#(including the occasional unmentionable)

[denimbex1986]

'...with Ripley, the writer-director Steven Zaillian does the unthinkable and unmentionable, he shoots in high contrast black and white and stretches his drama long, and some might say thinly, over a total of eight episodes. But although the series has the feel of a younger generation in terms of its directorial emphases, Zaillian is technically an old man, probably in Shakespearean terms in stage six of the seven ages of man: the lean and slipper’d pantaloon, with spectacles on nose and pouch on side; yes, he is indeed 71 years young but with an impressive and substantial track record behind him: an Oscar for the screenplay of Schindler’s List and a successful collaboration with Martin Scorsese in Gangs of New York, amongst much else. This surely allowed him to basically dictate his terms to Netflix, which included engaging a genius of a lighting cameraman, Robert Elswit, who lit the masterpiece, There Will be Blood. Indeed, Ripley runs the risk of the camerawork overtaking the content and this is an ongoing near-run thing.

But just as Citizen Kane in anyone else’s hands but Orson Welles would have first and foremost been praised for its cinematography, as indeed might Charles Laughton’s only great stab at directing, The Night of the Lonely Hunter, the intense collaboration of director and cameraman in the case of Ripley pays multiple dividends, even on the smaller screen. It invokes the Italian milieu of Rome in the 60s, of La Dolce Vita, Visconti and Fellini, but not curiously the one director who experimented seriously with documentary style shooting- Roberto Rossellini. whose Rome Open City was shot in grainy black and white. Zaillian etches everything in exquisite detail, wet streets, rain falling on a terrace, pens and cigarette lighters all dance to his sombre tune. This series would look even more spectacular projected onto a large screen.

Interestingly, Zaillian’s work has split opinion right down the middle, with a rave from The New York Times and a thumbs pointed firmly earthwards from The New Statesman. Both draw comparisons with previous versions, with the latter much in favour of Anthony Minghella’s The Talented Mr Ripley, and being much more impressed with the colourful sun-drenched scenes than the rain soaked black and white ones.

One question worth asking of this latest effort as well as the best of the previous ones, is what on earth is the attraction of Ripley, almost always portrayed as a blank canvas, to both actors and directors? I think it is precisely for that very reason, that Ripley can be anything or anyone to whoever is contemplating him, and this metaphor of the blank canvas is cleverly taken up by Zaillian, making the subject of Ripley’s first murder, Dickie (Johnny Flynn), an amateur painter. Ripley is not Ripley in anyone and everyone, the great difference is that when he acts, he does so decisively without pity, regret or concern other than an obsession with clearing up any mess he may inadvertently leave behind. If anyone wants to learn how to lie, cheat, steal, seduce and ultimately kill, Highsmith’s novel can provide a comprehensive training manual for the uninitiated.

Most of you literature and film buffs will be familiar with the story, so I intended just to concentrate on elements of the series which seem to me to bend and occasionally break rules to considerable effect. To begin with, during the first two episodes at least nothing really happens, and that is for approaching two hours screen time. But the almost hypnotic engagement that the cinematography engenders allows us to take time with the characters as they slowly reveal more about themselves. Interestingly, Zaillian does not cast 20 or even 30-year-olds in the main parts, as imagined at least by Highsmith in her original novel. Instead, he opts for Andrew Scott (Ripley) at 47 and Dickie (Johnny Flynn) at 41. They are in fact middle-aged, but as portrayed by Scott and Flynn appear younger, but at the same time, almost ageless. This gives an additional twist to the strange ambience in which the drama takes place. Characters take much longer to frame their thoughts, to react and to initiate actions. It is as if they are somehow under water, and it is water which is the most intrusive element in this version (as opposed to sunlight in Minghella’s). Right up to the point of the first murder which occurs on top of, and within water. In Zaillian’s world, the streets are always wet and his characters frequently find themselves in baths, seas or simply the victims of relentless rain clouds.

All in all, this is very clever stuff, and not just from the director, but the writer as well. It is an object lesson in how to balance form and content and to reference parallel elements obliquely and very cleverly. Caravaggio is mentioned and his work shown to us quite frequently. Why, one wonders? Simple. Caravaggio is a painter who became a murderer; Tom Ripley is a murderer who became a painter.'

[xiaonesis]

Ghosts We See: Fireside Tales // A Legend of Scritches [Inarizaki House Vol.]

A/N: This is a commission by @decemberbellz​ who asked for a part 2 to the Atsumu headpat fic from Chapter 25 of Ghosts We See.  It isn’t necessary to read GWS before this but recommended for larger context.

Pairing: Inarizaki VBC x Fem!Reader

Tags: Fluff. Pure fluff. Humor. Crack-ish. Maybe angst if you squint and combined braincells. Fox-folk!Inarizaki. GWS-Verse.

Summary

In which you discover the fox-folk's one true weakness. 

Scritches.

There is a legend in the equally legendary hidden fox-village of Inarizaki House.

��It speaks about an implicit act, a manoeuvre, an exploit, a trial of tenacity and discipline, a happening so rare - on account of it’s scarcity and the fact that those who experienced it are very much averse to speaking about it - that many in the village believe it is nothing more than that: a legend.

 A tale of myth and fantasy.

 Documentation of this circumstance - this phenomena - is as nonexistent as the fable itself. Current generations of fox-folk children are only afforded the opportunity to learn of it by way of mouth, the tales passed on to them by the village elders. And one day, they to their own children. 

By way of oral history, the stories are preserved through generations and the ebbings of time. 

 There are only a handful of fox-folks that encountered this unspoken of phenomena, so scandalous to their race that hackles raise, tails flounce, and ears curl when one even attempts to broach the subject with their survivors. In several cases, they even disappeared in swift wisps of the illusion magic characteristic to the elusive fox-folks.

It is from the unwilling lips of these survivors - and the observations of them by third parties - that gave rise to the few historic accounts that exist today, veracity be damned.

 What exactly is this unmentionable thing spoken of in the legend, you ask?

 Well–

A Legend of Scritches [Inarizaki House Vol.]

 Our story begins with one Ginjima Hitoshi.

At the time, of the retainers who have the Alpha-Leader Kita Shinsuke’s ear, Ginjima was neither the youngest nor the oldest of the group. He is, however, the oldest of the younger demographic- of which there are four of them in a total of seven - making up the supporting pillars that ensures Lord Kita is able to sleep with some semblance of peace at night.

 That said, Ginjima possesses a level-head for his rank and age, especially when compared to a certain pair of destructive twins and the village loner. 

Despite that though, the light-haired male has never shed the more...youthful - bashful, really - side of him, unlike his peers.

This innocent quality of his is really what caused something that should have been a mundane affair to blow entirely out of proportions.

 It had been a normal day in the village as far as the fox-folks were concerned. 

The sun rose when the morning mists fell, farmers rising in turn to tend to their fields. Fishers dove for their daily catches along the river and young foxlings went to their communal classes at the village center. Those who weren’t working in the village went beyond the illusory border that protected the village, patrolling the surrounding swamps and forests.

 A normal day in the Inarizaki House - except for the human addition. 

 Since the battle that nearly wiped out their village, any contact with humans that did not involve metal and blood have been non-existent until this particular one arrived. The presence of the human girl in the secluded village rippled, disturbing the calm and disquieted peace that barricaded the fox-folks from the rest of Hyquile.

By the time this story occurs, the fox-folks have more or less adjusted to the occasional presence of a human among them. Adjusted, but not fully comfortable. Learning, but not yet fully understood.

The Alpha-Leader has consistently and gradually pushed for his people to re-acclimatize to the world. It is a slow process, one that cannot be forced, that included the rebuilding of Inarizaki House as a whole. 

 A building that had the fox village murmuring in excitement is the reconstruction of the local library, it’s predecessor burned in the flames of hate.

Kita had been inspired to have a respectable library for the fox-folks since laying eyes on the Blue Leaf National Library of Seijoh. Although it isn’t going to have even a quarter of the grandeur of the Aoban architectural marvel, the fox-folks are thrilled at the thought of having an actual library once more. Their village had nothing more than a bookshelf before this undertaking.

 When she heard of this, the human girl had been as excited as the youngest of their foxlings and quickly offered her help. She was a hardworking one, more than happy to assist in any way she can. 

There is another story that told of her endeavours to fight the Rot, a great calamity that ravaged Hyquile then. 

But that is a tale for another day.

 In a wave of support and excitement for this development, the fox-folks had unearthed and gathered together what books, scrolls, and parchment they could find in their dilapidated backrooms and attics, abandoned structures and even the ruins of what were once homes.

It was hard labour - emotionally taxing for everyone, going through the debris of their past. Yet, there was a quiet determination in all of the fox-folks as they struggled to face the past for the future.

 Now, Ginjima generally does not mind the more dull tasks that come his way - fixing leaking attics, lugging rice sacks to the winter food stores, tiling roofs etcetera.

Daily patrol that involved covering land that stretched for miles was quite taxing on the body, and mundane work allowed him to take a break without actually resting on his laurels.

Today’s task came from a Lady Yamane, who is overseeing the reconstruction of the Inarizaki local library. She required assistance in unpacking piles of dusty books brought in by the villagers, on top of cleaning ashes off bookshelves that had not seen use for years

  Ginjima groans as he stretches his arms out, hearing and feeling the joints of his shoulders pop after an hour of hunching over stacks of scrolls, sorting through them by category. He looks behind to where you are standing on a low chair, reaching up to wipe off the top of another bookshelf that Aran dropped off prior.

Watching the way your toes teeter in strain to reach your hands to the very top, his nose scrunches anxiously. 

“Are ya’ sure we shouldn’t switch tasks…?” Ginjima asks in a soft voice as he approaches you. He nearly has a heart attack when you jolt in surprise at his sudden voice, stool dancing dangerously beneath your feet, and his hands raise instinctively to catch you. But you saved yourself, hands latching onto the shelf in reflex.

Ginjima breathes a large sigh of relief, shoulders slumping forward. Last thing he wants is to be known as the fox-folk who unwittingly cracked your skull. Kita will never forgive him.

“Oh geez- Ginjima! You scared me.”

“S-Sorry…” he mutters, kicking at a nearby stack of tied-books.

 He knows you’re harmless, having more or less shed the prejudice against humans as a whole that he used to bear. After all that you did - are doing - for them, it wouldn’t be very honourable to discriminate against you for what humans that had nothing to do with you executed. 

Doesn’t make him any less tense around you, at times. It creeps up on him unconsciously, slithering up his arms, hanging onto his neck and shoulders.

Ginjima cranes his neck, another audible crack resounding in the area and he lets out another satisfied groan under his breath.

You pause in your cleaning to look down at him. “Yikes, some stretches might do you good.”

 Stretches. 

Ginjima has seen your stretching sessions with his Alpha-Leader before. He has to admit it looks...fun, sometimes. Basking in the orange rays of a falling sun, whispering fields of green and gold the audience to your performance. 

He shakes his head. “It’s fine. There’s still a lot left to go through.” 

Ginjima gestures at the dirty cloth in your hand with his chin. “Switch with me. If ya’ split yer head, it’s my neck on the line.”

“I’ll be fine. I’m not a child. Trust me, it’s better this way,” you protest with a roll of your eyes. You wave carelessly at the books and paper behind your figures. “I wouldn’t be able to sort any of those. I’m hardly familiar with the differences between ‘Guide to Soul Magic’ and ‘Introduction to Soul Trapping: The Greatest Trap Of Our Lives.’”

“Alright. Just…don’t fall, okay?” He mutters reluctantly, eyes avoiding yours.

With a giggle, you shoo him back to his spot, watching as he prepares to hunch over paper and dust for another hour...

 Exactly one hour later, you are done wiping down the last of the shelves, fingers pruny and hair sticking to your skin like barnacles to an exposed hull, steaming in humid, musty air. It felt disgusting but you don’t think it is as bad as how Ginjima must be feeling.

You slap dirty fingers over your mouth, muffling the snickers that threaten to spill from your lips at the sight. 

 With exhaustion and cramps blunting his movements, Ginjima looks up at you tiredly, his neck the only thing he can move at this point. 

His hair is covered in a thick layer of dust, speckled with soot, dyeing natural light roots into a dark shade of silver.

Stopping next to him, you finally let loose the laughter that has gathered in your chest in one long and mighty howl, hand slapping your thigh. 

“Taking hair tips from Osamu?” You couldn’t help but tease him a little.

Ginjima grumbles and turns his head away from you, the tips of his ears turning red as embarrassment floods him. He drops the dust-free book in his hand to the floor between his knees.

Growling, he shakes his head furiously, sending a flurry of snow-dust scattering into the air. Sandy fox ears twitch in irritation from the soot and dust. Fur that was once clean and bright is now a chalky grey, small clouds puffing up with every twitch.

You can tell Ginjima is bothered by the grime coating him. He has always taken good care of his fox-traits whenever they are manifested - which is nearly the entire time - and the way his fox-tail is swishing back and forth told of the displeasure he did not voice. 

 You cough through the remnants of your amusement, pulling the collar of your clothes up to your nose as you squat next to him.

“Here, let me help you.”

Pulling a handkerchief from your sleeve pocket, you hand it to him and gesture for him to press it to his nose.

In his confusion, Ginjima did as instructed before he realized he was doing it. When you reach your hands up to his head however, he jerks back, falling onto his butt in his alarm.

“W-What do ya’ think yer’re doin’?!” he demands, swatting your hand away with the handkerchief like a chaste maiden straight out of scriptures.

You stare at him in exasperation, lightly slapping his swatting hand away. Briefly, you are reminded of the time when Osamu held down Atsumu with his illusion magic, enabling you to touch Atsumu’s fox ears.

“Helping you, you dummy. Don’t be such a drama queen. You’re like Atsumu, gosh-” you mutter to yourself as you stand to grab the chair and the bottle of clean water you have been using to wipe the shelves.

 Ginjima gapes at you in shock and horror, taking offense at the comparison. Him, like Atsumu?!

Now he understands Osamu’s offense whenever anyone compares him to his brother. It feels terrible.

 When you return, you drop the chair right next to him, narrowly missing his splayed fingers.

“Stay still!” Taking a seat, you uncap the bottle.

“N-No, it’s fine- aghh!” 

Before he can say anymore and escape, you spray him with water, squeezing the bottle with a sly grin. 

If anyone asks, you are going to deny enjoying this.

 What protests Ginjima had disappears as soon as the first of your fingers begin to rub up his fox ears. His body locks up at the foreign sensation, hyper-aware that it is a pair of human hands touching him. 

For most of his life, contact with humans has been that of violence.

This is new. Highly unfamiliar. 

Refreshing water runs down his neck, cooling hot skin that hasn’t been less than warm the entire day. 

 You slowly pour water onto his fox ears first, before doing the same to his hair; enough to soak up the dust, not enough to drench. With an extra clean cloth, you pat along his ears, smiling to yourself when they twitch under each touch. 

You can’t see his face but peering over his shoulder lets you see the tips of his toes, curling and uncurling in time to each soft squeeze of the cloth. His fingers drum nervously, wrapped around his ankles.

 “My mum used to wash my hair like this when I was younger,” you tell him as you continue patting out the dust from his hair. 

Ginjima peers at you shyly, curiously. He didn’t say anything in response, only a noncommittal noise of acknowledgement that he heard you. His fingers stop drumming.

“I don’t know about you but I always thought this feels nice, having someone wash my hair,” you continue absentmindedly, mind preoccupied with your task. “Though I’m really just trying to get the dirt out- wow, this patch here is stubborn- okay, got it.”

There is a short pause before Ginjima says anything.

“My father never did this for me so I never had anyone...w-wash my hair before,” he trails off awkwardly, mumbling. 

“Oh...I see. Your mother is a human, then...” Your voice lowers alongside your hands. 

Then, shaking your head of encroaching dampening thoughts and emotions, you continue massaging Ginjima’s head and ears with your bare hands, dirty cloth discarded.

You managed to clean most of the dust and Ginjima can wash out what remains later. For now, you just felt like giving him a simple massage. He sounds like he really needs one, if the pops from his joints earlier were anything to go by.

 If Ginjima noticed that you were no longer kneading out the dust from his hair, he didn’t say anything. 

 Minutes passed and Ginjima still hadn't said anything or tried to run away from you. Growing suspicious, you lean down to check on him-

 Only to find him asleep, peacefully dozing off, breaths slow and even.

 With a small smile, you straighten back up and continue lightly rubbing along the nape of his neck, deciding to let him nap a little while longer.

...but not before you took a sneaky swipe at his ear, sliding your fingers up the length of rough fur.

 It flicked but Ginjima did not wake, not until later.

Much later.

  Akagi Michinari is curious by nurture. 

 As one of the fox-folk’s last line of defense against anything that threatens his village and kin, Akagi takes it upon himself to inspect anything and everything, learning their traits and characteristics, gleaning even the smallest of information. Sometimes, the most miniscule of details can turn momentum to their favor.

So when he passed by Ginjima in the bathhouse that evening, red-faced and muttering about “ear...scratches...” and something “-bad feelin’” alongside the utterance of your name, it certainly caught his attention.  

Scratches? Did you attack Ginjima?

Casting a quick once over on Ginjima though, he couldn’t see any injury on him...yet, his junior froze, red as Atsumu’s clothes and shuffled off when Akagi tried to question him about it. 

The strange incident with Ginjima - in a bathhouse of all places - is concerning enough to bring Akagi straight to you.

“What did ya’ do to Ginjima?” he demanded, accosting you on your way back to Suna’s home, which continues to be your guest quarters.

 Squinting through silver darkness at Akagi, with his arms crossed and eyes scrutinizing, you blink at him with no small amount of confusion.

“Ginjima? I didn’t do anything to him...did something happen?” Did he pull a muscle from all his hunching earlier today? 

“Ya’ tell me. He mentioned somethin’ about ya’ just now.” Akagi’s eyes further narrow on you, inspecting for any hint of a lie.

You throw your hands up defensively. “I really didn’t do anything! We didn’t always get along but you know me by now, Akagi.” 

Hurt crosses your features, and Akagi takes a step back from you with a sigh, giving you a modicum of space. It’s not like he wants to do this either; there were times where he even had to question his own kin and brothers-in-arms. With his position, nothing can be overlooked. The fox-folks did so a decade ago, and they have suffered for it.

He runs a hand through his hair, catching the tips of his fox ears when he does so. 

“I caught Ginjima mutterin’ strange things when I saw him earlier, yer name amongst them.” His eyes flick back toward you, steely yet apologetic. “It’s my duty to ensure Inarizaki’s safety- both within and without. Don’t take it personally.”

It hasn’t been all that long since you knew them; it will never measure to a decade of agony and hostility that has festered into prejudice. You got this far with them through patience that rivals Buddha’s. A patience that blurs with stubbornness, the same patience that saw you through many of your own challenges in life. The same patience you are willing into being at this moment.

You suck in a breath, biting down the complaints on your tongue, empathizing with his position and plight.

