldron. He stirred it clockwise three times before lowering the flame. “There! It should just need to simmer for a bit, and then we’ll see how it turned out.”

“I’m sure it’s perfect,” you said as you settled into a high-backed chair, kicking your feet up on the ottoman in front of it.

“I appreciate your confidence in me,” he said. “You know, I was even worse at potions when I was younger. I tried summoning the ingredients to myself in the early years, and it was usually a disaster. In first year, we had to brew a burn salve during our exams, and I simply could not find the dittany, even after sifting through all the ingredients on my bench three times. I gave up and summoned it, and it knocked over all the bottles in front of it on its way to me. They rolled all over the bench, and I had nearly plunged my hand straight into my cauldron trying to put them back in order. During another exam, I tried to summon flobberworm mucus, and all the bottles of the stuff came flying towards me at the same time.” He laughed. “It was all over me, my bench, the floor. Amit nearly slipped in it trying to come over and help. Professor Sharp was livid, but I think he felt too badly for me to give me detention.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, as well. “Oh, I’d have died on the spot!” you said.

“I nearly did. It was utterly horrifying,” he said. “I pretended to be sick for three days after that because I couldn’t stand the thought of facing everyone. I even had Sebastian bring me food so that I didn’t have to go out to the Great Hall. But I’ve learned to bounce back from my Blind Boy Moments quite quickly since.”

“Could Sharp not just label the ingredients for you?” you asked.

Ominis scoffed. “No, he insists that every good potions student should be able to identify the ingredients on their own,” he said, exasperated. “He wouldn’t even let me come in beforehand to label them myself because other students might see them. He also won’t let me use my own containers because it’s all got to be ‘standardised’ so it’s fair.”

“Well, that’s quite the opposite of fair! He’s putting you at a disadvantage,” you said. You could feel yourself getting angry on Ominis’s behalf.

“I am perfectly capable of identifying the ingredients. Just because I can’t see them doesn’t mean I’m incompetent,” he said bitterly.

You were taken aback as his ire turned toward you. “I wasn’t trying to imply that you are, Ominis, I swear!” you said earnestly. “It just seems unreasonable that he won’t accommodate you at all. It’s so frustrating. I have an uncle who’s blind. He wasn’t born that way – he had an accident. And he’s a Muggle. So…it’s a bit different, obviously. But he’s worked in kitchens all his life. When he first went blind, he couldn’t cook anymore. But his boss’s wife, Marjorie, was blind, too. She taught him how to navigate the kitchen again without being able to see. They made adjustments to things so he could keep working there.”

“You have a blind uncle?” he asked, seeming shocked.

“Almost all my life. He married my aunt when I was just a baby,” you explained. “He cooks even better than a house-elf, too! Don’t tell Feenky I said that, though. Or Deek, for that matter.”

“I can’t believe you have a blind uncle,” Ominis said, still stunned.

“Really?” you asked. “Why not?”

He shrugged. “I’ve never met another blind person,” he said.

“Never?” you said, surprised.

“Not once,” he confirmed. “My parents weren’t exactly looking to find me a support group. It’s exceptionally rare in the wizarding world, anyway. So, they sort of just kept me hidden away until school. They hadn’t even expected I’d get a letter even though I clearly had magic. It wasn’t until I figured out how to navigate by wand that they stopped treating me like a doll instead of a child. Even my Aunt Noctua was rather overbearing. No one ever believed I could do something myself until I showed them I could.”

“I can’t imagine how difficult it was going through all of that on your own,” you said.

Ominis gave a haughty huff. “Yes, well, I think I’ve done all right for myself,” he said firmly, crossing his arms protectively over his chest.

“You’ve done more than all right, I’d say,” you argued. “Which reminds me, you still have to tutor me in herbology after this.”

He chuckled. “Don’t worry; I haven’t forgotten,” he said.

“You’d better not have,” you said sternly. Your severe expression didn’t last, though. You couldn’t help but smile around him. “Wait, so, if you didn’t have anyone to help you figure things out, did you invent the spell that lets you read books?”

“Ah, well, I suppose I wasn’t entirely on my own. Sebastian found that spell in an old tome in the library. Some languorous 17th-century scholar grew weary of having to keep his eyes open whilst reading,” he replied. “It worked quite well in my favour.”

“If there’s one thing Sebastian excels at, it’s research,” you replied.

“Yes, and it’s been both a blessing and a curse in my life,” he said irritably.

“I feel the same,” you said wearily.

Ominis spun back toward the potions station. “It smells like the potion’s ready,” he announced.

You got up and walked over to inspect it. “Mother-of-pearl sheen. Perfect spirals of steam. Excellent work, indeed, Ominis.”

He blushed at your praise. “Any essence of musky dungeon emanating from it?” he joked.

You laughed. You leaned over the cauldron and breathed in deeply to play along. “Oh,” you said, caught off guard by the smell. “Yeah, actually. It…” You took in another breath. It was masked beneath the cologne Ominis was wearing, but you could distinctly smell the cool, earthy scent that permeated the lower levels of the castle. “It does.”

“Merlin, MC! You don’t have a crush on Professor Sharp, do you?” he asked, aghast.

“Gods, no!” you replied immediately. “It’s not the dungeons, anyway. It’s different. But…familiar.”

You tried to smell it again, but it was still too hard to tell. You hadn’t realised earlier just how strong Ominis’s cologne was that day. Usually, you found the scent rather pleasant, but, currently, it was making it extremely difficult to smell anything else. You grabbed a phial and poured some of the potion into it. “I can’t tell what it is. I need to smell it in fresh air.”

“Are you trying to tell me that I smell foul?” Ominis demanded as you walked away from him.

“No, not at all,” you said before taking another sniff of the potion. “It’s just that your–”

Your voice died in your throat as two realisations struck you simultaneously. The first was that the earthy scent you had identified was the exact smell of the Undercroft. The second was that you still smelled Ominis’s cologne just as strongly even though you were on the opposite side of the room from him. The phial slipped from your hand and shattered on the wood floor.

“Are you all right?” Ominis asked, rushing over to you in a panic. “Did the potion burn you? I heard glass break. Did you get cut?”

He took both of your hands in his to feel for any injuries. The tips of his fingers brushed gently over your skin, and it sent a shiver up your spine.

“Sorry, no, I’m fine. I just–I hadn’t realised…something,” you said. You heart felt like it was beating out of your chest. Poppy had been right. You did fancy Ominis.

Ominis released one of your hands to raise his to your cheek. “Are you certain that you’re okay, MC?” he asked.

Your skin burned hot under his touch. “Y-yes, of course. I was just surprised when I placed the smell,” you said.

He tilted his head in interest. “Oh? What is it?” he asked.

You bit into your lower lip, keeping yourself silent as you wavered on whether to confess. He did seem to be rather doting at the moment. You wondered if he might return your affections.

“Perhaps I should’ve brewed the Veritaserum first, after all,” Ominis joked. “Maybe then I could finally get you to tell me what you smell.”

You laughed. “That’s not necessary. I just…Well, I’m pretty sure it’s, um…the Undercroft,” you said. Your nerves increased with every word, but you felt a flood of relief after getting them all out.

“Oh,” Ominis said uncomfortably. His whole body went rigid before his hands dropped away from you. “I…I see.”

“Ominis, I…” you started, trying and failing to figure out how to take the words back. You imagined the mortification you were experiencing was similar to how he had felt standing covered in flobberworm mucus in front of his peers.

“Well, I suppose I should still tell you what I smell, since you told me what you do,” he said sombrely. “Though, I can’t imagine it will be all that surprising.” He took a steadying breath. “It smells like old parchment, like those dusty pages Professor Weasley had you collecting last year. And I smell the mallowsweet you always carry around with you. And your shampoo. I always smell it when you hug me or fall asleep with your head on my shoulder.” He cleared his throat. “So…there you have it.”

“Are you upset about this?” you asked, bewildered by his tense reaction.

He forced a laugh. “What? No, of course not!” he insisted, but it wasn’t quite convincing. “I’m happy for you.”

“Happy for me?” you repeated, even more confused.

“Both of you, I mean,” he clarified, giving you a pained smile. “Although I’ve never asked Sebastian about his feelings toward you, with the way he flirts with you, I’m sure he reciprocates.”

“You think I fancy Sebastian?” you asked.

“Well, he’s the one who showed you the Undercroft,” he replied simply.

“Ominis, you’re the one he learned about it from. You’re the one I hang out with there. It’s rosewood and jasmine from your cologne that I smell in that bloody potion!” you said.

His brows knit together in confusion. “I thought you just smelled the Undercroft?” he said.

“Well, that’s what I thought when I was standing next to you – and in class last week,” you said. “You were right there, so I didn’t realise the smell of you was coming from the cauldron instead of…you know…you.”

His features went slack. “Oh…” he said awkwardly.

“Yeah…” you replied similarly.

“I’m a massive idiot,” he said, shaking his head at himself.

You smiled. “Yeah,” you said. “We kind of both are, aren’t we?”

“It would appear so,” he agreed. He laughed as he stepped closer and wrapped his arms around your waist. “Well, this has certainly been an illuminating study session.”

You melted into him instantly. “Indeed, it has.”

“You smell wonderful, you know,” he said as he nuzzled his nose against yours.

You giggled in response. “You smell quite nice, as well,” you replied.

“I taste even better,” he said cheekily.

Your gaze immediately dropped to his lips. “Is that so?” you asked, your voice coming out husky.

“I can prove it if you’d like,” he said. His breath fanned over your lips as he spoke.

