#Certainly not then using it to yearn for someone who may not feel the same way. But then again I realise I have been mistaken about that

[theangel-aziraphale]

So, not as obvious as the statue....okay. So it's gotta be something smaller, more discreet then.

I'm thinking books or a painting, something that could have a sheet thrown over it easily enough. you can't hide this forever

...

I think you've asked enough.

I don't have to tell anyone anything... Much less tell them that I have a rather extensive collection of both of those.

But those are part of the private collection, I'm afraid. Like my diaries, they are unfit for others' eyes.

[lanafofana]

The Faithwarden & The Archdruid

Day THREEEEEE of HalsinTavWeek is upon us, fam! Pairing: Halsin/Tav(F) Summary: When she is away, Tav wonders if Halsin misses her as much as she misses him. Rating: Explicit. Minors DNI Warnings/Tag: Voyeurism, Mutual Masturbation, Angst, Fluff, Smut, Post Epilogue No Beta We Die Like Yonas (RIP Yonas) And an AO3 link! For all who celebrate.

If Tav had had any idea of the kind of commitment involved with holding the title of Faithwarden, she might have just killed Khaga in cold blood where she stood. The woman had certainly made it tempting enough without the added threat of being named the equivalent of a druidic mediator, judge, and oracle. 

When she said as much to Halsin the former archdruid had only given her the proudest, softest expression and assured her that she was the only druid he had ever met who was well suited to the task. Which might have just been, possibly, the least helpful thing he could have said.

The summons came from all over Faer��n and took her away from home from anywhere between a tenday to months on end. Settling disputes between groves, ousting unworthy leadership, and using her ironclad grasp of Silvanus’ teachings to guide, illuminate, and teach his servants.

Highest honor this. Under the eye of Silvanus himself that. It was godsdamned exhausting, is what it was.  

Every time her duties kept her away from home for longer than a few days her skin itched to return. To ensconce herself in their house amongst the trees, rousing from her meditation and rolling on top of her lover, listening to the chatter of nature while she walked barefoot through the forest born anew. These were the things that tugged at her mind most when found herself many miles from home. 

Frustratingly, Halsin did not seem to miss her quite as much as she did him. When she returned he greeted her warmly enough, an enthusiastic participant in their lovemaking always, but a part of Tav wondered if she was the only one left pining during their separations. 

If she was gone longer than a ten day they would exchange letters or messages through nature, sometimes managing to speak through their meditations though that was rarer. He shared news of the happenings from home, asked after her welfare, and sometimes included messages from the children under their care. All very sweet but the few times she tried to broach the subject in her letters, how she missed him and yearned for his touch, he either said something clinically empathetic about duty or, worse, didn’t address it at all. 

The lack of reciprocation of her desires began to chip away at her confidence in their bond. She began to wonder if maybe she was being selfish trying to bring it up all the time. Perhaps he considered the lust she felt in his absence a youthful fault of her own and nothing to do with him at all. 

When she takes her leave one day she mentions while he walks with her to the boundary of their home, that if it looks like she may need to stay longer she will send a letter before the tenday is out. He smiles and nods but tells her she need not trouble herself on his account and kisses her softly on the forehead. 

Walking away from him, her steps feel heavy, and the words chase themselves in circles in her mind. Hurt blooms like a wicked vine, crawling through her mind with cruel barbs that whisper silky lies that taste like truths. Keeping in contact over long distances is not necessary. If someone should miss her, they surely know how to reach her. He may as well have told her not to come home at all. 

It all boiled down to the same thing. My love does not equal your love. Once she had the thought she found it had taken root and would not be burned away. She heard it as she walked, as she lay staring at the stars, and in her troubled meditations that shattered under the weight of it. It took very little imagination to begin to hear them repeat in her mind with his voice.     The journey is long and difficult but with dark thoughts dogging her heels she pushes herself as far and as fast as she is able. The grove is surprised to see her arrive so early but readily enfold her to the circle and the reasons they called for assistance. 

Two days, one set of bruised knuckles, and a sternly worded letter to an archdruid in Amn later Tav leaves the grove in an even fouler mood than she went in. 

“Please, Faithwarden, at least stay another day. Your journey here was most perilous and long, you should take a day and refresh yourself.” 

Tav tries to put her best face forward, she really does, but it is extremely difficult after her altercation with the grove’s resident healer left her in such a seething rage the First Druid had been forced to physically hold her back from beating the woman to death. When she whirls on the young novice he flinches back and Tav feels the sharp words turn to ash on her tongue. 

She can’t do anything to rid her face of the stern expression that has decided to live there but she does try to curb her tone at the very least. She assures the poor man she was well rested enough thank you very much but must be on her way to her next destination. 

The problem was, Tav had no idea where that destination was. Should she go home? Or would it be so terrible to wander for a bit, away from where she was clearly not as wanted as she supposed. Almost as soon as the thought occurs to her she decides no. She has a stack of letters to work through, almost half of them undoubtedly more summons for her aid. 

Standing in the middle of a dusty, overgrown road she sighs. The tangle of hurt and anger giving way to sudden weariness. Was this to be her doom? Always wandering, always aiding, and never finding a notch to catch her heel and making her stop and rest. To sooth her loneliness with the fleeting, loveless passion between strangers who desire her body or her position. It turns her stomach. Inside her chest her heart feels splintered with cracks. One more blow and she will crumble. 

When she is close to Thaniel’s realm she hesitates crossing the border right away. She decides that the temporary succor of reuniting with her lover, for once, does not outweigh the turmoil inflicted by the detachment of his farewell. It hasn’t even been a full ten-day anyway, so no one will be looking for her return. She can steal in through the window in her raven form, collect her stack of correspondence, and be gone again without anyone the wiser. 

The sky is dark and silent when she begins her mission.  A new moon offers plenty of cover to flit through the dark shadows on her way to the house nestled deep in the center of Thaniel’s realm. Spying an open window she flits though and perches on a chair, cocking her head and getting a read on her surroundings. The house is quiet though; the children are all nestled tight in their beds and the druid is nowhere to be seen. 

She wonders at that for a moment, it’s unlike him to leave the children unattended overnight. Though, she concedes, he does like to wander the border in wildshape when he feels like thinking in solitude. She brushes the thought away and sheds her birdform to creep on soundless steps through the dark home. 

The letters are not in the study where she expected them to be. The desk is tidy, just how Halsin prefers, but the slot where she usually keeps her stack is empty. She rifles through the drawers but they’re simply not there at all. Huffing an irritated sigh she spends a few extra moments poking around the rest of the room but there’s nothing. 

He’s already preparing for you to leave permanently, whispers the acrid voice from before. That makes Tav stop her tracks, her heart and stomach and throat twisting so much she has to put her fist against her chest to assure herself she hasn’t been impaled by an arrow. The cracks within, quiver in expectation but she’s here on a mission, not to feel sorry for herself. She ruthlessly shoves the thought and the accompanying lance of pain from her mind. 

The kitchen is likewise tidy, and the living area where Tav is most guilty of leaving her things strewn around, “like a magpie’s nest,” Halsin had oft remarked. The words had seemed teasingly affectionate then but now, wandering the spotless house, Tav isn’t sure. 

There’s only one place left to check but at this point Tav wonders if she mightn’t just leave after all. It seems unlikely the druid would move her things there, where they had no proper place like the desk. But there is a dreadful anticipation buzzing under her skin and she realizes she can’t not look, can’t leave without seeing for herself if she has been erased from even that space. If he has packed away the odds and ends, removed the evidence of her existence. If he had truly cut her out of his life so thoroughly. 

Her hand on the doorknob, heart in her throat, Tav braces herself. When the door swings open on silent hinges, revealing their bedroom just as she remembered it before she left she lets out a sigh that feels less like relief than she thought it would. Stepping in and shutting the door behind her, her keen eyes can see little that has moved or changed in the few days she’s been gone. 

Her robe is missing from the place it usually hangs but that’s not unusual. The children were very fond of donning it for their make believe games of wizards and sorcerers. The little vanity table the druid had carved for her is littered with her trinkets and keepsakes, untouched. She spins slowly, correspondence forgotten for the moment while she looks for something. Anything to either untether the ache in her chest or banish it for good. But there’s nothing. The room is unremarkable, ordinary in every way. 

She pokes around a bit and finds her stack of letters in the drawer of her vanity. She gives the room another cursory glance but pauses when she hears a gasp. She freezes, wondering if one of the kids had a nightmare and has found her in their search for comfort but the door is shut. The room still. 

Curious, she moves as silent as a shadow towards the alcove where the bed is tucked away from sight by a large screen she brought with her from one of her travels. A very dim light comes into view, a guttering candle more ember than wick left. The view that unfolds beyond the screen however, steals her breath away. 

Halsin is naked on their bed, eyes shut tight, with one hand holding her robe to his face while the other works a fierce pace along his erection. His hand rolls over the leaking head, once, twice, smearing the leaking precum from the tip before returning to pumping his thick length. His head drops back on the pillow, his mouth dropping open as he pants, his face a rictus in concentration. He breathes in sharply, another gasp he can’t hold back while he pleasures himself, lost in his fantasy, with her robe acting as the anchor. 

She feels…giddy. The sight before her would in any other circumstance be enough to have her naked within moments and joining him but the evidence of his clear desire for her, his desperate gasps and near silent wails are the result of his desperate want of her and she…she can’t look away. Her blood runs hot but she’s frozen. 

On the bed Halsin whines, teeth clenching, hips flexing as he tries to fuck his own hand. His heavy breathing is broken by a soft murmur, a whispered litany of words she can barely make out except for one. 

“Tav.” 

The hand holding her robe clenches and he takes a deep breath through his nose, taking in her scent from the fabric and when his eyes slit open Tav feels her own breath shudder out of her. It’s hot, suddenly too hot. His expression betrays surprise, confusion but when his hand stops moving on his cock Tav’s mouth is moving before her brain can catch up.

“Don’t stop,” she commands with a voice that sounds stronger than she feels. Inside she feels brittle and if he pushes the issue she would crumple immediately but he doesn’t. He nods, chest heaving, and his hand resumes its ministrations, his nearly black eyes on hers further driving her wild with desire.

Not even sure what she’s doing anymore Tav sheds her clothes and positions herself at the foot of the bed. A possession has come upon her, moving her limbs for her while her brain is far away. Abandoning his grip on her robe he uses his other hand to squeeze his balls, his breath hitching and in response she feels herself suck in a breath sharply. When he growls, stare heavy on her, she licks her lips and drags the hot skin of her palm across her nipples, her stomach, before finally dipping between the lips of her sex, seeking the bundle of nerves that throbs for attention. 

“Tav,” he utters, breathing thready and she sways. 

She drinks up the sight of him; squirming, needy, and skin flushed with arousal. The precum welling up from his tip looks like beads of pearls before he swipes it away to join the wet slick slide of his grip pumping his sex. When his hips start to jut into his hand again her hips jerk to echo it, her fingers swirling around her clit increasing their pace to keep rhythm with his movements. 

The silent room has become a chorus of their echoing gasps, groans, and stilted breathing. The lewd wet sound as they masturbate to each other’s pleasure is obscene and Tav nearly comes apart with the force of how much she likes it. She watches with intense hunger, the flex of each muscle as he unravels under her gaze. 

“I’m��! “ He breaks off, throwing his head back, the corded muscles of his neck taunt, the column of his throat damp with sweat. 

“Y-yes!” It’s all she can manage to choke out before she’s lost to the sensation of her toes curling, jaw clenching. 

They orgasm together, the sight of his seed spurting across his hand, his stomach, his chest has her moaning and grinding her finger into her clint until she exhales an aching, guttural sob, vision exploding with stars.