“Okay. Ask me anything. I have nothing to hide, you’ll see.” You give him a smile, showing Akagi your cooperation.

He nods, brow briefly softening in thanks. “As far as I’m aware, ya’ and Ginjima worked together on cleanin’ out the shelves and books. Let’s start from there.”

There wasn’t anything of note in your day but you recount your plain work with Ginjima nonetheless, trying to remember if Ginjima ever injured himself during the course of it.

“-and that was it, I swear.”

Akagi frowns when you finish, unable to detect any lie from you and yet, there isn’t anything outstanding during your time with Ginjima. Perhaps he was blowing this out of proportion…maybe Ginjima scratched himself on a piece of wood or possibly even a papercut?

“What did Ginjima say exactly?” you prod, as intent as Akagi on figuring out what is bothering the light-haired fox-folk. If something happened to Ginjima whilst you were there and unable to stop it-

 “Head scratches.”

“Huh?”

“Something about head scratches. Or ear. I don’t know what he said. He left pretty quickly.”

“...”

 You couldn’t stop yourself from snorting, devolving into light-hearted snickers. 

Ohh, these fox-folks, they were going to be the death of you one of these days - if not by a physical confrontation, then with their charming naivety.

For as gifted many of the fox-folks are with their unique skill set, they are also adorably...un-worldly.

But you don’t blame them. Can’t.

They’ve disconnected themselves from the world, from others, for so long and the effects of that - beyond mistrust and antagonism - are beginning to show the more you interact with them. 

You smile at Akagi knowingly, amusement tugging your cheeks. 

 “I think I figured out what might be perturbing Ginjima.”

“Really?” One of Akagi’s brow rises dubiously. “Tell me.”

Plopping onto a nearby bench, you pat the space next to you with a grin. 

“It’s easier to show you.”

Akagi’s eyes narrow but he sits himself down nonetheless, albeit warily, turning his back to you when you spin a finger at him.

“Don’t try anythin' funny-”

His warning cuts off as he stiffens immediately, turning rigid as rocks when your fingers slide up the back of his head from the neck up, tips touching the base of his fox ears.

Is this-??

Is this what you-???

 Isn’t this what you did to Atsumu that one ti-

 You begin scratching at the base of his fox ears.

 “!!!”

 .

 .

 .

 Akagi quickly figures out what Ginjima had been muttering about soon after:

  “Those ear scratches...it’s not a bad feelin’.”

  Having personally scratched and patted the fox ears of Atsumu, Ginjima, and now Akagi up close, you came to a realization.

As gruff and antagonistic some of the fox-folks might come off, especially in regards to humans - and you - in particular, they all possessed one absolute weakness:

 A good scritch.

 These are the Inarizaki House fox-folks! The elusive threat of the West! Masters of Disguises and Illusions!!

...And they are susceptible to a good scritch on the ears.

  Astounding.

 There is a type of power, addicting and sweet, that comes with such knowledge. 

Very much like Ginjima, Akagi displayed a very positive - though unwilling - reaction when you began to scratch his fox ears yesterday night. And of course, you haven’t forgotten the power- ahem, effect - you had on Atsumu that day in the forest either.

Despite his rage and ear-shattering screams, Atsumu clearly liked having his ear scratched, a fact that you try not to rub into his face too much to spare him the last of his dignity.

You’ve seen videos of foxes chattering, eyes closed in crescents and all smiley fangs when receiving a good scratch. And now you suppose the fox-folks are indeed...well, foxes, in a sense.

Flexing your fingers, you stare at it in awe, processing the power these fingers of yours possess. Literal power, right at your fingertips!

 ...You want to test it.

 You want to test your theory that the fox-folks of Inarizaki House are weak to scritches, of all things.

(No, not test this newfound power! ...well, maybe a little)

 Looking around for a suitable test subject, your eyes land on Omimi Ren, speaking to Aran at the training field a little ways away from where you are. As you eye the dark fox ears sitting on Omimi’s head, a mischievous grin lifts your lips.

Omimi is nice, compared to his other more zealous fox-folks. He’s kind of scary at times but that’s due to the fact that he doesn’t speak so much, if at all. 

Even Thoughtful Suna is downright terrifying, gaze and tongue turning sharp - scathing - when pushed to his limits. Not Omimi though. Other than Kita, he is the easiest and nicest test subject you can ask for.

 Mind set, you make a beeline to the fox-folk and bear-folk.

Aran grunts at you with a frown when you near, arms crossing disapprovingly. 

“What are ya’ doin’ here? This is the trainin’ field. If ya’ can’t defend yerself, move off.”

Aran is sensible and has a good head on his shoulders. But he's also very no-nonsense and less likely to acquiesce to your...request. Not to mention, he’s technically a bear-folk even if he’s spent the majority of his life with the foxes. 

Also, you don’t know if scritches work on bears, and surely giving bears of any kind headpats is not advisable.

 You ignore Aran and the way he bristles at your impudence, much too eager and focused on your self-assigned mission to worry about an angry bear.

“Omimi,” you begin sweetly, shuffling one foot in front of the other.

Omimi blinks at you, his staring the only indication that you have his attention.

This mission warrants the big guns and all the best in your meager arsenal. So you bite your bottom lips, chewing on it like a nervous child. Brows upturning and eyes widening, you give Omimi your best puppy dog eyes. 

 “Can I touch your ears?” 

 “No.”

  Rejected.

 “Please! It’s just for a little bit! I want to test something-” you continue to plead, hands clasping together. 

You must touch his fox ears! If your theory proves correct, you have the ultimate defense against any of the fox-folks who try to bully you in the future (aka the Miya twins). 

If this works on Omimi, it will definitely work on the others.

 Omimi shakes his head, brows furrowing in confusion.

Why do you need to touch his fox ears? What do you need to test that requires touching his fox ears? 

Aran shoos you off the training field, keen on returning back to practicing maneuvers with Omimi and the two thought that would be the end of that.

But spirits, you were nothing if not relentless and they had to give it to you. Perhaps your experiences in Hyquile has strengthened you - or simply made you stubborn - much more than they thought.

 On and off through the morning, Omimi can feel your eyes boring into the back of his head. Or more specifically, the top of his head, where his precious fox ears are. 

He had a mind to morph them away until you gave up. But he isn’t like Suna, who is used to not having any of his fox traits manifested. To Omimi, removing them is akin to removing his clothes.

At one point, you even tried to touch his ears when you thought he wasn’t looking! He easily evaded your hand, standing to his full height where you can’t reach them even on your tippy toes.

“She’s determined, I’ll give her that,” Aran had said after he witnessed your foiled attempt.

The bear-folk rarely involves himself in the affairs of others, especially those that do not have any direct effect on Kita or the village. Yet, even he could not help being curious as to why you want to touch Omimi’s fox ears, and what it is exactly you wish to test.

And why not his ears? 

Subconsciously, Aran put a hand to his round bear ears.

(Surely there’s nothing wrong with bear ears?)

 Come late noon, Omimi is relieved - and Aran surprised - to see you've stopped trying to touch his ears after hours of persistence. Instead, whilst on their way to the bathhouses, they find you at the lot where the library is being constructed.

 Scratching a red-faced Ginjima on the back of his fox ears.

 Ginjima’s face is twisted, nose scrunched and teeth biting forcefully into his lip with hands clenched into shaking fists. They would have thought he’s in pain if it wasn’t for his fox-tail swishing back and forth furiously behind him. 

A sign of happiness and pleasure.

When Ginjima spots them, he all but rips himself away from you, stuttering an excuse before dashing off to lug more wood, leaving you to stare after him in confusion at his abrupt departure.

 Omimi runs a hand through sweaty hair, inadvertently touching his own fox ears.

 It’s not just because you are a human that he, and many of his kin, are opposed to having you touch any of their manifested fox-traits. Or any other human for that matter.

Their fox traits are important to the fox-folks. It is not only a hallmark of their abilities and characteristics, but also what sets them apart from humans, from who they are birthed.

For it is also humans that massacred their brethren. Burned, flooded, and pillaged their homes years ago.

So many years were spent isolating and detaching themselves from the parts of them that are human, keeping their fox ears and tails manifested at all times even if it is an inconvenience during rains and storms. 

Not many could be like Suna, without the ears and tails that distinctly separates him from humans.

To have a human touch this part of them that has become a symbol of their dissociation is greatly personal. Even amongst their own kind, it is never done without a bond of trust.

 That you do not understand that is no fault of yours. 

Though Omimi has yet to grasp the reason why you are so intent on touching his fox ears, the sight of you touching a willing Ginjima’s fox ears made him realize something. Realize that you have been an ally to his kin since the moment you came to the village. He doesn’t know you as well as some of the others, but perhaps, it is time for him to open up his mind. 

If young Ginjima can do it, then as his senior and superior, Omimi cannot fall behind.

 You start when Omimi approaches you, Aran right behind him. Like you, the bear-folk is wondering what Omimi has in mind when the tall fox-folk stops right in front of you, a little too close for comfort, with an intense, almost constipated, and conflicted expression. 

Like he’s struggling with something he wants to do but at the same time, doesn’t.

(It’s an expression you’ve seen the Kenma of your world do sometimes, when he is unable to decide whether to pull on a character banner or not.)

 What you did not expect was for Omimi to wordlessly lean down, tipping his head enough that you can now easily reach his fox ears that you’ve been trying to touch all morning.

Your jaw slides open, and so does Aran’s.

Is he…?

“Oi, Omimi, what are ya’-”

Oh hell no, you’re not going to let Aran steal this chance from you!

Before Aran can snap his comrade out of whatever has befallen him, your hand darts out to the head literally served up in front of you, aiming right for his fox ears.

 Aran watches in absolute comical horror at the way Omimi’s eyes widen and his entire body freezes, fingers snapping straight like a ruler and sweat pouring down his neck.

The pace at which you scratch Omimi’s fox ears accelerates alongside the stretch of your grin and Aran grips his head. He has more calm in the midst of battle compared to now, helplessly watching the assault of his friend by your hands!

“W-What are ya’ doin’ to him?! Stop it!”

What is this sorcery you’re doing to his friend?!

“What are you talking about Aran? Omimi likes it!”

“No he doesn’t!

“Look at him! He does! He’s smiling!”

 Aran stomps close with the intention of saving his friend but he halts when he sees the true state of Omimi that he couldn’t before from the side.

True to your words, the corners of Omimi’s lips are indeed curved up. His eyes are closed, and one would think he is asleep if not for the light crease on his brow as Omimi fights the urge to express the pleasure of feeling your fingers scratching at his ears.

Omimi is….smiling? Omimi who hardly says anything, barely smiles on a good day, the Stone Fox Omimi - is smiling?? 

It’s a small one, super small, but on a folk as expressionless as Omimi, it is akin to a black dot on white canvas.

Aran can’t believe this. What is this dark magic? First Ginjima and now Omimi? 

“I noticed it after doing the same to Ginjima and Akagi yesterday-”

Aran’s head whips to you, eyes wide in disbelief. Akagi too?!

“-but the fox-folks really love getting their ears scratched!” you beam, eyes alight and sparkling with glee.

“...”

“Remember that time with Atsumu?”

 Of course he does. No one can ever forget that. 

But now that you mention it- oh, spirits. If this revelation of yours proves to be true, then Inarizaki House has a tremendous weakness that needs to be plugged at once!

You roll your eyes, knowing exactly what Aran is thinking. It is the exact same line of thought that propelled you to beg Omimi for the chance to give him a good scritch.

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. It can be our secret~” you giggle, placing a finger to your lips. 

“This’ll make an amazing punishment for the Miya twins from now on, won't it?”

 (When Omimi finally returns from nirvana, he discovers the real reason that Ginjima let you scratch his ears is because it felt pleasurable - not the honorable bond of trust he imagined it to be. He vows to never overthink again)

  Strange things have been happening in the village, Suna could not help but notice.

 Abnormal things.

 Suna is often quickly written off as the village loner and assumed by others to not bother with their affairs. And they are correct.

However, they are also quick to forget that he is sharp, meticulous to details, and changes in the environment and people. In fact, looking on from the outside allows Suna to take in the big picture, able to pick up on elements one would not when caught in the middle of events.

It is why he immediately picked up on the unusual change in several of his fellow retainers. 

Ginjima, Akagi, Omimi...and even Aran.

The former three fox-folks seem to be...more - cordial? Would saying friendly be a stretch? - with you as of late. On the other hand, the bear-folk has been walking around the village as if the end of the world is approaching - deep frowns, hunching shoulders and arms, slanting brows, head and eyes looking down more often than not. Everything about Aran just feels down and honestly speaking, it bothers Suna to no end.

What’s the village going to do if their second-in-command is in such a state?

 On top of that, Suna swears on the spirits of his ancestors that he saw you giving head pats and ear scratches to Omimi at one point in the past week. He clearly saw Omimi easily lean down to give you access when you reached up, jumping lightly on your toes, to touch his fox ears.

It’s...unheard of. It’s Omimi.

It’s Akagi and Ginjima.

What in blazes is going on with the lot of them?

 Unable to withhold his curiosity any longer, he asked Aran if he knew of whatever was going on.

Suna was prepared for any sort of explanation but he did not expect the bear-folk to pat him on the back and lament his demise.

“To think ya’ had such a simple weakness...I’m sorry, Suna. Ya’ have my condolences.”

“...what?”

“Head pats! A good scratch on the ear! Scritches she says! It’s a collective weakness of the fox-folks!”

“...and what about bear-folks?”

“...untested. I do not wish to know.”

“I...see.”

 So you discovered the weakness of the fox-folks as a whole? Interesting.

It’s definitely something that warrants further research.

 Suna eyes the Miya twins sparring in the fields below, chin resting languidly on his lifted palm. 

 “Oi, Atsumu, Osamu. I have a challenge for you two.”

 The plan is simple: bait the twins into a fight with each other and the loser has to have his ears scratched by you as a penalty. Preferably Osamu, as he has already seen what happens with Atsumu.

Who in the village has more pride and prejudice towards humans than these two? Sure, they no longer treat you as if you were dirt but they are still prideful to the point that they are the only ones stupid enough to take Suna’s bait. Yes, this half-baked plan will only work on the twins and no others.

 “I rather starve than do that.”

“Will ya’, really, ‘Samu? Starve?”

“Well, are ya’ gonna let her touch yer ears? Again?” Osamu retorts with a smirk, knowing full well that Atsumu still hasn’t forgiven him, or you, for that day.

Atsumu bristles, fists rising to slug one at his brother at the wicked memory. “Ya’ speak as if I’m gonna lose!”

“Ya’ will.”

“No, ya’ will!”

“Bring it then!!”

 Now all Suna has to do is kick back, relax, wait for them to duke it out, rig it so that Osamu loses, and send the loser to you.

Just another regular day in Inarizaki House.

  “Hmmpfh!”

“In yer face, ‘Samu!”

 When you were called over by a suspiciously eager Atsumu - him calling you for anything is suspicious in itself - you had imagined all the worst possible scenarios that would prompt the fiery fox-folk to do so.

Did something happen at their lake? With Kita? 

Did someone contract the Rot and require your aid?

Did you accidentally do something to offend their ancestral spirits and are now being summoned for a lecture by Aran, or even Kita?

 You were prepared for anything.

 But you were not prepared to find Osamu forcibly seated on the ground and covered in Suna’s binding talismans.

One right on the center of his forehead, on either cheeks, two on his neck, and an entire train of yellow talismans lined the length of his arms and legs. 

Osamu is completely bound in yellow, an iconic parallel to the time Atsumu was bound in his brother’s red ropes, and helpless against Suna’s magic that is surely coursing through his body, subjugating him.

“I…” you gape, speechless at Osamu struggling against the talismans, shouts muffled by one taped tightly across his mouth, silencing him. “What are you guys doing? Why did you kidnap Osamu?”

“We didn’t kidnap him. He lost a bet and tried to run from his penalty,” Suna explains, watching with a bored expression the way Atsumu hovers over his vulnerable brother, nudging at him with his foot.

“HMMPFH!!”

“This is payback ‘Samu!” Atsumu chortles with a mad fire burning in his eyes, arms spread out and flames bursting from his palms.

“Hrrrn-” The veins along Osamu’s neck and arms bulge as he strains against the talismans. 

A bolt of fractal light manifests right behind Atsumu and clobbers him on the head.

“Huh.." Suna hums, a tiny frown creeping onto his lips. For Osamu to be able to manifest even a sliver of his magic with that many talismans on him, Suna has either lost his touch or Osamu has grown stronger. Either way, Suna doesn’t like it.

“Hrrrrnnn!!” Osamu writhes against the talisman, feeling the foreign force pulsing into his skin grow stronger until he can no longer even fight it.

“A bet is a bet, Osamu,” Suna kneels in front of the grey-haired male, slapping a talisman onto Atsumu’s leg when he doesn’t stop kicking his brother. “You lost the round with Atsumu so this is your penalty.”

Suna gestures at you.

You’re the penalty?

 What can you possibly do as punishment-

 “Touch his ears,” Suna instructs.

“Huh??”

“Touch his damn ears!!” Atsumu growls, fingers clenching in excitement. The anticipation and excitement blowing forth from him is so palpable it feels like something’s on fire-

“Atsumu, your tail is burning,” Suna informs, utterly unbothered by the grey smoke puffing from Atsumu.

Sure enough, the end of Atsumu’s tail is burning, a tiny flame eating at gold and turning it black. 

Atsumu beats the fire out of his tail, muttering a string of curses as he examines the singed end.

 You can’t help but think Atsumu will lose all of his tail one day. First it got clipped off by the portal to Aoba, and now self-immolation? 

Suna sighs. “It happens sometimes when he gets too excited. He’s nothing but a fire hazard.”

“I’m a damn firework, not a fire hazard!”

“HMMPHRFH!” 

“Just hurry up and touch his ears already won’t ya!” His burnt tail forgotten, Atsumu grabs Osamu by the shoulder and pushes him to you roughly. Unable to defend himself, Osamu face plants right into your lap.

 The shock of having someone’s face pushed into your thighs out of nowhere is, to say the least, alarming and your hands latch onto Osamu’s head instinctively, fingers digging into his sensitive fox ears.

“HRRRMPHHHH!! HRMPHHH!!”

Unable to do anything due to the talismans, Osamu is left wailing and shaking in your lap, eyes screwed shut at the painful sensation of your fingers gripping tight onto him.

“Oh my god- I’m so sorry, Osamu!” 

Guilt cripples your stomach. Even if you did not mean to do it, you had unwittingly hurt Osamu.

The moment his face twisted in discomfort, you saw ‘Samu. They aren’t the same people but you don’t want to see this expression on them again. Not by your hands.

Knowing how sensitive their fox ears are, you immediately move to soothe them without a second thought.

Gently, you begin to stroke Osamu’s fox ears from tip to end. With deliberate slowness, taking care to rub any discomfort that lingers in the tender appendage, you tend to him like you would a kitten in need of comfort.

It’s an easy thing for you to do, especially because it is Osamu. 