“Yes, I think you should,” you replied. “For…educational purposes.”

Ominis’s lips brushed against yours almost tentatively before he leaned in to interlock them. His heat sank into your body as he held you firmly against his chest. You snaked your arms up behind his neck as you kissed him back. Being held by Ominis – and kissed by him – felt right. You wanted to stay wrapped in his arms forever. If you could’ve, you would have fused into him so you never had to be apart again.

You didn’t know how long it was before Ominis broke the kiss, but you knew it was too soon. “I still have to return the favour for you helping me with potions,” he said.

“Yes, right. The herbology,” you replied, still breathless from the kiss. You had forgotten about those bloody shrubs altogether.

“Actually, I was thinking we should work on divination, instead,” he said innocently, but there was a hint of a smirk on his lips.

You arched a brow at him. “Oh?” you asked. “Are you even taking divination?”

“No. I can’t exactly read tea leaves or look in a crystal ball,” he stated. The smirk spread on his lips. “But if I could, I’d see me in your future.”

You laughed. “You’ve been spending too much time with Sebastian,” you chided. “His terrible jokes are rubbing off on you.”

“You’re absolutely right, darling!” he said with a false gravity to the words. “I’d like to fix that as soon as possible by spending more time with you, instead.”

“I’d like that,” you said, unable to stop beaming at him.

“Me, too. Especially if it involves kissing you again,” he said.

You blushed. “I think that could be arranged,” you replied.

[sayafics]

Envious Cravings

This is my first time writing smut, so I hope I did okay :)

Criston Cole x Targaryen!OC x voyeur!Daemon Targaryen

Part 2

Masterlist

Daemon walked leisurely down the corridor, his footsteps echoing down the empty halls. He had left Rhaenyra asleep, too worn out by the ordeals of the night - their dinner had been a failure, Aemond and Aegon had riled up Jace and Luke and then humiliated them as though they were nothing but the scum on the bottom of their shoes.

Daemon let his thoughts wander for a moment, past his obsessions, and past his loyalties - the boys were bastards, yes. But they were Rhaenyra's sons.

They were also unskilled and untrained.

They fell into submission under the brutal hands of Aemond and the drunken grasp of Aegon with ease.

These boys claimed to be dragons, but the wavering bravery of sheep ran through their blood instead.

He bit his cheek in frustration, unsure of where he was going as he deliberated such realisations.

Rhaenyra's children were bethrothed to his own, and so if they were to unite as one, then one day, Daemon's blood would sit upon the throne of the Seven Kingdoms and become Lord of the Tides.

It seemed like everything he had always wanted. It seemed like the desires that had set him alight all those decades ago were slowly becoming true.

And yet, in the light of who his children would marry - weak and spineless boys in comparison to the fair-headed Hightower spawns - he found himself swamped with bother and doubt.

How would they fair as a King and as a Lord?

How would they fare as a husband? As a father? As a protector?

They fail to protect even their own reputations, they allow their names to become sullied by the whispers of the Kingdom and refute to take a stance against them - hiding behind their mother's full figure like babes who still suck upon a bosom, instead of the men they ought to be.

There was a sour taste upon his tongue as he reluctantly admitted to himself that the Hightower boys had the power Rhaenyra's children did not.

Although they were all half-blooded Targaryens, the dragon's breath ran strong through the Hightower heirs.

And yet the throne would go to Rhaenyra, and though pure-blooded she may be, her children were not.

At least not the ones she shared with a long and dead Ser Harwin Strong.

He clicked his teeth, mind reeling as a puddle of confusion and frustration began to pool over.

Daemon looked around him, eyes frantic in search for a distraction - for something, someone he could let his frustrations out upon.

Perhaps a knight he could duel and bury the hilt of his sword within.

Perhaps a maiden he could roughen and have his way with.

Little guilt washed over him at that point, his mind fogged with the prospects of his future. Of the future of his daughters, in the hands of boys instead of men.

Daemon came across an empty corridor, vast and deep leading down into his old chambers from his days as a young man when his father was still brazen and breathing.

He looked upon the hall in sadness now, a melancholic hue that melted into confusion as he realised the halls rang empty of life - of knights.

Did no one live amongst these corridors any longer? Still, with the vast size of the Keep, all halls should remain occupied - for the safety of the King.

He wandered down the corridor, wanting to see how dismal the place had become in his absence. Wanting to see if the disease of the Seven had reached his chambers and swamped them over.

Daemon searched for a twinge of life within the corridor, a whisper of a being, a shadow of a creature.

But the corridor was quiet and bare, as though Alicent had deemed it unworthy of dignifying with her banners and trinkets.

Dsemon scoffed under his breath at the thought, but the sound was cut off by another - shallow and soft.

It sounded again, now desperate against the silence which echoed around him.

And again.

And again.

A woman. A young woman, who seems to have been on the brink of pleasure.

The sound rang again, breathy and rasped as though she had been screaming for hours now in search of an insatiable pleasure.

Daemon felt his cock twitch at the sound, the desperate moans causing him to reel further in search of the source.

He came to a stop in front of a familiar set of doors - his old chambers.

He thinks he should be angry, digusted that a maid or servant would use his room and sully it with their lust in his absence. But he simply holds his breath as he leans closer towards the door.

The moans are clearer now, as are the frenzied whispers of the girl- "please. Ple- don't stop~ oh, more."

In between such sinful pleas, Daemon hears the drawn-out groans of a man - was this a maiden and a knight? Sneaking away from their nightly duties to bask in the pleasures of a nefarious act?

Oh, how he could barge through those doors right now. How he could send fear shooting down their spines and have their faces flush with shame instead of pleasure. How he could join the knight in his wicked games and make the quiet maid come undone with his deft fingers, skillful tongue and thick cock.

Oh, how he could.

But Rhaenyra.

He clenches his eyes shut against the thought - what little guilt he believed existed alone now began to build.

Fine.

He would not join.

But what was the harm in watching.

Daemon steps back from the door, his footfalls soft and his moves almost silent. He makes his way to a ridge within the walls he knows too well, prying them open with practised ease.

He slips into the dark embrace of the tunnels who welcome him with glee, as though he had only now returned home.

Daemon makes his way through the tunnels, following the path he memorised during his youth. It did not take long before he heard the moans in earnest, heard the girl become desperate and frantic under the relentless possession of a man starved.

Daemon's hand brushed against the border of the painting, which concealed the tunnels from the chambers that were once his.

He pushed it open carefully, the slow and whining creak barely audible over the sound of the girl's mewls and the man's praises.

His eyes scanned the room first, making sure no others were about whom could warn the vivacious lovers of his ill-attention.

The first thought that washed over him was how different his old chambers looked now - splattered in such a feminine touch that it had almost lost every essence to which made the chambers Daemon's.

Lavish furs and pillows, drapes of satins and silk, carpentry made of the rarest of materials and most expensive paints and polishes.

This was not the room Daemon recalled - not the childhood he had left.

A drawn-out wail pulled his attention away, his eyes now landing on the bed.

Amusement flickered across his features, a laugh of incredulity almost escaping him as he watched the scene unfold in front of him.

Laying on a bed of ivory fur, her figure nude and her hair laid astrewn, was his young niece - Visenya Targaryen.

But that was not what had surprised him - after all, he had pursued Rhaenyra in her youth. Should he have seen Aemond or Aegon ravishing her beneath her satin sheets, he would not have blinked an eye.

But no.

Instead, laying contently between her legs and feasting upon her sweet cunt was the Queen's most trusted Shield - Ser Criston Cole.

Daemon almost laughed, he wanted to walk into the room and humiliate the pair. But his cock twitched painfully at the sight in front of him - he hardened within his pants as he watched the pair with shallow breaths.

Visenya had her legs thrown over the knight's shoulders, thighs almost crushing his head as her fingers tugged at his dark locks.

Criston was almost as desperate in his movements as she was in her sounds, her hips rising with every swipe and lick as he held her down, his fingers pressing harshly into the softness of her thighs.

Criston's eyes were closed in bliss, his tongue laving through her folds and he circled her clit and suckled upon it. Visenya bit her lip, tears streaming down her face as she ground her bare cunt across Criston's fluttering tongue.

Criston lifted his head from between her thighs, littering kisses across her thighs - "fuck, you taste so good Princess."

He trailed kisses up her form, her arousal coating his lips and chin as he presses a firm kiss upon her lips. Visenya moans at the tangy taste, pushing her tongue into his mouth and drinking him in.

Daemon's hand brushed over his covered cock, touching himself from his hidden place.

Criston's fingers skimmed down her waist, fingers hovering over her cunt as she canted towards him, whines slipping past her lips.

"Please, touch me. I need you."

Daemon's hands slipped into his breaches, her breathy whines more than enough to have his cock begin to leak all over his hands. He swiped at the pre-cum, gathering it to spread across his twitching cock as he held it in a vice grip. He tugged at his length, his moves slow as he imagined his cock in the place of Criston's hand.

Criston gave into her fervored whispers, his fingers meeting her weeping cunt as he swiped across her entrance to her clit. He circled her clit lightly as Visenya clenched her eyes in frustration, she reached a hand down to pull him closer but Criston was stronger.

He placed fervent kisses across her neck, tracing his way across her body to her breasts. He mouthed at them, kissing and biting as his fingers began to circle her clit faster.

Visenya's back arched from the bed, her hands finding Criston's locks with aching desperation as she pulled him back towards her - "I need more."

Criston placed his head against hers, sighing softly into her parted lips, "my love, you know I cannot."

"You can. You simply do not wish to."

