#I used to call my domain 'observation and expression'

[kid-icarus-made-me-kinshift]

While I *do* appreciate the depth at which my recollection of Miss Depravity has evolved to in the past few days, I do sort of wish I would remember more about my actual friendly/ally sort of relationships... Does she even continue to prank me in this life with her presence alone? Fitting, and annoying, but I guess it's more natural to the human brain to dial in on potential sources of danger (an adversarial/frenemies like relatonship) than on sources of safety (friends and support). Way to go, mortality!

Though, it's getting easier to understand the nature of deities in my past life, their domains, their influence, and so on, by finally being able to equally contrast my own memory to my memory of her.

[novaursa]

The Second Daughter (the call)

- Summary: You were born as a second daughter under the watchful eye of a full moon. And just like the moon you were beautiful—and cursed to exist only in the dark.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Jason Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: legacy of fire

- Next part: winds from the east

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @idenyimimdenial @l3thal-l0lita @alkadri-layal @ninihrtss @barnes70stark

The air in Casterly Rock had grown heavy with the weight of war, though no battles had yet reached its gates. The West remained untouched, a fortress of its own making, and Jason had ensured it stayed that way. But beyond the hills of his domain, beyond the deep valleys and rich mines, the rest of Westeros burned.

The Dance of Dragons had truly begun.

It was a morning like any other when Grand Maester Halford entered Jason’s solar, his gait slow but his expression carefully schooled into neutrality. He was a man of quiet wisdom, with the habit of delivering ill news without alarm—a trait Jason had come to appreciate over the years.

Jason, seated at his great oaken desk, glanced up from the ledger he had been reviewing, noting the tight grip Halford had on the parchment in his hand.

“What is it?” Jason asked, leaning back in his chair.

Halford hesitated only for a breath. “A raven from Dragonstone, my lord. It bears the personal seal of Queen Rhaenyra.”

Jason exhaled slowly, holding out his hand. “Give it to me.”

Halford obeyed, setting the sealed parchment into his lord’s waiting palm. Jason turned it over in his fingers before breaking the wax with his thumb, unfolding the letter with measured ease.

The words inside, however, set his teeth on edge.

He read silently, his brows furrowing deeper with each line.

"Sister," Rhaenyra had written, "I call upon you once more. The war grows fierce, the blood of Targaryens stains the realm, and yet you remain silent in the West. I will not ask you to take up arms, but I ask you to come to me. Bring your children. They are of our blood, and there are dragons still waiting on Dragonstone. If the gods are kind, your daughters, your sons, may claim them and strengthen our House for the battles ahead."

Jason’s fingers tightened around the parchment.

"Daemon misses you. He has not been the same since he faced Aemond and saved your life. He speaks little. His fire is dimmed. I believe only you can bring him back to himself."

Jason nearly scoffed aloud at that.

Daemon Targaryen, a man of fire and blood, a warrior of renown, brought low by the absence of one woman? It sounded like a ploy.

But it was Rhaenyra’s mention of their children that soured Jason’s mood further.

"Your children are dragons, just as we are, just as you are. The beasts that roam my island wait for riders worthy of them. Bring them, let them claim what is rightfully theirs, and let the realm see that the House of the Dragon will not be broken."

Jason set the letter down, his jaw tight.

Halford, ever the careful observer, watched him with patient curiosity.

“Does your lady wife know of this letter?” the maester asked.

Jason snorted. “It came to my hands first, did it not?”

Halford nodded slowly, understanding the unspoken meaning behind his lord’s words.

Jason did not yet wish for you to know of this summons.

Not now.

Not when he had just begun to see you return to yourself, free from the nightmares, the whispered visions, the distant look in your eyes.

The past moons had been a blessing and a curse. Though the war raged beyond the Westerlands, life within Casterly Rock had been peaceful. Jason had taken every effort to keep his family untouched, unburdened. He had worked tirelessly to ensure the realm knew that the West would stand alone, away from the ruin of dragons.

And yet, Rhaenyra would not relent.

This was not the first raven she had sent urging you to fly to Dragonstone, to bring your children to the wild dragons, to stand with her in her war.

But this was the first time she had used Daemon as a lure.

Jason let out a slow exhale, dragging a hand down his face before tossing the letter onto his desk.

“She will not be pleased when someone reads this to her,” Halford mused, ever the voice of reason.

Jason clenched his jaw. “She is still recovering.”

“She has recovered.”

Jason’s gaze snapped to the maester, his temper flashing, but Halford met his eyes with steady patience.

“I say this not to provoke, my lord, but to remind you that she is not a woman to be kept in the dark,” Halford continued. “She is of Targaryen blood. She was never meant to be kept still.”

Jason sighed, leaning back in his chair, gaze flickering to the flickering hearth.

He knew that.

He had always known that.

He had married a woman of fire, and though she had lived among lions, her soul still belonged to the skies.

Jason knew what he would have to do.

But he did not have to like it.

“Leave me,” he finally muttered.

Halford hesitated, but with a slight bow, he turned and exited the chamber, leaving Jason alone with his thoughts.

For a long while, Jason simply sat in silence, watching the flames dance in the hearth.

Then, with measured patience, he reached for the parchment once more, rolling it into a tight scroll.

Tomorrow, he would give it to you.

Tomorrow, he would let you decide.

But he already knew what you would say.

And he already hated it.

The morning light filtered through the windows of Casterly Rock, casting a warm glow over the stone chamber where you sat with Rhaelya and Alysera, your twin daughters. Their golden hair shimmered in the sunlight, the strands interwoven with the faintest hints of silver, a clear mark of their mixed heritage. Though identical in looks, the girls were distinct in their mannerisms—Rhaelya’s fingers were steady and precise as she stitched, while Alysera fidgeted slightly, losing patience with the delicate work.

Your own hands worked fluidly, guiding the needle with a grace born from years of practice. Even without sight, your fingers knew the fabric, felt the tension of each thread, and understood the rhythm of each stitch. The quiet was peaceful, save for the occasional murmur of your daughters, who asked small questions about their patterns and colors.

Then came the sound of approaching footsteps—measured, deliberate, heavy with purpose.

You knew them instantly.

Jason.

Before he even spoke, you felt the shift in the air.

The girls must have felt it too, for they both looked up from their embroidery as their father entered the chamber.

“Rhaelya, Alysera, leave us. I need to speak with your mother.”

Jason’s voice was firm but not unkind.

Alysera was the first to protest. “But we are not finished—”

“Now, girls.”

Though his tone did not change, there was an edge to it, one that neither daughter dared to challenge.

You heard the rustle of fabric, the shift of the chairs as Rhaelya and Alysera obediently rose, murmuring their farewells before padding toward the door.

Once the chamber doors clicked shut behind them, Jason let out a slow exhale.

You set your embroidery down upon your lap, turning your head toward him. “You are tense.”

Jason scoffed. “When am I not?”

A small smile touched your lips, but it faded when Jason moved closer, lowering himself onto the cushioned seat beside you.

He was quiet for a moment.

Then, in a tone that lacked its usual sharpness, he said, “A raven arrived yesterday.”

Your breath hitched, just slightly.

You tilted your head. “From where?”

“Dragonstone.”

The air in the room shifted.

Your hands clenched around the embroidery fabric, your fingers gripping the delicate material as if it were the only thing anchoring you.

Jason saw it. He sighed.

You turned your face slightly toward him. “What did she write?”

Jason hesitated, and you knew.

You knew exactly what was coming.

“She wants you to come to her.”

Your lips parted slightly, but Jason was not finished.

“She wants you to bring the children. She believes they can claim dragons.”

The breath you had been holding slipped from your lips.

Your sister had written before, had urged you before. But this was different.

Jason continued, his voice lower, careful.

“She also wrote of Daemon. She says he misses you, that he has not been the same since...” He trailed off, but you knew the rest.

Since he saved you.

Since he fought Aemond and drove him away.

You swallowed.

Jason exhaled sharply through his nose, shifting beside you, likely running a hand through his hair as he often did when frustrated.

Then, his tone grew sharper.

“She wants you to come to her, to stand with her, and— Seven hells, she acts as though we are blind to her intentions! She knows what bringing our children to Dragonstone would mean. She wants us in her war, she wants us tied to her banners, and she will not stop until she gets what she wants.”

He scoffed. “Even Daemon is a pawn in this.”

You shook your head slightly, your fingers curling around the embroidery in your lap.

“I do not believe that.”

Jason let out a short, humorless laugh. “You do not believe your sister plays her game as cleverly as the rest of them? You think this letter is just an innocent invitation?”

You did not answer.

Because part of you knew he was right.

Still, you whispered, “I have not seen Daemon in moons.”

Jason’s jaw tensed.

Your fingers found his arm, tracing over the fabric of his tunic, feeling the corded muscles beneath.

“Jason, I will not be swayed by a simple letter,” you said softly. “But I will not ignore it, either.”

He turned fully toward you now, his green eyes sharp even if you could not see them.

“I know you. I know what you are thinking.”

Your lips pressed together, but Jason continued.

“You want to go. You want to hear her voice. You want hear his. You want our children to touch dragon scales, to feel their birthright.” His voice dropped. “Do you not?”

You hesitated.

And Jason saw it.

His fingers brushed your jaw, tilting your face ever so slightly.

“Say it.” His voice was low, controlled.

You inhaled.

And then, quietly, truthfully, you said, “Yes.”

Jason closed his eyes. For a long moment, he did not speak.

When he did, his voice was lower, softer, “You would fly into the storm, wouldn’t you?”

Your fingers curled over his, pressing firmly, “The storm is already here, Jason. We are only pretending we are not standing in the rain.”

Jason did not respond.

But you heard his sigh, felt the weight of it, felt the reluctance in his silence.

You knew this would not be the end of this conversation.

Jason Lannister was not a man who relented easily.

And you were not a woman who could be caged.

The halls of Casterly Rock seemed narrower today, the weight of his anger pressing against the very walls. Jason strode through the corridors, his boots echoing in the silence, his mind a storm of unrelenting thought. The letter burned in his memory, every word, every demand, every carefully veiled attempt to pull his family into a war he had no desire to fight.

Rhaenyra.

Daemon.

They would not stop.

For moons, Jason had kept the West untouched by this madness, ensuring that no king nor queen could lay claim to his lands, his banners, his coin. He had built a fortress of neutrality, an empire within an empire. And yet, his wife’s family—her cursed, insatiable bloodline—sought to drag him into the flames nonetheless.

His fists curled at his sides, his jaw tightening as he turned a corner, only to come upon a sight that gave him pause.

In a quiet chamber, bathed in warm afternoon light, his mother, Lady Leonella Lannister, sat beside Aemerys, their eldest son. The boy, now a young man in his own right, had grown swiftly, his silver-gold hair catching the glow of the hearth, his lilac eyes alight with intelligence.

Leonella was speaking to him in gentle tones, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her rings gleaming in the candlelight. Aemerys, ever the eager listener, sat upright, his posture one of both attention and restrained curiosity.

Jason’s steps slowed, his ire shifting into something heavier, something more complicated.

This was why he fought so fiercely to keep them out of the war.

For his son, his daughters, his family.

Not for Aegon.

Not for Rhaenyra.

Not for whatever legacy the Targaryens thought themselves owed.

Leonella noticed him first, her golden brows lifting slightly, but she made no move to rise.

Aemerys followed her gaze, turning toward the doorway where Jason stood.

“Father,” the boy greeted, his voice now carrying the depth of a young man rather than the high timbre of childhood.

Jason exhaled, running a hand down his face before stepping into the room.

“What are you two plotting?” he muttered, his tone more wry than accusatory.

Leonella smirked, ever the composed matriarch. “Plotting? Do you think me the sort to conspire in dark corners, my son?”

Jason gave her a look, the agitation still simmering behind his gaze.

Aemerys, for his part, leaned back slightly, his arms crossing. “Grandmother was telling me stories of the old days. Of when you and Uncle Tyland were boys.”

Jason let out a short breath, half a scoff, half a sigh. “And what lies has she told you?”

Leonella huffed in mock offense. “Not lies, my dear. Simply truths you wish forgotten.”

Jason shook his head, but his agitation had not faded.

Aemerys, perceptive as ever, tilted his head. “You’re angry.”

Jason’s gaze snapped to his son. He opened his mouth, then shut it, his teeth grinding together.

Aemerys saw too much.

Felt too much.

Perhaps he had inherited more than just the blood of the dragon.

Leonella, watching the exchange, simply folded her hands, ever the image of patience. “Tell us, my son, what weighs so heavily on you?”

Jason inhaled, exhaled, and then dragged a chair forward, sinking into it with a deep, measured sigh. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his fingers pressed together. Then, in a low, tight voice, he said, “A raven came from Dragonstone.”

Leonella did not react at first, though her gaze sharpened.

Aemerys, however, did.

“Mother’s family.” It was not a question.

Jason nodded, his fingers tapping once against his knee. “Your aunt.”

Aemerys’s face remained impassive, though Jason saw the slight tensing of his jaw.

Leonella sighed softly. “And what does Queen Rhaenyra desire?”

Jason’s voice was flat, unyielding. “She wants her sister to bring you and your siblings to Dragonstone. She believes your siblings are ready to claim dragons.”

For a long moment, silence.

Then, Aemerys leaned forward slightly, his lilac gaze unblinking. “Is she wrong?”

Jason’s spine stiffened.

Leonella’s breath hitched, just barely.

Jason’s gaze locked onto his son. “That is not the question to ask.”

Aemerys frowned. “Then what should I ask, Father?”

Jason’s eyes were steady, piercing. “Ask yourself whether you wish to be dragged along by your brothers and sisters into a war for dragons you do not need.”

The boy said nothing.

Jason exhaled slowly, running a hand through his golden hair, before finally leaning back. “You are not a boy anymore, Aemerys. You are the heir to the Rock. And that means making decisions not for yourself, but for the future of this land. You think Rhaenyra asks this for your sake? For your mother’s sake? No. She asks because she seeks more power. She seeks to drag the West into her war, one way or another.”

Aemerys’ lips parted slightly, his jaw tight, as if struggling with what to say.

Leonella watched her son carefully, and then, in a measured, quiet voice, she asked: “And what will my daughter-in-law say to this?”

Jason’s gaze flickered.

And in that moment, Leonella knew.

Jason exhaled, dragging a hand down his face, “She will want to go.”

Leonella sighed.

Aemerys’ jaw clenched, but his voice remained even. “Then what will you do, Father?”

Jason’s gaze flickered to his son, to his mother, to the hearth that burned quietly behind them.

Then, in a quiet, firm voice, he said: “I do not know yet.”

The dining hall of Casterly Rock was quieter than usual, the only sounds the faint clinking of silverware against plates and the low flicker of the hearth. The long table, often filled with family and advisors, held only two tonight. The servants had been dismissed, leaving the chamber bathed in an almost eerie silence.

You sat opposite Jason, your fingers lightly tracing the rim of your goblet, sensing the unease that hung between you. He was silent, which was unlike him.

Your husband was not a quiet man—not in council, not in battle, not in your chambers. Jason Lannister always had something to say, always had an opinion ready, sharp and deliberate. But tonight, he had spoken only in short phrases, his replies clipped, his voice tight with thought.

You tilted your head slightly, listening.

He was still there, still seated across from you, but there was something unspoken weighing on him.

You took a careful sip of the rich red wine, setting the goblet down softly before speaking.

“You are quiet tonight, my love.”

Jason’s fingers paused on the stem of his own goblet, but he did not respond immediately.

You turned your face fully toward him, your voice gentle but firm.

“Are you angry with me?”

A soft exhale left him, and then, after a moment, the sound of his goblet being placed back onto the table.

“No.”

A pause.

Then, more softly. “Not with you.”

Your brows furrowed slightly. “Then with whom?”

Jason let out a short, humorless breath, leaning back in his chair. “You already know.”

You inhaled, understanding, yet not accepting his reluctance.

He was angry with Rhaenyra.

Angry with Daemon.

Angry that the war, no matter how fiercely he had fought to keep it from his doorstep, continued to find its way to him.

