#Partially an affirmation and partially a statement

[chaoticbuggybitchboy]

mobility aids are part of the gender they are part of the fit my identity and my disability are integral to each other because my disability is a part of me and it does not detract from my identity

[aritsukemo]

HELLOOOOOO IT’S MEEEEEEEE

GENSHIN REQ FOR KAZUHA WITH A READER WHO’S SICK & THEY’RE CHILDHOOD BESTIES <33

THANKUTHANKUTHANKU IF U DO THIS I JS FNSKDNNDKSKSNDKSKSKDKSKX

LOVE UR WORKS BTW <333333‼️🥰💕💞

Sickly Hallucinations | Kaedehara Kazuha

Kazuha Kaedehara x Sick reader ( @nursedflowers / @kazusys )

Summary: After being bedridden for days, it seems that you have started to hallucinate the worse thing possible; your dead best friend.

Warnings: Reader is sick, and because of that, snot is mentioned in a sorta detailed way. Abstract descriptions ahead ( I don't know why I describe the simplest things the way I did.. ) Reader is also avid on believing they're hallucinating seeing and hearing Kazuha. ( Spoiler Alert, they're not ) A lot of crying and reader breakdown more than once, but there's a happy ending I swear! With all that said, you have been warned! <3

A/N: HERE IT IS NURSED, AFTER WAY TOO LONG OF MAKING YOU WAIT!! 😖 I'm sorry if this is not up to par. I had an idea going into this but completely lost it by the end so I'm sorry if it doesn't make sense or the ending seems suddenly or anything! I truly didn't mean for it to end up that way!

"This is so stupid!" A frustrated cry sounded throughout the bare room, bouncing off the walls—the metal swords on the wall in particular—and resonating throughout the ear canal's of a certain platinum blonde who was, partially, the reason for such anger.

"You almost had me there at the end. You truly are skilled with the blade, Y/n," He complimented politely. If anyone else was in the situation with the future leader of the prestigious Kaedehara Clan helping them up and blowing sweet words in their ear, they'd probably swoon, even with the rumors of their deteriorating fortune making one believe that his flowery words were for mere show. Even if it was true, none of that mattered to you. In fact, in the face of such petal-soft kindness, your blood boil over like a raging inferno.

But despite that, all you could muster to do to that soft face dressed in a gentle smile was a gruff at it and mumble, "Shush," to which your kind friend spared you the courtesy of giggling in your face and instead silently complied to your wish...only to immediately go against that wish seconds later.

"I mean it, truly. If it were a situation where you and I were fighting for real as enemies, for example, and stood forth one another wielding our blades for the sake of our own ideals, you surely would've bested me."

You found yourself frowning at his statement. Enemies? The thought immediately stained it's ink on your heart and made it clench from the poison. If something so obscene were to occur in some hell-filled alternate reality, you doubt you'd be able to lift your sword in his direction or even stare him in the eyes with hues darkened by hate. Not Kazuha. Not your dear friend who seemed to be the only one willing to befriend someone such as yourself—who's family was feared all across Inazuma due to built up rumors and fabrications people have thought up over the millennia.

..But you couldn't say that to him. Especially not after a defeat so embarrassing that your parents surely would turn their noses away from disappointment at your meek swordsmanship.

And so, you decided to play nonchalance and roll your eyes, mumbling out an uncaring, "Whatever.. As if that'd seriously happen."

"And what if it did?" He egged on as innocently as a little kid asking their parents how they were created. You found your mouth moving before your mind could process and filter your words, causing this aggressive affirmation to leave your throat.

"It wouldn't. I'd never let that happen."

"You can't control fate, Y/n. If me and you parted to walk different paths—" And you cut him off—something you've never once done to him before.

"It wouldn't happen! I'd strike down the Shogun myself before I'd even think of raising my sword to you for anything other than a friendly display of our swordwork!" And you pause, your face growing wide at the surprise of your own words. Kazuha's face seems to mirror yours, albeit he still managed to keep his expression civil and appropriate even when it started turning into a cherry blossom tree.

"..I feel the same way," He confesses sheepishly before his smile returns and he brings his finger to his lips and spoke in a lowered tone, "But, lets keep that amongst ourselves. 'Wouldn't want our parents carrying our words away, now would we?"

And to spare the little dignity you had remaining, you turn your face away—which was burning to the point of tingling—and nod your head.

"Ye- Yeah..whatever."

A gruff, nasally hack resonates from the depth of your chest, shooting itself up your congested throat and forcing itself outwards which caused a bit of that congestion to splatter into the tissue you had curled into your hands. As you came up for air, you glanced down only to immediately revert your gaze away from the snotty liquid—which was definitely not the color it was suppose to be—that had now coated the once clean tissue out of fear of throwing up the little bit of lunch the Traveler insisted you eat.