Her whispers sounded hurt, and for a moment, Criston stopped his gentle touches to sit back on his haunches and look at the girl.

"I do. You know I do. I would take you now if I could, but I would not risk your life like that."

Visenya sat up on the bed, eyes stinging as she spoke - "you mean, you would not risk my value. For what gain does a princess hold, if her cunt has been used by another."

Daemon rolled his eyes at that, his hand still within his breaches, and his body still tingling with pleasure as he watched the scene unfold in burning disinterest.

"Do not say that. You are worth more than anything- than anyone. You are all I seek, all I need."

"Then why will you not have me?"

Tears had welled up within her eyes now, trailing softly down her flushed cheeks as she looked at him pleadingly.

Daemon's brows quirked in interest, now this was fascinating. How the knight so easily denied the Princess' wishes, he did not know.

Daemon was sure if he had been there, feasting upon the delight between her thighs, he would have granted her every wish and every desire with no thought of the consequences.

Criston wanted to reach out, brush away her tears, and hold her tightly within his arms. But he was bound by his duties, and he was already spitting upon the vows he had made.

He had made his vows to Alicent, had promised his allegience to the Queen, and yet here he was struggling to not give all of himself to her daughter.

"Because I am not good enough for you. I am not worth something so precious and so pure. Because I am tainted and you are not."

"Then ruin me."

It was a whisper. An order. A demand and a plea.

Princesses did not beg, but perhaps this was the closest Visenya would get.

Criston looked into her eyes, searching for the assurance he needed. But he did not have much time to deliberate, as the shy and timid princess became coy as she crawled across the bed and into his lap.

She threw her legs onto either side of his hips, fingers dancing over his bare arms and watching gooseflesh break under her touch. Visenya dragged her nails across the flesh of his shoulders, admiring the way his eyes closed as he tried to hold himself back, the way his head tilted back and his breaths came to a whining stop.

For a moment, Daemon wished it was him sat under the girl. Wished that it was his skin marked by her, his pleas groaned into her ear, his hands upon her waist.

For a moment, Daemon forgot all about Rhaenyra and found himself lusting after Visenya.

"I cannot. If your mother was to find out, she-"

"She will not. It is only us here. Our secret. Our promise."

"I cannot."

"Criston."

His name was a pretty whine from her lips, and his eyes opened to meet her own that were wide and dark with lust. He leaned close to her, his lips brushing over her own as they gasped into each other - "one day."

"Today."

"One day. Soon, my love. I promise."

Visenya gave in, as she always did. Hot tears were tracking down her face as she kissed Criston with all the passion and love she was forced to hide from lingering eyes and suspicious gazes.

Criston grasped her face, his wretched desires making him so desperate to touch her, to hold her, to know that she is here within his arms and has not been shipped away to another Lord in a city too far to reach.

Visenya shifted, she gasped a delighted sound into the space between Criston's tender lips as her hips ground against his.

Criston threw his head back with a groan, "yes, that's a good girl. You're doing so good - so perfect, feels so good."

He nuzzled his head into the crook of her neck, biting and suckling the flesh there as his hands gripped her hips tightly and ground them against his.

From his place in the shadows, Daemon's desires began to burn once more as Visenya let out endless moans, wrapping her arms around Criston's neck as she moved in earnest.

There was no materials between them now, her bare cunt brushed against his hardened cock until there was a puddle of arousal settled between them. Still, they paid the mess no mind - lost in the gratification they felt in that moment.

Daemon's hand tightened around his length once more, pumping faster and harder as he watched Visenya come closer to the edge. He panted into the darkness, sweat beading on the back of his neck as he forced his eyes to stay focused on the trembling and whining girl.

"That's it," Criston whispered, "come on, cum for me, sweet girl. I know you can. Cum for me, just for me."

It seems those words were enough to throw her over the edge, wrapping her arms tighter around Criston's neck as a sharp cry escaped her.

Criston's moves became sloppy, his hips rutting up to meet hers and grinding against her flesh as he chased his own climax. He came with a rough groan, softly grinding their hips together as they rode out their orgasm.

Visenya whimpered, feeling sensitive but not wanting the shocks of pleasure that rumbled through her to stop.

She was about to pull away from Criston, ready to fall back in her bed and pull his body towards hers so he could hold her until dawn.

Instead, a quiet groan caught her attention - one that did not come from the distracted man beneath her, rather directly ahead of her.

In the cracks of the shadows, she could see the tell-tale flash of a fair-headed Targaryen. Her shoulders stiffened, hands reaching to pet Criston's hair as he whimpered against her flesh and rutted against her in seek of another climax.

Was this Aegon? Perhaps it was Aemond?

If so, surely they would not reveal her dalliances to the Court? To their mother?

But then she saw a slip of skin - a hardened jaw, an angled face, a mischevious grin.

Something that could only belong to one person.

Daemon.

Daemon knew he was caught, but he was so deep - so close to the brink of release, he could not stop.

His eyes clenched shut, teeth gritted to stop his groans escaping him and informing the knight of his presence too.

His cock was pulled out of his breaches, his hand pumping faster and tighter and he rutted into his own palm and imagined Visenya's tight and virgin hole in its place.

His head hit the wall next to the painting with a silent thud, white streaks splattering across his hands and out of the tunnel to paint the luscious rugs beneath him with his essence.

He panted like a dog, one so starved and so hungry, as his violet eyes met the scared and timid gaze of his niece.

Criston had stopped his ministrations now, his head laying contently in the valley of her breasts as he rubbed circles into the flesh of her waist. She continued to pet his hair, but her horrified glare was fixed upon the gap behind the painted frame.

Daemon knows.

Daemon saw.

And Daemon had pleasured himself at the sight.

She was not sure what her next move should be.

What his next move could be.

But she knew she would have to fix this. Otherwise, she could lose the man she held gently in her arms so quickly.

Taglist: @marihoneywk @hangmanscoming

[fatehbaz]

Endangered Indian sandalwood. British war to control the forests. Tallying every single tree in the kingdom. European companies claim the ecosystem. Spices and fragrances. Failure of the plantation. Until the twentieth century, the Empire couldn't figure out how to cultivate sandalwood because they didn't understand that the plant is actually a partial root parasite. French perfumes and the creation of "the Sandalwood City".

---

Selling at about $147,000 per metric ton, the aromatic heartwood of Indian sandalwood (S. album) is arguably [among] the most expensive wood in the world. Globally, 90 per cent of the world’s S. album comes from India [...]. And within India, around 70 per cent of S. album comes from the state of Karnataka [...] [and] the erstwhile Kingdom of Mysore. [...] [T]he species came to the brink of extinction. [...] [O]verexploitation led to the sandal tree's critical endangerment in 1974. [...]

---

Francis Buchanan’s 1807 A Journey from Madras through the Countries of Mysore, Canara and Malabar is one of the few European sources to offer insight into pre-colonial forest utilisation in the region. [...] Buchanan records [...] [the] tradition of only harvesting sandalwood once every dozen years may have been an effective local pre-colonial conservation measure. [...] Starting in 1786, Tipu Sultan [ruler of Mysore] stopped trading pepper, sandalwood and cardamom with the British. As a result, trade prospects for the company [East India Company] were looking so bleak that by November 1788, Lord Cornwallis suggested abandoning Tellicherry on the Malabar Coast and reducing Bombay’s status from a presidency to a factory. [...] One way to understand these wars is [...] [that] [t]hey were about economic conquest as much as any other kind of expansion, and sandalwood was one of Mysore’s most prized commodities. In 1799, at the Battle of Srirangapatna, Tipu Sultan was defeated. The kingdom of Mysore became a princely state within British India [...]. [T]he East India Company also immediately started paying the [new rulers] for the right to trade sandalwood.

British control over South Asia’s natural resources was reaching its peak and a sophisticated new imperial forest administration was being developed that sought to solidify state control of the sandalwood trade. In 1864, the extraction and disposal of sandalwood came under the jurisdiction of the Forest Department. [...] Colonial anxiety to maximise profits from sandalwood meant that a government agency was established specifically to oversee the sandalwood trade [...] and so began the government sandalwood depot or koti system. [...]

From the 1860s the [British] government briefly experimented with a survey tallying every sandal tree standing in Mysore [...].

Instead, an intricate system of classification was developed in an effort to maximise profits. By 1898, an 18-tiered sandalwood classification system was instituted, up from a 10-tier system a decade earlier; it seems this led to much confusion and was eventually reduced back to 12 tiers [...].

---

Meanwhile, private European companies also made significant inroads into Mysore territory at this time. By convincing the government to classify forests as ‘wastelands’, and arguing that Europeans would improves these tracts from their ‘semi-savage state’, starting in the 1860s vast areas were taken from local inhabitants and converted into private plantations for the ‘production of cardamom, pepper, coffee and sandalwood’.

---

Yet attempts to cultivate sandalwood on both forest department and privately owned plantations proved to be a dismal failure. There were [...] major problems facing sandalwood supply in the period before the twentieth century besides overexploitation and European monopoly. [...] Before the first quarter of the twentieth century European foresters simply could not figure out how to grow sandalwood trees effectively.

The main reason for this is that sandal is what is now known as a semi-parasite or root parasite; besides a main taproot that absorbs nutrients from the earth, the sandal tree grows parasitical roots (or haustoria) that derive sustenance from neighbouring brush and trees. [...] Dietrich Brandis, the man often regaled as the father of Indian forestry, reported being unaware of the [sole significant English-language scientific paper on sandalwood root parasitism] when he worked at Kew Gardens in London on South Asian ‘forest flora’ in 1872–73. Thus it was not until 1902 that the issue started to receive attention in the scientific community, when C.A. Barber, a government botanist in Madras [...] himself pointed out, 'no one seems to be at all sure whether the sandalwood is or is not a true parasite'.

