#Ike's even more of a terror when he grows up he's just a little more aware than his brother

[paisleywraith]

Brats.

[thegeminisage]

star trek update time. earlier tonight, my eyes were cursed with star trek generations, a very very bad movie. if you don't know the big spoiler for this movie (the character death), please stop reading here. or keep reading actually i'm not your mom. fuck this movie anyway.

with the tos movies, i tried to keep notes on notepad as i watched so as to better type up a "liveblog" later. i was a bit spotty at remembering to do that this time, but i have enough to put together a reasonable write-up. here's kind of how it went

cried multiple times during this movie. first time was when kirk showed up because i knew it was the last time we were ever gonna see him. got bonus aftershock tears when i saw scotty and chekov - i was under the impression it was JUST kirk. second time, i THINK, was when he showed up again, though i just misted up a little. big boo-hooing when he mentioned spock, naturally. MORE crying when he finally bit it, though it was mostly because i was angry!!! and finally, even though i promised myself i wouldn't cry over data, i did start sobbing when he was reunited with his cat. gave myself a crying headache.

it was difficult watching kirk be on the bridge and want to be captain and he's not captain. and then crisis strikes and oh yeah he is. and really, the captainly thing to do WAS to go down to the lower decks and do whatever the fuck. needs of the many. he saved that guy's life. that would have been a fine death.

it was a little ruined by chekov going "was there somebody in there?" like to me it struck me more as funny than anything

oh, spotting guinan in the tos era made me absolutely thrilled btw. i missed her so much in s7 it was UNREAL.

OH YEAH AND. sulu's daughter. wah. ik aos sulu is gay do we think tos sulu is gay too. either way i;m very happy for him

apparently one of the guys in this is from succession. i'm choosing to blame this whole debacle on him.

switching directly to a fucking holodeck scene KILLED me. i HATE the holodeck. at first i thought they were giving worf a retirement party to send him to ds9 but they were just doing all of that for fun. deanna's outfit was hot though. also, data shoving beverly WAS FUNNY tng writers just hate autistic people

i have mixed feelings about data and the emotions chip. i was surprised they never covered it in tng proper and i think it would have been handled better there...data having the chip WAS the reason soren got away, which makes it plot-important, but it felt like a b-plot to a normal tng episode and this is supposed to be a feature film. instead it was a tng two-parter with a budget and william shatner. it was fun watching data experience emotions (happiness, terror) and struggle to control them, but there ironically wasn't enough time to really get into it, except when picard gave him the tough love speech, which i think was uncalled for. why is he so against suicide when it's data when he was out here telling worf to kill himself over an empty barrel??

titty klingon sisters. i never remember their names or their faces but i ALWAYS recognize those boob windows. at first it was really annoying because it is pretty sexist but honestly i've become very endeared. it's absolutely devastating that this movie killed them too. they were everything to me ����

hey, sorry, side bar, were they watching geordi bathe through his visor? freaks.

also, geordi in the bondage gear while he was kidnapped. ALSO, wasn't he growing new eyes in the tng s7 finale? whatever happened with that???

stellar cartography looks better than it did in tng but it brought back memories of picard running around on poor beverly. idk what he's so worried about continuing his family line for wesley crusher IS his affair baby

hey, also, the lighting??? the "distant sunlight" atmosphere when the lights are off vs the brightly lit interior of the show? truly, the upgraded lighting was probably my favorite part of the movie. it looked SO fucking good. i really felt like we were on a spaceship.

no, wait, ACTUALLY my favorite part was data getting to say "oh, shit!" that was really good. they got one bad word for this whole movie and used it in the perfect place

no, my favorite part was the spock mention.

did not like kirk referring to picard repeatedly as the captain of the enterprise. kirk's the real captain here, bitch. picard doesn't have what it takes to die for his ship. he doesn't love his ship the way kirk loved his.

i did like the nexus reference to the tmp wife. in the novel she was named lori but she didn't show up in tmp proper much less get a name so i'm ok with them calling her the wrong name, but i just know it's the same woman. less okay with kirk's nexus dream being all about some random woman we've never met. he's in love with the IDEA of a woman to come home to, sure, but it's just lazy writing. we don't have any reason to care about this girl. at least if it had been carol ruth marcus or something we'd have SOME basis to give a shit on. the nexus was the perfect place for spock and bones! i wish they and uhura and sulu had had cameos...

i also liked him warning picard to NEVER retire/accept promotion, bc retiring wound up being so traumatizing for him. this is not really consistent but i'm making it that way in my mind palace.

also, kirk being a horse girl is FAKE. they just made him be into horses bc picard is into horses. gross. he was really good at chopping wood though lol

the scene with the kids evacuating the spaceship...WHY WOULD YOU HAVE CHILDREN ON THIS SHIP. i also worried about the pets the entire time, which is part of why i lost it when data found spot :(

it's sad that a piece of guinan was left behind in the nexus...does that happen to everyone? is a piece of kirk in there too? i really wanted to write a fix-it for this someday but they have given me so little to work with that it's hard to imagine a fixit that isn't just 80% "yeah we're ignoring that" which isn't very satisfying.

the crash was SO long. also, why was data holding troi? she's got 2 different boyfriends who could be doing that for her

since i was going into this knowing kirk died, i expected that he was gonna die because the nexus swallowed him or something. i was expecting something grand. instead it was like, tos scene, an hour and a half of very mid tng content, and then half an hour of rushed and poorly paced kirk and picard scenes. typical tng episode that it didn't get to the point until it was almost over, but jesus. i can't believe they got shatner for their movie and then barely had him in it. like, kirk at the end was a total surprise narratively (obviously everyone watching it knows bc of the opening at LEAST that he'll be back, but imagine if this guy had been some rando - it would have been so unsatisfying and weird).

see, this is the thing. the nexus actually has the potential to be incredibly compelling. the way picard's scenes were shot were very very good, if one could ignore the clothes from 1790 and the horrific portrait of himself looking like he stepped out of les mis and also how creepy his kids were and WHY WASN'T HIS WIFE BEVERLY I HATE HIM. kirk's were rushed and messy (he likes horses? his dog? none of this connects us to the character we knew in tos...), and picard's involved, well, picard. but the CONCEPT absolutely fucks, and i did love the creep factor in spite of it all. this whole movie had huge potential and instead it's a steaming pile of shit. i could have learned to live with a good kirk death but living with a bad one is gonna kill me. at least he had good last words. "oh, my" right before he dies kinda fucks tbh.

my final note is that i think sir patrick stewart got sunburnt filming some of those scenes near the end. there were a few shots where he looked quite pink. give the man some sunscreen. oh yeah also why did some people randomly wear the ds9 uniforms...what on earth

anyway, terrible movie, 0/10 stars, i'm never gonna recover. tng never disappoints in disappointing me.

NEXT TIME: back to ds9, thank god. we're doing "meridan" and "defiant."

[well-look-at-this]

Ik I'm a bit late but ahhhhhhh tyty for the analysis, I loved it very much (esp my boy, Cay, and my other boy, Idia).

Speaking of them, I wanted to share little parallel between them that I thought of a while ago that your post reminded me of.

Cater and Idia are soo the dehumanized Toy Doll | Toy Robot parallel when it comes to their lack of connection to others and how it's effected them.

First, what you said with Idia in your post explained it perfectly. He completely isolates himself, using his grief as walls so he seems completely unreachable to anyone but his mechanical brother. He's always been at the same place, never changing because it's too painful to move on, always hiding away in his machines, never straying away from his safe, logical, space. Hiding as a machine even though he's actually very passionate and emotional. For the longest time he even kept his Ortho at the same age that the real one was because of this as well. Essentially, he'd rather be viewed as an isolated, cold, toy robot than grow attached to somebody and lose them again as a human.

And Cater. Always surrounding himself with people, showing them what they want to see because he doesn't believe he has anything else to show. Or at least anything else worth showing. His "self" that was created from a young age, stitched up like a doll, dictated by the opinions of the other people in his life, namely, his sisters. In becoming the person that he believed would make others the happiest, he, as you mentioned, little by little discarded himself until he couldn't feel the pain from the loss connections and stability since he was constantly moving. Hiding that emptiness behind the mask of the most gentle, loving doll, because it would be too much to genuinely connect with someone only for it not to last, once again, or for him to rejected outright by a self others may not want to see. Essentially, he'd rather be loved as phony toy doll than to be rejected and forgotten as a human.

I have many more silly thoughts about them and the boys if you'd to hear them, am also looking forward to hearing more of your own thoughts!

👏👏 yesss I'm glad that what I was trying to portray about Idia came through. Idia and Cater are so painfully similar fundamentally as but have vastly different coping patterns.

The thing that gets me with Idia is how he honestly complained shuts down any possible connection he could make too. How he will often literally use the reasoning that it's "because it's him, and he doesn't do that/it doesn't happen to him". And I think that the end of book 6 is so great because you see him for once genuinely acknowledge that he CAN stand on common ground with people and he also lets go of "Ortho", by the end of the book that's not his "brother" anymore, at least not in the toxic codependency replacement way. But he for so long refused to acknowledge that he could change and make connections and honestly a big part of that was probably him punishing himself. If his brother never got to change, grow and make friends why should he?

Meanwhile Cater has connections but refuses to take them seriously. And he can do that because he hides behind this wall of "well it's not like they know and care about the real me" in this viscous cycle because he won't let people know the real him. Even when they make the genuine effort (read: trey, especially great example being star sending and terror is trending). And I hate to see it but I really do see him falling out of contact with everyone at NRC pretty quickly. He honestly might even expedite the process on purpose (mr. I hAtE fOuNd FaMiLiEs). An ironic theme you see is his love for Vil, who in his eyes is everything he wishes he was. But ugh, I'll get into the ironic Vil almost parallels after I write his part.

The characters are just all really well written, I'm super glad you liked my writing though do feel free to keep sending asks though I love analyzing characters and discussing them

[pregtboy]

ik you enjoy back to back pregnancies and multiples so what abt a mishap of science or magic or smth where a boy ends up able to get knocked up again when he’s Already swollen w a baby or three? thinking it’s just growth spurts for the babies already in his womb until he goes in for his next appointment and has at least doubled if not tripled how many he’s carrying

YES he was planning on having a lil average family, just one to three kids or so with a few years between each, some semblance of a quiet normal life, so he was definitely thrown for a loop when he found out he was having triplets. he tried not to let it bother him much - after all, three kids was within his ideal range, and getting all the births over with in one go wasn't necessarily a bad thing. he'd just have his hands a little full, that was all. the growth that came with carrying triplets was certainly a bit much for him too - the skin on his chest, hips, thighs, and especially his belly was smattered with stretch marks that only deepened and itched more as the weeks crawled on. and of course there was his chest, which had gone up several cup sizes and gained a sensitivity like nothing the boy had ever felt before. his new curves caught him off guard, but nothing was quite as cumbersome as that baby bump of his. he wasn't used to the space it took up, and always found himself bumping things and knocking them over with his belly, unable to move around in quite the same way he did before his stomach ballooned up. the changing center of gravity also proved burdensome, and he often had to cradle his hefty belly and shift his poses in all sorts of ways just to find some relief and acclimate himself to his considerable new weight. of course, his husband took good care of him through it all, but the couple would soon be thrown for yet another - and even bigger - loop.

both boys watched their doctor do a double take during the ultrasound, murmuring in confusion to herself and staring at the screen in disbelief. the boys hear her muttering something along the lines of 'that can't be right, i must have miscounted...' before nervously shuffling out of the room to convene with her colleagues while the boys looked on, oblivious.

they went home from their appointment with more questions than answers - the doctors told them there were more babies growing in the boy's womb than initially believed - but they hadn't been there from the beginning, and they weren't even quite sure how many in total the boy was gestating now.

the next appointment, much to the confusion and terror of both the doctor and the patient, was quite the same. more new little dots found on the ultrasound, more little ones seemingly added to the pregnant boy's already massive belly. the doctors had never seen anything like it, and all they could do was assume each additional batch of babies would be born in an additional nine months. realizing how long this meant he'd be staying pregnant, the boy cursed himself for all the sex he'd been having with his husband during the pregnancy - he figured there would be no risk since he was already pregnant, but it clearly added up.

by the time his first due date - the original one - came, the boy has utterly gargantuan. his womb was absolutely packed with several litters, all at different stages, and given what a poor job his husband had been doing of staying off him, there were likely still even more newly conceived babies growing undiscovered inside him. after he had birthed his triplets, his belly had barely gotten visibly smaller. he blushed in embarrassment as he remembered less than a year prior, when he had fantasized about a small, perfectly normal family.

that fantasy was gone now - the boy had enough litters inside him to stay consistently birthing every nine months for years to come, and despite the circumstances, he and his husband never quite seemed to learn their lesson - the doctors discovered new babies at every appointment, and the poor swollen boy's husband was fucking still even more into him on a near daily basis. doing the math and trying to figure out how many children the boy was growing in his obscenely enormous pregnant belly, or how long he'd be pregnant for, only made the couple's heads hurt, so they decided to throw caution to the wind and stop keeping track entirely. after all, he was already so pregnant, what difference would a few more make at this point?

only one thing was for sure - the boy would be spending the rest of his life unfathomably pregnant without a single break, his numerous brood constantly expanding - and he would only get bigger.

and as it turns out, he enjoys this far more than his initial plan.

[softcallofdutyimagines]

An oddly specific hc:

Weaver, Mason, Woods, Adler, and Hudson with an S/O who likes to give+recieve cuddles. (Guess whose love language is physical touch? Is me.)

DJDJDJSJ LITERALLY ALL OF MY HUSBANDS IN ONE ASK !!!! You know, love languages for the squad might be an interesting one, one day! I feel you tho, mine is words of affirmation but physical touch is a super close second 🥺👉🏻👈🏻

Phew I went kind of all in on these, so sorry of they're really long or rambly, but I hope you enjoy them!! Weaver and Woods even feature a little dad bod action bc ik that's our thing 😌😌💅🏻

Adler

Honestly, at first he's not use to it

In fact, you'd be forgiven to think he didn't like it at all

However, he never shuts you down either...

If you persevere for long enough and are able to gain his trust, you'll be rewarded to find that he actually quite enjoys your touch

Well, more then enjoys I'd say

Adlers job is a lonely and thankless one, and although he could hardly bring himself to admit as much...

The loneliness takes a toll on him

He is only interested in receiving that kind of affection from someone he has a connection with, so as you can imagine, it's harm for him to get that need fulfilled without you

In a way, he grows rather addicted to you

You're the first thing he goes for when he comes home after time away

All in all, he's down for whatever you've got to give, but his favorite thing to do is to hold you

Whether that be while cuddled up and or just standing in place, it doesn't matter to him

In turn, he particularly likes when you stroke his jawline or pepper him with kisses

He's very sensitive about his face and scars as you know, doubly so after the torture and rescue stuff he went through

So when you show extra affection to that spot, not only is it a huge sign of his trust in you, but it also just so happens to make him melt

Hudson

Hudson is an extremely similar case to Adler in that, although you wouldn't guess it, he craves physical touch

In fact, Hudson might be even worse off

I would argue that at least Adler works with his task force members, but Hudson???

