#'truth and reconciliation time mother' he spits

[rearranging-deck-chairs]

i think thoschei's most fun when theyre like hannigram. gorings like kisses you feel me

[14thgalerie]

the one

• pairing: theodore nott x riddle!reader

• now playing: hayloft by mother mother / you that i want by divine

• word count: 1.7k

• genre: angst, fluff, hint of smut

— short one that i kept thinking of.

Theo slumped in his chair, fatigue weighing heavily on him. The clock on the wall opposite him ticked relentlessly, unforgiving of his sleepless state. He had long abandoned any hope of finding any rest. He hadn’t been able to since that fateful night when everything felt right in his life.

His mind wouldn’t grant him solace. Each time his weary eyelids dared to meet from the pure exhaustion of the stress of OWLS, the ongoing war, his brain kept feeding him images of you. You, who kept haunting him from the very forefront of his mind. 

The natural curve of your eyelashes. The way it fluttered against his cheeks as your lips made a blazing trail across his cheeks. Gentle whispers that drown him in sheer bliss still send shivers down his spine. 

His tie lay abandoned, discarded beside him, next to the pile of papers swept aside in his frustration earlier. The long, emerald fabric had felt too suffocating amidst the overwhelming thoughts of you.

He couldn’t help but wonder if you would also be writhing in bed, unable to fall asleep as he does. Would your dreams torment you with the brief time his hands tangled onto your hair, wayward? Does your dormant body spin cruel variations of that time, telling him tantalising tales of what could’ve occurred if only your insufferable blonde companion hadn’t so abruptly interrupted?

He had never loved you.

Not in the way you wanted.

This desire to fill the emptiness in your heart, to have somebody give you the time and day has obscured that truth. A part of you knew, from the very beginning, but this desperation forced you to turn yourself blind.

Draco was there, a constant presence in your life, a perfect match to have by your side. Born only 24 hours apart, and 10 years of your childhood spent solely with him.

In truth, you both used the other, a fact that you ignored. He relied on you for protection and status as your partner, while you clung to him to feel the fleeting sense of warmth. But the perpetual storm of reality always wearing you both down and, you were rapidly losing the strength to keep yourself afloat.

Unspoken words hung heavy in the air between the both of you as the year progressed and the inevitable return of your father neared. At first, you had both kept your feelings at bay, not wanting this to jeopardise your friendship altogether. But as time went on, it became a routine. Venom spit from raised voices, threats of abandonment and indifference to each other, reconciliation accompanied by hollow promises and sex.

“Are you a bloody fool? She is my best friend and yet again, Draco ‘can’t-keep-his-boxers-on’ Malfoy decided that didn’t matter!” You screamed in frustration, but it didn’t seem to matter when he didn’t even so much as falter at the volume. 

“We aren’t even together, so why should it?” He carelessly replies, an air of indifference surrounding him.

“We aren’t? You truly are an insufferable git, I spent two years committing myself to you, and you never thought to mention that little detail before?” You scoffed, incredulous at the idea. It was foolish and outrageous, and not at all like how the man you know would think. Despite your differences with one another, he would still treat you with at least the respect you give to a friend, but now…

“Oh please! Don’t act as if your mind has not been completely filled with that mindless buffoon.” 

“For Merlin’s sake, do not dare turn this on me…” You challenged him. 

“Or what? Threaten to have your father kill me? Well, surprise, darling, I’m no stranger to that already.” He humorlessly chuckles. “I’ve seen you. I’ve seen that god-awful lovesick look on your face at the mere sight of his back. I am not the complete bloody fool you think I am.”

It hurt, truly, despite the fact that this started as a hilarious excuse of a relationship. You cared for Draco and to see him constantly destroy everything and everyone in his path of destruction left you unable to conjure up any more excuses for him.

“I am done, Draco. We can stop whatever awful pretentious act we put ourselves to and live on our own as you seem to hardly care for even yourself anymore these days.” You laugh, defeat etched on your face.

He never gave you the love that you sought, the kind that Theo had laid bare in complete display for you in just under seven minutes in that tiny closet. 

“You came back to me.” He whispers, close enough for his lips to touch the corner of your lips but there’s just a stutter of breath. It makes you want to instinctively kneel and look up to him and beg religiously for mercy, the way he speaks.

“I did.” You reply. Unmoving, but your patience wears thin.

“Look at you,” He mutters, his hand tugging at your head by your hair, exposing your neck to him, and your knees nearly buckle at his breath that burns against your jaw. “I haven’t even touched you properly yet and you’re almost like putty in my hands already.”

“Shut it, Nott.” You quickly remark a decision you notably regret when you are left standing in the middle of the room all by yourself. The cold air from the ajar window left your skin tingling with an uncomfortable feeling akin to when Draco touched you in the past weeks.

You scoff, the sound more as if you were nearly pleading. “What are you doing?”

“You know I hate it when you act like a brat.” He inclined his head, and the movement leaves chills running through your spine for the action is almost similar to someone sinister. But weirdly, it makes you want to tease him even more.

“Oh please, Theo. I’m not blind, as if you don’t dream of it.” You slowly approach him, your fingers make a motion of dragging along the ends of the poster beds. “The way I see your eyes tremble when I contradict every single thing you say. I know you are depraved when your thoughts are only of my mouth…”

You hear a sharp intake of breath when you come near. “The way you would just love it if you could shut me up by having my lips wrapped around you. I know you, Theo.”

His lips twitch into a mirthless smile, he reaches almost mindlessly for your collar. His thumb barely touches the skin of your neck. “Yes, you do.”

His eyes are intense as they dart to your mouth. Your tongue unconsciously makes a sweep against your dry lips.

“I suppose Draco will show me exactly how.”

Taking a page of this man’s book is terrifying but you are tired of this game of tug that you keep playing.

“That would be wise. ”

He’s still looking at your lips.

“I’ll go then.” You try again, unwilling to make the move.

“Go on, you won’t hear a sound of protest from me.” But you remain standing in front of him, the will to move weak against the desire to have him.

“Really?”

“No.”

Theo grabs the back of your head, tangled his fingers in your hair, and made a mess of your mouth. With his lips attached to yours, you grab him by his shirt and the both of you kiss as if you were third years again. Your teeth clashed into each other time and time again and you couldn’t find it in you to slow down. 

The need to kiss him, to feel what you’ve been thinking of for several nights on end.  You push back at him, desperate to feel the same hunger and need in him, as he kisses you deeper and more profound than you ever thought possible.

The soft, selfish hands that you wished so badly to wipe clean off the bodies of other women move up from the bottom of your back to move you impossibly closer until you are almost one. His voice is ragged when he pulls away, a thin thread of saliva still connecting you.

He says against your cheek, “I love you. I’d die for you. Nobody can ever give you what I could make the pain go away like I could, not even that dense fuck who has a deeper sense of self-preservation than his parents.”

You swallow, agonised by the sudden slow pace that he moves. Not an ounce of energy dared to waste to defend your ex. “I will love you anywhere.”

You shiver at the raw and pure intensity that laced the declaration. You almost want to ask, to hear how. But you don’t think your mind could properly comprehend the ability to piece together the right words to ask.

His heart is pounding from beneath your fingers as you feel the pulse on his neck, almost leaping it out as if all it wants is for you to finally claim it as yours. Encase it in a glass case and put it on display for all else to see.

“In a bookstore, by the water fountain, the sidewalk, in the flames of your home.” His hands come down to your hips, his fingers digging in so harshly that by morning sunlight, purple will be painted on your skin but it feels so heavenly that you don’t push them away.

“I love you, not for the protection you provide and for your substantial looks, but for all the small things you do that bear your soul to me.” 

Your hands meet around the back of his neck as he carries you by your thighs towards his bed. Pulling at the fabric that keeps him away from you.

“I’ll love you even as you tell me you hate me. I love you enough that I will scour the face of this earth for a place where I can take you away from your nightmares.” 

“I-“ He sighs into your lips, completely delighted by the intimacy that only his mind could conjure up in the lone nights. “I love you.”

You move for the buttons of his polo, while he moves to pull your shirt from you. A race that leaves you both fumbling when you feel his hand carving a path against your waist and up to your chest. You are left scalding, tiny bounces of light flickering in your eyes.

“I will be at your string’s end.”

masterlist

[iamveronica]

My Marrissey Musings

Moz is a lying liar but in a good way, in a way that keeps you on your toes and gives you whiplash. he had once described Johnny as "schizophrenic"(*) with regard to his sentiments towards the Smiths which is rather rich coming from Moz because no one's yo-yoed as intensely as he has what i got from Autobiography and from the open letter is Moz hates to see Johnny weaponized against him in the book, it was the legal team, Joyce and Rourke, the judge, everyone and anyone, that he blamed for using Johnny against him during the Smiths trial(*). in the open letter, it's the media. the letter wasn't so much "don't talk about me" as "don't let them play you" between "I was discovered by Johnny, the guitarist, who came and unearthed me one day (0:25)... he found me, I was just there, dying, and he rescued me" (0:52) and Angel Angel Down We Go Together, i feel like TO THIS DAY Moz harbours a saviour complex towards Johnny, like he feels he owes him that i think, in his mind, Moz has been quite magnanimous towards Johnny yet the littlest perceived slight attributed to Marr gets magnified in his mind to ridiculous proportions such as "Morrissey is a bad smell in the attic", "Morrissey is a death-machine"(*), "an eyesore monster"(**). classic Morrissey language if Moz has truly moved on, would the January 2022 open letter to Johnny Marr exist? some people ask 'why didn't he address it to the press?' or 'why didn't he contact Johnny privately?' well, obviously, Moz cares little about tabloids as a whole but it must cut him deep to see Johnny used against him. asking Johnny privately would put the burden on Johnny to reject the topic so Moz did what he thought best and wedged himself between Johnny and the media. should he be applauded for it or was it as clumsy as could be? In my own sick way / I'll always stay true to you as much as i'd like a Moz and Marr public reconciliation, stuff like the open letter makes me think that perhaps things are as raw, unresolved and unworked out as they were 35 years ago

A week later his Mercedes pulls up outside my mother’s house and we are both briefly united. Behind the wheel, he makes for Saddleworth Moor, and the social unit slots back together again. ‘You really don’t know the full story of what happened at the end, do you?’ Johnny asks me as rain whacks the window screen. If anyone has a right to raise their voice, it is me. So I do. ‘I know NOTHING!!!’ I shout. Does anyone go to war and win? No. ... The seething rot that had shot the Smiths down remained undisclosed by Johnny on this drive to Saddleworth Moor (oh, Saddleworth Moor, so much to answer for)...

(*) In months to come, Johnny will appear on television several times under scorching lights. He struggles with the truth, half-forgetting, he says he split the Smiths up, and then in a later television spot he says he did no such thing. Johnny spits out my name, changing his story as he shifts from foot to foot; he says he had no idea, and then he says he fully intended to ‘move on’. Always saying too much, something has happened to Johnny once again, and each appearance gives an entirely different account. He no longer listens to the Smiths’ music and he criticizes it. Morrissey is a bad smell in the attic. Morrissey is a death-machine. Morrissey is evil and should be stuffed. But as Johnny spouts he looks all wrong. His clothes are crooked and the eyes are in torment. What had happened since the serenity of our drive to Saddleworth Moor, when the coffin-lid shifted and the old spark rose like a small miracle? Someone, by now, is preparing to save Johnny’s soul as the nightmare of the Joyce Case flexes itself in readiness. The petty guidance of advisors are grooming Johnny for his upcoming role as sacrificial lamb – always a hit with judges who demand subservience above truth. Darting schizophrenically in the pursuit of self-interest, Johnny now looks pale on the scaffold – the opportunism of wolves giving him a notably punished look. Revenge is calling, and I am the quarry. (**) You found me inspirational enough to make music with me for 6 years. If I was, as you claim, such an eyesore monster, where exactly did this leave you? Kidnapped? Mute? Chained? Abducted by cross-eyed extraterrestrials?