Well into the early decades of twentieth century, silviculture of sandal proved a complete failure. The problem was the typical monoculture approach of tree farming in which all other species were removed and so the tree could not survive. [...]

The long wait time until maturity of the tree must also be considered. Only sandal heartwood and roots develop fragrance, and trees only begin developing fragrance in significant quantities after about thirty years. Not only did traders, who were typically just sailing through, not have the botanical know-how to replant the tree, but they almost certainly would not be there to see a return on their investments if they did. [...]

---

The main problem facing the sustainable harvest and continued survival of sandalwood in India [...] came from the advent of the sandalwood oil industry at the beginning of the twentieth century. During World War I, vast amounts of sandal were stockpiled in Mysore because perfumeries in France had stopped production and it had become illegal to export to German perfumeries. In 1915, a Government Sandalwood Oil Factory was built in Mysore. In 1917, it began distilling. [...] [S]andalwood production now ramped up immensely. It was at this time that Mysore came to be known as ‘the Sandalwood City’.

---

Text above by: Ezra Rashkow. "Perfumed the axe that laid it low: The endangerment of sandalwood in southern India." Indian Economic and Social History Review 51, no. 1, pages 41-70. March 2014. [Bold emphasis and some paragraph breaks/contractions added by me. Italicized first paragraph/heading in this post added by me. Presented here for commentary, teaching, criticism purposes.]

[abalidoth]

With all the attention on the film of Goncharov recently, I wanted to talk about a particular rabbit hole of mine from a few years ago: the obscure, little-known licensed Goncharov game for the Atari 2600.

Released in August of 1979 and developed by Sinneslöschen (a small German company that would later become better known for other titles), Goncharov (1979) is a fascinating case study in adaptation.

Many early video game adaptations of this era have little to nothing to do with their source material. On the surface, Goncharov is the same: a simplistic beat-em-up where our hero, armed with a tommy gun (apparently only able to use it in melee range) kills a series of waves of faceless, suited mooks. Nothing to do with the morally complex, thoughtful film.

However, there was clearly a film lover among the programmers at Sinneslöschen.

The first thing is the focus on the film's consistent clock motif. Every level has both a prominent red clock in the background art, as well as a time indicator in the corner, indicating the progress of one particularly violent night in the lives of these characters. The clock's prominence is eerie and out of place, drawing attention to itself as a strangely off-scale element of the skyline. It gives a true sense of the inexorable closing of the night that gives the film its poignancy -- clumsy, but necessarily so.

The second interesting aspect is the choice of protagonists. Plural.

Levels alternate between Goncharov and Katya. Mechanically they are identical, but the scenes they progress through roughly match the plot and progression of the film. (The screengrab above is, of course, from the boat scene.)

Also of note is what Goncharov (1979) has to say about the ending of Goncharov (1973). Specifically, with regards to Katya's fate. Katya's ultimate ending is vague in the film, subject to a large degree of speculation on the part of watchers. In the game, though, despite her increasingly bloodied white dress, she emerges unquestionably triumphant even as her husband lies defeated. (That she rides off into the sunset with Sofia isn't explicitly shown, but you'd better believe that's my personal read.)

I'm not really sure what Sinneslöschen were trying to say with this. Certainly this overtly girlbossish message has been blamed for the game's dismal commercial failure and general obscurity; but it's difficult to see what the purpose of that adaptational decision was. (Other than just throwing more fuel on the already raging fire that is the speculation about the end of Goncharov 73.)

[fluentmoviequoter]

No Dreams in the Wasteland

Pairing: Jim Street x fem!reader

Summary: Years after Jim left Long Beach, he calls you from Los Angeles, and you do everything you can to get back to him.

Warnings: r and Jim were friends in Long Beach, angst to fluff, song lyrics are italicized

Word Count: 3.2k+ words

A/N: Jim Street owns this album in my mind. After months in my drafts, I hope you enjoy!🤍

“Hey, it’s Street – uh, Jim Street. You probably know that. Or maybe you don’t remember me, I don’t know, I shouldn’t just assume… This isn’t- I’m just going to start over. This is Jim Street. I’ve been thinking about you recently; longer than that, really. I’m living in Los Angeles now; I have a great job and amazing friends. I think I’m finally figuring out this adulting, life thing if you can believe it. I- I’d love to see you, so if you’re ever in LA, give me a call.”

You listen to the voicemail until you have it memorized. Jim Street was an important part of your life, and you loved him before you truly understood what love was. Hearing from him after all this time makes you realize that something needs to change. The nights after Jim left Long Beach were filled with dreams of him, but as life moved on and he did too, you stopped dreaming altogether. Street took a part of you with him when he left, and a surprise voicemail offers a chance to get it, and him, back.

The train ticket clutched in your hand emptied your savings account. Life was never going to be easy, but the decision to spend your last dime on a one-way train ride to find Jim Street again was. You couldn’t sleep during the night leading up to your departure, but when you sit down on the train platform to wait, you close your eyes to think of Jim and how amazing your reunion will be.

A train whistle blowing and wheels turning pull you from your dreamless sleep. Leaving your bag, you run toward the train and raise your ticket over your head. While you rush after it, begging the conductor to stop, memories of Jim run through your head.

It’s over, though, because if you miss the train, no, it ain’t gonna wait for you. Your ticket is nonrefundable, nontransferable, and now it’s nothing more than a useless piece of paper that symbolizes how trapped you are. In a life with no money, you are stuck with no hope and no chance of seeing Street any time soon. Even worse, you realize as you walk out of the station with nothing but your ticket, you can’t even dream of a better life with him because there are no dreams in the wasteland.

The following morning, with no phone, wallet, or future, you set out to find a job. If you can’t visit Street, or even listen to his voicemail again, you’ll have to work until you can. There’s a letter from a debt collector in your mail as you leaf through rejection letters regarding job applications you submitted previously. Falling back in your chair, you sigh and look around your dismal apartment. There’s a piece of paper beside you, and you decide to write a few goals. In high school, you and Jim wrote a list of things you wanted to do in life. It seems like he's working steadily down his list, while you’re stalled somewhere between “graduate” and “get a job I love.” The paper is quickly covered in your goals, and you pin it to the back of your door so you can see it every morning. Three goals will get you back to Jim, and you will do everything it takes to: save all your money, pay off all your debts, and always be afraid of all the failures and regrets. The second part is more of a reminder, but you refuse to get comfortable in your sad excuse of a life without Jim Street again. He’s the prize on the other side of this wasteland, and even if you only get a moment with him, it’s worth everything you risk.

Within a week of the disaster at the train station, you have two full-time jobs, a few hours to sleep each night, the cheapest flip phone you could find, and a growing bank account. Living with your goals and Jim Street in mind, you buy only what you need, and the lack of free time makes it easy to avoid spending money.

On your first day off, after a month of working nonstop, you clean your apartment. There’s a large pile of things you don’t use, and you use your laptop to find a second-hand store that will buy them. It won’t get you much money, but a few dollars in your pocket is the equivalent of a few miles closer to Jim. Los Angeles isn’t far, but there are things in Long Beach that you have to deal with before you leave. Granted, you’re unsure if Jim even wants to see you now. You’re done living without him, you decide as you gather the items to sell, and even if the world’s on fire and you’re dancin’ with the dead, you will find Jim Street again.

As you wait for the employees to examine and price your items, you wait at the counter and open your flip phone. Jim likely doesn’t have your new number, but the fact that he found your previous number makes you hope he’ll reach out again. You didn’t call back either, though.

Someone says your name as the bell over the door chimes. You turn and see a former classmate; a girl who knew you when Jim was still around.

“Jess,” you greet. “Hi.”

“I didn’t know you shopped here!” she says as she pulls you into a hug.

“Oh, I don’t. Just selling a few things.”

“We ladies can always use a little extra spending money, right?”

Jessica laughs and you wonder why she’s talking to you. There’s no reason for her to remember you, let alone be willing to strike up the first conversation you’ve ever had.

“So, did you and Jim ever tie the knot?” she asks. “I always wanted a chance with him, but ya know, girl code. You were so close I’d never do that.”

“Um.”

She grabs your left hand and frowns dramatically. “You didn’t? Or you did? Babe, I’m so sorry, either way. But…”

You prepare yourself for her to ask for his number or to blame you somehow. Everyone’s a stranger, but they’re actin’ like my friends to get what they want, you think. Long Beach has been empty for you since Jim left, and your lonely life is only invaded when someone needs something or thinks you can get them to Jim.

The first employee you spoke to returns, and you cheer internally as you excuse yourself from Jessica. She nods and pats your hand before turning to look at shoes.

“Friend of yours?” the employee asks with a knowing look.

“Something like that,” you reply. “Do you have good news for me?”

“I do actually. Some of this is from designer brands that have been retired; are you sure you want to part with them?”

“Designer?” you repeat. “I don’t have designer clothes.”

“Oh, these have been out of circulation for decades. You’d be surprised how many are handed down or found in thrift shops. Regardless of how you got them, our final offer is $5,000 for all of it. And if you have more, we’re prepared to pay the same rate.”

“Five thou- what are the brands? I can look and see if I have more.”

“I’ll take that as you accept?” the employee interjects with a smile.

“Yes, yes, I accept. Thank you so much. You have no idea how much I need this.”