It reminds you of your younger years with the Miya twins of your world, when you would inadvertently nap on each other during the day, childish energy depleted. Some days, you would have been sprawled across them, feet pushing into a chin or an elbow to a back. Other times, you would find either one of their heads in your lap, just like this, and stroke their dark hair. 

It is because it is Osamu that this feels easy.

 Suna watches with great intrigue as Osamu begins to relax under the touch of your hands. The effects of his talismans are still there but they should have waned enough for Osamu to fight back...yet he doesn’t. 

Instead, his body stops its strained trembles, going slack against your thighs and the ground. Grey eyes slip close, breaths deepening, the fatigue from the duel with Atsumu prior quickly catching up to him in the comfort engulfing him.

Fascinating.

So it’s true. The fox-folks are susceptible to...how did Aran say you put it? 

Scritches?

 “OI ‘SAMU!! DON’T FALL ASLEEP!!” 

Atsumu kicks his brother’s unguarded body, furious that Osamu isn’t suffering under your touch like he had. He wants his brother to despair, to suffer! Agonize as he did! But the ass is taking a nap instead!

To this day, Atsumu continues to deny that having his ears scratched by you felt good. He will die before he admits it to anyone, including himself!

(Even though it did feel good, he’s not admitting it! Nope!)

This is unbelievable!! How is this fair?!

“Just admit you want your ears scratched as well,” Suna tells Atsumu.  The tiny knowing smirk on Suna’s face enrages Atsumu more than it should.

“Burn and die!!” The elder Miya twin curses and stalks off, but not before giving one last kick to Osamu for good measure. Osamu barely reacts to it, only curling further into you as you continue to stroke his ears.

 “You knew about this, didn’t you?” You couldn’t help but look at Suna in amusement. “Did Aran tell you?”

“He did.” Suna shrugs. Then he looks away muttering to himself. “Can’t believe we have such a glaring weakness…”

You lift a hand up to Suna’s head in jest. “Do you want a scratch too?”

“Wipe that smug look off you.”

 “What is goin’ on here?”

 Your attentions swivel to the new voice and you couldn’t help but smile brightly at the sight of Kita Shinsuke, the Alpha-Leader of Inarizaki House himself, making his way to your figures.

“Kita!”

“Lord Kita.” Suna stands immediately, bowing lightly at the presence of his leader.

“I saw Atsumu’s fire and came here immediately…” Kita trails off, confused at the sight of a napping Osamu drooling onto your knees. He shuffles closer in worry. “Is Osamu okay? What happened?”

You stop stroking one of Osamu’s ear to rub your neck sheepishly, eliciting a sleepy grumble from Osamu.

“It’s a...weird story.”

 When you finish telling your part of events, followed up by Suna who filled in the details of his ‘research’ and baiting of the Miya twins, Kita can only rub his temples as he tries to take in the information.

His people are weak to scritches?

And Osamu, Ginjima, Akagi, and even Omimi have proven that theory to be true?

He is both surprised and not surprised, confusingly enough. As a young foxling, he has always loved it when his grandmother ran her hands through his hair, stroking at his ears the same way you are doing for Osamu now.

But it’s been more than a decade since he felt such a tender touch, and the same can be said of the other survivors. What memories they had of affection - what time they had for loving moments - was all gone the second the first fire was lit, further buried under the following deluge of watery hate and fear.

 “At least Osamu here seems to be enjoyin’ himself,” Kita sighs, his concern for Osamu easing now that he has the full story. 

“Kita, if you’re worried I will tell anyone about this...uhh weakness the fox-folks have, I won’t. You can trust me,” you tell the Alpha-Leader. You peel the talismans off Osamu’s face.

Kita shakes his head, smiling in embarrassment for his brethren. “I know. Truth be told, I don’t even know what to do with this information. I doubt our enemies would apply it…”

“You never know, Lord Kita. Spies may very well use it against our people.”

“I suppose ya’re right, Suna. Let’s keep this information within those who already know.”

 As Kita spoke with Suna, you stare at the silver fox ears with black tips morphed on his head.

Out of all the fox ears you’ve seen so far, Kita’s looks the most beautiful by far with its soft shine and silver glow. 

(Must be something in the lake water)

 Without a word and unable to stop yourself, you touch his ears with tentative fingers.

Kita stiffens, wide eyes snapping to you.

“They’re so soft,” you whisper in awe at the velvety sensation on your skin. “Like the most expensive silks.”

“I-...t-thank you,” Kita flushes under your compliment. His eyes narrow and relaxes, then narrows again, the cycle repeating several times rapidly. 

Suna sighs for the umpteenth time as he stares at you with flat reprimand in his gaze, picking up on Kita’s struggle against the pleasurable touch.  “You have to stop touching our ears without asking.”

“But they’re so cute!”

“They are not toys. This is harassment.”

 You wince with a sheepish laugh, cheeks heating up at Suna’s call-out. “Y-You’re right. I apologize.”

You are about to retract your hand from Kita when he clears his throat nervously. “I-It’s okay. I don’t mind if ya’…” He gestures at his ears awkwardly, burning up from the bashfulness of saying his following words. “I...quite like the feelin’. So ya’ can touch them if ya’ want.”

 !!!

 If you were in an anime tv series, this is the moment you slap your hand over your face and combust at the cuteness. It doesn’t help that Kita probably did not realize how potentially filthy his words are. 

 With renewed courage from Kita’s undeniable permission, you continue scratching his silver ears, excitedly running your fingers between the soft furs.

Kita laughs quietly, youthful pink painting his skin from the enjoyable sensation. He can’t help but think this is nice. This is peaceful.

 (This is what normal could have been for the fox-folks)

 Suna squeezes his eyes shut tightly once, futilely clearing his gaze of non-existent haze as he looks on at you giving his Alpha-Leader ‘scritches’ with one hand, the other on Osamu who is now in deep sleep. 

He probably won’t allow himself to be so vulnerable in front of the goons he calls his brethren any time soon but Suna smiles softly anyways at the peaceful sight.

  A short distance away, Atsumu stares at the scene from his hiding spot between several bushes, fuming in an abnormal mix of anger and jealousy. 

Even Kita is letting you touch him without qualms! And ‘Samu, damn his brother, he’s completely knocked out, happily snoozing away!

Grrr- it doesn’t even feel that good! It really doesn’t!

Laughter and giggles from your group reach him and Atsumu’s fox ears twitch, watching the way Kita tilts his head to allow you better access, his prior shyness gradually waning.

 …

 It doesn’t feel nice at all!

It...doesn’t.

 Atsumu’s hand, against his own will, reaches up. Before he can stop himself, he begins scratching at his own fox ears in a sad attempt at replicating the feel of your hands tending to him.

 But alas, unfortunately for Atsumu, it just isn’t the same.

  Try they did, our ancestors, to keep the knowledge about these ‘scritches’ that elicit overwhelming pleasure from fox-folks between themselves. 

But nature was against them from the beginning, for once a fox-folk has had a taste of the delightful tingles, they are unable to erase it from memory, forever haunting their waking thoughts. Especially when the source is so close at hand.

(Like cats to catnip. But you didn’t hear that from me, lest the cat-folks come for me)

 There are also accounts that says even the mighty bear-folk Aran fell to the modest touch of this human that uncovered the fox-folks weakness soon after.

 But what is the moral of the story, you ask, young foxling?

Well, unlike most stories, there isn’t one.

 It is less a moral telling and more a simple tale.

 A tale of how our people grew and changed - learning to hate and live, grow and love.

In the end, take the story as you wish, young one.

 How did this old granny interpret it?

 Well, this granny here saw as a young foxling herself how some of the greatest fox-folks - and a bear-folk - of our times melded under the simple, caring touch of a human. 

Granny has lived for a long, long time. Seen many come and go through the generations.

 All Granny can say is, we have a young human girl to thank for discovering our sole greatest weakness, and one greatest joy. 

And that is Love-

 “Granny, this is gettin’ sappy. Please stop.”

“Haah, young’uns nowadays. They don’t appreciate the love anymore-”

"GRANNY! CAN YA' TELL US ANOTHER-"

"Shhh, yer're in a library!"

If you enjoyed this, please do spare a reblog, check out the main series, Ghosts We See, or mayhaps spare a tip <3 

[onemagazine-archives]

"COMING OUT."

"Coming out" by A.E. Smith

Volume 10, Issue 6 / June 1962

[ID: Out from where? Out into what? One of the unique things about homosexual minority is that its members are not “raised” in their minority. A homosexual enters it, and he or she enters it “cold.” This entrance is what we call, in our homosexual parlance, “COMING OUT” By A.E. Smith

You, as a homosexual, know that your “coming out” changed your whole life. It was like coming out of a cocoon. The world thereafter to you was a whole new world. The transition perhaps was a rough experience perhaps a delightful discovery, probably some gradation in between. Anyway, you know it was a momentous transition. What happened? You know what events transpired in your own case. You probably just call that series of events your “coming out.” But what happened in the larger intellectual and impersonal sense? Why did the homosexual world choose the phrase, “Coming out”? Why not, just for instance, “initiation,” or “debut”? And is it “coming out” in the sense of coming from somewhere, from something, or is it “coming out” in the sense of coming into somewhere or something? Or both? Regardless of its origin, sociologically our slang phrase is very illuminating. For, as sociologist Mrs. Suszanne Prosin puts it, homosexuals are a minority, but in a way, they are a minority in reverse since they come from a majority and go into a minority; they are “raised” on the values of the dominant group and then must unlearn some of those values when they leave. When you “come out,” that “new world” you entered was, in your case –because what you prefer sexually is against the law, against religion’s teaching, and absolutely forbidden by the majority— because of that, your “new world” is only another word for “minority.” “Coming out” is our slang phrase for coming from a majority and going into a minority. What values changed when you “came out”? Your attitude toward sex, certainly. Before you “came out” you accepted the majority’s teaching about the evilness of homosexuality, that it was absolutely beyond the pale. You learned from the church that it was so horrifying that it was unmentionable, the “abomination,” so far more evil than just the ordinary heterosexual sex like adultery that it couldn’t even be listed with the Ten Commandments. You learned it was against the law and accepted the majority’s judgment when they sent people to prison for it. Your values in this regard are now a far, far cry from the majority’s. It has to be—or you wouldn't be holding this particular magazine in your hands right now. The chances are, also, that when you “came out” you left behind you at least a goodly portion of the majority belief in the divinity of the Christian or Jewish religion you were raised in. You might still occasionally go to church. But as a thinking (and practicing) homosexual you probably “go,” maybe with your mother or heterosexual friends, as part of “passing.” Which brings us to another thing that changed when you “came out,” one of the very first things, the vast importance of which you learned quickly from the first other gay people you met, in case you didn't know it already from having been raised in the teaching of the majority– you learned to “pass.” You learned the absolute necessity for secrecy from the majority (which, immediately, included your family and the police, but also all the other heterosexuals) regarding the truth of your sexuality. This unfortunate necessity for secrecy (or, As Dr. Merritt, Professor Emeritus of ONE INSTITUTE, put it in a lecture on Homophile Ethics and Philosophy, “the necessity of wearing the mask), colors the life of every homosexual. It stems from there being immeasurably more prejudice against

Homosexuals than against any other minority, and the immediate necessity is, of course, your job. I would estimate that 95% of homosexuals “pass,” and I do not think I am under any illusion in believing that 94% would be promptly fired were they declare themselves. I can think of no better way of pointing up this blight upon millions of lives and upon society itself than looking into a period of history when it did not exist, which is exactly what Mary Renault does in her novel, The Last of the Wine. (We are fortunate that Miss Renault is also a noted Greek scholar and that nobody questions her historical veracity!) What a different “coming out”! Her young hero has no need for secrecy, He was expected to take a homosexual lover and is even counseled about it by his father. The public disgrace there was not being able to attract a lover. “Coming out” then entailed no secrecy, no hypocrisy, no wearing of the mask. Homosexuality was an integral and very necessary part of the Greek religion and educational system. But today we are not living in the antique days of Greece. Greece was mostly untillable and could not support a large population. Homosexuality was encouraged for this purpose (along with exposure of excess infants), just as it was in the Cretan and Japanese ancient civilizations. And while it is true our world is about to have an overpopulation problem, that problem did not exist to the Jewish population and it's off-shoot, Christianity, when they came to power. The homosexual today “comes out” to an entirely different situation, However, I think the illustration of the diametrically opposite “coming out” of the young Greek is very instructive for us. It shows that the homosexual was not always in the fix he is in today. And if it happened once in history, it is possible it can happen again. History repeats itself, they say. Even without evidence of this historical example, we have reason to suspect that “coming out” need not always be the shock that it was for you and me. For in our own lifetime the hostile world has been made less hostile. We have seen one state of the United States actually alter its law to make legal homosexual love between two consenting adults in privacy. Frankly, I would have laughed at anyone telling me, when I ”came out,” that such a thing could happen in my lifetime. I’m an optimistic fellow but such was the ingrained pessimism of the outlook of my generation that “came out” that I could not envisage such a thing. I can envisage much more. I can envisage a time when future homosexuals on “coming out” need not ask, ‘Out from where?” and for an answer have to look behind them and see only the red-hot blind prejudice, and need not ask, “Out into what?” and look ahead and put on the mask. It may only be a vision but I have seen it.

Ad at the bottom of the page reads as follows - Arcadie Monthly magazine in French; literary and scientific, infrequent photos and drawings. $9. Yearly. 74 Boulevard de Reuilly, Paris, XII, France

[cakesbythejonas]

Types of Chests and Armoires

Beside the bed, one more significant part in furnishing and decorating a bedroom is the chest of drawers and armoire. The two pieces not just fill the functional click here need of storing things, yet additionally become decorative pieces and optional central focuses for the bedroom.

Chests

Otherwise called a department, a chest of drawers stands chest or shoulder high. Because of its stature, it isn't generally used with a mirror. Chests usually have five, six or seven drawers and are likewise used to store things of clothing not hung in a storage room, for example, shirts, socks, clothing and robes.

The unmentionables chest, otherwise called a chiffonier, is specific type of chest designed to hold underwear and underpants. It is generally smaller and here and there taller than different types of chests of drawers.

Effortlessly confused with a small armoire, an entryway chest often has a bureau with entryways and a bedroom set underneath. It is typically smaller in scale than an armoire and is 50 inches or less in tallness. Numerous manufacturers use "armoire" and "entryway chest" as tradable terms.

A storage chest takes after a large rectangular box with a top. It is intended to store bed cloths including covers and comforters. It can likewise be used to store occasional clothing. A few manufacturers offer storage chests that can likewise serve as a bed bench.

Armoires

The word 'armoire' begins from the French world for a type of bureau used as storage for covering and weaponry. Armoires can be used may ways, from concealing a TV set, to storing clothes and gems. Typically described as a tall, unsupported cabinet, armoires can include racking, drawers and pull-out valet plate. The following are the four fundamental types of armoires:

Wardrobe armoire: designed to hold clothes; ideal for suits, dresses and bulkier occasional things like jackets. Wardrobe armoires will often have clothing bar or removable clothing pole.

[the-stars-shine-with-me]

“That’s a lot of glaze lilies. You attending another funeral already, (Y/n)?”

She raises an eyebrow and shakes her head. “Very funny! No, these are for Zhongli. He asked me to get him some for the parlor... probably because he’s still adjusting to not having much mora.”

Childe thumbs the jade he just purchased between his fingers. “Oh really? Why are you still running errands for him? He’s not one of the seven anymore you know.”

“Uh, well, that’s true but we’re still friends.” She says, frowning. He follows her with a casual gait as she leads the way across the boardwalk, her heels making a satisfying click as they hit the wood. “It’s not like what happened changes nothing, and I didn’t appreciate him making a pawn out of me either, but his intentions were good so...”

She finishes with a shrug. Something about her easy, casual forgiveness of Zhongli bothers him. It had taken weeks, and the arrival of his adorable younger brother, for him to win back just the ability to talk to her without getting glared at.

They climb the stairs up to the main city and she doesn’t elaborate. Fuck it.

“What about me?” He finally asks.

“What about you?” She parrots back, airily enough that he can tell he’s going to hit a nerve.

“Are we still friends?”

“... It’s nice that you care for your family, like I do. But you summoned a whale on top of me. Tartaglia.”

“Aw come on, I know you had fun fighting me.” The heat of battle always got him excited, but between him and her there had been something different, a kind of thrilling, charged tension that had nothing to do with the electricity in the air, or the usual demonic energy that thrummed inside when he used Foul Legacy. And he knew he saw it mirrored in her own eyes as they had exchanged blows. “I was never going to use lethal force, I told you that. Not my style. So you never were really in any danger from me.”

(Y/n) scoffs, and stops mid step to pivot on her foot and extend the blue flowers to point in his face like a sword. “You are so...! Don’t forget that you lost that fight, Tartaglia. But yes, despite you giving me a really hard time that day, the vast depths of my kind heart have found the space to forgive you, for now.”

“Th-“

She cuts him off before he can say anything else, shaking the closed blue buds pointedly. “-But that does not mean you’re the type of friend I’d buy flowers for.”

He gives her a brief, closed eyed smile and gently flicks the flowers away from him. A shadow passes over his face. “But you’ll buy them for Zhongli. He was the one who orchestrated this entire little play, including me. Why does he get a pass? Do you like him?”

“What?!? No!” (Y/n) puffs up angrily and stalks up the stairs faster. Childe has no problem keeping pace right at her side, even if she wanted to shake him off. “And even if I did, so what?”

She’s blushing. The prospect of her, liking Zhongli, is flustering her. Childe all of a sudden really wants to fucking burn those flowers to a crisp.

“I would be disappointed.” He says.

“I don’t care about what you think.” She says, refusing to look at him. “... Why would it matter to you who I like anyways?”

“I just thought you had higher standards.”

“Higher standards?” (Y/n) asks incredulously. Zhongli is a god, immortal adeptus even without his gnosis. How could her standard be higher than a god. “Like who?”

Me. He wants to say. But he doesn’t.

“I wonder. Anyway, I’ll leave you to it. I have important stuff I need to do.” Childe says. It’s true. He is an important, capable, busy person.

“Yeah, fine, whatever. Bye.” It’s irritating how she shoos him off as if he’s a bug, but he holds his head high as he takes his leave.