[mirageofthecrystal]

Junelezen 2022 - Day 8 I Heavensward

"The pain of Ysayle's death was still very fresh when the courier came into the Harrier camp. By the order of Ser Aymeric de Borel, the hand of friendship and reconciliation was being extended to all those who had served under the banner of Lady Iceheart, absolved of their branding as heretics and free to return without fear of reprisal. Letters from surviving family and friends came for some, those whose families had seen the truth revealed and accepted the burden of laying the past aside. Others received no such urging to abandon their hatred for Ishgard and her people, and we found ourselves divided in our purpose for the future. It was this that Ysayle had fought so hard to give us, but there were some who would not take it, so deep was their mistrust. The same people who cast us out for our beliefs, for our desire for a peaceful solution to a millennium long struggle, now proffered forgiveness and unity. And I could not blame them for their doubts or their prejudices. But I felt my heart swell when the messenger sought out myself and my uncle, bringing letters signed by the and of my father.

My sister had been freed from captivity, her position and title restored. Our family had been cleansed officially of the stain of heresy, though the others would not so readily look past these allegations, however false, and give us the benefit of the doubt. We could come home now, welcomed back with open arms, and resume the lives we had abandoned. Father begged profusely for forgiveness of us both, admitting to his failure to do more to speak on our behalf and revealing his utter weakness and how little his position meant. He spoke of mother, of her desire to see us both again, to hold her son in her arms and weep for her fortune that I still drew breath. Both of them thanked Halone that the Dragonsong War was finally over, and father looked forward to the peace and propserity that could return to our home with the matter finally settled and the evil of the Archbishop exorcised from its heart.

He was, and still is, a fool. A weak man, an optimist, and ultimately a soul far too gentle for the struggles placed upon him. And he was naïve to think that once the head was removed from the serpent that the body of it would wither and die. Even if I returned home, there would be those that refused to let go of the past and the perceptions forged in that time of strife, spitting upon us and casting stones and judgement.

And yet, my heart longed to return with such ferocity that tears seized me and my hand trembled. Home... t'was a word that causes the heart to wrench no matter how little one thinks they care for it. Returning home after all this time would mean far more than I could admit to myself, much less my own flesh and blood. But my uncle convinced me, convinced the others, that it was the right thing to do. He used Ysayle's own wisdom upon them, and none could remain utterly blinded by hate, even if it still gripped their hearts till the bitter end.

The weight of Ysayle's loss that I carried before the Gates of Judgement would not be the only anguish that would persist beyond war's end. For the letter also told of another who had been lost in the fighting, struck down by the very knights I once looked up to and respected in the utmost, the ones whose ranks I now fill in our new and more compassionate purpose. I could not pass the gate and walk the Steps until I made one more step and paid my last respects to another soul which burned brighter than any of us possibly deserved.

My sister likely wept for a week and a day when she discovered the news, shrieking and sobbing and thrashing in the confines of her cell. Of all the fancies of young women who tug at the heartstrings of men with the hopes of their affection, I truly believe Brielle loved this man with everything she had, even if she wasn't brave enough to tell him. He had been in our home, ate at our table, been a great friend to me and a fellow outcast from the true and mighty nobles that existed all around us. He had no need to live up to their unrealistic expectations, because in truth he was greater than us all, giving his life without thought in absolute understanding of what it meant to be a knight and a friend.

In these pages I commemorate this moment, and all the future that Ishgard would enjoy through times great and dark, to my dear fallen friend: Haurchefant Greystone, Knight of the Silver Fuller, most courageous and valiant of House Fortemps. Your passing deals a grievous wound to the title of knight, for none have better exemplified all that it means to be as such, and I hope that I can live up to your example for even a single moment of my life, to do even a fraction of the good you have done in all of my miserable existence. And when my death finally comes upon swift and dark wings, I hope to join you in whatever awaits us in the after..."

- Excerpt from the personal journal and accounts of Ser Faiolan Penderghast, Knight of the Heaven's Ward

[hopelesslygazingthestars]

Update: A Dance Of Love And Duty

- Engulfed By Dragon Fire

Elia/Rhaegar (+ mentions Elia/Ashara)

Elia Martell was the prized sun of Dorne. Her mother had searched high and low for a match worthy of such light. Yet, as knowledgeable and formidable as the old Princess of Dorne had been, even she could not have predicted that in the Seven Kingdoms only dragon-fire was looked upon.

Elia did not know she could hate a person so much. But she did. She hated her husband.

She hated how he made her feel; how she beamed in the shadows as the Silver Prince defeated Ser Barristan in the final tilt, how she clapped as he looped the crown of winter roses over his lance and started his horse in her direction, and how she bowed as he rode past her.

Her face burned like the feverish Dornish sun in utter humiliation when Rhaegar laid the wreath of flowers onto the lap of Lyanna Stark. He named a maiden barely a woman grown the Queen of Love and Beauty, and with that single act, undid all their months-long efforts to see their ascension to the Iron Throne.

Not only had he insulted her before the lords of Westeros, but simultaneously disrespected the Warden of the North and his own cousin by choosing Robert Baratheon’s betrothed.

However, Elia’s hurt extended beyond the insult given, and the gasps of shock, and the Mad King’s cackling; hers was a breath-taking anguish from broken treaties.

And when the wolf girl accepted the roses, looking as embarrassed as Elia felt, the Dornish princess somehow schooled her pained expression into one of unphased indifference. Despite the boiling in her blood, and the prince inside her that fussed in protest; Elia refused to crumble. She would not prove the lies of Dornish savages right, nor the tales of her unworthiness for the beloved Targaryen prince.

“Are you not furious?”

Oberyn seethed when she fastened her hand around his wrist so tightly that she drew blood. Prince Lewyn and Arthur also had their hands on Oberyn in anticipation, but Elia saw that both men battled their own fury too.

“A fire rages inside me hot enough to make even dragons sweat,” Elia replied lowly as she lifted her chin proudly and kept herself very still, hyper aware of all the eyes watching the commotion at the Stark stands.

She was reminded again that the dragons had engulfed the sun, when she noted that none outside of her own retinue even cared as to observe for her reaction.

“Whatever you would have us do, let me be the first to get my hands on him.” Ashara snarled through gritted teeth.

Although Elia had never felt such a strong desire to kill Rhaegar, to incinerate him from the inside out, violence was not her reaction.

“You will do nothing.”

Oberyn and Ashara’s heads snapped to her in unison, for as hot-tempered and blinded by love as they were, they could not see what Elia knew.

“But-”

“I, and I alone shall deal with my husband.” She spat out the term she once said in endearment.

Tearing her eyes away from the display, she saw Oberyn gauge her before relenting; but Ashara, remained tense like she was contemplating a most terrible act of treason.

“Ser Arthur, please escort Lady Ashara to her quarters.”

“Elia I will not-”

“Immediately.” She commanded.

Arthur all but lifted and dragged Ashara from her side, and luckily, the spitting protests were largely overshadowed by Brandon Stark being physically restrained by his brother and kinsmen.

If Elia once questioned her husband’s affinity for madness, she certainly no longer did now. She thought him absolutely insane, especially when he turned his horse towards her. Whatever act of reconciliation he intended was of no interest to her. She would not give the Westerosi the satisfaction of a reaction, but she also refused to be remembered as having been remotely in favour of Rhaegar’s actions. Thus, heartbeat still thundering in her ears, her hands tightened on the material of her foreign robes, and she turned away just as Rhaegar finally acknowledged her.

The Dornish party followed without instruction. Dorne was a proud kingdom, and a snub to her, was a snub to them all. She walked with a strength her brittle bones had never known, and for the first time, she wore the skin of the Queen she intended to be. Unbowed. Unbent. Unbroken.

When she eventually reached her chambers, she noticed the decorated red and black walls, Rhaegar’s beloved harp, dragons on every surface, and yearned to tear it all apart.

“Leave me be.”

Reluctantly, her retinue left, and when the door shut, her resolve collapsed.

Traitorous tears pricked at her eyes and her hands shook violently suppressing a volatile rage. Frantically, she searched for something that might anchor and remind her of home – of her. She laughed bitterly when it dawned that she too – pregnant with his promised prince – was a belonging of Rhaegar Targaryen.

She grabbed the closest item to her, ironically, a vase of winter roses, and with all her strength heaved it at the window. It shattered on impact and splinters embedded into her palm. Staring down at the crystalline glass pieces smeared by blood, they almost appeared like rubies.

The crimson mess reminded her of the fateful prophetic dream which had led her to Rhaegar. Fantasies in which she accepted offerings of dripping rubies and winter roses. Elia cursed Nymeria’s gifts and the gods that had carved out a life of failed promises. A suffocating darkness swirled in the pit of her stomach, for she knew, as minor as Rhaegar’s actions were, they were the beginning of something far worse. She knew with vivid clarity that if he humiliated her once, he would do it again.

Still, she could not decide which pain was worse – the public embarrassment or the private heartbreak. She did not care so much if he thought the Stark girl more beautiful, or even wished to bed her, but their marriage was a political identity separated from such sundry as personal feelings. Elia was his lawfully wedded wife, his queen-to-be, and mother of his heirs and with that single act he had threatened her position.

Granted, their marriage had not been without its challenges, but not even the worst fights ever made her feel so violated, betrayed, and so completely debased.

Elia was bought out of her musings when she heard raised voices from beyond the door. She did not need to open it to know it was Rhaegar and Ashara.

“Is this not exactly what you wanted?!”

“Do you expect me to thank you for this-”

Elia opened the door, and both sets of purple eyes turned to her. She found it strange how despite being such similar shades, violet orbs filled her with life, and indigo ones, with vitriol.

“I just wanted to make sure you were…” Ashara divulged, noticing her bleeding hand.

Ashara turned sharply, but Arthur appeared suddenly, and grabbed her wrist before she could throw a fist. She struggled against him and only calmed when Elia’s voice sounded.

“Asha, I’m alright, you don’t need to lose your decency over this,” she answered, voice wavering.

Ashara gave her a once over, before searching her eyes for the truth.

Elia could not find it in herself to smile, no matter how pleased she was that Ashara had remained loyal despite everything she put her through.

The white cloak put her down, but his grip on her wrist did not falter.

“I do need you to do something for me, however…”

“Anything.”

“…call upon lady Lyanna.”

Ashara looked like everything in her wanted to protest but she simply nodded, and Elia closed the door to address her husband.

Before she could unleash hell-fire upon him, he pulled them together into a tight embrace. She felt overheated and suffocated in his arms rather than comforted, and she knew that was exactly what he attempted to do.

“Listen to me.” It came out hard, and Elia felt his words in her body.

Where her heart once skipped a beat at his meagre affection, now it repulsed her, and she forced herself from his grip.

“Elia, wife, I know what it looks like, but I couldn’t explain –”

“No. I deserve an explanation for this. Explain why you have insulted and humiliated me for all the realm to see! Where is the husband that rallied against his King and father in defence of his family, where is that man?”

Passing her for Lyanna was a public message that Elia was lacking in his eyes and validated the anti-Dornish sentiments of everyone who thought her unworthy of Rhaegar. Worse still, she knew his display damaged her place in their future court, because Rhaegar’s snub reinforced the insult Aerys dealt her at Rhaenys’ presentation. She wanted to know what was so worth besmirching her dignity.

“I am right here, except –” he implored, but she was firm in her resolve.

For so long, she had withered away in his shadow, hoping to secure their future. Yet, that was not who she was raised to be, and formerly-quelled Martell fire returned anew.

“I want to know why.” Her voice was steel made sound.

He gestured for her to come, but she would not, and resignedly he moved to her, hand reaching for her swollen belly, then for her injured hand. Again and again, she jerked away from his touch. Rhaegar had a history of adeptly slithering his way out of strife and into her heart and she refused to be disarmed by tender touches or conciliated by soft words.

Elia glared at him with chilly hostility, until her ice extinguished his fire, and he relented.

“I met her for the first time on the search for the Knight of the Laughing Tree. I thought I had found him, and when I unmasked the perpetrator, it was her…” he explained.