She winks as she passes you an envelope and a piece of paper with several brand names written on it. You gratefully accept them and place them in the safest zipper in your purse before turning toward the door. Jessica calls out and your shoulders drop as you smile and walk to her side.

“You make good money?” she asks.

“More than I expected,” you answer. “Have a good one, Jessica.”

“No, babe, wait. We should go shopping tomorrow and you can tell me all about Jim!”

“I’ve got to work tomorrow, so maybe next time,” you lie before rushing out of the store.

You will sell all of your clothes if you’re going to get this much money for them. Having two streams of steady income has made a sizeable dent in your debt and rebuilt your savings account, but $5,000 will get you within inches of selling your apartment and buying another one-way train ticket. You won’t fall asleep this time, and you won’t miss the train for any reason, because you’re done expecting people and things to wait for you. This may be the wasteland, but you’re learning that you deserve more, and you can do the work to get there.

After you rip apart your closet again and fail to find more formerly designer clothes, you sit back. The fears, doubts, and insecurities in your head come and go, but you can drown them out in a moment. You close your eyes, and the voicemail from Street plays in your mind and you forget all the voices in your head. Thinking of a man from your past, the man you wanted to be your future, is the secret to forgetting them and remembering who you are.

Several weeks after Street left the voicemail, Luca has grown to anticipate the first words out of his mouth when he returns from late-night motorcycle rides.

“Any messages for me?” Street asks.

Luca shakes his head and says, “Nah, man. I’m sorry.”

Street runs his fingers through his hair and looks longingly at the phone as he sits. “I think it’s time for me to move on, Luca.”

“Dude, you can’t give up on her! Clearly, she means a lot to you; I mean, c’mon, you have dreams about her!”

“Maybe I shouldn’t have confided that,” Street murmurs. “She’s not going to call back, Luca. It’s never going to happen.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Weeks without an answer typically means there isn’t one coming.”

“You can’t pick who you fall for, Street. Or who you dream about.”

Street stands and slaps his hands against his thighs as he says, “Then I guess it’s time for me to find another dream.”

The refund in your bank account makes you groan. There are more than enough funds to cover the weekly payment to your debt repayment company. You find the number and wait to speak to a representative as you look around your empty apartment. Everything you have left, all that you care about, can fit in a single suitcase, and you’re ready for the moment that you fill the case and leave this part of your life behind.

“I just looked at your account, ma’am, and there is no outstanding balance. The refund was the difference of your payment,” the representative explains. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“Are you saying I don’t owe any more money?” you ask incredulously.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Um, yes, one more thing, please. Can you check all of my accounts?”

“I did. They are all at a balance of $0. You have paid off all debts with our company.”

“Thank you!” you cheer before hanging up.

You look at everything even remotely related to your money several times before grabbing a marker and approaching your door. You draw a line through save all your money and pay off all your debts. With an excited smile, you rip the paper down and lay it at the bottom of your suitcase. Once all of your belongings are in the suitcase, you grab your favorite book from the shelf. A picture of you and Street in high school falls out, and you look at it before placing it in your pocket.

After a stop to inform your landlord that you will not be renewing your lease next month and he can sell what remains in your apartment, you arrive at the train station.

“I need a one-way ticket to Los Angeles,” you say as you approach the ticket booth.

“No trains to Los Angeles ‘til tomorrow morning. 9:30 a.m.,” he replies.

“I’ll take it.”

You accept the ticket and sit with your legs over your suitcase. Trains come and go, and you look at the picture of you and Street: a couple kids in the heart of America. Hours pass, and as the sun sets, you know you won’t be able to sleep. You’ll wait forever at the station to go home to Jim Street.

When you step off the train in sunny Los Angeles, you’re suddenly reminded that you don’t know where to go from here. Phone books are a thing of the past, and you’re sure an internet search would be more of a wild-goose chase than anything. Despite this lack of direction, you smile and exit the station in search of a hotel. Once there, you Google Jim’s name and are surprised to see it in several news reports.

“Jim Street of LAPD S.W.A.T. did not comment…” you read quietly. “He did it.”

“I understand that I can’t see him, but could you tell him I’m here? He called me and I couldn’t call him back,” you explain. “Please just tell him?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” the disinterested officer says before turning back to his computer.

You sit in the L.A.P.D. lobby and run your finger over the edge of the picture.

“Officer Luca,” the officer you talked to calls.

You glance up but quickly return your eyes to the photo. It’s your only comfort: the picture and knowing that the man in it is somewhere in the same city.

“Excuse me,” a man says as he steps beside you. “I’m Officer Luca, can you come with me for a moment?”

“Sure, officer,” you answer.

He smiles at something as you slide with photo into your bag. You follow him wordlessly as you wonder if Jim is somewhere in these halls. Officer Luca leads you through the station before stopping suddenly.

“26-David!” he yells.

You follow Officer Luca’s line of sight and watch as Jim Street turns around. He looks at Luca with his brows furrowed before his eyes slide to you. You smile and wave shyly as Street walks toward you.

“Now who’s dreaming about the right girl?” Luca mutters under his breath.

“Hi,” you greet.

Jim smiles and says, “I thought you weren’t going to call.”

“That’s- that’s a long story, but I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he promises. “I have to work until 6, but I meant everything I said. Do you maybe want to get dinner or something?”

“I’d love that.”

“Where are you staying? I’ll pick you up.”

You tell him the name of your hotel, and he types it into his phone for safekeeping. You look between him and his phone, and he chuckles before offering it to you. After creating your contact, you send yourself a text, so you have his number, too. It’s as if a heavy weight is lifted, knowing that you can reach out whenever you want. Street places his phone back in his pocket and looks at you.

“Could I get a hug or something? It’s been years,” you whisper.

Street’s smile grows as he pulls you close. He wraps his arms over your shoulders as yours circle his waist. As he tightens his grip on you, he murmurs that he missed you and never wants the hug to end. You feel the same, but Street is called away, and you leave with a phone number, the prospect of a dinner, and an unspoken promise that things will be different now. Better.

“Officer Luca made it sound like you talk about me,” you say in the elevator of your hotel.

“You never leave my mind,” Jim replies, with his hand in yours.

“Even when you sleep?” you tease.

“Who do you think I dream about? Don’t you have a special someone in your dreams?”

You chew your bottom lip before answering, “I don’t dream.”

“I don’t mean actual dreams.”

“I know. I just- there’s no dreams in the wasteland, Street. And that’s where I’ve been for most of my life. It took everything I had to get here to see you. Why do you think it took me months?”

“What did you do?”

The elevator opens, and you walk silently through the lobby. Street pulls you to a stop on the sidewalk and looks into your eyes.

“I bought a train ticket the day after you called,” you begin. “But I missed the train and didn’t have enough money to buy another ticket. My phone was in my bag, and I left it at the station, so I had no way of calling you back. But because I spent the last of my savings on that ticket, I couldn’t pay my bills on time. It took working several jobs and barely sleeping, but I paid off all my debts. Except for one.”

“Being?”

“Everything I owe you.”

Street sighs and moves his hands up to your shoulders. “You don’t have to repay me for being your friend. When I said I wanted to see you, I wasn’t asking for anything more than your company.”

“I know, Street. My debt is not telling you how I felt before our lives stopped being connected. I wanted to tell you in high school, but I got scared.”

“You know how I felt in high school?” Street whispers. “I was in love with you, but I was terrified of losing you.”

“And now?”

“The same. With a little less fear. After all, you came all this way just to visit me, right?”

“Not exactly.”

Street’s brows furrow, and you smile.

“I left Long Beach. For good. I want to be wherever you are for as long as you’ll let me. I think I’m ready to leave the wasteland and get back to the life I always wanted, with you.”

Street nods slowly and leans toward you as he murmurs, “I think… I want to make up for lost time. The risk wasn’t worth it in high school; I wasn’t ready back then.”

“What do we have to lose now, Street?” you ask.

“More time. Too much.”

He pulls you against his chest and kisses you. The wasteland becomes a distant memory as you move with Street. Everything fades away as you show one another everything that you have felt for one another and communicate that the time apart was hard but worth it to get to this moment. You finally feel at home and like you’re living again. No longer are you living in a world on fire and dancin’ with the dead, but living in a world with Jim Street, where you breathe together, your hearts beat together, and his kiss gives you life. After you pull back, Jim leads you to his motorcycle and pulls you close.

“I could do that all night,” you say.

“I’ve been dreaming of kissing you since sophomore year,” Jim replies. “But that was far better.”

“No more being afraid of all the failures and regrets. I want us, Jim. Forever.”

“Alright,” he says with a dramatic sigh. “I guess I’ll just die every night.”

“What?”

He smiles as he says, “I’ve got a real bad feeling that your lips could kill. But I’ve always wanted to die for a night.”

You kiss Jim again, and the last few months become a memory only of his voicemail and loving Jim from a distance.

Surprise 2nd Song :)

[cissyenthusiast010155]

What Have I Done… ~Broken!Casey Novak xFem Wife!Reader

Summary— Occurs at the end of season 9/beginning of season 10. When Casey gets in trouble with Liz for committing a Brady violation, she goes home after a long day to Reader. Reader comforts Casey.

Mommy… Master List

Requests & Prompt-List

Warnings: angst, fluff, crying, implied exhaustion, light alcohol consumption, unhappy endings, etc.

Enjoy (;

Liz had given you a call earlier today and given you a heads up of what had gone down today.

You were anxious, biting your lip and nails, and fidgeting like crazy as you waited for Casey to come home. Finally, the door to your shared apartment opened. It creaked open, Casey entered the hallway, and then it creaked shut.

You were in the kitchen, already lightly nursing a glass of wine, standing behind the kitchen island, resting on the island for stability.