Curse Signora. It was probably her idea to have the Tsaritsa trick him in the first place. What he wouldn’t give to have been the one to pry the gnosis from Zhongli’s hands instead.

~~~

(Y/n) is frustrated. As if her conflicted relationship with the eleventh Fatui harbringer wasn’t confusing enough, she had to deal with all these... hormones, on top of it.

She’d been attracted to him the moment she saw him, but it hadn’t been like this. It hadn’t been like this until after their battle at the Golden House. Something about them had changed during that battle. She had been scared, but also excited, and the feeling had only risen as they had crossed blades and thrown everything they had at each other.

It was a exhilarating catharsis, she had enjoyed giving that battle everything she had, not having to hold back at all. And then he’d grown twice his size, turned all dark and sharp, and dangerous... the curiousity of what his face looked like behind that full mask was haunting her.

Normally she would just imagine some nice things and touch herself in private when tending to her occasional libido. But ever since the battle, she’d been horny every night, and in the morning when she woke up. Imagining him pinning her down, dominating her, and even worse than that: touching her, kissing her, hugging her, petting her, praising her.

(Y/n) had a huge crush on the guy who had singlehandedly almost destroyed the entire harbor city and gleefully thrown her through the floor. He was dangerous, but she wanted to be special and precious to him. She couldn’t think of a worse person to want as a boyfriend.

Childe was right. She really did have low standards.

The fact that she acknowledged that didn’t mean she wasn’t about to buy a glass phallus from Ying’er’s secret shop and spend the night spoiling herself to amorous thoughts of him in the privacy of the four walls of an inn tonight rather than out camping on the ground.

“Here you are darling. Don’t forget to use the contents of the bottle first, okay?” Ying’er hands her a pretty, discreet purple silk bag that skillfully hides the shape of the objects inside.

“I won’t. Thanks.” She says, trying not blush at the woman’s ever-suggestive tone as she pays for the goods with a pouch of mora.

The night air is pleasantly cool against the bare nape of her neck, but she doesn’t linger on her way to the inn. It would be so embarrassing to be caught with items like these by somebody, especially someone who knows her. Being careful not to get caught always makes her feel like someone is watching her, including now, as she walks briskly through the streets of Liyue.

She tucks the bag further into her side, hiding most of it with her arm. (Y/n) is almost to the inn building when she catches sight of something that makes her come to a grinding halt. Ahead of her, standing underneath the awning of the building right next to her inn, is Tartaglia, chatting amicably with another masked Fatui as a piece of paper exchanges hands between them.

There’s no way she can reach the door without him seeing her. Frozen to the ground, she’s got just seconds before he spots her. She shifts the bag to the other side opposite him, and covers it with her arm as much as possible.

She unfreezes herself and makes to walk past. If she doesn’t look at him, maybe he won’t look at her. Maybe he is so preoccupied with his business that he won’t even notice her.

“(Y/n)!”

Fuck.

Her steps falter just a bit. It would be too much to pretend like she hadn’t heard him, right?

“Hey, (Y/n)!”

She closes her eyes with a groan and reluctantly turns and makes her way over to him.

“Hello, Childe.” She says warily, eyeing him and his associate.

Childe raises an eyebrow. “Feeling prickly tonight, huh? Well not for long, I have good news for you. Have a look at this.”

He hands her an envelope with a closed eyed smile, looking very cheerful. It’s already opened, and she steps back a little bit to let the light of the nearby street lantern illuminate the piece of paper she unfolds.

It’s a ticket for a boat ride to Inazuma. The vessel is Fatui, and departs in two weeks from now.

“No way.” She says as she reads it. “I thought the country was blocked...?”

“It is, to most.” Tartaglia says with a smirk. “But when it comes to the Fatui, we have diplomatic connections with almost everyone that allow for a bit of nudging room, even under these circumstances.”

He gives a look to his subordinate and they vanish into the shadows.

“Wow.” She can’t believe it. “You’re... giving this to me?”

“Mmhm. Happy birthday.”

It’s not her birthday. He just knew she was trying to get to Inazuma to meet Raiden, the electro archon of the seven, for information about Aether.

“... Thank you. But how did you get this?”

“Haha. If you wanna talk details, we are gonna need to find someplace private.”

She does want to know, but he’s looking in the direction of Northland Bank, and there are several people in there she does not want getting an eyeful of her scandalous cargo.

“... I’m actually staying at Lotus Cloud Inn tonight.” She says, gesturing at the building beside them. “If that’s private enough for your clandestine needs.”

He visibly brightens at this prospect. “Sure, that’s perfect.”

She tucks the ticket back into the safety of the envelope and walks over to the Inn doors, rolling her eyes when he tosses his scarf over his shoulder as they push the door open and head inside. Her room is in the top floor, and she endures his radiant expression in awkward silence as they ascend on the wooden lift.

Fishing the metal room key out of her pocket, she lets him go inside first before closing and locking the door behind them and pocketing the key.

He’s already comfortably seated on the plush flower-patterned setée by the time she turns back around. As nonchalantly as possible, she tosses the purple silk bag of unmentionables in the corner where her the rest of her things lay in a pile. Tries not to cringe as the glass of the two objects clinks together as it lands.

She quickly takes a seat on the edge of the bed opposite from the setée. “So, just to be clear, there’s no blood money involved in this, right?”

Tartaglia smiles and tilts his head. “No. It’s just a diplomatic envoy, like I said.”

“Just had to ask. Fatui diplomacy can be a bit extreme. So, what will my Fatui crewmates be up to in Inazuma after we dock? I’d rather not ruin my reputation the second I arrive like I did here, especially since the archon is apparently so paranoid she’s confiscating visions.”

“Nothing that will reflect poorly on you. Don’t worry about it.”

(Y/n) crosses her arms. “You’re not gonna tell me?”

“Not unless you join the ranks of the Fatui.” He says, lacing his hands together behind his head and leaning back.

(Y/n) cringes. “And work for Signora? I’d sooner willingly injest rat poison.” Just thinking about what she did to Venti makes a flash of rage boil in her chest.

He laughs. “That’s right, I almost forgot about the sheer tension I felt between you two back at the bank with Zhongli. I was confused about why it felt more like you wanted to fight her than me. Kind of insulted actually.”

“Don’t be. She is the second highest person on my personal shitlist. If I didn’t think it would be two or three against one, I probably would have fought her.” (Y/n) says dangerously.

“Well working for the Fatui doesn’t mean you’d have to answer to La Signora. There’s ten other harbringers you know, myself included. I wouldn’t begrudge someone as capable as you a job.”

“Thanks but no thanks.” She says. Everything is backseat until she finds Aether. The Fatui are too shady about what they are doing for her to even consider that.

Childe shrugs like he didn’t really expect anything to come of it anyway.

“So, what’s in the bag? Perfume?”

(Y/n) stiffens. “Nothing. None of your business.”

Tartaglia raises an eyebrow and lowers his arms to lean forward. “Come now, don’t be like that. I can’t disclose confidential information, but I’ll tell you anything else.”

“... Well anyways, thanks for the ticket, it was really nice of you to get that for me.”

He doesn’t respond, eyeing the bag now. (Y/n) tenses. She stares at him in silence, daring him to move.

He chuckles darkly. “What’s this? (Y/n) keeping her own secrets... something embarrassing perhaps? Or from a lover?”

She growls low in her throat, warning him to drop it.

“Tell you what. I’ll exchange a secret for a secret. Show me what’s in the bag and I’ll tell you something about our plans in Inazuma.”

(Y/n) can’t believe this. But of course she’s gonna take the deal, her dignity is a small price to pay for a chance to get on the inside of some Fatui intel.

“... If you go back on this deal, I will personally see to it that your pinky and your tongue freeze off.”

Childe just holds out a hand palm up and waits.

(Y/n) trudges reluctantly over to the bag and picks it up. Grimacing in embarrassment, she places it in his outstretched hand and covers her face.

He opens it slowly, smug bastard. The pleased expression all but drops from his face when he sees what it is, though, almost comically. (Y/n) groans and hides her blush as he holds up the clear glass phallus.

“Who gave you this?” His voice is like splintered ice.

“... Nobody. I bought it myself.”

“Our deal is void if you lie.” He says, not believing her for some reason.

She’s flushed so red it reaches her shoulders. “It’s true!” She snaps, snatching it out of his hands. “I don’t have a some secret lover. If I did, I wouldn’t have been so frustrated lately.”

His icy expression melts at her admission, and he leans forward into her personal space. “Is that so? If you want, I can help you with that.”

(Y/n) blinks. “... No thanks, sparring once a week is enough for me.”

“Not sparring.” He says, and taps his finger against the glass of the phallus. “I mean as a substitute for this.”

(Y/n) swallows hard, but shakes her head. There’s a metal band around the fourth finger of one of his gloved hands. “I don’t want to incur anybody’s wrath.”

“You mean this?” He looks very pleased at her words, taking the ring off to play with it for a moment before slipping it back on. “It’s just cosmetic. There’s no beloved of mine that would come hunt you down.”

The relief on her face is probably palpable, because he’s grinning like a cat as he stands and takes hold of her hand, lifting it to his mouth to press a soft kiss to the top.

“I’m also.... not interested in anything casual.” She says nervously.

“What a coincidence.” He says, flipping her hand over to kiss her palm. “Neither am I.”

“So then...”

“I like you very, very much (Y/n)” He kisses her wrist, feeling thud of her racing pulse there.

“Really?” Its too good to be true.

“I thought you knew. I thought you liked Zhongli.” He says, and gets a little more aggressive, brushing her hair back to kiss at her ear.

“Not Zhongli.” She says, melting into the attention. “That day, it was you who stole something from me.”

“I distinctly remember not getting the satisfaction of stealing anything at all on that day, though?” He says, but his tone is light. He gets the insinuation that she returns his feelings.

(Y/n) grunts. “As if... that, wasn’t enough, you also stole my peace of mind.”

“Ah.” He strokes at the back of her hair soothingly. “So that’s why you needed this toy. Poor thing.”

“Don’t you feel sorry for me?” She looks up at him with shiny, hopeful eyes. It’s fucking cute.

“Very. Allow me to shower you with some overdue attention.”

Childe cups both her cheeks in his hands and leans in to kiss her. He takes his time, getting his fill of her, and she chases his lips whenever he pulls back like she can’t get enough of him.

Wicked thoughts of staking his claim on her fill his mind, and he presses a last soothing kiss to her greedy lips before pushing aside her head to find a suitably visible spot on her neck. He nuzzles in and takes his teeth over it before sucking it dark red. It forms an upside down teardrop shape, and inspiration hits him as he sucks again right next to it, ignoring how (Y/n) squirms impatiently.

The resulting mark forms an unmistakeable heart. No doubt it will form the prettiest bruise. Now, no one will look at her and think her free game. Not even Zhongli.

Apparently all out of patience, Lumine takes grip of his shoulders and walks them back a bit before shoving him bodily into the bed.

“Hey!” He protests, “Don’t be so rough with me, beautiful, or I’ll start being rough back.”

“Sorry.” She says, but doesn’t sound it. Climbing up, (Y/n) places herself comfortably in the top center of the bed, golden hair like a crown above her on the white pillows. She holds out both arms invitingly.

Childe doesn’t waste time climbing on top of her and pressing her down into the pillows. She drags his face down to hers for more kisses.

Kisses turn to a makeout session. She starts rubbing herself against his leg and makeout session turns into heavy petting. His jacket and shirt come off. Her skirt is up around her waist and breasts pulled out of her dress. His pants are unbuckled and his fly is down, allowing his hard-on to poke out a tent in his underwear that she is currently feeling up shamelessly with a naughty hand.

It feels good, and he tells her so as he takes both of her pink little nipples and pinches them and tugs forward. Her horny face is so cute, and he decides he’s in the mood for a show.

“Show me how you were going to masturbate with that toy you bought. Then I can show you just how much better I can make you feel with the real thing.”

“What?” She pouts. “What’s the point of that when you’re here?”

���Exactly.” He gets up and retrieves it for her, placing it insistently by her hips. “This way I can show you the difference, back to back.”

“This is ridiculous.” She huffs, but she humors him anyway, taking off the rest of her clothes and peeking at him shyly as she shimmies her hips to remove her panties.

She starts out awkwardly, the embarrassment of his watchful gaze making her hands tremble. But she’s so pent up that eventually she just closes her eyes while she rubs herself, and relaxes. She presses at and toys with her clit for several minutes, before shuddering and pressing the rounded tip of the glass phallus against her wet opening, snuggling down further into the pillows self comfortingly as she gently pushes it in, inch by inch. She leaves it there when it’s about halfway in and then resumes circling her clit.

That’s when the moaning starts. (Y/n) is lost in her fantasy: him and her in the golden house, but instead her loss, by surrender. The victor in his demon form, twice the size of a normal man, pinning her with one hand and wrecking her pussy with a large purple-black cock. Whenever she squirms he slaps her ass hard, pale globes red with large handprints. She imagines herself clenching on him, creaming herself to a cruel pinch of her clit between gloved claws. She does her best to mimic it with her own fingers.

“Shit (Y/n).” Childe’s voice is raw with arousal. “What are you thinking about?”

She opens hazy golden eyes and if it was possible, there’d be hearts in her pupils. “Same thing I always think about.” Him.

(Yn/n) pushes the phallus in further now, quickly circling her clit with her other hand. She lifts her hips up off the bed, straining as she feels the pressure in her clench tighter and threaten to snap. Her voice trembles in increasingly higher moans, and she imagines demon Tartaglia pressing her face into the ground and shoving his dick in all the way. She’s seconds away from cumming when her hand is slapped away from her sex and the dildo pulled all the way out.

(Y/n) yelps and gives Childe a scandalized look of shock.

“Sorry babe, but if you want an orgasm, it’s gonna be on me, not some inferior toy dick.”

She goes to smack at him angrily, but he catches her hands and playfully uses her momentum to pin her. But her protests quiet as he uses the position to grind his length, bare now, against her pussy, relishing in the wet velvet drag against her sensitive nub.

(Y/n) moans and bucks up against him for more. He entertains a few smacks to her clit with his dick, and then leans forward to kiss her senseless. When they break for air, his blonde lover fixes him with a glare.

“You’re going to regret teasing me, lover boy.”

“No, I don’t think I will.” He says, and grasps one of her legs and places it over his shoulder as he pushes himself inside.

It’s wet and warm and oh so tight inside her, and she makes this deeply satisfied sigh that has him wondering just how long she’s been frustrated, combatting her attraction to him.

He sets a languid pace, thumbing her clit. (Y/n) rolls her hips to meet him. It’s a sensual fuck that has them both addicted.

“You feel so good.” (Y/n) whispers, eyes half closed and cheeks flushed with pleasure.

Childe can’t help smiling at that.

“I could get used to this. You’re the most beautiful I’ve seen you yet.” He strokes her skin above where her womb is, wishing for a moment he could see himself inside her. “Or maybe not, if you still have the wherewithal to speak.”

Without warning, he pulls out and flips her onto her stomach, and pulls her onto her knees. She shivers as he trails a hand down her spine, pushing down until he reaches her neck, fists a hand in her hair, and shoves her face into the pillows.

He thrusts into her from behind, setting a brutal pace as he pulls her hips back onto him so hard that it makes a slap as her ass meets the skin of his thighs. She moans in surprise, squealing when he bottoms out with each sharp thrust. He’s so deep he can feel the head of his dick repeatedly kiss her cervix. The intense position reminds (Y/n) of her fantasy, and doesn’t last long before she is crying out into the pillows. Her legs start to shake and her walls give a hard squeeze as all of the pent up tension concentrates and bursts, pleasure overloading her brain.

“So good.” She moans out weakly in the throes of orgasm. There’s something unhinged about his expression as he fucks her through the aftershocks, and she realizes that he fully intends to make this a competition about stamina too.

He paints her back white with cum a few minutes after her second climax, but stops only to wipe up the mess before he’s back nestled snugly within her walls, just as hard. He really is determined to win, despite her being the frustrated one in the first place.

He dicks her down two more pegs before he’s satisfied, pulling out to finish on her stomach this time with a low moan and grunt of exertion.

They just lie on their backs for several minutes, catching their breath.

Eventually, he gets up and finds something else to clean off her stomach with, but then he’s back to laying on his back beside her, pressing adoring kisses to her hand.

“You... are crazy. That was insane.” (Y/n) finally says.

He laughs breathlessly. “That’s not the first time I’ve been called that. So long as I scratched your itch, I hope, my dear?”

“Like a feral cat to a scratching post.” She says dramatically, but turns to kiss him on the cheek. “I’ve accepted the fact that you will be the death of me anyways.”

“Hey, that’s my line.”

“Don’t make me revoke my status as Mrs. Tartaglia when I’m over here drowning in post-coital endorphins, sir.”

“Fine, fine. Can never catch a break around here, jeez.”

“Just wait until Paimon finds out we’re dating.”

“Oh. Yeah. Good point.”

[cykelops]

preview to a jean-luc/magneto fic i am comitting to

=

Every father thinks their boy is special and Jean-Luc LeBeau was no different. His boy was destined for great things. It coursed in his blood, in his soul. His mutation was part of it, of course, but only a fraction. His character was not the product of a few clever modifications to his DNA from the man upstairs and, while he was very much a product of his upbringing, his resistance to Jean-Luc's piss poor parenting was the more commendable feat of nature. 

It struck him as deeply unjustified that the X-Men never recognised his true worth. In the streets of Louisiana, at the heart of the French Quarter, the name Remy LeBeau meant something. He was a prince of thieves, occasional guildmaster, and the highest class of pickpocket the Bayou had ever seen. He was nearly as handsome as his daddy and his Southern charms came with a healthy dose of old-fashioned chivalry. His boy was a brushstroke of gold laid by God himself upon the lackluster grey of the world. It was unfortunate that politics and the twisted hands of fate should drive him so far from home. In Westchester he was an outcast. He was kept at arm's length like a diseased mutt, sometimes by convenient enough necessity and others simply because he was not well liked and no one would vouch for him. 

His boy, his precious, perfect, stubborn boy was a rabid dog to the X-Men.

But that had changed, Remy assured him. He was married now. He was part of a team again. People looked up to him. Krakoa was a fresh start for everyone. It had notes of even me in it.

Jean-Luc couldn't get it past his boy's thick skull that he didn't need redeeming. He was perfect just the way he'd been born. Men didn't say those things, though. Remy was too old for coddling and Jean-Luc was too set in his ways to change that. 

Remy gave him a key and a flower and asked him to visit often now that he had a place to really call his own, and not a four-by-four where he depended on the X-Men's willingness to let a world-renown thief stop by. Jean-Luc wore the key around his wrist, it was like one of those newfangled wristbands you got at county fairs instead of tickets, and it let him through the flower portal. Remy explained it had something to do with a drop of his blood and alien tech, but Jean-Luc preferred not to know the details. 

Krakoa was a whole new country. That took a while to hit him, but when it did it hit him hard. He didn't have to take so much as a trolley to leave the States. All he had to do was step through an iridescent magic weed and he would be there in an instant. Sometimes he would let his hand through first just to feel it. Standing in his own loft with his fingers in another hemisphere. It was fascinating.