Rhaegar’s search last several days and now that Elia knew he was with her, she wondered just what had developed.

“... she surprised me. She is strong and wilful, even in the face of me and…”

Despite the situation, Elia could hear the warmth in his voice and her blood ran cold. It was one thing that he might wish Lyanna his mistress, it was another that he might wish her in his heart. Especially, when Elia had cut away pieces of herself so that she could fit in there.

“…she had noble reasons for entering the lists, and performed so valiantly I didn’t think it fair that she not be recognised somehow. I only wished to honour her.”

“By dishonouring me,” she concluded.

“That was never my intent.”

“And yet that was the result.”

She knew Rhaegar believed her naïve to the great lords of Westeros, but Elia could see greater than he, the precarious position they were in, and she saw the iron throne melting beneath them. That he could be so short-sighted vexed her.

“Your actions will not be received well by court, and we can probably kiss goodbye to any great council without Lord Stark or Robert, likely Jon Arryn too.” She commented.

“I can make amends,” he insisted adamantly.

Elia sighed deeply, and ran her hands through her hair, attempting to preserve the churning anger within. She was not satisfied with his answers, and she understood her husband well enough to know when he placated her with half-truths. Rhaegar was not dumb and yet he made an extremely ill-advised decision. He broke chivalric code and alienated two paramount families in one stroke, it was an insult to her and to the perceived honour of Lyanna. Despite all these considerations, Rhaegar still chose to do it. Elia wondered if Rhaegar’s actions were actually designed to appeal directly to Lyanna herself, and that painted everything in a new light.

“Do you love her?”

There was something about the mere mention of Lyanna which lit up his face in a way that nothing else ever did, and Elia knew the answer, even if he did not yet.

“I love our family,” he answered, moving closer.

There was no true love between them, and Elia was exhausted of pretending otherwise, to him, and to herself.

“That’s not what I asked… do you love Lyanna?”

Silver brows knotted in confusion and she simply observed, willing him to say the words.

“Why – so you can run back to Ashara?” He snapped.

Before she could stop herself, she slapped his face, causing him to double over. She knew it wrong to strike her husband, her future king, but that he even attempted to drag Ashara’s name into it enraged her. More than that, she wanted him to feel a fraction of the pain she had endured.

“I did everything you asked! I have given you everything, and yet again I am left with nothing but hurt!”

Her chest burned, searing flames of betrayal and shame engulfing her because she hated that it affected her so, because it meant that somehow, she still loved him, despite no longer wanting to.

“I know, I didn’t m–”

Elia was tired of giving to a man that took her for granted, and always loved something else more; and left her with nothing but measly scraps. However, she would not allow him to rob her of the last thing she had left, her voice.

“I sacrificed for the future of your family name because that’s what you needed. I abandoned my home, my traditions AND Ashara because that’s what you asked…”

She had done the impossible and pushed away the person she loved the most. For too long, she endured dragon-fire and now that she was nearly ash, her own inferno awakened.

“I did EVERYTHING. I gave up my body for you despite –”

Her voice faltered when old resentments surfaced.

“Despite what?”

“Despite the child that died in my body for me to mourn alone.”

He looked back at her with surprise and an expression akin to shame washed over him. His actions had broken the unbreakable and he did not even know it.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” His voice was a whisper.

For a moment, his indigo irises looked so haunted Elia almost felt remorse for informing him so callously.

She laughed hollowly, dark and filled with resentment.

“You know why.”

And he did. His silence told as much. She would have been cast aside for a mistress sooner.

He reached for her swollen stomach, and this time, she allowed the caress. Inside her, the babe kicked hard. So hard it made her wince. Rhaegar felt it on his hand, and maneuvered to his knees, resting his hands and head on her belly.

Elia looked away, resigned to the inevitable. She did not want him manipulating her into remembering feelings she would rather forget.

“I’m sorry Elia.”

What he was sorry for, Elia did not know, but she nodded and said nothing more.

She distanced herself, and when she met his pensive gaze, translucent eyes swirled with some realisation. His mouth opened and closed wordlessly, before syllables formed.

“This means – he could – he is th–”

“If you mention your damned prophecy right now, I swear by the gods I will scream bloody murder Rhaegar.”

Once she recovered from rehashed emotions, she found herself burned out. They stood on opposite ends of their chambers staring at each other like strangers.

Elia breathed hard, her eyes watery, and hands balled into fists. Rhaegar hung his head low in shame, looking guilty and afraid.

“Love, I can forgo, but I demand your respect, Rhaegar.”

“I would give you both. What can I do to mend us?” His tone was pleading.

However, Elia was well past giving him the benefit of the doubt. Rhaegar had broken her trust for the last time.

In that moment, Furiosa haunted her, making her remember her duty to Dorne.

‘You must ensure your husband sits that throne and that your children do after him… Do not let yourself be duped... And if something needs to be said, do not hesitate to speak for yourself.’

Elia was not so young as to forget the explicitly anti-Dornish Blackfyre rebellions, nor how a noble-mothered bastard could pose a threat to Dornish-blooded monarchs. Elia needed to hold onto Rhaegar no matter how much she despised him.

“If a mistress it what you so desire then seek whoever you wish, discreetly, but I beg you, not Lyanna... and not until you have fulfilled your bargains to me.”

Elia carried another child, despite her health, and pushed Ashara away as he had asked. Now it was his turn to make her a Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

Her gaze pierced into him and he shifted uncomfortably under it.

“Rhaegar.” She prompted.

His reluctance told her everything she needed to know. Rhaegar loved Lyanna. Yet, if she had sacrificed her heart for him, it was only fair that he do the same.

“Very well. Your wish is my command.”

[royaltealovingkookiness]

I was wondering, could you do an analysis on Zuko’s fever dream where he sees himself as the avatar? I feel like it’s incredibly significant, but I can’t articulate why. Thanks in advance if you decide to!

Sure. 

It’s one of those Aang-Zuko parallels that run through the entire series. Zuko’s fever dreams mirror Aang’s spiritual journey working through his chakras in the Guru.

In 2.01, The Avatar State sets up both Zuko’s and Aang’s attachments that hold them back from their destinies: for Zuko it’s his craving for Ozai’s love and approval, for Aang, it’s his attachment to Katara.

Zuko starts his journey, symbolically cutting off his ponytail and as he travels through Earth Kingdom (and deep down the rabbit hole of the truth about the war) we see his ties with the Fire Nation and his faith in his mission gradually weaken. It’s a lot of raw, unprocessed experiences of seeing people hurt, families torn apart, poverty, violence and it makes no sense in light of the propaganda he was taught, but it’s not something he’s ready to confront consciously. 

And then comes his decision of freeing Appa. It’s more than just one selfless act. Zuko is giving Aang the means to leave Ba Sing Se, and to put himself out of Zuko’s reach pretty much permanently. It’s giving up his search. It’s giving up his dream of fixing his own life, going home and things “going back to normal”. It’s not a small thing - it’s Zuko breaking through his ego and his own desires that made him get through the last 3 years to do something selfless and altruistic. 

On top of this, he goes into Appa’s lair as the Blue Spirit, but when Iroh comes after him, he drops the mask. So he takes the decision to free Appa as himself, not having the mask anymore to dissociate himself from his actions. Surely, it’s liberating in a way to let go, but for someone whose entire self-perception is built on never giving up, this must feel like being a quitter. It feels both terribly right and wrong at the same time. 

As Iroh says, it’s Zuko’s “critical decision, what you did beneath that lake…it was in such conflict with your image of yourself, that you are now at war within your own mind and body.” It releases spiritual energy that activates his kundalini - check out this meta - working its way through his body. Because Zuko is not doing this through conscious meditation, but through unprocessed decisions, his body is unable to handle this sudden energy and his mind is equally unable to process deliberately the repressed, festering doubts and conflicts. So he falls into a fever dream, to help the metamorphosis. 

Now I would rather focus on the narrative symbolism, rather than the chakra discussion. 

The Dragon scene

We see Zuko’s perfect image of himself - the one he was holding onto. A scarless, unblemished Fire Lord, spitting image of his father, surrounded by all the trappings and symbols of wealth and power. It’s his dream of having his honor returned, of things turning back to normal. It’s the redemption he thinks Ozai can give him. 

The red and blue dragons are shaped like the kundalini, the spiritual energy working inside him. It’s interesting that Zuko’s inner voices are Azula and Iroh - they are the two most important influences in his life - the “perfect” v “failure”, the “ruthless” v “kind”, the “insider” v “outcast” (Ozai is an absence). He will have to choose between them. Azula’s Blue Dragon tries to lull his consciousness back into sleep, to keep him stuck with this “past image” of himself. While Iroh’s red dragon urges him to leave this place behind, to keep awake for his “new self”.

The Blue Dragon almost manages to lull him back to sleep, but Ursa appears in the darkness, dressed as she was when she left and Zuko sees his own reflection through her eyes. I think it’s a throwback to the promise he made to her that we saw in Zuko Alone - that he wouldn’t forget who he truly is. Seeing this Ozai-like reflection of himself through Ursa’s eyes helps him to let go, but it’s also a leap into the darkness. It foreshadows how his mother’s image helps him to walk away in Book 3.

2. The elements

As we see Zuko struggle through the fever, all the elements are around him. He’s not who he was anymore, he’s new self is forged through his experiences and everything he learnt in the past years. 

The past image of himself that he clings to is surrounded by fire, just like his past and identity is linked with fire. The blue and red dragons symbolize how the element has both negative and positive influence in his life.

The symbol of his transformation is water. It cleanses, soothes him through the worst of the fever. And water plays a big role in changing him. His entire Book 1 journey is the push and pull of different influences, pitting his mission to capture Aang against his better instincts of being loyal to his uncle, to consider his crew, to even being compassionate to his enemies. The Blue Spirit is born of water.

His physical struggle is all earth colors of green and brown of the room and his blankets. It’s his physically exacting journey through the Earth Kingdom when he learns not only the limits of his own endurance and resilience, but also that of the common people. He shares their suffering and it’s going to be crucial in his redemption.

3. The “Avatar-self” Scene

As his body works through the fever, his new self - or more accurately a possible version of an ideal, awakened self - emerges. We get a glimpse through the mirror, who Zuko could be if he managed to open his Crown Chakra. This self is a completely bared down version of himself, free of his earthly attachments of wealth and pomp. He is bald and bears an airbender tattoo. He looks hauntingly similar to Aang - to remind us of the illusion of separation, and to point Zuko towards his true destiny. Air is of course the element of freedom, of spirituality and embracing it opens up the possibility of reconciliation between the Avatar and the Fire Lord. This foreshadows the Book 3 Zuko who leaves everything behind to go help the Aang.

This self is also scarless, just like Zuko’s past image, which is an important piece of foreshadowing. Zuko cannot be this person until he is free of his scar somehow. 

4. Awakening

When he wakes up, his hand goes immediately to his eyes. And it’s both sadness and relief that the scar is still there. He’s in conflict of who he wants to be. It foreshadows his entire scene in the cavern - he wants to be free to choose, despite his scar, but is unable to do it, because it still defines him. Zuko needs to heal to embrace this awakened self. But the healing he needs is not the physical one that Katara offers, but a spiritual one, which he himself started, but didn’t fully achieve.

Iroh’s love and caring (and tea) gets him through this experience, like it did his banishment, but his love also cannot heal the scar.

Only Zuko himself can do it. His healing is only complete when he confronts his father, lets go of his attachment to Ozai and refuses to be defined by his abuse anymore. That’s when he becomes the “beautiful prince” he was meant to be.

[artsninspo]

NerdBae - Part VII

Authors Note: a little something for all the faithful readers worried about Elle and Tre. Don’t want to keep you in suspense for too long.

Elle had heard the news upon her arrival in the house. Her oblivious parents asked her what the fight had been about and she’d shrugged obliviously.

“Tre’s bitch ass; is a bitch” is all she got from a very brief phone call to Gina. It was evident the argument had been about her. Her mother said she’d never seen Tre so mad, she’d never seen him talk to anyone like that. It took Elle everything in her not to comment that they didn’t know him as well as they all thought.