Hell, after what Liz has told you, you were sure you would both need the alcohol tonight…

Casey finally came into the kitchen, blazer and shoes still on and case in hand. He stopped at the entrance of the kitchen, froze right on spot.

“Hey Baby…” you gently spoke, as you came around the island, placing the glass down, and coming up to the redhead.

You placed your hands on her side and cheek, while Casey stood frozen still.

“H-hi…” she breathed out.

You looked into her eyes, they were filled with pain and agony. It broke your heart. You pulled your forehead against hers. Casey sighed a little in relief at your direct touch

“Case…” you whispered, “Liz called”

At your words, Casey pulled her head up and stepped back lightly. Suddenly, her briefcase slipped from her fingers and the contents scattered on the ground.

Her eyes began to a swell and her lips began to tremble.

“W-what…?” Casey choked out.

Your heart was being ripped to shreds now. You hated seeing the love of your life in this much pain.

“I talked to Liz. She told me… what happened, about you and the bar…” you softly spoke.

You saw the lump in her throat as Casey swallowed, and as she tried to suppress her tears.

“I’m— I’m a failure” Casey choked out, before she began uncontrollably sobbing.

You were quick to pull her into your embrace, cradling her form with all the love you could muster. Casey immediately melted into your touch, wrapping her hands around you. She instinctively buried her face in the crook of your neck.

“No no no, baby… you’re not a failure.” You whispered, comforting the woman.

“Y-yes I am…!” Casey croaked, in between sobs.

Tears were streaming down the redheads face and onto your shoulder and neck. But you didn’t mind.

“No Case…” you sighed, “You made a mistake… everyone does… and the committee will see that.” You whispered.

You got more uncontrollable sobs in response. You rubbed and caressed Casey in every place you could reach, and you could feel Casey starting to slowly calm, as you let her get it out.

“That’s it. good girl. Get it all out…” you comforted her gently, “How about a bath, hmmm baby…?”

Casey sniffled and nodded slowly into your shoulder. You smiled lightly and nodded, slowly and gently leading Case to your shared bathroom.

You turned the water on.

Then you slowly got her undressed, as well as yourself. Casey wasn’t sobbing uncontrollably anymore, but tears were still rolling off her cheeks and she was still sniffling. You lent her a hand to get into the half-filled tub, joining her promptly after.

Casey was quick to snuggle up to your naked frame, starting to cry again into your chest this time. You played with her hair lightly, gently reassuring her that it was going to be okay and that she was doing good.

Eventually, Casey’s sounds had faded and she started pawing at you.

“Hmmmm Case, what’s up…? Use your words for me, sweet girl…” you coaxed the redhead.

Casey blushed a little.

“Mm hungry…” she murmured.

“Makes sense. Good thing I made lasagna.” You hummed and nodded.

At this, Casey perked up. For a moment, her eyes weren’t dismal, they were hope-filled. But they soon returned to their saddened state.

You then helped Case out of the tub, and handed her a towel to dry off. You both got dressed in your pjs, before heading to the kitchen. You both sat down and you served the food.

Afterwards, you carried a now tired and cried out Casey to your shared bedroom. She immediately snuggled up as the little spoon in bed with you.

“Get some sleep, Case, that’s it… It’s all gonna be okay… we’ll fight this together… but not today. Tomorrow…” you softly spoke.

“Mhmmm… thank you, baby…” Casey murmured, “Don’t know how I got so lucky to be with you…”

“You? I’m the one who’s lucky… luckiest wife alive.” You chuckled.