He's more or less forced to stick to the shadows and only speak to others on a more or less need to know basis

Given that cannon Hudson has a whole wife and kids, I get the feeling that he just wants to be loved damn it!!!

So all this to say that, unlike Adler, I don't think Hudson would be even remotely as coy with his desire for affection

I mean, if you've managed to snag a relationship with him, he must trust you a whole lot already, so why not just clear the air, right?

However, I will say that I think he might be a little shy about it

What if he comes across as too needy or something? Not a good look for a grown man, surely

As a result, if he has nothing more pressing to attend to, he'll be your shadow around the house all day long, from one room to the next

Of course, he does his best to not follow you step for step or do anything else that would obviously give him away, but it doesn't take a genius to figure out what he wants

You'll have to invite him to come to you most of the time

And good thing too, bc when he's with you, it's like heaven

He's fond of simply collapsing into your lap when your seated, or across your torso when laying down

From there, you can do whatever you want

If you really wanted, you could balance a damn book on his back and just read in silence for all he cares

As long as he can have that physical connection to you, it doesn't matter

This is another area where he's a step up in extreme from Adler

While Adler wants you, Hudson needs you

You're like his one place of rest in the whole world, the only place he can be safe and forget about his work, and you have no idea how much that means to him

Mason

Personally, I think Alex is probably the one most (relatively lmao) well adjusted adult of the group

He of course loves receiving physical affection from you, but he doesn't need to rely on it as some sort of coping mechanism

While he can be a little clingy, its a usually only after times that he has to be away for a long while

Personally, I feel like Alex is the safest for me to say that he probably also has physical touch as his love language as well!

He will often come seek you out just as much as you so for him, and he has no problem requesting some snuggle time

Mason is perfectly confident in his masculinity after all, so asking if you wouldn't mind cuddling him is a simple task in his eyes

The height of his interest in touch comes when he's trying to sleep though

He's prone to pretty awful night terrors given all that he's been through, so I'd say that's the only real time that he truly does rely on you and your gift

Even if it's just something as small as holding his hand while you lay next to him, any little bit helps

He definitely notices more difficulty sleeping when you're not around, so he's thankful for you for sure

Mason is also pretty big on pda I think lol

Like holding hands, hugging, and kissing...

None of that bothers him!

Although he enjoys nearly all forms of touch from you, he'd have to admit that he loves it the most even you run his back or hold his hands

It's... Comforting

Weaver

Off, poor Weaver, he's a mess

Imagine someone who burns with an all consuming desire just to be touched damn it !!! like Hudson does, and yet has ten times the reservations and insecurities about it as Adler does

That's close to what Weaver is like

He's extremely shy around you, just to start off

In fact, he's probably still star struck that you actually wanted to be in a relationship with him in the first place

And so, he's not sure how to act...

He really is a big softie on the inside, and yet he's not sure if you'd like that

After all, he's the big, tough Russian guy to everyone else

That's who you met, so it would make sense that that's what you want, right?

While Hudson would warm up after a while and, albeit awkwardly I'm sure, ask you for some cuddling time or some such...

... Weaver almost never asks, but will instead make it painfully obvious that he wants it lol

It definitely does not help that he's quite insecure with his appearance

These days, he's a just a touch more soft and round then he use to be, and that's on top of his missing eye and greying hair

If you are of the opinion that such things only make him more suited for cuddling, warm and comfy as he is, it will take him an awful long time to believe you

Buuuuuuut...

Although he loves to pretend he only tolerates his at best, he does rather enjoy it when you give his chest or tummy some affection

It's sort of like Adler and his scars: Weaver loathes the state of his abdomen, amongst other things, but he must admit...

He likes that you like it

Woods

Geez, Woods is probably as opposite from Weaver as it gets

I once heard the phrase "a dog in human form", and honestly?

It doesn't get more accurate then that

This man lives for attention and the fact that you want to give it to him, drives him crazy

He's pretty shameless, and is down to be touched or felt basically whenever

It's to the point that he's taken up walking around the house shirtless just in anticipation of any cuddling or rubs to be had

He's a bit performative about it, which can be either entertaining or annoying depending, but he never misses an opportunity to show off his muscles to you and let you have a feel

Really though, anywhere you want to touch, however you want to do it, go ahead baby! He'll eat it up lmao

Of course, if you catch him at a time in his life where he's going the route of Weaver and developing some dad bod...

Totally different story

If that's the case, he's extremely adverse to letting you touch places like his thighs, chest, and of course his stomach

Really, just anywhere that's filled out

Which in his mind, could very well extend to his body as a whole

Needless to say, this creates a very powerful inner turmoil between his desire to be near to you and impress you, and his fear of rejection

With this Woods, it'll take a loooot of gentle touches and reasurace to bring him around

But once he trusts you, he's be right back to how toned Woods would act

Bare chested, tummy out, and ready for some lovin 😌

[avversiera-writes]

try again; in everyday we breathe life [tobirama senju/you] - chapter 4

Chapter 4 - Then

Summary: some comedy,, more doing the deedddd, some comedic relief, hah! light-hearted stuff while the glaring dramatic irony lingers

Word Count: ~4k

Author’s Note: ik ik it’s been a while! almost done tho. thank you for reading <3

also on AO3.

Chapter 1 - Now | Chapter 2 - Then, part 1 | Chapter 2 - Then, part 2 | Chapter 3 - Now | 

Tobirama is busy meeting with delegates from Kumogakure, and you are stuck being a wife in your own home, trying not to get embarrassed in front of the servants as you talk about replacing the broken bed in your room and changing the curtains around the house, or some other household detail that needs attending. You also talk with the cook in the kitchen about dinner, as Tobirama’s students are going to come over tonight, and you want to make sure that the food will be up to their tastes. 

  You trudge through your day until past noon, deciding that it is a good time to drop by the Hokage mansion to get your stubborn husband to eat something. The more Tobirama gets busy, the more he ignores the simplest ways to sustain himself. It is even harder to get him off when he is hard at work and is very focused on his tasks. He has a way of zeroing in on whatever he is doing, and while he is quite efficient at it, hours can pass him by before he even considers taking a break. 

This part of Tobirama, you admire and loathe him for it, because he rarely thinks about taking care of himself. It has always been work for him, and you know that he enjoys it more than anything, despite the stress that it brings him. 

  Now that you have taken a step back from being an active shinobi, you are able to look after him in your own way. There are times he resists being looked after, but after some pushing and prodding on your part, he would grudgingly accept it. 

  Being married to him and getting to know more sides of him is thrilling, and it makes you fall for him even more. 

In your bedroom, preparing to drop by the Hokage office, you study your clothes, deciding which kimono you should wear and which outer robe or pair of sandals you want to match it with. You have never really thought about fashion that much, because you often opted for practical clothing. Now that you are the Hokage's wife, you know you have to look the part, and also, it does not hurt to wear something pretty for your husband. 

  After deciding with a light green kimono with a slit on the left leg, and pairing a yellow outer coat to complement it, you step out of the bedroom to head down the kitchen. 

  The house is quiet, except for the quiet footsteps just outside the house, indicating that the servants of the house are keeping away to give you some privacy. You really do not mind their company, but they are gone before you can express your sentiments. 

You make a mental note to change that. Despite being in a village where classes of people are blurred, it seems to be different within clans. You know that some of the Senju have married with the common folk and into other clans, but since the two heads of the clan are Hokage, that part of the family is treated almost like royalty. 

  You shake your head. Hierarchies were the least of your problems, especially one that involves family. In the shinobi world, it is simpler, and there are many opportunities to move up your rank. Whereas, being part of the more mundane life, it is a whole different world from what you knew. 

  You uncover the pan where the cook had left the fried fish that Tobirama likes and you begin to pack it into a box, along with rice and some side dishes that he sometimes eats along with this kind of dish. You prepare his tea, and a few rice cakes, then you wrap everything into a nice blanket to make it easier to carry. 

Footsteps approach the long kitchen, and you whirl around, only to spot Miura Kimiko. 

  “My lady, I am so sorry to interrupt!” Kimiko expresses. 

“Oh, it’s you,” you greet. You throw a smile at the last minute to reassure that there is nothing to worry about. You are completely caught off-guard by her presence, since no one is really around you at the moment. “I have been meaning to talk to you.” 

  Kimiko smiles kindly. “Really?” 

  You let out a nervous giggle. “Well, it turns out that I may need your help after all. You know, with the...” You trail off and you give Kimiko an embarrassed look. 

Kimiko’s face lights up in joy, and you finally let out a genuine smile. “That’s great, my lady!” 

  You press a hand to your forehead and laugh. “I had no idea that he would be so quick to decide. He seemed very eager.” 

Kimiko laughs, and you take Tobirama’s wrapped lunch. 

“I see,” Kimiko walks towards you, and pauses at the cupboards. “I will have to make a quick trip to the market. We can talk later, and I can show you and give you your first batch of tea for fertility purposes. Then, along the way, we’ll talk of the supplements that will ensure a healthy birth.” 

You meet her eyes. “Thank you, Kimiko-san. I really appreciate this.” You give her a small bow. “I will put my trust in you.” 

  “I am honored, my lady,” Kimiko replies, and from there, you leave her be in the kitchen to make your way towards the Hokage office.

//

There was some waiting to be done, once you get in the Hokage office. The mansion is flourishing with many people, delegates and their aides that have been authorized to stay there for the duration of their visit. It seems that peace negotiations are coming along well, judging by the atmosphere of the place. There is no tension that you feel. You hope that Tobirama’s alliance with Kumo will come along soon, though you foresee the many months of more political talks that will ail his office hours. 

  Sensing that Tobirama will not be available immediately, you tell one of his guards that you will be waiting in the library for him, and make your way there. 

You smile at the familiar sight, the moment you step in. It has been a while since you have been here, in this place, where you and Tobirama had spent a lot of your earlier years together, and where your love probably first budded from. You learned more from each other through observation and silence, and of course, your nonstop banter that somehow turned into a dance of flirtationship. 

  It seems so long ago. 

You look to the table where the two of you had spent countless hours poring over research books, record books and writing into scrolls and manuscripts about plans for the growing Academy. This place has evolved–it used to be smaller. There are now more bookshelves that are being filled with newer books, and the restricted section, only accessible to those jounin level and higher, are also growing, no doubt due to your husband’s non-stop inventions. He had a huge hand in writing a lot of academic research and theory that will certainly help the future generations. That is what he is hoping for, after all, to build something that will last. 

You finally sit at your table, where dust is gathering and swirling in motes due to the sunlight peering in from the window. There is a clock at the back of the library, and it clicks loudly, echoing in the dusty, warm place to signal the passing time. 

  You trace a finger on the table, remembering that Tobirama found it childish that you doodle on random things, and then you remember telling him off and to mind his own business. 

“What are you smiling about?” Tobirama’s voice interrupts your thoughts and you turn your head to his direction. He comes closer and he glances at the table, probably coming into a realization. “I see. You were a bit of a terror back then.” 

Tobirama sits across from you, and you notice that he is wearing his Hokage clothes. 

“Long day?” You ask. 

  “The day has not even begun to start,” Tobirama sighs, and he begins to roll his sleeves back. “It is hard to keep track of the delegates coming in and out, and harder to make sure that our own delegates in Kumo are not messing up anything.” 

“Well, have a little faith,” you tell him. 

  Tobirama rolls his eyes. “Yes, I’m sure a little faith will do it. One of them, by the way, is my eldest nephew, and he is everything Hashirama is and none of his mother’s tact and charm.” 

  “Your brother is charming, stop it.” You crack a smile. 

  Tobirama narrows his eyes at you as he unpacks the lunch you have brought him. “Yes, he has charm, and he is sunshine and all about inspiration, that will dazzle the leaders of Kumogakure.”

You roll your eyes. “This is a good thing. He gets to show off the youthfulness that peaceful times can only bring.”

  If Tobirama could laugh out loud, this moment would be it. However, he lets out a huff of breath with a small smile, his version of being amused. “Perhaps. That ought to be the winning argument.” 

You let Tobirama eat in peace, and instead, decide to wander around the library to find the old places you used to crash into when you and Tobirama had to pull all-nighters, or when you just needed some space from him being a blunt asshole. You pull out the books that he used to recommend you, and flip through the pages where he had left tiny notes and markers for you to find. All of them, you have kept and preserved. 

  Back then, you found this part of Tobirama confusing and annoying, because he keeps passing you one book after another in the guise of studying it, but now that you think about it, this was his way of letting you know that he was interested. You remember the folded papers and bookmarks that would fall out when you open them, and your miffedness from trying to collect them from the ground. You were convinced that Tobirama was out to get you. 

“You know what, husband, I take it back. You were a bit of a charmer back then,” you note as you sense him approaching. You slide the book back into its shelf, creating a cleaner path from the dust.

  “And you were quite mean,” Tobirama says with a hint of mock wonder. “What were your words? That I was a senile, arrogant bastard who can go stick–”

  “Alright, alright,” you interrupt and shoot him a glare. “I said I take it back.” 

  “Yes, but my poor heart,” Tobirama sarcastically replies. 

You look at him, feigning bewilderment. “Are you joking around with me? Wow ! You are capable of such things!” 

  Tobirama smirks. “I am capable of many things.” 

You scoff. “Your audacity at this moment, Lord Nidaime.” 

  Tobirama does not even look like there is a hint of shame on that proud, stoic face of his. 

You bite back a smirk, and the two of you stare at each other for a short moment. The air between you changes, and before you know it, Tobirama is pushing you against the bookshelves, his mouth on yours, and his rough hands slipping through the slit of your kimono to grope your hips. You hear books fall to the floor and scrolls rolling on its surface, and your hand goes above your head to find some sort of purchase. 

“Maybe I should have done this earlier and saved us the confusion of finding out if we really did like each other,” Tobirama roughly whispers into your ear. 

  “If you did, I would have certainly, absolutely have stabbed my katana into your–” 

Tobirama steals your last words by pushing his tongue through your mouth and you moan, pleased. 

“Can you really afford to waste time like this?” You gasp as Tobirama delves into your neck intensely. 

  “I’m the Hokage,” Tobirama answers curtly. 

  “Some abuse of power right there.” 

You close your eyes as Tobirama’s hands cup your ass and presses you against his body, where you can feel his half-aroused erection. You grind against him, and he pushes you into the bookshelf again, where you can feel the edge of the shelves pressing against your back. 

“Haven’t you had enough?” You ask him beguilingly. 

Tobirama stares at you with a serious expression, and something about it makes you weak. “Of you?” He plants a tender kiss on your lips. “If you begin to impose too much.” 

  You roll your eyes. “Alright, goodbye. I’ll see you at home. Enjoy your erection.” 

You attempt to leave his grasp, but he steadies you in one place with firm hands. 

“Where are you going, and with this cut in your clothing? Let’s put it into good use, shall we?” Tobirama says in a low voice. 

  He whirls you around, and hikes up your clothes up to your hips. The cool air makes you shiver, and you grab onto a shelf to steady yourself. Tobirama is taller, and he is pulling you against himself, making your balance unsteady. 

  Your husband runs a hand between your thighs, and you can’t help but moan when he begins to rub his fingers against your heat. He stops, and then you hear quick shuffling of clothes behind you. You reach behind you to feel Tobirama and you let out a low chuckle when you realize that he has opted to shed his Hokage robes. 