Still, Gi and Tre were blood and she’d never allow herself to get between that. Gi would go to hell and back for her and if she went to war defending Elles honour, Elle would have to reciprocate - it was only fair. The string of bullets sounds as Elle descends into the theatre room finding Tre sitting pissed and killing everything moving on the screen. Elle grabs a spare remote lifting it up and he pauses the game looking at her.

“I want to play” she gestures sitting beside him.

“Press this to run and this to shoot, this to change weapons” he instructs and she sits failing to contribute anything to their two person team as Tre murders everything moving. The same coping mechanism he’d used since he was fourteen. Only then it was grand theft auto and he ran over everything moving.

“Why’d you go off on Gi” Elle asks as he pauses to take a drink and he freezes.

“She went too far this time” he mumbles swallowing hard and clenching his jaw out of frustration.

“So you just had enough? What’s the difference this time?” Elle shrugs looking him over.

“She needs to mind her business, you already won’t look at me now that you know about my pastimes. You don’t want to be around me and now she’s up my ass” Tre explains more tense than Elle’s used to.

“I went through a lot over this past year Tre. Gina’s been a rock for me and she’s seen me through it. She knows when I’m keeping something from her and she worries because with Cameron I gave her cause to. So if she went at you hard over me - get upset with me not her. She always has my back” Elle asserts reciprocating Ginas energy and Tre exhales smiling slightly at their bond.

“Have I ever hurt you Elle?” He asks. “Have I ever given you cause to not trust me or be fearful around me?” Tre adds. “No, never” He asserts knowing its true. “I never will, I’m not Cameron and all of a sudden you can’t be around me, we don’t talk and you act like I’m some guy not someone you grew up with. All of a sudden I’m a stranger and my sister comes at me sideways like I’m some piece of shit who doesn’t care about you” Tre explains openly.

Meeting his eyes for the first time in a week Elle swallows understanding his frustration.

“Spoke to Lily”

“What?” Tre asks with alarm.

“Don’t worry, I’m pretty sure it was random - I was at the coffee shop.” Elle pauses. “She says you’re the best” she acknowledges looking at Tre. “I don’t think what you do is bad Tre, I may not understand it but I know you’d never hurt anyone and you deserve to be happy” Elle swallows.

Tre can see theres only truth and she means every one of her words but the sparkle in her eye is gone, so is her warmth around him. She’s armoured and he’s no longer allowed into her inner circle. She sighs looking at the ceiling before folding her arms.

“I don’t expect for things to get so sticky between us with everything that happened and the web of emotions. You do sex parties Tre and I’m not a fan of sex; you’re practically a sex expert” Elle shrugs trying to give him transparency. “If you think I’m a liar ask Gina; I’ve been celibate for over a year now” she explains.

“Why aren’t you a fan?” Tre asks.

Was it the fact that she almost never came? Or that Cameron had a smusher? Maybe after awhile of dealing with that she couldn’t even bring herself to getting wet? She’d tried with other men post break up but her brain would short circuit like someone suffering from PTSD and somehow it was a no go.

“Doesn’t matter men need sex, especially ones that are practically olympian at the sport - so lets just stop with the flirting” Elle reasons using her head for once.

“As a Dom its my job to give my sub what she needs”

“Well I don’t need to be spanked whipped or degraded” Elle asserts making Tre smile.

“Its not like that”

“Then whats it like?” Elle asks.

“Subs need and want different things, you have to observe, learn and listen before acting.”

“Then you should know I never want to be dominated so why put yourself through not getting what makes you happy?” Elle asks. Tre smirks at her naiveté.

“Ill apologize to Gina, flowers, Sephora gift card and spa day” Tre concedes changing the subject but it makes Elle smile.

“Thank you”

“How do I make up for Lily?”

“Water under the bridge Trevante” Elle stands.

“I have an engagement in Miami, I’d like you to come”

“Gina too? We haven’t been to south beach in a minute” Elle smiles but Tre shakes his head.

“No Gina, just us”

Elles brows bunch at his words.

“Tre” Elle sighs,.

“No, I’m not just letting it go. Just give me a chance - give me three days. If you’re not into me then fine. I’ll back off and respect your wishes. But you’re beautiful Elle and you don’t walk around with that confidence unless you’re playing pretend when it should be at all times.” Tre swallows. “And I won’t push you, I’ll respect your wishes but if you let me I’d give you the time and energy I put into everything else important to me”.

His words give Elle a wash of reveries. She’d misjudged his silence and observation for awkwardness when he’d been reading her like a book.

“Just give me an honest shot and I’ll respect your decision you have my word.”

“Ok” Elle whispers. Her response is a relief that makes him smile.

“Pack your necessities, you can go shopping while I tour spaces, then it’ll be just us”

“Ok”, Elle nods in agreement.

____

————

PART VII

“You really going to let some other bitch swoop in and take my idiot brother on a ride?” Gina asks as Elle looks around the penthouse in Miami.

“Gi, theres more to it” Elle sighs looking towards South Beach.

“I know there is you forgave him”

“Gi” Elle sighs. “Gi, you can’t mention anything, ever not even a snide comment”

“Now I’m fucking worried” Gina says on the other end of the line. Elle could picture her sitting forward.

“Its a bottom of the ocean type of secret”

“Then I’ll never tell” It was seldom they ever had to use those words trusting each others discretion with their secrets.

“Tre’s into BDSM, no we haven’t done anything but Gi. We both know - I’m not even close to being there”

“What?” Gina snaps. “He want you to spank and spit on him?” She asks.

“No he’s the spanker” Elle confides making gina laugh for a cool minute leaving Elle to smile.

“Ellie, Tre will respect you not having sex with him. But every guy isn’t Cameron - maybe your shrink was right about your body knowing something was wrong” Gi reasons forcing Elle to swallow.

“I know but” Elle sighs as the elevator dings revealing the driver. “Ill be down in a minute” she smiles getting her purse.

“But what babe?”

“It’s the kind of thing you share with someone you’re with and I don’t want Tre to look at me like damaged goods. Think I’m even more stupid for my decisions with Cameron. Let Cameron ruin me indefinitely - I’m just so in my head” Elle sighs heading out to catch the elevator.

“Tre will wait, don’t feel pressured, you don’t have to tell him the truth right away. It’s not a lie its personal but get out your head and give it a fair shot Ellie - he makes you happy.” Gina advises.

“I know right” Elle sighs. “Gi, why didn’t you warn me he got so fine and he knows all my cheat codes its not fair” Elle pouts as the door opens the driver is waiting outside the lobby.

“I wanted you to experience everything on your own time. Besides, I didn’t know if he’d be man enough. I’m pretty impressed by the chains and whips”

“Shut up” Elle laughs as the car pulls off.

She gets everything needed for a weekend in Miami, swimsuits, sundresses, sunscreen, illuminator, a summery fragrance and cute pyjamas and comfortable day attire. Even a fresh sugar wax since it had been awhile.

Tre’s at the condo when she returns with a satisfied smile.

“Thanks Pete” he says probably sending the driver a virtual tip. “Get dressed we’re going to dinner”

“Do we have to? Can we order in and go out for drinks tonight?” Elle asks sitting on his leg. The way he pulls her in closes makes her nipples harden as she snuggles into him. She’d been with Cameron for years and never felt the same kind of serene peace, chemistry and attraction.

“What do you want?”

“Oxtail and rice from a Jamaican spot”

“Alright” Tre agrees.

“Tre, I’m happy to be here with you like this” Elle admits feeling shy and Tre smiles genuinely nodding his head.

“Me too” he agrees tilting his head for a kiss. “Not on the cheek” he instructs making Elles eyes disappear in a laugh.

AN: Thanks for reading everyone, what do we think about the reconciliation and this Miami trip? Predictions? Promise Gina wont throw Tre’s lifestyle in his face :) Talk to me !

____

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[afteriwake]

NEW CHAPTER!!!

(Banner by @strangelock221b)

…And All The Men And Women Merely Players - Mycroft Holmes is not-so-subtly trying to make sure there’s a reconciliation between his youngest sibling Sherlock and his ex-wife, Molly Hooper, by forcing them to work together on a theatre project. But it isn’t all smooth sailing when his and Sherlock’s sister comes back from the States with a boyfriend who is the devil incarnate…and all hell is about to break loose.

READ CHAPTER 1 | READ CHAPTER 12 | BUY ME A COFFEE?

It was a wet afternoon a few days later when his life veered suddenly again. He held Molly close on the sofa as the rain poured steadily outside. Russell was asleep in his bedroom after Molly had done a marvelous job distracting him from being upset about the canceled zoo visit by spinning story after story for him. She truly was a marvel with words, he realized.

“Do you think Janine would mind if I kidnap him more often?” Molly asked.

“Who, Russell?” Sherlock asked, amused.

“Yes. He’s such a wonderful child,” Molly said. “And he seemed to enjoy the stories.”

“You should write them down and publish them,” he said. “Janine is actually quite a talented artist. You could collaborate.”

Molly chuckled. “Just what the tabloid rags would hate. Mother of your son and your ex-wife turned something collaborating on children’s books and enjoying each other’s company.”

“Ex-wife turned wife again if I’m lucky,” he said, pressing a kiss into her hair.

“Is that a half-arsed marriage proposal, Sherlock? Because your first one was so much better.”

He knew she was teasing. He could hear it in the tone of her voice. “Oh yes. You finding the ring in my dresser drawer and me stumbling over words and only managing to choke out ‘Marry me please?’”

She shifted her position so she was lying on top of him, and then looked at him with their noses touching. “Tom went all out. I hated it. It didn’t feel right, not like yours did. It seemed more a show than anything else.”

“Why did you say yes, then?” he asked, trailing fingers along her spine in a slow, languid motion.

“I felt...trapped,” she said. “He wasn’t a bad man, not until the end, but he was a piss-poor substitute for you and I knew it but I thought I could never get you back.”

“Why did you ask for me to direct the play?” he asked, frowning slightly.

“Because I recognized the wedding ring on your finger and I’d hoped it meant you didn’t marry Janine because you still loved me. If that was the case, I still stood a chance.” She moved up a bit and kissed his nose. “Now that I know the truth, I know I always stood a chance, but it was perhaps a good thing I didn’t try to reconcile earlier. You’ve done a tremendously kind and generous thing for Janine and Russell and you may not have if you’d known I still loved you.”

“I may have done things differently,” he said. “But I would have helped them nonetheless.”

“I know. That’s just one more reason why I love you.” She moved down and kissed him softly, and he stopped running his fingers up and down her back to press her close against him.

Things were starting to get heated enough to necessitate moving from the sofa to his bedroom when his mobile went off. It was the familiar tune he used for Janine, and Molly eased off of him so he could answer. “Janine?”

“He came by and saw me,” she said, a tinge of fear in her voice.

Sherlock sat up. “Moriarty?”

“Yes. He says he wants what’s his. Sherlock...”

“He’ll have access to Russell over my dead body,” Sherlock said. “Come back to London as soon as you can. You can stay here in your old bedroom for a while as we sort this out and plan what to do next.”

“But you and Molly...” she began.

“We’ll find a way to make it work,” he said. “I want to make sure you’re close and Russell is too and if Moriarty even tries to get within spitting distance of my flat I’ll know.” He paused. “Call Mycroft, get a private car. Bring anything you can pack before it gets there and we’ll buy the rest when you get here in London. Russell’s room is still well-stocked.”

“Thank you,” Janine said, relief in her voice. “I’ll get you out of this mess, I swear.”

“It’s not a mess and I’m perfectly fine right in the middle of it,” Sherlock said. “Just get to London as quickly as you can.” He hung up on her then and then stood, reaching for his Belstaff which was on the back of one of the chairs. “I need to attend to something.”

“Sherlock, if you’re going after James--”

He shook his head. “I’m not. I want to but it would be counterproductive. No, I think it’s time for a family reunion. My sister and I are overdue for a chat.”