To you.

To your children.

“You have barely spoken to me since you showed me the letter.” Your voice was even, but weighted with meaning. “You have left me to guess at your thoughts.”

Jason’s green eyes flickered across the candlelit room before settling on you again.

“You advised me once to wait.” His voice was calm, but pointed. “Not to take a side, not to be lured into madness by the rest of them. And I did. I held fast. I kept the West out of it. And now—” He exhaled, shaking his head, his voice dipping lower. “And now you wish to go to them.”

You folded your hands in your lap, thoughtful. “I have not said I will.”

Jason huffed. “You did not have to. I see it in you.”

You turned your unseeing eyes toward him, head tilting slightly. “And what is it you see?”

Jason leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice sharper now.

“Daemon.”

Your breath hitched at the name.

Jason’s gaze was unrelenting.

“This is about him, isn’t it?” His voice was measured, but there was something else beneath it—something raw.

You hesitated for a moment too long.

Jason sat back slowly, his jaw tightening.

You exhaled. “Daemon has always been dear to me, Jason.”

Jason scoffed. “Yes, I am aware.”

You ignored his tone. “He saved my life. He fought Aemond for me. And now he suffers. I—” You hesitated, then continued softer. “I cannot pretend that does not matter to me.”

Jason’s fingers curled into a fist on the table. “And what of me?”

You stiffened. “Jason—”

“What of me?” he repeated, voice lower now, rough with something unspoken. “I have fought for you too. I have held this kingdom together for you. I have spent years ensuring that no dragon, no king, no queen, no war would ever take you from me. And yet now, you would go to him.”

Silence.

You inhaled slowly, reaching forward, your fingers finding his hand.

Jason flinched at first, but did not pull away.

“I do not go to him. I go for my sister. For my family. For my children.”

Jason shook his head, his voice quiet, bitter. “Daemon is part of that family, whether you admit it or not.”

You sighed. “Yes. He is. But you are my husband. You are the father of my children.” You squeezed his hand. “And I have not left yet.”

Jason exhaled slowly, his fingers finally relaxing beneath yours. For a moment, the tension drained from him, but only just.

Then, after a long silence, he spoke softly. “If I asked you not to go—if I begged you—would you stay?”

Your heart clenched.

Jason was not a man who begged.

And that was why you could not answer.

The silence was answer enough.

Jason’s jaw tightened. He nodded once, slowly, accepting.

Then, he lifted your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles before releasing you.

Neither of you said another word for the rest of the meal.

The air in Casterly Rock had turned thick with indecision.

An unusual thing for you—to hesitate.

Aemerys had spent his whole life watching you move through the world with quiet grace, a woman who had never once faltered despite your blindness, whose steps were always measured, whose words never wavered. You were a dragon, bound in flesh, a daughter of fire who had built a life amongst lions and made them love you.

And yet now, as he stood before you in your private solar, he could sense the weight in your shoulders, the way your fingers traced absently over the fabric of your sleeve, your lips pressed together in thought.

You were hesitant.

And Aemerys knew why.

Because of Father.

He stepped forward, his voice careful but firm. “You are troubled.”

You exhaled softly, turning your face toward him, though your sightless eyes could not see the way his gaze searched yours. “You have always been able to read me, my son.”

He hummed. “Because you have never been a woman who hesitates. And yet—” He stepped closer, lowering himself onto the cushioned seat beside you. “Here you are. Torn between fire and gold.”

A sigh slipped past your lips as your fingers lightly traced the embroidery of your gown, the same way you always did when deep in thought. “I do not wish to divide my family, Aemerys.”

He did not immediately reply, watching you closely, carefully. Then, after a pause, he said, “Is it because of us? Or is it because of Father?”

Your lips parted slightly, as if to deny it, but no words came.

And that, in itself, was answer enough.

Aemerys inhaled deeply, shifting his weight. “You love him. That is not in question.”

You tilted your head toward him but remained silent.

“But you are also a Targaryen. You belong to the skies, as I do, as my sisters do. As our blood demands.” His voice lowered, turning more careful, more deliberate. “And yet, I have never heard you hesitate before when it came to dragons. You did not hesitate to place me next to Valyros when I was a babe. And now, you do.”

Your body tensed ever so slightly.

“Because if I allow them to claim dragons, if I take them to Dragonstone—” You swallowed, your voice dropping. “It will mean I have truly chosen. It will mean I have pulled our House into a war that my husband never wanted.”

Aemerys nodded slowly, understanding.

You were not wrong.

Jason had fought against this for years.

Had kept the West out of the war, had refused to allow banners to be raised for Rhaenyra or Aegon, had burned traitors alive for daring to force his hand.

And yet, no matter how fiercely Jason had fought to keep dragons and war from your gates, the truth remained:

You were a dragon—the only dragon the West had ever known. And that had always made you part of this, whether Jason wished it or not.

Aemerys leaned forward, his voice gentler now, but firm.

“Mother.” He reached for your hand, guiding your fingers to his jaw, letting you feel the shape of him, the warmth of him, the son who had inherited both your blood and his father’s.

You sighed, your fingers brushing softly over his cheek, as if you were memorizing him.

Aemerys swallowed. “You are afraid of losing Father. I understand that.”

Your breath hitched just slightly.

But Aemerys continued.

“But Father knew what he was doing when he married you. He knew what it meant to take fire as his wife. He knew what it meant to sire dragons in the West.” His voice softened. “You cannot fight who you are. And you cannot let his love for you keep you from your birthright.”

A sharp exhale left your lips, as if you had been holding your breath.

And for a long time, you said nothing.

Then, after a moment, your fingers tightened around his hand.

And in that silence, Aemerys knew.

You had made your choice.

The great hall of Casterly Rock was eerily silent. The long tables, usually filled with voices and the clatter of cups, stood empty. The only sound was the crackling of the hearth and the faint clink of a goblet against polished wood.

Jason sat alone at the high table, a near-empty cup of Arbor Gold in his hand, his gaze fixed on the golden liquid as it sloshed slightly with each small movement of his wrist.

He had dismissed everyone hours ago, seeking solitude, yet found none.

Because the war was still at his door.

Because Rhaenyra would not let go.

Because Daemon had returned to haunt his thoughts.

Because his wife—his perfect, impossible wife—was slipping further into the war with every passing moment.

Jason exhaled heavily, lifting the goblet to his lips and draining the rest of it. The burn of the wine was dull compared to the fire in his chest. He had never been a man to question himself, never been a man to hesitate. He had ruled the West as he saw fit, had kept his lands free of dragonfire and bloodshed, had burned traitors and crushed dissent with little remorse.

And yet, now, he could do nothing.

Nothing but wait.

Nothing but watch as his wife wrestled with a choice that would drag him—drag their children—into war.

The doors to the hall groaned open.

Jason barely flicked his eyes up as Alester Lannister strode in, his cousin pausing in the doorway before shaking his head with mock exasperation.

"Seven hells, Jason. You look like you've been sentenced to death."

Jason let out a low grunt, turning his goblet in his hands before setting it down with a dull thud. "Not yet. But I imagine it's only a matter of time."

Alester huffed, moving toward the table, grabbing a nearby pitcher, and pouring himself a cup. "That bad?"

Jason rubbed a hand over his face. "Worse."

Alester took a long sip before pulling out a chair across from him, leaning back with the kind of ease that Jason currently envied.

"Let me guess, this isn’t about your wife."

Jason tensed slightly, his fingers curling against the table. "Why would you say that?"

Alester snorted. "Because for all the years I’ve known you, Jason, I’ve never seen a man more besotted than you are with her." He lifted his goblet, smirking. "You’re many things—cunning, arrogant, a right bastard when you choose to be—but an unfaithful husband is not one of them."

Jason sighed, rolling his cup between his hands, before muttering, "It’s Daemon."

Alester arched a brow. "Of course, it is."

Jason exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "He slithers into her thoughts like a phantom. Even after all these years. Even after all I've done for her, he still—" He cut himself off, shaking his head.

Alester watched him for a moment before leaning forward. "Daemon saved her life, Jason. That’s not something one forgets easily."

Jason clenched his jaw. "I know that."

"Then why do you act as though she would ever choose him over you?"

Jason froze, his fingers stilling against the wood.

Alester tilted his head. "I have seen you two together, cousin. And I have never, not once, seen a woman more devoted to her husband. She is yours, Jason. Has been yours since the moment you won her. And yet, you sit here drinking yourself into a stupor because Daemon Targaryen still breathes."

Jason gritted his teeth.

Alester scoffed, shaking his head. "You’re a bloody idiot."

Jason shot him a stern look.

Alester simply grinned. "I mean it. I have never seen a more lovesick pair in all my life, and yet here you sit, brooding like a jilted lover."

Jason huffed, grabbing the wine pitcher and refilling his goblet.

Alester watched him for a moment before leaning back again, shaking his head. "Let me ask you something, cousin. Do you trust her?"

Jason’s grip on his cup tightened.

And then, after a long moment, he exhaled. "More than anyone."

Alester nodded, taking a slow sip. "Then stop acting like a scorned boy and start acting like the Lord of Casterly Rock."

Jason let out a low chuckle, shaking his head.

But the words lingered. And for the first time that night, the weight in his chest felt a little lighter.

[verysanebsdfan]

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 𝟼: sᴄɪᴇɴᴄᴇ sᴛᴏʀᴇʜᴏᴜsᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄʜʀᴏᴍᴇ - ᴀᴄǫᴜɪʀᴇᴅ

The Perfect Equation: Science storehouse and Chrome - Acquired

Ishigami Senku x fem!reader

masterlist tpe masterlist

<previous・・・・・ next>

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

This really is some face a main villain would make when talking about world domination or something. "Get excited!!"

・・・・・

"These jewels refuse to be defeated. Stabbing them only makes more." The blondie realized how bubbles work, even though you could pop them if you tried harder. "There's no choice! I must use my secret technique!" And with that, he ran away while yelling, "Heyyy! Someone's using sorcery over there! Chrome!!"

"Hey! Don't be scared, Ginro. I'm already here!" A brown haired male, Chrome I'd assume, appeared out of nowhere. "I saw these from the coast and came running because that's what I do!" He yelled, making a funny face in the process. "Hey! I'm Chrome. And I've got one baaad head on my shoulders!" He strikes a pose or something like that, at least. "I'm a genius sorcerer." He shouts proudly.

"Oh yeah? Well, I'm Senku. Science user," Senku said, unamused, while picking his ear.

"Hah! Speak of the devil. This saves us the trouble of trying to find him." Kohaku tells us.

"Don't get scared by petty magic like this, Kinro, Ginro!" Chrome shouted at the duo. He makes such interesting facial expressions. I've known him for a minute or so, but he seems fun! "These things?" He exclaims as he starts popping the bubbles, "I can make as many as I want from charcoal lye!!" I turn to Senku to fact-check this, and I assume it's true, judging by his expression. I do recall him telling me something about soap making using charcoal lye, so it would make sense.

"We weren't scared. But only a fool lets down his guard in the face of the unknown." The brown haired one said. The other one said, "I was actually scared. Yup." Then the brown haired spoke again, "Why did you come, anyway? I'd rather not rely on your dubious sorcery. Chrome!" He called out to the sorcerer.

"Your choice, I don't care. But I won't be upstaged!" He threw his jacket away. "Sorcery is my domain, so back off!"

Both he and Senku glared at each other. "Sorcery? That's really lame, but I guess it makes sense, taking their level into account. Wait, how do they even know the word sorcery assuming they didn't know anything about it until Chrome started his experiments? Oh well.

"Things could get hairy for the villagers if we fight here, and we can't have that. Let's pick a different location!" Chrome smirked and started leading us somewhere, Kohaku, Kinro, and Ginro trailing behind us.

"Oh! Hold on! Just wait right here!" Chrome stops us, looking rushed, sort of. Then he sprints into this house on tall legs. Whatever it's called. Probably to get something. All of us were dumbfounded.

When Chrome returns, he starts a fire. "Behold! My baaad sorcery!" He exclaims, cackling evilly and spreading his arms. "Rainbow bridge! Watch as I manipulate fire." He says and throws in some stuff. I watch the fire change color into a beautiful yellow. So he threw in salt. Wow. Next, I observed the flames turning a greenish color, and after that, they turned purple. Wow... Ginro, Kinro, and Kohaku seem freaked out, too.

"Amazing! What sorcery!" The trio exclaims in amazement, while Senku just watches in confusion.

"Uhm, Chrome? Did you figure out all of this by yourself?" I question. "That's impressive, taking into account what level the rest of the village is, but..." I trail off, and Senku takes the turn at speaking.

"Rainbow bridge? What a buncha crap. It's just a series of flame reactions. Salt. Copper. Sulfur. You tossed those in, in that order. Where'd you get the copper? Copper sulfate, I'm guessing? You wouldn't know to call it that, probably. You snatched some blue crystals out of the cave, right?" Senku goes on a rant. I'm used to this, and this time, it's actually easy to understand. For me, at least.

After Chrome processed the fact that Senku knew all this, he freaked out, his mouth wide open and his eyes looking as if they were about to fall out of their sockets. I'm glad he didn't overreact...

"Oh, well done! My sorcery as, well... You better not be thinking it was just a big bluff!" He said, sweating bullets, looking over at Kohaku. "Hang on. I'll be right back." He exclaims and sprints back off into his shed. "With a baaad thing that'll really put the hurt on you! It's seriously gonna be bad this time!" We hear him shout while also rummaging through some stuff.

He comes out, holding a ball of some material, and then he furiously rubs it, looking crazy to a normal eye. After some time, he extends his arm to the Blondie and shocks him.

"Wahh! That hurt! What the heck is that attack!" Blondie overreacts- seriously, everyone here does, in my eyes at least.

I lean closer to the girl who is standing next to me. "Hey, Kohaku," I whisper, "which one is Kinro?" I ask, and she points to the brown haired one. Okay, so the blondie is Ginro.

Meanwhile, Senku took the ball of what he said to be Sulfur and examined it, looking kind of excited. "That sulfur you tossed into the fire earlier, you must've put it in a pot, melted it down. After it had cooled down and hardened, you chipped off the pot." Senku's eyes almost sparkle. "Neat way of going about it! I'm getting excited about you, Chrome!"

Senku proceeds to put down the Kingdom of Science flag and put the flag part off the stick. "Heh, heh, heh... But why rub with your hands when leather will produce ten billion times more power?" Senku says as he gets right to the visual explanation. He rubs the leather flag around the ball of sulfur, and his hair immediately stands up thanks to the static energy. He looks so fluffy now. Aww. I can't say his expression is exactly nice, though.

Senku extends his arm and shocks Chrome, who screams in pain. Oh, I do know that getting shocked hurts. Once, when we were experimenting, I got shocked and was almost sent to the hospital. Ah, the old days.

"Senku's hair is all standing up!" Ginro yells, clearly surprised. "Even though it was already standing up before." Adds Kohaku.

"Static electricity happens when things rub together and swap tiny electric charges. One thing gets extra negative charges, and the other loses them, becoming positive. These charges want to balance out so they can attract or repel objects. Senku's hair stood up because all the hairs get the same charge. Since same charges repel, each hair pushes away from the others, making them stand up!" I spew out an explanation. Just then, Kohaku and Ginro snatch the ball for themselves. "Basically, the hair can't really touch each other when this happens, so it stands up since it wouldn't have space to not touch each other in their normal position." I ramble on but get interrupted by Senku.

"You can teach them stuff later, (Name)." Senku chuckles and turns to them, laughing. "You are such a primitive bunch of people. Chrome. Did you think up all this stuff on your own, in this primitive village?" Senku questions him.

・・・・・

"All the minerals and raw scientific materials in that storehouse, did you collect them all by yourself?" Senku asks another question while looking at the materials inside the storehouse. It was truly impressive- so much useful stuff in one place.