“You have got it bad, Lord Nidaime,” you murmur. 

  “Yes, poor me, whatever shall I do now,” he says quickly. He grips your hip and positions it so that he can perfectly align against your entrance. 

  Then, he slips in, and you let out a long drawn moan as he sheathes himself inside you completely. 

  You hear him murmur curses, and you gasp as he rears back, only to slam himself back in with a precision that immediately paints your vision white. You forget you have legs, and you almost fall down as Tobirama begins to thrust into you unforgivingly. You let out a cry, and his hand quickly slaps over your mouth. 

  You hear his harsh breaths, getting louder and faster. Your lower back curves a little bit more, and the angle changes, and Tobirama begins to pound the spot that makes your body buck into him wildly. 

With nothing to support yourself, you accidentally tear the shelf in half above your head, and more books come crashing into the floor. Tobirama moves the two of you away from the mess, and he plasters you against the wall. You can only gasp as he resumes his fucking, and the slick sounds of skin against skin, of the neck-breaking speed that Tobirama snaps his hips to, makes you come so hard that you only remember worrying about the roof or the floor caving in until Tobirama places you on a table, and begins to fuck you there. 

  You cry out, slewing curses with a creativity that only comes when you are high. 

The table beneath you breaks, and Tobirama lowers your conjoined bodies onto the floor. You hold on to his shoulders, and lean back as he uses his tongue and his lips trace your neck and to plant light bruises there. You grind into him, chasing another high, and you end up pulling at his hair to expose more of his neck. 

You suck on the side of his neck, and his hands on your hips begin to guide you into a slow, agonizing rhythm. Finally, the two of you kiss, and Tobirama gives you a hard thrust upwards that sends your legs flailing, and you feel his cock twitch inside you as he breeds you with his hot seed. 

“Oh my gods,” you murmur, but you are not sure if you have said it out loud. 

Tobirama is still breathing harshly against your shoulder, and he is holding onto you like a tight coil. You feel his heart thundering against his chest, and as you come to, Tobirama shows no sign of letting up his grip. Slowly, you run a hand down his arm to soothe him. You give light kisses on the side of his face, and you continue to caress him gently. 

"Too much?" You ask teasingly. 

  Tobirama coughs, and even that sounds embarrassed. "We're really doing this." 

  "It hasn't set in yet, huh?" 

Tobirama squeezes your waist with his arms as his reply and you rest your head on his shoulder. 

  "Are you going to let go of me?" You ask tentatively. 

Tobirama lets out a sigh and you stifle a giggle. It is rare to catch a very soft Tobirama. 

  "Are you not tired?" Tobirama asks. 

  "No, not at all." You lean back and narrow your eyes at him. "Are you? Is your age catching up?"

  Tobirama scoffs and he immediately scowls. "I am not that old, and I can go for more if you want." 

You lean towards him languorously, a victorious smile spreading across your lips. "Yes, but you have a job to do." 

Tobirama slowly eases you off of him. "They can wait. I think I'll get a chronic migraine because of some hard to please delegates." 

  "With that expression of yours, one might think you already do," you can't resist saying back.

Tobirama stares at you blankly. "Now I get why people are wondering why I married you,” he deadpans. 

  “I beg to differ, Lord Nidaime, I’m quite the catch,” you smile cheekily as you watch Tobirama’s ears flush pink. 

You give your husband a few quick kisses on the lips before he can react, and you move away to stand up and gather yourself.

  “Whoah.” Your legs wobble slightly as you take a step.

  Tobirama catches you by the elbow, and you feel your face blush from his action. 

“Careful,” he warns. 

  “Right,” you say in a quiet voice. You survey the damage and you swallow nervously. “Um...I am going to stay here, and clean up and also make sure that I do not look like I just got mugged.”

Tobirama throws you a dirty look as he searches for his clothes. “Don’t worry about the mess, I will take care of it.” 

  “I was talking about myself,” you run a hand through your hair. 

Tobirama quickly puts on his clothes, and you watch him, surrounded by the broken bookshelves and the books littered on the floor. You can sense that the two of you are panicking about getting caught, or having someone walk in here, especially when the Hokage mansion is housing so many people. 

“You’re the worst,” you blurt out. 

  Tobirama raises an eyebrow and slides on his sandals. His serious expression becomes funnier as his hard features begin to morph into helplessness. You note the blooming bruises on his neck, and you gesture at it, with the same helplessness. 

  “Right,” Tobirama awkwardly says and tugs his collar up. 

  The two of you stare at each other with the familiarity of two strangers in the wrong place, and Tobirama skeeters out of the library in the most elegant way that he can muster, and when he is gone, you slide to the floor, staring at the space in front of you, then, you begin to laugh out loud. 

//

Instead of going straight home, you try your best to clean up the library, and to check your image on the glass window to make sure you look representable. Then, you wait for Tobirama in a common lounge since this whole ordeal took the whole afternoon, and it is now nearing dinner. 

  You wrap your outer coat tighter, and try to mask the slight limp that you have developed over the course of the afternoon. 

  Finally, your husband is out of his work’s clutches for now, and the two of you hurry home, trying to beat Tobirama’s students there so that the two of you can freshen up. 

  However, your plans are ruined, when you find the six of them standing on the yard, aghast as the servants haul out the bed that the two of you have broken, and they watch, as a new bed is carried into the house. 

Tobirama stiffens beside you, and you manage a small smile, knowing that you look disheveled as you feel. 

  In the yard, both Hiruzen and Danzo look horrified, Torifu is pale, Kagami and Homura have their mouths opened, and in all of their eyes you can see a growing realization, while Koharu struggles to keep her face from deviating from her usual strict expression. 

Tobirama stands beside you, calm and collected, regal and shameless. He nods, and he leaves you in the yard and walks abruptly into the house. 

“EW!” The boys shouted. 

  Koharu rolls her eyes and she starts to walk away. "Get it together," she snaps. 

  You resist the urge to put a hand on your face to cover up your embarrassment, and instead, choose to walk towards the house with your whole chest. 

To be continued...

Chapter 5 - Then >>

[mcnypieces]

@gcrifin​ ferried:  Windswept hair loosened from recent flight, form dipped just so to slide through the stone arc of a permanently open window. Wings steadied just to stay afloat, heeding situations like a plea for attention. More flits of the figure around the bends of his body, looping various muscles, scaling up the front of his chest to hover indiscreetly before golden eyes. One advantage taken, cheek pressed gingerly to rough stubble, slowly rolled till the corner of lips graze skin and pull away. Temptation keeps her body from drifting too far but never completely stills the heart. Fleeting risks soared only at the quiet hope of requital. 

     Undisturbed in a moment wrought with crippling thought. Sulked silence, some kind of respite tainted with painful awareness. Ever a constant state for stone pulled from disaster. Helmet aside, anger rolling new creases along his facial structure with every new private reveal. It was a sharp scalpel etching features in place. One line at a time; wasting no effort, giving no warning. Left alone to the pull of silence was the only comfort enough to soothe the wrath which so fervently scalded his veins. It’s an uncomfortable itch, an appetite never sated, left to sustain on something only mildly filling while it rests at an uneasy standstill. To say it was consoling felt far too lenient. The feeling was tolerable, enough to show him some semblance of ease when presented in such a careful manner. Small tilts of a scale were prone to disrupt the goliath balanced precariously on an edge between rigid collectedness and total collapse .

    Every movement is a bit heavier than the last, restless and never once deciding to properly sit. There was never a moment for solace when one stood for something else. Breaking for none, succumbing to nothing, always aware of something even caught in thoughtful sea running red. Everything came in the blink of an eye and never hesitated. Pica’s focus was unyielding even in its lowest output; hardly aimless, only wavering to some self-conscious agenda repeatedly pushed to the side in favor of proper thought. How fortunate to have one such as himself on constant guard. Away from the games, separated from trivial pursuits, left only with duty and rage in the hand. They were the only requirements. Everything else was unnecessary ─ carved out of him like hollowed shapes in stone .

     Thus unexpected becomes expected, trailing the tail end of a hazy thought as if summoned by possibilities. Wind catches wings in audible gusts, once or twice enough to rouse an otherwise over-thoughtful attention towards an open arch. Feeling grows, subsides, cast into nothing upon the sight of a golden visage made shamefully present. Visits were becoming customary just at eventide. On days he did not return with haste she still waited, patient and unperturbed like a statue of porcelain unaware of its worrisome place atop a shelf amidst an earthquake. Every other day, in and out, without a moment of delay. For so long there were nothing but questions without answers. It was vexing, interfering with time in a place meant only for himself. Little thought was ever needed to push that presence off the windowsill, thoughts waiting for the sound of something fragile shattering against the concrete below and never hearing it again. Yet the sound never came. The light continued to descend into his room every other evening just as the sun would set. Divinity cupped her in its hands and refused to let anything pry it open, not even the unrestrained fury of his hands. In time it had begun to chip at his ruthless demeanor, melting into familiar tolerance, until that light began to pour into the cracks the passing erosion left behind .

     In his mind he begged her to stop. Pleaded and prayed. But still she returned .

     Like a little bird flitting on the edge of vision, zipping to and fro in the spirit of a hummingbird skimming trumpet-mouthed flowers. There was irritation within it once, the sort common with brute force unable to snuff out the fluttering of something insignificant in a single open-palm strike. Swift despite size, that grace often proved a difficult adversary in the face of physical strength. She rises, falls, entwining each part of his being in ways none ever dared tried. It was inconceivable letting something so terribly close to the core stationed behind walls. Would be she could pluck away those secrets untouched and deliver them in deeper, refined tones than he had ever possessed. Every instinct seeks to break the neck of a bird and yet, he cannot bring himself to act. Newfound feeling springing to life around the foundations hardly touched by her grow vines in his joints. The Spade does not move, hardly so much as thinks. Frustration in lack of understanding beats against the surface of glossed over eyes but never breaks past the blank stare cutting holes into wall directly before him. Familiarity of stonework persists only for a second, clouded again by a sweet smile and green eyes staring thoughtfully into him. Something screams for any sign of focus and nothing seems to listen. It fades slowly, steadily, until it suddenly snaps into nothingness .

     Living light presses gingerly against the skin of a shoulder, small hands anchored on its curvature as warm weight falls upon it. Insignificant to one meant to bear the weight of slate, almost feathered in touch. Heat crashes against his face as hers is brought onto him, the sensation of closeness turning dull aches into pulsing throbs. Unrest undulates against a ribcage without visible relief. The very place to feel the fondness of lips sprouts flowers, cementing a feeling unlike any other in the very make of his being. What horrid life it brings him, burying something undeniable within that he can’t take out anymore .

     He doesn’t understand! This audacity, the nerve she has to so effortlessly tear down each and every wall he shapes! No respect, no sense of danger, obliviously carving an intricate image of herself in his mind knowing how easily the weight of his outrage could rip the wings from her back ! 

     But it’s unbearable. Tenderness drifts away and the weight of the world comes back to take its place. He crumbles against the edge of an over-sized mattress and breathes. To be without it is to lose some faint source of stability. A hand reaches as if looking to be held only to harshly snatch her from the air. Tight, enough to feel the shape of her body beneath the grip. Wings protrude from between fingers, forcing an unexpected descent back upon the calloused surface of his skin. Hold loosened but firm, the bars of fingers pinning her to him in some pitiful excuse of an embrace. Head turned downward, small frame tucked beneath the corner of chin and neck, lavender cascading down golden locks and down to the small of her back. The rush of unexplained relief, some brush of dust and temporary caulk to something worn away by life. It’s another reminder of a man’s mortality; a sense of absolute terror overcome by some unrealized, uninvited desire . 

     Weak ─ he felt weak. That unmoving stone still falls apart with every meaningful, tender touch. But the disappointment of vulnerability felt less humiliating when Lulubelle was the only witness .

[plounce]

god ik its a wm au but I would Love to hear more about beauyasha in this au.. also like what has yasha been up to on earth? how does she interact with beau and caleb before molly arrives? 💜🕊

>:)))! i can absolutely do so!!

so in the first two or so seasons before all the heaven/apocalypse stuff, beau and caleb met yasha in an episode. she never SAID she was a valkyrie but that’s what they assumed she was, since she had a lot of viking stuff on her and the accent and she sort of implied that. it’s what made sense at the time, especially because they had no signs that angels are a real thing.

then molly happens, and then when yasha shows back up again they recognize each other and WHAT! YASHA’S AN ANGEL ACTUALLY?? crazy.

basically what happened is that at around 200 bce or so, yasha fell in love. i’m gonna say that zuala was another angel in her garrison, and angels aren’t supposed to fall in love. they’re supposed to be conforming divine warriors who don’t have all the flaws (or strengths, or texture, or spark) that humans do.

zuala was painted as the main culprit in this transgression. rather than making her Fall (les mis voice) as lucifer fell (because by that point they didn’t want to add any more True demons to hell’s side) for punishment, they decide to just obliterate her a la the hellfire in the last scene of the good omens tv show. it isn’t pretty. yasha is made to watch. she screams, and it makes the sun flare.

the rest of the angels are going to have their memories wiped of her - including yasha - but she learns of this in time and breaks through the floor of heaven and plummets to earth. molly helps her escape, but manages to avoid getting caught doing so.

molly was in the same garrison as them, and his memory of zuala was wiped with the rest of them. he remembers yasha, remembers being fond of her, remembers that she left heaven voluntarily and that he helped her, but there’s so many blank spots. they have him move garrisons to the tomb-takers after that, who are very elite and militant, and he becomes a demon-killing expert. it’s meant to drown out all that. and it kind of works; molly remembers more of yasha when he sees her again on earth.

yasha falls and falls and her angel blade slips from her hand as she dematerializes. it plummets and falls deep into some wilderness. a glint streaking down from the shooting star in the sky that night.

what happens next is the thing that happened with anna - yasha has no vessel lined up and she wasn’t given permission to leave, and is swiftly getting her grace cut off by heaven, and her being is transformed into a human baby. she is born, and grows up in a little scandinavian village a little bit strange. her parents tell her how there was a huge shooting star the night she was born, how they think it’s a good omen form the gods, and she has a sense that she’s different - special. she’s strong and naturally gifted with the club and the axe and especially the sword - anything they put in her hands.

when she’s old enough, she’s chosen to go on their clan’s raids. she excels at getting the resources her village needs from the southern peoples. she’s a terror, and everyone knows that she’s blessed from above.

then one year, she gets separated from the raiding party and is making her way through the forest trying to make it back to the coast so she can find their boat. and out of the corner of her eye she sees a strange glint, and something in her pulls her to go to it. it’s a strange sword embedded in the rock, and she puts her hand on it, and pulls –

and memories and power flood into her. memories of zuala, of creation, of molly, of heaven’s gleaming pathways, of zuala, of the first things that crawled on land, of zuala, of the face of god, of zuala, zuala, zuala. smiling, flying, fighting, touching, burning. she screams. her howl echoes through the woods.

her people have been waiting for her back at the boat, because they can’t leave their best warrior behind. when she strides out of the woods, she’s different. she walks different, and has this power radiating from her. she climbs on the boat, tells them to go. she’s almost glowing a little bit. they row away, and yasha spends the entire journey staring up at the sky, out at the horizon.

after that day she’s different. even quieter. everyone assumes she had a holy experience that day, and she doesn’t disagree, because, well. after that day she’s keenly aware of the norse gods’ presences, and doesn’t age. when she realizes that everyone is moving forward towards death without her (humans seem so small now - she loves her human parents, she does, but remembering what the sun looked like in its infancy changes a viking), she leaves, and goes to asgard, and pledges herself to the ranks of valkyries. she’s not nearly as strong as she once was, but she’s strong enough to fit in with her new people, so she finds herself a place there among the aesir.