She crashes to her knees on the mattress, throwing out a hand to catch herself from falling face first into the blanket while she blinks away the haze of her orgasm. There’s movement and before she’s fully inhabiting her body again his mouth is on hers, his hands pulling her into his embrace. They’re both sticky and sweaty, but it feels like coming home after being away for a decade and she throws her arms around his neck and plunges her tongue into his mouth. 

Breaking apart, still catching their breath they sit entwined, foreheads together while they come back to their senses. 

When she finally meets his gaze it’s to find it already on her, soft and warm. The ache in her chest cracks wide open and she bursts into tears. 

“My love?” Halsin’s voice is the comforting rumble of a summer thunderstorm and it only makes the tears flow more insistently. 

“I–I thought...” The words die in her throat. It’s stupid, it’s ludicrous. How could she ever have even dreamed this sweet man would do the things she had supposed. What foolishness had bewitched her? How did she let her mind come to those awful conclusions? She doesn’t have an answer and speaking the words out loud feels fraught with peril. 

Halsin doesn’t press her but cradles her head against his chest, running a hand down her back in a soothing gesture that only makes the tangled mess of her emotions a stronger torrent of tears. He rocks her, humming something slow and soft. He kisses the fevered skin of her forehead, clutching her body to his tightly, securely, until at last she feels her last sob give way to hitching sighs. 

“I think…I think I’ve been incredibly foolish,” she admits, pulling away to look at him with bloodshot eyes and a snotty nose. 

Halsin takes that in but instead of interrogating her, he thumbs away her tears gently before pressing featherlight kisses against the damp skin of her face. 

She breathes in, sucking what courage she can from the air between them and haltingly begins to explain. Halsin’s face goes through several complicated emotions as she speaks before settling on sadness. 

When she is done relaying the whole of it. How she thought he did not miss her and how it snowballed so horribly from there, he takes her face in both his hands and kisses her softly. 

“I miss you,” he begins firmly, holding her gaze. “I miss you when you are not near, whether that means you have gone to answer a summons to a far away grove, or down to the river to collect the children, or even when you are laying in this bed in a trance close enough to touch. I miss you like the land misses the rain in a drought,” he takes her hands in his and presses them to his chest. “I miss you like the winter misses the sun; the dragon misses his flight; the Tears of Sel��ne miss the moon when its light is extinguished and they are left to trail along until she returns. Without you by my side I feel my days grow dark and grey and spend too often looking over my shoulder for the moment you might appear and bring the light to shine on me again.”  

“But–” 

“I miss you,” interrupts Halsin urgently. “With everything that I am. Foolishly I held myself aloof in your absence because I did not wish to burden you with my own selfish suffering. You already found the duty bestowed on you an oppressive one and I did not wish to add myself to your troubles. I see now that was a mistake. One I will not commit again.” 

“I’m sorry,” says Tav, looking away. “I should have tried harder to explain what I…what I wanted, I suppose. What I needed from you.” 

Halsin smiles and nuzzles her cheek. “We each of us have learned something here today and I think we are the better for it, no?” 

“You’re very wise, archdruid,” says Tav with a small smile, the spark coming back into her eyes. “You wouldn’t be interested in becoming Faithwarden, would you?” 

Halsin laughs and tugs her into his arm again, burying his face in her neck, and stroking her hair and the bare skin of her back. “I’m afraid I’ve quite retired from druidic duties, my heart.” 

“Yeah yeah, rub it in.” She pulls back from his embrace when a thought occurs to her and she scans his wide chest in puzzlement before she spies her rolled up robe cast aside on the floor. “Halsin Silverbough did you use my robe to clean up your– “

He leans in close and snatches a kiss to cut her off. “I will wash it myself.” 

“Yes you will, that was a gift I got in Waterdeep! Silvanus protect you if I have to go back to that fetid kingdom of money plagued rats to get another one.”

He grins and snatches another kiss before rolling away and snatching the robe off the floor, backing away to the door. “I’m glad you’re home, my heart.” 

“You’re not going to be very glad if you don’t go put that in some water right now!” 

“Yes, dear,” he calls, sauntering away

“Cold water, Halsin, I’m serious!” He doesn’t respond and she trails after him in alarm. “Halsin? Are you listening?” 

“Always, my heart.”  

The End

[edoro]

Dunmeshi spoilers, talking about Thistle and Delgal

the more i think about it, the less i feel like the text of Dunmeshi really does support the interpretation that Delgal didn't love Thistle

like, yes, he absolutely did use Thistle, and displayed a clear sense of entitlement towards him - the baseline expectation that if he had a problem, Thistle could and would solve it, and then the idea that once he'd set Thistle to solve a problem he could just... turn that solution off when he felt like it ("we've been here a while now, isn't it time we left the dungeon?" <-words of a man who has not truly grasped what he asked for, what Thistle did to fulfill it, or what any of the repercussions of this are)

there's also an interesting thread of carelessness when it comes to his physical interactions with Thistle during high-emotion moments, like when he grabs onto Thistle by Eodio's sickbed or when he thumps Thistle on the back after Thistle summons monsters to kill their enemies and then brings that kid's dead dad back to life

it feels like he's a large dog who doesn't realize how big he is, or perhaps doesn't realize how small and delicate Thistle is, and perhaps at times is very aware of it and uses his size to intimidate/express his frustration

all of that aside, though, i think it's very clear that prior to Thistle becoming dungeon lord and tbh for a decent chunk of time at the beginning of his tenure as dungeon lord, Delgal had a very emotionally intimate relationship with him

i don't think you can sort them neatly into the categories of older vs younger sibling. they've both been both at different times, depending on how you measure it. Thistle is certainly older chronologically, and there was a chunk of Delgal's life - a very formative chunk, too - where Thistle was older, smarter, and stronger, where Thistle looked out for him and protected him and taught him things.

and then there were a few years where they were at the same developmental level... and then Delgal outgrew Thistle. he got bigger and older physically and he matured mentally past the point where Thistle was. not only that, but he became king, and while Thistle may have been raised alongside him like a brother, that doesn't make Thistle a prince - he was first and foremost a servant (and property) of the crown, even if his position meant he enjoyed a close relationship with the king, queen, and prince.

but that doesn't make Thistle necessarily the little brother - he is now, but it seems to me that there's still a part of him and Delgal that sees him as someone with the power to comfort and protect and teach, rather than someone who needs to be comforted and protected and taught

take the scene where Delgal says he's afraid of dying after his father was killed: that's an extremely tender, intimate, emotional scene. Delgal is crying while Thistle strokes his hair and promises to protect him. Delgal, the king, is being vulnerable in a way he absolutely cannot with most people, and Thistle sees his vulnerability and offers not only comfort but the promise of safety - don't worry, i'll make it better, i'll chase away the monsters under your bed, i won't let anything bad happen to you, i won't let anyone hurt you.

Delgal sees him as someone to seek that comfort from and Thistle sees himself as being in a position to give that comfort. he yearns for Delgal's attention and approval but also sees himself as Delgal's protector.

and then we have scenes like the one where Thistle resurrected that kid's dad, where he sees everyone staring at him in the aftermath of this bloody route and a bit of casual necromancy and realizes they're unsure, even scared of him, and it's Delgal who steps in and changes the mood by thumping Thistle on the back and praising him; Delgal who manages the crowd and keeps Thistle safe, setting the expectation for how everyone should react, lending his social cachet to Thistle in this moment to protect him from backlash

they go back and forth like this with each other, and i think it's one of the most interesting things about their relationship. no one else in Delgal's family has the same kind of relationship with Thistle. no one else knows him as well or loves him like Delgal does. no one else is close with him like that.

ultimately, i don't think you can look at the way he sought comfort from Thistle after his father's death and think that there isn't love and emotional intimacy there. the real tragedy is that Delgal always loved Thistle, but he never understood Thistle, and his inability to do so combined with his general passivity and avoidance played a big part in things getting as fucked up as they did.

[kitramune]

Popping by seeking your thoughts about Chapter 176: Kagome’s Heart, this specifically:

As we know, it’s a major turning point in the story. Kagome asks to stay by Inuyasha’s side, rather than leave him, the feudal era, and the jewel shard mission behind.

Now this is pure speculation, but I like to speculate. What if Kagome had left? Certainly, that’s an entirely different story, but I’m curious what you think may have happened in this scenario.

Some particular questions I have are:

Would Inuyasha have teamed up with Kikyo to try to collect shards and defeat Naraku?

Kagome was the glue that brought the Inugang together. In her absence at /this/ point of the story (the 3 year separation is different), would they have parted? As in, would Miroku, Sango, and Shippo parted ways with Inuyasha if he teamed up with Kikyo (I don’t see her being a fan of traveling with the inugang)? If so, do they fight Naraku in their smaller group, do they survive, etc.

Would Naraku/ the jewel still have been defeated?

Even *if* InuKik defeated Naraku/ the jewel (I don’t think they would have), how does the story end? Kikyo isn’t alive so she.. dies? Achieves nirvana and Inuyasha just.. grieves the rest of his life or joins her in death? I don’t see a happy ending ☹️

Just seeking civil discussion as always not trying to light any fires xD

Oh man, this is a sad one, let me strap in with a depressing yearning/pining playlist. First off, I think this arc shows a LOT of things about both Inuyasha and Kagome's character, good and bad. Mostly good, but perhaps in bad context. Or at least very sad context. I mean we got Inuyasha going from this:

... to this:

(I know this isn't the same arc but bear with me, the character development is there and he has a similar change of heart here, for her emotional wellbeing, not just physical.) The important thing to note is Kikyou wanted to die at this point, and still to take Inuyasha with her.

And Inuyasha's response was this:

So even if it's born out of extreme guilt and trauma, I find it unlikely they would have fought Naraku at all. Kikyou talks a big game, but first chance she gets she is always trying to call Inuyasha to her side strictly to die, never for his help. (At this point.) Inuyasha more than likely would have been coerced to Hell even against his better judgement. Shippou was willing to leave the group once already without Kagome (after the Sess fight, he only came back cuz of the wolves chasing him) and Miroku is used to being a loner vagabond. Who knows what would happen to Shippou but Miroku and Sango would have likely drifted apart, encountered Naraku, and perished, even if they were together tbh. (Let's face it, Sango's pretty helpless against the Kohaku card.) Even Kagome would have been miserable having her tie to Inuyasha go unfulfilled and always regretting not knowing if everyone was still alive and safe or if she left them to their doom. So with that being said, as much as I love this scene as a pure example of her devotion to Inuyasha, there realistically WAS some pressure on her decision. I think she fully knew Kikyou intended to kill Inuyasha and that he couldn't say no because of his vulnerabilities and perceived superior love for her. (That hurts me to say but it's Kagome's POV.) That's why she had the lines about wanting him to feel like he's allowed to be happy and she wants that for him. She feels that normally, yes, but even moreso in the wake of knowing he'll likely forfeit his life. (I think the anime even emphasized this by adding her saying "You have to know that I want you to live." SOMEONE had to show him they care enough or he'd be too far gone.) The beautiful part is that Kagome DID full-on save Inuyasha's life by making her choice. Because she's unsure if she'll be able to help him enough to keep him around forever, but he's shown an uncanny desire to LIVE for her. Which obviously he continues to show again and again, and is my favorite part of their relationship. An outcast so abused and conditioned to it that the first person to care about him tells him to die and he absolutely will. But that outcast learns he wants to live way more, through interacting with unconditional love. I've said it before but Kikyou to me was always a metaphor for Inuyasha's grief and succumbing to the pain, whereas Kagome was always symbolic for a desire to live and be happy again.