Molly reached up to grasp his wrist and he stopped, looking first at her hand and then at her face. “Just be careful, alright? Promise me.”

He nodded and then leaned down, kissing her quickly. “Keep Russell safe. I doubt Moriarty will try anything today, but who knows.” And then he pulled his arm out of her grasp and headed towards the door. He doubted James would be back in London proper soon, so now was the perfect time to talk to Eurus.

He just hoped she listened.

[iammarylastar]

1. Father and son.

“You’re doing this damn wrong!”

He yanks the fishing rod from his son’s hands and starts reeling the hooked fish back, lifting and pulling on the rod.

“That fucker is a big one.” He grunts, fighting with Jack’s catch, finally pulling it out of the water.

Jack has the net ready to pick up the fish, but John unhooks the wiggling fish, fighting for its life and throws it back to the river.

“What’s the point with catch and release?” Jack asks, pretty pissed off to see their possibly dinner swimming away. They’re good for another awful undrinkable instant soup tonight.

“The point is to spend time together, not to kill innocent fish.”

Jack sighs heavily, that father-and-son week-end in the middle of nowhere, stuck with the man who fathered him but was more a ghost than a dad, is turning into the worst idea of the century. As promised.

“Like you would give a shit. How many bad guys have you killed by now?” He snorted.

“You yourself just said. They were bad guys. Those fish did nothing wrong. ”

Jack nods his head no, giving up.

“Well … What’s next? Did you plan to massage my feet or something?” He mocks.

“This is what the girls planned. We’re men. We will down some beers and have a talk.” John says, like there’s something they’re used to.

Jack grabs two beers from the cooler and throws one to his father. He somehow would rather share the spa with his mother and sister than having a talk with his so called father.

“A talk? Since when do we talk?” Jack laughs.

“I know, we’re not a very talkative family. But at least we could try.” John says with hope.

“I often talk to Lucy and Ma. But… sounds weird to speak with you.” Jack admits.

“Come on Jack, don’t be shy to me. What’s up?” John asks.

“Nothing new. The usual.”

That lame attempt to line up more than 3 words sounds ridiculous and not natural at all.

“Great.” John says, sipping his beer. That’s a good beginning. They never have shared so much.

A weird and uncomfortable silence settles down between the two men.

“Great, right.” Jack concludes, downing half of his beer.  He could make it. Glancing at his watch, he quickly does his maths. 36 more hours and he would be free from this stupid tentative of reconciliation. If he manages to over sleep till noon tomorrow, the countdown would go faster.

“You live in a house?” John inquires.

“A flat. I’m away most of the time, remember?” Jack answers sarcastically.

“Safe exit? Outdoor stairs clear? Easy access to the roof top?” John questions.

“John… Beat it.” He suddenly regrets skipping to buy cigarettes. He doesn’t smoke but he thought it could be a good occasion to start. He needs a smoke right now.

“Any girlfriend waiting for you at home?

“Really? John you’re not ready for such a conversation.”

“Fuck off! Son, I’m your dad. I’m ready for worse than talking about your damn girlfriend! I saved your little ass more than once in Russia. Don’t you want to open your heart to your old father before he dies? ”

Jack wishes he was dead. Open his heart to his dad? Why not. But this dad? Bullshit!

“As I said, I’m away most of the time. Not the right job to get a girl.”

“I did. I got a wife and a family. If I could do it, anyone could.” John shows off.

“Yeah, teach me some tips… How manynominations for the Father of the year award did you get?” He snaps.  This silly heart-to-heart talk is turning sour; how could it be otherwise?

“I did my best! Do you think it’s easy to be at home pampering or having your homework done whilst running after dangerous rascals?” John argues, his voice reaching its highest perchedsignature.

“Yippee-kay-yay motherfucker. That’s why I won’t have a family. Don’t wanna take the risk to waste other lives but mine.” Jack snarls before emptying his beer in a huge gulp.

“Are you kidding me? You don’t want to raise a family? You can’t be serious!”

“I have thought about it more than once. There’s no better option.”

“So I have fathered an idiot. Building a family is the best thing I ever did in my whole life.”

“If I may… the family patterns I grew up in really cured me of. There is nothing more I want than not being the father you were. You still are.”

“Dammit Jack. You’re whining again. He pauses, downing his beer then asks "Have I been such a bad father?

"You can’t imagine. The worst of the worst.” If he wants to talk, then Jack will tell him the truth.

“I think that’s a little bit of an exaggeration…” John starts.

“John! You sucked. You still suck. You pretend to know me, but you don’t.” John chuckles, ready to prove his point.

“When is my birthday then? You missed the latest 26th.” Jack cuts him off.

“I know exactly when you were born! Molly called me on her way to the hospital; I was speed chasing that guy who robbed the Bank of N.Y. I remember it like it's yesterday, it was a thursday, around June. It was hot as hell outside. ”

“Nice try.” Jack laughs.“I was born in January, the first day of Winter. It was a Monday and it was snowing. You blew up half of Manhattan, and ended up in the middle of the fire you lit, throwing a match too close to some wrecked cars.”

“Yes, that day was exhausting, I needed a smoke. And the fire was to celebrate your birth.” John remembers.

“Which you missed.” Jack glares at his father.

“Yeah, right. But at least I caught the guy …”

“He has been luckier than me then.” Jack whispers.

“Your mom was very upset at me when I arrived at the hospital.”

“Yeah she still is. "Jack chuckles.” You were covered with blood, your clothes torn and half burned and you were yelling like a bear at the nurses to let you in.“

"I wanted to see you. My son.” MacLane leans forward, elbows on his knees.

“Are you going to put on the sob act,  aren’t you? I beg you, don’t…”

Jack is not ready to hear his father to open his heart to him. Definitely not. The emotions turn makes him uncomfortable. He thinks for a second he would need a hug. From his mom, who else?

Jack fiddles the corner of the label of his empty beer, then shyly spits out.

“There was this girl… I dated for months… about 5 years ago.”

Shade.

“She…” he fights to say the words.  “She made me want to drop everything and settle down with her. You know… like she was the one. We even talked about starting a family but…” he doesn’t finish his sentence.

“What? What happened?”

“She let me down. She left and I’ve never heard from her since.”

John drops his empty bottle and grabs two new beers out of the cooler.

“She didn’t tell you why?” He -for once- sounds compassionate, and hands the cool beer to his son.

“Nope.” He sighs. “When I went back home, she was gone. She tore my whole wardrobe, crushed my TV and my heart in pieces. End of story.”

“Little slut. She didn’t deserve you.” He drinks a sip and goes on.  “Went back from what?”

“A mission. The day I planned to propose to her, I was sent on a mission to Germany.”

“Shit! How long were you gone?”

“About 5 months.” Jack’s voice turns sad at the memory.  She ruined his love.

“You gave news?”

“You know the rules, John. No calls, no mails, no tracks. The mission first.”

“For God’s sake, are you dumb? I knew I fucked up with you as a father,  but you’re way more stupid than I thought.” John scolds his damn son.

“What?” Insults are not what he needs.

“You have left your girl for 5 fucking months? Nearly engaged? With no news? And you dare to say she broke your heart?”

“Because she broke it! I was crazy in love with her and she just… FUCK!” Jack throws his bottle which smashes on a rock. “Drop it. Gimme another beer. No chance you brought stronger drinks?”

“Nah. Your mother made me swear we stay sober.” John shoves his hand in the inside pocket of his jacket and gives his son a flask of whiskey. “She told me I better bring you back in one piece or I’m gonna be in heap big troubles.”

Jack grabs the whiskey and takes a sip, frowning as the amber liquid burns his throat.

“Troubles do know you, don’t they?” He chuckles.

“Fuck they do. So you were in love son?” John inquires.

“Yeah… I’m still wondering why she didn’t wait for me.” He scratches the back of his neck.

“Smart ass. Women will never understand what we do for a living. But what did you expect? It’s like you left her at the altar…”

“She knew my job. She was a cop herself. CIA. Special agent. We met on a mission. And if I remember correctly you did that to mom.” Jack mocks.

“I went to my wedding. Late but on time to say ‘I do!’.”

“Yeah. Mom told me about that. You were pretty late and not fit for a bride.”

“A cop! I bet things worked well between the two of you!” John focuses the subject on his son.

“Fireworks. She had a strong personality. Like mom.” Jack admits.

“McLanes are meant to date bitches, right?”

Jack reaches his beer out, waiting for his dad to cling his own. “Cheers, man. To strong women we loved and messed up with!”

“Cheers!” He bangs the beers together.“What’s that man thing? What happened to dad and John?”

“They’re obsolete. You’re growing old,  man.”

A cell Phone chirps in the bag that lays between the two men. Jack rushes on his knee and grabs his Phone.

“McLane?” He answers. He listens carefully,  nodding his head and humming yes to the speaker.

“OK. I’ll be there in a couple of hours.” He says, before grabbing his bag.

“Sorry John. Urgent call. I have to go back to my office.” He seems released to live his love life there, along with that stupid week-end.

“A mission?” He stands up and starts to gather their shits.

“Yeah. I’m summoned. Too bad for the fish. Let’s pack up and go. You’ll tell me where to drop you off.”

John stares at his offspring and utters.

“Who said you have to drop me anywhere? I go with you. Nobody will waste my father-and-son week-end.”

“But dad! ” Jack objects.

“Dad is back! ” he laughs. “As your dad I want to go with you. Last time we worked together was so much fun!” He walks towards the pickup and throws the fishing stuff in the back.

“You won’t get rid of me son. McLanes are back!”

“Shit.” Jack whispers. “OK! Let’s go ruin someone’s life then.”

Cover by Nancy. @jaihardy @bookwarm85 @kenzieam @oddsnendsfanfics @frecklefaceb @badassbaker @beautifulramblingbrains @societalfailure @jaicourtneyseyes @jaicourtneyforever @kiiiimberlyriiiicker1995 @red-diary @captstefanbrandt

@angaleswannawearmyredshooz

[paintsplattere]

My DM let me get away with having what is essentially an elemental Ditto. This is Tariro, and I’ve been slowly adding to pictures for their varying elemental forms, of which there are 15 -- 16 if you count their Base Form. More info under a Read More, or this’ll go on forever.

So the at the top there is Base Form Tariro, entirely neutral and has no strong leanings towards any one element and subject to change his form depending on what he eats. As he is currently in their infantile state -- they’re like... two weeks old, give or take, in universe -- and ALWAYS hungry causing trouble for my character, their “mother”. With growth, they’ll eventually gain arms. In nearly every form they are capable of mild telekinesis to lift up to 10 lbs, and can float.

 Due to being technically a Summoned Spirit, they eat Presence; the inherent energy in an object, person, or animal. Depending on the thing consumed, they can change into one of his 15 other forms from this state, and as they eat the Presence of an object they essentially can eat ANYTHING. In this Form, they’re very squishy and soft-skinned, with the antennae, tail tip, eyes, and mouth glowing softly at all times. Their bone structure is cartilaginous in nature. 

The first row is comprised of Creation, Fire, Water, and Destruction Forms. Arranged because these elements oppose their counterparts. Elements in the universe of the game not only power spells and enchantments but are inherently tied to their own set of Deities -- with a Spirit of X at the very top -- and are tied to states of Emotion and a mortal can be chosen at their will as the person that most represents the embodiment of that emotion called the Champion of the X.

Creation’s based off flowering plants, with the tail bearing a large bellflower bloom. The element is associated with frivolity and joy, but also tends to reject sorrow and can be considered too light-hearted. This form has thick spores of pollen drifting off the bloom and antennae at all times, which glow faintly. It can be considered the Opposite of Destruction. The Spirit of Creation is Chaileaf, protector of Forests and Life.

Fire’s appearance is based off of lava and lava lamps, and even as a baby Tariro is capable of spitting flames when sufficiently provoked. Which is a little too easy to do as fire as an element is tied to anger and rage alongside passion. In this form, Tariro exudes a scent akin to burning marshmallows and a faint glow all over. It can be considered the Opposite of Water. The Spirit of Fire is currently unknown but is said to hang out near volcanoes.