(side note im keeping my distance from how this world interacts with non-abrahamic religions - thats SO not my business - just know theyve got their own power and their own places that aren’t like. Beneath that of abrahamic god. because iirc spn was terrible about that) (also i say abrahamic bc iirc islam has a lot of angels and demonology in its culture but thats all im gonna say bc again: i am not a theology major, and this au is much more about the surface fun of it all rather than making any statements or assertions about ACTUAL religions (past or present) obviously) (also i’m never gonna mention jesus or the antichrist or whatever)

the angel blade is tied to her grace. her grace still exists up in heaven, locked away in the archives, so the blade still has its source. it also contains her love for zuala and molly and - and all that she loved before she was torn apart - and that fuels it, connects it to her. gives her access to its power. she’s mostly just sort of supernaturally stronger and can take more of a beating than a normal human, and on certain days/times of year she can fly short distances. days that were holy to her. she carves norse runes on her blade, because it’s hers now. she can’t age or die of old age, but she still does have human needs - food, water, sleep. she’s tough, but if she’s unlucky then she can be killed. luckily, she’s very good at fighting.

her wings… they’re not like they once were. being with the valkyries makes humans see them like other valkyries’, but the aesir can see them for what they are - decayed, fragile, skeletal things, with what remaining feathers there are barely hanging on. like her feathers in cr proper.

after ragnarok, when the surviving aesir meet in the fields of asgard, yasha thanks them for their hospitality, and returns to midgard. she wanders for a while, mostly by herself. she helps when she sees people who need her help, but mostly she just keeps herself alive and moving. quiet, contemplative. loving god’s creation even though heaven hurt her deeply. she spends years not speaking to anyone. what happened to the aesir was traumatizing to her, and she’s secure enough that she doesn’t need what they gave her when she was “younger.”

at some point she makes her way to north america. she wanders, builds cabins, and when she stumbles upon the opportunity she watches over what she once watched over. she’s aware of Hunters but is uninterested in them - they’re not hunting for food and while they help widows and the grieving that’s not their Business. not her business.

flash forward to early season 2. we know beau and caleb by this point and the basic premise of the show and the world. on a hunt in montana beau and caleb take shelter in a cabin during a snowstorm, and in the middle of the night the door opens. beau is taking watch and shoves a gun up in the intruder’s face - but it’s just yasha, holding a deer carcass and looking distinctly unimpressed. “you’re in my house.”

beau stutters an apology, caught entirely off guard by the 6′5″ mountain of a woman, and yasha shoulders past her to the table to stoke the fire and clean her kill. it’s her dinner for next month, yasha gruffly explains when beau asks what she’s doing. don’t like supermarkets.

caleb wakes up to beau helping yasha cut away the entrails. he is very frightened and confused, but when beau gives the all-clear he calms down a little. not entirely, because he knows this woman is beau’s type, and they’re still on a hunt.

they explain what they’re up to to yasha, who nods. says she’s noticed things have been strange. and beau helped her, so. she’ll help them. she’s also bored, and has a good feeling about these two.

so she helps out with the hunt, and throughout the episode beau clumsily flirts with her and yasha never turns her down but also never Flirts back. there’s a tension that’s mostly powered by beau but isn’t shut down by yasha (yasha thinks beau’s sweet and attractive, and she’s taken some human lovers over the last two millennia, but is still devoted to the memory of zuala. the audience doesn’t know that thought). she and caleb connect on a We Are Both Quiet Introverts level, like they do in actual cr (reminiscent of the shaving scene after bowlgate).

it isn’t until the end that caleb and beau think she’s anything but a mountain lady. then she pulls out a HUGE GLOWING SWORD carved with RUNES and THERE’S SOMETHING BEHIND HER THAT LOOKS LIKE WINGS? and then she nods, says goodbye, and walks away into the woods before caleb and beau can pepper her with questions about what the fuck just happened.

they run after her, but can’t find her or the cabin again. in the car ride back to civilization, caleb theorizes that she might be a valkyrie, and beau’s like yeah that sounds appropriately sexy.

yasha is a fan favorite. she had a whole focus episode and she was so mysterious and cool! the audience clamors for her to be brought back, and are sad when she doesn’t show up for the rest of season 2. beau and caleb mention her a couple times, so it’s made plain that she isn’t TOTALLY a one-off, but… hm!

beaujester shippers already existed by this point (jester was in season 1 and again in season 2), and beauyasha gains some popularity. beau having attractions to both of them is present in the show, but she isn’t dating either of them. there’s significance to both of them - they’re both people beau thinks of when she thinks of having Somebody.

a lot of fic about yasha is written between seasons 2 and 4, theorizing about her life as a valkyrie and what her and beau meeting up would be like… which is all then jossed when angels happen in season 4.

caleb gets taken to hell at the end of season 3 because of ikithon and for beau. during his last couple days on earth, he begs beau to find jester. or hell, yasha. don’t be alone, please. live and be happy. go get - go get powerlifted by one or both of them. i heard you sleeptalk enough about that. and beau tells him to shut up, don’t talk like that, i’ll - i’ll find a way to bring you back. and then you can see me get gay married or whatever it is you want me to do. because i’m gonna get you out of there. and caleb smiles, and his eyes say we both know you won’t.

there’s a whole genre of fic about jester or yasha (or both) comforting beau and settling into hunting/domesticity with her or helping her rescue caleb after caleb gets dragged away btw. idk why im making up fake fic about this au but you know what. i deserve this.

yasha is sort of put out of mind in the heaven excitement of season 4 and the arrival of molly as a third companion, turning their duo into a trio half the time. the apocalypse stuff isn’t quite happening yet btw (this is where i start diverging from the seasonal structure of spn), it’s just angels being real and caleb and beau being mysteriously important to them.

there is one point where during the beginning of an episode about halfway through the season where they’re regaling molly with a story of one of their hunts - beau is trying to embarrass caleb with a time he got enthralled by a siren, and caleb bats back with well, at least i didn’t let a giant woman with a dead deer push my gun aside so she could skin the thing with no enchantments on me at all. and beau’s like AW CMON DUDE DONT BRING YASH INTO THIS.

then there’s a shot where their bickering dialogue continues but the camera is focused on molly, who tilts his head a little, considering, then takes a sip of his orange juice (he hates coffee - too bitter! if he’s going to consume something to keep up the idea that he’s human, it’ll be something that tastes good!). then it cuts to the car.

it’s intentionally ambiguous if that’s about caleb getting seduced by a siren, beau being embarrassed, or whatever - it’s just an odd little moment. which is significant when they’re up north again, four episodes later, in a little restaurant off the highway, and they’ve just finished their meal and talk about the season plotline is happening when the door SLAMS open, and booted feet stomp across the dirty tile, strong legs in worn jeans, a huge backpack - beau’s eyes widen - and there’s yasha, striding directly to their table with a look of utmost focus and determination.

beau goes to stand, caleb’s brow furrows - yasha, what are you doing here - what’s going on - when, before they can act, molly stands up, causing the table to rock and their cups to slosh over. yashael! he exclaims, his face split in incredulous delight. you’re alive! you survived! you’re okay - it’s been millennia! what are you doing here?! oh, i don’t care, get over here. and he goes to her, and she hugs him, and beau and caleb are standing there, slack-jawed, as stony stoic yasha cracks a wide smile and hugs molly and lifts him off the ground.

did… did mollymauk just say ‘yashael?’ caleb says, stunned. molly is cradling yasha’s face in his hands, and her cheeks are round with joy. beau’s imagination could never have given her this smile, and she’s jealous a little bit, but also in awe, but mostly also trying to process the two puzzle pieces that just locked themselves together that she thought were totally separate from each other.

(relevant posts to their reunion: art, text, text)

from then on yasha is part of their group, at least for that season. there’s a lot of caleb and beau commiserating over their attraction to two LITERAL ANGELS - especially when the truth of yasha’s fall is revealed. beau is torn up inside about all of it - an ANGEL, for the first part, and her dead angel lover (how could beau ever compete with an ANGEL) and, oh christ, molly’s odd humoring of her crush on yasha is cast in a new light now.

and then jester comes back and… well, now beau’s torn between two hot girls who are both important in the grand scheme of things! yipes!

it takes a long time and there’s probably also some romantic drama in that triangle etc, but beauyaster is endgame. because i have a huge fucking brain.

[everlarkbirthdaygifts]

Happy Birthday, jobanana7!

Today, we wish a very Happy Birthday to @jobanana7! We hope you had a wonderful day, and got just exactly the presents you wanted. To end your special day with a flourish, the lovely @mega-aulover has written a story just for you!

PROMPT: I would love a little story that talks about mental illness, ik is kinda weird but I would love to see like a growing back together after dealing with the process of going and dealing with a mental illness?? Idk of that makes sense. But I would love that. Thanks!!!!!-Jobanana7

RATING/WARNINGS:  Rated T / Cannon Growing Angst- Trigger Warning mentions of suicide

A/N:

●       Special thanks to @Booksrocksmyface for her guidance, encouragement and beta skills.

●       Feliz Cumpleaños  to @Jobanana7 Espero que tengas un día maravilloso! I hope I did justice to the prompt.

Fractured Glass:

1st Year Together:

A scream pierced the night air. Peeta gripped the pillow in his hand. He twisted it as he listened to Katniss’s blood curdling cries. Swaying back and forth, he put his hands to his ears to block out her screams. He can’t listen to her anymore, cannot hear her hurting. But as much as he wanted to go to her, to comfort her, Peeta was emotionally paralyzed, he wasn’t right just yet. Yesterday he had his worst episode, he’d held on to the back of the chair until it splintered in his hands.

“My name is Peeta Mellark, I am eighteen years old. I survived two Hunger Games,” he whispered to himself. “I live in district twelve. Snow is dead, and can’t hurt me.” He repeated the mantra Dr. Aurelius taught him to keep himself from having a hijacked episode. His breathing is ragged, and is holding onto reality by a thread.  “I am not a mutt. I am no longer a piece in their games. I am safe.”

His lips quivered as he tried to speak the next sentence, but he choked on his words. “Katniss is not a mutt,” his fists curled up as he pictured Katniss covered in flames. “She is not the enemy. I once loved her.”

 His mind breaks and he shakes from the violent images that began filling his brain. Katniss’s face contorts into a fierce demonic creature, pure fear raced through his body.

 “It’s not real, it’s not real,” he whispered to himself over and over again. He uses one of the memories he knows to be true.

 Tears fell from his eyes.  Peeta conjured up in his mind the girl with the twin braids and the voice of an angel. He could clearly visualize her in the red dress, the shiny mary-jane shoes, rosey cheeks, and innocent eyes. His attack slowly ebbed away as he was able to distinguish the shiny Capitol memories from the real ones.

 He didn’t go to her but Peeta vowed he would, one day.

 Second Year Together:

 Peeta stood at the entrance of the bedroom, he ran his hands through his hair.  After a year of slowly becoming friends once more, they decided to try sharing a bed. His mind flashed to the footage he’d seen of his hijacked self choking Katniss.  His breathing became labored and he opens and closes his fits to keep control.

 “Katniss, I don’t know if this is a good idea.”

 Her face fell, he could see it in her expressive eyes, how much she needed him. Katniss always kept her guard up, she only allowed him to see straight into her soul. He closed his eyes and pictured her at eleven, sitting by the empty trash bins. The icy slush could have killed her but didn’t. It was that vacant look, as death crept into her bones that he saw, that drove him to throw her the bread. He’d been willing to get a beating for it.

 He couldn’t let her die then, and it still stands true today. However, he couldn’t do this with her tonight, Peeta was too afraid of physically hurting her. His mind was still like fragmented pieces of glass. Unable to look at her, he turned around to leave.

 “Peeta.”

 Her voice was desperate, it caused him to pause his retreat.

 “You can stay in my mom’s old bedroom it’s just down the hall.” Her voice was hoarse. He turned around and saw she was combatting tears. “I just need you to be near, will you allow that?”

 It was a solution that sounded too good to be true, but one he could live with.  “I could do that.”

 “Okay.” Katniss nodded. “I’ll go fix up the room for you Peeta.”

 She pushed herself against the door jam as she slid by him. He was thankful she didn’t touch him. Right now touching, holding, intimate things were beyond his scope.

  That night neither one could sleep. He was worried that he would get up and hurt her. And she feared  the nightly terrors that plagued her sleep. They ended up downstairs. He made bread, she watched him, and in the morning they finally fell asleep sitting on the sofa sitting beside each other.

 Peeta thought to himself this was a great start, they were at least under the same roof.

 Six months later:

Katniss was moving in with him. She’d had her worst episode yet, she tried to cut her wrists. Katniss had gone inside of her sister’s room chasing the cat. Being in her sisters room triggered her nervous breakdown. Dr. Aurelius suggested she move in with Peeta as there weren’t any triggers at his house.

 All that Katniss brought with her was her bow, the game bag with a  few pieces of clothing, the plant book,  and the memory book they’d made. Trailing behind her was that ugly, mangy cat who took off when he saw some of Haymitch’s geese.

 That night Peeta was in his room, counting down until the moment his eyes slid shut, and the nightly terrors to start.  He’s left the door opened just in case she needs him. He closes his eyes and when he awakes he sees a slight figure standing by the foot of his bed.

 Katniss stands with her head cast low, her dark hair covering her face. He can see her hands are klutched together.

 “Peeta.”

 Her voice sounds scared and child like. Peeta realizes she's just as broken as he is. He lifts the blanket and she climbs into bed with him. He holds her trembling form. He vows they will never sleep apart.

 3rd Year Together:

 Sleeping together has helped them both. They comfort each other during the night as they face the onslaught of horrific memories and Capitol-spun lies.

 They've become inseparable. During their joint therapy sessions with the doctor, they've learned the art of communication. He talks. she listens, her hand grips his, and her eyes reflect the care she feels for him. When she speaks, her words are few, but Peeta makes sure to be attentive and supportive.

 Katniss isn't a talker she's much more of a doer, she acts on instinct. Peeta acknowledges he’s the one with the words, he is also a planner.  Lately he's been speaking about the bakery, and the idea of possibly starting one again. He feels if he can have the same land then he can somehow have a piece of his family, of his old self back.

 Unannounced, Katniss went out and filled out the paperwork to reclaim his family's old plot in town. She handed him the documents and told him, “For when you're ready.”

 Peeta cried. She gave him back his family. He discovered he needs her strengths.

 They've fallen into a routine: she hunts and he bakes.  They take tentative steps every day as the doctor has ordered. They keep a journal of the good things and read it every night before they go to bed to remind them that life can be good.

 His episodes don't last as long and the frequency diminished.  He's able to see the girl who used to trade with his father at the back of the bakery. A shy girl, a smart girl, a girl that many people looked up to, including himself.

 “Peeta.”