It had happened yet again. This counts the..what? Seventh, maybe ninth time you've daydreamed about the dead since you fell bedridden? It raises the question of why? Why is it that you're thinking about him now of all times? Why were these memories only now flooding your mind years after his death? Deep down, you knew the answers but chose—no, refused to acknowledge them. You've done that a lot since the day you found out he died. Maybe that's why this is happening at a random time such as this. Maybe it's simply because your mind and body has been weakened by this devilish illness.

Whatever it was, you hated it, and even more so you utterly despised your mind for bring him up after so many years just to make you suffer even more than you already are. You despised it for making you remember his face in such vivid detail. His laugh, his smile, his gorgeous rubies for eyes—all of it.

But, unfortunately, hating something doesn't make it go away. No matter how upset you get, your mind still makes it's way back to the cool touch of his hand caressing yours as he'd direct you on hard-to-master sword maneuvers. It went back to the peaceful warmth his hugs would bless you with whenever you snuck into his room during one of your sleepovers to cuddle after a nightmare you had.

It was all so stupid, you thought. More so now that it seems that your daydreams have turned into full blown hallucinations.

"You look worse for wear, my dear friend," His soothing voice, deepened from maturity, echoed in your ears. You closed your eyes and laid back down. If you didn't amuse it, the illusion would surely grow bored and go away.

Even with the plan in mind, it was difficult to follow through with your words. Upon hearing the familiar tune of his warm chuckle, you find yourself biting your lip. Even after so many years, it still sounds the same. It still holds that sense of tranquility that has brought you peace many times in your childhood.

..But you suppose the reason as to why makes sense. After all, many hallucinations are stemmed from the hallucinator's memories. Of course it'd sound the same as you'd remember it'd be.

"I'm sorry, did that upset you? Please believe me when I say I had no ill will behind my comment, dear. You still look as radiant as you did when we were kids."

Your lip is starting to bleed from how hard your digging your teeth into the supple skin. It stings, but the pain doesn't stop you from doing it. You can't stop. You need to distract yourself and not think about anything pertaining to him. That's the only way this delusion will—

You suck in a breath. One sharp, airy, and shaky and caused by the startling feeling of snowflakes falling upon your exposed skin. Though you pretended to not notice it, you found yourself shocked by the feeling of his fingertips freezing your once burning skin over just as it did when you were younger.

..But how was it possible? Hallucinations shouldn't feel so real, right?

"Y/n, can you look at me? I wish to cherish the sight of your face after being stripped of it for so long," The request came as a tender plea and you found your body conflicted upon hearing it. Part of you wanted so desperately to indulge in your delusions—to let it sweep you away and never bring you back—and yet the more reasonable part of you was screaming at you to do everything and anything but but listen. Your mind was at a bloody, cold war with itself and it thrashed your body every which way until it reacted by setting everything ablaze.

The heat shot up your body and in a desperate attempt to quell the uncomfortable feeling, you curled into yourself—curled away from the cooling touch—until your knees hit your chest. Your effort was quickly proven to be futile as the flames continued it's assault on your organs—your skin—where it went about scorching away every last drop of air in your lungs before finally reaching your face. It heated the already warm blood in your veins, causing them to singe your poor flesh. It soon became an unbearable wildfire that your mind couldn't put out no matter how much it drowned the flames in watered down thoughts—not cooling no matter how many tears were shed.

"Don't cry.." You felt it again. Against your will, you felt those snowy fingertips cool the firestorm that was running wild under your skin for just a moment as they wiped at your now wet face. Even worse when it's accompanied by warm words in your ear that told you, "You don't have to cry. Not anymore. I'm here.."

And in a moment of vulnerability, you unconsciously indulged in your delusions and began to scream, "No you're not!"

You suck in a sharp breath—and thick snot in the process—as you shakily repeat in a quieter tone, "No you're not.. You're dead. ..Kazuha is dead!"

"Kazuha is..what?"

Your dumbstruck utterance echoed through the ears of everyone at the table—that of which included your father, who's face only further sullened upon hearing it.

"Kazuha is..dead," He repeated, although it sounded as if he was forcing himself to. As if he couldn't believe the words coming out of his own mouth.

"He was trailed all throughout the city by samurai after his confrontation with the shogunate. When they finally cornered him, he drew his blade. I heard the battle was a hard one fought..but he..—"

"You're lying," You muttered.

"I'm not," Your father retorts before pausing and sucking in a breath, "Look, Y/n. I know that this is hard for you to accept deeming how close you two were, but—"

"You're lying," You repeat, this time much louder. As if your words had been turned up by a speaker, "..You're lying," You repeat. Shaking your head roughly to the point where your hair slips from behind your ears and falls messily down and around your face as a result. It was a silly thought, but it was as if your hair were trying to spare your pride, your dignity, by shielding your face from the onlookers that so happy to be your close family.

"Y/n, please.." Your mother stands to her feet, perfectly poised even at times like this, as she strides across the room and up to you. The haori and tail end of her kimono flows elegantly in her wake, making her look like some goddess walking along the sun—not that you cared to bear witness to any of that.