Chrome grabs Senku by his shoulders and reaches for some rock he was holding. "Yeah, I did! Sorry! So give that back." He finally gets the rock for himself and looks at it with shiny eyes. "Kids collect all sorts of things, right? I found them, smashed them, mixed them, burned them... and when something baaad happens, that's sorcery! That's all I¨ve been doing, I swear!"

Senku looks up at the sky, looking amused and happy. I bet he is thinking something about Tsukasa not being able to get rid of science. He stands back in front of Chrome and speaks: "Chrome. Keep this up, and there's a ten billion percent chance that you'll be one of the ones Tsukasa is out to slaughter. You've got no choice but to join me and my Kingdom of Science!" Senku chuckles evilly and starts climbing the ladder to the storehouse again. "Heh, heh, heh... And the Kingdom of Science can't wait to get its hands on this science storehouse of yours."

"No way, you jerk. Get down from there!" Chrome yelled, worried about his precious materials. "One more contest Just you and me! If you lose, you'll now down to me and leave our village for good! If you win, it's all yours, me and my storehouse!" He makes his offer. "I just hope it's not about physical activity..." I think worriedly.

"Contest?" Senku asks, confused.

"Get ready for some baaad skills. No one's ever matched me when it comes to this! Face me in a battle in the art of adding!" Does he mean some arithmetic? Oh... I grin evilly.

"I have a feeling that Senku is even more unmatched there," Kohaku says, and I nod.

"You ready? Cuz I've got some baaaad math for you! Time for an arithme-battle!" Chrome yells and tells us the first math problem.

"8 × 8 = ?" to which both me Senku and I give an unimpressed answer. "64." Even Kohaku knew the answer.

"Crud... Sure, Senku, (Name), got it, but... even you, Kohaku?" Chrome points at us, absolutely baffled. "Well, when watching a school of fish, it's an easy way to estimate how many there are," Kohaku tells him.

"Oh yeah? Fine then! Take this!" Chrome looks at us with an evil look in his eyes. "83 × 87 =?" And Kohaku explodes. "How on Earth could anyone know that?!" she shouts, but then Senku and I both answer. "7221"

During our rocket-building time, I did a lot of the calculations and also got used to doing mental math; it's really not that hard. "Listen, Chrome. What you're trying to show off is a quick-solve method, right? Add up the digits in the ones place to get ten. This trick only works when the tens places have the same digit, though." Senku explains.

"What possible purpose could this so-called arithmetic serve in battle?" Kinro asks, and I take he pleasure of responding. "You know, an advanced civilization is not really about fighting, but about progress. Science is what causes progress. Arithmetics is very much needed."

"Y-you could use it for analyzing power levels!" Chrome yells. "Could be useful for assigning fighters in team bouts," Kohaku answers as well. "Throwing modesty to the wind, I'd say my power level is about 1000." She continues. "Kinro is 500. Ginro is 100. Chrome is 5, and Senku is 3. Don't know about (Name), but I'd say like 5 or 6." She analyzes. I can't say she is wrong for the most part.

"That would mean that Tsukasa is like 5000 at least..." I mumble.

"Heh, heh, heh... Without my science? Sure." Comments Senku.

"Perhaps, but don't underestimate me." Says Kinro. "Apologies. If you wish, we could spar right here and now." Kohaku retorts. I can just in time calm everyone down. We do not need any arguments now, after all.

[nuhahani]

I Found...

I Found - Amber Run

Megumi x Fem Reader fluff, light angst.

1.k words.

Summary: How do you comfort your best friend after he loses his dog and new friend ? You open your domain and bring back everything he's lost.

“Domain Expansion; Cosmic Graveyard.” Fields of dark lifeless rainbows transformed the body of space around you. Grassy headstones that were mildly unkempt moved the earth to create space in the domain. Megumi reached up to touch what he mistook for a dust particle. “Be careful, I’m not sure who that is.” His empty expression turned to you, dead eyes that didn’t have the energy to spark curiosity or even ask. With cupped hands you caught one of the thousands of small wandering particle that passed gently through the air around them in a way that reminded the dark-haired boy of cherry blossoms in the spring. Except these particles shimmered and glowed like fireflies. “These little dust-like floaters are spirits. Any spirit or curse that I have encountered I can use in here after it passes. I call these little floaters spirit dust, kind of like star dust since that’s really what the top of my domain looks like.” Thoughtfully you covered your hands and released the spirit dust onto the ground as if you were gently placing glass down. “Curse technique; Soul Resurrection.” 

The dust swirled into a little white ball of fur that twisted and stretched into a fully grown dog. Megumi let his cold icy expression be replaced with shock and amazement. Standing in front of him, tail wagging and mouth panting, was his white Devine dog. The tips of your fingers grazed the top of the dogs’ head as it observed Megumi drop to his knees. “Come here! Come!” There was no hesitation from the shikigami when it came to following your best friends’ orders. You could honestly say that it was the first time that your domain had ever experienced smiles and breathless laughter, the first time your gift was seen in a positive lens. It was all because of him. Megumi, the cold stoic boy who hid his emotions and would rather tell world to fuck off than ever admit he was hurting was the first person to truly make you see the good in your ability. The higher ups viewed your curse technique as something that needed to be put to an end. You weren’t a curse user, and you certainly weren’t able to fall into the group of shadow/shikigami users.

Your spirits and curses weren’t familiars, and the higher ups were on guard about sorcerers like you since Geto’s defection and even more so after Yuji swallowed Sukuna’s finger. If it hadn’t been for Gojo finding you and convincing them how useful you could be on their side, you would’ve faced your execution years ago. After all being able to summon and bring back beings from the dead was not your everyday ability, watching a seven-year-old summon her dead to play with was not an easy pill to swallow. To say your technique wasn’t for the faint of heart was not an overstatement, you did have the tendency to walk around with undead animals daily. Your subconscious was constantly at work the way Gojo’s infinity was always on. Gojo had taken you under his wing and you were raised side by side with Megumi. So, when that sugar crazed man came to you asking if you could help Megumi after what happened with Yuji and his Devine Dog, how could you possibly say no? Gojo had kept you separated from the other first years, you were already a special grade and there was no need to keep you on easy missions. That’s what he said but you felt there was something much more sinister about the meaning behind ensuring that Sukuna’s vessel never encountered you.

Megumi seemed to be able to read your mind, the words basically written in the air for him to reads. 

“Can I see Yuji?” 

The four words that ripped you to shreds, it had become clear to you why Gojo didn’t want you to ever encounter Yuji Itadori, the sweet boy that was supposed to be executed just as you were. Your mentor didn’t want to give Sukuna the chance to see you and your curse technique. Megumi already knew the answer. The weight and reality of wishful thinking crashing down on him. You couldn’t bring him back. You had never even gotten a glimpse at the other first year; you only knew what you had been told and that wasn’t enough to resurrect a soul. 

“I’m sorry... ‘m so sorry Megumi,” Your best friends' expression broke you. How could you keep it together when he was on the verge of crumbling, the one who you also thought was untouchable. “I’m not allowed to meet him so I can’t show him to you.” The three of you fell into comfortable silence as he finally allowed himself to feel the weight of all his loss. You didn’t want to ruin the moment, but you had no choice but to tell him now. “Gojo is sending me back across seas tomorrow. I’ll be in China this time.” Laid between you in the grass was a small headstone engraved with foreign writing. The grass in your domain was always softest around the graves, white fur almost completely separating the two of you. “Apparently, he’s found a sorcerer with a similar technique to mine. He doesn’t want me back until the end of October.” 

“You’re leaving again… That idiots kept you out of the country as long as Yuta.” 

“The perks of being a special grade I guess.” You chuckled but could the burn of his gaze on you. Megumi would miss you, he would never say it, but you knew each time. You did your best to bring back gifts for him depending on where you went. Recently you brought him back a black and white beadwork bracelet from her time in Africa with Miguel and Yuta. The time before you brought him back incense and perfume from her time in Egypt where Gojo had sent you off to learn more about the ancient curse techniques related to your own. You knew his favorite gifts were ones that were mildly cursed however Yaga had banned you from bringing more cursed items back after the canned tuna incident. Everywhere you went no matter how large or small, for your own education or mission; you always brought him something back. “I’ll bring you something back of course.” His dark eyes never left you; he was unsure if could look away and you didn’t want him to. 

A/N I think I’ll write more for this piece, oh well. I’ve decided to write more fluff because I like fluff and if you don’t then be like Kevin Heart and MIND YOUR DAMN MOTHERFUCKING BUSINESS.

[doodle-pops]

The Ainur | With Reader Experiencing Panic Attacks

Request: I've been like an overexcited Buddy the Elf since you announced requests open, I love them so unbelievably much, they make my week and sometimes my month. So if I may please make a little request... how do you think the Ainur would react if the reader suffers from panic attacks? - anon

A/N: I went with the classic bunch I usually write for, however, I found it difficult to come up with something for Melkor (because I couldn't picture him being patient or soft enough? Idk, if that's just me). So he’s out in this one. Enjoy!

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･Manwë

As someone gentle and nurturing when it comes to dealing with others, Manwë would be a wonderful individual to assess your panic attacks when they strike. Whether they come in waves of frantic panicking or silence, he’s observant and on the lookout for when an episode can arise. Hence why he has a hand in certain activities in your day-to-day duties to reduce any form of stress that would bring it on. This also extends to arranging secluded spots where you can be at peace and blend into nature.

If your panic attacks derive from traumatic events or stress, the Lord of Airs will do his best to ensure that you are never placed in situations where you can relive or entertain such build-ups. His eyes are always on your figure, not too close nor too far, as he observes the people you communicate with and the level of work you handle.

All in all, you’ve got someone who would invite his little bird friends to perform melodies to ease your pain, or the Lord himself would engage in leisurely activities for your sanity.

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･Irmo

The moment he enters you spot your figure, he’s aware that something is off. In fact, it was the reason why he was drawn to your presence in the first place, high levels stress of radiating strongly. Irmo would be worried about the blank look on your face as you’re staring off into the distance and your body slumps. He’s more familiar with the frantic forms of panic attacks, that this other outcome has him slightly worried. Just how much stress or possible trauma were you under at that very moment.

Communicating with you by calling out your name would come surprisingly at ease as you take glances at him with a lethargic expression. He could see that in your mind, thoughts were raging war rapidly to the point you could barely keep up with a single focal point, and he understood how you felt at that moment. He is tender and gentle as he calls out to you and informs you that he’s going to hold you closely to help bring you back into reality.

With Irmo, you get the opportunity to spend lots of time in his gardens to soothe your mind. He practically opens it to you and invites you to use it when the thoughts in your mind are colliding and creating a frenzy. There are moments, when he would pay you a visit as you’re relaxing to hold your hand and reassure you that he’s here and you not drifting off deep into your thoughts.

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･Námo

The Lord of the Dead would find the situation unfamiliar to him since his profession deals with souls and not of the flesh. When he faces you in your panicked state, panting and gasping for air as your eyes flutter like a storm around the room and clinging to some surface, his first thought is that you were harmed. Quickly rushing to your side, Námo would attempt his best to pacify your erraticism, placing his hands against your face to get you to focus on him while guiding your hands to his face to anchor yourself back to earth. It breaks his heart to eventually learn that it wasn’t an injury but rather a panic attack once his brother accessed your health.

As Námo now learns of what a panic attack looks like and has become familiar with it and how it can arise, he would arrange with his brother to pardon you visitations to his garden for peaceful moments while he was busy attempting to create one at his domain to surprise you upon your return. It’s difficult for Námo to find breaks in between his duties, but he tries his hardest to meet with you and spend more time conversing about any problems or possible traumatic experiences that can cause your panic attacks.

He would remedy incense, teas, and music for you, under the assistance of his brother and Lady Ëste. There would be more breaks in your schedule if stress is the cause and a higher demand that you relax and enjoy the beauty of life while leaving the heavier duties to him. While Námo would be eyeing you like a hawk, courtesy his Maiar who would be placed in charge of you, he would step in and handle your care on his own.

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･Ëonwë

The Herald of Manwë would be partially familiar with the dynamic of what serve panicking looks like after fighting alongside other elves who are more susceptible to such conditions. He may not have treated soldiers who suffered the attacks but witnessed the procedure, which is why when it occurred to you, he was able to access the situation. Swiftly he moves, but beneath his appearance, he’s panicking as well, as he captures your attention after noticing your symptoms. Using his wings, Ëonwë will embrace you in a hug and have them cocoon you both from the outside world.

His wings are one of the best sources to dealing with your panic attacks as it brings an extra sense of security and comfort. He normally uses his wings when he wants to shut the world (noises) out, so it comes in handy in a situation like yours. His hands are on your face as he guides your breathing to reduce your erraticism. The soft coos and a few chirps would slip out because his heart breaks at the sight of you appearing distorted.

Ëonwë would whisk you away to an enclosed area where it can simply be you and him without any distractions. He would spend the rest of the moment in tranquillity, lounging about the place with you in his arms, stroking your hair and watching as you sleep.

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･Mairon

 Confused and concerned at your state of silence, you blankly stare off into God knows where, probably the wall, as your mind turns into a battlefield of thoughts. At first, he’ll ignore you and believe you’re just being your usual self (weird), but as time passes and you’re still sitting there for almost an hour unresponsive, he becomes concerned. He’ll hover over you, unsure if to gently touch you or firmly shake you awake, instead, he settles on calling you. Mairon wouldn’t understand that it was a panic attack because he tends to experience erratic ones and is familiar with those.

However, after learning, he would be on the lookout anytime he notices you slumped with a blank expression and eyes distantly gazing into the unknown. His actions would be a lot more caring as he gingerly touches your shoulder or hands for you to grasp the concept of not slipping away too deeply into your thoughts. Mairon wouldn’t be an expert at having professional care, because how he deals with his own panic attacks isn’t for everyone, so he understands that being sensitive is necessary.

It’s one of the times when his tone changes, and so do his expressions as he tends to you. Might crack a few jokes to test the waters and see where you stand on the scale before advancing with the rest of his care. You might get him to stop for a moment with his plotting and crafting to sit with you in a quiet embrace and listen to your thoughts. A small kiss to your forehead before he sends you off to your shared chambers or gardens (if he has one appropriate to sit in) to spend the rest of the day.

Masterlist

Taglist: @ranhanabi777 @lilmelily @mysticmoomin @rain-on-my-umbrella @asianbutnotjapanese @batsyforyou @mcwentfandomtraveling @involuntaryspasms @stormchaser819 @aconstructofamind @addaigio @lamemaster

[sky-kiss]

Raphael & Jaheira: You All Meet at an Inn

A/N: I had to get an intro out of the way before proper sassing down the line. And apologies, I'm out of practice with writing.

R & J: Let's be honest, his taste in wine is so much better than hers

Like many of his kind, the devil was a series of contradictions. 

Handsome but not striking. Languid, but only on a cursory inspection. A more pointed observation would showcase the taut muscles in his shoulders and thighs, hinting that the lazy rolling motion of his wrist was intentional rather than instinctual. And, perhaps most importantly, despite the ostentatiousness of his garb, rich blues, reds, and golds, which demanded attention and respect, few of the Last Light’s patrons truly saw him. 

Jaheira did not fault them for the oversight. The High Harper noted it with a world-weary amalgamation of affection and exhaustion. Few prey animals noticed the hunter until it was upon them. Man and beast were not such disparate creatures. 

She shifted, rolling her shoulders to alleviate some residual tension—the aches that never seemed to properly fade these days, which had faded until only a decade prior. She should turn him out. And aye, much like the aches, even a decade ago, she might have done something about his presence—but where was the harm? He stuck to his corner and played his games. 

In the darker stretches of the night, his attention shifted away from the lance-board and his books towards the door. The devil waited. 

Jaheira waited, too.  

The devil lifted his head, eyes flicking from the Mystra piece to the Harper. He made a show of it, eyes widening, lips turning up in a smile—noticing her, seemingly for the first time. She snorted, arching a brow. He shrugged, expression relaxing into something more neutral and more genuine, motioning to the seat across from him. 