He was one of very few humans with relatively unchecked access to Krakoa. The island could revoke his entry at any moment, the consciousness of the ground he stood on was among Krakoa's most bewildering quirks, but he wasn't confined to Remy's home. He was free to explore. Remy implored him not to abuse that privilege. Of course, he did so anyway. No place was clearly marked off limits but he wasn't stupid. The heavily guarded congestion of vines and glowing red windows (eyes?) stood out like a sore thumb even among Krakoa's varied architecture. Jean-Luc was drawn to it, ever the moth to the flame. He was not about to steal from Remy's family but he wasn't just a thief. He was an adventurer. An explorer. Krakoa was brimming with untapped potential for discovery. 

The security, which at first glance seemed tight, proved laughably inadequate. He was too quick and clever to be spotted. The grooved walls of interlocking vegetation provided ample cover for his lean body. Jean-Luc was sure to pat the ground every once in a while to remind Krakoa that he was a friend and they were only playing a game. If he was sussed out by a mutation he could not outwit with thief's tricks he could just say he was doing a sweep of the area to report back to Xavier with advice on how to improve the system. 

The interior of the circular structure was fairly straightforward, navigating it was only a slow process because so many of the halls were indistinguishable from one another at first glance, but with Jean-Luc's quick sense for patterns he got through the chambers leading towards the center rapidly. There wasn't much of note in any of the rooms he encountered. They contained nothing except bulbous golden growths sprouting from the grassy ground and towards the ceiling. Most small, but some as big as an adult man. To Jean-Luc they looked very similar to the red spheres that Krakoa's trees wreathed themselves around and that always seemed to… watch him, somehow. These gold ones didn't have so intimidating a presence but they appeared be-- well, breathing.

He kept his hands off them because he didn't want to hurt them. Whatever they were, they were alive. Perhaps he had overzealously stumbled onto Krakoa's beating heart. It was unseasonably hot inside the building, like someone had turned the radiator way up. More than once Jean-Luc was tempted to strip down to his unmentionables or at least remove his trenchcoat but he could not risk anyone finding his clothes in either case. 

Finally, he reached the center. It was marked by a spiraling tree trunk holding up the entire structure and paths branching in every direction, including the door Jean-Luc had entered from. Air whistled between his teeth as he took in the trunk, fat with the golden bulbs like shuddering fruit. By his rudimentary calculations, it would take at least fifteen men with their arms outstretched to fully circle its girth. What were they? He was absurdly reminded of silk cocoons and bagworms. Jean-Luc moved closer, compelled by a curiosity that outmatched his caution. He rubbed the side of his hand across the glistening surface. It felt smooth and warm like eggs fresh out the chicken coop.

Eggs.

Something lurched forward from the depths of the egg in front of him and Jean-Luc fell on his ass. The crack of a human hand breaking through the shell, a translucent orange film sticking to their skin, chilled him. The liquid that had obscured the egg's occupant while appearing perfectly translucent spilled onto the floor and towards Jean-Luc's steel-tipped boots as a leg kicked itself free. It took every ounce of his self restraint not to scream, until his eyes locked with a cloudy purple pair, and his tongue was more than willfully silent.

[brawlstars-aus]

Brawl Stars Superhero AU

In the sprawling city of Retropolis rests the Brawl District, a section of the city that contains the biggest concentration of heroes and villains in the area. Not only that, but it also has the greatest history of wars between heroes and villains alike, more than any other area in the country.

Though the rest of Retropolis is mostly normal, the Brawl District has also been the target of unmentionable chaos. Apartment buildings and alleyways flooded by plants, magical energy causing robots to go haywire, heroes being brought back from the dead... and all of this is being kept under control by merely one person: The Sheriff from Brawl HQ, fighting to keep order in place!

Though 4 different factions have formed within the city, the two most powerful have declared a silent war, and it’s up to the other two plus the outcasts to decide who they will side with to finish the conflict once and for all.

Who will come out victorious is up to you to decide.

Meet: Brawl HQ

Under the (rather uncreative) alias of “The Sheriff”, Colt Junker is the leader of Brawl HQ. After Pam Junker had stepped down from her position as lead, the HQ has been headed by The Sheriff with a sole goal of stopping crime and returning order to the city. More specifically, stop The Star’s Order, before control of the city is lost to necromancy and magic.

Being headed by engineering prodigy Jessie Junker, more formally known as Miss Gatling Phaser, all suits created are incredibly high-tech as if brought directly from a science fiction movie. They also have a numerous arsenal of melee weapons, guns, and specialized suits to be used by the HQ’s allies. If only Colt actually knew how to use all of them properly.

Brawl HQ is the oldest superhero faction in Retropolis that’s still standing today, first founded under the name “Scrapyard HQ” by Delilah Junker and her 15-year old granddaughter Pam Junker as a mechanic shop. The shop stayed for years, and after nearly a decade, Pam got together with her now ex-husband. With him, she had two kids, Colt and Jessie, until he started changing. He was no longer the kind, strong man that Pam had fallen in love with. So they separated.

Pam struggled while being a single mother. Her grandmother Delilah had passed away by that point, and she was just barely able to keep herself afloat with Scrapyard HQ. A new opportunity had been sparked, though. Her son Colt had begun a paid internship at the city’s police department, and her daughter had unveiled a secret project she had been working on for some time- a flexible superhero suit that “Colt could wear to his new job to stay safe!”

Upon the rise of new supervillains in the Brawl District, the city became unsafe. Scrapyard HQ had to be shut down due to a lack of activity, since the supervillains relied on magic. This was when Colt proposed that Scrapyard HQ become a place for heroes. With Jessie’s incredible engineering skill, Pam’s leadership and Colt’s sense of justice, they have teamed together to make Colt the first hero the Brawl District has had in 7 years when the last of the heroes moved out.

Colt now fights for a better town- a better city! But when everybody else outside of Brawl HQ is against him, who can he trust as an ally?

Allies: The Sheriff (Colt), Jetspring (Jessie), Overhaul (Pam)

Jetspring’s Androids: Barley, Rico(chet), Darryl, Carl Geologarithm (”Geo”)

Meet: The Star’s Order

May also be written “The Stars’ Order” or simply “Star’s Order”.

United under the art of magic, The Stars’ Order is a faction devoted to tarot cards and prophecies of the future. It has various members, but most reside under the co-rule of Omen and Graveheart, a tag-team duo of magic wielders who wish to bring heroes back to life to fight against the world of evil once again. Although Graveheart holds title as figurehead and acts as the leader for most of the group’s projects, Omen is the one that holds most of the team’s magical ability.

They weren’t well known, but that was intentional. They were both concerned for the world, in fear for it being lost to global warming, widespread pollution, and deforestation. And all of those tied down to one thing- humanity’s reliance of industrialization. In search of a cure, they found it within their own hands- they could reteach humanity the lost art of magic and the arcane. But they needed a key into society’s heart. What was something that humans wished for, and craved, more than anything? Caused by the greatest tragedy known to man? And how could they do this most effectively?

Easy. Their greatest tragedy was death, and their greatest wish was to bring the dead back to life. They could do this most effectively by literally bringing their superheroes back to life. Then, they could return to fight for peace. Then, they could save the world. Then, they could show humanity that magic wasn’t so bad.

Necromancy had already been in study before, and although was old, was not well developed. When a sort of magic does not exist, you research until you can invent it. And they reinvented necromancy.

After years of research and study, heroes that had perished and been mourned have returned once more. Sure, it required a bit of body-smuggling, not too hard for a mortician, and the fortune teller warned that there was a great percent chance of failure, but they had already fine-tuned the magic to the best of their ability. If they could get anything at all, then they would have been lucky anyway.

Thus, started the ritual. And it worked. Almost.

When they returned the hero Frank to the world, the magic had not worked as perfectly as they’d hoped, and he had returned disfigured into the shape of a hulking giant, mind degraded to that of an orc. But it was something, so they showed off their somewhat-success to the media. But the public grew angry. He didn’t give his consent to return to life as a monster! 

But they tried again anyway, because maybe, this time they could create something worthy of retribution.

They returned the once-loved late hero Poco to the world, and nearly succeeded, except for the fact that Poco had returned sans of memory or even flesh, being nothing more than a skeleton of a hero. This was when the public had enough, and The Star’s Order was finally forced into hiding due to media outrage and backlash.

Furthermore, Brawl HQ has decided to track them down in hopes to eventually reveal their identities and put them behind bars for their “injustice” towards these heroes. The Star’s Order is not going to sit back and simply fall, though.

The Star���s Order have finally decided to become the villains the public saw in them, and thus started Project: Villainize.

But some undead heroes don’t want to be villains.

...

With outfits based from magic, Omen and Graveheart’s outfits are morphable at will and their limitations solely rely on the user’s magic capacity. For all other allies, outfits hold no magical properties. (Except Gene, who is entirely made of magic, including outfit.)

Allies: Omen (Tara), Graveheart (Mortis)

"Allies”: Gene, Frank, Calavera Canticum (Poco)

Meet: The Sisterhood

Although being called “The Sisterhood”, some people are somehow still surprised that the leader, named “La Bandita”, is female. Named a ‘demi-hero’, La Bandita’s costume is just her casual clothes, and her only superpowers are her quick wit and incredible shotgun skills.

Once being simply an alias for Shelly, it has grown into the largest gang in the city, and has become powerful enough to reside in the Brawl District unscathed, even when none of its members hold any powers.

When it was smaller, The Sisterhood could have been regarded as a mafia. Stolen objects sold on the black market, holding hostages and ruining the lives of any who La Bandita saw as corrupt. Then she recruited the biker gang of her once-rival Bull, and helped the man start a restaurant of his own, to which he repaid through his unwavering loyalty.

Ever since, she has recruited her cousin El Primo, who said “it sounded like a fun club!” and Penny, who was knowledgeable in engineering and working with gunpowder. Occasionally, she’d be visited by her relative Rosa who needed help with a certain invasion of plants in her apartment, and sometimes in the middle of the night, would find a particular barrel-bodied robot requesting help on how to improve his shotgunning skills.

La Bandita has since stopped a large portion of the crime she commits, though has never gotten less dangerous. Simply put, she recognizes the power she has now, and has decided that it’ll be best if saved for any time she or anyone in the Sisterhood is ever crossed. For now, she doesn’t need the wealth found in crime. Rather, she has found wealth in the closely knit family that is The Sisterhood.

Although some members of The Sisterhood may use aliases to disguise their true names, a good portion do not.

Sisterhood: La Bandita (Shelly), Bulldozer (Bull), Bibi, Crow, El Primo, Penny

Meet: Alliance of the Eagles

The destruction of nature was a terrible thing. When the city was first initiated, the ancestral land was defiled with smoke and city lights. What was once a sea of grassland was turned to a wasteland of concrete. When Bo moved into the city, he wasn’t trying to get away from home. He was trying to bring home with him. And he recruited friends and family to help.

It was because of the Alliance of the Eagles that life began to grow again in the city. Ivy across the brick walls, clovers budding between sidewalk tiles, flowers bringing just the slightest glimmer of color in the labyrinth of desaturated desolation. It was all thanks to a faint, constant aura of magical energy from somewhere within the Brawl District that acted as a fertilizer and helped the plants grow. He didn’t think much of it at first.

It was when the returns started happening. Magical energy burst across the district like an undetectable shockwave, feeling like nothing more than a gust of wind, but its effects were drastic. The plants Bo had brought to transplant into the area begun to grow rapidly. Too rapidly. His apartment was taken over by weeds and vines, and the botanist downstairs had to have a rescue mission issued for her, as she was caged in by an entire horde of flora. Even then, the botanist didn’t make it out without a face half permanently covered in flowers, and two new living cactuses.

So Bo gave up plants. It was time to try out animals. Instead of a city-wide project that could end up in flooded alleyways like the previous project had, he tried something smaller. As the apartment building was overtaken by plants, obeying a little “no animals” policy suddenly seemed like a very minor offense. He encouraged those in the Alliance of Eagles to start hosting their favorite animal in their apartment, which to Nita’s question, “was allowed to be a bear”.

All was well, and all tenants were actually happier with their animal companions. Despite the creatures mostly being from the wild, they were “oddly” calm. He kept an eagle in his own room, and frequently visited Nita and Leon, who were keeping a bear and a “cool color-changing lizard” in their rooms respectively. He also saw his apartment neighbor Crowley Sharpe quite often, who unsurprisingly kept a crow, and they had many pleasing talks about birds.

Bo frequently believed in animal-related omens, but when his eagle had flown away that day, he was naive enough not to think of it as a sign. Then, merely a few hours later, the second wave hit. A graze of magic energy, and suddenly a young child horrified and screaming in agonizing terror, because his skin was beginning to change color in different places without an understanding why. His friend around the same age suddenly unable to speak in anything other than basic noises, but being able to imitate a bear perfectly. And his birdwatching neighbor, literally losing all of his humanity in favor of jet-black feathers, a beak, and fulfilling his name. Downstairs, ecstatic shouts of being able to “hear the plants speaking!”

Bo lead a team of environmental activists who fought for nature into becoming nature themselves. Whether a blessing or a curse, Bo now has more power than ever to bring Mother Nature back to the asphalt-cursed Retropolis- but first, perhaps he should seek out whoever caused the dyad of unfortunate events to occur. Maybe then he could earn back the respect of Leon and Crow, who had left the team in belief having become monsters. Until he does, he will have lost his humanity as much as they.

Allies: Eagle 1 (Bo), Barbearian (Nita), Lady of Flowers (Rosa), Spike

Ex-Allies: Colorcode (Leon), Crow

Meet: The Outcasts

The outcasts, the wildcards, the ticking time bombs... all of those refer to The Outcasts.

Although most outcasts have been given a home in The Sisterhood (which are almost outcasts in themselves), some outcasts are truly outcasts. Some may be dangerous (Viperella), some may just be annoying graffiti artists (Colorcode), and some could even be friendly (Sonic Boom), but either way, caution should be held when any faction approaches them. They may have biases, but those could change with the snap of a neck.

Outcasts: Colorcode (Leon), Viperella (Piper), Sonic Boom (Brock), DynaMIKE!

Heroes and villains according to faction. Some members may be more or less mixed, indicated by a dot. May be changed up in the future.

Find all my posts for this topic here!

This was a fun AU to write, and is also my first offciial AU! It’s a big bunch of ideas I’ve had stirring around for a while, all being able to be smashed into one giant alternate universe! (If I run out of ideas, I’ll change my name to brawl-stars-superhero-au. It’s not a high school AU though so I’m not changing just yet!)

Feel free to write for this AU, send in your asks about it, add your OCs, and put your own twists! <3

EDIT (6/23/19): Changed Jessie’s name from Gatling Phaser to Eludia Jetspring. (I’m indecisive.)

[reddielibrary]

say it softly

Secret Santa: Ray | @ethereal-eddie

Gift for: Mila | @milaleidi

Word count: 2,134

*click title to read on AO3

Ever since I started working at Patsy’s, I’ve been sort of a wallflower.

College was beginning to kick my ass when it came to finances, to the point that I barely had enough money to pay for a night out with the friends that I had made on my floor, so I decided that the best course of action was to get a job at the twenty-four-hour diner that was right across the street from my dorm building. It was the cutest little place; squat on the outside, yet warm and cozy with the feeling of a fifty’s sock hop on the inside. The hours weren’t the best, but the pay was good, and I figured that a few late shifts at three in the morning was better than having no money at all.

That being said, however, I was always privy to the strangest of people coming in at god-awful hours of the night, mostly college students that ordered three plates of blueberry pancakes due to their being high off their asses. Once, there was a guy that looked like he had jumped straight out of a Macy’s catalog who asked for a bag of ice because his recent tattoo (which was in an unmentionable place) was hurting him. Conversations with the old locals was one of my favorite parts of the job, getting to hear about their stories of them in high school and how Patsy’s used to be an old hookah shop until the owner died of lung cancer.

Despite all of the interesting characters I met, the most intriguing was a group that came in at one in the morning on a Tuesday in October.

I remember that night, how they had burst into the shop, just when I was thinking that no one else would be coming in. Amanda, my coworker, had asked if I could cover her shift, and I, ever the people pleaser, had agreed with a tight smile that was soon swallowed by a yawn. A lanky, auburn-haired man held the door open as the rest of who I assumed were his friends stumbled through the entrance. The first to enter was a beautiful redhead that was hanging off the shoulder of an uptight looking man with curls sitting messily atop his head. Her piercing blue eyes scanned the tables with a scrutinizing gaze, and she whispered something into the ear of her friend (partner?) before deciding on a booth directly in front of the large, glass-stained window. The curly haired boy, who looked out of place next to the girl because of his prep-boy stature, only smiled and followed her without saying another word. The next person I noticed was a burly, dark-skinned man, who smiled brightly at the lights of the diner and, presumably, the boy that had just entered before him. Right after came a stocky young man with red cheeks, who ran ahead to the booth to take a seat next to the girl, followed by the one who had been holding the door open for the rest of the group.

The five friends talked to each other in relatively loud voices, so I could hear them from my position at the cash register while I was getting ready to take their orders. “Where the fuck are they? I swear they were right behind us when we left,” huffed the one with curly hair.

The redhead laughed and threw an arm around her friend. “Who wants to bet that they got caught up making out on Dean Russo’s car?”

Just as a chorus of ‘me!’s rang through the air, the bell above the front entrance chimed, announcing the arrival of two new patrons, their looking windswept and their cheeks red. The girl hollered, and one by one the rest of the group made kissing noises at the couple, one of whom buried his face in the other’s shoulder.

“Dean Russo kick you off of his car?” asked the blonde kid, and the two both nodded reluctantly before taking a seat right next to each other. I thought that now was as good a time as any to go and take their orders, so, grabbing my pad and pen, I made my way to their booth. I was greeted with smiles, and so I smiled back before clearing my throat to speak. “May I take your orders?” I groaned internally, knowing that I probably sounded extremely awkward; I was still getting used to talking to college students that I had never met before. Despite my internal conflict, they all nodded eagerly, shyly (and, for some, exuberantly) saying varied degrees of yes.

It wasn’t long until I served them, and they asked me to sit with them and talk. At the time, it seemed like a weird request, but they were so kind so I couldn’t find it in myself to decline. After I tugged off my apron and pulled a chair up to the edge of the booth, the only girl in the group began to introduce each of them one by one.