Her soft, smooth fingers—never once laid hands to a sword—slide along one shoulder to the edge of the other where she then pulls you close to her chest. She was even kind enough to rub circles into your back for a moment before whispering, "Don't do this.. Not here."

Her words were paper thin which quickly tore soon after she began speaking, proof that she was desperately trying to keep her own emotions in check herself..

But her shaky composure didn't register to you nor did her sincere words or genuine sadness. Your ear took in what she had said and your brain tore it apart and gave it an entirely new tone and overall meaning. One that was rather insincere in the face of your obviously grieving state. One that made it seem as if she didn't care for the news. Or rather, she cared more about saving face than anything else and that angered—no, infuriated you. Like a furnace with too much wood inside of it, a fire roared inside you and soon made your body unbearable hot.

Before you knew what you were doing, you had pushed your mother away with all your strength.

"Shut up! You don't get to tell me how to act in a time like this!" Your father and uncle immediately shot up. Racing over from where they once sat to your mother on the ground and helping her up like the damsel she was. Your father then turned to you, his eyes filling with his own fiery fury.

"Y/n! Control yourself! How you're acting right now is unfit of our name!" He commanded, and his words hit you like a ton of bricks to the face.

You just couldn't wrap your head around any of it. How your family stared on at you in shock as if you had just committed some heinous crime. How none of them had so much as a frown or a tear rolling down their cheek. How they're fussing at you as if your entire world didn't just fall apart over a few simple words.

You couldn't grasp how they managed to stay so composed when the world was beginning to turn grey before your eyes. You didn't understand it and that's what overwhelmed you more than anything else. It was all too much to handle. You felt like you had just been letting go to be swept away by a sea of flames. You couldn't decide whether you wanted to scream or sob. You couldn't decide on anything in that moment, in fact.

And so, you acted on the first thing your body could muster to accomplish and that was to run. Shooting up from your seat, you turned and bolted out of the room, ignoring your father screaming for you to come back..

Silence seeps into the room once again, chasing after the ghost of your echo until it took over the entire room once again. You waited, listening as best you can with your own thundering snivels drowning your ears like a river that was once blocked by a dam...but you heard nothing. You found yourself letting out a shaking sigh of relief as you realize that it was finally over. It seemed that the hallucination was finally gone.

Or so you thought.

"..Is that what you've been believing all this time?" That sigh of relief is immediately sucked back in through your stuffed nose. Along with the warm breaths against your ear, his icy touch returns, and this time, it had been lowered down to your waist.

You feel icicles dig into your flesh just hard enough that you're unable to remove them—which you suppose that, to the typical person, his grip would be near bone-crushing.

But again, it makes sense. It makes sense that he knows that you've gotten stronger over the years. It makes sense how he knows exactly how tightly to grab you without going to far and causing his touch to hurt. It makes sense because he isn't actually here. This is all in your head. Just your imagination..

It's just your imagination. It's just your imagination. It's just your imagination. It's just—

"I was trying to avoid this, but since I now know what taints your thoughts and prevents you from welcoming me into your arms with stride, I have no other choice.. Please, forgive my roughness this once."

Another gasp leaves you—a painful one that sliced through the depths of your achy, red, irritated throat in order to get out—as you're suddenly flipped on your back and pinned before you can fight back. Not knowing what else to do, your nails come up to desperately dig into the icebergs that envelope and cool your fiery cheeks.

"Y/n," He sings your name just as he did when you two were kids. It only makes the fire grow inside you, and ultimately, cause the dam inside you to burn over and allow water to seep through the gap made all over again.

The flurry of sadness is overwhelming, almost as overwhelming as how you felt when you first heard the news of his sudden and untimely death. That said, you were completely overwhelmed and found yourself begging, pleading with your hallucination, saying, "Stop.. Please go away.. He's gone. I've accepted that a long, long time ago so please—!"

"Y/n," Despite feeling as though you were falling, spinning, tumbling in the air, his voice easily made your landing feel soft and relieving, like pushing out a much needed breath you didn't know you were holding in, "Open your eyes and all will be made clear. You'll be at peace that way."

"No! I'm not going to! You can't make me!"

You refuse to let your mind trick you. You're not letting all that effort—all that work you put into building that dam over and over again—be for nothing!

You aren't opening your eyes. You can't..because if you do and he's not there, this fire inside you will turn into something untamable and the dam will crumble and never be able to be built again. Your mind would be a complete disaster that you wouldn't be able to reconstruct for at least a century or two.

After a while, you hear him sigh but you quickly force it out through one ear. Unfortunately as soon as you do that, his voice is shoved into your other ear once again.

"So stubborn.." His voice was vibrated by the chuckle that was weaved into it. It sounded so inviting, so addictive, but—against your subconscious will—you threw it out of your head as more of his florid words soon came to replace the ones lost, "It seems you truly haven't changed..mentally anyways."