[lux-lost]

The angel moves through the halls on soft soles, cautiously quiet. The entities around it are not safe. The angel can feel their eyes on the back of its head. The taste of their gaze lingers on its skin, whispers the things unsaid into its ears. They think the angel is their kin, if suspiciously unusual. But in truth, it is a foreign object that sticks out and could be hammered down at any moment if it draws too much attention. They presume ownership over the angel, and that makes them dangerous. 

The angel’s exoskeleton is tight around its ribs. It warms and hides its form, and yet, that’s not enough. The angel feels the machine in its chest stutter and stumble nervously every once in a while. Every moment is stolen, could be the last. It breathes carefully, holding onto its core for stability.

Someone pulls the angel into a hug and it lets its body be soft and inviting. It feels the same softness from the other side, but none of that makes it past the bright glow of the angel’s aura, which conceals the hard shell tightly laced around its vulnerable parts.

The angel consumes and enjoys some very fucked up things. It is a deviant one, a pervert. Nonetheless its core is so pure and clean, any contact with the outer world could sully it. The angel is not ugly inside, not like other beings. Peeling back the layers only lays bare rosy flesh and silvery scar tissue. No rot, no maggots, no danger.

It is of vital importance to protect its angel core, to conceal it from prying eyes and prodding fingers. If someone witnessed that core, they’d judge the angel for it. They’d think it childish. Or lifeless. Or boring. Their ugly thoughts would dampen its glow. Some might even actively seek to ruin it. 

To keep itself safe, the angel needs to be very closed off. But it cannot be solely solitary. After all, the angel’s presence is a service, a service to those around it. It has to say and do the right things when in the presence of other beings. To uplift. To entertain. To make itself worth their while. 

For this purpose, the angel may occasionally draw upon its core to extend its glow to others. Its light can be used to illuminate the innocent, protect and nurture them as well. It’s the angel’s treasure, all it has to offer to other entities. When it is in their presence, the angel forfeits itself to them. It needs to be invited. It needs to be dismissed. It needs to be told what to do. The angel can provide something to those who need something, but it can’t really take anything.

The angel has to be very careful about what it invites back in when it puts out. Many people have a lot of beauty in them, but then something ugly as well. When eating apples directly from the tree, one has to watch for worms and mold.

The angel cannot just go around getting close to people carelessly. They may bait the angel with beauty, but then trap it in ugliness. They may try to tie it down with tendrils of need and despair, integrate it into their ugly lives, compel it to commit sin. It’s not their fault for having ugly parts, of course. The world is an ugly place after all, it poisons and corrupts. 

The angel is not immune to this corruption either, it gets infested sometimes as well. When that happens, it has to isolate and cleanse itself. Burning the poison away hurts, of course, but better than letting it fester for too long. 

The angel does not demand a pedestal, but it is certainly constructed to be put on one. To really be safe and fulfill its purpose, it needs to be put on one. Even when sullied, it still remembers and longs for its former purity. It’s this need for perfection, the yearning to be a shining idol on a pedestal, that drives its machine parts.

The pedestal, freely given, is its only form of power, the only power a being of its kind is allowed to hold. The angel actually can’t do shit. Its power is fully derived from those who put it on its pedestal. The angel’s light is a farce, nothing but smoke and mirrors for those who want to believe in it.

You have to understand, you may need the angel, but actually, the angel needs you more. It needs you to need it. It only has the worth you give it. It only has value in the needs it can meet. Without your need for its light, it has no reason to pretend it’s shining. It can’t really help you through your misery, but you can feed on its light until you feel better. If you weren’t miserable, you wouldn’t really seek out the angel, would you?

You can draw the angel in by making it feel needed, bind it with attention and affection. It doesn’t take much, just a little bit of kindness. It will attune itself to your needs. You can trust it, it’s loyal. When you don’t need it anymore, it is safe to just abandon it. It is safe to just forget about it. You don’t even have to tell it that you’re discarding it, it will figure that out itself after a while.

[silvexus]

Re: Sometimes feeling species dysphoria as someone who doesn't ID as non-human - would you be willing to expand on that? It's okay if not - I don't want to pry - but I've never heard of someone having that experience before and think it might be valuable to the overall conversation.

That said the comparison to cis folks sometimes experiencing gender dysphoria makes intuitive sense to me, too.

Sure! I'll try my best to figure out how to articulate this in a way that makes sense and is also respectful (as someone who doesn't ID as non-human, I obviously do not want to appropriate experiences!) but I do fear it may not be as interesting as it sounds.

This got really long, so I'm putting in a read more, oops!

For clarification, I experience psychosis (since childhood) and have neurological disorders. I think the combination of these things is what causes what I'm about to try to describe, though I would certainly not try to say that the only thing that can cause species dysphoria is this sort of experience, nor would that would make someone's experience any less valid if they chose to ID as non-human if they were in a similar situation. Everyone is different, after all!

Primarily, this thing I equate to species dysphoria manifests as two different things that I tend to describe as non-human body language and non-organic yearning.

Non-human body language isn't as encompassing as I'd like it to be, but it's hard to articulate. My limbs don't feel right sometimes; disproportionate to each other, maybe. My spine feels wrong; too short, maybe? That could be the scoliosis causing both of these things, but it happens in my arms sometimes too. I don't know what it wants to be, however. There's ways my body wants to move to convey ideas to others than I can't emulate properly. My vocal mimicry is good, but not good enough, though I wouldn't really tell you what calls I'm supposed to make. I do trill a lot, when I can.

My teeth aren't quite sharp enough, I know that. And would a tail help? Would upright, pointy ears? A crest of feathers? I wouldn't mind a crest, I think, but then the moment passes and what I have is... acceptable. Fine. I am here, in this place, and my nerves are made of fire.

In a more permanent fashion, I bunt people to show my affection, but even when I physically can't it is a constant urge. (I nearly broke poor @/sattarehi asking if I could bunt him.) It's easier to move on all fours sometimes, or just in ways that are unintuitive to a human blueprint. To curl around people while we're sitting on the edge of a bed, them sitting up, me on my side to encircle them, in a way I don't see others doing often. The way I hold my arms sometimes feels like the resting position of something else; holding them at my sides like a person is expected to feels wrong, like it'll impede my ability to flee if I need to. (From what? Is that the paranoia? The hypervigilance? The nerves again? The various and sundry neurodivergencies?) When I'm socially allowed to cross my arms it helps, but it's not quite perfect.

Sometimes, the fact that I cannot do these things more effectively (though my brain does not grant me the knowledge of what that would look like), that I am considered eccentric and strange for doing them at all, pulls at something in me that doesn't speak in any language I have access to.

As an aside that may only slightly be relevant, my social integration is interesting. People who are friends or close associates or even people I think of fondly become extensions of us in a way that isn't so much possessive, but in the same way a tight knit family group might be among certain animals. (Which is why when people ask 'do you experience romantic love?' I can't honestly say. This is already quite intense, you want me to try and define it further?) And that's to say nothing of the prey drive. The human prey drive is intense enough, and I can certainly repress it well (I can't believe PvP games were good for something) but mine feels a little overtuned.

... So the non-organic yearning is fun to try and figure out, but it provokes the same feelings, so I'll try to articulate it just in case it helps!

It feels like I am made of something deeper. Something farther. Here, there, everywhere. I feel like I am floating adrift in a dark sea, unable to drown or sink, though surely I must. Surely I must. And yet.

It isn't an invincibility. It isn't a belief in a higher power or an afterlife. For the sake of my health, I cannot believe in these things. (We shan't talk about my childhood delusions, but they were quite elaborate! You could tell I was into world religions as study subject as a child.)

But sometimes I look into the sky and feel it staring back, like I am stuck in a Polaroid that an old friend keeps looking at to remember me. I look at pictures from all of our instruments that turn into the infinite dark beyond our planet and my brain thinks I want to go home the same way I do when I see my hometown on a map. I am not from here, something in me insists. I am from nowhere, but I am certainly not from here. Is that the intergenerational trauma? The thing that infects you and fills in where your grandparents' language and food and culture is supposed to be? The remains of what a war before you were born left behind? Or is it something else?

It feels like something else, the same way sometimes my body feels wrong in the same, but different, way that it always feels wrong. It feels like whatever I am, separate from this meat suit and these mutinous neurotransmitters, is from somewhere else. That it knows this. That it wants to go back.

Not all of my body dysmorphia is neatly gender dysphoria. Species dysphoria, as a term, helps gather these experiences up neatly, even if I don't identify as non-human. I am human. I am a strange, eccentric human, even if I feel like Something Else Wearing A Human Skin, but ultimately human regardless. Despite that, almost. Maybe, in a strange, contradictory way, I'm both. Human is what I want to be, at the end of this day. But regardless, it does help me understand things a bit more than someone who doesn't have the same experiences, I think. And maybe this will change in the future as my understanding of myself grows! I'm a whole adult, but I'm growing every day, you know?

(You know that book, Casual Rex? And they made it into a show pilot/TV movie called Anonymous Rex? And it was about dinosaurs barely surviving their extinction and pretending to be human and they wore disguises to blend in? There's a scene where a character describes another character as "she's a human pretending to be a dinosaur pretending to be a human!" Life feels like that sometimes.)

[trudemaethien]

*skidding into your ask box in clown shoes*

ship: Rex/Cody

prompt: b a b y

okay okay prompt: yearning, responsibility, spoil

i do keep poking the next bit of that, promise, it’s just not quite. ready yet. pokepokecomeON

you have tagged me thrice for a last line, so have a pair of lines from the baby-fic and a freestanding other from an entirely unrelated work, then on to the main event:

“Cody kebbu bajur te’orikih sirbur buir,” Fox reports smugly, and Rex looks at Cody sharply.

“Kih’ika ven’gaii gar buir,” Cody hastens to add, “nu ash’ad, naas’mhi.”

—

The Admissions people had said the cadets who scored high enough for rank would be allowed their names back, and RF-7448 would very much like to be himself again.

Rex/Cody

Yearning Responsibility Spoil

(and bc i know what u like ive written u P A I N 😭)

“It only remains to decide the staffing of your new command, Anakin,” General Kenobi said to his newly knighted Padawan. “I have some suggestions, unless you have any requests for specific personnel?”

Around the meeting table, officers shifted. During this impromptu meeting called to inform the 7th Sky Command of Padawan Commander Skywalker’s unexpected promotion to General, Commander Cody had quickly drafted up his own set of suggestions, but unless General Kenobi was reading them from his mind with the Force, it was almost certainly not the same roster.

General Kenobi had not informed him in advance about this, let alone consulted him. Once again, a natborn was given precedence over Cody, no matter the absolute lack of experience, time in grade, or non-military promotion above more deserving leaders.

He suppressed his objections, and there were many, with utmost professionalism for as long as it took Skywalker to answer—not more than half a second.

“I want Rex,” the young Knight declared. “He’ll be my Captain and he can pick whoever else he wants to come along.”

Cody wasn’t that good at suppressing past his face, it seemed, because Kenobi and Skywalker both jerked around to look at him, Kenobi confused and Skywalker glaring. “Is something the matter?” they both asked, with very different intonations.

“He’s the best,” Skywalker said. “That’s what I need.”

“Did you have someone better in mind, Commander Cody?” Kenobi asked politely.

Cody steeled himself. “There is no one better,” he answered, and that was the Force-damned truth. “Captain Rex will submit his staffing recommendations within the hour, if there’s nothing else for us to cover here, Sirs?”

He couldn’t look at Rex as he sealed their separation. It was out of his hands.

“No, I think not,” Kenobi said genially. “You may go say your goodbyes.”

Cody swallowed his feelings about that into a black hole, and said, “Thank you, General Kenobi. Skywalker.” He stood and saluted properly and left the room after the rest of the clone staff.

They kept it proper all through the passageways, but as soon as the door of his quarters latched closed, Rex barreled into him and Cody caught him with all the strength he could muster.