 Her soft voice brings him out if his wanderings.   His face contorts to make a smile. Peeta watches in awe as a blush blooms on her cheeks. He relaxes and his smile widens even more when he sees the shy glittering glance she gives him.  Just like she did whenever she came to trade. Peeta notices how his hearts melts, and his hands shake not from fear but from the rush of emotions.

 That night as they share a bed, he wonders if he's falling in love with her.  He questions if it is even possible for his hijacked mind to fall in love with a creature he was conditioned to fear. His heart tells him yes.

 4th Year Together:

 Peeta rushed home from the main part of town. He saw the lightning race in the clouds ahead right before he heard the roar of thunder. He hurried his steps, he needed to get home quickly. The lightning illuminated his steps as he made his way through the darkened path to the Victors Village. The clap of thunder caused him to run.

 Thunder is one of Katniss’s triggers. The noise reminds her of all of the awful things she suffered in her past, the death of her father, in her fractured mind the noise of the explosive Gale made when it took her sister Prim’s life, and it was also the cannon of the arena and the explosion she experienced right before they were separated and he was captured by the Capitol.

 “Katniss,” he shouts into the still house. Closing the door he runs up the stairs toward her safe place. The closest in is his studio.

 Everything's been going well between them. They were growing closer emotionally, romantically and physically. With each passing day they grew more intimate with the other but they were not ready to make the jump to make love, he often stopped short because not only was Katniss not ready he wasn’t either. The intensity between them was like blinding white light and he often slipped out of bed to take care of his hard-on.  

 It started with a shy kiss on the cheek. It developed to tender brushes on lips when they parted for the day. One day those soft shy brushes deepened. Soon lips parted, tasted and suckled. Kisses that made his heart fly and his hands shly wonder. Kisses that heated his skin. Kisses that inspired him to think of more than just innocent platonic meanderings, these were riveting thoughts like bright emotional colors on the canvas of his soul.

 Today he’d been in town finalizing the bakery drawings with the architect when he saw the storm clouds roll in from the window. He made it to the house just as the rain fell, but the crackling, rumbling and the exploding echo engulfed their home in the Victors Village.

 “Katniss,” Peeta called as he reached the room.

 “Peeta,” she called, flying into his arms. Her face washed with tears, her  fingernails bit into the flesh of his arms. “You’re real.”

 “I’m real,” he whispered into her hair.  He sat with her in the closet facing her terror together, because that’s what they did best. From the beginning they faced all obstacles as a team. The victory tour he recalled how she bravely took the microphone to speak to Rue’s mother. The way her voice started off quiet but grew as she gathered her courage. He didn’t know that it was due to his pledge to give a portion of his money away.

 He could still picture her standing in that dress, clutching microphone stand, speaking her eyes showed a slice of her compasion. It fed the masses. It fed a rebellion. It also made him fall a little harder for her.

 “I thought you were gone,” Katniss muttered.

 “I’m here, Katniss, I’m always here.”

 “Always,” she affirmed looking into his eyes. He gasped at the whirling emotions in her eyes, right before her lips touched his.  

 That day they had a small victory, but Peeta vowed that he would never leave her alone to weather the storms because they were a team.

 The 5th Year Together:

 Peeta opened his eyes, his hands ungripped the back of the chair. He’d suffered another episode.  His body was weak, but at least he was able to weather another one.  Today was their fifth year anniversary since he came back home.

 Five arduous years where they had grown back together. Last night around midnight Katniss and he had finally made love and declared their love for one another. He was ecstatic but also panicked as this meant they were now an official couple. It also meant emotionally he was at his most vulnerable.

 What if she didn’t want him? What if he wasn’t good enough?

 “Peeta.” Her hands wrapped around his middle.

 He closed his eyes.

 “I still want you.”

 Her soft words, caused his beating heart to slow down. “Katniss why would you want a broken, one legged, burned man.”  Her hands slipped on top of his. Her darker ones contrasted with his paler ones. “You have every right to leave me, and find yourself a man who will value you.”

  She hugged him tighter, her face nuzzled his back. “You tried giving me the same speech during the Quarter Quell, and It didn’t work then and it’s not going to work now.”

 “Katniss,” he sighed heavily.

 “Peeta, I love you.” Her hands splayed on his chest. “I do not want another man, I just want you. When you came back that’s when I came back, went hunting, that’s when I mourned my sister. You were the only one who acknowledged that she…” Katniss paused her voice was thick with raw emotions. “Passed away.”

 Peeta turned her around and cupped her face. He recalled Katniss with her sister Primrose staring at the cakes in the display case. They were younger, but he recalled how the sun shone down on Prim’s golden hair and the love in Katniss eyes. He wanted to be loved like that.   “Prim helped me become un-hijacked. She was good and sweet. I’m sorry for her death. It was pointless.”

 Katniss had tears falling from her eyes, she nodded. Despite her sadness he saw a deep profound love displayed in her eyes.  “You understand me better than anyone else. You fought to come back to me. You calm the rage within me.”

 Peeta kissed her lips, they were soft, warm and they tasted like home. He was loved

 15th Year Together:

 Their laughter fills the air. Peeta’s little girl, with the twin braids that flap in the air as she runs. She’s laughing, stops and begins to dance. Her arms are spread wide as she leaps in the air and twirls in the tall grass of the meadows. His son’s blond head bobbing up and down as his chubby little legs run toward his sister. He’s just started to run. Katniss says he looks like Peeta but Peeta thinks he looks like his brothers.    

 Katniss is sitting underneath the tree, watching them, a picnic blanket spread around her.

 “Hey.” Peeta leaned in and pecked her on the lips before settling down besides her. He was glad to be out of the bakery. He wanted to enjoy his time with his family.

 “Hi, how was the bakery?”

 He rubbed his face, “You were right, Joey, was the reason for the shenanigans down at the bakery.”

 Katniss gave him an all knowing look.

 “I can’t put him on the rotation on a Saturday.”

 “He’s much too immature.” Katniss leaned forward and began fixing him a plate.

 “Do you remember how different it was for us at that age?”

 She sat back, a pensive look on her face, as she glanced at their children. Their little girl was making a crown of dandelions. His little boy was sitting yanking grass out of the dirt. Her fingers gripped the plate.

 “It’s going to be ok,” Peeta put his arm around her shoulders.

 “Peeta they’re playing on…”

 “I know, the remains of our past.” Off to the side of the meadow was a small plaque with all of the  names of the people that were lost to the bombings. The line of trees still has the long beams that once supported the electric fence.

 Peeta remembers a time when we went to bed in fear of reapings. Of being called to the games thinking it was the luckiest day of his life. He remembers lying by the bank of the river silently wishing he would die. Then thinking he was seeing an angel appear from the heavens knowing he was dying. The way she fought him hand and foot and brought him back to life. He fell for Katniss when she kissed him for real in that cave.

 He’d felt it, felt the moment she melted into his arms, and something more was happening between them. He never forgot that kiss or the one at the beach. Never forgot his brave girl, she was a woman now but he saw her lurking in the background of the fear that was in her eyes. “They will be alright, all of the arenas have been torn down. They are never going to have another Hunger Games.”

 Katniss nodded. She handed him the plate.

 “Come here,” Peeta took the plate and put it on the side. He opened his arms to her and she snuggled up to him. “We have each other, we’re a team you and I.” He could feel her relax. “Besides we have the book and when the time is right we’ll tell them about it.”

 He wasn’t scared of the past anymore. It had taken him a long time to heal. Seeing their first born child in his arms cured his worry about the fractured glass that was his past. His daughter and his son were his future. And if they had any questions they had the book, written in their own words and not in the words of others to explain what they went through.

 For now he was going to enjoy the angel in his arms and watch his children play in the meadow.

[fantroll-purgatory]

@sarkiesark

sorry for sending two so close so each other!

No worries I enjoyed the last one and I’m having fun with this one!

FIRST: Alternia with a different empress

Name (preferably include how you came up with it and why): Veveni Phobos - Veveni is very loosely based on the word vicious, and Phobos of course is the name of one of the two Gods of fear in Greek mythology. 

Age: 7 Sweeps

Strife Specibus: Whipbladekind - She relies on manipulating from afar, but when she has to get close, she isn’t afraid to use her Urumi.

Fetch Modus: Hue Modus - Objects are sorted by color in stacks, and all items of one color are ejected at once. A… hassle.

Love it. If you wanna go a step further you can make it so it’s sorted in stacks based on blood color, with items that land between suffering weird consequences (only part of the item being ejected, etc.)

Blood color: Purple

Symbol and meaning: It’s meant to represent DNA, and it reflects how she views each caste- as being biologically inferior.

It kind of looks like Gemgo, the yellowblood sign of The Original, with an assignation of Prospit and Space. That, in addition to her colored eyes, gives me an idea…

Trolltag: contagiousCacophony [CC]

Quirk: S-HE S-PEAKS L-IKE T-HIS T-O I-NDICATE S-OME W-ICKED E-MPHASIS.

Special Abilities (if any): She has a mutation that leaves her eyes permanently hued in her blood color. This gives her particularly potent chucklevoodoos, and strangely she finds it hard -not- to use them to get her way.

If you’ll allow me to sell you on this, I feel like this might be a fun idea: Veveni is a goldblood who is clawing her way to the top of the (landdwelling) hemospectrum. You can still endow her with the belief that she is innately biologically superior (as goldbloods apparently think of themselves as the smartest person in the room). She can pass her oddly-colored eyes off as a fortunate mutation that means her chucklevoodoos manifest physically rather than as a hypnotic gaze.

Lusus:  A small horselike creature with four eyes and tightly curled arm horns. ((loose reference to the four horsemen of the apocalypse

…arm…horns…WHAT ARE ARM HORNS. Wait does this horse. Does this horse have horns that look like flexing arms. I love it. If you wanna keep her a purpleblood you want them to be a seadwelling mammal so maybe keep that but make her a mermicorn. If you want to go with my idea that she’s a social climbing goldblood…(ʘ‿ʘ✿) she may have to kill or abandon her lusus to keep her cover.

Personality:  It’s easily said that, among her friends, Veveni sticks out as probably the most vicious. She was praised by the cult for her potent abilities from a young age, and since torturing lowbloods equalled respect for her, it was no surprise as ‘incidents’ of harmed or worse trolls pointed more frequently in her direction. At her current age, she’s more interested in writing about such things as lowbloods have long since steered clear of her direction, but she still makes a habit of terrorizing her less fortunate friend’s dreams particularly. Not that they know it’s her. Outwardly towards them she’s extremely laid back, almost tired, but when a situation calls for it she has very fast reflexes.

I think this is actually a good sell for her being a goldblood because purplebloods are supposedly EXTREMELY driven and will stop at nothing until they reach their goal, however whimsical it may be. Goldbloods, on the other hand, apparently tend more towards boom-and-bust cycles of showing off and then wearing themselves out. This is especially relevant since a bloodthirsty purpleblood would likely have their eye on being made a subjugglator to come in contact with yet more rebellious lowbloods, and this does not seem to be the case for her.

I’m also just a fan of this rework because having potent psychic abilities with no check risks making her overpowered; this reimagining would give her the hidden weakness of being psychically susceptible (though if she’s successfully infiltrated the subjugglator cult then it’s unlikely anyone would suspect as much).

Interests:  Literature, Writing, Torture, Online Roleplay, FLARP

Title: Heir of Blood

I don’t know that that title even fits your original character? I mean she’s definitely Prospit but I don’t know that her character has much to do with loyalty…given that she often heralds others’ death, you may want to give her Maid of Doom? Which would make her a Caprimino.

I am aware enough of my own biases to know that I’m trying to shoehorn her into a Space role so I can retroactively justify the narrative thread I’ve woven here, but…I feel like I can make an argument for Prince of Space. With the new backstory, she’s literally destroyed others in order to carve out a space for herself in the hemospectrum. Much as Dirk’s destruction of the self was tied intimately to his self-involvedness, Veveni’s destruction of spaces can lay in her own scrabble for purchase.

Land: Land of Drought and Lemonade [LODAL]

If you want her to be a Doom purpleblood flip those two (LOLAD) and you’re GOOD. Her quest could be to fix the draught (because right now all the poor consorts have to drink is lemonade).

If you want to go with the Space goldblood It’s pretty easy just go Land of Lemonade and Frogs (LOLAF). The lemonade would also be great bc it would remind her of her lowblood status much as Karkat felt his planet was mocking him for his mutant blood.

Dream Planet: Prospit

So. I got a little carried away with multiple sprites (for which fan-troll gets most of the credit for bases), but I promise I have my reasoning. From left to right, these are: a sprite based off your original drawing (surrounded by assorted symbols depending on if you want to modify the existing one or pick one of the two canon EZ ones if she was truly a purpleblood), the yellowblood version, a hypothetical transitional stage in which she is waiting for her hair to grow long enough to cover her second pair of horns while quietly swapping out clothing that would identify her “true” blood color (using an edited sprite from naphal), and her Final Form as a subjugglator.

This if for if you want to keep her a purpleblood because tbh she doesn’t need to have a mutation to be exceptionally powerful; we’ve already seen that purplebloods can be bloody-minded in every possible way. Let’s go top to bottom.

Horns - I wanted to make them mimic the hourglass shape inherent to both your created symbol and to the goldblood one I assigned her; this just meant making them symmetrical to look like the bottom half. The teeny tiny second set is eventually covered with hair to successully complete her transformation into a purpleblood.

Hair - It’s just the hair you gave her. I couldn’t tell what you wanted the bangs to look like so I tried my best to make it look dynamic.

Eyes - I followed your design cue and gave her two lashes on the bottom outer corners of her eyes. Her redesign just uses one full color for each eye in keeping with goldblood design.

Mouth - both goldbloods and purplebloods tend to be toothy castes, so I gave her some teef.

Symbol - like I said, I gave her Gemgo, The Original, as a starter sign. The fake one she’s got at the end is Caprilo, which I initially picked just bc it looked like a coiled Urumi but is the sign of The Multifaceted. It tickled me, especially because it’s a Heart sign and she is very much using it to disguise her Self.

Outfit - most of these are just palette-swaps of your original outfit for variety, but I wanted to address the final one. If we look at the spread of purplebloods we have so far, even Gamzee, the soberest one (ha!), has an outfit that noticeably diverges from his peers’ in that it uses a polka-dot patterned pajama pant where even Feferi still uses colorblocking. The shirt and shorts seemed a bit tame for that, so I gave her a tutu and extended her boots out to look like clown shoes. Based on the purplebloods we’ve seen so far, bright yellow is a relatively common accent color, so I added that to the tongue of her boots and gave them a gold underlining as a nod to her original blood color.

So that concludes my review of Veveni! I’m a fan tbh.

-TR

[lifeofamastersstudent]

Reflection | Workshop 2

 4th June 2020 | online workshop | 6 people - Group discussion 

Part 1 : Word Based

Activity 1 : State one quality about ourselves 

Some of the words I got where - Patient , joyful, calm & patient, indecisive 

Activity 2 : Pick ONE word out of FIVE

Player 1

1. umbrella - protected and safe 2. Water - calm and composed. I’m okay to go with the flow most times 3. can opener - I picked can opener because I can find solutions. 