“I’m Beverly, Bev, your next girlfriend! Whatever you wanna call me!” I laughed at her introduction, and she nodded in satisfaction. “This,” she continued, pointing at the curly haired man be that sat on her right, “is Stanley the Manly, affectionately makes by our one and only Richie Tozier.” She then pointed at one of the men that had walked in late, specifically the taller one with a mess of hair on his head. “Eddie is Richie’s boyfriend, and together they make the most disgustingly cute couple you will ever see.” Eddie, who had freckles decorating his face, waved at me with a shy smile. “Mike—“ she pointed at the dark-skinned man “— is Stan’s boyfriend, Bill is his best friend, and Ben is our group’s honorary mother.”

Richie cut in quickly, leaning over the table so he could see me from around Eddie. “We are the Losers’ Club!”

I raised my eyebrows in question, and Ben smiled. “We named it ourselves. We’ve been the Losers’ Club since we were thirteen.”

“You guys have all been friends since you were kids?”

Mike nodded proudly. “Yep! We all decided to go to university together. Don’t know how I’d survive without these guys.”

I got to know them pretty well, from how Richie was majoring in film (just like me) to the fact that Mike was a star football player for the Huskies, our football team. They were extremely comfortable with each other, always making mildly deprecating comments about each other, and I longed to have friends like them.

I hoped that, maybe, I could become good friends with these people who I found extremely interesting.

-

The Losers’ Club made it a habit to enter Patsy’s every Tuesday, ordering the same dishes every single time. For Mike, it was a shitty rendition of huevos rancheros; Stan always glanced at the menu scrutinizingly before deciding on an everything bagel topped with lox; Beverly favored the Homestyle french toast; Ben and Bill always shared a stack of cinnamon pancakes drowned in maple syrup. The only ones who didn’t keep their routine orders were Richie and Eddie, always sharing a plate of something that Richie had picked in an over-excited haze. I remember asking Eddie about it on one of their trips, and he said that he only ever shared with his boyfriend because he knew it would make Richie happy (“...but don’t ever tell him I said that.”)

I had gotten so used to seeing them on Tuesdays that I was mildly startled when Richie and Eddie came in on a Friday night in December, hands entangled in the pocket of Richie’s large winter coat and scarves covering their mouths. Richie was talking animatedly, waving his free arm around as he tried to explain something that I couldn’t quite hear to Eddie. The night was fairly busy and I was already waiting four other tables, so I made Amanda take their orders, and it wasn’t long until their food came out; this time, a large “California Style” burger and fries.

They remained in the same spot for nearly three hours, Eddie securely tucked against Richie’s side, laughing at a story’s that they were sharing with each other. Most people had cleared out, leaving in their wake a mess of unfinished plates and dirty napkins, yet the couple stayed, looking picture picture in the pastel lighting. I couldn’t begin to fathom how in love they were. I began to clean up, listening in on their conversation at times, and I was nearly done when Richie called my name, prompting me to turn and raise an eyebrow at my friends.

“Okay, okay,” he started, removing his arm from around his boyfriend’s shoulders. “Would you agree that—“

“Richie, don’t you fucking dare—“

Richie quickly put his palm against Eddie’s mouth, and grinned when it made Eddie stop talking. “As I was saying before I was rudely interrupted, wouldn’t you agree that Optimus is the perfect fucking name for mine and Eddie’s kids?”

“No, it’s not, Richie!”

“No, it’s not, Richie!” The raven-haired boy mimicked back, and I laughed. He turned to me, continuing on with his speech. “Imagine this: your kid goes to school, meets a new friend, and tells him that his name is Op. And then! When they ask what it’s short for, he says: Optimus.”

“You are literally the dumbest fucking person I’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting,” said Eddie, and despite his words, his tone was light, and he was looking at Richie with all the love in the world.

“Oh, cry me a river, Edward!”

I cut in before the shorter man could berate his boyfriend’s use of a full name. “I kinda have to agree with Eddie on this one. It’s a dumb name, Rich.”

Richie gasped and feigned a look of shock, clutching his heart in a desperate fashion. “Why, Miss!” he drawled in a somewhat passable southern accent. “I never did think you’d be the one to break my little heart!”

I shrugged. Eddie winked at me.

I spent the rest of my shift talking with them.

-

The second of January was when I found out about it.

I had gotten pretty close with the group over the past year, occasionally going to parties with them and playing board games when it rained (which is often here in Seattle.) I had taken a liking to Beverly the most, with her exuberant personality and incredible fashion sense, but Richie and Eddie came as a close second. They were a package deal, always a source of envy among the single members of our group, myself included. We were all privy to their constant kisses, banter, and, to the chagrin of most of us, the sexual innuendos that Richie directed at his smaller boyfriend.

The snow outside had piled up so high that it was almost impossible to get through the front entrance of the diner, yet business was booming as per usual. I had the opportunity to work at the bar, which required less effort and guaranteed more time to relax. Thirty minutes into my shift, the bell rang, signaling the arrival of new customers. When I looked up, I was excited (and surprised) to see Eddie and Beverly walking towards me, the red-haired girl’s arm slung across her best friend’s shoulders. The two of them only ever came in alone if there was important news, mostly to let me into the little bubble that was the Losers’ Club’s world, so I waited eagerly for them to greet me.

“Hey Em!” Beverly said, her white teeth on full display as her lips pulled back into an excited grin.

“Hey guys,” I said back. “So… what’s the big news?” At this, Eddie’s skin turned a scarlet red, and he stuck out his left hand, where a glittering silver band sat on his ring finger.

“No fucking way, he proposed?” I grabbed Eddie’s hand fast, examining the ring, and he nodded. “You guys are so young!”

Eddie shrugged, the smile on his face never faltering. “I can’t even think of spending the rest of my life with anyone else. He’s always been the one for me, since we were kids.”

“Holy shit, that’s fucking cute!”

Beverly pulled me outside later that night, interlocking our fingers after she had lit a cigarette. “My best friends are fucking engaged and I can’t even get a girlfriend.”

I smiled at her, before looking at the sky, where white flurries fell in hurried dazes. “You’re a catch, Bev.”

She laughed, squeezing my hand, and paused before she spoke again. “These idiots have been in love since before I even knew them. Took them eleven years to realize it.”

“They really are the dream, huh?”

She smiled.

[teacherintransition]

Three Suitcases…Three Boxes …Three Dogs*

We’ve Got This Moving Thing Down to A Science…

…no an art, we got it down to an art.

In less than twenty four hours, Kim and I will be moving to our latest home and abode in Georgetown, Texas. This makes our fourth “home” in a year; fifth if you count three and a half weeks in Ireland and Scotland. Alexandria, La; Granbury, Tx; Georgetown, Tx; of course Nacogdoches, Tx have been our home addresses from January 2022 to the present. It has been an awesome adventure with surprising changes, challenges, a variety of experiences we NEVER expected to have in our mid fifties. We love doing this and are anxious to get on the road.

Surprisingly, or perhaps not so surprising, a lot of people ask questions that seem to reflect negativity rather than positivity. “Don’t you miss your house? “What about getting behind with your mail? “Don’t the new people seem strange? “Why…what’s wrong with Nacogdoches?” Sweet baby Jeebus! Really? The good questions deal with the terrain, restaurants, outdoor activities, bars …a general feeling of being excited for us and with us. If it was miserable, we wouldn’t do it …duh! I don’t dare say; aw hell, it’s me …I do dare say, I’m tired of thirty years of the same thing. Occasionally I bring out the real cognitive dissonance artillery of, “I will not live out my days in East Texas. Those reading will have one of two reactions: “oh yeah, I hear ya” or “well, I love it here …hmmmmpf!” Whatever floats your boat.

Then of course there are the questions of logistics and practicality; “how do you move your stuff? The question of how we decide what to take with us soon follows. I can deal with this; it doesn’t imply rejection or judgement…two things I don’t dig. An old high school compadre who has lived in Georgetown for over twenty years, who I’ll refer to as “Scottie too Hottie,” offered to help us move in to our digs. To which I replied, “no worries dude …piece of cake; three suitcases, three boxes, three dogs…BAM! You can just buy me beer!” I was open to his to retort, which he did with, “dude, that’s insanely easy.” Now, to put that ease into perspective; the travel nursing agency hooks up with a number of Airbnbs that are furnished and kitchens outfitted…SCORE! Still, we have mastered the skill of traveling light and Kim is the maestra of efficient packing for campsites to travel abroad; she sees it as her own personal challenge. Remember, whatever floats your boat.

Reluctant to use the term, minimalism, but I shall; is definitely in play here. First thing is we want the three months where we are staying to feel homey. We selectively pick out several framed family photographs to place strategically around the abode. We load up our pantry staples and perishable goods and a three months supply of dog food for the herd. For the sake of clarity, the three suitcases, three boxes and three dogs are on my end; what Kim packs is a little more extensive because of her work needs. (Laptop, printer, GI manuals, nursing uniforms etc.) I shall speak no further on that…rest assured, she packs efficiently.

Back to the basics of my Three Suitcases…Three Boxes …Three Dogs. Since retiring, the bulk of my wardrobe consists of t-shirts, long sleeve t-shirts, shorts, one pair of jeans, two pairs of shoes and my unmentionables. I pack toiletries, my prescriptions and such. Included are a couple of jackets and hats in the three suitcases…almost bare minimum. In the boxes, are stuff I NEED! Books …muchos libros, my iPad for writing, doggie leashes, sketch books, my art supplies, my walking stick, envelopes for orders, bottles for refreshment and my ceramic Buddha. Finally, two Pomeranians and a loving English bulldog! I’m set. All of these things are considered quite carefully on the following questions. What do I want to do; what will I need to have …and then pack sparsely.

This is a transition situation: eliminate all but a few obligatory considerations. I couldn’t do that before as an educator, some folks when they retire choose not to eliminate them…I thrive on doing this. My obligation on the road is relegated to Kim, my herd and my passions. (Writing, Art, exploring, traveling) If all this sounds a bit bohemian or beatnikish…it’s because it is. We are fortunate beyond words to be able to travel as much as we do. This was one of the major goals of changing my life. Covid kept us grounded for so long, I feared it wouldn’t happen; but here we are. I won’t be burdened by anything that holds us back and only want to collect adventures. Fortunate happenstance made this happen; it could only have happened after my thirty year career and a total of forty five years of working; some folks wouldn’t want it. But for me, I only want to go everywhere and anywhere that only requires Three Suitcases…Three Boxes …Three Dogs!

*Title Idea from Radolpho of The Great Quadrumvirate

[the-letter-horror-lover]

Weekender

InfatuatedDemon

Summary:

Sebastian is a 22-year-old Satanist who can’t seem to let go of his teenage years. He meets Ciel, a 15-year-old foster-cared punk. Hitting it off, they can’t seem to keep their hands off each other.

Notes:

Heavy comedy/crack fan fiction. There are multiple stereotypes.

Chapter 1

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

It was half past midnight. Sebastian was late as hell. Slowly approaching the skatepark in his fucking mercedes benz, his eyes scanned the area. Bright light from his fancy pansy-ass vehicle allowed him to see that delectable, small juvenile. He licked his lips. It was Ciel Phantomhive. In daylight, he’d be unmistakable. His dark blue dyed hair, that black punk-ass jacket (with silly spikes), and those shorts that always seemed almost a little too small. Twisting the car keys hurriedly, turning off the car, he got out of the vehicle.



“Oi! Sebastian. What the fuck took you so long? I’ve been waiting for two hours.” The juvenile said furiously.



Cute. He waited for him for so long. With an unseeable smirk, Sebastian said, “I apologize. I was in the middle of a practice.”

"Doesn't seem like you're getting any ass tonight, Sebastian," the feisty juvenile clicked his tongue.

"What?" Sebastian asked. He stepped closer, grabbing the wrist of the juvenile "Surely, you don't mean that. Right? After all, I came all this way. It took me thirty minutes to get here... Just so I could see you."

Ciel tried to pull away from the man, but his grip was too strong. "Heh... And you let me wait here for two hours? What if someone took advantage of me here? After all, I am in a park... No one would be able to hear my cries and pleas at this time of night. Someone could easily fuck my little, tight ass while you were doing your 'practice'. That wouldn't be fair on your part, right?"

"I guess, I'll just have to find out," Sebastian growled, turning the juvenile around, and pulling him close. His words turned him on, but the thought of someone else cumming inside his boy's ass was unthinkable; unmentionable.

Notes:

Preview smut will be in chapter three.

Chapter 2

Notes:

Well, here you go. I haven't updated this fan fiction in forever. I'll be updating more regularly!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Yes, it was true that there was an age gap of seven years. It was true that it was highly illegal. Yes, the man may get his fine ass in jail one day. No matter, Sebastian continued his day-to-day life despite his disgusting, obsessive habit. However, Sebastian didn't have an ordinary day-to-day life. You could say he had some strange routines. Ironically, it included rituals and practices that had to with... well, Satanism. He was no ordinary man indeed.

In fact, he met Ciel through his strange practices. Sacrifice? His gang of hardcore Satanists had the peculiar idea to sacrifice the poor little boy. To be frank, Sebastian easily weaseled him out of it. Mey-Rin, Finnian, and Bard were particularly frightened of that incredibly tall man. The gang gave up on their plea and left the juvenile under Sebastian's care. From then forward, Sebastian and Ciel were inseparable. How? Well Ciel was just as interested in Satanism as Sebastian was. They started seeing each other regularly at the skate park- Ciel's idea to meet up in that specific location. And occasionally, Sebastian would take him home and fuck him until he saw stars. Then a couple hours later Ciel would be sent home. This was the first time he stayed over night.

That was their relationship; no more and no less.

-

"Ugh, hey, Ciel, wake up," Sebastian groaned lightly, turning onto his side to face the juvenile.

"Mmhm," Ciel opened his eyes. "Five more minutes," he sighed, closing his eyes, and snuggling back into the pillow.

"Aren't they worried about you though? You were gone all night."

"Yeah. So? They don't care. No one cares," Ciel scoffed.

"Fine," Sebastian sat up in the bed and scratched the back of his head. "What do you want to eat?"

Ciel opened his eyes and looked at Sebastian in surprise. "What is there?"

"I could make you french toast or something," Sebastian replied. "I have a craving."

Intrigued, Ciel nodded. He didn't know that Sebastian cooked or anything similar. For some reason he imagined the man eating frozen foods or stuff from the dollar store. "Sure."

And then there they were. Ciel was munching on the delicious french toast sticks, amazed by what Sebastian could do. Wasn't he some rich pansy? Well of course he must have a talent if he has a fucking car like that, or was it inherited? He thought he could read that man, but he truly wasn't an open book. Becoming lost in his thoughts, he turned his attention back to Sebastian who was sipping coffee.

"Hm?" Sebastian purred. "Is it good?"

"Uh... yeah," Ciel replied. "Thanks," he said, finishing up.

Suddenly the door swung open. Who was it? Sebastian's fucking dumb fuck gang. What the hell did they want?

Notes:

Preview smut is coming in chapter three!

Chapter 3

Notes:

It's what you've been waiting for... Smut. Kind of a preview of what's to come in the erotic aspects of this fan fiction.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Shocked, both Sebastian and Ciel "stood" dead in their tracks. After a moment or two passed, Sebastian opened his mouth, "What the fuck are you three doing here? I told you all not to come barging in here." It was an awkward situation for the man, considering that he was topless, and his pants were undone. He had just got out of bed no more than 20 minutes ago. He should be able to go around nearly naked in his own home without stupid intruders. Right?

Wrong.

"Hey..." Bard murmured. "Isn't that the jack ass kid who you decided not to kill?"

Mey-Rin's mouth turned into an "o" shape, remembering that night. After all, she got kicked by the little rascal.

"Oh, yes! I remember him!" Finnian chimed in.

Shit. "I said, what the fuck do you three want?" Sebastian clenched his fists. He wasn't sure how embarrassing the situation would turn out. Here he was with that blue-haired boy who happened just to be in his cute little boxers. Though they all were Satanists, would that be acceptable? Surely, it wasn't their business in the first place anyway.

The kid bit his lip, tensing up in the chair. He was more or less nervous. Not because of what the did, no, but how angry Sebastian became when they found out their little secret.

"Nothing," Bard muttered, speaking for the group. "But hey, what is that kid doing here?" He spat.

"Yeah, what's he doin' here?" Finny asked with confidence.

"Leave," Sebastian growled.

"Not until you tell us!" Mey-Rin nearly shouted.

The man sighed, agitated with the predicament at hand. "What does it look like?"

Blushes were shared across the room. Except for Sebastian that is. He didn't want to show any more emotion that he already had.

"Nothing!" Finnian quickly said wide-eyed.

"..."

There was a few seconds of silence before Bard spoke. "But there actually is something wrong," he said calmly. "Uhh... Well you see, Lau is very angry with us. He wants to speak to you."

Sebastian glared at the three and they immediately tensed up. Those eyes could kill. "About what, exactly?"

"Oh, um. He said he needs more money," Finnian answered.

"BARD, WHAT THE FUCK? DID YOU BUY MORE OF THAT SHIT FROM HIM?"

"Uh... well I didn't buy it," Bard said quietly, afraid of this side of the man.

"Of course; you promised to pay him back, didn't you?" Sebastian scoffed. "I'll pay it later... Just get out of my sight."

"Yes!" The three pussies followed their orders, and left, closing the door.

"..." Sebastian sighed. "I apologize," he started. "They usually don't come in here like that..."

"Yeah," Ciel responded. "I see that... I understand."

"Now, finish up your breakfast, if you can..." Sebastian said casually.

Ciel eyed Sebastian, wondering how he could get so mad so fast, and almost violently. He was violent in bed, but he had never seen him so angry anytime else.

Sebastian noticed Ciel's gaze and he smirked, continuing to sip his coffe. He put it down on the table. "What?" He asked almost sweetly.

"Nothing," Ciel shook his head, looking down at his almost finished meal.

The man came behind him, wrapping his strong arms around the frail boy's tiny waist. "Now that they're gone... What shall we do?"

"What? You want to do it again?"

"Yeah, of course I do," Sebastian went to rub Ciel's small, adolescent cock through his boxers. "Don't you?"

"Mmh," the boy bit his lip. "Y-yeah."

"Good," Sebastian whispered in his ear. Continuing the soft circling rubs, he watched the boy's every movement. HIs hips were shaking, his eyes were closed, and his body was tense in a glorious way. "Oh my, you're getting wet... It'll be a shame if you cum too soon."

"Ah-hah," Ciel covered his own mouth. The teasing was too much on his little body. He wasn't the most experienced sex-partner. and his stamina was very low. In fact, Sebastian was his first.

"No," Sebastian shoved his tongue into the Ciel's ear. A big turn on for the wee one. "If you don't let me hear, I won't let you cum. Got that?" He chuckled breathily, becoming aroused by the boy's behavior.

Ciel decided to clench his fists instead, and open his eyes. He saw how wet he became under Sebastian's touch. "Ahh... hmmnn..." His eyes became watery with need.

"Oh my, you're about to cum, aren't you? You naughty little thing, you want to cum so bad. You already need to cum, even before I'm inside you? Huh? Before I even touch that sweet spot?"

"Mmhmm," Ciel nodded furiously. "I want you to fuck me, but I gotta cum."

"Were you turned on when I was yelling? Seeing how angry I can become just because someone saw you in your cute little boxers?" Of course that wasn't the complete reason why, but he wanted to ease the tension of the situation. Perhaps Ciel would become the dirty little boy he knows. That sweet-talking mouth.

"Y-yeah! Sebastian!!" He rocked his hips against Sebastian's hand. He was cumming. So hard.

Speaking of hard, Sebastian was just that. His cock twitched at the boy's call. "Hmm, what a good boy," he bit the boy's earlobe. "Now, why don't I fuck that pretty little ass of yours?"