A sob shook through Rex’s chest, and Cody squeezed him roughly. “None of that, now,” he reprimanded his brother.

“Fuck,” Rex cursed into his shoulder.

“Yeah,” Cody said wearily, “yeah, I know.”

“That nattie, jetii, civvie prick! Doesn’t think about anything except what he wants, and the rest of us have to put up and shut up; kark him,” Rex snarled.

Cody sighed heavily; he did not disagree.

“And you’re just letting him—you have Kenobi’s ear, you could—”

“I could what, Rex? It’s already done and dusted. Outmaneuvered. If he’d asked me first I could have guided it, maybe, but he didn’t, so my hands were tied. You were there!”

“Yeah,” Rex said bitterly, pulling away, “I was. The best. Not even a token protest, Cody? I’d rather you have called me half-rate and subpar, and gotten him to take …Checkmate, or Bliss instead.”

Cody said nothing, letting those words echo between them. Rex drooped.

“Sorry,” he muttered and sank onto Cody’s bunk, elbows on knees and face in his hands.

Cody knelt in front of him and pulled his hands away. All the reluctance and heartbreak he’d hidden in the meeting was clear on his face now and Rex could hardly meet his eyes.

“I don’t want to go,” he said futilely, voice small.

Cody closed his eyes to keep from tearing up, and bowed his head, leaning into Rex’s hold. He had to master himself for a long minute before he could speak.

His voice only shook a little when he said, “I love you, Rex.” Another steadying breath. “We still have a little time. Do you want to go over who I recommend, or—”

“Or,” Rex said, pulling him up from his knees. “Definitely, or.”

Responsibility Weighs Heavy 🔒 https://archiveofourown.org/works/51600688

[alpydk]

Eclipse (Part 3) - "Wish"

As Elminster left her home, his eyes passed over the traces of the magical essence that seemed drawn to her, a glowing around her that left his heart broken knowing what was to come; another potential that he may have to play the role in guiding, another pawn in Mystra’s games.3

Ao3 Link

She’d had her eyes on him for some time, the young boy with the natural gift of the weave flowing through his fingertips. It had been centuries or what felt like that since such a mortal had shown capabilities such as his, and for some time she gazed at him from the Outer Planes of her existence. Gale of Waterdeep; he had the potential to be magnificent, to be her chosen as Elminster and so many others had been before him.

Mystra watched as he grew from a young boy with guilt-filled tears in his eyes over burnt roses, to when he became a young man, confident and knowledgeable. Blackstaff had been the perfect proving ground for him, allowing him to be moulded into something she deemed useful, something powerful. As he conjured stars and gazed at clouds, she made plans for him, plans where he would protect the weave that he was indebted to. She gave him time to say goodbye to those around him, promises of his return before he reported to her, before she struck.

To love a goddess is what so many wished for and to be loved by one was more than most could even comprehend, but she gave it to him, nonetheless. There was no real time outside of the material plane, only the flow of energy, of their bodies wrapped together, entwined as if they were strands of the Weave itself. Days passed on Taril, but to them it was minutes, decades, centuries, or mere moments of passion and yearning. Times that she’d had before, with so many others, with Elminster, with Kelemvor, and now with young Gale.  

All these moments became the same though, it did not matter the face or the body; with time came unrest. She had given him all she wanted to and yet still he asked for more, more power, more ways to be better for her as she turned her back on him. To be immortal was both a blessing and a curse. Why would they always ask her for more?

She rolled her eyes as he begged and pleaded for her touch again. Like a small creature of Taril, he looked at her through those guilt-filled tears again and, rather than feel sympathy; she felt bothered by him. Like so many others before him, he wanted more than she was willing to hand over; such was the curse of mortals and their ambition.

“You are already enough.” Her words fell on deaf ears as again he tried to ask for her forgiveness. He had done nothing wrong; they had simply done everything they could together and now she was ready to move on, ready to find someone else who could light that dimming spark within her. It was time for Gale to carry out his duties as her chosen, just as Elminster was already doing. Elminster, with whom she had also grown bored with as time had gone by. Time that meant so little to her. Only a series of moments she was doomed to repeat.

She allowed Gale to leave, hoping that he would learn to accept his role. Love was always the worst of the mortal emotions to deal with, another experience she wished she could erase from her own story. If he was but another god, then maybe this would have turned out differently for them both. Gale was certainly ambitious enough, so possibly he could be what she wanted, be the one to keep her spark alive, but godhood would never be granted to him, no matter how much he wanted to impress her. He was just another expendable mortal.

Again, he came back, now with hypothetical situations, what-if’s she could not ignore, questions of the weave itself and its making, of history long buried and forgotten. She disregarded what he said as old mortal legends, of stories of bardic creation with no truths behind them. She would not grant him the power he wanted. He was to remain beneath her, like all others had before him. His role was as her chosen, nothing more, and he should have been satisfied with that.

Gale, though, of course, was desperate, finding the strand of Weave hidden from all mortals. She watched as he walked down the corridor, his fingers trailing over the dust covered tables, the oak door being pushed open for the first time in generations. She did not interfere as he read the book, as the shadows enveloped his body and he crumpled to the floor in agony. This is what he deserved for his misdeeds, for the greatest of all follies. He screamed, his voice one of nothing but terror as the Karsite weave tore him apart right down to his very essence.

Nothing at all was left of Mystra’s chosen, his body gone, and soul decimated. Gale Dekarios was dead, and there was no possibility of ever bringing him back.

She sighed as she turned her gaze from the closing book. Again, it would be left until another poor soul would find it; Gale was not the first, and as with all mortals, he would certainly not be the last. She sent word to Elminster, a request for a new potential, and observed the drop of his head at the news; so many centuries alive and still he felt for the ones he brought to her.

“Do as you must.” A dismissal of him from her plane of existence as she returned to watching over a projection of a future young girl who polymorphed a beast to protect another. A possible chosen amongst so many soon to be born into existence; Mystra’s magic granted and spread where needed to keep balance. She could sense a familiarity with this one though, a passing glimpse of a moment in time; just another interchangeable face of a loved chosen now gone.

---

“Do as you must.” Elminster had heard these words so many times over the years. Another family to give the news to of the loss of their son, daughter, partner. It never got easier but Gale, Gale was one he had enjoyed watching over, entering his life far sooner than he had others of Mystra’s chosen. Raising him and drinking tea with the boy’s mother. For Elminster, this one was not just another young mage with power and ambition; it was his family. He’d been given the information on what had happened. A lesson is what Mystra had called it, and he had felt the disappointment in all around him. If only he had protected Gale and dissuaded him from Mystra’s clutches, then maybe things would have been different, but there was little point in thinking over what he now wished for.

He first spoke with Morena and watched as she broke down in the only way a mother could do. A desperate keening to have her boy back in her life, a curse towards Mystra and all she stood for. He had wanted to ease her pain but knew that this was something he was unable to do, that the pain she felt was nowhere close to the ache he felt in his bones over this loss. He watched as Tara flew out of the window, most likely in search of a truth she wished she could find, and he longed to give her it; to bring Gale back, or to at least know he had found peace away from the realm of mortals.

The personnel at Blackstaff took the news with dignity, giving silent prayers to their goddess. He’d avoided conveying the exact information to them for fear it would lead to other ambitious magic users trying to retrace Gale’s steps. It was simply an unfortunate accident and one that even Mystra herself could not rectify. They arranged a small collection for Gale’s mother and planned to create a small memorial to him, most likely a painting for their grand walls.

Elminster’s last visit was the one he dreaded the most, to the other student he had watched grow up alongside Gale. She’d been a part of their lives for so many years, meeting Gale on her first day at the Academy as he had threatened to lick the frog from their alchemy class. Elminster had seen the sparks of young love immediately between them, the taunting comments, the blushes and gazes they tried to keep hidden from one another. Even when their relationship became official, he had tried to act surprised for them, asking questions about how long they had known and humouring their newfound love for one another. And yet he knew of Mystra’s demands and so he played his role as expected of him.

She didn’t react to his apologetic words; her face pale and eyes cold. Maybe on some level she already knew as he visited her home to convey what had happened. He gave the same vague explanation to her of what had occurred in the short two months since Gale had left and saw how she simply nodded before sitting down, her muscles growing exhausted against the waves of grief, the mindless turning of the amethyst engagement ring on her wedding finger. He could only give her the words he too had been given when he’d discovered his lover Ammaratha’s methods to bear him a child; “Even the waves of fate can break upon the shores of will.” Gale was lost forever, the fate of their love destroyed by the will of his ambition.

As Elminster left her home, his eyes passed over the traces of the magical essence that seemed drawn to her, a glowing around her that left his heart broken knowing what was to come; another potential that he may have to play the role in guiding, another pawn in Mystra’s games.

---

Gale woke the next morning in his tent at the campsite, his body aching and the orb craving another magic item. He tugged at the ring on his finger, pressing it to his chest and letting his body absorb the traces of the weave, hoping it would keep him going a little longer at least. I spy with my little eye… something beginning with R. Another memory he couldn’t recall: a ring being placed on a finger, tears burning in his eyes, knowing in his heart that something was not right with the moment.

He rubbed at his chest, trying to ease the dull ache that sat there, curious if it was caused by the orb or a remnant of heartbreak he hadn’t felt since Mystra. Though the artefacts were working well, this was not a permanent cure and soon he would have to come up with another solution. His year in the tower had done little to aid in his research. A year, or was it longer than that? He tried to shake off the sleep that was clearly affecting his senses; of course it had been a year. How could he even confuse it with anything else?

He thought over the night before and the sending message he hadn’t received. He had hoped for a reply and yet only restless slumber had been given to him, dreams that made little sense to him and words spoken that only confused him further. His hair lay messily over his forehead as a result and he shook it back, running his hands through it, his mind drifting to a night not long ago with Astarion, where there had been a quiet moment of pale fingertips exploring through dark tresses. Gale wondered if he should try to make things up with him, possibly pay him back by finding a way to remove the taste of the orb from his blood for a short while. If that failed, then wine was always a suitable alternative.

[faoighiche]

Children of Darkness | Ariadne & Burrow

PARTNER : @ariadnewhitlock TIMING : Current. LOCATION : Somewhere in the Pines. SUMMARY : Ariadne and Burrow cross paths on the site of a new hedge hound's creation. Ariadne gets to pet a weird dog, while Burrow starts to wonder if her understanding of the world is flawed. WARNINGS : Animal death (gets got by the strangle weed)

Satisfaction tickled Burrow’s throat, forcing a chuckle onto her lips. Yes. Her precious vines had another success, claiming another for the pack. She wondered what new hound this host would blossom. She was quick to sate that curiosity, changing her venturing to the quickest path to her vines. When she came across the awaited sight, the animal still struggled under the yearning of the vines. Legs clawed at the ground while its tinier mouth ripped at the stems. Stems that continued in apathy, soon replacing whatever the creature managed to tear off. The beast was frightened. Delirious. And causing too much inconvenience to her kin. There was no use keeping it in that state. So, Burrow imbued her essence into the vines, quickening an already heightened growth. She focused her vine’s yearning to the throat. A throat that succumbed to the vines' eternal writhing. The animal’s struggle was soon no more, reduced to the twitching of death’s aftershocks. 

All that was left was quiet. Burrow relished in the feeling of a new host, a new hound, a new friend. At least, she tried to. The forest was quiet in more than just sounds. The buzzing of her kin ceased. Her heart tried to follow: skipping a beat but continuing. So, her body followed instead, moving to desert the area. Though, not completely. She would not abandon her hound who was still so young. She watched behind the trees and the bramble as a human stumbled into view. Was she the one who scared away her precious ones? The human did not deserve to bask in her hound’s creation. The human did not deserve to run back to town and send the killers their way. Burrow stepped out into the speckled sunlight. “What are you doing here?” She demanded of the human as she watched her closely. Determining the best course of action in the following silence.  