The icebergs on your skin were, at last, removed from your face, but you were given little time to relish in your relief before you felt a weight lift off your body, your bedside dip, and those icy fingers make contact with your sensitive scalp.

"Having you in my arms like this brings me back," He said softly, "I remember...it would almost always rain whenever I visited your home and despite how often it happen, you'd always be petrified of the sounds the rain produced," You feel his fingers glide through your hair, separating the strands with his fingers with ease as he continued.

"After everyone went to sleep, you would always sneak into the guest room where I resided and I'd end up holding you just like this until you fell asleep," He then chuckles, and in doing so, puffs his breath against the shell of your ear, "Your parents would always get so upset about it, but that never stopped you from doing it. Nothing ever stopped you from doing as you pleased..so why allow your own fear to do so now?"

"Shut up—!" "You were the bravest person to me when we were kids, Y/n," He confessed, cutting you off, "You were just like your swordsmanship; no matter what you were taught otherwise, your blade always followed the same technique you created for yourself. It never changed, no matter the opponent or obstacle it faced."

"Shut up!" You yelled, yet it came out more of loud croak due to how hoarse your throat was at that point. You were like a scared little kid under the covers all over again. The only difference now was that it was harder to hide, at least in this moment with the ghost of your dead friend cuddling your backside and whispering nostalgia into your ears.

"You were strong. And you still are, I can tell even after all these years apart from you," He said, "So please, show me that bravery once again. Take the last step and look at me. Please.."

You don't know what happened. You had been so hellbent on doing the opposite of what he asked for this entire time only to obey at the last moment because of a slight tremor in his tone. You had been persuaded into obedience by a slight crack in his voice. A mere whimper. You had threw caution to the wind—at the risk of your mental and physical health—simply because of a past urge to comfort your best friend in his rare moment of weakness.

Your eyes twitched before your mind could process what you were doing. Eyes once sealed tightly by your tears—which were serving as your last line of defense at this point and your last chance to rethink this, flip back over, and continue to ignore the voice in your ear until sunrise—crack open, allowing the light of your to seep into your vision of who know how long of not being able to.

And when it finally happened, when you finally opened your eyes and were able to see the light again, you were reduced to hysteric sobs. It wasn't because you had been proven right though. It was even worse, you had been proven wrong. Kazuha laid right beside you alive and in the flesh. He looked just as he did all those years ago and you just couldn't bear the sight without breaking down.

At least now you can properly relish in the feeling of his touch—in the feeling of his arms caging around you—without feeling as though you were deluding yourself.

"You..dumb idiot.." You sniffled out as his grip on you tightened, "You big..dumb moron.. You had me thinking for so long.. I grieved over you..for so, so long.. I-"

"Shh, shh.." He shushed, his lips now tickling your forehead with his cool breath and fluttery words as he mumbles into your skin, "I'm sorry, my dear. I never meant to cause you such pain. Never. If I had the choice, I would've found you a long time ago.."

He mumbled other things as well, but you honestly could care less what he had to say at this point. Not even if he professed a hidden motive to end your life. You couldn't bring yourself to care about anything, not when you've finally been able to prove that dreadful thought you pushed in the very depths of your mind wrong. Not when such a heavy weight had been lifted off your shoulders. Not when the warmth that surrounds you has finally been confirmed to be from the one you had longed to see, feel, and reminisce with for literal ages.

The only thing you were listening to, at this point, was the thoughts telling you to stay like this in his arms and let his voice serenade you for an eternity.

Dividers were made by me, pictures used are from Pinterest, post formatting is inspired by @xxsabitoxx

[sleepinthrumyalarms]

— loving the beast, loving it whole

pairing: wednesday addams x fem!oni!reader

warnings: descriptions of mild gore, slightly suggestive themes, mentions of demon rut, it's mostly fluff

summary: wednesday insists her oni girlfriend spends a blood moon with her and a small inconvenience even she couldn’t have possibly foreseen takes place

word count: 5.2k

a/n: she's so silly like y/n: it's ok wednesday my transformation isn't a big deal haha :) also y/n: springlock failure sounds + bloodcurdling screams

When Wednesday welcomes herself into the dorm of the oni, (Y/n) doesn’t turn to acknowledge her. The seer is certain it’s because the demon has sensed her coming back when she was just starting to make her way up the stairs, having learned the pattern of Wednesday’s gait and her smell just a few days into their relationship.

The oni’s pointy ear twitches at the sound of the lock clicking. There’s a crease in between her brows, the mildest of expressions that betrays the anxiety swelling in (Y/n)’s chest. Wednesday, too, has grown to recognize a lot of habits of her demonic lover.

She watches (Y/n) fumble in front of the mirror, barefoot, her haori draped over her naked shoulders. It covers most of her backside in a flow of luxurious fabric in (f/c) and black colors, and if the circumstances were different, Wednesday would turn around and leave the room abruptly to give the other girl privacy. She’d most likely never enter without knocking again.