Water is based off amphibians and is always a little damp and chilly to the touch. Water is friendly and amiable to events that go on around it... but it can be a little fickle. Tariro is picky and persnickety in this form. Their glow in this form is tinted  softer white than in their base form. It can be considered the Opposite to Fire. The Spirit of Water is Undine, Keeper of the Seas and Guardian of the Merfolk.

Destruction is spined and based off of stereotypical depictions of low level enemies in video games. Despite the appearance and name, Destruction is more about release of stress and relaxation! Tariro can sometimes come off as uncaring when in this form, giggling over destroying objects and causing minor mayhem. They have a dim glow from its tail and antennae, but is terribly toxic. It can be considered the Opposite of Creation. The Spirit of Destruction is unknown. 

The second row shows off Wind, Light, Earth, Darkness, and Metal. These ones don’t directly oppose each other, since those haven’t been drawn yet.

Wind’s appearance is inspired from birds of prey, storms, and the decorative streamers on a Suicune. Wind is freedom incarnate, not inclined to be tied down by things like societal conventions or rules. However, as this makes Tariro’s behavior unpredictable and untrustworthy. In this form, the glowing trails of light from Tariro’s streamers can be seen at night. It can be considered the Opposite of Earth. The Spirits of Wind are the Cardinal Directions: North, South, East, and West. Each has a preferred hangout, but not much is known about them.

Light’s based off of fireflies and angels, as well as taking some inspiration from the sun. Tariro is more concerned about fairness and proper understanding of a conflict in this form, as Light is considered the closest to justice as a concept. Those who are guilty of wrongdoing are never forgiven, however, which can be something of a hindrance to future reconciliation. In this form, Tariro’s tail becomes a ball of glowing light alongside the nodes on its ears. Unlike other forms, the eyes have a consistent glow and the irises take on a dark amber tone. It can be considered the Opposite of Darkness. The Spirit of Light is not known, but the chosen Champion of the Light is. 

Earth has inspirations from canyon walls and wet, unmolded clay, studded with turquoise. This form is stubborn and firm in conviction, and Tariro is its most trustworthy when they take on this element. The very tip of the tail crystal glows, as well as the head crystals in this form, and Tariro has a slight habit of merging with the very ground under their feet if not watched closely. It can be considered the Opposite of Wind. The Spirit of Earth is Siddha, Protector of the Rock and Ground. He is dating the Spirit of Crystal -- a lesser deity of Earth -- Paz.

Darkness takes design elements from halloween facepaint, ghost fire, and wispy brushes of cold air. While Tariro is calmest in this form, it can be considered a depressing or misunderstood element by those who do not directly practice Darkness Magic or worship it’s Spirit. Often misconstrued as being the opposite of Creation, Darkness is death and remembrance and passing, the fear of unknown things and fangs in the night. In this form, the glowing balls of flame and “spirit spots” on the tail are the brightest, but the eyes still give a fainter glow. It can be considered the Opposite to Light. The Spirit of Darkness is Lupa, who ferries souls to the beyond after death. 

Metal’s design influences are Transformers and I have no shame. Other design points are the tail lights from old cars and lightbulbs. Metal is unwavering and firm, cold and calculating and analytical. Unfortunately, which such a heavy emphasis on fact and analysis and the truth of the matter, people who ascribe to it can come off as apathetic and unemotional. In this form, Tariro’s glow come from lights on the body. It can be considered the Opposite to Thread. The Spirit of Metal is unknown.

ELEMENTS WITH NO ART YET Ice, Thread, Love, Leadership, Soul, and Spirit.

[blueforestfires]

Reconciliation

Ryuji attempts to apologize to Rin for poisoning him with holy water. It... doesn’t go how he expected it to.

((Alternate title: this has been in my drafts FOREVER and I finally deem it acceptable to post ))

Of all the places Suguro expected to meet his classmates from high school, the last place was outside of the son of Satan’s hospital room. And yet there Egin Yukio was, standing at the doorway with his arms crossed. “What... why are you here?”

The taller boy gave him a glare so sharp that it could cut steel. “He’s my twin brother. Why are you here?”

“You’re that de— Rin’s twin?” He has a twin? Now that it’d been pointed out to him, Ryuji felt like a moron for not piecing together sooner that Rin and his classmate from Room 1A were related— they shared the same family name, after all, and they’d shown up at True Cross at around the same time (give or take). In his defense, the demon insisted on not using his surname, and... well, the two boys simply didn’t look very much alike. Even when one disregarded the fact that they were two different species. “But you’re human!”

“When it comes to blood, Nii-san is just as human as I am, and I am just as demonic as he is. Our bodies simply express it differently.” Yukio’s tone was cold and terse throughout his entire explanation, as if he had given it before and was tired of doing so. He loomed over the other boy, sneering; it was incredibly unsettling to see him acting so differently from the kind persona he had in class. “Answer my question. What are you doing here? Come to try to finish what you started?”

So he knew Ryuji was the one who poisoned Rin. Fantastic. School was going to be a lot of fun later. “Actually… I came to apologize,” Suguro said, barely able to bring himself to get the words out of his mouth. Part of him was furious at the thought of apologizing to a demon for hurting it, but another, bigger part knew that it was the right thing to do.

“Nii-san doesn’t need apologies right now, he needs rest,” Yukio said firmly.

“Yuki,” a hoarse, weak voice called from inside the room. Yukio’s head whipped towards the speaker, his expression quickly turning from anger to concern.

“What is it, Nii-san? Is something wrong? You know you’re not well enough to speak Japanese right now,” Yukio said, retreating into the hospital room with a concerned look. Suguro almost felt like he was encroaching on something private, as if only family members were meant to see, but he took the opportunity to enter behind Yukio anyways.

There was no other word for it; Rin looked horrific. He was almost as pale as the sheets he lay on, except for the dark circles under his eyes and his blistered, angry red lips. Rin was a bit too skinny before he’d been injured, and being unable to ingest solid food for the past few days hadn’t helped any; he wasn’t skeletal quite yet, but he was very clearly underweight now. Suguro had expected him to look threatening without the glamour he usually wore, even in his injured state, but the elongated ears and bright blue cat’s eyes made him look more like an elf than a demon.

Rin was talking to Yukio in a voice barely above a whisper, but Suguro couldn’t understand a word of the snippets he could hear. It was most definitely not any human language; the words were harsh yet seemed to flow into each other, and were very clearly unpronounceable with a normal throat. Was this really easier on his throat than Japanese? Demon physiology was weird. Strangely enough, Yukio still seemed to be able to follow every syllable. The language— probably some demon dialect, Suguro realized —seemed to lend itself to sounding angry, but the expression on Rin’s face was more annoyed than anything.

“Nii-san, don’t feel like you have to forgive this—”

Rin gave some sort of stubborn retort, but the words died in his throat as soon as he realized Suguro was there. He somehow became even paler, and the shame and fear that flashed across Rin’s face made Ryuji feel sick to his stomach.

Yukio turned to glare at Ryuji, finally alerted to his presence by his older brother’s change in expression. The look on his face was murderous, and Suguro could suddenly very clearly see the ‘human’ twin’s demonic heritage. “I told you to leave my brother alone,” he snapped, his voice dropping so low that he was almost growling. “Can’t you see that he’s not comfortable with you here?” Rin had all but hidden behind his younger brother, peeking out from behind him occasionally as if gauging Ryuji’s reaction.

 Ryuji ignored Yukio, making sure to lock eyes with Rin for just long enough for him to know that Suguro was speaking to him. “I don’t mind that you were speaking demon, you know,” he said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. That wasn’t entirely the truth— the language itself was unnerving, and it was annoying to have no idea what he was saying —but it was close enough. “Especially since it’s my fault you’re not well enough to speak Japanese yet.”

“Y-Youu didd th-this.” The half-demon spoke in Japanese, but at a cost; it was clearly a struggle for Rin to spit out each word, the muscles and tendons in his neck straining with each syllable. This seemed to be a recent revelation for Rin, but the half-demon didn’t look sad, angry, or even surprised. Just… tired. Suguro wished he was angry; people were supposed to get angry when someone tried to kill them, not just accept it like this.

Suguro took a deep breath. “I did,” he said, trying to keep his voice neutral to match Rin’s. “I came to apologize.”

Rin’s eyes narrowed and roamed across Ryuji’s face, as if searching for something. They were a much brighter blue than Ryuji remembered them being, so bright that they almost seemed to glow.  “W-Whhy?”

“Why? Because you deserve an apology, just as much as I deserve whatever punishment you come up with for me,” Suguro blurted; he couldn’t exactly put a finger on why, but Rin’s skeptical reaction to Ryuji’s apology had really bothered him. He didn’t feel offended by Rin’s mistrust— he deserved it, honestly —so what about it was bugging him?

Rin’s look of apathetic doubt quickly turned to one of confusion as he looked over at Yukio. He spoke again in Gehennan, a question clear in his voice. It wasn’t hard to tell that this was the first time he was hearing about Suguro receiving any punishment, and it obviously surprised him.

Ryuji raised a brow. “Did Father Fujimoto seriously not tell you? He’s letting you pick what punishment I get for what I did to you. It’s only fair, after all.”

The half-demon looked like he was at a complete loss, unable to decide how exactly to proceed. He repeated whatever he’d said in demon before, looking back and forth between Yukio and Suguro. Finally, he settled on Yukio, waving him forward so that he could whisper something into his ear. Yukio looked at his brother in slight disbelief before translating.

“...My brother wants to know if helping him with his schoolwork is an acceptable punishment.” Strangely enough, Rin looked at Ryuji as if waiting for his approval. As if it was his job to tell Rin what a good punishment was.  The kid really didn’t have a single vengeful bone in his body…

It was all Suguro could do not to blurt out ‘Really? That’s it?’ He should have been grateful that Rin chose such a minor punishment, but instead, it angered him that Rin didn’t respect himself enough to be truly angry at Ryuji. Unsure of what to say, he looked helplessly at Yukio and was met with a cold look. It was clear that Yukio also thought Rin’s punishment was lacking; if it was up to him, Ryuji was sure he’d have been kicked out of Cram School and sentenced to a lifetime of menial labor.

“Yes, I… I think that’s a good idea for a punishment,” Suguro said slowly, unsure of how else to word it. Rin was clearly looking for some kind of approval, but it almost felt like cheating to accept such a light punishment.

Yukio was visibly seething, but Rin seemed to be too caught up in his own relief to notice. He tugged on the younger twin’s sleeve again, murmuring something in Yukio’s ear that made the honor student clench his fists and bite his lip. He took a few deep breaths, calming himself before turning to Ryuji again. “My brother says that he is excited to have your help,” he said through gritted teeth.

Ryuji was struck speechless for a moment, unsure of how to respond. He glanced over at Rin, looking for any kind of hint that he was being sarcastic or something had been lost in translation— but nope, he was very clearly looking at Suguro with admiration he most definitely didn’t deserve. Why? Because he was top of their class? You’d think the attempted murder would cancel that out, but apparently not…

“I look forward to working with you,” he said at last, in the stiffest, most formal language he could muster up. With a ryokan owner for a mother and a head priest for a father, Suguro was rather well-versed in formal speech, and he was hoping being polite would keep Yukio from getting angry.

Rin looked confused for a moment— his speech must have sounded odd and stilted to someone not familiar with professional language —but eventually, he gave Ryuji a small smile. 

As he made his way back to the dorm, Suguro wondered how he’d ever found Rin even slightly intimidating.

[mercurygray]

In Haste

I was trying to work around to something else, and somehow...stopped here first. Emma and Henry hit an ...unexpected roadblock.

She hadn't meant for it to happen this way - but then again, who ever does?

She hadn't felt well for a good number of days, her stomach at odds with everything she tried to eat that wasn't a bit of dry toast. "It is all that filthy air," her mother pronounced, laying an expert hand to Emma's forehead. "You must stay home today. They cannot expect the nurses to work if they themselves are sick!"