Player 2

1.Music box - because I’m entertaining  2. Rainbow - it brightens the sky on a rainy day and I’m feeling hopeful right now 3. Door - feels like it allows people to come in. I am welcoming. 

Player 3

1.Ball - because I do things around sports and in a way, the ball can go in any direction.  2. Sand - it can take whatever shape you put it into  3. Stairway - I think theres no final point in my life. I think theres always something work in progress. 

Player 4 

1.Tree bark - because I’m grounded 2. Waterfall - I relate to waterfall because I’m very emotional.  3. Cloud - I am very moody - somedays grey and somedays white and my name itself means cloud

Player 5 

1. 2. Pillow - soft and cuddly. And in general its the best thing ever. I am the best shit ever. 3.  ocean  - I found ocean appropriate. Its very vast and its very deep and its also pretty dark. And its something I can relate my imagination to. And you know how some people are really scared of exploring the depths of the ocean. And its also a lot of pressure to take.  

Player 6

1.Rock - hard exterior  2. Waves - calm, it can be soothing sea and it can be a tsunami. extremes.  3. Shadow - its dark as I am in a lot of things that I think of. I can match peoples energy - I can imitate them. 

Activity 3 : You get ONE word, find a connection 

Slightly more challenging because you get one word and you must find a way to associate with it 

Player 1 

Boat - The way I could relate to the word I got is - well a boat can sail. I think if you know how to do it properly then you can withstand harsher waters. If you are comfortable and then you can handle it. If Im prepared about a situation if its tricky or difficult, I can handle it a lot better. 

Player 2

Thorn - I can be hurtful. I can get angry. I can also protect the flower. 

Player 3

Sharpener - I dont like to see anything negative in a person or even me. In my relationships, there are lots of things which are very different about them - id say for them. Some id change for me and some for them. I’m always looking to sharpen my skills and change relationships for the better

Player 4

Chair - my word was chair. I associate with it because I give people comfort so if someone comes to me, I do provide comfort. But it also stands on four feet. So I feel like my support system keeps me stable and that intern helps me to provide comfort to people. 

Player 5

Night - I feel like on one side, experiencing a really pretty night. I fee like I can empathise with people and provide comfort and on the other hand the night can also get terrors. The dark fucked up thoughts and depression that comes with it. A flip side thing. 

Player 6

Rain - it can be harsh and moody in a way. But also calming when you’re inside the house so it can have two different sides of a coin. 

Activity 4 : Draw metaphors for yourself 

At this point player 5 said how it was easier to draw the metaphor and it was a bit challenging to sit and word the drawing correctly. 

Player 1 - “ill never have enough of my blue crayon”

It means if there something or a person that gives me comfort, I wouldn’t lose that person and try really hard to keep them in my life. A thing or a hobby. Ill do everything I can make sure to have it in my life

“happy as a pig” trying to be positive and be happy with whatever situation. theres no point in being unhappy with given situations. 

Player 2- an open door with rainbow - an open door to happiness 

Player 3  - I took my words sharpener and sand  “harder, better, sharper, stronger” I’ve also drawn a sand watch. It takes the form of anything. I feel like theres always something missing, something is constantly happening. 

Player 4 -  so I made clouds because I’m really moody. And I drew the few people who always deal with my moods. 

Player 5 - drew an ocean - part of the ocean is beautiful and the bottom has dark elements ( a treasure chest, a piranha, a whale, a dead person. Also drew a book - but then once you know me I go on non stop. And the whisk is because I create. Its one of my tools and my little universe. And the rings remind me of the planetary movement. 

Maybe I can ask Player 5 to elaborate the new components she added and if there was any symbolic value to any of them.  

Player 6 - I mixed all elements. I drew a shadow version of the drawing. One where I create my own problems and then me trying to protect others from theirs. I just put a rock in there just because and I added a storm. Its a duality. 

At this point I also shared a few of my own - Tea pot , Music box , Egg 

I noticed during this activity that some people used words and images . So their words complimented their drawings. 

A challenge I faced during these workshops is how sometimes people brought in borrowed meanings into their objects. Like if an object reminded them of something someone said or did and it has some impact on them. Then they added that meaning into their story. Weaving it. 

This exercise didn’t necessarily add more value. Most people seemed to repeat their metaphors - only in some more detail. 

My follow up question to the players would be - did this exercise help build up and clean out the metaphors - make them more clear or was it just a repetition of expression - giving your thought a visual form?

Part 2 : Theme Based

Activity 1: State one quality for a tree

I asked people to give one quality to a tree. I now see that people applied some of these qualities when they were later asked to find similarities with the tree.

Activity 2 : If you were a tree, what would you look like

When I asked people to draw a tree that represents them - some people went into creating a version that would be ideal but which may not necessarily fit where they are in life - there was also imagination that came into play. 

Player 5 focused on her tree being able to give to the animal community 

Player 2 drew a tree that he found inspiring 

Player 1 emphasised how important it was to be stable and strong 

I think people focused on the “if you were” a lot more than if you were a tree, then what kind.

Activity 3: if this group of people are a single tree, what part would you be?

Player 1 said she would be the branch, she feels like she can support people but not as much as the bark would. 

Player 2 I would be the leaves because they are visually pleasing, they are calming and they are just hanging there. Taking in the sunlight

Player 3 I think I’m really like the roots , ike it absorbs the water, the foundation for the tree. The stronger and better the roots the better the tree grows

Player 5  for me id be the little hole in the bark because I fee like the older I grow the more I need this sense of home and feeling of belonging somewhere. Having a little shell to call my own. 

Player 4 I think id be the fruit because I think I’m sweet. 

Player 6 I picked a single leaf - I see us all as a group and all of us as single leaves. In a broader sense, a part of a whole - nothing standing out, nothing standing out but it makes a part of a group. 

Activity 4 : Pick a tree you most associate with. At this point I showed images of different trees. 

Player 1 picked a autumn tree because of the warmth

Player 2  went on the visually appealing one

Player 4  picked the one with fruits - because it looks similar to my tree that I drew

Player 6 picked two. First one because it was similar to the ideas and the drawing I drew.

Player 5 picked the one with fruits. Giving and inviting. The tree with green mush - a safe environment with other trees. 

Interestingly, player 5 was able to build onto the image of the tree and imagine what surrounds it. 

Player 3  picked the fruit one and the one above the autumn tree. Nishant says he has a lot to give - it doesn’t come right away, it takes a while. And in the other image - the surrounding of the tree impacted the tree. Seems adventurous - on a hill. 

Activity 5 : Make metaphorical portraits ( with new or old metaphors + physical attributes, if you like)

People did have fun making their metaphorical portraits but I think its because this group is very creative and involved in creativity hence they were more patient. 

(Some of the portraits can be found on the blog)

Overall Feedback 

Player 3 says, “ my eyes gravitated for things I was already thinking of” when it came to picking a tree.

Player 5 said she already had an idea for the tree and then I had to pick and choose. 

Player 5 said that when I gave her a word, she was able to talk about it and visualise. But when I gave an image, she had to compromise and make it fit. 

Player 3 said that some of the things people tend to draw are very specific to how we’ve been taught to draw them - like trees. For someone who isn’t much into arts. They might choose to draw a simplified tree that they are trained to draw.

Player 2 felt like although the activities were fun and the session was engaging. He didn’t really get a metaphor out of it at the end of the day

Player 6 suggested to - Give people one word and see how all people interpret it. 

Player 3 suggested that I test concepts 

Player 4 said that we are designers. We can think of things to associate with. Its harder for people who aren’t designers. 

I got suggestions to test this with an older audience and younger audience 

Player 3 said that people who are much older face different types of challenges and face mid life crises. Their responses could be irrational or bizarre. From a younger crowd, I did expect a lot of creativity but with an older audience that would change things. 

Player 4 said that she didn’t realise that a certain object could encompass the things I felt. I knew the overlying feelings but I didn’t visually associated it with anything. 

Overall Reflections

At times there was a focus on what I want to be as opposed to what I am 

Drawing the tree impacted picture selection. 

The creative background of this group may have impacted the workshop

The outcome may not have been entirely clear even with the creative bits 

People found it engaging and fun. 

People love to hear other peoples perspective on things 

Providing visuals can be very limiting when you start with people trying to give a glimpse of their imagination. 

The age might affect the creative output. And if the people are conditioned to think in a creative way. 

[asimplesimmerson-blog]

Broken People

I had a feeling when I saw her that she was the one. The exact everything I’d read about. A few differences here and there: the facelessness wasn’t well documented, that was certain. And neither had I imagined her corporeality to be so ill defined; a thrill of red to the right, a soft quaking of steel tremors to the left; flitting restlessly in the humming darkness. I suppose she was the darkness. The stony silence was suddenly a full-throated sigh. The rocks clutch at the brim of her skirt; cover their nakedness behind her buzzing hips.

              And here I am, hundreds of feet below surface level. My lamp slowly dying; overwhelmed by this viscous darkness that keeps tearing through its light like a hand through smoke. Little particles of it dance across the floor and vanish, like a living thing with its guts being pulled from their casing. And as I watch this bizarre phenomenon taking place, I realize it isn’t just dying. The light is being eaten; swallowed in ravenous gulps.  

As this is happening, I feel in me that pang of hunted horror that every hungered after thing dreads. Cold scorched nostrils reel in the terror and thrust it out in cloudy gusts, growing ever larger as the panic leaps between the gaps in my teeth. My mouth opens; someone should hear me. If anyone, God. One last shout into the world just to let it know I lived. But nothing comes.

But there is also in her a shuddering grip of something else. Survival is comprised of two very important factors: fear, the driving force of life, and sex, which ensures the continuation of life. These are two inherently distinct survival mechanisms that very very rarely, if ever, get conflated. I’ve had a girlfriend or two that liked a handprint left on her ass that she could admire the next morning, but that is a very peculiar type of fear-sex situation. Not often when a man is lost in the woods with his heart glued to the roof of his mouth, pupils dilated to manic proportions, does he stop to consider that whatever is lurking just out of periphery is there to slip its tongue between his teeth.

But right now, I feel it. I feel that rising heat in my gut; a quickness to my breath. That feeling of expectancy; like the dry chill across the front of my tongue the first night I saw Rachel, standing there at the bar with lips pursed wryly at the corners like it knew a delightfully dreadful secret that the rest of her face didn’t. Rachel. I am thinking about Rachel. But no, I’m not? I can’t be. Not the love I felt for her the first time she fell into my arms, sobbing into my chest, while I kissed the crown of her head. Not the heavy pressure of her sleepy head on my chest when she stayed with me that night; the sound of rain catching in my gutters, lulling us to sleep. In fact, I’m not thinking of Rachel at all, I realize. The memories are surfacing as the thrill between my legs grows, but this is just a desperate attempt to rationalize; to latch onto something familiar when a situation so undoubtedly alien occurs. No, I’m feeling her legs wrapped around the back of me; hot breath against the hitch in my throat. The slick unknown tangled in my fingers with a belt buckle banging against my wrist. Rachel is here, but only for the convenience of knowing what I want. The horror of this realization chokes me senseless for a moment

until I realize this is exactly what I’ve been looking for.

I’ve found her. The huldra. The Siren. The Medusa. There are a thousand names for her. Every myth just a bit different, but all so inherently the same. I also know that I need to leave. Self-preservation demands that I turn on my heel and run. It’s the only way to deal with this kind of monster. I know that too well. It’s how Rachel finally got away from me.

But I’m here in this stinking pit for a reason. Decades of research have prompted this meeting: Late nights in haunted forests. Years and years of smelling like the underbelly of a rotten log. Fear driven all-nighters in places where I couldn’t scream for help even if I wanted to. The stakes had always been high. I wasn’t about to walk away now.

So I speak to her instead:

“Hello?” that seemed a reasonable enough introduction to a hungry, swirling mass of sexual energy, but it was met with silence. I step forward and try my luck again.

The darkness recoils somewhat, but still no response.

“I just want to talk. I’ve—”

“LEAVE.”  The stalactites rattle. It isn’t a voice. Just a rush of air escaping the cave.

“I’ve been looking for you. For a long time.” I take another step deeper into the darkness. Still she retreats from me; presses herself into the walls. The cracks between the rocks shimmer with veins of her. My lamp is still breathing low, but somewhat easier now that she’s backed off, “I’m not here to make you do anything. I honestly just wanted…to see you.”

“w-woman?” the breeze that whisks by me is coarse, unrefined, but distinctly incredulous.

“Yes, I’m a woman. And are you…woman?”

“d-doesn’t ma-atter. Leave!” the wind is shrill. Scared perhaps? I’m not too sure. There isn’t enough inflection in a rush of air to determined nuanced emotion.

“please,” I gently lower myself to the ground, groaning slightly as I realize the floor is about three inches deep with water, “I just want to talk.”

Silence. I accept it as acquiescence.

“How long have you been down here?” I ask, fishing for my camera. She might not show up on tape, but I can at least bring something back home. For who? For Rachel? She doesn’t ever want to see me again. But I’m already filming.

“Al-ways.” She answers curtly. Bits of her ooze from the little nooks she’s crammed herself inside.

“Why? Why are you down here?”

“Wh-y you uuuup?” the sound of her makes the water ripple around me. My teeth chatter. The water is quickly seeping through my jeans, surrounding my most delicate areas. For a moment I regret not pursuing a more tropically situated monster.

“well, for one, it’s warm up there. I like that—”

“warm yyyyessss!” the sudden rush of wind takes my breath away. I pull my coat closer around me, but it isn’t doing much good. “L-ike warm!”

“What are you?” I ask, hoping to tempt her with a warmer topic.

“c-cold.” She sighs.

“I can relate to that.” I feel icicles forming around my nostrils. Rachel always said you can tell if the temperature is below zero when your snot freezes inside your nose. I had asked her if she’d consulted the scientific method for that theory. I feel her laughter; taste her tongue. The warmth of her hands as they slide up my arms.

“Is this you? Is this you making me think about…” I stop to suck on my teeth, trying to decide if an amalgamous sex monster actually has any reference for what constitutes human sex. I decide that it probably doesn’t, “this feeling?”

“yes.” She replies. The lack of hesitation takes me by surprise.

“Why? What are you? What does this accomplish?” The water has risen past my thighs at this point. My entire lower body is engulfed. I’m outright fitfully shaking but only partially from the cold.

“Did you know,” Rachel narrows her eyes, and I lean forward to hear what she has to tell me. Girls like Rachel aren’t necessarily out of my league, but you must approach them with the utmost caution lest they be of a…straighter variety. She hadn’t recoiled when I leaned up against the bar beside her, which is always an excellent sign. She takes a delicate sip of her drink; just the tips of her dark lips wetting the straw which allows a small stream of soda water to trickle out the side of her mouth. She tactfully wipes it away with the edge of her thumb. In the same, calculated movement, she catches my gaze and smiles, just ever so slightly. I swallow. Hard.

“Did you know,” she continues, mildly clearing her throat, “Medusa is a story about feminism.”

I scoff. “I mean, I took a gender studies class, but that doesn’t change the fact that medusa gets her head cut off.”

She shrugs and turns back to the bar.

“Not saying you’re wrong in any way,” I stammer, backtracking. I’m not about to lose her, even if she is bringing up basic third wave feminism at a fucking monster-con, “I’m just saying it’s a shame that we lose all the good ones.”