She finds the broadness of the demon’s shoulders, the muscles of her neck and the plain between her breasts enticing instead. They call for the touch of her lips but, much to Wednesday’s disdain, a more pressing matter is calling for (Y/n).

“I’m assuming it’s a blood moon tonight.”

(Y/n) hums in affirmation, her eyes fixed on her reflection as her fingers keep struggling with the twine of the pendant, her claws catching onto the rope and preventing her from finally fastening it around her neck.

“Would you like me to bring you back a souvenir?” She offers, and the seer isn’t deaf to the slightest hint of exasperation in the oni’s voice, “A pair of deer horns would look amazing above your bed. I could bring you a whole head if you’d like.”

“I’d much rather have you here,” Wednesday replies with no desire to entertain (Y/n)’s mockery, “You know your absence mauls at my bleeding heart like nothing else does.”

If the circumstances were different, the ravenette would be physically revolted by the words that have just left her mouth. She’d go drink a bottle of cyanide just to wash the nauseating sweetness of the statement off her tongue.

But she has long since accepted the influence of the Addams family curse – the influence of (Y/n) on her, and she can’t help her blunt honesty.

Although it doesn’t really seem to move her girlfriend in the way it usually would.

“No. I can’t. I’m... I have to go and hunt, otherwise...” The oni tries to find some morbid, unnerving wording to explain the consequences that would follow but ultimately realizes all of them would serve to excite rather than deter the goth.

Wednesday seems to catch onto the hesitation, “Otherwise what?” She asks with a small frown, taking a few steps to end up behind (Y/n), looking at her through the mirror, “Is there some ungodly sanguinary pact that forces you to spend every blood moon deer-slaughtering?”

“Not just deer – “

“Is there?”

(Y/n) huffs in irritation, partially from her necklace still unwilling to cooperate, partially from Wednesday’s persistence. She drops her hands, pressing them into the edges of the dressing table, the golden dragon squeezed in her palm.

“No, not really. Then again, my whole existence isn’t really that different from a sanguinary pact.” She barks, and immediately regrets the bite in her tone, lowering her gaze shamefully.

She always gets easily vexed in that state.

Wednesday reaches for the pendant, and (Y/n) finds her fist relaxing on its own accord under the surprisingly gentle touch of the ravenette. She lets the seer take the necklace into her own hand, and watches Wednesday’s reflection in the mirror get on her tiptoes to wrap the twine around the oni’s neck, fastening it with skillful precision. The metal is a cold sensation on (Y/n)’s naked skin, but it’s nothing compared to the chills that run through her body when she feels Wednesday press her soft lips to her nape in a comforting, sensual kiss.

“Have you ever tried staying?” The goth asks, her voice soft and free of scorn, plush mouth moving against (Y/n)’s flesh, and the oni can’t suppress a shiver.

(Y/n) doesn’t even try to rack her brain for any memories that would provide her with an affirmative answer. She never has. She remembers standing, miles away from her clan’s territory, a young girl, barely over ten, half-naked and scared to death in the crimson light of the blood moon, clutching the golden dragon pendant given to her by her father with the instruction to never, under any circumstances, lose the amulet.

She remembers the pain of the metamorphosis vividly, too. She never liked how people would compare that and whatever is behind the transformations of werewolves. Unlike them, (Y/n) didn’t get a head-start – she couldn’t afford to be a ‘late-bloomer’, nor did she have any time to grow, both physically and mentally, before it happened the first time. She was just thrown out there – it was like teaching a child to swim, except there was no helping hand of her parent to catch her in case she started to drown.

(Y/n) thinks it’s what’s made her strong. Her tenacity, persistence, and her will to live. Although Dr. Kinbott always begs to differ.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” the demon murmurs, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

To her surprise, Wednesday chuckles in reply, “Do you really believe you’re capable?”

(Y/n) frowns, failing to see the humor in the situation, “The point is that I... can’t transform in front of you.”

The ravenette’s brows furrow, “Why not?”

Jesus, (Y/n)’s damn well certain Wednesday hasn’t ever been this oblivious.

“First off, it’s beastly and messy and loud, and I’ll, I’ll get... huge, and I might break something or hurt you or...” (Y/n) sighs, her shoulders sagging, “I strive to keep you happy. And safe. It’s... instinctive, kind of. Multiplied by what I feel towards you. And it’s scary.”

“Why would it be?”

“The things I’d do for you. They scare me sometimes.”

Wednesday is silent for a moment. She doesn’t blink, seemingly digesting the raw emotion of the demon’s words, before she finally speaks, “If it’s as bad as you say it is, I’d conclude that I’m in no danger,” she leans away from (Y/n)’s back slightly to meet the gaze of her reflection, “As much as I am capable of protecting myself – the ability you seem to constantly underestimate,” she adds, making the oni grunt, “I believe I’m the safest when in your presence. I also believe you’ve proven that countless of times, so my words aren’t groundless.”

A small smile touches the demon’s tusked mouth, “You and your way with words.”