But when one day turned to two, and two to three, even Mrs. Green was convinced it was not one of the usual complaints to be nursed with ginger and barley-water, and Emma was bundled up back to the hospital for a more thorough examination.

How strange it felt, to be the one examined! She'd watched Foster do this so many times on others to have it done upon herself was...strange. Miss Phinney lingered in the background, waiting should the examination require a more ...invasive touch.

First the usual things, pulse, tongue, eyes, heart, Foster's questions quick while he counted beats, examined sclera. Could she eat? Not much. Was she having trouble sleeping? Nothing unusual. Any sign of fever, of rash? None to be found. How were her bowel movements - regular? And her menses? Yes, and...no. She had been scant, since starting at the hospital, the stress...it wasn't unheard of...Two months, perhaps - or was it three?

Foster listened, considered - and then withdrew with Miss Phinney to the far side of the room, their faces hidden as they consulted. Emma watched Mary's posture change. Then Foster left the room, and it was Mary who turned back to the two of them.

"Well?" Jane Green did not like to be kept waiting.

Mary drew a breath, looking at Emma with a pained expression, the kind she'd often wear when telling a man he was about to die. Emma realized half a second before she said it what Mary's news was, why Foster had left and why her expression was now so very grave.

"Mrs. Green, I believe your daughter's pregnant."

Her mother stood, stunned, for a moment, and then realized that this was not a joke, but very, very real, her own mental addition totalling the same sum. She gave Miss Phinney an outraged look that the most fierce of war gods would have admired, seized Emma's wrist and nearly dragged her from the room. Emma could practically hear the shouting as her mother dragged her back downstairs. Here it was! Proof positive that all her fears had been completely valid! Her daughter, her Emma, vilely used by one of these Yankee creatures as though she were not a girl from a good family, and then left on the mercy of the world! It would not do!

Miss Phinney's exhortations for patience, given in their wake, were falling on deaf ears.

"And you may tell your Major that she will NOT be returning!" Jane Green announced stridently at the door, in full view of anyone who cared to hear, before turning on her heel and marching smartly out, Emma still shamefully in tow.

Her mother's face was a mask of anger and disappointment all the way back to the house, though she did not speak, save only to send Emma to her room. It was the silence, Emma thought, dejectedly, that hurt the most.

She heard the shouting even from all the way upstairs - her mother's explosive announcement alongside her father's wounded shouts. She half-expected to have one parent or the other burst through the door, but none came - only Belinda, with a cup of tea. Emma fell into her arms weeping.

"There, child, you wouldn't be the first," Belinda said, sitting down to stroke her hair. "Plenty of girls done it before and plenty more gonna do it after, I'm sure. And there ain't much your mama can do to change it, now, is there?" She petted her hair again. "Now you don't have to tell me nothing, but it wasn't one of them doctors, like your mama seem to think?" Emma shook her head, not trusting her voice. No, she knew exactly from whence this calamity had come - and he was now back with General Jackson. A single night, a single, stupid choice -- oh, why had she given what he'd asked? "Well, that's something," Belinda mused sagely.

That night dinner arrived on a tray.  So much the better - she didn't much feel like trying to eat with her family anyway, not when they would all stare at her like she was the new Salome, dancing wickedly before the men of Mansion House to bring dishonor on her family. Not even Alice came to see her afterwards.  

Her world shrank to four walls, her only entertainments the noises of the house -- officers coming and going, the sounds of horses in the street, the voices of her siblings in closed conference  with each other.

The next afternoon (after two more meals on trays) Belinda was at her door.

"Miss Emma, your father wants you downstairs."

They dressed her hair as quickly as they could, changing out of the nightdress in which she'd passed most of the morning for the most modest of her work-frocks.

She'd never been afraid to enter her father's study before, but now, standing outside the door, Emma's heart was pounding. What would he do? He was a man for fairness  -- but fairness, she thought, wasn't for debauched daughters. Belinda knocked and waited, opening the door when she was bid.  Her father stood as the door opened, as did  - oh, god in heaven. His visitor.

Enthroned behind his heavy desk James Green looked every inch the family patriarch, expression stern and unamused. His visitor  - well.

"Reverend Hopkins just asked me if he may marry you," her father announced without any of the usual pleasantries. Emma tried not to stare. How had - well, that was probably Miss Phinney. It wasn't as though her sudden departure had been a secret - people would have asked questions. Obviously Henry had been told the truth.  "As I have heard nothing of this... attachment previously, I can imagine it is for the usual reason." He gave a long, hard look at his daughter. "Well?"

Emma felt her father's disapproval down to the heels of her boots and, by way of acknowledgement, hung her head.

Her father's frown could have cut stone. "I’m not sure who I should be more disappointed in,” he said, eyes sliding between the two sorry beings in front of his desk. “My daughter, or you.” Hopkins, to his credit, did not break under the gaze, but still, no man liked to be called a stain on his profession. “I suppose you are doing the honorable thing now - but as her father I feel I should have the courtesy of knowing how this...travesty occurred.

Emma felt her stomach begin to churn again. What would he say?

Hopkins, hat in hand and looking penitent as anything, continued the story he'd been starting when Emma had come in -- of long days and longer nights, of stolen glances in corridors and shared consolation in the face of share grief. Emma could almost see the whole thing as he spoke, as if it were the truth and not some careful embroidery on it. A long bedside vigil, a particularly late and quiet evening, an accidental encounter when one had been undressed, and then - too late -

"You forced yourself on her?"

"No, Papa!" Emma finally remembered how to use her voice. James Green's anger was in danger of becoming extreme, and no man deserved that abuse, especially when he least deserved it. He was saving her - she at least owed him this much. "It was a ...mutual desire." Long in coming, she almost wanted to say - for that was true, at least on her part. Though, for his... She glanced at Henry, hoping he could see how much she meant it, how much she wished the story he had told was true, that it was he and not Frank who held the blame. His eyes were hard to read, but his hands were tight around the brim of his hat. How she wanted to take one of them and caress it!

Or would he take that badly? He, after all, was saving her, not the other way around. Perhaps he wouldn't like that, preferring to remain aloof, a noble savior far too worthy of the thing being saved.

If the story had consolation in it to Emma, it was not so for her father - he was still adamant behind the desk.

"Well. It'll have to be a quick wedding...though I'm sure they'll guess anyway. You'd better come to dinner, and...meet the family. We can still do some things properly." At this Mr. Green glared at his daughter, a silent reprimand for having deprived him of the usual social niceties. "Of course it won't be in style, there's a war on, but her mother will want something nice. A church ceremony, of course, as you are...of the cloth."

"Of course, sir."

"Well, I think our business is concluded," Mr. Green said, rising again from his seat. "We shall ...set a date for dinner."

"Thank you, sir." Henry, hesitating, held out his hand, a gesture almost as much of peace and reconciliation as the conclusion of a deal. Her father looked at it as though he'd spit in his palm first, and, eventually, Henry let the hand drop, and nodded his goodbye. "I’ll...show myself out."

Emma watched him leave, paralyzed, and then, remembering herself, sprinted after him. What had he - had they! -  just done?

"Henry!" He stopped, half-way down the porch steps, and turned, meeting her eye for the first time all morning. What agonies were in his eyes! "How did -"

"Miss Phinney," he said. "She came to me for counsel on what should be done, asked if I knew anything, as you and I were...close." The way he said the word gave her some measure of the fallen hopes that he had in it. "I told her I did not. She was most concerned your family...should behave as they did."

She silently blessed Heaven for the angel that was Mary Phinney. "You don't have to do this," she said. "I'll...I'll tell him you've lied, tell him the truth -"

"To what end, Emma? What purpose would that serve?"

She stopped, thinking that was obvious. You're being noble when you've no reason to. I've never done anything for you that would deserve such kindness. "So that you wouldn't have to tie yourself to me."

He swallowed, took a breath. "You say that like you think it's a burden."

Emma's heart caught in her throat. "...Isn't it?"

Now it was his turn to look embarrassed and afraid. "That story I told ...could have been the truth. I...I prayed over it often enough.” He looked down furtively, ashamed of the admittance. “Good day, Miss Green."

Her heart was soaring. Could have been the truth! "Henry, wait, I --" She stopped him again on the steps. "The neighbors," she said quickly. "They'll wonder, when they hear...and haven't seen you..."

His eyes glanced at the houses to left and right, and gave a nod, letting her step down and kiss him, on the cheek, like one might chastely kiss a beau leaving after a perfectly expected visit to her father. Did she imagine that he held himself back, that he was stiff and formal only because he wanted more and did not trust himself? "Thank you," she said again, hanging on his arm. "For...everything. I hope...I won't disappoint you." Like I've disappointed you already, she wanted to add.

His only answer was a smile. Slim and sorry, but a smile. "You never could."

[storiesbybrian]

Synchronicide (November, 2005)

Danny Miller had been told repeatedly to stop delving into what had happened between his cousins Beverly and Christine.  It had been five years since Christine had murdered Beverly and now Danny was home from college, sitting on the back deck at his aunt and uncle’s house, staring at the swimming pool where it all began. The seeds of rage were sown in that water, where Beverly and Christine, identical twins save a scar Beverly had on the right side of her neck, devoted their adolescence.  As the load of ribbons and trophies the sisters won spilled into extra rooms of their house, the Miller family tasted a glory that they never dreamed they would when they brought Beverly and Christine home from the hospital 27 years earlier.  Sacrifices were made, coaches hired, grades dropped, dates spurned, friendships neglected, all in service of a routine that was alarmingly perfect.

    But now Beverly was dead and Christine was in prison for committing the murder.  The governor herself had allowed Christine to attend the funeral, in black scraps of polyester beneath manacles that everyone heard clinking during the graveside service.  Danny’s own parents told him to forget the whole thing to make it easier for Aunt Stacey and Uncle Kenny to forget as well.  Danny’s father pointed out to him that, while Cain had to answer to God for smiting Abel, the Bible never narrates a reckoning with Adam and Eve.

    But Danny couldn’t stop hearing those shackles, draped like Soviet tensil over Christine’s upright body.  And he couldn’t stop thinking about the other thing either, the Great Gaffe, they all called it.  

    When Beverly and Christine performed their routines, both girls wore bandages on the right sides of their necks, so they’d be totally indistinguishable.  What few commentators there were on the local synchronized swimming beat complained about the unfair advantage twin sisters had over other teams.  But at the national level, the Miller Sisters were one of several serious teams whose twinhood granted them an extra dose of synchronicity.  And it was with the field evened out that Beverly and Christine Miller, each doing the other’s make-up, their mother affixing the trademark bandage so noone knew which one was scarred Beverly or clean-necked Christine, made their way to the 1992 Olympic Trials.  

    Danny kept a file of all of the articles written about how one of the girls flailed wildly and actually kicked her sister 20 seconds into a routine that had been 15 years in the making.  But the blame game that ensued was never solved, with Beverly claiming it was Christine that had ruined their lives and Christine saying no, it was Beverly.  A few local sportswriters tried reviewing tape of all of their performances, the perfect ones and then the one that cost them their bid and possibly their medals, but no definitive opinion was ever reached and the feud that developped between them, each Miller sister blaming the other for shitting all over a lifetime of hard work, was only exacerbated by the attention of the press.

    Even as a teenager, Danny noticed that the synchronicity that had brought Beverly and Christine such success leading up to the trial was the curse that kept the truth from ever surfacing, since the sisters were so deeply and even biorhythmically in tune that whoever was lying mounted an offense and defense just as sublime in her deception as her twin’s possession was of the truth.  

    Soon after the Olympic trial, Beverly and Christine both quit swimming and moved away from home and from each other.  The Miller family attempted reconciliations but they always ended disastrously, with each sister haranguing her parents for remaining neutral.  Christine was always a little bit wilder and more popular with boys and sometimes Danny suspected that it was she who screwed up the trial, but then he realized that it was just because he had always felt a little bit sorrier for Beverly, for her scar and for having less fun than Christine.  And for the same reason, sometimes Danny thought that Beverly’s resentment at needing greater discipline to maintain a focus equal to her wilder, unblemished sister had led to the stumble that splashed them out of contention.