“A real shame.” She turns back to me; a coy half-smile poised at the edge of her mouth. I have a feeling she knows my game, but I’m not about to let that eat me up inside. You do what you have to do to keep a pretty girl’s attention and I’ve always been good at turning situations in my favor.

“Men ruin her. Then they blame her for being ruined. Then they kill her. Classic patriarchal scheming.” I speciously muse, taking the opportunity to soak in the heavy curve halfway down the middle of her blood red dress.

“It’s just a real shame nobody simply asked her to give her head away.” She replies, ignoring the weight of my scrutiny.

“Give her head away?” I stifle a quick laugh, “I’m…not sure that’s…I’m…I don’t think that’s how things work.”

“You’d be surprised what broken people will give away if someone just asks,” She brings her drink up to her mouth, but this time she holds the straw ever so gently between the points of her teeth. Like a wolf bitch with her marrow-loving jaws around the neck of her pup.

“That’s…” I furrow my brow, “an interesting take on the story. I suppose?” I’m not sure what to make of that turn in conversation, so I steer back to something I’m more than comfortable navigating: small talk.

“So what do you do?” I ask cordially, waving down the bartender so I can preemptively buy her a new drink before she sucks the one in her hand dry. That’s always the excuse they use to leave you.

              She bites down on her straw with an almost excited snarl; peeling her lips back from those sharp teeth.

              “I hunt monsters.”

 The memory breaks. My arms shoot from water. Newborn crystalline sculptures of what they once were. I want to scream, but I’m gasping; floundering in the darkness. The cold surrounds me like a vice. Tugging my limbs down into the tenebrous lake that has now risen well past my shoulders. I try to stand, but the muscles in my legs are useless against this cold. The wind is whipping past my ears; slapping me across the face; digging into my eyes.

“Stop!” I’m hoarse, barely able to shape my mouth to form the words, “I’m not here to hurt you!” The wind slows enough that I can open my eyes. Not that it matters. Without my lamp, I’m blind.

“Th-en wh-at?” The voice sounds closer; more like a voice than just the scraping of air against the cavern.

“I just,” I gasp as the tears come. Without a hand to wipe them away, they freeze halfway down my cheeks just to sit there and burn, “I needed to find you. I’m not a fucking monster hunter! I just needed to show her that I found you. That—so that she—she’d love me again. This is the only way. You can do that for me. Please, just let me get her back. Please. I don’t know what you are, but surely you understand this. I fucked up and I need her! I fucking need her! Give her to me! Please! Please!” And my pleading transcends to a raucous squeal without shape or intelligence. I’m wailing senselessly with the ever-rising water lapping at my open mouth.

And I feel her rather than hear her. The capricious lilt in her voice. Her soft bottom lip gently sliding along the base of my earlobe.

“Yes, I can do that for you,” She pulls away from me. Her! Rachel! There in the darkness with me! Soft light, something reminiscent of moonlight, streams from the pores in her skin, setting the cavern ablaze. Her long red hair ripples like a throng of garter snakes around her shoulders; writhing all the way down to the small of her back. She stands, and in the dim light I can see every curve of her naked body. It’s her.

But The darkness I’d been conversing with begins to pour from the cave walls; thousands of little rivulets slithering up the back of her. They bury into her joints and soft points, working her muscles like fingers beneath a table cloth. She sways from side to side like a marionette. I’m both horrified and transfixed as I watch her hands grope her newly formed body. And all those sinewy little ropes hanging from the wall begin to detach. They slither through the holes they’ve made in her skin and disappear.

The water is also beginning to recede. It isn’t until its nearly gone that I see the stream of it traveling up her legs; twisting around her kneecaps, across her rounded belly. Her mouth is unhinged at a startling angle, waiting for the water to pour in. All the while she stares at me; hands groping at her breasts like an animal; yellow eyes gaping like two hungry mouths in the dark. I’d never seen anything so ineffably horrifying in my entire life as the rebirth of Rachel, my loving bride.

She takes a shaky step in my direction; heels buckling like a toddler who’s learning to walk. The vile lurching motion elicits a fearful moan deep from inside me. But still, I’m locked in place; my limbs still buckled with cold. Her legs are too new to take her more than a few steps, and she lets herself fall with a sickening slap against the slab of rock below. Apparently unfazed by any sort of human understanding of pain, she starts crawling toward me. The sides of her mouth are wet with water and spit as it’s pushed back up from her stomach. Hand over hand, she’s dragging herself toward me; fingernails digging into the rock; ripping from their beds. Instead of blood, water seeps from the delicate skin underneath. I manage to skitter back a few feet, but not fast enough to outpace her. She’s upon me in a second; her leaking face sliding up my pant leg and into my lap. Her hand slicks around my wrist. And then I scream. I fucking scream loud enough to tear my throat. I feel the trickling blood running down into my lungs, but I continue to scream. There’s no fucking reason not to.

“let me be warm again?” She purrs, resting her head on my chest.

Still screaming. No stopping on that front.

She lifts a hand to my face. I whip my head away, but her hand follows. It wasn’t wet like I imagined it would be. In fact, it’s more like velvet; like she is covered in a soft layer of fur. The fingernails she’d lost look like watery little globules now, clearly in the process of regeneration. Soon they’d be just as solid as they once were. I chance a glance at the face I’d found so terrifying only moments before. The yellow eyes had simmered to a gentle hazel. My heartrate falls just a bit. And I start to cough as I let my guard down. Blood bubbles over my chin. She wipes it away with that same thumb she had used to wipe her own mouth the first night I met her.

“Shh Shhh.” She cradles me. Pulls me into her chest. And I sob there, still too cold to make sense of any thought. Everything is too cold. I’m so fucking cold. She pulls my face up to hers. Kisses me. I let her. Warmth returns to her lips as she presses them against mine. I start to kiss her more fervently. The taste of her. It’s the exact taste. I reach my hands to grip the back of her head; to tangle my fingers in that soft, familiar down at the base of her neck. She smiles into my kiss and I know. This is her. This is Rachel. Without a doubt, this is Rachel. I laugh and draw her closer to me. We tumble back onto the black stone, banging our heads and laughing even harder because of it.

“You’re so cold, Rachel.” I pull her even tighter to my chest.

“I’m not that cold,” she giggles, struggling to free herself from my embrace.

“I didn’t mean for you to end up here. But I found her. I found the Medusa. And she brought you here!” I can barely form the sentence. Again, I pull her closer. My hands keep slipping for some reason, like they’re e losing their grip too quickly. It must be the shock of it all.

“It’s the cold,” she remarks, noticing my frustration, “Just give yourself a second.”

“No, it’s too cold for you to be down here,” I’m panting, pawing at her, “I have to keep you warm. I’ll be fine. I made it this far.”

“You made it this far,” she repeats, giving me a quick peck on the cheek, “so let yourself rest.”

“I can’t. I have to keep you warm.” The room is starting to get dark again. I know we need to start heading out soon. Though, I’m unsure how to attempt that without a lamp.

“We should go before the light fades,” she starts to get up, but I yank her back down into the safety of my arms.

“There’s time for that. Let me give you my coat though. You’ll need it in here.” I quickly slip out of my coat and drape it over her naked body, “There. That’ll keep you warm. Let’s lay here for just a second. Let our body heat warm it up before we head out.”

She rolls her eyes, typical, but obediently sidles up to me. I take her again in my fumbling arms; relish the steady rise and fall of her chest. God, it is so cold.

“You ask nicely, and you can get anything you want.” I whisper, teeth chattering so loud I doubted she would hear me. But to my surprise, she whispers back,

“Only if you ask broken people.”

I shrug, “details.”

She’s beginning to feel so much warmer the longer we lay here. That’s great because we should really head out soon. God, it’s cold. I am so cold.

[heyymonkey2]

First Night Back in Fuuga Ch 36: What I Saw in the Distance

AO3 Link to Chapter 36

Summary: Truths, new and old, come into focus

Yona zips between tree trunks, her cloak flowing out behind her. Though her breathing is heavy, her smile gives away the game--

--Hak follows after the giggles with powerful strides from tree to tree. He could catch up in an instant, but he prefers to… he stops and watches her bound ahead, then with a wry smile he slips off to the right.

Yona slows as her laughing grows. She can’t help it -- she looks back over her shoulder to see him…

But there’s only the forest.

Puzzled, she turns forward again--

“Ah!” She’s been tackled.

Hak gracefully lands them on his back, she safely atop him. He holds her tightly as he goes on--

“Isn’t it my line to make a joke, then run away? And what did you just say about my breakfast?”

Yona is laughing into his chest as she tries to get words out, “Pff... you never run away… you just stand there and I hit you.”

Hak nods concession there.

“I wasn’t joking about breakfast.”

The shock on Hak’s face…

“It’s not your fault!” Yona amends, “It’s the pregnancy. Your child may have good taste…”

Hak takes that on the chin, then, “Oh? And so it’s also good to run through the woods like a wild animal for the pregnancy?”

A corner of Yona’s mouth curls up, “You weren’t complaining about me being a wild animal last night.”

Hak lets out a breath as he smiles, “You drive me mad,” shaking his head, “I love you. I love everything about you.”

“I like giving you a hard time. You always end up right there.”

Tracing his fingers over her lower back as he stares into her great amethyst eyes, “Trust me, I’m always there.”

Yona’s blushes ever-so-slightly -- those lovestruck blue eyes still affect her right back -- then she glances up toward the palace high above them, just beyond a clearing, “I’m really going to need you today. At my side.”

Hak watches her curiously, “You’ve got it. ...are you worried?”

“A little. I haven’t talked to Lili.”

Hak begins pulling them up, “Then let’s get you back.”

Yona rises, her hand in his, and she looks up at him bittersweetly.

Back. Where last night ends and today begins. The moment their new journey must start -- to infuse everything good and right that last night represented into their reign here from the palace. She and Hak agreed to reach for coronation, to ask the generals today to officially give them their support. Even though Yona is not like her father or Soo-Won. The generals will have to have faith in the royal blood that flows through her veins and that ruling this kingdom is her fate. That she and Hak will find balance.

Believe in us. Yona is deep in thought when she feels Hak stop.

Up ahead she sees it -- half a dozen Sky Tribe soldiers where they shouldn’t be. A messenger being sent off.

Yona can feel how tense Hak is, “Don’t you dare,” she begs, “You’re not armed, Hak!”

“Don’t move. I’ll handle this -- be right back.”

Yona reaches to grab him, but he’s already long gone.

All six warriors turn. Hak has the messenger pinned not far away.

The resulting fear on the warriors’ faces says everything. Something has been seen that should not have been. And one way or another, there will be blood now.

They reluctantly draw their swords.

The vision of Yona’s reaction…

“Yona!” Soo-Won bolts upright, sweating, shivers of terror down his spine.

He glances to the side in the dark room, his home since the war with Kai.

And there he is, his companion -- Ik-Soo… sleeping like a baby... who drools.

Soo-Won stares at this roommate, I have these nightmares every night and he sleeps through them all? As always, he’s either impressive or an idiot.

Ik-Soo wakes from Soo-Won’s prodding, “...eh? What is it?”

“I saw it again. It was… more intense this time,” Soo-Won rubs a temple, “We’re not advancing fast enough. I’m ready to begin for the day.”

Ik-Soo sits up, “It feels strange starting a lesson in patience at this hour.”

Soo-Won sighs, “I’ll never understand how people can spend so much time sleeping.”

“Not everyone has nightmares.”

Ik-Soo has Soo-Won outside filling water buckets at a well and bringing them back to the village for the elderly keeper of the bathhouse, Mitsuko.

Soo-Won eventually asks Ik-Soo to sit and watch as opposed to walking with him -- the dark has been doing nothing to help Ik-Soo’s coordination.

It’s tedious work for Soo-Won. He’s a strong man, it’s no physical bother. However, he’s used to the highest and best use of his abilities and this is just not it. Eventually he finds it easier to pass the time by letting his mind wander.

It took a while in this place before he was able to allow this. He had been afraid. For the longest time, his mind would only wander to dark places. To take a closer look at what hurt so badly inside. How wrong he’d been. How terrible he was. But one can’t live like that. And Soo-Won has been in a place where the people have no intention of letting him die. Or leave.

Once he accepted that, his mind started wandering somewhere more constructive and very natural to him -- manipulation. How could he, in this situation, achieve something meaningful? That’s when the nightmares started. And that’s when he knew -- if there was any truth in the prophecy about Yona, then this was the message sent that he could choose to or not to act on. His part to play. His meaning.

And that is where his mind always wanders in a free moment now. How to reach Yona. He is going to save Yona and Hak. From a danger within the palace he knows far too well.

“Oh!” Soo-Won nearly tramples Mitsuko as he delivers the final bucket of water.

“My apologies, Mitsuko-san,” Soo-Won quickly sets down the container as he helps her regain her balance, “I’m not myself today."

“It’s alright, my dear,” the white-haired, pock-faced grandma offers, “I like this you today. Your face just now was like the water you’ve been fetching me -- still and clear.”

Soo-Won wonders about that.

“...if you were thinking about one of our beautiful young maidens to marry, let Grandmother help you,” she winks.

Soo-Won smiles as he innocently scratches the back of his head.

“Thank you for your hard work this morning,” Ik-Soo moves to Soo-Won's side to save him, “Join me for a walk?”

Ik-Soo and Soo-Won sit at the familiar pool of water in the forest.

“I need to speak with her,” Soo-Won gets right to it.

“That is not up to you or me," Ik-Soo glances up toward the sky.

“Then allow me to try… and the ‘fate’ you believe so firmly in will still do what it chooses.”

Ik-Soo glances in Soo-Won’s direction, “I can’t let you leave yet.”

“The dragons,” Soo-Won suggests, “Let them take a message to her for me.”

Ik-Soo nods, realizing it's time he let Zeno and Kija return to Yona’s side, “Alright. A message -- though it must be her choice what to do with it.”

Ik-Soo can feel Soo-Won absorb that opportunity -- his relief and hope. And Ik-Soo himself accepts: it’s time to begin to tell this young man the truth that was always kept from him.

“Your father, too, suffered from his choices. In politics and war.”

Affronted, Soo-Won corrects, “He was a proud warrior who did what had to be done for this country.”

“That sentence won't bring you closer to the truth," Ik-Soo laments, "Your father suffered, but he did heal, Soo-Won.”

Soo-Won’s mind is rejecting the words -- what does this man mean?! -- and yet, a calm washes over his heart that gives him a peace that has tears in his eyes.

“You’re often thinking about her, I can see it. You know Yona is special. You may have been too young to know it, but her mother also had the same gift in changing hearts.”

Again, Soo-Won cannot mentally process the words, and yet his heart accepts them with ease. As though they were a pure truth that couldn’t be denied, clicking into place.

“After what happened with Xing. The slaughter. Many things came to pass. All of which are known today as a different story. I don’t know which to tell you first.”

A crushing realization falls on Soo-Won. All of which are known today as a different story? No... no... it can't be possible. If that's true, then... “The dragons. I need to reach Yona. Immediately.”

“Trust the gods. There are forces protecting her.”

Soo-Won, trying to keep calm, but still processing, “If my father ‘healed,’ as you say, then why did King Il murder him?”