“The Addamses are known for their skill in poetry and negotiation... as well as flattery,” Wednesday hums nonchalantly, idle hand rubbing a pattern on (Y/n)’s shoulder in an attempt to persuade her further, although it’s already far from necessary, “You’ll be staying, then.”

“I suppose so.”

A single glance outside reveals a big, blood-red orb staring back at the goth, painting the scenery outside in crimson colors, “There’s not too much time left now. Is there anything that needs to be done beforehand?”

(Y/n) looms closer to the window, watching the moon, “No. This is everything that can be done,” she says, reaching her hand up to her chest to hold the dragon pendant in her fist.

“Does it work like an equivalent to a wolfsbane potion? Is it... charmed?”

“More like blessed. And, well, yes, it’s something like that. You should still keep your distance though.”

Wednesday nods, but plans to disobey. She can’t lie, she feels... intrigued at the chance of seeing an oni’s full form up close. The two times in the past have just been slight glimpses in the dark of night, mere traces of what a beast (Y/n) actually is. It must be an unusual reaction for the her, the goth muses, as she watches the demon glance outside the window, twirling the pendant between her clawed fingers.

“Are you nervous?”

(Y/n) seems hesitant to answer at first, “...A little, maybe. It... doesn’t get better. It always hurts like the first time. And I’m always alone when it happens. Back home I couldn’t spend any blood moons with my father because we get aggressive and territorial in that state even with our families,” a small smile touches her otherwise grim expression, “But with you here, I guess... It’s not as terrifying as–”

Before (Y/n) can finish what Wednesday’s sure was supposed to be something awfully sweet and sappy, she’s interrupted by a sickeningly loud crack that startles the ravenette enough to jolt backwards. A bone has snapped in the demon’s right calf, bending her knee at an inhumane angle and almost making her double over. The demon grits her teeth, her top lip rising over her big tusks in a manner of an angered wolf, and she grasps at the windowsill to keep herself upright, her knuckles white over the wood, just in time as her other leg snaps in the same fashion.

“It’s fine- It’s fine,” she grunts, her voice so strained and rough Wednesday can barely recognize it, “Stay back.”

This time Wednesday listens, taking a few steps away from the writhing form of the girl that grows and changes before her very eyes. The talons on the demon’s hands grow impossibly big, fusing with bone, and her tusks grow almost thrice their usual size, protruding from under her lip. Her frame stretches in a heap of powerful, tense muscle, and (Y/n) is unable to stand on her legs anymore, falling on her knees and plunging her claws into the floorboards at the excruciating pain that makes every nerve in her body stand at torturous attention.

A pair of long, slightly curved horns spurts from the oni’s forehead with a disgusting fleshy sound, and a big, scale-covered tail like that of a dragon emerges from her tailbone, ripping her pants in the process. It snaps back and forth aggressively, hitting the wall with loud thumps –  the demon jerks with pained groans that mix with raged growls of a wounded animal.

Wednesday has seen quite a lot in her life. She watched people be tortured, skinned and burned alive, yet nothing could’ve prepared her for what she was witnessing at that moment. The ravenette couldn’t bear to watch any longer, yet some invisible force makes her freeze in her spot, unable to look away.

The transformation stops – it feels like it’s stretched for hours, yet it’s barely been a minute. The demon’s back heaves on the hardwood floor, her shoulders rising and falling heavily, before she raises her head.

A pair of golden eyes with snake-like slits stares into Wednesday’s dark ones.

Slowly, still aching from the metamorphosis, the creature rises to its feet, so huge the tips of its horns scrape at the ceiling. It huffs, releasing a small puff of hot steam from her snout, and a dangerously low growl rumbles in its throat.

There’s a feeling in Wednesday’s gut stricken in her by the sound – a feeling she isn’t used to, and doesn’t like. A feeling of pure fear. Her eyes go wide and she begins to back away from the demon who lowers her stance and slowly pads towards the small ravenette. The floor creaks in protest under the weight of the monster. Her eyes are fixed on Wednesday’s, unblinking, like a predator prowling as her huge talons scrape the wooden surface, muscles flexing under her grayish skin.

Wednesday’s back meets the wall. She can’t keep her eyes off the monstrous being, unable to move from fear, fear and fascination as the beast steps towards her. It’s like a train wreck – she knows she shouldn’t look, knows she should be moving... but she can’t stop herself from staring at the horrifying sight in front of her.

The demon towers over her even on all fours, casting a menacing shadow over the smaller girl, something close to... magnificent about its appearance. It is a beastial abomination, sure, coarse and sharp around the edges, a man-eating predator, but the well-defined muscles and the rich (h/c) color of its mane suggests that there is something almost regal to the monster.

It leans its big head down, long pointed ears flicking, and takes a small sniff. The creature's mane of hair swishes with the movement, before it releases another puff of smoke right into Wednesday’s face. It's a dangerous, intimidating show – the oni stares into her grey eyes, and something inside the goth clicks.