    After four years of argument, the Atlanta Games of ’96 happened and Danny’s brother Jeff got married that summer.  Beverly and Christine each came to the wedding.  Phone calls went out to relatives prior to the weekend asking that everyone forget the sisters’ glorious past altogether in the hopes that bygones finally could be bygones.  And there on the dance floor, just after Jeff’s best man made his toast, the girls did come near one another for the first time in years and noone at the wedding could help but notice how, even after such a long estrangement, Beverly and Christine’s moves to Kool and the Gang’s “Celebration” were spookily similar. Danny had been watching them the whole time and he knew that it was Beverly who was drunk while Christine had had only one glass of champagne, but the sisters touched hands and smiled and switched dance partners and when the song was over, they embraced and there were tears and the band was signalled to wait while the whole family made a circle around them on the dance floor and applauded.  Both girls shook in each other’s arms.

    Danny looked to Beverly and Christine’s parents and saw that they were crying too, and he hoped that everyone could breathe more easily now, that they could go back to being a closer family now that this war was over.  

    But somebody had won and somebody had lost and nobody knew which was which.  After a year of peace, Beverly tried to cut the right side of Christine’s neck with a pocket knife.  They had been on a camping trip, Christine with the same boyfriend she had brought to Jeff’s wedding, Beverly with someone new.  Sitting around the campfire, roasting marshmallows and passing around a bottle of Rebel Yell that Beverly’s boyfriend had brought, Christine’s boyfriend asked Beverly how people told them apart when they wore scarfs or turtlenecks.  One of the boyfriends told Danny that Beverly had stared at Christine, Christine had smiled and Beverly grabbed the open knife from the picnic table and crawled toward Christine with the knife in her mouth.

    “Bev, no!” Christine had said.

    Beverly’s boyfriend grabbed her around the waist and tried grabbing the knife from in between her teeth.  Christine began to cry and her boyfriend held her, a green stick with a flaming marshmallow on the end of it still clutched in one of her hands.

    “Come on, Beverly,” her boyfriend said as she swerved her head side to side, finally spitting the knife onto the ground and collapsing.  Each sister lay by the campfire in the arms of her boyfriend and noone said another word.

    A year later, on the eve of Beverly’s wedding, Christine went into her sister’s bridal suite at the hotel and smothered her to death with a pillow. She confessed the crime immediately but continued to deny that it was she who had screwed up so badly at the Olympic trials so many years before.  

Family and authorities assumed that Christine, the killer must also have been the liar for all those years and Beverly, the victim had been the one telling the truth.  But Danny never stopped wondering if Christine’s torment had come from being so deeply wronged by Beverly.  He never stopped believing that if he could only figure out what had really happened at the Olympic trials, he would understand something essential about truth- and whether someone was more likely to murder the person closest to her in the whole world in defense of the truth or to protect a lie.  

Sitting on the back deck at Aunt Stacey and Uncle Kenny’s house, counting the leaves pasted to the rotting tarp that covered the pool, Danny supposed that the liar would be using the lie to defend herself while the truthteller would be using herself to protect a virtue.  But beyond that, his thoughts always became convoluted as he thought about how most wars seem impersonal but duels do not and he had to admit that violence and philosophy were not always so neatly reconcilable.  Still, Christine had always shown him greater affection.  And he couldn’t help believing that her wilder life was less about herself and more about principles, which, to Danny, made her more likley to kill for truth than for a lie.  But he never was able to get more certain than a slight lean to Christine’s side, and to this day, sitting in prison with nothing more to lose, Christine still says it was Beverly who committed the gaffe.  

    But it was Christine.

[preachbvne]

(Prophetic Word)Those Who Tare You & Have Ceased Not.TIMES UP! Behold, I...

(Prophetic Word)Those Who Tare You & Have Ceased Not.TIMES UP! Behold, I Have ENACTED!(Psalms 35) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Elxoe4qFdSY

Jeremiah 1:12  (KJV) 12 Then said the Lord unto me, Thou hast well seen: for I will hasten my word to PERFORM IT. Ezekiel 12:25 (KJV) 25 For I am the Lord: I will speak, and the word that I shall speak shall come to pass; it shall be no more prolonged: for in your days, O rebellious house, will I say the word, And Will Perform It, saith the Lord God.

Glory Nugget: As I Pondered Why He gave me the Word ENACT..

Definitions of enact: • act out; represent or PERFORM • order by virtue of superior authority; decree • Many think of Passing a Bill, But enact also means to perform, like in a play

Definitions of perform: • perform a function • carry out or perform an action give a performance (of something) • get (something) done carry out; do, execute, discharge • bring about; bring off, accomplish, achieve • fulfill, complete, conduct • effect, dispatch, work, implement(Facilitate) • pull off,  stage; put on; present; mount; enact • act, represent, do, produce

Psalm 35:15 (KJV 15 But in mine adversity they rejoiced, and gathered themselves together: yea, the abjects gathered themselves together against me, and I knew it not; they did tear me, and ceased not:

Psalm 35 (KJV) 35 Plead my cause, O Lord, with them that strive with me: fight against them that fight against me. 2 Take hold of shield and buckler, and stand up for mine help. 3 Draw out also the spear, and stop the way against them that persecute me: say unto my soul, I am thy salvation. 4 Let them be confounded and put to shame that seek after my soul: let them be turned back and brought to confusion that devise my hurt.  5 Let them be as chaff before the wind: and let the angel of the Lord chase them.  6 Let their way be dark and slippery: and let the angel of the Lord persecute them.  7 For without cause have they hid for me their net in a pit, which without cause they have digged for my soul.  8 Let destruction come upon him at unawares; and let his net that he hath hid catch himself: into that very destruction let him fall.  9 And my soul shall be joyful in the Lord: it shall rejoice in his salvation.  10 All my bones shall say, Lord, who is like unto thee, which deliverest the poor from him that is too strong for him, yea, the poor and the needy from him that spoileth him?  11 False witnesses did rise up; they laid to my charge things that I knew not.  12 They rewarded me evil for good to the spoiling of my soul.  13 But as for me, when they were sick, my clothing was sackcloth: I humbled my soul with fasting; and my prayer returned into mine own bosom. 14 I behaved myself as though he had been my friend or brother: I bowed down heavily, as one that mourneth for his mother. ======== 16 With hypocritical mockers in feasts, they gnashed upon me with their teeth. 17 Lord, how long wilt thou look on? rescue my soul from their destructions, my darling from the lions.  18 I will give thee thanks in the great congregation: I will praise thee among much people. 19 Let not them that are mine enemies wrongfully rejoice over me: neither let them wink with the eye that hate me without a cause.  20 For they speak not peace: but they devise deceitful matters against them that are quiet in the land.  21 Yea, they opened their mouth wide against me, and said, Aha, aha, our eye hath seen it.  22 This thou hast seen, O Lord: keep not silence: O Lord, be not far from me. 23 Stir up thyself, and awake to my judgment, even unto my cause, my God and my Lord.  24 Judge me, O Lord my God, according to thy righteousness; and let them not rejoice over me. 25 Let them not say in their hearts, Ah, so would we have it: let them not say, We have swallowed him up.  26 Let them be ashamed and brought to confusion together that rejoice at mine hurt: let them be clothed with shame and dishonour that magnify themselves against me.  27 Let them shout for joy, and be glad, that favour my righteous cause: yea, let them say continually, Let the Lord be magnified, which hath pleasure in the prosperity of his servant. 28 And my tongue shall speak of thy righteousness and of thy praise all the day long.

Psalm 35 (MSG) A David Psalm 35 1-3 Harass these hecklers, God,  punch these bullies in the nose. Grab a weapon, anything at hand;   stand up for me! Get ready to throw the spear, aim the javelin,   at the people who are out to get me.  Reassure me; let me hear you say,     “I’ll save you.”

4-8 When those thugs try to knife me in the back, make them look foolish.   Frustrate all those    who are plotting my downfall.  Make them like cinders in a high wind,  with God’s angel working the bellows. Make their road lightless and mud-slick,    with God’s angel on their tails.  Out of sheer cussedness they set a trap to catch me;    for no good reason they dug a ditch to stop me. Surprise them with your ambush— catch them in the very trap they set, the disaster they planned for me. 9-10 But let me run loose and free,  celebrating God’s great work, Every bone in my body laughing, singing, “God, there’s no one like you. You put the down-and-out on their feet   and protect the unprotected from bullies!”

11-12 Hostile accusers appear out of nowhere, they stand up and badger me. They pay me back misery for mercy,  leaving my soul empty.

13-14 When they were sick, I dressed in black;  instead of eating, I prayed. My prayers were like lead in my gut,  like I’d lost my best friend, my brother. I paced, distraught as a motherless child, hunched and heavyhearted. 15-16 But when I was down they threw a party! All the nameless riffraff of the town came chanting insults about me.  Like barbarians desecrating a shrine,  they destroyed my reputation.

17-18 God, how long are you going  to stand there doing nothing? Save me from their brutalities;  everything I’ve got is being thrown to the lions. I will give you full credit   when everyone gathers for worship; When the people turn out in force  I will say my Hallelujahs.

19-21 Don’t let these liars, my enemies,  have a party at my expense, Those who hate me for no reason,  winking and rolling their eyes. No good is going to come  from that crowd;  They spend all their time cooking up gossip  against those who mind their own business. They open their mouths  in ugly grins, Mocking, “Ha-ha, ha-ha, thought you’d get away with it? We’ve caught you hands down!” 22 Don’t you see what they’re doing, God? You’re not going to let them Get by with it, are you? Not going to walk off   without doing something, are you?

23-26 Please get up—wake up! Tend to my case. My God, my Lord—my life is on the line. Do what you think is right, God, my God, but don’t make me pay for their good time.  Don’t let them say to themselves, “Ha-ha, we got what we wanted.”  Don’t let them say,  “We’ve chewed him up and spit him out.” Let those who are being hilarious   at my expense  Be made to look ridiculous.  Make them wear donkey’s ears;  Pin them with the donkey’s tail, who made themselves so high and mighty!

27-28 But those who want the best for me, Let them have the last word—a glad shout!—    and say, over and over and over, “God is great—everything works together for good for his servant.” I’ll tell the world how great and good you are,  I’ll shout Hallelujah all day, every day.

Grace Nuggets • There is a Trade - There is a Cost • There is Word and there is Light • Light Illuminates a Choice - Many will choose Darkness • Light Exposes the Darkness. • Many Love you for Your Darkness- Not Your Light as it Exposes Them

Grace Nuggets • The World was Formed(Out of Alignment) VOID(Chaos) • God Goes from Dark to Light(The Evening and the Morning)

Three Terms for Sin Used in the Bible 1) Het- "Straying away from the Path" (Found 459 times Forgetfulness, neglecting the Truth,) 2) Avon - "Crookedness in Your Conduct" (Iniquity- Twisted- Deliberate but weakness) 3) Pesha - "A Rebellious Transgression"  (Willing rebellion 136 times in the Bible)

He Directs Your Paths Proverbs 3:6 (KJV) 6 In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.

When The Lord Comes Will He Find Faith Luke 18:8(KJV) 8 I tell you that he will avenge them speedily. Nevertheless when the Son of man cometh, shall he find faith on the earth

"I Prophesy to the Perplexities and Give The Practicalities!"

The "GOD-With" Ministry

Not Inspirational Speaking, But Word-Based Preaching!"

TRUTHALITY! Facts are Temporal Truth is Eternal! What is real? The TRUTH that, Nothing is too hard for God!

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Let the Lord be Magnified! Announcing the Coming of the Glorious Kingdom of God!

2 Corinthians 5:20(KJV) 20 Now then we are ambassadors for Christ, as though God did beseech you by us: we pray you in Christ's stead, be ye reconciled to God. Matthew 24:14 (KJV) 14 And this gospel of the kingdom shall be preached in all the world for a witness unto all nations; and then shall the end com