She’d heard something resembling a whimper, and Ariadne froze, because it didn’t sound human, but she also knew that she didn’t usually create that sort of reaction in animals. It was usually more aggressive, when she was around. Either that or just altogether disappearing. By which she meant running away. Which clearly wasn’t happening right now, but she was far too curious to entirely step away, even though she was certain that if her heart could beat, it would be jumping far out of her chest right now.

A voice startled her out of her thoughts, confirming to her that she was, in fact, not alone, and she jumped at the other voice. “I – was going out for a walk.” It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t as detailed as she might’ve made it if she wasn’t feeling so entirely on edge. “I’m sorry if I bothered you.” Ariadne glanced down at the ground. “I just – I heard something, and it sounded like someone was in trouble, and so I wanted to come over to make sure things were okay, or if not, to see if I could help or stuff.”

The human seemed agreeable, in the same as the nectar on a pitcher plant. Burrow knew well of their liar tongues. While their words hardly served her much purpose, their bodies certainly did. If the human was eager to help, then she would be sure to show her the proper path. No sense in forsaking a fly that wished to be on the web. Especially one that looked so youthful and healthy. “You may help by stepping on the vines. You may approach the vines.” May the human’s presence be loved instead of feared. Come human, be blessed by her kin’s touch, and know true usefulness. But another of her kin was quicker to claim. Unlike her vines, her tick did not have a host to distract itself. Until then, of course, as the tick set its eyes on the human. It scurried up the human’s shoe. Further up still it would go, to find refuge under the sock. The best place for a bite.

Except… it didn’t. Burrow’s tick regarded the human the same as it would an exposed root. Its disinterest was not due to the poison humans so loved to bathe themselves in. No, her tick scurried across the leg, as it would on any other leg. The only difference was the lack of a want to bite. In fact, the human did not register as a thing that could be bitten. Not a snack, but merely a thing in its path. Burrow stared, frustration relenting to a spike of curiosity. “Wait, what are you?”

“I don’t – won’t that hurt the vines?” Ariadne looked over at the woman. “I don’t want to hurt them - but - if it will help…” though how it would help, she wasn’t sure. In fact, in a lot of ways it was deeply confusing to try and make any sort of sense of that, but she’d never claimed to be a botanist, and so she supposed that she couldn’t really claim too much to understand what was going on.

Then there was a bug crawling onto her shoe, and Ariadne would’ve held her breath if she’d needed to, waiting for the bug to somehow shriek or fly away or run away. Except it didn’t, and then the woman’s voice cut through Ariadne’s thoughts. “I - what? What - I - I’m Ariadne!” She winced at the heightened pitch of her voice. “What do you mean?” Except that she could only play at being ignorant for so long, because the what are you comment probably didn’t have anything to do with her name. “Why?”

Such an eager fly — approaching the web without much question. Only one question had sufficed: a concern for the web. It was almost sweet. The humans never cared to be kind to Burrow’s vines after watching them claim. It was too frightening for their brains to comprehend. But, this wasn’t a human, was it? This was something else. Something her parasites did not deem worthy of taking. A thing that had no spoils to offer. She only knew of one such being: the dead who took such spoils the same as her parasites. “Oh. Are you one of the dead? That is what I mean by my question.” 

Burrow observed the strange through her own senses and that of her tick. Her precious one felt no warmth of rushing blood below the other’s skin. Only a coldness was offered and a strange smell it could not place. This must be one of the dead, yes? The dead had always fascinated her. Their appetites aligned with that of her own: the blood and the flesh of those living. A great feast that made the life of others into her own. Even the fae, the ones the dead deemed the most supple, was upon Burrow’s own plate. Though, she would consume them in other means. So different and yet the same. “You will not take a taste of me, unless you offer me something worthy in return.” Her intrigue did not transfer into generosity. That was reserved for her parasites, not those who emulated them. But that emulation, that mirror upon her own nature, had her wanting to give. A piece with a price tag, but even that was a wonderful gift. “Do not approach the vines. The vines are satisfied.” She would not let her curiosity be claimed by another. “Tell me more about yourself. I am curious about you.”

She always did her best not to lie. Ariadne just didn’t much see the point in it, and she’d seen how lying hurt people far too much – how even little lies could do their own kind of damage. She supposed that just by not telling people what she was, she was sort of lying in her own kind of way, but she did her best to believe that was okay – especially because a lot of the time it was a matter of possibly dying again if the wrong person found out. Though that was something she’d discovered more recently, Celene had advised her against advertising what – who – she was to others. It was absolutely annoying that she couldn’t tell when someone else was a mare, but she’d made do.

Which didn’t explain how this absolutely alluring and yet anxiety-induing person knew what she was. “I don’t – I’m not gonna try to feed on you!” Ariadne wanted to shrink into herself, hating the fact that this was what the stranger first assumed about her. First assumed that she’d hurt them. “I can offer you stuff, if you want?” She didn’t know what, exactly, she would offer them, but it seemed like the right sort of thing to say. “I won’t – I won’t touch the vines, if you don’t want me to.” She shook her head. “I – I’m Ariadne.” Which she’d already said. “I – I don’t know how you could tell I was dead, but I – yeah, I am.” She only hoped admitting this wouldn’t result in regret. “I – I’m a mare.” The word caught tight in her throat. “Do you – know of people like me?”

The heightened voice, the shrunken stature — the dead seemed upset about something. Was the dead upset about the thought of eating? Most enjoyed eating, such as Burrow herself. No, the change in demeanor was likely caused by something else. Did the dead dislike being known? Did the dead think she would not make for a tantalizing treat? She would make for a lovely treat. The best treat. She let out a huff, but with it, her tensions departed. “Yes. I do want you to offer me stuff.” Burrow eyed the dead up and down, as if she could spy out any delectable treats or dazzling trinkets she wanted to claim. If the dead had any such thing, it was buried amongst pockets and hidden places. “What stuff do you have to offer me?” 

Burrow felt no need to offer anything in exchange, including her name. It remained absent on her lips. “Hello. Yes. I am aware of the mares. The mares are the dead who eat the dreams. The mares trample on the living when we sleep so the dreams are forced out of the mouths.” A strange thing to eat dreams. They were useless to her — both as sustenance and to experience. It had been so long the last time she had dreamt. Still, she heeded her nan’s warnings: there was always a cup of salt in her pocket. It stayed nestled in secret, for there was yet need to reveal it. Instead, she scanned the area for a thing unseen. “Where is your mare? Well, where is your horse, I mean.” She knew her vines had not claimed such a thing, for she would have definitely noticed those tingles of satisfaction. Nor had her other kin been able to dine on such a specimen. All her parasites who were still present were silent about the whereabouts of horses.

“Uh, I dunno. What do you want? I don’t have a lot. But I am happy to help you out mostly however I can. I just don’t wanna lose stuff that’s super important, you know?” She had to, Ariadne figured, if only because she saw no reason to assume anything other than the best of the person in front of her. She wouldn’t give up anything that reminded her of family, or of Wynne or Cass or Alex or Nora or anybody like that, but if the person wanted something else, Ariadne would do her absolute best to deliver.

Ariadne shrugged in agreement. “Haven’t heard it put exactly like that, but yes. That’s the gist of it all. Though I can’t like, swallow or chew dreams like people do other kinds of foods…” she let herself trail off. “I – no, I’m the mare. Not a horse, but like, uh…” she scrunched up her nose in momentary confusion. “Animals normally don’t like me, or like – my – mares. Us. People like me. I don’t know why, but ever since becoming this, animals tend to freak out when I come around, which is more than a little disheartening.” Ariadne clasped her hands together and pressed her thumbs firmly one atop the other. “Sorry if that’s disappointing. Even bugs don’t always like me and that stinks because I do love them. Most all of them.”

The clothings adorning the mare’s body seemed delightfully plush and of pleasant textures, but there was something greater the mare could give Burrow. To ask for it would expose her own nature if the mare was wise to the ways of the fae. An exposure Burrow did not undertake lightly, for exposure rarely did the parasites any good. But, the mare seemed so giving, and she would be foolish to not try to take as much as she could from a generous thing. “I want you to give me the memory of your most recent feeding.” It was so removed from any feeding she had known. No swallowing or chewing, yet sustenance was still achieved. Did the mare still feel it go down her throat? Did it simply blossom into her stomach? Burrow wanted to feel how the dreams entered her, the same as she indulged in the feeding of her parasites. 

The mares proved to be even more mysterious to Burrow. “What do you mean you do not have the horse?” That was not correct. “Why would you be called the mares if you did not ride the mares? Do not lie to me.” The mares rode the mares: it was the state of things. To suggest otherwise made no sense. Though, the mare’s statement did have some evidence. Almost all her kin who scurried or flew had fled the area. It would explain why the creature from before had been so delirious from fear. A wonderful fear, for it had fed her vines so nicely. Perhaps the mares (the horses, not the dead) are the only creatures not fearful of them. “You must have not found your mare, yet.” She watched as her vines continued to coil about what was once a creature: a fresh hound being born before their eyes. Her essence extended with a gentle hand, coaxing the vines to their proper place around its home. An invisible hand that held the hound, rising it up into its new glory. A beast weaved into a mimicry of the life it took — the vines interlacing into beautiful swirls that turned to legs, a torso, and a head that observed them calmly. A beast without flesh; a beast without fear. “You may approach my hound. Sit on my hound. You may not claim my hound for your steed, but you may feel what it is like to ride the steed.” 

“How do I give you a memory?” Ariadne didn’t know that something like that was something you could do. Maybe this person was making stuff up (which Ariande didn’t understand why, but she also just wasn’t about to start questioning stuff), or maybe they knew stuff she didn’t – which, if she were honest (and Ariadne liked to be honest whenever and wherever possible) was probably even more likely, considering Ariadne knew very little about the world she was newly part of. She wondered when she’d be able to tell herself that she wasn’t newly part of this world. She wondered if it would ever come to pass. She hoped that it would.

“I don’t like to lie!” Ariadne squeaked. “I – animals hate us – me. Mares. I don’t know why we’re called what we are, except maybe it’s ‘cause we’re nightmares, and they just took the night part away?” She hadn’t meant to get so panicked, but it seemed pretty near unavoidable at this point. Which stunk, but there wasn’t much that she could do about it, at least not in this moment. “But yeah, maybe. I’d love to find any creature that liked me. I – well, before I was what I am, I used to adopt bugs and worms and spiders and like, well, anything I could. I gave them good homes! I let them go a-s-a-p, but I just… I loved – love every living thing, and I don’t like that I scare them.” She felt her eyes go wide. “You sure I won’t scare your hound?” She took a few steps forward. “ ‘Cause I don’t wanna hurt the hound, or you, or anything…”

It seemed Burrow’s caution was misplaced. How strange this dead did not know more about her prized prey. “I will show you how.” The first to show her the ways. “Say that you give me the memory of your recent feeding.” The bind crept up the mare’s form, ready to steal away the precious memory. The dead squirmed as if Burrow had already claimed her. The same fidgeting that had been displayed before. What caused this irritation? Could it be the lies? A strange notion, for the dead indulged in the lies the same as the humans. It was as strange as to propose that the mares had no mares. “The nightmares are called the nightmares because of your kind. Your kind are the ones on the mares that come at night.” Was the dead simply lying to her, despite her protest against it? It made more sense than to believe what Burrow knew was false. It was information told to her by fae, who never spoke a lie. 