“You know, I rather wondered which of us would bring our little dance to its close,” he began, voice warm and rich. His lips twitched, expression colored with so many masterful little notes—presumed intimacy, natural familiarity…they might have been old friends meeting for drinks in any alehouse. Easiness and charm…the domain of all his kind. His eyes glittered in the firelight. 

The half-elf sunk into the chair, holding her arms out wide. “Shall we continue circling each other like coquettish maids?” Jaheira waved him off. “Who has time for it?”

“Certainly not you, High Harper. All this,” he motioned around them, attention flicking to the window and the shadows just beyond. “Resting on your shoulders…such a weighty calling.” 

“You offer to take it from me?” 

“I wouldn’t dream of it. You are so…uniquely equipped for these travails.” 

Jaheira snorted. “Let us call it experience—hard won over many years of life.” She tipped her head to the side, regarding him closely. Without a room of distance between them, she could appreciate the more minor details of this mortal form: wrinkles near the corners of his eyes, hints of sunspots across the back of his hands, and streaks of gray brightening otherwise dark hair. He felt fully manifest in a way so many of his ilk failed to recognize—the little things grounded an illusion in reality. “Come, tell me what to call you. In my head, it is ‘devil this, devil that’...tedious.” 

His eyes widened. “You shall have to forgive this lapse in manners—it’s the setting, you see. One really isn’t at their best.” He mimed a bow, someone still regal despite the confines of the chair. “I am Raphael—very much at your service.” 

“A pleasant name! Well-suited to this pleasant face.”  

Raphael hummed. With a snap of his fingers, the lance-board disappeared. In its place, a bottle of brandy. She did not recognize the label’s language. “A devil in your house, and yet…we are rather blase.” 

“Do not take it personally.” She ghosted her fingers across the table. “Gods of death, demon princes…after these things—” his muscles drew taut, eyes narrowing as she spoke. “ —your feathers are very pretty, but… you make for a much smaller bird.” 

To his credit, Raphael laughed. He poured them each a glass of wine. As if in concession, he took the first sip—no poison. Jaheira bowed her head and followed suit. The wine’s bouquet blossomed across her tongue—rich and deep, a hint of cherry and leather giving way to softer, more subtle notes. It reminded her of Calimshan—pleasant evenings before the true weight of adventuring settled on her shoulder…when she’d been young, Khalid at her side. 

The knowing glint in his eye said he’d anticipated such a reaction. A smaller bird, perhaps, but cunning. I have survived so many years, his gaze said, and I have thrived for good reason. 

“To walk so freely on the Prime is no small thing. And you do not seem the sort to bind yourself to the whims of mortals…” she tapped her chin. “A cambion, then.” 

“Are we to trade parlor tricks, my dear? Shall I ask if your house qualified you as a ‘princess’ or a ‘lady’ in Tethyr?” 

“A lady, though my youngest will argue that point till she is blue in the face.” Jaheira held up her glass in salute. “Do not take offense—it was a compliment, one mongrel to another.” 

Raphael chuckled. “One mongrel to another.” The cambion sighed, relaxing back into his seat. He stroked his chin, fingers teasing across the whisper of stubble—not quite a day’s growth, perhaps a matter of hours. A testament to his dedication and vanity—over the past week, he’d never moved from his seat by the window. “Shall we be honest with each other, ladyship?” 

“It depends. Will honestly not make your skin itch?” 

“You wound me. I am a paragon of virtue to friends and clients both. And the honest truth is I am awaiting a favorite distraction of mine.” He sipped his wine again. “I dare say they might even solve the lion’s share of your problems. Interested?” 

She hummed. Jaheira settled more comfortably in her chair. “Sing me your song, lovely bird. Perhaps…we may yet benefit one another.”

[vivisectrix]

so either the vitreous humor parallels in brief lives are a.) so obvious that no one mentions them b.) so discreet that no one mentions them, or c.) something i made up in my own mind (because i'm chronically ill over themes and motifs)

regardless of the true answer, i reread brief lives to take notes on this supposed symbolism and come to a conclusion on what it's meant to represent. the thesis: vitreous humor functions in the storyline of brief lives as a metaphor for clarity, especially in the context of change. here's why:

vitreous humor is first mentioned by delirium in the first issue, when she says that she once got really wet in a flood made of "the gunky stuff inside people's eyes," and that she cannot remember what it is called. floods are often used as symbols of change—see the genesis flood narrative as an example. it is also worth noting that this scene is a catalyst for delirium's endeavor to find destruction, and that it is also depicted with rain. this fact makes it easier to draw a parallel between delirium's brief anecdote and the scenario in which she recounts the memory. the term vitreous humor escapes her because she is struggling with a feeling of helplessness at the idea of change and loss (her brother's absence, specifically), and therefore lacks the clarity required to recall the words she is looking for. she loses her grip on reality and herself when overwhelmed, which may be observed in the following club scene and juxtaposed by the scene in destiny's garden where both of her eyes are the same color. change is a difficult thing for delirium to handle, despite the fact that she is the only one of her siblings to have inexplicably changed her name and function.

she once again contends with her inability to recall the term when she enters despair's domain and searches for a clear, safe question to ask her sister. despair, of course, knows instantly [that delirium is referencing vitreous humor] because of what despair is: grim, crushing helplessness upon realizing a truth. even her domain reflects her relation to clarity: the grey realm is all mirrors and fog—common symbols of truth and uncertainty, respectively.

as despair then remembers her meeting with destruction in the time of the black death, she attempts to prevent herself from being blinded by grief and nostalgia by using her hooked ring to free vitreous humor from her own eye. the manner in which she holds on to her own clarity associates the concept with pain, which makes sense given despair's tendency for nostalgia, a feeling primarily based on change and the pain that comes from being unable to return to another time. she tries to keep herself out of a downward spiral by maintaining complete lucidity and awareness of the present rather than the past, even if this effort does ultimately fail.

the last appearance of vitreous humor occurs at the end of brief lives as the setting of desire's meditation—they float alone in an eyeball of the threshold and think (privately) about what has happened and what is to come. in a previous scene, they expressed their fear of such future events to their twin, which they likely would not have done if they had not truly finally registered the consequences of dream's actions (and perhaps even their own). so it is that desire has realized the grave nature of dream's unfolding situation, thus reaching a form of clarity regarding their long-term scheme's outcome.

even outside the sandman, eyes represent clarity—it is a metaphor that is especially common in literature and art. in certain cultures eye contact is indicative of honesty; it is also said that eyes are windows to the soul. by depicting and describing a specifically internal component of the eyeball, the metaphor is enhanced, giving rise to thoughts of concealed truths protected beneath the thin but present surface.

the central theme of change in brief lives is, i think, effectively emphasized by this utilization of extended metaphor, especially since it foreshadows the events that are to take place in the kindly ones while also developing characters in the process.

has this occurred to anyone else?? i think i saw one forum post from like over a decade ago mention the vitreous humor parallel, but it didn't get into the implications. i've not noticed anyone else say anything about it other than that 😞

[hao-and-yoh]

Shaman King “Fractured Duality” - Alternative Universe

Continued from here.

A relived rescue turns out to be a little more complicated than expected.

Episode Nine

“Trust No One”

(1)

Thanks to Tao Ren’s loyal Spirit Ally acting as their guide - and after days of hiking across the Chinese mountainous province of Guizhou - Yoh, Hao, HoroHoro and Manta had finally arrived at their destination. Nestled within the north mountains, the four friends took a moment to observe the remote and impressive “Castle of Tao” Temple in front of them - as they all simultaneously considered the impending and worrying unknown. Though there was one shaman present who believed more than ever that they had the upper hand - and appeared more relaxed than usual.

“That’s it. Ren lives there.” softly sighed Yoh.

“It’s enormous.” gulped Manta.

“Yeah and not only that!” chimed in HoroHoro. “Check out the magnificent landscape! No where in Hokkaido comes even close to comparing to this place!”

“Guizhou. A province located on the far frontier of China. I wasn’t aware it existed!” observed Manta.

“Words are not enough to express my deepest gratitude to you all for coming all this way to save Master Ren.” said Bason, bowing his head at the four friends.

“Don’t sweat it, Bason.” happily said Yoh, beaming a smile at the Chinese warrior spirit. “Ren is a good friend of ours, and - I know he’d do the same for all of us too. Right Nii-chan?” smiled Yoh, turning towards his big brother behind him.

Hao laughed a bit.

“Well, I’m not so sure about that last part but - yes, of course.” nodded Hao, smiling kindly at the worried warrior ghost.

“Thank you. Thank you so much.” cried Bason, bowing his head once again at the twins.

“Yoh-dono!” called the voice of the samurai spirit.

“”Huh?”” echoed the group, now turning their attention to Amidamaru’s ghostly form and worried expression coming towards them.

“It is just as I expected. I scanned around the castle but did not see anyone guarding it.” explained Amidamaru.

“Hm.” mumbled Yoh, giving Amidamaru a knowing look. “Just like last time.”

“Last time?” muttered Bason, confused.

“Yeah - it’s a little hard to explain Bason but - I’ve already been through this little scenario once before - and trust me, Ren will be okay. We’ve got this.” chuckled Yoh, scratching the back of his head awkwardly.

“Yoh.” said Hao, somewhat coldly. Yoh turned his attention back to his hard faced brother. “It’s foolish to assume this will play out the same way as you remember. Don’t get too overly confident.”

Yoh gulped a bit as he observed the seriousness of Hao’s demeanour and unusually harsh tone. He nodded his head at him.

“Yeah - yeah you’re right, Nii-chan. I might be getting a little too cocky. We need to stay vigilant.” replied Yoh, nodding his head in agreement with his twin.

“Yes. We must remain cautious. I am certain this may be some kind of trap. We are about to enter the sacred domain of the Tao family.” wearily added Bason.

Continue here.

Enter “Alt Universe” here.

Read “Fractured Duality” in full here.

[the-least-undefinable-ordinal]

8, 47!

8. Least favourite notation you've ever seen?

It used to be a tie between the greek letter xi (pretty self explanatory, it's awful to write by hand and is clearly meant to be written in Latex) and the usage of exponents for trigonometric functions: it's maddeningly inconsistent!

When n is positive, usually 2, (cos^n)(x) means (cos(x))^n, on the other hand cos^-1(x) is the inverse function of cos(x), they mean exponentiation with different products, one with the pointwise product and the other with function composition.

If you see cos^-2(x) written somewhere it can mean (cos(x))^-2, (arccos(x))^2 or arcos(arccos(x)), three very different functions! This is why I always use arcsin and arccos, they neatly resolve the ambiguity (though I still don't use cos^-1, just in case).

Since I started heading down the Set Theory path of Math my least favourite notation has become when people denote f(A) as the image of a function restricted to a subset A of its domain.

It is almost never a problem outside of pure set theory (at least it has never been in my non set theory courses) but when you have a function whose domain is an ordinal number, then every element of the domain is also a subset of the domain, so this notation is almost always ambiguous. Of course, this means I almost never find this notation when doing set theoretic stuff but I still need to do a double take when I have to do other math for whatever reason.

47. Just how big is a big number?

The boring answer is probably something like 10^83, which seems to be one of the current estimates for the number of atoms in the observable universe, anything bigger than that is probably impossible to write down or read in a lifetime.

The set theoretic answer is probably any inaccessible cardinal, their existence is independent from ZFC but they're still pretty neat.

They're called inaccessible because you can't obtain them using cardinals smaller than themselves, specifically, a cardinal K is said to be inaccessible if it can't be expressed as the union of less than K smaller cardinals and they are always larger than the powerset of any set smaller than K.

Aleph_0 is usually excluded from this definition (it's the only cardinal that trivially fulfills these conditions) but it gives a neat intuition of what it means to be a "large" infinity, there is a night and day difference between sizes smaller than Aleph_0 and Aleph_0 itself.

[jazlynriddle-legacy]

Welcome to your life - Pt 1:

Everybody Wants To Rule THEIR World - Ch 2:

Summary:

"You need only close your eyes to it and be happy and safe with us."

The Keeper (player) has already secured the repository and Sebastian's loyalty, emboldening his descent into darkness. Now, they just need to win over Ominis, cure Anne, and create a domain to call their own.

And not necessarily in that order.

The Keeper's tale, a post-game story of a morally-grey, pragmatic, Chaotic Neutral, non-binary, muggleborn, orphan player character, so burned by 1800s orphanages, that they became a power hoarder who demands more payment for quests, burns paintings but doesn't want to rule the world, just their own territory and the two boys who'd caught their eye.

Warnings: Sebastian x MC x Ominis! Spoilers! Dark content! Slow-burn canon-compilant corruption! Fucked up 1800s orphanages! MC has no love for Anne or Solomon! Dubious happy ending (it's happy for MC, Seb and Ominis at least)

You can also read on AO3! (chapter specific warnings below)

Notes:

Warnings: Mentions of murder, mentions of past sexual assault.

I understand why the developers would only give the player options that say Sebastian did something wrong by killing his uncle. Naturally they're not going to endorse murder of one's guardian in their game no matter what.

However, no matter how you look at it, a main character who chooses to absorb the repository wouldn't be someone who would talk about Sebastian having a chance to change his path or move on. They would see no problem with Sebastian's pursuit of power and dark arts and changing his fate or specifically Anne's fate. So, I've tweaked the dialogue accordingly.

Also, fyi, Bobby is a British slang word for police.

The Keeper stepped into the Undercroft, glancing over towards the back to confirm that the Repository was still intact and safely hovering at the back of the large hall.

That done, they scanned the chamber for Sebastian, spotting his familiar figure standing by a stack of crates. The Keeper strode towards him without hesitation, unsurprised to see that he was observing the Repository warily.

"Sebastian, I received your owl." The Keeper spoke as they approached, they'd never been one for pleasantries and they appreciated that Sebastian never seemed to mind.

"I'm guessing that you're to thank for the latest addition to the Undercroft's decor?" He asked, turning to face them, his eyes curious and a brow raised.

"I am, and I shall explain that later. First, what happened?" They placed their hands together and waited.

"Right…" Sebastian's expression immediately fell, and the Keeper noted their own displeasure at the sadness on his face. "Ominis spoke with Anne about what happened with my uncle Solomon. She believes I should pay for what I did, but she won't turn me in. She said the guilt I'll have to live with is punishment enough."

The Keeper frowned. Sebastian should pay for what he did? Punishment? What on earth was Anne thinking? Sebastian killed Solomon for her. His own flesh and blood, and now she was upset at him?

It wasn’t as though Anne hadn't seen how the man treated Sebastian, did she simply love her uncle more than her twin? Perhaps she had spent too long with Solomon as her only caregiver and had become poisoned against her brother.

The Keeper could understand if Anne was squeamish, not everyone was cut out for gore and violence, but ingratitude?

It looked like they would have to revise their opinion of her. Pity, they'd thought rather highly of Anne when she'd spoken of releasing Sebastian from his burden of curing her. Not that she'd actually done anything to prove that she had ever truly intended to do so.

"Surely she understands that you acted in self-defence? That man fired confringos at us!" The Keeper replied, not bothering to keep the incredulity from their voice.

Sebastian shook his head miserably. "I guess not… perhaps she feels I should have used another spell…"

"Rubbish. Only a fool would allow someone who attacked them the chance to finish the job. Anyone who raises their wand against another should be ready to die." The Keeper grimaced, how pampered that girl must be to not understand murder in self-defence.

Solomon had basically pointed a gun at them and even fired a few rounds into their limbs. Were they to simply wait for a fatal shot? The Keeper had seen enough beggars come to blows for their dinner to know that pitiful seeming people were rarely harmless, and Solomon was a retired auror, a soldier!

If he was trying to disarm them or restrain them, he should have done so with ease, instead he used damaging spells against them and injured them, enough to require multiple wiggenweld potions!

Unheeding of their pleas for him to stop attacking two fifteen year old children, one of whom was his own nephew! Did family and blood truly count for so little to that unreasonable man?

At least Ominis had the excuse of not having witnessed the ferocity with which Solomon had attacked them. He'd even said "poor Sebastian" as Sebastian left the Undercroft that day. Proving that, while he did not approve of Sebastian's actions, Ominis clearly understood that Sebastian was not fully to blame.