"Y-yeah, Sebastian," the wee lover moaned in agreement. "Fuck me."

In close proximity to Ciel's face, Sebastian stared into his deep blue orb as he growled under his breath. He was infatuated with the little thing. He admitted it to himself... finally. Nothing else mattered; right or wrong was at an end since they had first laid eyes on each other. Smashing their lips together in a violent matter, the man brought him in closer.

They rutted their cocks together as Sebastian broke their kiss. Taking ahold of their lengths, he pumped them slowly. "Look at that," he purred with satisfaction. "Pre-cum," he stated, staring at his own hardness. "I'm slicking myself up as well as yourself," he said, purring once again. A sweet little moan escaped the petite boy. "Hnnm," he rutted his hips harder. "S-stop it, Sebastian. I don't think I'll be able to cum after this...."

"Very well," Sebastian nipped at his earlobe once again. He released them, and reached into the pocket of his unworn pants. Lube. Thank the heavens for the lube. Lubing himself up, he sighed in pleasure. "Do you want to bounce on my dick today? You could sit in my lap."

"Mmhm," Ciel nodded in excitement. Though he never told Sebastian, it was his favorite position. They usually never discussed sex until the act itself. Basically, Ciel wanted Sebastian to enjoy himself as much as possible. His affection for the older man drove him to please him.

"Come here," Sebastian cooed, sounding loving for one of the few moments during their arousal. Ciel got closer to him once again, and was guided onto that thick, beautiful cock.

"Ah! Ahhh," Ciel moaned.

"Baby boy," Sebastian cooed again. "You look and sound so wonderful right now. I'm impressed how much you're taking up of me."

"Y-ah! Yeah!" he started to bounce faster, and faster. And from all that teasing that they inflicted on each other, what do you know? That old man came right there... "That's enough for now... Do you need to be jacked off?"

Ciel shook his head, and got up and off of his dick. "I'll do it myself," the child had a gleam in his eye.

Sebastian chuckled. "What a naughty boy."

Notes:

There will be lots more smut in the future. I plan to have more smut in the next few chapters with a longer scene. I'm hoping my okay/novice abilities will be some what pleasing to readers. Until next time, my friends!

Chapter 4

Notes:

It's been quite a while since I've touched this fan fiction. I'm hoping to write a lot more. Please note that this current chapter needs to be revised.

Also, there is an inaccurate portrayal of drugs in this chapter.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

It was a couple weeks after the event of the finding-out about Sebastian's little secret. He had buried himself inside his room and hadn't seen Ciel either. He assumed that he was grounded, considering he had snuck out to see him that night. The anxiety got to him eventually, he was now about to approach the trio. He deduced that they were at Lau's - a druggie house. Walking through the front door, he went through the rooms until he spot the trio.

"Hey," he mumbled.

"Sebastian!" the three chanted in glee.

"Lau wants to speak to you," Finnian quickly added.

Sebastian quirked his brow and scoffed. "Fine," he murmured. The poor man was awfully grumpy indeed.

"Do you think there's something wrong with him?" Bard quietly asked Mey-rin. By then, Sebastian was walking away and didn't feel the need to come up with a retort. He soon spotted Lau in the next room. "Lau," he said calmly.

"Ah, yes, Sebastian," the asian man said cheerfully. "Girls, please leave," he said to the few around him, including his girlfriend, Ran-Mo. The strange-looking girls then left the room without a sound. They were obviously too young for him, Sebastian noticed, ironically.

"So what's exactly going on? Finnian sounds like he's in a predicament."

"True, true, yes. He is. They owe me money," Lau nodded. "Could you pay it off for them? It would only make sense. After all, they are in your little group," he said, referring to their gang.

"Not going to happen," Sebastian responded firmly but with a calm demeanor.

Lau sighed. "Well, you know what happens when they do not pay me back within due time."

"You know what Lau," Sebastian snarkily replied. "I'll think about it."

"Alright. I think that's the end of our conversation. I'll make sure to keep tabs on you."

There was some tension between the two, but it was just business.

Sebastian left the room and Finnian chased after him once he spotted him in the hallway. "Sebastian! Thank you!"

"No problem," he muttered. He shrugged him off afterwards, and left the house.

Walking back to his car, all he could think about Ciel. He didn’t care about what would happen to Finnian and the other two. His mind simply wandered to that tight ass and not to mention, the boy's personality. He got in and drove away in his sexy mercedes. Dear fuck, he needed to see him soon. He knew Ciel would send him an email or give him a call soon, hopefully.

He soon reached home. He was depressed out of his mind. Laying on his bed, it seemed he stared at the ceiling for what seemed to be hours.

But suddenly, Sebastian heard a noise. He cocked his head in the direction of his bedroom window. There was a petite intruder.



“Ciel? What are you doing here?” He asked, unsure if Ciel would get into more trouble due to the fact he was probably still grounded.



“I came to see you - don’t you want to see me?”



“Yeah, I do. But aren’t you in trouble?”



“No,” Ciel adverted his eyes.



A few minutes passed as they started at each other. Acknowledging that Sebastian looked like a mess, the boy felt awkward. “I - I wanna fuck... I’m horny,” he admitted.

Drunk on hormones, Sebastian presumed. He beckoned him to come closer. “I’ll fuck you.”



And there they were, on the bed, undressed, and warmed each other up. It was hot as hell.



“Fuck, baby,” Sebastian moaned lowly, settling inside. “That feels so good, baby.”



“S-sebastian,” Ciel gasped. “Please.”



He knew exactly what that meant. He could finally plow his ass. Slowly thrusting at first to savor the feeling, Sebastian continued to moan with a soft tone. But quicker than Ciel has expected, he gripped his hips and started ramming hard and fast.



“G-god,” Ciel cried out, extending his neck.



Sebastian chuckled, slowing for a moment before picking back up again. “God?” he asked. “Perhaps that’s a bit offensive.” His voice turned coarse as he continued to drive into that sweet, tiny hole.

 “Sebastian! Sebastian!” the boy yelped in pleasure. “Fuck me there! PLEASE. Harder!!”



His thrusts were hard and fast. Surprisingly, he couldn’t cum yet. Lost in pleasure, he didn’t realize Ciel started to sob. But upon hearing soft cries, he pulled out in shock. “Ciel, baby? Are you alright? Did I hurt you?” And much against his typical character, he sounded painfully concerned and somewhat heartbroken. He brushed back Ciel’s hair from his face and his eyes met the big blue, teary ones.



“They’re taking me away! Back to a group home. I won’t be able to see you.”

 With unusually wide eyes, Sebastian was in a panic. He cared for his little lover endearingly. Separated from the child would throw his life into chaos. Though he didn’t process it, without Ciel he wouldn’t have any true joy. Despite how they mostly engaged in sex, he desired a close connection.



Now in the sitting position, Sebastian brought Ciel into his strong strong arms. “Shh, it’ll be okay,” he stroked his silky blue hair. “I’ll come up with a plan,” he cooed.

 However, Ciel continued to cry in fear that he’d lose him. Though he never said it, he believed he was in love with Sebastian. He loved him with all his heart. He couldn’t bear to be without the one person he loved; the one person who would love him.



“Y-you promise?” Ciel questioned, sounding like he had the hiccups.



“I promise,” Sebastian replied gently, and truly.


Notes:

Sherlock reference kind of? And poor Finny.

Chapter 5

Notes:

It's what you've been waiting for! Drum roll please... A full smut scene!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Sebastian awoke suddenly. Glancing at the clock on the nightstand, he read 3:42 AM. Fuck. He lazily turned onto his other side where he could see his little lover on his back, sleeping peacefully. He studied the boy's face with pleasure. Admiring the porcelain skin and soft lips, it occurred to him that he had dreamt up a solution. It was simple, really. He'd adopt the boy. Despite how taboo it sounded (not much more taboo than their relationship in the first place), he concluded that it was the only way.

He had to tell him the good news. "Ciel," he murmured, close to his ear.

Though Ciel was normally a heavy sleeper, he was on edge. He opened his eyes, looking at Sebastian. "What?" He asked softly.

"I know what to do..."

"You do?" Ciel perked up a bit and smiled.

"Mhm," Sebastian maintained a soft tone. "You'll be able to stay with me."

"What do you mean?"

"It sounds... uh... strange," to put it at the very least, "But I'll be able to adopt you and take you away from foster care."

Ciel paused his response. He didn't imagine Sebastian actually would want him around all the time. Sometimes he wondered if Sebastian just used him as just a fuck partner despite how he had no one else around. "Really...?"

"Yes," Sebastian rubbed their noses together, displaying his adoration.

Regaining almost all of his confidence, Ciel beamed. He let out a giggle when Sebastian rubbed their noses together. Getting on top of Sebastian who now laid on his back, he touched his firm body. "I want to pick up where he left off last night," he purred.

Sebastian smirked. "Excited?" He purred, settling his hands on Ciel's hips.

Of course, they had slept together naked.

Ciel ignored his question, he started to stroke Sebastian's length. Surely, the man started to harden. And soon, their act was a bit sloppy. A wetness coated Sebastian's dick, pre-cum leaking from the slit. "Ooh," he moaned, laying his head back. "If you do that any longer, I may cum~" He lifted his head again to see the boy's reaction.

"Hhmn," Ciel tried to suppress a moan, starting to rock his hips and rub his now hard dick against the larger one. "B-but I want cum inside..."

"Baby," Sebastian purred. "If you want cum inside so badly, why don't you ride my cock?" He rubbed the small hip bones.

"B-but... ahh," he softly protested as the first bit of pre-cum came out.

"Come on," Sebastian focussed on his lover's face. "I want you to ride me, Ciel. You'll look so sexy, bouncing up and down on my cock. I want to see it... very badly... Unless you want me to cum right now? Hm? I'll cum all over us," he thrust his hips at his own dirty words. "What about both?" He suggested.

Ciel's movement became more erratic at the demanding request. "P-please.. I want you to cum on me... I wanna... f-f-fuck..!" Sebastian suddenly changed their positions. Ciel was laid on his back as Sebastian quickly started to pump his own length. "Where? On your stomach? Chest?"

"O-on my chest!"

"What a dirty boy," he groaned. Jacking himself off, he payed with his tip in a light manner, teasing himself. But then stroked himself faster, aiming to shoot his load on the boy's right nipple.

Ciel's eyes focussed his eye on that wonderful dick. The head was beating red and no longer did a transparent liquid drizzle out, but a huge blast of cum landed right on target. If his own prick wasn't being ignored, he would have had an orgasm a long time ago.

In ecstasy, Sebastian closed his eyes. After coming down from his high, he moved himself away from Ciel. "Now," he purred. "How about I fuck that sweet little ass of yours?" He leaned down, spreading, Ciel's legs apart. Admiring the cute, pink hole, he carefully pressed his thumbs against it, spreading it apart. "That's gonna feel so nice, having you wrapped around my cock."

Ciel mewled in response, shutting his eye tightly. "S-sebastian..."

Sebastian glanced at Ciel's face before stuffing his tongue inside without warning.

"OH!" Ciel moaned in surprise.

Thrusting his tongue wildly inside, Sebastian started adding gentle fingers to prepare his lover. After a few minutes, the two started into each other's eyes as Sebastian pressed the tip of his dick against the opening. Slowly thrusting him, Sebastian let out a soft moan. He pushed inside carefully, making sure not to cause any pain.

"ooo," Ciel squirmed under him with some satisfaction.

Sebastian thrusted in hard as the two were ready for the roughness of intercourse.

"A-ah! Sebastian! Fuck me harder!"

Sebastian did as he was told, brutally thrusting in and out.

"G-god-"

"You feel so fucking good," Sebastian murmured, shoving his face in Ciel's neck, taking in the scent of the boy. "So fucking tight," he growled, lifting his head to stare into the beautiful blue eye with his piercing red ones. Straightening his arms, he started pounding into him rougher, and hit his special spot with dead accuracy.

"Y-you're gonna make me - ! You're making me!"

Much to Ciel's surprise, Sebastian gripped the base of his cock. "Not yet," he warned. Continuing at a steady pace, he huffed. "Fuck yeah," he tightly gripped his lover's hips. "Fuck yeah... fuck," he showed enthusiasm, letting himself go, and lose himself in pleasure. "Baby," he said with a slightly strained voice. "You're about to make me cum."

"SEBASTIAN! It hurts, please! Please!" Ciel nearly shouted.

"I'm so close," Sebastian was fueled by the pleas, but wasn't quite ready. "Oo, Oo, ohh," he moaned softly, thrusting inside a couple more times before shooting his load. Loosening his grip on Ciel's dick, he pumped him quickly.

"OHHH, SEBASTIAN!" Ciel cried out. And right then, he came.

Coming down from their highs, Sebastian laid back down, next to Ciel. "Mm, that was so nice. Too bad you didn't ride me~ But perhaps later?"

Ciel panted, looking at him. "Perhaps," he teased.

-

Rolling over on his side, Sebastian looked at the time. It was 8:52 AM. He'd have a long next couple weeks. Who knows how long the adoption process would take.

Notes:

Thank you all so much for the kudos, bookmarks, and comments. I'm desperately trying to pick up my speed and continue to improve. More plot will start to unravel in the next coming chapters!

[ratherhavetheblues]

INGMAR BERGMAN’S ‘TO JOY’ “I’d like to bury myself so deep that nothing got to me…”

© 2020 by James Clark

The genesis of Ingmar Bergman’s thrilling final film, namely, Saraband (2003), consists of a film few have seen and few will ever see, namely, To Joy (1950). Fifty-three years is a long span; but the matters in that long-ago gem include sensibility in such a way as to expose an obligation untouched by Saraband, and any of the other films in that chain of pearls.

Before getting down to the reason why this hidden treasure is particularly important, let’s enumerate what Saraband did so wonderfully on the recommendation of that lost classic. There we find that the effete couple in the film, Scenes from a Marriage (1973), are even far more tedious in Saraband, in their craving for advantage, than when they were younger. The protagonist, Karin, therein, soldiers on to introduce an overtaking of advantage in the music industry while aiming for a career of a classical orchestra player finding gold in the form of sharing with other players attentive to the infrastructures of intention, not the pedantry of being perfect, supreme in that discipline, and mowing down one’s inferiors. Moreover, To Joy, not explicitly but readily understood, moves apace—53 years before, in one Henrik, becoming a practicing incest opportunist until Karin brings equilibrium to her métier—presents a 30-year-old siren sporting a wedding ring pretending to be the wife of a 60-year-old when in fact his daughter, and doing tricks at the homestead.

All of this drama, as we’ve said, is not new. But it is the unopened treasure of our film today which will occupy our strivings. Right from the outset (with its credits seriously and deliberately ugly as to design), we see a stage crammed to the last inches of classical symphonic agency, a horde of choristers and four vocal soloists. Details of the composition can wait. As they present themselves there, they are not only an occasional unity, but an overriding culture. It is that aspect which Bergman attends to, as never before and never again. The melodrama unfolding before our eyes, for all its mayhem, is not particularly interesting per se. What we’ve been gifted to, is the reflection of Bergman, a remarkable artist, taking a harsh bead upon his own ilk. In one light, we have an instance of the very familiar concern (for Bergman) consisting of relations who “speak the same language.” This concern, however, tends to happily savage bourgeois gluttons (crammed also with the religious and the scientific, with their gluttony). Now, though, it’s the sanctity of a supposed independent, incorruptible, clear sightedness, being questioned as opening a window upon the cosmos. Yes; and no. Here we’re about to present what it means when the arts crowd produces a form of blindness, a form of gluttony mooting nothing so much as a solitary player. Karin, in Saraband, with her high hopes, will be on a firing line—however small-town—(perhaps even smaller than the small-town depicted in our film today, the Helsingborg Swedish Orchestra).

With the exception of a rush to ascertain how his wife had died in the explosion of a kerosene stove (and the aftermath of being left with his twin toddlers), the action is a flashback of their marriage—scenes from their marriage, remarkably unlike the 1973 film—having, however, some similar form, though, in the reverie of Face to Face (1976). That the husband during the initial shock saw fit to smash his head into a table, could be an ironic bid to strike a match, a match unable to catch benign fire. Cut to a symphonic orchestra in rehearsal, by way of the pizzazz of a pair of hands, in close-up, touching the strings of a harp. (Such a flourish seeming a point of anything goes.) The aged conductor strikes a chord of hopefulness. “We’re beginning a new season. I think it’ll be good.” Then he extends a welcome to the two new and young members of a group nearly all being long in the tooth. “This is Stig Ericsson… Then we have a woman in the orchestra. It’s sort of silly and totally against nature but she’s reasonably talented. She’s right there, if you haven’t noticed. Not only does this welcome dispense with her name; but it ushers in a spate of communication, verbal and nonverbal, startling in its aggressiveness. (This is not about an ancient crudity; Marta, the unmentionable, is perfectly cheery in being spoken as a nonentity. The music is deadly serious. The rest of their life is something else.)

Of course women artists have had to face such contempt until very recently; but the overtness of the patter coming to bear here suggests toleration of violence as a special intuition of a cadre of the select. The conductor adds his baton as if a sword, when pointing her out. (Not to forget that the thrust packed some validity, but of a weak volume.) As the rehearsal gets into gear, there are close-ups and pan shots along the various sections (the newcomers being violinists, Stig being part of the first section, Marta in the second fiddles), revealing the mechanisms of the forces. And, therewith, we are apprised of the deep background able to muster at a flash. Clever, athletic and emotionally sensitive, without a doubt. But there is a vast bridge to cross between the effective and the wise. “Give it all you’ve got!” the conductor shouts. That being more a question than an order. And so, it comes to, “Well, you sounded awful today, but that’s to be expected…” (Expected because it was the first rehearsal? Or expected because the players are second-rate? He goes on, “Cortot [a touring soloist] is coming on Thursday. Then we’ll have some music!” He rushes past them as if they were carrying a plague. And yet the insult doesn’t stick. Superstar or the boonies—they have all they really want, the drug of the notes, like angels. Our helmsman, despite so brilliantly embarrassing, in his ironical dramas, those unable to control the drugs of pedantry and advantage, was far from immune from that failing in himself. This film being, a true one-off.)