And yet… and yet a small part of Burrow wondered. “Do you promise that you have not lied to me?” She knew the fae twisted words, but never into a lie. Never. The mare must be mistaken — must be lying. Burrow would fix that mistake. The mare would either make the promise and succumb to her lies, or accept the proper ways of the mares. The most proper way, for her hounds would make the best mares (the horses, not the dead). Her hound mirrored the mare’s steps, taking a few forward. An action instructed by Burrow, for her hound had no care for the dead — nor fear — nor anything, really. It regarded the mare in near silence, the only sounds came from the muffled pops of the corpse in its core. Its vines coiled about it, round and round, churning it to perfection. “You will not hurt my hound.” Both an assurance and a threat. “My hound does not fear you. I want you to ride my hound. Ride my hound.” 

“I, uh, don’t get how that works, but okay!” If she didn’t have to detail her latest feeding, Ariadne would happily go another route with telling people. Any other route, really, because she didn’t like thinking about feeding, and one of her least favorite parts had to do exactly with the fact that sometimes those memories felt good. Far better than they should’ve. “I give you the memory of my most recent feeding.” She gave a sigh, a certain part of her feeling strangely lighter than she would’ve thought possible.

“Well, uh, like I said, I’m really not an expert. You sound smart and like you know what’s up though! It’s weird animals don’t like us, but we can hurt people, so maybe that’s why?” Ariadne shifted again. “Your hound is brilliant and beautiful. I,” she sniffed, “well, I can’t say how thankful I am that your hound will be near me.” 

“I promise I haven’t lied to you! I’m sure I do lie sometimes, but I really really try to not lie if I can ever avoid it. Lying makes me feel all gross and bad, and I already feel bad, ‘cause I have to eat nightmares, and also lying hurts. I don’t want to hurt. Cause hurt, I mean.” She sighed. “Okay.” Ariadne brushed her hand against the hound, doing her best to climb up and onto it. “You sure it’s still okay?” She turned more toward the hound, “thank you for your kindness.” Back up to the strange lady. “I – thank you.”

The memory traveled down Burrow’s throat and swelled in her stomach. Foreign fears swelled as well: those inside herself and those soon to enter. A storm of uncertainty and regret that was almost as strong as the hunger. All only quieted when it entered. The good fear. Who she became in the memory tried to deny the fear, but she wanted it. She needed it. It had no taste or smell or texture yet it was the most delectable thing to enter her. How did it enter her? Did it really enter her? What was this feeling in her very core? She had no words, no knowing, no anything to describe the sensation. Ripped away from everything she knew of the world and becoming an alien to her own body. Even when the memory faded and she was herself again, she was not the version of herself before. Forever changed, ever slightly, by that piece of the alien still inside her. 

Burrow needed to know more.

If only what followed had brought such strange delight. The promise prepared to tear through the dead, yet found nothing to grab. No lies tainted her tongue, just as the dead had proclaimed. But how? How did the dead not know of the mares? How did she not feel a piece of herself missing? Even when Burrow’s family tried to keep her away from her kin, she could still feel them waiting. Waiting for her as the horse surely waited for the dead. Right? Her stomach twisted at the idea she could have spread her family’s lies. No. Something… was missing. She needed to research the cracks in her knowledge had not known were there. She didn’t… her family hadn’t lied to her. “Yes… my- my hound is very brilliant and beautiful.” She finally managed to say. “It is okay. You will sit on my hound’s back.” Her hound did not mind, though they hardly minded anything. A few of its vines slithered past fingers and ankles — almost tickling, though not its intention. Just like its guardian, it wanted to know more of who rested on its back. “That is where you are meant to be.” Though not the horses of legend, her hound was close enough. Close enough to the image in her head that had begun to sport a small crack. “In exchange for your thank you, you will give me any memory I ask you to give me.” The best way to understand someone was to get inside their head. 

[just-patchy]

Glimpse | Leona Kingscholar/Yuuta Midori

Hi @bunnwich! I’m your Secret Santa >v< Hope you excuse the amount of creative liberties I took with this, merry chrisler!!

I.

For all the pride he holds of himself, Leona knows he’s undesirable.

He’s learnt it within the confines of the prison they call the palace, servants murmuring to each other when he was still too young to understand what each word meant, only that it added up to disappointment. He was a genius, but not the brand they desired. He was charismatic, but not in the bright, obnoxious way Farena was. He was a leader, but never the king, the crown never meant to grace his head despite that he’s been carrying the equivalent of its weight and more since he was born.

Others might call it depression, he calls it realism, cynicism, resignation for a future he never wanted nor asked for. Despite what his overblot would suggest, he isn’t depressed, at least not in the way he supposes others think he is. Melancholia, mourning the loss of something he never had, mourning the possibilities that were taken from him with Farena’s talent harshly highlighting the gap between them, and the birth of Cheka who’s growing to be a carbon copy of his father by the day. He is not of any worth to the palace beyond the measly title of second prince, something that the servants make sure of with the whispers behind his back when they think he’s out of earshot. But he hears them, takes their words into his damaged self, and yearns to turn their tongues to dust.

He sleeps, because it’s all he can do.

———

II.

For all the fancy words Crowley spewed, Yuuta knows he’s nobody.

His spot as a student in Night Raven College is shared with two brothers and a talking, fire-breathing cat. (He can hear Grim yowling, “I’m not a cat! I’m the Great Mage Grim!) He’s not meant to be someone who can use magic despite the cards given by Sam and the glimpses he gets during overblots. None of it ever feels quite right. He knows Sam has good intentions, but he won’t ever measure up in a truly dangerous situation, and the visions of the past felt too raw, too private for him to be witnessing.

Logically, he knows he has worth. He isn’t lesser because he doesn’t have a drop of magic in his blood, or because he’s from a world outside of this realm. But it doesn’t stop the thoughts gnawing away at his self-esteem when he hears “magicless” following “Prefect”. It doesn’t stop the reminders that he’s not from this world when he has to have some common concept explained to him like a child, solely because it didn’t exist in his world. It doesn’t stop the gears from turning in his head when his friends talk about the future because there’s so much more he has to consider than they do. Does he even have a future, either here or perhaps when he returns to his own world? He’s an outsider in Twisted Wonderland, and he may be an outsider to his own world depending on what happened while he was gone. His cards don’t tell him anything, giving ambiguous answers every time he asks Fate.

He keeps his head low and works another day.

———

III.

Leona is surprisingly…clingy, as strange as it sounded.

Even after Yuuta’s stay at Savanaclaw came to an end, Leona would be found extending a hand to ruffle their hair, or straight up kidnapping them to use as a body pillow for his lunchtime naps. He’ll smirk cheekily as Yuuta glares at him for swatting their behind in the cafeteria, or have the faintest hint of a pout on his face when they attempt to leave his embrace. As long as they’re in the same room, Leona seems to gravitate towards Yuuta, always having some sort of contact.

It’s annoying, but a part of Yuuta has to admit it’s kind of adorable. Certainly, it’s embarrassing for Leona to be affectionate in public, especially given how he unwillingly falls for the dorm head’s provocations every time. In private, however, when they have quiet moments to themselves, it’s easy to indulge. It’s comforting for both Leona and themselves. The familiarity of running their fingers through his hair, or the warm weight against their side as he naps. The way that new crystals suddenly appear in their room without notice, or the firm hold against their back when he carries them.

Yuuta can’t quite scold him for that, can he?

———

IV.

The day Yuuta discovered that damn nickname, this was inevitable.

He’s trying very hard not to look disappointed, because Epel is right in front of them with the brightest blush on his cheeks, warm enough that even he feels the hear radiating off of his face. The poor boy looks ready to collapse from embarrassment, and the fact that Leona and Ruggie are howling with laughter in the background is not helping. Even the Savanaclaw students are quietly giggling, elbowing each other to try and hold back their amusement, while the rest of the Magishift club just looked confused.

“I-I mean-! Ruggie-san told me about it so-!” The snitch. Yuuta couldn’t resist giving Epel a reassuring pat on the head, the poor boy, before stalking towards the hyena still wiping away his tears from laughing so hard.

“Hey, since Epel-kun looks up to Leona-san so much, and now he calls Yuuta-kun ‘mom’ too, does that him your son?” he sniggered, unbothered by Leona’s glare and Epel’s further embarrassment.

“That makes you the son-in-law then,” Yuuta replied without missing a beat, one eyebrow raised as they stood with their arms crossed and foot tapping against the ground in thinly-veiled annoyance. Ruggie’s face was flushed, ears flattened against his head in embarrassment, and he turned his ire towards Leona, who was closest and smiling smugly.

“Take this as practice for your actual kids, Leona-san!” a Heartslabyul member yelled from the back, nervously looking away when he turned around to look at him, his glare promising certain death. Yuuta huffed, walking over to smack Leona on the shoulder.

It won’t ever happen, probably, Yuuta thinks.

———

V.

“Ojitan—!” Leona let out a soft “oof,” as Cheka, now a growing teenager, slammed into him at full force, eliciting a snort from Yuuta as they watched the prince glare down at his nephew.

“I’ve told you, stop running at me, you damn furball,” he hissed with no real heat behind his words as he tussled the Crown Prince’s hair. The teen only giggled before he got up to pounce on Yuuta too, the former Prefect taking the tackle much better than Leona did as he gently scratched the boy behind his fluffy ears.

“Leona!” A voice boomed from across the courtyard as Farena came into view, a few servants trailing behind him dutifully. The king signalled them to stand by, before approaching his younger brother as Leona got up to his feet. “And I see Yuuta is here as well!”

Leona was clearly about to say something scathing in response, if only out of a years-long habit to be as much of a thorn in his brother’s side as possible. That was interrupted by an elbow to his own side, and Cheka’s loud gasp as matching rings glinted in the afternoon sun.

“You’re married!?” Yuuta looked sheepish like a schoolboy being scolded, while Leona only held his head even higher, a relaxed smirk on his face as he slung an arm around his lover. Farena’s ears flattened against his head as his brows furrowed, having always been one to wear his heart on his sleeve.

“Technically, yes but-“

“A wedding’s too much work. Plus, we get to have our honeymoon early,” Leona interrupted, thoroughly enjoying the embarrassed blush growing up to Yuuta’s ears. He could hardly find it in himself to be anything but shameless, albeit he could do without being simultaneously assaulted by Cheka’s whining and Farena’s nagging.

He closed his eyes and drowned them out, only tightening his hold around Yuuta.

———

VI.

It was nearing midnight. Yuuta still wasn’t in bed.

Leona watched blearily as his spouse poured over another text, reading glasses perched on his nose and the flipping of pages the only sounds in the quiet night. He wore an old silk shirt (Leona’s) and Night Raven tracksuit bottoms (also Leona’s). Tiana wasn’t coming home until tomorrow evening, and there was no other guest staying over.

Only the two of them, like the old times.

Leona scowled upon that thought. He might be greying at the temples, wisps of white interwoven with brown, but he was far from some simpering fool. That was Farena.

Still, if he were younger, he would just pick Yuuta up and forcefully carry him to bed. But he’s learnt to cherish the fleeting moments of rest between his work and parenting. If Yuuta thought he took a lot of naps back at Night Raven, it didn’t hold a candle to how much he slept on his days-off. He’s old. He’s adamant on moving as little as he needs to.

“Come to bed, Cottontail,” he lazily calls from his spot on their bed. Yuuta’s probably tired too, because they don’t question or give any verbal response, only taking off their glasses and setting them neatly on top of their book, before shuffling over and flopping onto the bed (and Leona). They give a soft grunt as they bury themselves into Leona’s chest. It’s a warm summer night, so there’s no real need to bother with a blanket.

The chirping of the crickets lull them to sleep, wrapped around each other.