They did agree with Ominis that Sebastian shouldn't delve further into dark arts. At least for now, while they were in school, and he definitely shouldn't be killing in front of naive and sheltered people, like Anne apparently was.

It was easy to say what one should or shouldn't do, until you were the one facing the possibility of death, at the hand of a beloved family member no less.

While the Keeper didn't entirely agree with Ominis' sense of moral justice, they also understood that he was responding irrationally strongly towards Dark Magic due to his childhood trauma. Oh how they wished to relieve him of those irrational fears, but such thoughts were best left for another time.

The Keeper shook their head. "Perhaps she has spent too long in the company of an ex-auror. If they're anything like a muggle bobby, then he's full of self-righteous pipe dream moral standards. Perhaps she mistakenly believes he wasn’t actually trying to kill us."

"Perhaps… either way, I think I've lost my sister, my twin, forever." Sebastian pressed a hand to his forehead, his jaw tight and his shoulders trembling. "She refuses to even see me."

"Oh Sebastian… I'm afraid Anne may never be able to forgive you." They murmured, tempted to draw him into an embrace but refraining for the moment. "But at least she's still alive. For now, at least."

Sebastian looked up in alarm at their wording, anxiety sparking in his eyes.

The Keeper felt for him, it must be so hard to be so badly misunderstood by the person he was so devoted to. Truly Anne didn't deserve him, but Sebastian needed her, so the Keeper would do what they could for her too.

Whether she liked it or not.

"Did Ominis say who would be taking care of her now?" The Keeper asked thoughtfully.

Sebastian shook his head. "Ominis brought me a note from her, she said she's leaving Feldcroft but she didn't say where she was going. We don't have any relatives left so I can't be sure if anyone will be caring for her at all."

They frowned. "That's concerning, in her condition she wouldn't be able to defend herself from robbers or… worse men. If she gets injured, who would get her to St Mungo's?"

Sebastian paled, his jaw tightening and his fists clenching, but said nothing. No doubt frustrated that Anne had rejected his protection at her own peril.

The Keeper glanced at the repository. They hadn't planned to make the offer so soon, but for Sebastian…

"Sebastian. You still wish to save and protect her, correct?" The Keeper asked, drawing his attention.

"I- yes. Even if she can't forgive me. Even if she can't bear the sight of me. I have to save her, she's my twin." Sebastian's eyes burned with resolve. How admirable.

The Keeper nodded, it would be worth it. For Sebastian.

Besides, while it would be nice to only focus on self-sustainability for a bit, they'd probably get bored eventually without a stimulating project. Curing her would surely be interesting, with the added benefit of further entwining their future with that of Sebastian's and Ominis'.

Not to mention, they were also curious to explore what they could do with their Ancient Magic.

"You recall the pain that Isidora extracted in the memory we viewed. Yes?" The Keeper asked instead.

Sebastian blinked at the seemingly sudden change in topic but folded his arms thoughtfully with a nod. "I'm assuming that orb over there contains the pain she collected. An awful lot more of it than I expected, to be honest."

Such a clever boy, the Keeper thought to themselves, pleased that he was catching on quick.

They nodded. "As I said in my letter, Isidora's method is flawed, resulting in a person losing all their emotions, not just pain."

Sebastian returned the nod. "Which makes her method unsuitable for curing Anne. Thus, I resorted to using the relic, without much success."

"You really shouldn't have done that on your own, things might have gone differently if I had been with you." They couldn't help but shoot back, still mildly irritated that Sebastian had left them out.

Sebastian winced, looking appropriately chastised. "I didn't want to keep relying on you, you've already done so much for me-"

"Do you really think I'm keeping count? I thought we were partners working together for each other's ends." Okay. Perhaps they were more than mildly irritated.

"We are! I just-" Sebastian protested.

"Then why would you think I wouldn't want to see this through to the end, by your side!?" The Keeper couldn't stop their frustration from bleeding into their voice. "Ominis, I can understand but why leave me out!?"

"Because I didn't want to risk something going wrong and hurting either of you!" Sebastian burst out, startling them into silence.

"I thought-" Sebastian sighed, running a hand through his hair in agitation. "I thought Anne understood, I thought she felt like I did, that we needed to find a cure for her at any cost. So of course she had to be there, but I didn't want to endanger you or Ominis."

Sebastian's eyes met theirs and they were taken aback by the emotions swirling around in there. "I didn't want either of you to die if I failed. I realised it, after you told me about the side-effects of using Ancient Magic to remove pain. Curing Anne is my duty, my burden, not yours."

The Keeper sighed, feeling the anger bleed out of them. "I suppose you didn't even realise that you hadn't managed to control all the Inferi."

Sebastian shook his head ruefully. "I thought I had. I was glad to see you at first. Thought I'd get to show you that I'd succeeded on my own. I should have known you would make it through a horde of Inferi without breaking a sweat."

"You can be so daft sometimes. We're in this together, you've helped me in carrying out my duty as a Keeper. Your burdens are mine too." They smiled, unable to hide their affection for this foolish boy.

Sebastian's cheeks flushed slightly, unsure if he was misinterpreting the weight of those words, and the Keeper shook their head, deciding to return to the subject at hand.

"Anyway, as I was saying, her method is flawed but I think I know why. During the other Keepers' memory of the event, I could see the rest of her father's emotions trickling out from the point where she'd extracted the pain." The Keeper began pacing thoughtfully, pleased that Sebastian wasn't interrupting their tale this time. He was learning.

"Her method seemed to have worked, since her father thanked her, but I believe she was too focused on the pain to notice that she had left a gaping hole in his soul, allowing his emotions to gradually empty over time."

"Professor San Bakar killed her later with the killing curse during a confrontation between her and the Keepers, when they realised that she was using the technique on her students without permission. Isidora had been absorbing the pain like a drug, and her power was strong enough at that point, that I doubt the Keepers would have survived if he hadn't used the killing curse."

The Keeper paused here, watching Sebastian's eyes widen at the revelation that someone else had used the Killing Curse for good, to protect, like he had. They took a moment to place a supportive hand on his shoulder.

"I told you, you did the right thing. Who knows what would have happened if you hadn't killed Solomon." The Keeper whispered comfortingly as Sebastian took a shuddering breath.

He nodded after a moment, gratitude and assurance bringing some life back into his eyes.

The Keeper felt sympathy for him, their first kill, almost two years ago now, had shaken them up too. They'd stared at their hands, watching them tremble before looking over the balcony to where the sick paedophile had fallen.

It had taken them weeks to come to terms with what they had done, but eventually, when that awful man was replaced with a more humane workhouse manager, they understood that they'd done the right thing. Some people simply deserved death, for the good of the many.

Satisfied that Sebastian had overcome his momentary emotional lapse, they continued. "Thus, I believe it might be possible to use Ancient Magic to cure Anne without her losing her emotions. We just need to find a way to close the hole that pain-removal creates."

Sebastian's jaw went slack, his eyes near glimmering with hope.

"It will take experimentation and time, however. Time Anne might not have if she's alone out there-"

"I'll find her." Sebastian cut them off, his eyes set with determination, blazing with his usual fire. "I'll search for her and we can cure her together. Nothing is too great a cost to save her life."

"Even if she resists?" The Keeper challenged, watching his expression carefully. "I would need to use human test subjects to experiment with my power upon."

Sebastian swallowed, his expression uncertain for only a moment, before hardening with resolve and he nodded. "She'll understand when we succeed in curing her, and she doesn't need to know about the test subjects."

The Keeper nodded in agreement, pleased with his response. "We'll need a place to work in secret, and I need a place to hide the Repository. With the power in it to supplement my own Ancient Magic, I shouldn't have much difficulty creating a fortress, with research and time. So, for now, we simply need to find a suitable place to create our home."

Sebastian's ears turned red at the last two words, his eyes scrutinising them curiously.

The Keeper ignored it, allowing him to come to whatever conclusion he liked. They wanted him, but they were patient. Though it certainly pleased them to see him react so adorably to their implications.

"Would you be alright with Ominis joining us? If he wants to, I mean." Sebastian asked hesitantly. 

The Keeper smiled. "Of course, I plan to make our home large enough for all four of us to live comfortably after we graduate."

Sebastian grinned, his clear excitement over the idea was incredibly endearing. They hoped Ominis would be amenable to their offer, though they were rather sure he would eventually cave regardless, his loyalty to Sebastian was too strong.

Yes, the Keeper would create their own little slice of heaven for everything that was theirs.

Notes:

To be clear, the Keeper did not actually see the rapist they killed die. They pushed him off the balcony and were busy staring at their hands in shock as he fell off the side. They only saw the aftermath of him hitting the floor, thus they still couldn’t see thestrals until Fig's friend, Osric, died.

Also, I just wanna say that I don't hate Anne. I believe in hating actions/decisions not people, and as someone who has been living with chronic pain since I was born, I sympathise with her plight. She's kinda just the complete opposite of the Keeper with the way I'm writing them, and I don't like how many people seem to forget that she never put her foot down about "not wanting to be cured" with Sebastian.

Seriously, all that needed to happen, to avoid this whole tragic questline in the game, was literally just Anne giving Sebastian her boundaries. If he continues, even after she gives him a solid “no dark sacrifice rituals to cure me”, then he's 100% fucked up and I'd be mad at him too. But she agreed to it even, after Sebastian told her explicitly that it requires a dark sacrifice.

Like, I get that she doesn't want to fight with Sebastian and she does want to be cured, but you set boundaries BEFORE someone does something you consider unforgivable so you can stop them in advance (like tell a teacher or something) if they disregard it. If you don't set your boundaries and give him a chance to not unknowingly cross them (and if you accept someone's offer to do something nigh impossible) you don't get to complain about how he gets it done my dear.

I also think she overreacted to Solomon's death. Sebastian had already dropped his wand, the only purpose throwing him into the wall with a depulso served was hurting him. Plus, like the Keeper said, self-defence kills are easy to judge when you're not the one facing the business end of the barrel of a gun.

We often forget that the wand is more than an amazing tool, once it's pointed at you, the chance that the next spell out of it can kill you, makes it equivalent to a gun. If someone approaches you aggressively in a fight, do you really wait for the person to shoot before you shoot them? On the chance that they may not shoot you?

My partner was in the army and they were taught that you fire once as a warning and then the next shot is to the head, but the commander told them that realistically, the first shot is to the head, then a second shot for the report, so you can say you fired a warning shot, because you can't take the risk.

At least this is the Keeper's perspective xD

[geeknik]

The Call of the Wild: Inviting Nature Home Through Sustainable Gardening

For many of us, gardening is a labor of love. We delight in nurturing plants and watching them grow. But in conventional landscaping, we often end up battling nature instead of working with it. We mow, chop, prune, and spray endless chemicals, forcing the environment to conform to unrealistic ideals. What if there was another way?

Nature-based gardening represents a paradigm shift. By mimicking natural ecosystems, we can create and restore thriving habitats. This approach emphasizes biodiversity, sustainability, and coexistence with wildlife. It allows ecologies to express themselves on their own terms, not constrained into tidy submission.

As a passionate gardener hoping to turn my yard into a mini wildlife refuge, I immerse myself in these principles. No matter how small your outdoor space, nature-based gardening can bring it to life while nurturing the planet. Here are insights from my journey so far.

Embrace The Wilderness Ethic

Aldo Leopold, the father of wildlife ecology, taught that we must see ourselves as "plain citizens" within the greater biotic community. By extending ethical consideration to all members of our ecological neighborhood, we can evolve more harmonious relationships.

Conventional landscaping often seeks dominion over nature. We alter ecologies to suit our preferences for order and control. But nature does not exist to serve human whims. Other species have intrinsic value independent of their utility to us. Nature-based gardening aligns with Leopold's land ethic, allowing environments to thrive on their own terms.

This wilderness ethic guides us to be caretakers, not conquerors. By coexisting respectfully with wildlife, we can discover beauty and meaning. My yard is shared habitat, not solely a human domain to subdue and tame.

Work With The Living Landscape

Nature is not static scenery. It is a dynamic, evolving ecosystem. Native plants and animals are adapted to regional climates and soils after enduring here for centuries. When we import exotic species, attempt immaculate tidiness, or douse landscapes with chemicals, we undermine these fragile local balances.

Nature-based gardening means fathoming nature's cues and patterns. By cooperating with natural processes, we allow sustainable interdependence to flourish. Instead of imposing order, we seed and tend the landscape, then humbly step back. The results will exhilarate us.

This ethos has been transformational for my yard. I observe bees flocking to purple cone-flowers and monarchs laying eggs on milkweed. Birds chatter in the viburnum and service-berry. By providing habitat, I've become part of an unfolding story. The garden is Wild, yet nurtured. What a gift to witness this symbiosis!

Feed The Soil, Let The Plants Take Care Of Themselves

Modern gardening often focuses on plants as isolated individuals, but naturally they exist in community. When we nourish the connective living soil, the vibrant web of botanical life follows.

Healthy soil contains an ecology unto itself - billions of microbes in every teaspoon. They cycle nutrients, build soil structure, and confer disease resistance. But chemicals, excessive digging and over-watering degrade this biodiversity. Nature-based gardening emphasizes soil health through compost, mulch and prudent watering.

I think of my role as feeding the soil so it can sustain happy plants. I add organic matter, avoid chemicals, and check moisture levels with my finger before watering. My plants are thriving with minimal intervention because nature is doing the heavy lifting. By restoring soil integrity, we restore the entire habitat.

Let Wildflowers And Native Plants Take Center Stage

An ecologically balanced garden features plants naturally adapted to the region. Native species support local biodiversity and thrive without coddling. They shelter and nourish birds, pollinators and other wildlife.

But a landscape dominated by exotic ornamentals has sparse ecological value. Mono-cultures of turf grass are biological deserts. By welcoming diverse native plants, we can transform such environments into vibrant, functional habitat.

Watching my yard repopulate with natives like milkweed, asters, goldenrod and cone-flowers has profoundly shifted my gardening ethos. I see now that a manicured lawn is not the apex. A resilient, integrated ecology is the real jewel. The native plants are my partners, not just decorative extras.

Rethink The Role Of Trees And Shrubs

Trees and shrubs provide immense habitat benefits. They offer shelter, stabilize soil, provide food, and host vast biodiversity. Leaving fallen branches and leaves nurtures the earth.

Yet we often plant trees as solitary specimens, isolated in a sea of mulch or turf. By thoughtfully placing trees near other beneficial plants, we can create intentional communities. Wildlife will also appreciate the cover and connectivity.

I've added service-berry, chokecherry, hazelnut and pagoda dogwoods to my yard's perimeters. Already I see them fostering complex relationships between plants and animals. The viburnum hosts caterpillars, its berries feed birds, its branches shelter nests. No tree is an island.

Be A Conscientious Caretaker

As stewards of shared habitat, our actions impact wildlife. Conscientious intentions are vital. Kindness, patience and observation foster an ethic of care.

Gardening tools and machines enable us to radically alter environments in minutes. But while such technology brings convenience, it also poses dangers. Gas-powered blowers and mowers injure wildlife, erode soil, and fill air with pollutants. Excessive night lighting disrupts rhythms. Pesticides poison indiscriminately. We must thoughtfully reflect on our approaches.

I opt for manual or electric tools operated with care, and never buy systemic pesticides. The precautionary principle guides me to avoid harm where impacts are unclear. With gentle persistence, I'm learning to wield gardening tools in harmony with wildlife.

Let The Leaves Lie And The Branches Rest

Fallen leaves and downed wood may look messy to our eyes, but they are vital habitat elements. Leaves nourish soil and provide homes for nesting creatures and hatching eggs. Decaying branches offer nourishment and shelter. Tidying them up deprives wildlife of essential resources.

By allowing nature's debris to remain in improved areas, we can strike an ecological compromise. Seeds need leaf litter to germinate. Chipmunks and bees overwinter in stems. Even a small brush pile can make a big impact.