Ik-Soo looks out over the still, clear water, “He didn’t.”

Lili stands on one of the palace’s many bridges, her chin cupped in a hand. She’s been watching something in the distance. The look on her face both troubled and warmed.

In a courtyard next to a fountain, Jae-Ha plays his erhu -- beautiful, calming music filling the stone, flower-lined expanse.

He hears her coming and can’t help but joke as she arrives, “I’ve never liked being pursued. It takes away all the fun.”

Lili’s cheeks go pink, “Don’t get the wrong idea because I keep coming to you looking for Yona. I only like older men.”

Jae-Ha stops playing and considers, then turns to look at her, “I am older.”

“No, I mean like way older. Like General Geun-Tae,” Lili saves.

Jae-Ha chuckles, “That’s your type? Then I’m safe. That man may be my complete opposite.”

As Jae-Ha turns back to his instrument, Lili sits on the ledge of the fountain, micro-cringing at how awkward she’s being.

“...how old are you, by the way?”

“Not your type,” Jae-Ha explains, “Although, it seems you go younger if it’s women…”

Lili frowns, “You shouldn’t tease me about that when you’re in love with her, too,” and somehow that stings them both a little.

“I’m sorry,” Lili is cringing again, unsure of what to do with her hands, her loud mouth, anything right now.

“It’s OK, Dear,” Jae-Ha admits, “It’s true.”

“...when I first met you, you seemed like a player. Always flirting with women and wandering off. What I’m trying to say is… I’m impressed that you love her. Because I can tell you really do.”

“She wasn’t the first.”

Lili’s head snaps around -- she faces him in shock, “Who?!”

Jae-Ha laughs at this girl’s intense interest, “A pirate.”

Lili’s eyes become wide orbs of wonder and Jae-Ha realizes he just had the opposite effect he was going for.

“A pirate? ...tell me, do you have a type then? Was she like Yona, too?”

Jae-Ha considers, “It would appear I’m taken with strong women.”

“How dare you raise your swords at him!”

Yona marches out of the woods toward the men. She just caught a glimpse of something beyond them in the distance -- and if she's put her hope in the right place, then what happens next will mark the beginning of change at this palace.

[nothingman]

By William Astore | (Tomdispatch.com) | – –

What does an “America-first” foreign policy look like under President Donald Trump? As a start, forget the ancient label of “isolationism.” With the end of Trump’s first 100 days approaching, it looks more like a military-first policy aimed at achieving global hegemony, which means it’s a potential doomsday machine.

Candidate Trump vowed he’d make the U.S. military so strong that he wouldn’t have to use it, since no one would dare attack us — deterrence, in a word. The on-the-ground (or in-the-air) reality is already far different. President Trump’s generals have begun to unleash that military in a manner the Obama administration, hardly shy about bombing or surging, deemed both excessive and risky to civilians. Last week, 59 U.S. cruise missiles (value: $60 million) pummeled an airbase in Syria, a profligate response to a chemical weapons attack in that country which may yet lead to further escalation. Meanwhile, U.S. weapons are to be sold to Sunni monarchies in the Persian Gulf with less concern than ever for human rights abuses, and the Saudis will be provided with yet more of the support they demand for their devastating war on civilians in Yemen. Doubtless further military interventions and escalations across the Greater Middle East are on that classic “table” in Washington where “all options” are supposedly kept.

Most Americans believe the spin that the U.S. military is all about deterring and preventing attacks on the homeland, especially those orchestrated by “radical Islamic terrorism.” Sold as a deterrent, Washington’s national security state has, in fact, exploded into something that increasingly resembles a mechanism for permanent war. Ignorant of the most basic military strategy, impulsive and bombastic, its present commander-in-chief is being enabled by bellicose advisers and the men he calls “my generals,” who dream of ever bigger budgets. (Even Trump’s promise of a $54 billion boost to Pentagon spending this coming fiscal year isn’t enough for some senior military officers.)

The Realities of Trump’s New Era of Winning

Welcome to Trump’s new era of winning. It’s not really about ending wars, but exerting “global reach/global power” while selling loads of weaponry. It promises to spread or prolong chaos in Iraq, Yemen, and possibly Iran, among other countries. In the Greater Middle East, U.S.-led efforts have produced a war-torn Iraq that’s splitting at the seams. U.S. drone strikes and support for an ongoing Saudi air campaign have left Yemen lurching toward famine. Syria remains a humanitarian disaster, torn by war even as additional U.S. troops are deployed there. (The Pentagon won’t say how many, telling us instead to focus on “capabilities” rather than boots on the ground.) Further east, the never-ending war in Afghanistan is, in Pentagon-speak, “stalemated,” which means that the Taliban is actually gaining ground as a new Washington surge-to-nowhere looms. Looking west and south, Africa is the latest playground for the U.S. military’s special ops community as the Trump administration prepares, among other things, to ramp up operations in Somalia.

To Trump and his generals, an “America-first” approach to such problems actually means putting the military first, second, and third. It helps that they can’t imagine the actions of that military as destabilizing. (Possible future headline: Trump destroys Syria in order to save it.) According to General Joseph Votel, head of U.S. Central Command, for instance, the country that poses “the greatest long-term threat to stability” in the Middle East is Iran, a sentiment seconded by retired general James Mattis, the secretary of defense.

You might excuse the Iranians, as well as the Russians and the Chinese, for thinking differently. To them, the United States is clearly the most destabilizing entity in the world. If you were Chinese or Russian or Shia Muslim, how might U.S. military activities appear to you?

* Expansionist? Check.

* Dedicated to dominance via colossal military spending and global interventionism? Check.

* Committed to economic and ideological hegemony via powerful banking and financial interests that seek to control world markets in the name of keeping them “free”? Check.

Wouldn’t that be a logical, if unsavory, assessment? To many outsiders, U.S. leaders seem like the world’s leading armed meddlers (and arms merchants), a perception supported by soaring military action and sinking diplomacy under Trump. Serious cuts in funding loom at the State Department, even as the Pentagon budget is being boosted (yet again). To outside observers, Washington’s ambitions seem clear: global dominance, achieved and enforced by that “very, very strong” military that candidate Trump claimed he’d never have to use, but is already employing with gusto, if not abandon.

Never Underestimate the Power of the Military-Industrial Complex

Why do Trump’s “America-first” policies add up to military first ones? Why is the Pentagon budget, along with actual military operations, surging on his watch?

More than half a century ago, sociologist C. Wright Mills offered answers that still seem as fresh as this morning’s news. In his 1958 essay, “The Structure of Power in American Society,” he dissected the country’s “triangle of power.” It consisted, he explained, of corporate leaders, senior military men, and politicians working in concert, but also in a manner that merged corporate agendas with military designs. That combination, he suggested, was degrading the ability of politicians to moderate and control corporate-military imperatives (assuming the latter even wanted to try).

“The [U.S.] military order,” Mills wrote, “once a slim establishment [operating] in a context of civilian distrust, has become the largest and most expensive feature of government; behind smiling public relations, it has all the grim and clumsy efficiency of a great and sprawling bureaucracy. The high military have gained decisive political and economic relevance. The seemingly permanent military threat places a premium upon them and virtually all political and economic actions are now judged in terms of military definitions of reality.”

For him, the danger was plain enough: the “coincidence of military domain and corporate realm strengthens both of them and further subordinates the merely political man. Not the party politician, but the corporation executive, is now more likely to sit with the military to answer the question: what is to be done?”

Consider the makeup of Trump’s administration, a riot of billionaires and multimillionaires. His secretary of state, former ExxonMobil CEO Rex Tillerson, may not be much of a diplomat. Indeed, he seems uninterested in the advice of career State Department personnel, but he does know his way around corporate boardrooms. Trump’s national security adviser and his secretaries of defense and homeland security are all either serving generals or recently retired ones. In Trump’s inner circle, corporate executives do indeed sit with senior military men to decide what is to be done.

Soon after Mills issued his prophetic critique of America’s power elite, President Dwight D. Eisenhower warned about the growing dangers of a military-industrial complex. Since then, Ike’s complex has only expanded in power. With the post-9/11 addition of the Department of Homeland Security and ever more intelligence agencies (seventeen major ones at last count), the complex only continues to grow beyond all civilian control. Its dominant position astride the government is nearly unchallengeable. Figuratively speaking, it’s the king of Capitol Hill.

Candidate Trump may have complained about the U.S. wasting trillions of dollars in its recent foreign conflicts, invasions, and occupations, but plenty of American corporations profited from those “regime changes.” After you flatten political states like Iraq, you can rearm them. When not selling weapons to them or rebuilding the infrastructure you blew up, you can exploit them for resources. Seemingly never-ending wars in Iraq and Afghanistan are an illustration of what happens when corporate interests merge with military imperatives.

While both Mills and Eisenhower warned of such developments, even they might have been startled by the America of 2017. By now, the post-draft, “all volunteer” professional military has become remarkably estranged, if not divorced, from the wider populace, a separation aggravated by an ongoing cult of the warrior within its ranks. Not only are Americans increasingly isolated from “their” warfighter military, but from America’s wars as well. These continue to be waged without formal congressional declarations and with next to no congressional oversight. Combine this with the Supreme Court’s Citizens United decision, which translated corporate money directly into political activism, and you have what is increasingly a 1% governing system in which a billionaire president presides over the wealthiest cabinet in history in what is now a war capital, while an ever-expanding corporate-military nexus embodies the direst of fears of Mills and Eisenhower.

America’s runaway military machine has little to do these days with deterrence and much to do with the continuation of a state of permanent war. Put it all together and you have a formula for disaster.

Deterring Our Way to Doomsday

Who put America’s oil under all those Middle Eastern deserts? That was the question antiwar demonstrators asked with a certain grim humor before the invasion of Iraq. In Trump’s oft-stated opinion, the U.S. should indeed have just taken Iraq’s oil after the 2003 invasion. If nothing else, he said plainly what many Americans believed, and what various multinational oil companies were essentially seeking to do.

Consider here the plight of President Jimmy Carter. Nearly 40 years ago, Carter urged Americans to scale back their appetites, start conserving energy, and free themselves from a crippling dependency on foreign oil and the unbridled consumption of material goods. After critics termed it his “malaise” speech, Carter did an about-face, boosting military spending and establishing the Carter Doctrine to protect Persian Gulf oil as a vital U.S. national interest. The American people responded by electing Ronald Reagan anyway. As Americans continue to enjoy a consumption-driven lifestyle that gobbles up roughly 25% of the world’s production of fossil fuels (while representing only 3% of the world’s population), the smart money in the White House is working feverishly to open ever more fuel taps globally. Trillions of dollars are at stake.

Small wonder that, on becoming president, Trump acted quickly to speed the building of new pipelines delayed or nixed by President Obama while ripping up environmental protections related to fossil fuel production. Accelerated domestic production, along with cooperation from the Saudis — Trump’s recent Muslim bans carefully skipped targeting the one country that provided 15 of the 19 terrorists in the 9/11 attacks — should keep fuel flowing, profits growing, and world sea levels rising.

One data point here: The U.S. military alone guzzles more fossil fuel than the entire country of Sweden. When it comes to energy consumption, our armed forces are truly second to none.

With its massive oil reserves, the Middle East remains a hotbed in the world’s ongoing resource wars, as well as its religious and ethnic conflicts, exacerbated by terrorism and the destabilizing attacks of the U.S. military. Under the circumstances, when it comes to future global disaster, it’s not that hard to imagine that today’s Middle East could serve as the equivalent of the Balkans of World War I infamy.

If Gavrilo Princip, a Serbian “Black Hand” terrorist operating in a war-torn and much-disputed region, could set the world aflame in 1914, why not an ISIS terrorist just over a century later? Consider the many fault lines today in that region and the forces involved, including Russia, Turkey, Iran, Israel, Saudi Arabia, and the United States, all ostensibly working together to combat terrorism even as they position themselves to maximize their own advantage and take down one another. Under such circumstances, a political temblor followed by a geo-political earthquake seems unbearably possible. And if not an ISIS temblor followed by major quake in the Middle East, there’s no shortage of other possible global fault lines in an increasingly edgy world — from saber-rattling contests with North Korea to jousting over Chinese-built artificial islands in the South China Sea.

As an historian, I’ve spent much time studying the twentieth-century German military. In the years leading up to World War I, Germany was emerging as the superpower of its day, yet paradoxically it imagined itself as increasingly hemmed in by enemies, a nation surrounded and oppressed. Its leaders especially feared a surging Russia. This fear drove them to launch a preemptive war against that country. (Admittedly, they attacked France first in 1914, but that’s another story.) That incredibly risky and costly war, sparked in the Balkans, failed disastrously and yet it would only be repeated on an even more horrific level 25 years later. The result: tens of millions of dead across the planet and a total defeat that finally put an end to German designs for global dominance. The German military, praised as the “world’s best” by its leaders and sold to its people as a deterrent force, morphed during those two world wars into a doomsday machine that bled the country white, while ensuring the destruction of significant swaths of the planet.

Today, the U.S. military similarly praises itself as the “world’s best,” even as it imagines itself surrounded by powerful threats (China, Russia, a nuclear North Korea, and global terrorism, to start a list). Sold to the American people during the Cold War as a deterrent force, a pillar of stability against communist domino-tippers, that military has by now morphed into a potential tipping force all its own.

Recall here that the Trump administration has reaffirmed America’s quest for overwhelming nuclear supremacy. It has called for a “new approach” to North Korea and its nuclear weapons program. (Whatever that may mean, it’s not a reference to diplomacy.) Even as nuclear buildups and brinksmanship loom, Washington continues to spread weaponry — it’s the greatest arms merchant of the twenty-first century by a wide mark — and chaos around the planet, spinning its efforts as a “war on terror” and selling them as the only way to “win.”

In May 1945, when the curtain fell on Germany’s last gasp for global dominance, the world was fortunately still innocent of nuclear weapons. It’s different now. Today’s planet is, if anything, over-endowed with potential doomsday machines — from those nukes to the greenhouse gas emissions that cause global warming.

That’s why it’s vitally important to recognize that President Trump’s “America-first” policies are anything but isolationist in the old twentieth century meaning of the term; that his talk of finally winning again is a recipe for prolonging wars guaranteed to create more chaos and more failed states in the Greater Middle East and possibly beyond; and that an already dangerous Cold War policy of “deterrence,” whether against conventional or nuclear attacks, may now have become a machine for perpetual war that could, given Trump’s bellicosity, explode into some version of doomsday.

Or, to put the matter another way, consider this question: Is North Korea’s Kim Jong-un the only unstable leader with unhinged nuclear ambitions currently at work on the world stage?

A retired lieutenant colonel (USAF) and history professor, Astore is a TomDispatch regular. He blogs at Bracing Views.

Follow TomDispatch on Twitter and join us on Facebook. Check out the newest Dispatch Book, John Dower’s The Violent American Century: War and Terror Since World War II, as well as John Feffer’s dystopian novel Splinterlands, Nick Turse’s Next Time They’ll Come to Count the Dead, and Tom Engelhardt’s Shadow Government: Surveillance, Secret Wars, and a Global Security State in a Single-Superpower World.

Copyright 2017 William J. Astore

Via Tomdispatch.com

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Trump seen to give stern warning to North Korea with Afghanistan bombing

via Informed Comment