The fear is still there, but the curiosity and the fascination she’s somehow also feeling take over for one split second, and she reaches her hand up and towards to the monster. Something inhumane draws her in – her hand is shaking slightly, but she can’t stop herself, attracted to it in an inexplicable way, almost transfixed. Wednesday’s palm stops just a few inches away from the oni’s snout, not daring to proceed any further.

To her utmost surprise, the demon leans towards her hand, butting its nose into it gently. Wednesday’s breath is taken away – she watches in awe as the creature closes its eyes with a low sound of approval, but before she can let her intrigue be known, the oni’s massive jaw hangs open, and a long, rough tongue slithers out of her toothy maw to glide against Wednesday’s cheek.

The demon... licks her face.

The goth grunts in disgust, trying to press her hand harder into the demon’s snout to make her stop but failing to overpower the strong creature, “(Y/n), this is unbecoming.”

The demon ignores the girl’s disapproval, giving her face another lick. Her tongue is long and slithering like a snake’s, rough and strong like a lion’s, or... some other big cat for that matter. If Wednesday had to choose one animal – one that wasn’t taken off a page of a book on Japanese myths and legends and that could easily describe the beastly image of (Y/n)’s blood moon form –  it would certainly be a feline.

She isn’t completely sure how she should treat this giant beast in front of her. Obviously it isn’t her first time encountering the oni in such a state, but this is the first ever time they meet in such close proximity and, dare she say… intimate conditions, compared to chasing after the wild creature in the woods outside Nevermore, at least. Sure, the monster is far from human-looking, but its morphed face with the toothy maw and widened, cat-like snout still bears some features she can easily recognize as belonging to her lover.

Taking one last lick of the seer’s now excessively wet cheek, (Y/n) pulls away, a very wide and satisfied grin on her face. Wednesday wonders if it’s the last thing the demon’s prey usually sees before it’s torn to shreds — the display is off-putting night terror material and she finds it charming.

“Alright. I suppose you’ve never tried sleeping in this form either. I hope I won’t have to wrestle your excited self to bed.”

When Wednesday turns to head over to the closet in the corner of the room, the demon moves to stand on her feet, wanting to follow the small ravenette, and her horns bump against the ceiling, making the room shake slightly.

“No,” Wednesday frowns, “Down. Be a good girl and wait for me.”

(Y/n) grunts in bratty annoyance but complies, plopping herself on the floor and giving the room another solid mini-earthquake, huffing at Wednesday in what the seer is sure would’ve been some sort of a sarcastic comeback if the demon had any vocal cords to verbalize it with.

Wednesday is quick to get a change of clothes, picking the first shirt out of (Y/n)’s closet she can reach, afraid that the demon might turn to mischief if she was out of her sight for too long, but when she turns back to look at (Y/n), she finds her on the exact same spot. The demon watches her, slitted curious eyes fixed on her face, the display of obedience utterly surprising. It seems like the pendant is indeed working its wonders, though Wednesday can’t help but think it’s not the only reason.

“Come now. Get off the dirty floor. I can’t have you sleeping on a rug like some animal.”

Wednesday is faced with yet another challenge to her impeccable mind – fitting a 10-foot creature into a one-person bed. She looks up at the demon at her side, then back at the bed, and for a second considers to just let the oni sleep on the floor – of course (Y/n) would want Wednesday to take her bed, but...

(Y/n) yawns, maw wide open and baring her huge crooked tusks, then moves towards the bed, collapsing down onto the poor mattress heavily and curling up. Her clawed feet dangle over the edge, and her tail is left to lie on the floor.

Well, this would just have to do.

The demon presses her back to the wall as far as it could go, leaving a small, cozy spot next to her.

She will just have to suffer.

With a heavy sigh Wednesday moves to flick off the desk lamp and joins the oni in bed, facing her heavy jaw. Golden eyes shine in the pitch darkness, and a warm cloud of vapor flutters from (Y/n)’s nose, making Wednesday squeeze her eyes. She receives what she thinks is an apologetic lick to her chin before the demon shuts her eyes too, and Wednesday can feel the monster’s rough tail slither around her waist it a tight grip.

At least she doesn’t have any fur to shed all over the place.

Wednesday tucks her head under the demon’s chin, and finds herself in a warm, nest-like embrace of one of the deadliest creatures in the universe. It’s relieving, protective even, as much as Wednesday has never craved either of those abstracts. She feels a big clawed hand cradle her head, and the soft purring wrapping around her whole being like a soft blanket lulls her to sleep almost immediately.

(Y/n) awakes with a throbbing ache all over her body – not unusual or surprising, though still rather unpleasant. She grimaces, lifting her right palm to rub at her face, her sleepy clumsiness causing her claw to scratch at her cheek slightly. She tries to lift her left arm to join the other in rubbing the pain away from her head and face, but finds it unable to move.