I rake leaves only where necessary and created habitat piles with fallen branches. They quickly attracted an avian feast. Restraint allowed ecological promotion I could not plan. Seeing flying squirrels peer from old stems, I knew living with "wildness" was worth it.

Plant For All Seasons

Diverse native plants support year-round wildlife activity. To provide continual habitat, we must move beyond a fixation on showy blooms. Species that nourish wildlife during the dormant seasons are vital.

Trees and shrubs with winter berries offer essential food when other sources are scarce. Evergreens give shelter from harsh weather when birds are most vulnerable. Early spring blooms provide nectar before most flowers emerge. Planning for off-season needs brings continuity to habitat.

By including pagoda dogwood, winter-berry, American holly and other key species, I'm trying to address seasonal gaps. Now I have chickadees and juncos feasting on berries by the snow-covered dogwoods. Gardening is not just for the glory days of summer! Planning for winter and early spring has extended our shared habitat's gifts.

Be Water Wise

In nature, rainfall ebbs and flows in patterns. Native plants thrive within this hydrologic variation. But over-watering to keep lawns lush regardless of conditions throws off natural rhythms. And pollution from fertilizers and pesticides degrades aquatic ecosystems. We must rethink such practices.

By selecting drought-tolerant natives, grading for drainage, amending soil and using grey water, we can slash water usage and mimic natural rain patterns. Rain barrels and permeable paths also help restore water cycles.

With such adjustments, I've cut my water use by 75% while growing more native plants. My yard still greets downpours with absorption and blooms with life when rain returns. By cooperating with the choreography of water, not imposing our will, we cultivate resiliency.

Rethink The Lawn

The lawn's status as the default landscape feature has warped our relationship with nature. Turf grass is an exotic mono-culture requiring vast inputs. Despite occupying over 40 million acres in the U.S., it provides almost no wildlife benefit. Rethinking its footprint is an ecological necessity.

Where lawn remains, organic practices are crucial. Synthetic fertilizers and pesticides damage local ecosystems. Tolerating clover, yarrow and other spontaneous species also increases biodiversity. Limit mowing and let the clippings nourish the soil. Every square foot of lawn can add ecological value.

By converting half my lawn to native meadow, bushes and trees, I'm creating viable habitat while slashing maintenance. Wildlife is literally flocking to these transformed areas! With more adjustments, I hope to make lawn the accent, not the default. Rethinking our lawn mono-cultures opens up so many possibilities.

Reconsider Hardscaping Too

Lawns are not the only environmentally taxing facet of conventional landscaping. Excessive hardscaping also prevents water absorption, fragments habitat and radiates heat. Natural ecologies thrive on diverse topography and permeability.

By re-imagining paving, patios and walls, we can soften hardscape's footprints. Permeable materials like gravel and flagstone promote drainage. Curving edges reduce runoff. Rain gardens along with built structures capture and filter water. Thoughtful placement and elimination of unnecessary hardscape preserves connectivity.

In my yard, I used permeable pavers cut around nature's contours. Along the patio, a rain garden of native rushes and iris removes 60% of storm water runoff while attracting pollinators. Gradually reshaping hardscaping to cooperate with the living landscape has made a measurable difference.

Rethink Pruning Too

Many common pruning practices disrupt native plant health and eliminate vital habitat elements. Shearing destroys natural forms optimized for wildlife relationships. Topping trees damages them irreparably. Over-pruning and fall pruning make plants vulnerable to disease and pests.

Instead, the motto "less is more" should guide pruning. Allow plants to take their natural shapes. Never remove more than 20% of branches. Make careful cuts at branch collars. Prune only for clear necessity, not conformity. Ask if each cut is harming habitat.

With trees, I prune only crossing or damaged branches. With shrubs, I take out only older inward-facing wood to encourage healthy new growth. Throughout, my priority is preserving or improving wildlife habitat. This mindset has produced beautiful, functional plants adapted to ecological roles.

Think Long Term

Our human lifespans are fleeting compared to natural cycles. A tree lives for centuries. Ecological change occurs slowly. To create habitat that endures, we must look generations beyond our own gardening endeavors.

When planting trees, consider their size at maturity before spacing and siting. Select species with longevity native to the area. Plan landscapes to gracefully accommodate natural growth over decades. Be stewards who enable wild places to continue.

My garden's overall structure now follows natural ecological zoning - canopy, under-story, shrub, herbaceous layers. As it matures, phases will flow seamlessly with only editing, not major renovations. With fewer perpetual human interventions needed, habitat can be self-sustaining.

This long vision re-centered my planning. By looking 50+ years ahead, I'm creating space for nature to write the story. The results become wilder and more wonderful than I could orchestrate alone.

Welcome Spontaneity

Some of the most exciting habitat surprises come from species or elements we didn't intentionally introduce. By allowing some spontaneity, we make room for nature's imagination.

Fallen seedlings often represent plants adapting to fill vital roles. Un-mown areas host meadow blooms. Brush piles attract uncommon nesters. We must balance vision with flexibility to let ecosystems express their wisdom.

I was startled when foxes built a den near my garden. Mourning doves nested in the viburnum. By leaving space for the unplanned, nature has enriched my habitat vision in ways I could not foresee. Welcoming some spontaneity makes the garden part of something greater than myself.

Become A Citizen Scientist

Observing wildlife interactions allows us to refine habitats based on actual activity patterns. Keeping records of what species visit when and where provides insights that guides future decisions. We become amateur naturalists, stewarding land based on gathered knowledge.

I keep written and photographic records of observed pollinators, nests, foraging behaviors and connections. Detailed nature journals have opened my eyes to subtle interrelationships. For instance, I learned how pools attract amphibians who devour garden pests. Documenting nature's stories fine-tunes my ability to foster habitat.

This gardener-as-researcher role also underscores that nature-based landscapes are ever-evolving works in progress. There is always more to discover through close observation. Continual learning about ecology transforms us as much as the land.

[inutile-dilettante]

Dialogue 2:

Ordinary citizens, who live with their carsini souls, outside the rigour of scientific conversation and controlled dialogue, just as they are far from being in contact with biopsychosocial treatment pathways, have appropriated the theories of the masters of the golden souls, reproducing their words in a way that the colossus calls vulgar, references and expressions that are, references and expressions that are, in a veiled way, disseminated by the media and appear in the discourses of advertising and everyday life in general, becoming almost like a public domain, as if everyone could know exactly what these terms, concepts, ideas and premises mean, the excluded produce and reproduce what they say is the exclusive domain of the colossals. Useless dilettantism tells these media that these domains mean nothing and that it is therefore authentic to reproduce them by their own creative and dilettantish means. Because we've already tasted the product, as far as the colossals and their canons are concerned, and they have no flavour whatsoever, so do it.

Thus, A Useless Delitantist is in dialogue with a friend in a garden, Arabic style, on a beach, and it is this dialogue that speaks the lush:

"Your monograph and writing, Gabriel, is as deeply comprehensible as João do Rio's Portrait of Dorian Grey. Because you remind me that one way to train in erudition is just to read João do Rio's translations, mainly by Martin Claret. Or the aportuguised work that I found most difficult to read. Reading Don Quixote by Montecristo Editora is easier than reading João do Rio's translation by Martin Claret. Montecristo's book is available on the Skeelo platform for free, kid."

He took a moment to look at the beach from afar and then turned back to his friend with a questioning look on his face:

"Literate, erudite and poetic currents are only and exclusively concerned with tedious, monotonous activities, with extreme concern about whether or not they can keep the shit together, as well as loyalty, frankness, sincerity, eschewing the norms of gymnastic body style. These eight qualities are exclusive to the extremely literate, academic, poetic and erudite. I observe this because I'm a kind of sentinel".

He laughed as he finished speaking.

"In my work as a watchman, I observe gymnasts who seek extreme control of their bodies and judge their colleagues who are out of line with me, fat and psychotic with trembling bodies. Gymnasts work out so that their body equals or exceeds the capacity of the training machine, a delinquent like me, in contrast to this mechanisation of the body, uses the training machine to go according to the body, that is, not to force it, regardless of whether or not the coach says he can go beyond the machine."

He spoke as he gazed continuously at the fields of Gramado around him:

"For me, building the body is done in a natural way, without equating the organism with the machine, but making the machine work in the time of the organism, lungs work with the lung capacity and not work to the maximum of a tool. In other words, respecting their limits. Forcing an actor on stage to control his emotions like a button makes him a kind of oscillating robot, forcing a student to control information makes him a kind of cognitive algorithm, making an athlete like a machine makes him the training device itself? My group isn't interested in the mechanisms that make up today's world. What is most valuable to us is the new revelation of human relationships and the acceptance of organic capacity."

The fat man got up to buy an ice-cream, sat down and said:

"But much of what is done with Useless Delitantism starts from the school in which an Anglicanism is appropriated to say a method of validation and politics for the promotion of culture not legitimised in the historical-social process of/in the development of one or more ethnic groups. On the other hand, we are witnessing a massification of a common cultural formation, a culture that prepares itself to be literate, academic, erudite, mechanical, technicist, or to want to be, denying its own culture through the spin on the Baobab. Everyone forgets that in each culture there is, on the part of each subject who participates in it, a different announcer, a form that adapts to the way of being in a world of events that is increasingly complex and distant from human relationships, this is being delitantist."

Said the fat man who was now savouring a natural fruit ice cream, strawberry. I continue:

"Deize is not separated from David, the first says something about the subject within three cyclical processes for the transcendent instance, I say more, because it is where the subject making itself also makes the way of announcing itself in its culture. The second, on the other hand, says something about the eternal change of things, which justifies my focus on cyclical processes, since there is no fixation on a role for the stage, but a dialectic to always get there. I'm not going to explain it to you, Gabriel… Recreate what I'm saying, put it into your own words, and you'll understand".

He finished his ice-cream looking out over the green fields. The Dilettantist said:

"Today we see a scenario in which the central workforce sweeps ethnic minorities aside, along with the LGBT+ workforce. Including diversity is a word beyond the apparent whimsy of an optic and symbolic fantasy, which demands, through practical routes, not just including, but dismantling the normalised power hierarchy. People who are part of this hierarchy feel that their work is unquestionable and that their spaces are legitimate, which means that within the central labour force, people within the normative, white, hetero, gymnastic, Judeo-Christian patterns feel more confident about what they do and the spaces they occupy, as well as dominant over the latter, in other words, that they feel legitimate in excluding or sweeping to the ignored side. Or as happened to me inside the spinner gym, people who couldn't even see each other, but ignored me, refused to give instructions and advice so that I would give up the gymnastic ritual."

He laughed, gazing out over the beach. That's how Gabriel reflexively put it:

"It's not just out there that they'll be rooting for your worst, that you get lost, that you sink into drugs, that you kill yourself, that you have accidents. It's obviously also from within what we're taught to call family. It's not a good deed that will exclude various perverse discourses such as those listed here right now. And you, being as self-sufficient as I am, don't understand this little piece full of gerunds, which you don't even know what such a thing is. So who's in the shit now? Who can't understand a simple text written by me, the madman? You know, you'll never be able to understand them. These texts are for a class of useless Delitantists, and go read Lord Arthur Savile's plots to understand."

They both stared reflectively at the beach in the distance. Then the fat man began to speak:

"I see, Costa. You know… My mum's a sweetheart when she's not a beast, I love her anyway. That's why I told her that the undignified situation she's going through today is the fault of her sisters and nephews who voted for Bolsonaro. Since she's so wonderful, she didn't recognise it, she kept repeating: "But how are they to blame?". Do you understand how family love in excess can really blind? The family doesn't have to be too high up, nor so much higher than ourselves, I believe."

The friend didn't understand the correlation, but being a Useless Dilettantist, one knows that articulating paragraphs and meanings is not a priority, so the Dilettantist continued:

"There are many things I don't understand, Gabriel. Just like you… Or Julia, who may not have responded to my feelings at university…".

They both laughed. He continued:

"Frankly… You know, I was reading about the utopia of communism and I realised that, in the transition from socialism to communism, there is the disappearance of the state which unleashes the prodigious development of the productive forces, I think it's in the sense of gigantic, the age of abundance, which from the way I write, some of you know which book and page it's about, well, such prodigious development would lead to this age of abundance, to the end of the division of labour into subordinate and superior tasks, to the absence of contrasts between town and country, industry and agriculture. I certainly recognise that the existence of the state brings with it all these contrasts and repulsive determinations in favour of the owners of capital, which with its end could lead to the transfalled context, I mean, [/written], but alongside this, I can't imagine a point that is that of prodigious development with the non-existence of classes, such a characteristic of this stage, its naive understanding of the age of abundance. I always endeavour to imagine a prodigious classless development that leads to the abundance of some, some era, eras…".

The Dilettantist laughed at himself. He returned to his serious tone and said as if surprised by something he had thought:

"But I understood something from Marx, dear Costa… That society is structured on two levels, the infrastructure and the political-ideological. What interests me most is the infrastructure, because there are two types of relationship there, that of nature and that of individuals to each other. And although both are in great decline today, a Useless Dilettante is always busy talking about the relationship between individuals who are increasingly distant due to technology and defence encounters with remote names. It's interesting how this relationship starts in industry and extends to the social environment, i.e. relationships with owners and non-owners are just as devastated as the relationship between non-owners and means and objects of labour or just as drastic as in the social environment. You only have to look at the new HR and be disappointed to find it robotised, as if this were a simple attempt to keep HR out of the hands of the worker who has a problem. It's like taking the glasses off someone who's having problems with their eyesight, Gabriel."

He looked wide-eyed, perplexed, and shook his head in the affirmative, repeating "it's" for a very long time, as if in astonishment. He said:

"The gymnastic society, or society of athletes, determines and reinforces who is not in the gymnastic mould. In this way, it contributes to the determination/conditioning of those who are muted, made invisible, inert, based on the type of body that the discriminated subject has, within this the ethnicity, the conduct, the expression that is or is not in contrast with the reference of gymnastic identity, which is the moral basis of the gymnast since the reinforced gymnastic movements of the notorious French gymnastic method of the 19th century."

He spoke again:

"It is the intellectuals who elaborate the hegemonic ideas that appear in the judgement of one or the other. And this all starts with the class system, which is the structure of the school that prepares its thinkers to be attracted to ally themselves with the prevailing values of the dominators. Meanwhile, in the dominated classes, deconsciousness grows more and more and leads to disorganisation, passivity and dependence, and even if there were a great rebellion, this dependence wouldn't be changed."

Arrotou continued:

"This is why there is a need for organic intellectuals, who emerge organically from their own ranks and counter the traditional intellectuals who generalise the values of the ruling classes. The purpose of the organic intellectual is to form, in his own logical way, the concept of the world of the dominated, which the traditional intellectual is incapable of thinking and doing."

He was reflective for a moment and said:

"I'm not just a dilettante Dadaist writer, because I didn't study to be a Portuguese language teacher, but a teacher of communication and expression. Because I see that educating, on the occasion of being a lyricist, is a political position and my position is against the linguistic prejudice that immobilises, makes impossible, silences through the exercise of both the alps trained in prescriptive grammar and the greatest sages in normative grammar. To hell with prescriptive grammar, express yourself!".

He quickly spoke again:

"Do you notice that I use the term lyricist as someone who has a degree in lyrics or who studies lyrics? I reveal that I know that in NORMA it means someone who writes lyrics or someone who draws lyrics, but for me the former is a lyricist and the latter a lyricist. See how the norm is a square thing? It has to spiral! It has to be more Dada. Like, that moustache isn't Monalisa's, but that moustache was put on Monalisa to give it its own meaning. So I cut out the word lyricist from her magazine page with its closed meaning and expanded its meaning into something else and something of my own, my collage page."

He continued:

"For me the social fact changes the meaning of the word as each social group constructs the meaning of their words at the time they speak them and in parallel to the time they have already been said. Language arises within a social factor and through it and all that language contains through it, yet it is independent of the individual, that is, it has a character of exteriority that defines the social factor in language that is notable for linguistic variations that depend on external conditions. In order to understand language, it is necessary to refer to diachrony and history. In the process of language, diachrony and synchrony are placed together, since the structure is constructed in the present time by past history and with history it is described."