And before you knew it, she was dozing off, with those little snores you always found so adorable…

~~~

Casey Novak Masterlist

[alliehew]

The Death of Violet’s Worldview

I just saw @nesta331917’s post about how Violet being unable to trust Xaden in Iron Flame makes complete sense and I just wanted to spit out my thoughts on that—and Violet’s characterization—because I completely agree!!

When I’m rereading I tend to fixate on Violet’s difficulty grappling with failure (to uncover the truth sooner, to save Liam, to protect her friends from the bitter truth & dangerous rebellion, to raise the wards in Aretia—whatever defeat she is internalizing at the moment) not only because I’m in this photo and I don’t like it, but also because it is such great characterization.

Violet previously protected the people she loves (and herself) by weaponizing the wealth of information she had, but now the very foundation she used to define herself has been ripped out from under her. Not only was she unaware of the reality of venin, wyvern, and the truth behind the attacks on Navarre’s wards, the entire rebellion that she (and her dad!! her favorite person!!) has studied and analyzed for her entire life was censored and propagandized by her government to shape public opinion and she was none the wiser.

For someone who is centered by facts, information, and truth, to learn that you’ve been on the wrong side of history at no fault—or choice—of your own is devastating. It’s a feeling of utter powerlessness and betrayal; no matter how many hours Violet had explored the archives, no matter how many times she reread the death tolls, maps, and battle strategies, no matter how ferociously she believed in the power of information, nothing could change the dismal reality that the truth was simply not accessible to her.

Not only that, but the discovery that her own mother was complicit in the death and destruction of entire provinces for the benefit of her country and children introduces a whole new burden of guilt and hypocrisy Violet didn’t know she complied with. Add in that (1) the man she’s just fallen in love with is leading a revolution against these terrors she knew nothing about, (2) Dain, Violet’s best friend since she was a child, stole her memories to aid in the hypocrisy of their government and nearly get her killed, and (3) her brother Brennan, whose death completely altered the fabric of her whole family and may have contributed to their father’s own death, is fucking ALIVE, and it’s the perfect (onyx) storm of disillusionment. Absolutely everything Violet held true came barreling down in a matter of weeks, and no amount of rereading or reanalyzing could mend the hurt or justify Navarre’s (and, from Violet’s perspective, her) lack of intervention.

Violet is selfless to a fault, and being misinformed about the horrors outside of the wards robbed her of her choice to defend the defenseless. Of course we saw her escape Basgiath/the “safety” of Navarre to join the revolution as soon as she could, but the feeling of failing not only those you love, but also countless others you didn’t even know were in peril is still so heavy. She also has consistently been targeted for being The General’s Daughter, and now the full implications of that association is branded on her like a third relic.

Of course Violet’s relationship with Xaden has been affected by the guilt, betrayal, and disillusionment that are ingrained within it, whether either of them has accepted it or not. Even if Xaden had nothing to do with the revolution and they were living happily ever after before graduation, once the truth about the dark wielders came to light and Violet didn’t know up from down I’m sure the identity crisis still would have (at the very least) strained their relationship.

Anyways.

I so desperately need Violet and Xaden to finally be able to finish their fight and figure out how to move forward while trusting each other.

Give Violet (And Xaden) A Break 2025, Pleeease Rebecca

[ladystoneboobs]

[Bran, to Theon:]“But you’re Father’s ward.” [Theon, to Bran:]“And now you and your brother are my wards. [...] You’ll tell them how you’ve yielded Winterfell to me, and command them to serve and obey their new lord as they did the old.” -Bran VI, aCoK “He[Ramsay] is a great hunter,” said Wyman Manderly, “and women are his favorite prey. He strips them naked and sets them loose in the woods. They have a half day’s start before he sets out after them with hounds and horns. From time to time some wench escapes and lives to tell the tale. Most are less fortunate. When Ramsay catches them he rapes them, flays them, feeds their corpses to his dogs, and brings their skins back to the Dreadfort as trophies. If they have given him good sport, he slits their throats before he skins them. Elsewise, t’other way around.” -Davos IV, aDwD [Roose, to Theon, about Ramsay's mother:]"[...]I was hunting a fox along the Weeping Water when I chanced upon a mill and saw a young woman washing clothes in the stream. The old miller had gotten himself a new young wife, a girl not half his age. She was a tall, willowy creature, very healthy-looking. Long legs and small firm breasts, like two ripe plums. Pretty, in a common sort of way. The moment that I set eyes on her I wanted her. Such was my due. [...] This miller’s marriage had been performed without my leave or knowledge. The man had cheated me. So I had him hanged, and claimed my rights beneath the tree where he was swaying. If truth be told, the wench was hardly worth the rope. The fox escaped as well, and on our way back to the Dreadfort my favorite courser came up lame, so all in all it was a dismal day." -Reek(/Theon) III, aDwD

something something the way theon tries to rectify his childhood trauma by taking his captor's place as lord of wf and taking ned's younger sons as his "wards"/hostages, while ramsay repeatedly reenacts different versions of his own conception by hunting and raping peasant women. except theon fails in his role reversal when (unlike him in his own captivity at wf) bran and rickon escape custody. and ramsay enhances roose's "dismal day" by killing all the women he catches to prevent any more bolton bastards and further punishing those of them who fail to give him "good sport" (which his mother apparently did not give roose) while those who do satisfy him are "honored" with a quick death (and a canine namesake). and then the consequences of theon's failure to replace his captor/cold noerthern father figure include losing wf to house bolton and becoming the new "reek"/another of ramsay's dogs. (meaning he made himself ramsay's prey but gave him "good sport" in the experience)

ramsay starts out as deceptive dark trickster figure/evil adviser/devil on theon's shoulder in clash but he's also a dark mirror of theon, and a more successful one at that, not just better suited to villainy but more able to get away with his crimes. neither will ever be truly accepted by their fathers but ramsay is made heir once he's the only son while theon is rejected as such despite his better birth. ramsay profits from the alleged kinslaying of his actual brother by blood, while theon is more openly condemned (and seen as still not punished enough) for (falsely) killing stark boys who were never his actual kin. it's almost as if ramsay is an evil force who came into being to find theon and was drawn to him upon his return to the north. we first learn of the bastard of bolton's existence after theon returns to pyke and learns of his father's invasion plans, then his last hunt with the original reek just shortly precedes the ironborn attacks, all so that he's captured and waiting in wf right in time for theon's real plan to go into action, and we don't actually meet (disguised) ramsay in-person through dialogue with rodrik cassell or any other northerner but only when theon arrives as the new lord to free him from the dungeon. as the first reek may have corrupted ramsay, ramsay-as-reek corrupts theon. reek belongs to ramsay and ramsay belongs to reek.

[hestzhyen]

Kagurabachi Chapter 42 Nonsense Takes-

Holy shit. Dear internet void, I'm on the edge of my seat. This CHAPTER man! Several key moments from Ch. 20 are paying off here in a satisfying way.

This time, Hiyuki is the one who wavers when her convictions are contested:

Caught between duty, desire, and her own limitations... not a great feeling is it? She's in the same position now that Chihiro was facing off against her in Ch. 20. I feel like Chihiro's heroics will push her forward much like Hakuri's words did for him. Can't wait to see more of her after this arc and how she reconciles her noble beliefs with the selfish pragmatism of the Kamunabi. Not to mention how she'll manage her pride while reconsidering her rather dismal evaluation of Chihiro from earlier in the chapter.

Speaking of the Kamunabi, though... the older guys who have experienced the horrors of the Seitei war try to be realistic about the situation:

[Shaking Shiba like a maraca] WHAT'S YOUR BACKSTORY MR. OFFSCREEN SORCERER?

They very understandably want to cut their losses and reduce the risk of death for their younger allies. With terrifying artifacts like Magatsumi being necessary, the Seitei War really must have been hell on earth. Better to save what you can than risk losing everything on a bet and all that. I think this will be the meaty, scrumptious crux of the conflict between Chihiro and the Kamunabi whenever he ends up clashing with them in the open. All for the greater good vs. the greatest good for all, pragmatism vs. idealism- I am hype!

And yet the idealistic duo of Chihiro and Hakuri are going to stake their lives on making a miracle. Across the hall, without being able to speak to each other or hear what's being said over the chaos, they still understand what the other is thinking and wants to do. I love these two so much.

Hakuri recalling the conversation with Chihiro during the elevator ride in Ch. 20 when they first met. He knows his samurai's heart.

(Ch. 20 vs 42) Liar, liar, pants on fire. Fakest IDGAFer ever ready to risk his life to save a bunch of strangers, just like he said he wasn't interested in doing.

These. Guys! ARE! THE! BEST!

But there's certainly going to be a price paid for this- the toothpick bidding guy said as much. Chihiro can't win it all, no matter how strongly he feels about having his cake and eating it too. So what's going to get fucked up? Well, pick your poison(s) on how Chihiro's idealism will be tempered:

Chihiro and Hakuri fail to save all the hostages

Hakuri overexerts himself and is incapacitated/dies

The Rakuzaichi isn't ended for good

Magatsumi falls into the wrong hands

Chihiro/Hakuri is/are captured by an enemy

Failure to Save Innocents This scenario is somewhat likely, I think. We're doing Ch. 20 callbacks so may as well go all-in here. It's also been the biggest sticking point this chapter. "We (YOU) can't save everyone." Be pragmatic when weighing good actions vs. the cost of doing them. Understand your limits, work hard, and be ready to cut your losses. Be willing to accept that someone could die. Chihiro struggles with this for obvious reasons. He's a heroic badass, but also a traumatized kid. A human. He's got limits and he's got to acknowledge them at some point. Even if Ms. Inazuma is saved, he might not be able to tag all the captives before Hakuri has to pull him out. This would be absolutely devastating to him as a brutal but very needed wake-up call before he overestimates himself in a situation with higher stakes. And, man... if Chihiro has to come back to Mr. Inazuma and tell the poor kid that he couldn't save his sister... god, that would be awful for everyone. Idealism alone can't save lives, nor wishing for it, nor trying your best. Sometimes you can't save everyone and end up losing everything. I think this is a bit too downer but it's not completely out of the question.

Hakuri Fucking Dies One of the two outcomes here is almost definitely going to happen. I went on a few several thousand-word screeds about Hakuri's significance and how much I love this slightly insane little goober. There's plenty of good reasons to think he'll stay a permanent member of the cast, and if I'm being honest, I think it's a little early for Chihiro to lose an ally. We need a little more time to get attached and invested in the core crew he assembles before one of them is offed. And yet... While I think Shiba's "you'll both die!" line is just to amp up the tension, this...

I will kill everyone at the Rakuzaichi and then myself if anything happens to this kid.

... isn't looking good. At all. Knowing that Hakuri's basically had a full arc at this point means I can't just handwave away the chance he'll be the price Chihiro pays for his naive optimism. Because that's exactly why they're both doing this: Chihiro's expectations for himself are too high and unrealistic. And he's Hakuri's guiding light. Whatever Chihiro wants to accomplish, Hakuri will back him up with everything he has. He's pushing himself too far for Chihiro's sake and we'll all cry if that means he pays the ultimate price.

I think it's most likely that Hakuri will come out of this severely injured, though. Not dead, but close to it and unable to act for a while. It would teach the same lesson without breaking my heart so please, please let this be the variant chosen if Hakuri must be offered up. Protect his smile and give him the chance to learn that he deserves to be loved as he is.

The Rakuzaichi Yet Proceeds So this one would be interesting as hell IMO. There's a case for this due to the fact that, despite reappearing on the stage in the real world, neither Chihiro nor Hiyuki actually touch it. Only Kyoura does.

God I love the perspective shots

A big point was made in Ch. 33 about how inviolable this wooden platform is:

Lotta prestige tied to keeping people off a glorified wooden pallet, but hey what do I know. I'm not a human trafficker or abusive parent brainwashed into serving a merchant cult family.

So even when the whole thing seems poised to come crashing down, Kyoura alone remains worthy to stand on it. And if we don't see any non-Sazanami clan members step on it by the end of the arc, I think that's a signal that things aren't quite done with them yet. Or at the very least, their legacy will live on untarnished despite the head of the family falling in combat. They could become legends in the underworld for maintaining the sanctity of the Rakuzaichi until the very end. Not very wholesome for Team Goldfish, but hey, it's a comparatively small price to pay. I've got a lot of thoughts about what various scenarios would mean, but I'll wait until we actually see what happens before speculating too much. I will, however, do some Hakuri agendaposting while I'm here though!