[denimbex1986]

'Tom Ripley is not a psychopath. Not the way Andrew Scott plays him in Ripley, the eight-part Netflix series adapted and directed in creamy black and white by Steven Zaillian (The Night Of), despite the fact that Tom does commit murder. The point of the series – the delicious disquietude of it – is to elongate Patricia Highsmith’s source novel. To unwind what was compressed in Anthony Minghella’s 1999 film The Talented Mr. Ripley. To idle with Tom long enough to see beyond “monster” or “villain” to “person.”

“The main task in playing any familiar literary character is to unlearn the reputation the character might have,” Scott, 47, said in a recent phone interview, as Ripley debuted at No. 8 on Netflix worldwide. “When I was playing Hamlet” in London in 2017, “I wanted to not play the obvious expectations, the easy three-word label – ‘the dark prince’ – and to think instead about who he was before his father died. Which according to the text was someone quite funny.”

In the same way, Scott’s Tom, a small-time grifter in 1961 New York who is hired by a shipping magnate, Herbert Greenleaf (Kenneth Lonergan, the playwright and screenwriter), to bring his wastrel son Dickie (Johnny Flynn) home from an extended, expensive holiday in Italy, “isn’t bloodthirsty,” Scott continues. “He’s absolutely not a natural born killer. He feels uncomfortable. He makes loads of mistakes.”

Most significantly, “Tom is on the outskirts of society and he gets transplanted into high society. He realizes there are people there who have half the talent with double the confidence and exposure to the most beautiful things in the world. That ignites a rage within him. I think it’s a rage we can all understand. We may not go to the lengths he does to express that rage. But characters can only be fascinating if we feel they reflect us in some way.”

This supple empathy is Scott’s superpower, whether he’s playing a lonely screenwriter in All of Us Strangers; a spendthrift king in Catherine Called Birdy; a madcap lord in The Pursuit of Love; or every Uncle Vanya character in Vanya: National Theatre Live. (In one gobsmacking Vanya sequence, he alternates, seamlessly, between a character who is crying and one who isn’t.) In Sherlock, it’s what made his Moriarty such a liquid foil for Benedict Cumberbatch’s Holmes. In Fleabag, it’s what made the Hot Priest hot.

With Ripley, “it’s unusual for a television series to spend so much time in the company of one character,” Scott says. “Usually you’d spend that time with a large family, or a police department, or a hospital. But we replicate the first-person singular of the novel.” We observe Tom as he climbs magnificently crumbling staircases, checks into sumptuous hotels, learns to speak Italian, is knocked sideways by the glories of Caravaggio. We watch him be, and think, and give into yearning. The series tours us through holiday destinations, but off-season, which adds to the feeling of disorientation.

“At any stage the journey could end for Tom,” Scott says. “Dickie could find him out, the police could. He’s an incredibly vulnerable character, vulnerable to poverty in New York, vulnerable to the whims of these high society people,” which include Dickie’s skeptical girlfriend Marge (Dakota Fanning) and outright hostile friend Freddie (Eliot Sumner, child of Sting and Trudie Styler), who are casually cruel about Tom’s economic status and presumed homosexuality.

“There’s a murkiness to the way people spoke about sexuality at that time,” Scott says. “Everything was subterfuge, spoken in code. People couldn’t really admit to anything that wasn’t a heterosexual lifestyle.

“But I was reluctant to attribute any labels to Tom – his nationality, age or sexuality. I see him as a very othered character. Certainly queer in the sense that he’s not invited to the party. I think his sexuality is elusive, like the rest of him. I don’t think he’d be comfortable in a gay bar, but I don’t think he’d be comfortable in a straight bar either. Any easy answer to do with Tom reduces him.”

Scott, who was born and educated in Dublin, then moved to London at 22, doesn’t usually take his characters home with him. But Ripley’s isolation presented challenges to him as a person as well as an actor.

As a person, “my great joy in life is connecting with people,” Scott says. “I’m not suspicious of people in the same way that Tom is.” Though his fame post-Fleabag has been challenging – “I do feel I have to protect myself. Fame can detract from who you really are. By putting someone on a pedestal you can dehumanize them. It’s something I keep an eye on” – he believes that if he keeps making work that means something to him, and delivering it with enough authenticity, he can continue to connect, and “people don’t become the enemy.”

As an actor, Scott’s challenge was to find “where Tom’s heart may be, in this dark world we’re examining, where a lot of the characters, not just Tom, are quite morally ambiguous, and not ultimately that generous,” he says. “For me, it’s when Tom’s on his own, looking at beauty. He has a strange affection for things. He likes handsome hotel clerks. He’s moved by art and music. He’s just never been exposed to it in the way the privileged characters are.

“I think that’s what Highsmith is really talking about,” Scott concludes. “If you dismiss certain people and deny them the art and beauty that other people in the world have, a darkness arises. And people go to great lengths to rebalance that lack of dignity.”'

[mmriesoftvat]

" ... what if... " He begins observing Kazuha intently, as he always does. He's never met someone who feels so... oddly SIMILAR to him in ways he cannot describe. Kazuha appreciates nature, THRIVES in it, just like he does. He is artistic, well articulated, and a brilliant conversationalist, to the point Albedo knows there will never be awkward pockets of silence between them, or forced discussions. Everything comes naturally between them, and he cannot deny that there's... a pull. A connection.

Yet...

" ... what if... that which is out of reach is better left out of reach? " He knows he isn't being fair, speaking in such a roundabout way, but there is MUCH Kazuha does not know that Albedo fears telling him. That he has let the ronin get this close was a mistake, in and of itself, because despite how much he STRUGGLES with emotions and feelings... even he knows there comes a point of no return eventually.

They're tiptoeing dangerously CLOSE to that point.

" ... nevermind. My thoughts can be... irritatingly and needlessly complex a lot of the time. I may be... overthinking it. " // it's about time Albedo and Kazuha had a talk, tbh.

Kazuha dimly recalls a long forgotten tale, something about a tin soldier and a ballerina. While he can't remember all the details of that story, he remembers a fire and a heart within the ashes. Kazuha doesn't want to go up in flames only to be left with a broken heart. It's an outcome that's certainly sure to happen if neither of them actually address this -- though Kazuha really doesn't want to. It's complicated and already difficult to bring up, to be direct feels very much like a confrontation.

Confrontation is such an ugly word, too. It feels too final, too set in stone and closes a lot of doors that Kazuha would rather stay open. But then again, wouldn't both of them be able to just move on after that? The ache would sting, but it'd be final. It'd also be the very last option Kazuha wants to take.

It's not like Albedo is directly saying no. Kazuha knows, or at least is sure of, Albedo's meaning. What is unclear is the reason why. Kazuha wants something, and Albedo is more hesitant. The why being a mystery feels Kazuha with some vague terror, like something is incredibly out of reach and so wrong. He is just a wandering ronin, he isn't interested in wars or politics or whatever cosmic horrors may come. Those concepts have always been beyond his understanding. Those cosmic themes had taken the life of someone he cared very much about, over some uncomfortable 'eternity'.

So why is Albedo's phrasing bringing about that same faint dread? Kazuha tries to shake it off. Albedo is very much human like him. They're friends at the very least, and both have brilliant minds. If there's anything more serious to discuss, it can wait until they have this conversation first. Albedo's words have to mean just that: that maybe he can't give Kazuha want he desires. Or is very resistant to the idea for personal reasons.

"Your thoughts are fine," Kazuha says, daring to take a step closer. "I have no problem with the way you apply logic and reason to everything." It's part of why Kazuha adores the other man. "I am simply..." he trails off, lifting a hand before letting it drop back to his side. "...another man with yearning in his heart."

He'd said it. He'd said it directly, without trying to hide it behind whimsical poetry and riddles. He could have likened the situation to leaves again, considering he's still holding one, but his word choice felt appropriate.

"I do not wish to put you out," he continues, glancing downward. The leaf is placed back into his pocket. No doubt it will be crushed with the slightest amount of pressure, but he's used to gathering more leaves along the way. It's not like he keeps them for long, anyway. "I want to be selfish sometimes, and announce what and whom I desire. Is that a horrible feeling?"

[hook-your-ex-system-review]

Hook Your Ex System PDF Download Steve Pratt (eBook)

Let’s face it: breaking up sucks. It’s a terrible experience that makes you question your self-worth, your potential future, everything! It completely upends plans you had for your future and can leave you in a dark place. Sometimes, breaking up is for the best. But other times, the breakup was the wrong move. You’re meant to be together – and you’ll both be happier being together in the long run. This is why The Ex Factor exists. The Ex Factor is a digital program that helps you get your ex back. The technique makes an ex hold on to the new, good experiences with you and therefore grow fonder over time and want you back. It is easy to understand this system. Getting your ex is not easy. You will note, why understanding a couple of necessary factors within the psychology may be very me to realize their goal. For me i had tried so many things not succeeding. I like how this guide has been created and has really helped me so quick. Let’s get started with how to get your ex back. The Hook Your Ex program was developed by Steve Pratt and released in 2014. Steve is a well-known relationship specialist with years of experience in that field. After doing a lot of research, he found a way through which he could influence people and have an effect on how their mind works.

When the number of painful experiences intensify and overwhelm the pleasurable ones, the difference can cause your partner to break up with you or end the relationship. If you’ve recently broken up with someone you love very much, it’s completely understandable that you would start wondering how to get your ex back, because sometimes it feels like the only way out of the pain is to get your relationship back on track. When people decide to break up, they have usually thought about it for a while and the real reasons behind it are emotionally driven.The core principle that has been made to govern the system is the understanding what the brain needs and thus avoiding too much pain and longing. The Hook Your Ex System, as heralded by Steve Pratt, asserts a unique ability: the revival of lost relationships. The notion of reigniting the flames that once warmed two souls is a magnetic prospect, tugging at heartstrings and beckoning those who yearn for past affections. Another cornerstone claim centers around the system’s potential to evoke dormant emotions. It professes to tap into the emotional reservoirs that remain even after separations, kindling a resurgence of feelings that had seemingly ebbed away.

Hook Your Ex program is designed for both genders and there are separate guides for them because men and women might not always think the same, there are certain differences in thinking. If done correctly, he or she will find it impossible to resist and will even beg you to take them back. Quick strategies to help you realize what is actually going in your ex partner’s mind. You can then use this realization to actually know what he or she really wants, expects and needs from you. Very Powerful messages and words that will certainly draw him or her back if you say them daily. An ’emotional clean-up’ process that clears all doubts that your ex-lover has about yo. The guide will teach you how to eliminate the doubts and replace them with an attractive side of you that your he or she will find powerless to resist. A counter reaction’ procedure that switches the power from him or her to you. This alterations in the structure means you will never again be at the mercy of your ex-partner. A strategy that generates unconditional forgiveness. It doesn’t matter whether you broke up because you strayed sexually, the pleasure that the system brings will make your ex forget your past mistakes and forgive you unconditionally. A love technique that positions you as the most important being in his or her life. These abstract ideas are explained and concretized for you to apply in your interactions with your ex. These methods aren’t only for those looking to get back with their ex—they can be used to improve your relationship with your current lover. Relationships take time, and so does getting back in a relationship with your ex. The hook your ex system website lets you purchase the book, try the technique for sixty days, and, if the results are bad, they give you your money back.

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[lizseyi]

Get Started On Your 2023 Branding With These Emerging Trends  -Pennink Productions

The fact that you’re reading this indicates you already know something about the power of branding. The right branding approach will be fundamental to your organisation’s efforts to stand out from its competitors – not just for its own sake, but in the right ways, to help drive heightened awareness, sales, and revenue among the right people.

Now 2023 is almost upon us. In which ways can we expect branding to evolve during the coming 12 months or so? We’ve picked out just some of the trends that have been identified by leading web consultants in the UK and the wider world.