He went on to say:

"There was a researcher called Bernstein, little noticed, he did a research on the real linguistic productions parallel to the social situations of the speakers and this was based on the observation where the literacy rate of working class children was different from that of wealthy class children and therefore there would be different linguistic productions and this is how he verified it. He thus postulated the restricted code and the elaborated code, concluding that learning and socialisation are marked by the family in which the child is raised and that it is the social structure that determines the type of code, along with linguistic behaviour. In this way, linguistic difference was discretised on the basis of social difference. Later, William Labov showed that instead of codes, the linguistic characteristics of these "polar classes" were styles. For me, a style is a decision. Those who follow a style follow it by choice, like the autonomy to choose which trousers to wear that day, but when you're working class you don't have much choice of clothes, so it's your purchasing power that makes your style, which serves as an anchor, and in these circumstances, of heteronomy, it's not really a style, but a social condition. It's for these reasons that I agree with Bernstein's code term for Brazil. I would only make a few changes, such as broadening it to class code aa, a, ab, b, bc, c, cd, d, de, e. But, obviously, a whole alphabet fits. Above all, I can say that linguistic diversity is conditioned by the socio-identity factors of the speaker, recipient and context."

Laughing, he seemed to lose his grip on reality, and began to say something completely unrelated to what he had said so far:

"My family and my mum always say that I'm clever, that I'm special, that I'm someone good, that I'm an angel, that I can achieve anything I want if I concentrate hard enough. Well, I don't think I'm anything like that. To tell you the truth, nothing too grandiose is how I feel. I appreciate what isn't regimented, prescriptive, standardised, mechanised, ceremonial, sanctified, intellectualised. I have an appreciation for madness, which is why I'm a dilettante in the style of Arthur Savile."

[lightcreators]

He would have loved details … something, another time, he wouldn't get apparently. Eventually, he would came accoustumed to that eternal timing in which important knoweldge that can be shared, sudden important details showing up in middle of an situation, seemed to always escaping him, leaving him with that horrible confusion and frustration and aftertaste of failure inside that domain. Inside other circumstances, if he had no comparative point, no much consideration would has been taken to that, since he would have remained ignorant of his use in middle of circumstances, and what kind of man he might becoming in the future. However --- he had that attached consciousness he was merely an piece been used, mostly by another self. Coming from the MIB, it wasn't really an appreciative feelings, regardless if he was lucky enough to remaining deeply shared of how the situation could has been lived. Besides, without information, how he was going to cope with these impressions of familiarities without having one fragment of context ? Oh, he couldn't seeking out informations by other means, doing his little research, but when he had the person next to him, it was better to directly ask. Besides, as much he would need to convince Nick Fury everything was fine inside current circumstances he was experiencing along an wizard and there was no higher risks to their nation … convincing himself won't be that easy. ❝ Best friends usually are. ❞ He inquired then, inside an opened expression in which there was reassurance about how he could allowing himself to talk. Really, among wizards, he was the person in which people could talk with. ❝ Your feelings matter, and as much it won't fix the job, it would ease your conscience. ❞ Experience with Featherine on that part. ❝ I perceived a lack of confidence in yourself with such sentence. Inside your job you've picked, having an voice able to influence people is important, and I'm sure you're conscious of it. ❞ His was all the same, but it was from another dimension altogether. If he was allowed to talk about some discreete observers, he was certain Harry's trust would have higher … Besides, it would be dramatic if he got mind-wiped when he was dealing with Featherine and the MIB known for such thing.

Watching the wand he pulled out confirmed that familiarity sentiment, in which he would need to ask in which paradox manner this was possible. Not that the spell sounded familiar, and the immediate confirmation who came afterwards generated an smaller smile, half surprised technology wasn't his forte. ❝ Oh, never occassion to use one ? Must be something I can train you during our time together. Of course we can do that. Besides, job aside, you shouldn't been worried about me and my knoweldge of … witches. I'll keep silent. In an certain way, I'll hiding an elephant in the room, only this one is purely invisible, what you might call a witch. ❞ He expressed slowly, as he needed to use conversation to put him in complete trust. ❝ Besides, I'm sure our little researches will be helped by observers I mentioned earlier. Regardless how far your dark wizard is hiding, comfortable atmosphere of the shadows could be toxic and clearly unsafe. ❞

"The two most important people in the world to me." Harry didn't want to get into it, but sometimes it was impossible not to get sucked into the flashbacks of that time, when he'd been the most wanted man in Britain. He'd died for them, and he would do it again if he needed.

"My feelings won't get the job done." There would be time to get lost in memories, of times he had become painfully nostalgic for, "There will be time for that later." Like after a few fire whiskeys that he had brought with him from England.

"My word's always carry importance, it doesn't mean that they should." He said quietly, glancing over at the man before pulling out his wand- it felt weird doing magic around a muggle but Coulson already knew, he was already authorized.

"Revalio." he muttered before sighing, "There's nothing magical here. But there might be something oin one of their data bases. I don't have the foggiest on how to use a computer so that's where you come in. I'm going to disillusion you and then we're going to find their main data banks. Do you think you can hack in from there?"

[supersonicart]

D*Face’s “Painting Over the Cracks.”

On view beginning August 6th, 2022 at Corey Helford Gallery in Los Angeles, California is artist D*Face’s highly anticipated solo exhibition, “Painting Over the Cracks.”

Instantly recognized as one of the UK’s most prolific Urban Contemporary artists, D*Face (Dean Stockton) has occupied the forefront of his practice since his first sell out show in 2005. Born and raised in London, his childhood interests of graffiti, California skate culture, and punk aesthetic were well nurtured from an early age. Having come across the likes of Jim Phillips and Vernon Courtlandt Johnson amidst the pages of Thrasher Magazine, he was initially inspired to follow a path of graphic design and illustration, before eventually taking a more freelance approach to his art. After learning to screen print his own stickers, he took the public domain of the street as his canvas, blending art, design, and graffiti in a manner that pre-dated the emergence of street art as it is known today. It was in this newly found outlet that D*Face quickly gained attention from others, mainly for the clean, vivid nature of his designs that quickly spread across the city. Even today, D*Face continues to approach his work with the same anarchic energy that drove his career from the outset. His murals can be found across the globe and his subversive-pop style and iconic D*Dog logo have become an inseparable part British Urban art and it’s ever-expanding medium.

Often describing his work as ‘aPOPcalyptic,’ D*Face seeks to pick up where the masters of 1980’s American Pop left off ─ to establish a very real, albeit tongue in cheek criticism of our consumer dominated world. By subverting the images and icons of the everyday, the artist encourages the eye of the beholder not just to ‘see’ but to carefully consider that which they may otherwise take for granted. By re-appropriating media from decades of materialistic over-consumption--advertising, comic books, and on-screen romance--and reshaping it with cleaner lines and the vibrant hues of his pallet, D*Face’s work acts as a necessary wake up call to overly conspicuous society of the 21st century.

Regarding his new works, D*Face shares, “Yes, yes, I’m aware the actual expression is to ‘paper over the cracks’ but for obvious reasons, painting felt more appropriate to me and to this show ─ with nearly one hundred murals under my belt, I’ve spent my fair share of time painting over real cracks in real walls. If you haven’t heard the expression before, it essentially refers to the act of ignoring or hiding an issue in both the literal and metaphorical sense ─ it’s putting on a brave face and pretending that ‘the issue’ doesn’t really exist.” Adding, “After living through an unprecedented, historical moment in time that saw us globally locked down as a result of the pandemic, I think we’ve witnessed our fair share of ‘cracks’ appearing across society and culture alike, some fresh, some older, and some deeper than before. In many of these cases it felt like the approach was to apply a big dollop of metaphorical paint to cover them up, only for the cracks to reappear slightly worse further down the line. This show and body of work is a collection of my own personal observations and feelings from the last couple of years. My intention is not a love letter to what we have lost and nor is it a celebration of the change that was catalysed by the pandemic, because, let’s face it, there’s been good and bad in both. Rather, it’s a visual acknowledgement of the altered society in which we now find ourselves and which we must strive to make better.”

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[smolcuriouskitten]

Rockelle and Eddie were in love. So much in fact that being around him was like a drug to her. A hit she could never get enough of. The idea of a man loving her unapologetically and loudly made her happy to experience first hand. She felt like one of those protagonists in a romance book, the love of her life scooping her up and saving her from the woes of the world. She was a kitten at the time of them meeting but details!

Cooking was a sort of therapy for her. An escape from the world in her own domain. So when Eddie and Venom would flex their culinary skills in their own ways, she got to see first hand how differently people cook. She and her sister were the designated family cook, both due to the time of women being expected to learn and due to being tired of eating their dad/brothers terrible cooking. Watching Eddie and his other cook, both in their own chaotic ways was amusing to her.

She would be there, chopping veggies or even silently observing, watching the two do such a simple act was cool! Not to mention she got to taste and enjoy whatever the result was which she was happy to do.

So when Eddie suggested to go out for Valentines day, she happily accepts. While she and him dont go out on dates often, the pair never made her feel less than or unloved. She loved an excuse to dress up and go out, especially if it doesnt involve her job which she loves dearly but it can be alot sometimes. Feeling like a princess as she and him are carted away in luxurious car, dressed in their best, with her hair pinned up into a cute updo, what could possibly go wrong?

Once they arrive in the resturant, she began to ramble about how she came one time before during the start of her career, how she loved the soups and other food options they offered before she stops. She smells a familiar thing, something she hasnt smelled in a long time. Sulfur.

No. Theres no way.

Taking her eyes away from Eddie, she sees her ex husband, carting around and serving people as hes supposed too. The woman could only silently glare, not wanting to ruin the moment. Part of her hoped he long forgotten about her and wasnt going to bring her up. It was impossible given her status, being plastered on everything but a girl can dream.

She began to think about how different Sebastian treated her. How she felt unappreciated and unloved during their marriage, feeling like she was just a ghost to him. She began to think of how she used to beg for simple things, affection. Respect. Love. Admiration. All things that Eddie gave her with no hesitation.

She hated the man. With a passion. How dare he not be in a box in an alleyway, miserable and unable to cope with losing her? He should be miserable. He shouldnt be here making money in such a lavish resturant, he doesnt deserve that! With every passing thought, she grew angrier and angrier, knowing this man got to live a life with the one he 'loved' instead of her. How fucking dare he?

"Huh?" She asks, snapping out of her rage for a moment, her eyes were red to show that she was pissed but her voice was soft and calm. "Oh um...Im...Im fine. Just thinking of something is all." She lies, her eyebrow twitching as she did so, a smile plastered on her features. That same smile she gave when she was lying or uncomfortable.

"Hello welcome in you guys. My name is Sebastian and I want to thank you for coming in tonight. What can I get you to.." The man promptly came over, pad and paper in hand to take their order before he spots Rockelle. His ex wife. His lost love. The one he fumbled so badly that he couldn't figure out how to cope.

"Rockelle...? Is..Is that you?" He asks, starstruck as Rockelle looked at him up and down, deadpanned. "Yes. Do I know you?" She asks, venom thick in her voice.

"Of course you know me! Oh my god I cant believe it! My wife! My darling wife I-" He starts, his smile growing on his face. She visibly cringes, making a disgusted expression.

"Dont fucking call me that. I am not your wife."

Oh boy.

The Demon, the Witch, and the Klyntar (RP)

@smolcuriouskitten (Based on this event)

It was a comparatively rare occasion that Eddie would suggest taking Rockelle out on a date. There were a variety of reasons to sway the other direction. In the first place, he was a decent cook. It was always a point of amused contention between them when he would say this, as she enjoyed pointing out that the first thing he'd ever served to her was a bowl of milk... to which he would remark that in his defense, she'd been a kitten at the time. Since then, he'd taken advantage of many an opportunity to flex his culinary muscles. His kitchen now had half a dozen cookbooks on a shelf beneath hanging cabinetry, and he made a point of preparing half his weekly meals straight from those books. He would probably never rise to the level of sous chef, but he could make a decent roux.

Meanwhile, his Other was entertainingly chaotic in the kitchen, capable of reading the books and absorbing the information to a greater degree than Eddie but still determined to chart His own course in the culinary space. Eddie could no longer count on all his fingers and toes the number of times he'd awoken to the thrashing of tentacles from his own body, reaching through the bedroom door and into the kitchen, where they were busily preparing a meal for Eddie's sake (and His own). Now that Rocky was added to the mix, those occasions had only become all the more numerous in His never-ending bid to impress her and earn more cuddle time.

And all that was only half the equation. The level of success Rocky had achieved in her career was such that avoiding paparazzi was at the very least a part-time job. It was more easily achieved with a little hint of magic, yes, but Eddie and his Other understood that magic had certain boundaries and rules, and tended to push back when exercised to benefit the few or the one. Eddie didn't pretend to understand magic in the least, but his symbiote had encountered any number of magical beings throughout His travels... it was enough that He knew to be wary of those who would use it too blatantly.

Then, of course, there was the event of Valentine's Day itself, a shameless cash grab by corporations and eateries that couldn't stand to let the calendar just breath a while after the stress of winter holidays. That, on its own merit, would have been more than enough for Eddie to simply plan ahead, make a killer meal (and maybe even alongside Venom), and just stay in with Rocky with a movie and a huge box of dark chocolate.

But this was a rare occasion. After the rousing success of his series of investigative articles on the fabled “Frisco Maneater” three months ago, completely with his own camera work (which was to say, with some modest assistance from his Other), he’d been given a fine bonus by the Chronicle. He’d tucked the money away immediately and set himself about seeking reservations; he’d known even then that he wanted to treat Rocky to dining that was maybe a little finer than his own. It had already been established between them that anything Eddie or Venom made was with love… but that didn’t mean They didn’t like to try to pamper Their girl every now and then.

The question had then become what table would be open. And the answer had come in the form of Crimson Nights, a fine dining establishment on the top level of one of downtown’s commercial skyscrapers. Open concept dining room, windows all around – one could see nearly the entirety of San Francisco’s skyline from virtually any seat in the place. A seat worth hundreds? Most certainly. But the money was really the only point of exclusivity. The restaurant had yet to become so snobbish that it would turn away some paying customers in favor of others. And the food was reputed to be divine. Not a single dish on the menu was rated beneath three stars by either professional critics or average consumers.

In short: the perfect venue. Or so was Eddie’s opinion when he’d made the reservation three months in advance. Maybe, finally, it’d be a Valentine’s Day worth the celebration.

They were dressed to the nines. He'd even hired a driver and a car to bring them to the restaurant, and nobody from the tabloids seemed to be interested. They'd made it to the queue and were on their way to be seated within two minutes of their arrival.

Everything was going perfectly.

But if that was the case… why was Rocky’s face beginning to cloud over as they were led to their table?

Eddie followed her line of sight. All he could see that might have caught her notice was a tall, handsome, clean-shaven man of dusky skin and dark, shoulder-length hair that looked maybe even more voluminous than Rocky's, if such a thing were possible. He was well-dressed and appeared to be addressing another table with a pad and pen in hand... a waiter, he surmised.

Eddie tilted his head at Rocky as they were seated, offering a quick smile and a word of thanks to the hostess as she said that someone would be along soon to take their orders for drinks and appetizers. But the expression on Rocky's face was only continuing to darken with each passing moment.

“Hey babe?” he asked, his tone measured but concerned. “Everything okay?”

[husbandohunter]

Dear Father [Genshin Impact/Diluc x Reader]

Synopsis: Wherever you are wherever you may be, even if you are beyond my reach, I only wish to see you again. -from a letter lost in the wind.

(A story where you and Diluc somehow managed to meet Crepus)

Genre: all fluff

"I know how late I am to father's day but here's my father's day take on Genshin Impact! Just let Diluc be happy for once T_T Mihoyo pls."