   A spine running through this narrative might clarify that common and yet complex problem. “Just what did you do over the Christmas break? In this blasted town where people just drink and eat… You blobs…” One of the cello players replies, “This is a difficult part.” (Rather than extend the work, those blessed already tend to rest on their laurels.) The conductor ripostes, “Not for someone with talent. But some people are lazy bones and blockheads.” The Leader has settled like his herd, except demanding more of the same. Here, though, the whole discipline is in question. On to, “I can’t listen to any more of this frightful screeching…” At a slightly different point of view, the conductor, happy to accompany Marta and Stig to their wedding at City Hall, as their witness (but having forgotten the date), shows us the lack of attention of this, and myriad other endeavors. “I should probably apply for my pension and retire… We’ll just have to call the mayor and postpone it.” Stig’s position is, “It sometimes seems like a concentration camp.” (Flinging around insults that fail to attain any cogency, because the forces of sensibility are perpetually numb, beyond their musical playground.) The retiree lobs back, “What impudence! We’ll rehearse all day!”/ “Without Marta and me.”/ “Then you can leave my orchestra.”/ To which, the forever boy, declares, “We make your orchestra!” (Marta responds in shock from the boy’s stupidity. Were she not numb herself, the wedding would never happen.) The conductor finds this register to be apt: “You weren’t given the strap as a child. And you’re turning into a child again. Go to hell!” The boy settles for, “No, I don’t want to be where you are…” On and on, the skimpy example adds, “You’re ungrateful and inconsiderate. I could have a heart attack and die.”/ “Good riddance,” the effete junkyard dog yells. The so-called mentor rounds out this powwow, with, “This is what comes from letting women into orchestras.” And a cut finds the three, on another day, the picture of wedding hopes. Needing a soloist due to a no-show from an abrupt retirement, the one supposedly making the orchestra valid, bulls his way to taking over, and then being exposed as incapable with the topspin rigors of major intensity. (In the run-up to this supposed coup he tells Marta, “The sky’s the limit now… Maybe I’ll go all the way to Stockholm.” His humiliation—an early form of significant crisis in the Bergman surgery—pertains to that singularity about overinvolved artists. Not surprisingly, he reaches into his vast cheapness there, blaming the conductor for the fiasco. “Goddamned bastard! Now he’s happy, of course!” One of the few other artists not old, mocks, “That was better than I expected!” In another explosion, he yells, “Goddamn bastard! I’m simply mediocre!” As the shattering timbre flares futilely, bombing Stig, matters swing over to the embarrassing morning paper. (“You must be happy now, you and Sonderby. Just think how everyone will laugh?”). But there is Marta, counselling, “Shall I console you and say it’ll be better next time?” Or, that default move, instilled long ago, in her and his training: “I can go to rehearsal at 10:00, sit in my usual place and do my job…” (His response: “That shows how little you understand.” Only if Stig vaguely attempts to crash the precious ceiling, does he avoid being road kill.) On a day, some years later, when the couple and the conductor are at a farm house Stig and Marta own, Sonderby reiterates to Stig, “Give up the idea of being a soloist. Settle for being a good orchestral player. [Otherwise it’s] pride, pure and simple…” He’s met with, “Just because you’re an old failure, doesn’t mean I have to be.” Then that horrific tolerance clicks in, and somehow the “friend” quietly replies, “The world needs second-raters too. No worker bees, no honey.” Stig concludes with, “It’s awful hearing you talk. Like listening to the already deceased.”

Moving within that other area of workaday deceased, there are not only faux pas but massacre. The two new recruits at that first rehearsal are well-known to each other from their academy days (not from a conservatory). A perky Marta tells him that that past summer she was “abroad” with her brother, “and heard lots of music.” A morose Stig, looking to the floor, refers to a pop review, way below his skills. She bribes him, with a healthy amount of money, to come to her birthday party that night. (And the reference of gaining maturity anticipates her not shabby effort. In Stig, of course, we have the dangers of thinking that being a passable violinist is all that the cosmos could possibly throw at you. Ill at ease, he quickly gets drunk and begins to tell us what else he does. Marta had demanded a gift from out of her munificence. His baby polar bear doll is a hit. During the visit coinciding with Marta’s death, the bear has turned his back on Stig.) He yells out, “I’m magnificent when I’m onstage. Have you heard me play the violin? The big-name players are all charlatans. I’ll show you bastards what a violin is all about! I’ll tell you the secret of real art. It’s created when you’re unhappy. I prefer being unhappy. God knows it’s the state I usually find myself in.” The “state” is such that he turns upon his own chosen hobbyhorse of pedantic advantage. “And I say take it all away! It’s worth nothing. I’ll die and come back to life, and then you’ll hear real violin playing! Because it all comes down to humility!” (He smashes a glass to emphasize… He falls over…) Marta asks, “Are you OK?” And he tells her, “Go to hell!” She calmly tells him, “You’re making a fool of yourself.” She’s calm, because she has a history, from the academy, where his radical disarray made some sense to her. “I can’t figure out who I am… Why can’t I act like a respectable person, with my talent… A person might act crazy and stupid at times. What’s important is that he aspires to be a real person and artist.” But as these performers know, there is an obligation to deliver. Stig presses her to agree. “Yes, I do,” she eventually concurs, knowing, though, that there is much more to it. Bergman, right as rain, places the toy baby polar bear into the mix as an instance of aspiration—exactly childish, soft and so wrong.

Marta, already having been a quick wife and a quick divorcee, sets her sights on what the academy doesn’t know. An afternoon by the sea and its imposing flat rocks (flat), seems apt to be the site of her next incursion of escape from the lovely wrong. “Sonderby is nice. He’s done good things.” Stig is in a mood for only what increases his career. “I’d like to start a brilliant string quartet and tour the world. I’d be the best.” Her wry response, “Of course…”/ “I don’t like this odd grin on your face,” he challenges./ “Just being friendly,” is her argument, an argument aimed toward matrimony. He asks, “What about you? What do you want?”/ “Nothing… I’d like to bury myself so deep that nothing got to me.” The preamble here has allowed us to understand that her focus is disinterestedness. Out of a supposed ordinary outlook, she can’t conceal a force possibly upsetting all the advantages having been placed by an affluent family. That moves Stig to wonder that she sets her objectives to be so meagre. “But you’re not unhappy.” Her response—“Some people have an unnaturally happy air”—constitutes for her more a frightening conundrum than a haven. (“A happy air,” being a glimpse of forces transcending arts-smarts and all the nicety our planet presents as an acme.) He maintains that, “I know nothing about you;” and she maintains, “Perhaps that’s best for both of us.” Before mentioning that reckless marriage, she has declared, “What better than reckless could be? You’ve wanted to sleep with me, but I haven’t let you. If I did, would you care for me a little then? Be honest.” He tells her, “I have to think about it,” which for someone like her, having thought deeply—in lonely contemplation—would mean, “No, no, no, no!” (The era is the fifties; it’s also the lair of the Millennials.) But his molten self-esteem and freezing distemper imagine for Marta a study worth studying. Stig typically gets around to, “I know exactly what you’re asking. You want some assurance that I love you. Otherwise, you’ll have moral pangs.” There was difficulty reaching Stig about Marta’s death because he was with his mistress during Marta and the children’s summer vacation. The outpouring, of good-will, seen at a rehearsal in the aftermath of the tragedy and Stig’s having a shot at appearing to be a model dad, question what kind of life (air) there could be without Marta’s latter-days-tolerance. Would he have adjusted, somewhat, in his being an insensate coward, even before the death, with its flattening bourgeois dullness? This would not be about a calamity, but the appetite for looking afield for discovery while within amplified selves our adventure belongs.

Stig and Marta, like so many others, have very early in life burned their bridges. Of course ranges of  understanding can be developed while clinging to a lodestone. But free discovery, tracing beyond a trusty rationality, might still benefit from the tribulations of Stig and Marta. During that heart-to-heart on the shore, which produces their onset of living together, she tells him, “But we can promise to be honest. That’s absolutely necessary.” Sometime later, Marta announces that she’s pregnant. “You don’t seem too enthusiastic. Well you don’t have to be.”/ “How did it happen?” the supposed deliverer of love, questions./ “In the usual way” [screwball Hollywood, and its “charm]./ “Don’t be funny,” he glares./ “Dumb questions get dumb answers.”/ “Have you known long?”/ “Almost three months. Hit me if you want.”/ “Why didn’t you say anything?”/ “Because I want this child. Understood?” The understanding welling out, exposing that passion for “honesty”—is so like the elected and their play of notes given by a composer. Marta can cut corners with impunity. Stig doesn’t even recognize a constituency of coherence, beyond the writings of his repertoire. “Children come, want them or not,” Marta now embraces. His position is, “If you’ve had one abortion, you can have another.” (Anticipating the progress in Bergman’s Brink of Life [1958].) “How do I know it’s mine?” comes next, and garners a slap in his face. “Besides, there’s no room… All the crying and chaos. Where will I rehearse? Thanks so much…” Although, after lacerating distemper on Stig’s part, the baby is a go, it’s with a go with only one parent involved. (One of Marta’s only remarks within the war, is, “I’d like you to act like a man for once.”) Whereas Marta had begun to practice “burying herself so deep,” while recognizing a sense of disinterestedness (coinciding within her retirement from the orchestra, and madly going through with the once-postponed wedding—the mayor pronouncing, “May harmony and happiness reign;” and also pronouncing, “Never forget the promise of fidelity you have made)—Stig, in the aftermath of his fiasco onstage, enters the precinct of that flimsily hidden father and daughter incestuous prostitute business. Cut to a frozen window and Marta’s having few delusions about affectionate warmth. (At that first thrust about “honesty,” she also declares, “I’ve faked my way through almost everything in my life.” Meaning that her aesthetic skills carry an ironic disease.)

Three years later, of life with twins, Sonderby is visiting Marta and Stig at the farm house which she has found to be best for her bid to transcend the dubiousness of “serious art” and “serious artists.”  Resting in the grass and sun, the confirmed harmonizer, perhaps with concerns he’d never admit, speaks quietly to us, as the children play and the parents rest. “I’m glad I’m not a writer. If I were to take it upon myself to portray Stig and Marta, from when we first met four years ago, what a dishonest and incomplete picture I would paint. For example, I’ll never forget the episode last winter when I stopped by to drop off a score for Stig. The doorbell was broken so I walked in and peered into the living room. He saw Stig keeling on the floor being supported by Marta. How can I describe the way they held each other? So boundlessly tender, but with a profound, exotic sensitivity. But why was there so much loneliness and childish fear in their stillness. Holding her. I went out again and knocked on the door. When Marta came to the door, it was all still there in her eyes… Yes, she’s a remarkable little woman… Citing another moment, so devoid of vigor, they’d quarreled. I picked up on it right away. It hung in the air. Marta was a little quiet. She had huddled on the sofa and looked at Stig. He talked to me the whole time, but it was just nervous chatter. He got up for the cognac, but on the way back he passed Marta. He clung to the sofa, they looked at one other, and Stig suddenly said, ‘Hey, little girl.’ Formulaic smiles to each other. That seemed to break the spell, because the strained atmosphere vanished like a puff of wind over the open sea. I didn’t know why. I can’t tell you. Imagine trying to decipher a complicated secret language.” (There is, of course, a long trail in Bergman films, concerning, “sharing the same language.” But the dilemma here puts to shame the standard conformity and its mischief. That the two lovers developed and spoke unhidden, to conceal their most secret and fragile emotions…) “Depicting a single day in their lives would fill many shelves with large volumes… Thank God that’s not my job. I have only to reproduce what the great composers created in truth and spirit… That’s my pleasure and no one can take it from me.” At this stage of Marta’s being preoccupied with the twins, she is almost satisfied with no longer being “burying myself so deep;” but instead declaring, “I’m a very rich woman. I have you and the kids and old Sonderby snoring over there… Nothing to sweep me off my feet. But I deserve a spanking for such a horrible thought, don’t I?” Then there was Stig, maintaining, “I think it’s to your credit. Nowhere is it written that a person should be content, much less happy.” (This gushing, on the part of the man and his pleasure that no one can take from him [grossly overrating the miasma of the poisonously educated protagonists], constitutes a pivot of major import, whereby to reveal the casual physical viciousness bringing along with inept art and inept courage.)

Stig’s candid misery has a night when Nelly, the baby doll, polishes his fingernails. After the loss of Marta, he finds more subtle currents to hate himself. Expanding on that faux dignity on the day when Marta’s death was announced, we’ll touch the staging and its powerfully ironical moment. The sentimental conductor is on the podium. An army of choristers and the full orchestra are shooting for the skies with Beethoven’s “To Joy.” (Sonderby tries to rally the troops with this explication: “It’s about joy, you see. Not the joy expressed in laughter… or the joy that says, I’m happy. What I mean is a joy so special that it lies beyond pain and boundless despair. It’s a joy beyond all understanding. I can’t explain it any better.” [Here the preceding admission that writing’s range surpasses that of music, might have a role to play.])  Stig, having intoned, “It’s better to keep working ,” is at his post and the heavens seem to be focused upon his pathos, leaning to bathos. (At a much earlier rehearsal for another composition, Nelly had showed up, and Stig complained, “I said not to come here. Our relationship is nothing to advertise.” He had said, “I wish I could leave you, but I just can’t seem to.”) Now, it’s the little boy, having been off limits when the explosion happened, who sits at the same first-row seat that Nelly had occupied, long before. Here the dad smiles often to the boy, during the current rehearsal, as befits a silent martyr. Is he? His history says no, emphatically. The creation of Marta’s bid to break away from the academy was mediocre, but handicapped by a crazed Stig, even more mediocre. (The blazing last moments of bathos in the work stands as a secretive injury. Similarly, the predations of Stig and the countering of Marta are close to soap opera.  But the frequent topspins of Marta’s nightmare and very infrequent topspins of Stig’s nightmare, count for [ragged, tone deaf] actions of modernity.) (“Nelly’s better at nurturing your misunderstood genius. Can’t be easy for the poor girl.” With that, he smashes her face in a frenzy of blood and dead end. “The last part was my fault,” she says. “I’m to blame. But I won’t forget the rest.”)

Even more shocking than those plunges, are their sense of accomplishment. He tells her and us, “I know what the problem is. We both think life has passed us by. We’ve both been struck by a moment of clarity, and with clarity comes disgust. It’s a natural consequence.” In response, Marta finds recovery just around the corner. “We’ve argued and been nasty to each other, but we just had to reach out, and it was fine again. It was a great sense of security.” (“Security” will soon loom, in the form of Bergman films about Anna, an instance of butchery.) Stig argues, “Now we’ve discovered there’s no such thing as security.” Marta maintains, “Remember what you said here our first night together. The main thing is to become a real person.” He scowls, “We said a lot of things back then.” She insists, “It was the truth.”/ “It was all lies,” is his understanding. He then resuscitates his pedantic mania about becoming a soloist supreme. “That morning I came home [after visiting Nelly] with my hand cut, that’s where my clarity began. It was so unbearable that I put my hand through a window so I’d  give up my dream of being a soloist. I stood there with a bloody hand and thought how stupid I was. Why doesn’t someone laugh at this second-rate musician who won’t accept his mediocrity…” [who can’t discern a field of effort beyond showing off, beyond advantage]. She has a valid come-back—”Me, me, me. Can’t you hear how pitiful you sound?” (Compare the view of Mikael, the Sugar Daddy (he, of “I know it myself… The great silence,”), who follows the lead of a philosopher. “Everything is part of what is called, ‘spiritual science.’ This may include the self, society, state, morals or religion. It’s all just an intellectual game.” (In Bergman’s Saraband, Johan, the cynic, reads the philosopher, Kierkegaard.) Nelly will revel in Michael’s having a deadly stroke. He pens a last statement of apology, but he avoids the blockbuster, left to us to see the writing on the wall.

There is a moment, in Nelly and Stig’s not very impressive kick at the can, when first they meet, being symbolic to the point of much clever ardor and no perseverance. He tells her, “I hoped to catch the moon in a net; but just as I was going to pull it up, it sank deep below me.”

[dailycharacteroption]

Third-Partystravaganza 5: Luckbringer (Base Class; Rite Publishing)

So this special full-class version of third-partystravaganza is coming to a close, and I gotta say, it wasn’t as much an ordeal that I thought it would be.

Anyway, bringing up the rear is another fun concept realized as a class, the fate-bender. Masters of the cinematic, these are the characters who seem to have a lucky horseshoe hidden somewhere unmentionable, because their luck is literally at superpower levels.

In my experience, comic books in particular have always used this power set to explain a character that gets into and miraculously survives dangerous situations, but always survives, sometimes completely unscathed, and often due to completely implausible events.

Whatever god of fate is smiling down on them, these folk have likely done so much on pure luck alone that the thrill of adventuring is just too tempting to ignore. Of course that makes it all the more dangerous when their luck runs out, but that likely only thrills them more.

 Drawing upon a pool of luck, these blessed folk can bend fate around them, rewriting an event to possibly change the outcome, adding good or bad luck to an action, or even narrowly escaping harm in various forms.

Over time, they learn a host of other ways to bend fate to their whim, which varies between individual luckbringers. Some can project an aura that makes them nigh-impossible to hit with projectiles, minor inconveniences throwing off the aim of their foes or various things taking the blow for them. Others can dramatically reveal that their wounds were not nearly as bad as previously thought, healing themselves. Some can even use bad luck as a deadly weapon, causing violent impropable hazards to smite their foes, everything from pianos on ropes, to random lightning strikes, to sudden attacks from burrowing monsters that immediately leave without engaging in combat. The list goes on and on.

Of course, not every fate-bending power they have is under their control, nor do they require energy to activate, but rather seem to be properties of their very being. These include things like being able to influence random magic like a rod of wonder or what card is drawn from a magic deck, improve or negate the effectiveness of concealment with sheer luck, become evasive, or even ignore the partial effects of magic that they resist.

Later on, they gain access to particularly improbable outcomes and abilities, such as gaining a pool of good luck each day that they can divide between different actions, negate any extra consequences of a particularly effective or particularly ineffectual attack, manipulate events so that a nearby object, even magical or attended, ends up in their hand, and so on.

More powerful luckbringers learn to use their fate-bending powers in more impressive ways. Some are just improved versions of past abilities, but others are entirely new, such as risking great harm to deal decisive strikes against foes, warping magic around them to create random effects unless their foe can push past it, and so on.

The most powerful luckbringers can truly bring fate’s wrath down on their foes, calling down disasters on an area, dealing massive damage to all within. This disaster can literally be anything, from sudden volcanic eruptions on that spot, to collapsing buildings, localized storms, even the occasional rampaging cosmic being.

Interested in a class whose abilities are almost all picked from a list, and relies mostly on manipulating dice rolls? This may be the one for you. These characters don’t really excel at any one thing, but they can make for an interesting replacement for a rogue or fighter if built right. Mobility builds make the most sense to me.

 Perhaps something I like even more than the idea of a daring, lucky character is the idea of the hapless lucky character, who feels fear, who is not entirely cool with the idea of getting into danger, but manages to avoid harm anyway by inexplicable. A luckbringer who doesn’t trust, or perhaps doesn’t even realize they have their abilities, could be interesting.

  Inexplicably crushed beneath under a donkey cart, random chance did what so many mortals could not: slay the dread lord Itursa. However, those reading through his correspondence in his now-abandoned tower seem to confirm that his death had everything to do with a small child at the village where he died, and worse, that he had a necromantic contingency plan in place to continue trying to remove this “child of destiny”.

 Ever since the loss of her village in a disaster, bad luck has seemed to follow Meila, never allowing her to come to real harm, but causing friend and foe alike to take the brunt of her terrible fate. As such, she never stays in one place for too long, and actively rejects companionship. Hundreds of years of solitude and fearing yourself, however, can take a toll on anyone, even an elf.

 Seeking to improve their fate-bending powers, the Seekers of the Final Portent, a cult of doomsaying diviners, seek to capture a luckbringer for study. However, they find themselves vexed at every turn, for few luckbringers can be held against their will for long. Their frustration is beginning to show, as they resort to more and more dangerous and violent methods to get their way.