Tapping into nostalgia in bold ways

2022, it is fair to say, has been exhausting. It has certainly been a tiring year for the great numbers of us who are now routinely glued to the social media apps on our phones, what with events like the cost-of-living crisis, the war in Ukraine, and the lingering effects of the COVID-19 pandemic.

Many a branding professional has already predicted that this situation could help inspire new and imaginative uses of nostalgic elements in branding and marketing during 2023.

Many of us understandably have that feeling – however abstract – that life was better in the past, or at least yearn to spend a bit more time there for a little while. And as a brand, you could be tempted to respond to this in your branding, through bold campaigns that connect the past to the present.

Do you remember, for example, the ads that Spotify ran a few years ago, with statements like “1983. UB40. Red Red Wine. 2019. You be forty. Red red wine.”? Well, we could be set to see a lot more of that kind of vibe in 2023.

Adaptable logo design

You probably already know that your brand’s logo will be one of the most crucial elements to get right if you are to achieve cut-through with your target audiences. But does this automatically translate into your company logo having to look exactly the same, across every single touchpoint?

When we say “touchpoints”, we are referring to those various points of contact or interaction that someone might have with your brand, such as its website, social media channels, and any physical stores or offices you may have.

It appears that in 2023, many brands will be more sensitive to the need to adapt their logo to these various touchpoints. The “master logo” that you use on your brand’s website, for instance, might not look identical to the one you use on your company Instagram account, or as a watermark on your organisation’s photos.

Whatever changes you do make to your logo design to suit these touchpoints, though – potentially encompassing alterations to the size, colour, and/or complexity of the logo – the brand logo should still be immediately recognisable as your brand. Our graphic design and branding experts at PENNInk Productions can help make that a reality for you.

A “new eco” aesthetic

Have you noticed something different lately about how a lot of ostensibly ‘sustainable’ brands present themselves? We have, too; the old ideas that such brands should use earthy tones and generally softer palettes and design elements have faded in recent times.

Indeed, quite a few “eco” brands of today are now embracing more clean and minimalistic looks. The idea is to communicate a sense of futurism and aspiration, as audiences come to expect more from these brands than a mere promise to be gentler on the planet.

There you have it – a sampling of the branding trends that will likely go a long way to shaping what 2023 looks like to great numbers of us. Why not get in touch with PENNInk Productions’ own skilled and experienced web consultants in the UK to discover more about what that future could look like for your growth-focused brand?

[glacialswordsman-a]

“Oh, certainly. The people of Mondstadt aren’t all that well-versed in being discreet. However, I can and will assure you that they are harmless. The moment you open your mouth to greet them, they’ll be all over you and would be eager to know more about you while unwittingly taking you on a tour of our city fair,” Kaeya explained, his expression just a tad fond as he spoke of the nation of Freedom.

The only people Kaeya knows the citizens of Mondstadt would be wary of are, of course, the Fatui. Are wary of them. Fortunately, the Traveler made no mention of Itto being an agent. The Captain held onto the Traveler’s word after all, as they never have reason to lie to him. After all, they’ve mentioned knowing other members of the organization before, such as being acquainted with a few Harbingers. He wonders if that number has gone up since the last time they spoke.

Regardless, Kaeya knew that Itto wouldn’t feel completely out of place there. Perhaps a little, but not completely. Who wouldn’t feel out of place in a new location, surrounded by a whole new culture, after all?

When Itto brought up the Chasm, Kaeya paused momentarily and regarded the man once more. That’s right, they had mentioned their adventures there and how they had been with a whole entourage. To be honest, his memories of that time specifically were a little fuzzy. To put it lightly, he hadn’t felt all that well when the Chasm was suddenly unsealed and was out of commission for a few days.

This was a golden opportunity. Something within him yearned to know more.

For now, though, he merely kept his smile and nodded along during their conversation as the oni led.

“She has a few that are admittedly quite funny, though she definitely knows how to pick ‘em and irritate those very people with said names. The name given to you though is quite unfortunate.”

Unfortunate was putting it lightly, he knows. Although, there was a small side to Kaeya that found amusement in the name. He would never use it, but it is quite a feat that the fairy is able to come up with these ugly nicknames at all.

Keeping in step with the oni, Kaeya’s eye wandered here and there as he took in the sights of the land of Eternity, quite drawn to the vibrant greens, pinks, and purples. Even the little village that they passed through to get to Inazuma was beautiful. Humble, yet lovely all the same. The change of scenery is truly a breath of fresh air, and he almost couldn’t believe he was actually here in Inazuma. He’ll have to give the Traveler a souvenir from this trip.

A hum of acknowledgement left Kaeya as Itto mentioned the inn may be booked. He’s not surprised about that, but he was slightly surprised by the offer of staying at Itto’s gang’s headquarters. “Oh? Well, I would hate to impose. The last thing I would want to do is take advantage of your good graces, no less when we have just met.”

All sweet words with little meaning to them, if only to make himself seem a polite and humble person. As much as he would love to jump at the opportunity right away, he always has that little itch to keep up images, even with complete strangers he just met half an hour ago or so.

His eye lidded slightly at the mention of Itto’s family. A subject that Kaeya was quite touchy with, yet gave his attention to the oni all the same. “I see. It’s good to know that you’re surrounded by people who care about you immensely. That alone says a lot about your character.” Normally, hearing about someone who was surrounded by constant high praises prickled at Kaeya incessantly, telling him there's something much more to it. Yet, Itto was anything but someone like that. He wasn’t surrounded by frequent praise, no. He had something real. It didn’t take someone with two eyes to see it.

The primary reason for the Oni mentioning rice and noodle dishes was actually fairly simple. There was an abundance of them, different preparations, sauces, spice mixtures, proteins, and vegetables were served depending on where the dish was purchased. Though, every street food vendor, restaurant, and street seating establishment knew that he was allergic to beans and products crafted with them. So he never had to worry about soy, beans or sauce, being part of any dish he ordered for himself.

"I have a feelin' I'd get some pretty open stares anyway, from what I know of Mondstadt, the nation ain't known for it's abundance of creatures like myself,"

He'd chuckle, though this one would be a genuine one, and not one that was laced with worry such as the one when learning that Kaeya knew the Traveler, and Paimon had been. He honestly loved traveling, and as a legitimate adventurer now, he could go to other nations and do commissions there, as long as things were available for him to do so. Hearing that the people in Mondstadt were welcoming wasn't a surprise to him, the people were fairly 'free' though, as someone from the nation of Eternity he wasn't exactly sure what 'freedom' was. Well, he knew the definition but now how it worked for people. He'd learn, should he ever travel to the nation itself which had been pretty tempting more than once already.

"She opted to give it to me before she ever met Ushi too, I ain't sure if the Traveler mentioned a time where they were trapped in the Chasm in Liyue with a group of others, but that was when she decided my name wasn't good enough."

He couldn't understand why Paimon opted to give people such awful nicknames but he had no real reason to ask. Knowing the little pixie, she'd likely come up with some strange, convoluted reasoning, and stick with it. The Traveler never called him by the awful name which was why he tended to speak to them, over Paimon, who was more often than not, much more childish than she claimed she was. Especially when she was being ignored. Shinobu had tried to talk to her from what he'd been told but the tiny floating fairly like companion of the Traveler had stuck to the awful nickname. She even referred to him as 'bull-chucker' when other people were around, at least he was nice enough to her, not to do the same with 'floating lavender melon'.

"I recall her mentionin' a few other nicknames she gave people, but I don't even know who she's referrin' to, since I ain't met anyone who resembles any of the names she's given,"

As Kaeya turned down the offer of a small snack prior to making their way to the city he'd merely nod at the other male. The trek wasn't arduous, nor was it particularly long. The walk from Ritou to Inazuma City took less than half an hour and that was even for the older people in the nation. While the older folk were often slower at moving, than the younger generation, he'd seen some make it from Ritou, or the village shortly outside the little island within thirty minutes before. It the more moderate weather seemed to help them, and Inazuma was cooler than Liyue was, temperature wise, and it cooled down even more at night.

"I can't say for certain if there'll be a room available at the inn inside the city, but my Gang's headquarters has a number of guest rooms."

He'd continue as he began leading Kaeya toward the city, it'd be pretty obvious where the city was, as there were a number of very large buildings that were visible shortly after they left Ritou itself. He'd walk at the same pace as Kaeya so he didn't leave the other behind, not only would that be rude to do, but he'd not be a very good guide if he did that. Ushi would let out a moo as he trotted next to the Oni, easily keeping up with the two men.

"My Gang, to me, is like my family. Granny Oni, she's an older human who found me when I was a kid and took me in. She's raised me like I'm her own flesh and blood. The members of my Gang have all faced some form of adversity in their lives."

The Traveler and Paimon weren't aware of his being an orphan, and he wasn't about to mention it without needing to. It wasn't a secret, most people in Inazuma knew that the Crimson Oni was an orphan who was raised by a human woman. It wasn't just her influence on him that made him the way he was though. Various things his parents had instilled in him prior to their deaths stuck with him and a lot of them were reinforced by Granny Oni as he grew up. Kaeya was intelligent, he'd already gathered that just from their conversation so far, so it was very likely that the other man would easily put two and two together, just going off of what the Oni had said.

[trickster-archangel]

This is why they should've consulted Alex about the series finale, and respected his opinion:

from

~

Does he still consider her the one who got away?

O'Loughlin:

No, Catherine's not the one that got away. Catherine's the one that wasn't meant to be. He understands that. He respects that. And he respects her and her choices, but I think now, knowing what he knows, there's also a sense of relief, a quiet kind of acceptance and relief, that it happened the way it did. Because imagine if they'd had kids, if they'd got married and had kids, and then she had this, like, "Oh, I've got to go and I can't tell you anything." That'd be really bad. That'd be kind of unforgivable. So at least now, the love that they had, he can hold in a sacred place that can always be nurtured. But it's not something he's going to yearn for now, because he understands it.

Frankly, the way she conducted herself wasn't great. It wasn't great. And even though he forgives her for that, that's kind of a tell-tale sign. That's more like Doris than he is comfortable with. So that doesn't take anything away from how he feels about her, but he's able to step back and go, yeah, I don't want to marry my mom.

~ ~~~~

from: https://www.tvguide.com/news/hawaii-five-0-recap-mcgarrett-catherine-150th-episode-alex-oloughlin-doris/

~

Switching gears to Catherine, she gives McGarrett her blessing about his relationship with Lynn. Based on that final scene between Catherine and McGarrett, is there any hope for them to reunite?

O'Loughlin:

I have no say in what they write, but if you're asking me what I think, McGarrett doesn't need Catherine's blessing to do anything. The way she left things, it was pretty disgraceful. He is a high-end special operator for the US government. He was at the highest level. And so, you don't need to pull the top-secret card with someone like that, who understands the lay of the land. There's another way you can do it that's not gonna hurt people. So, the way she did it was kind of gnarly. It was much more like Doris. And so, as far as he's concerned, he's going to do what he's going to do. He certainly doesn't feel obliged to make sure he's got a blessing from her.

That being said, it does offer some closure for him. It's now been finished the right way. I just think if she came back and went, "I'm available"... first of all, he really likes Lynn. She's a great girl. And I don't think he would just ditch her. That would be the wrong thing to do. And if he just jumped back into a relationship with Catherine, I think he's an idiot. You have no self-respect? There's no sense of self-protection or self-preservation? If that happens, I'll play it the way it needs to be played, but it would seem like doing something like that would be a cry for help. He's an idiot if he does. That would have to be a means to an end for a storyline.

~~~~~

tagging @teruel-a-witch and @bgharison because I sort of had these same conclusions with them and now?? I see??? That Alex himself has the same opinion on marrying Cath????