============================

Discovering Master Crepus' old belongings was like wandering in a domain surrounded by ancient artifacts. Each piece holding the memory of someone you've never met.

The paintings. Master Crepus loved to paint. Typically birds were the main muse of this portraits since they deeply embodied Mondstadt's values for freedom which shows you how much he cherished this city just like his son did. In almost every hallway you walked through there was a collection of his paintings, some belonged to another artist but the majority was an original work. Diluc didn't have the heart to sell them.

Elzer. He was one of the oldest workers who served under the Ragnvindr name, ever since Master Crepus had appointed him during his earlier days. You were told that he treated everyone, both staff and noble, with equal respect. Almost all the denizens of Mondstadt knew this man for he was not only noble in riches but also in the soul.

"I'm sure he would have loved to meet you in person. Now that I think about it, you and Master Crepus are quite similar. Haha, it seems that Master Diluc was selective in terms of who he wanted for his future bride."

Elzer adds with a light chuckle but the statement only made you more curious. A man who affected the lives of so many others, he must have been a wonderful person.

Diluc. The bloodline Master Crepus left behind after his death, a piece of himself and the heir to the whole wine industry, his son Diluc. Although you could see the resemblance in appearance, both of them were men of prinicples and values, putting Mondstadt first before anything else and you suddenly realized if that was the reason why Diluc was so protective of this city. As if, it were everything he had? You could tell he loved Master Crepus very much, not because he said so, rather the painful expression buried deep within his crimson glare whenever someone brought up the topic. Diluc was skilled in hiding himself, it's something he practiced over the years of working alone, though he lowered his guard as long as you were the only one present.

Even so, he had many conflicts still wringing him internally and you didn't want to push him until the day he felt ready to personally tell you himself.

But it would be nice if he opened up, just a little bit.

There were times when you would worry since Diluc had the tendency to hide his feelings for the sake of not troubling you. He wanted to keep life simple and bright, bringing the best to the table while making sure that you lived safely out of harm's way. You couldn't seem to get him to understand that as lovers, you would be happy to help him, in anything. Unconditionally. It was natural for you to feel the need to force yourself in every once in a while and there was nothing more you wanted to know than the story of the man who raised him.

You would even jest on the idea of what it fel like to meet Master Crepus in person. Were you able to reach his standards by any chance? Would he have liked you just as everyone claimed? Of course, they were only silly indulgent thoughts so you quickly dismissed them in the end. Bringing back the past was impossible no matter how badly you wanted it. You closed your heart on that possibility.

On a lovely evening, while you and Diluc were taking your time off Angel's Share to make a stroll around Mondstadt's quiet streets, a strange merchant called over to you. She displayed various antiques ranging from different sizes to designs, none of them seemed to haven been carved in the same place but distinct cultures throughout Teyvat. The only thing they had in common was that they were all equally beautiful to the eye.

However a particular item of what looks like to be a heart locket snatches your attention and you instantly became mesmerized, allured by it's mysterious charm.

"Ah, the locked heart caught your fancy, my lady? It's said once you open it, you will be set free."

"It's magnificent..." you muttered, staring unabashed at the shining surface.

Diluc who was observing from behind folded his arms and tilts his head, "How much is that?"

Although you intended to simply inspect the choices, your lover immediately offers to pay. They all already gave the impression of a hefty price and you didn't want him to spend his fortune on things that deemed unecessary. Still, this wasn't the first time it happened. Diluc would always insist whenever you protested against him from buying anything, it was just a way of expressing his affections towards you. Mora was never a problem and you were priceless. That's how he sees things. You had to remind yourself to be careful when stumbling upon a bustling area full of salesmen next time.

"Five hundred thousand mora."

He purchased it without hesitation.

On your way home, Diluc noticed that something was amiss. You couldn't tear your gaze from the locket as if it had hypnotized you by the golden smooth surface. He had to ensure you didn't run into anyone by accident, tugging your arm closer so that it gave him an opportunity to lead you where you yourself could not. Surely it must have been the appearance but instead of being drawn by, you were drawn in. Completely.

I wonder...what will happen if I open it?

"(Y/n)?" Diluc narrows his eyebrows together. Did you like it that much? No, he knew you weren't the type to be so etranced by jewelry, this was certainly different. Even the merchant seemed a little suspicious when she approached you and Diluc couldn't ignore the heavy sense of aminosity that was emitted around her aura. He couldn't think within her presence but now that his mind was much clearer, he was able to use his skillful judgements.

"Wait...! Don't open it yet-"

However, he was too late.

The wind picks up at an alarming speed and you both brought up your arms to block the debris that had flown in the way. They swirled in non-stop motion until your worlds were engulfed with not even the sky in sight. Amidst the turmoil Diluc latchest onto you and holds your body close his chest as he was determined to protect against any force that dared to hurt you. Something heavy knocks his head and he winces, tighting his hold even further. Your voice could hardly be heard with all the noise that rung around and eventually you discovered the the world wasn't disappearing. You both were.

The last thought you had was the image of Master Crepus and you didn't know why.

---

"Diluc? Diluc?"

He faintly heard his name through a series of echoes. Diluc fights to regaind concousness, feeling your grip upon his shoulder while trying to urge him awake.

"Diluc are you alright?"

Your worried face was the first thing he sees other than the fog that looms above. Diluc blinks a few times in an attempt to ease his migraine, using one arm to force his body into a seating position as he allowed himself to be supported by you at the same time.

"Does your head hurt?" You ask, palming gently against his forehead to feel the heat. Even if her was usually very warm, there was no unusual rise in tempurature, something must have hit him instead, "Here, maybe this will help."

Bringing out your hand you concentrated on generating the water through your fingertips. Having a hydro vision meant you were capable of healing magic which Diluc appreciated since he often came home late at night with injuries hidden behind his sleeves. But nothing came out and he became even more suspicious of the situation.

"Eh? What's going on?" You blurted out, patting down your clothes and your pockets, "My Vision, it's gone too!"

"Mine as well," Diluc flexes his fingers to test his own element, "It seems that our powers were sealed once we entered this domain."

"A domain that prevents you from using a Vision? That doesn't sound very comforting," you scratched your head, suddenly remembering the cause of your current problem, "The locket...it's all starting to make sense now. Ugh, I should have listened to you earlier, I'm sorry Diluc."

"No (Y/n), you don't have to apologize," he interjects and you returned a curious glance, "I should have stopped you the minute I discovered there was something strange. I was too careless."

"You felt that too? I thought I was the only one," your tone and face mimics one of surprise. The fog continues to dance around, enclosing the two of you to the small area. You lifted your head and looked above in deep contemplation, "When I saw the locket I couldn't tear my eyes off of it, like something was pulling me in. Like...there was a spell casted on it."

"What do you mean?" he asked in an inquisitive manner.

You nod, "I can't put my finger on it bit Ifel that the locket wanted me to..." balling your fist upon your lap, you stared intensely at the floor as if drilling holes into them while digging into the depths of your mind for any specific clues. Initially you thought the locket was so captivating that you were simply charmed by it's craftmanship. But tere was more than that, you began deciphering, there was also a need for fulfillment. A yearning desire, "to know. The locket was calling me to know."

'Once you open it, you will be set free.'

"To know..." you trailed off. How strange. No matter how much you tried to rationalize, you were always brought back to the same square as if the locket knew exactly what you wanted. What you were lacking. Because the one thing you wanted to know most about was the person you've never met, "Someone very important to you."

The fog dispersed.

Diluc instinctively puts an arm in front of you defensively as he scanned his quick and thorough eyes around the area. It didn't take long for him to know exactly where everything was. In fact, the abrupt change isn't what puts him on high alert, but it was how familiar everything looked to the point he evaluates if there was any reason to be skeptical or if he should be breathtaken.

"What a beautiful house," However you didn't recognize it. Diluc knew because he had yet to meet you during the time he lived in this estate, "I wonder who does it belong to?"

"Father's old mansion...how?" Diluc breatlessly mutters, as if seeing the supremecy of Celestia for the first time. When years passed after his father died, he chose to sell off the majority of his belongings, the mansion being on for example. Currently it was in the possession of a well-known business associate that used to be a friend of Crepus. The mansion would likely have looked much different due to the renovations it gone through but Diluc remembers the picture as if this were yesterday. Everything was in tact. The vine yard, the gazebo where they drank tea, the hill that he and Kaeya used to race on when they were kids-

Revelation burns in his pupils as his eyes expanded.

"Welcome home, my son."

Both you and Diluc fall wordless at the sight that appeared like a miracle's blessing. Crepus stands at a distance, the graceful smile complimenting his warm features. He looked exactly how the court artists portrayed him in the Ragnvindr's family picture. Sharp face with gentle eyes and an aura that was as pleasant as what Elzer described.

"So this is why the locket was calling to us," you whispered, "I guess the mora really was worth it after all."

"...Fa...ther...."

You snuck a glance at Diluc. From behind the resemblance was as clear as dawn, like you were staring at a carbon copy of Master Crepus himself. Almost. He was a less hardened version of Diluc during uncommon situations. It made you think just how much you didn't know before his father passed away. What kind of person was this man during his days as a knight? You never had the chance to know.

"Father is that really you?" Diluc couldn't help his voice from trembling, paralyzed in place when he could hardly make sense of what stands in front of him. The person he longed to hear from, the person who left the world too quick, Diluc was afraid to get his hopes up in case his father suddenly disappeared and everything was just an illusion conjured by his mind. He was already used to being betrayed and dealt with disappointment too often. Which is why he learned to trust only himself. But, right now, can he really trust himself?

Feeling your hand gently on his shoulders, Diluc was brought back to reality. You smiled with warm reassurance that bled into your voice, "It's okay Diluc. Go, I'm here for you."

There was the faintest light shining in his eyes as emotions swell in his chest. Ever since you came Diluc never had to feel alone anymore, truly, you were the light that was brought back into his eyes, to his life when he gave up the thought of seeing it again. If he couldn't trust himself then at the very least, he could trust you.

"Thank you," he embraces you wholly like you were everything, and you were, before letting go and taking off to the otherside.

The air hits him in a rush and knocks the ones out of his lungs, "Father!" Diluc yells with tearful eyes. For the first time in a long while he was finally letting his feelings run free, "Father!" A name that felt foreign upon words that is pushes him forward, wanting to claim the truth that was smiling from afar.

"Father!"

Crepus lifted his arms and openly catches Diluc when he crashed into him. Here. He was here. He certainly was.

"Haha its been a while hasn't it my son?" He begins, encasing Diluc in a hug like he did the day he turned eighteen. Crepus was a tall man and his genes seemed to have went through. Back when they were younger, Diluc managed to only reach the blade of his shoulders, just barely. Now they were practically the same height, "Look how much you've grown over the years. There were so many things I planned to say but I don't know where to start."

Seven years. That was how long Crepus spent alone with his thoughts. He saw what happened through that time span, the truth about the Knights and Kaeya's origins. To say that none of that bothered him would be a lie. Especially when his son was the most impacted throughout all the events.

"Father I...I-" Diluc tries to speak but the words dissolved the moment it reached his tongue. He wasn't the type to be very good at expressing emotions. None of it could simply be communicated by sentences. For him, actions spoke louder yet somehow, they still wouldn't be enough. Nothing can comprehend the weight of seven years.

Crepus seemed to have understood and fills in the gap instead, "I have also missed you and Kaeya. More than I can even say. It must have been so hard for you both to endure it all by yourselves. Life hits us when we least expect it but despite that, you still chose to persevere."

Diluc clenches his hold, face buried in his shoulders and mouth quivering as he barely answers, "Yeah."

"You're both my pride and joy no matter what happens, as a father I cannot be more proud," before knowing, everything that was said came out naturally from his spirit. Crepus may have his own set of things to share but he knew what Diluc needed the most, "So please don't stop relying on one another, don't always think that you have to do everything alone. Stength is a virtue. However, its okay to let go and allow new people to come into your life. I don't need to be avenged, as long as you and Kaeya are happy, its all I ask for."

As if the world had been lifted from his shoulders, Diluc allows himself to break just this once. On the outside, he was known to be an unstoppable force, the Mondstadt tycoon, the uncrowned king and a hero who serves at night. But here you saw only a boy who dearly missed his father as he hugs him tightly. Although you couldn't hear their conversation clearly, just watching them from where you stood was enough to make your eyes glisten from pure happiness.

"You finally chose to open your heart, right Diluc?" You quietly note to yourself, "You don't have to carry everything by yourself anymore, you're free."

'Once you open it, you will be set free.'

He was able to dwell in this one in a lifetime experience, all because you unlocked the heart and dispersed the fog inside.

They spent a good amount of minutes bringing the distance back together after being seperated for so many years. You made sure to make minimal movements in the consideration of their time. It was only temporary until Crepus noticed you standing in the distance and he gave you a quick glance. Your whole body tenses in response, suddenly feeling guilty as if you were a third wheel who didn't belong in the moment between two family members.

He's staring at me. Diluc's father is staring at me! Your thoughts panicked along with your thrumming heart. What should I do?!!

"I see you've brought someone along with you," He comments, the playfulness rising in his tone, "She seems to have been waiting for quite a while already. If you don't mind, may you do the honours of introducing her to me?"

Diluc turns to see you stiffened in place with your hands tightly clasped below your stomach and heat pooling from your ear to your cheeks as you dipped your head down. His father was a kind man and he couldn't understand there the discomfort came from, yet found it endearing nonetheless. Diluc walks over to you and extends his hand, silently urging you to come with him. You complied, albeit hesitantly at first.

"It'll be okay my love," he whispered softly, causing you to be taken aback by the nickname he called you by. Diluc often reserves them for special instances and this was one of them, "Whatever the staff told you about my father, they're the truth. Trust in their judgement. Trust in me."

"Diluc..." you say, voice fading. You knew him to be someone who always kept his word and someone who would never lie to you. Taking in a short breath, you nodded, "Alright, I will," and followed his lead.

There was once a time where you indulged in the idea of facing Master Crepus in person. But never did you prepare yourself for the amount of pressure it came with. Now that you were together with his son, there was a high chance that he would also become part of his family too, sooner or later. You weren't just meeting Master Crepus. You were also meeting your future father-in-law.

"Father, this is (Y/n)," Diluc starts the welcoming exchanges. You felt his hand squeeze yours gently. He turns to you so that you caught glimpse of his face, seeing the reverance in his gaze that was hinted among his handsome features, "She's the woman I fell in love with and I would do anything to make her happy. I cherish her more than anything else."

"D-Diluc!" you flushed, your embarassment as red as his own hair. But he wasn't bothered by it in the slightest.

"I only speak the truth."

Master Crepus lets out a content chuckle, drawing both of your attentions back to him, "He can be surprising poetic sometimes but I'm sure that he got it from me. Even my wife reacted the same way," he reminisced shortly before sighing, "In truth I already knew that you were together. Staying in the after life gave me the chances to watch things from an omniscient standpoint, I was sincerely worried how Diluc would handle things when I suddenly left, I hope you don't mind. If you do, I apologize for making you uncomfortable."

"N-Not at all!"

"Haha, you're very kind. Thank you. I'm glad that my son was able to find a woman like you to be his fated partner. As a parent, it brings me great reassurance," Crepus remarked, "I know he can be stubborn and a little too headstrong when it comes to making decisions. It really must be a handful for you to deal with at times but I promise you that he means well. So please continue to watch over him in my stead, take care of my son while I'm gone."

"You can count on me," you beamed, "I'll give it my all."

"You have my gratitude (Y/n)," Crepus replies and turned to Diluc, "And listen to her every once in a while. I may have been the previous owner of our wine industry but even I always make sure to get me sufficient amount of rest. Son you know its bad to get two to three hours of sleep every day."

You blinked, "Two to three hours?"

Diluc clears his throat, "I understand Father. You don't have to say it."

Oh I think he does.

With a satisfied grin, Crepus took both of your hands together in his and gave you his blessings. The man once considered to be an artifact through the vast mansion was going to be part of the memories in your life. All of your expressions held as much happiness as the future can become now that he gave you the closure you both needed.