I would find it incredibly tasty if Hakuri managed to stand on the stage at the very end somehow. Just for one last hearty "fuck you" to his sperm donor, you know? And to satisfy the part of my monkey brain that loves total vindication. The "worthless" kid who was instrumental in bringing down his family standing in the sacred zone he was supposed to protect, but was deemed unworthy of... that he rejects wholeheartedly while being the first since the progenitor to inherit both signature sorceries... yesssss. Especially considering this:

RIP Tenri, gone too soon

I go feral for stuff like this. Hakuri is the Special Boy. He deserves the moment, if he can figure out a way to get there before he collapses after helping Chihiro.

Magatsumi Goes MIA Once More I think this is the most likely price to be paid. Chihiro's heroics will cause him to miss out on recovering the Super Evil Sword, which could end up just about anywhere at this point. Recovered by the Kamunabi, the Hishaku clan swooping in to take it, the wielder using Kyoura's body to abscond with it to parts unknown... anything's possible! But probably not Team Goldfish escaping into the night with it. Saving people at the cost of missing his big chance to recover his father's "masterpiece" seems like an appropriate setback for Chihiro right now. It'll throw his plans into disarray and really force him to look at his priorities and strategies thus far. Team Goldfish are mighty but they can't take on two massive orgs like the Kamunabi and Sazanamis at once, especially if the Hishaku are meddling. He'll get his reality check and prepare to make hard choices in the future. Save everyone, every time, and chase the blades forever? Or entertain a slightly less idealistic mindset to better the chances of success? Very tantalizing potential here, yes yes. It also ties in nicely with the main talking point of this chapter- much better than losing an ally would, at any rate.

Capturiffic Times I think this is the least likely given the circumstances, but may as well mention it just in case. Both Chihiro and Hakuri are worn down to their last dregs and aren't in a position to fend off anyone that could come at them. Maybe Hiyuki decides to capture Chihiro to take him to the Kamunabi instead of killing him, while Shiba retreats with Hakuri? Or Hakuri is captured by the Kamunabi/remaining Sazanamis while Shiba prioritizes escaping with Chihiro? Shiba gives himself up to let Chihiro and Hakuri run? Again, seriously doubt this scenario. They might not get out in one piece or with everything they hoped for, but I'm pretty sure that Team Goldfish will be able to flee to fight another day.

Anyway. Yapped too much again. Thank you void for letting me ramble into your uncaring ear once more. See you next week, probably.

[hardly-an-escape]

Bleach | Dream/Hob | 1067 words | rated G for @domaystic day 07: stained clothes

tags: retired Dream, laundry mishaps, tooth rotting fluff, religious Hob Gadling (but only incidentally), Dream is learning how to human, Hob Gadling is a good boyfriend

Hob looks mournfully at the sweater in his hands and gives the spot another little scrub. It’s futile. He knows it’s futile. He’s been doing his own laundry for about a hundred years by now, after all. Still, he rubs halfheartedly at the spot, just one more time. Just in case.

You never know, do you. Miracles still happen. Some of them could be laundry-related miracles, possibly. There’s probably a patron saint of doing the wash. Hob casts his mind wildly back to catechism classes of centuries past. Veronica, maybe? The story with the veil? Or Clare of Assisi – had the Poor Clares been laundresses or is he thinking of a different order? He sighs and offers a quick prayer to both of them. Just in case.

He may not have been to church in a month and a half, and he hasn’t been Catholic since the 16th century, but every little bit helps. He sighs again and scrubs at the bleach stain, which doesn’t look back at him accusingly so much as it simply exists, accusingly, on the sleeve of Dream’s softest, most favorite black cardigan.

The front door of their flat bangs open and he hears the jingle of keys and the thump of Dream’s shoes being deposited on the boot tray.

“I’m back! They didn’t have the tea we usually buy,” Dream’s voice calls down the hall. “So I got Barry’s instead. Is that alright? I couldn’t remember if you like that brand or not. Why are there so many kinds of tea, Hob? I stood there looking at the shelf for ten minutes. You’d think at some point humanity would have said, oh, I think we have enough kinds of tea now, but –” he trails off as he begins to put the shopping away, his dear, deep voice disappearing in the rustle of shopping bags and the rattle of cabinet doors. 

Hob walks slowly down the hallway from the airing cupboard to the kitchen, sweater held in both hands before him, feeling like nothing so much as a man carrying the body of a beloved pet cat to its owner.

It isn’t that Dream will be angry – far from it, in fact. Dream will be, as he always is, endearingly grateful for the fact that Hob does his laundry, as he is for all the little caretaking tasks that Hob has taken on as Dream learns to be human. It’s just that now, as he learns to be human, Dream’s emotions lie so close to the surface. He feels everything with the depth and intensity of a child: pride when he successfully does the shopping, pain when he stubs a toe or burns a finger on the kettle.

Disappointment, when something goes wrong. Sadness, at a loss or a failure.

Hob has watched him weep over a broken teacup and crow with utter joy after winning a game of cards. And this was his best sweater, his softest, most favorite cardigan, one of the first pieces of clothing that had truly been his. A cardigan Dream had chosen, thoughtfully, in the department store; not just stolen or adopted by osmosis from Hob’s wardrobe. Which now sports an accusing, unmissable bleach stain right on the upper side of the left sleeve.

Dream pauses in his activity when Hob appears in the doorway.

“What’s wrong?” he asks immediately, seeing the look on Hob’s face. “What happened? Are you hurt? I can’t take you to A&E, I’m not allowed to drive the car yet. Hob? What’s wrong?”

“It’s your sweater,” Hob says dismally, holding it up for inspection. “It’s got bleach on it.”

Dream makes an adorable, sad little noise and gathers up the cardigan, cradling it like a wounded animal.

“I don’t know how it happened,” Hob says, not meeting his gaze. “I did that load of towels and socks yesterday, I must’ve spilled some bleach on the edge of the washer when I added it, and I guess the sleeve got dragged through it somehow when I put the colds in this morning, and I am so sorry, love, I know it’s your favorite and I will buy you a new one,” he rushes on, “I will buy you six identical sweaters so this never happens again, I –”

“Hob.”

Dream’s voice can still, at times, attain a certain measure of its former power and gravitas, through mere timbre alone. Hob’s eyes immediately snap up to meet his gaze. Dream’s eyes are huge and blue and watery and human and still the most beautiful thing Hob has ever seen in his long life.

“Hob.” More gently now. “It is just a sweater. Why are you so worried, my love?”

“Well, I mean. It’s not just a sweater. It’s your favorite,” says Hob. “And I want you to, to have nice things. Your favorite things. I know it’s hard, to be human. It’s hard for us normal humans, and I can’t imagine how much harder it is for you sometimes, and I just… I want nice things for you. Because, because I love you,” he says lamely.

Dream looks at him for a long moment, those blue eyes glistening, and then very deliberately casts the cardigan aside onto the pile of shopping bags and steps into the open circle of Hob’s arms.

“My love,” he says tenderly into Hob’s neck. Hob sniffles a little and indulges in the softness of Dream’s hair and the smell of his shampoo. “It is just a sweater. And you may buy me another, even six, if you so wish. And you may stain every single one with bleach, many times over. It will be, as you like to say when I make mistakes, very human of you.”

He pulls back just enough to rub their noses together and murmur his next words into the warm curve of Hob’s mouth.

“I find I like being human, because I am being human with you,” he says. “And you take the best care of me that anyone ever has. And no number of stained sweaters could possibly change that, I am sure.”

“Well then. If you’re sure,” says Hob, and kisses him. “I will get you a new one if you want, though.”

“Or perhaps I will add more bleach stains. And embroidery. And sequins. I have been looking for a new art project.”

“Or that,” says Hob, and kisses him again.

[margaretqualleytruther]

Our journey through the dreck and dross of our messes is an invitation to an enlargement of soul. What a terrible disservice conventional piety has performed in suggesting that the realm of the spirit is bloodless; above the earth, ethereal and perfect. It is rather in the realm of mud and blood, defeat and despair, that the soul's fiber is fashioned. The mess of life is our mess. Questions of self-esteem are a waste of time, a diversion we can ill afford. There is more mess of things to make ahead; some of them will be our great teachers, some will cause us to grow, and some will bring the fullness of failure to bear on the encounter with the mystery. Great meaning will often come from such dismal moments; they are our moments, our meaning, and we will be entitled to them because we will have paid dearly for them.

- creating a life

[the-garbanzo-annex-jr]

by Troy O. Fritzhand

Canary Mission, an antisemitism watchdog group, has made headlines since the outbreak of the Israel-Hamas war for its work exposing groups and individuals that support the Palestinian terror group and express hatred for the Jewish state.

Critics have accused Canary Mission of what they call unfair “doxing,” or publicizing information about a person or organization without their consent. However, that has not stopped the watchdog from calling out a wide range of entities for allegedly antisemitic behavior and spreading hateful ideology throughout North America, especially on college campuses.

The organization, which operates anonymously, spoke to The Algemeiner about its work since Hamas’ Oct. 7 massacre in southern Israel. To stay anonymous and protect the safety of staff, the group did not attribute its remarks to a specific individual.

Since the outbreak of the war, Canary Mission has been working on what it calls four “significant” developments.

“First, there has been a sharp escalation in global antisemitism, both in frequency and severity,” a representative said. “We are no longer discussing simple breaches of the International Holocaust Remembrance Alliance (IHRA) definition of antisemitism. Discourse has alarmingly shifted to overt expressions of hate, including endorsements of Hamas’ violence against Jews, coupled with a stark indifference to the suffering of kidnapped, raped, and murdered Jews.”

Antisemitic incidents have skyrocketed globally since the Hamas atrocities of Oct. 7. Most recently, the Anti-Defamation League (ADL) reported a 360 percent surge in such incidents over the past three months, with about two-thirds directly related to the Israel-Hamas war.

“Second,” Canary Mission continued, “antisemites on the left and right seem even more willing to work with each other in their common cause against Jews and Israel.”

“Third, a bipartisan consensus has emerged with a clear recognition of the extreme antisemitism fostered within the anti-Israel movement,” the group added.

Lastly, Canary Mission addressed the presidents of Harvard University, the University of Pennsylvania (UPenn), and the Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT) refusing to say at a congressional hearing last month that calling for the genocide of Jews would violate their schools’ codes of conduct against bullying and harassment.

“Fourth, despite the dismal failure of Harvard, UPenn, and MIT leadership to condemn calls for the genocide against Jews, there have been some positive campus developments,” the watchdog said. “Several universities have finally understood that Students for Justice in Palestine (SJP) is essentially an incubator for hatred and have taken action against them.”

Some schools have banned or suspended SJP chapters, which have orchestrated pro-Hamas demonstrations on campuses across the US, for violating school rules.

Over the past three months, Canary Mission has, among other projects, linked US Rep. Rashida Tlaib (D-MI) to fundraisers with Hamas ties, profiled dozens of signatories of a letter denouncing Israel just one day after the Oct. 7 massacre, and exposed the organizers of a recent rally in Philadelphia that targeted a local Jewish restaurant for having a history of backing Hamas and calling for the destruction of Israel.

“Our support has significantly grown since the war began,” Canary Mission said. “The traffic to our website has substantially increased, reflecting the heightened interest in our cause … Our new support comes from across the political spectrum from individuals and organizations who understand the danger and hatred Jews are facing. Naturally, we have also received plenty of threats and abuse from neo-Nazis and anti-Israel activists alike.”

Canary Mission described its work as necessary and “far from finished” in combating “unfounded hatred towards Jews and the Jewish state.”

“Since our inception in 2015, Canary Mission has stood as a vigilant watchdog against antisemitism, with a particular focus on the spread of antisemitism in academic institutions,” the group said. “From UPenn to Harvard, our findings reveal an unsettling reality that has been simmering in American academia for years … Our work is comprehensive. We highlight instances of antisemitism across the political landscape and refuse to ignore or excuse it regardless of its source. The profiles we create are not just records but tools that hold individuals accountable for their words and actions. In doing so, we create lasting consequences for those who propagate hate against Jews and Israel.”

Canary Mission dismissed criticism that it’s doxing, saying it does not release any personal information such as home addresses, emails, or phone numbers. The watchdog added it “presents an individual’s words and actions. This enables the public to form their own opinion and decide on their own response to the content presented.”

Concluding, the group said, “Critics will continue to dislike the Canary Mission platform, and supporters will continue to recognize the vital importance of shining a light on anti-Jewish hatred during this difficult time in our history.”

“And a note to our critics: We are not going away — we have only just begun.”