The demon opens her eyes finally, glancing down to find a small body cuddled to her chest, asleep like a baby – or rather like a corpse, a comparison more fitting considering how cold and unmoving the body is, and (Y/n) shivers when she feels the freezing temperature of Wednesday’s feet entwined with her own.

I’m getting you a pair of fuzzy socks this Christmas. Hot pink ones.

The demon’s thoughts trail back to the events of the previous night, blurry and fragmented, but comprehensive enough to assure (Y/n) that she, in fact, did not hurt the seer in her beast-like state. The only thing harmed, she supposes, was her pride, as she recalls licking Wednesday’s cheek and wagging her tail like a dumb, excited dog.

She could live with that.

The oni lets her troubling thoughts roam free somewhere in the back of her mind and focuses all her humane attention on the black-haired girl in her embrace instead, resting her hand between their bodies. (Y/n)’s other arm is trapped under Wednesday, her bicep serving as a perfect pillow for the goth’s neck, and the demon watches the ravenette breathe calmly, exhaling through her soft lips, with gentle fondness. It’s a nice privilege, she thinks, to be able to see Wednesday like this – peaceful, guard down completely, face devoid of an annoyed expression.

(Y/n) feels her heart racing in her ribcage as she stares at the plush of the goth’s mouth, so full and perfect the demon can’t keep a small, almost possessive growl from rumbling in her throat lowly, unable to convey her feelings in any other way without waking the very object of her ardent passions. In her head she’s already tearing down the walls and gnawing at every bit of furniture she can find.

The oni resorts to leaning in and resting her own lips on Wednesday’s gently in an effort to calm the beast inside of her. Her hulky teeth bump into the softness, ungainly and rough against what she swears is like virgin cotton to the touch. The growling in the back of her throat is replaced by purring.

With both herself and her monster satisfied she pulls away, leaning her head back on the pillow and huffing in content. She continues watching Wednesday, observing the faint touch of freckles on her nose and cheeks, then moves her still vacant arm to place it over the smaller girl’s waist, careful not to disturb her. The goth hums in her sleep, unconsciously nuzzling further into (Y/n), and the demon shudders again, this time at the coldness of Wednesday’s nose pressing into her neck.

Wednesday wakes up to the sound of what she thinks is some powerful machine engine vibrating right against her right ear, warm but surprisingly soft.

She opens her eyes and finds she’s still tucked under (Y/n)’s jaw – although the jaw is of a normal size now, and Wednesday allows herself a small affectionate smile when she finds the demon girl back to her usual self, albeit naked, slightly disheveled and purring up a storm.

Something is a bit off though. A weird clamping on her lower half.

It feels like a thick rope wrapped around her leg, squeezing – Wednesday is mostly familiar with the sensation of being tied up – but the pressure isn’t at all uncomfortable. Grounding, rather, and pleasant in a sense.

The seer cranes her neck to look down and finds a long, textured tail wrapped around her thigh.

(Y/n)’s tail.

The demon herself is sleeping soundly, her arm on the ravenette’s waist, completely unaware of the new attribute to her appearance.

Wednesday stares at the appendage, unsure how to proceed. This is... new, and she doesn’t want to overstep any boundaries with the demon, so trying to unwind the tail from her leg manually is out of question. She thinks about waking (Y/n) up, but that doesn’t sound pleasant either, not with the girl lying there, snuggly wrapped around Wednesday in all the possible ways, blessed with what must be the best sleep she’s gotten this week. This month, even – blood moons have been gaining frequency recently.

Wednesday huffs through her nose softly, then presses her head back against (Y/n)’s chest, ready to accept defeat. Unfortunately – or maybe fortunately – for her, the slightest movement of the small body next to (Y/n) stirs her awake. Her throat rumbles with a sleepy prrbbtt sound that makes Wednesday bite her lip to keep a small smile from overtaking her usual scowl. The arm on her waist presses her closer before (Y/n) changes her position suddenly, rolling over onto her back and tugging the smaller girl on top of her, and this time the seer can’t hold back a noise of surprise as she’s handled like she weighs nothing to the demon. Which she probably does.

“(Y/n).” She calls softly, but the oni doesn’t budge.

Wednesday frowns, then reaches her hand up to tug at the demon’s long pointy ear gently, raising her voice a bit, “(Y/n).”

This time the girl squints one eye open.

“It’s early.” She grumbles, voice hoarse with sleepiness.

“I don’t want to alarm you,” the goth begins, trying her best to come up with a euphemism to describe what’s happening, “But it seems we’ve become... tangled in a small predicament.”

“Hm?”

There’s a slight subconscious squeeze to the meat of Wednesday’s thigh that makes her breath hitch.

“What the hell?”

(Y/n)’s eyes fly wide open, all the grogginess gone as she looks down at where she holds Wednesday in a way she never thought she would.

The beast inside of her purrs with possessiveness at the sight of her tail snug around the seer’s thigh, but the rational part of her screams that the appendage isn’t even supposed to be there in the first place.

(Y/n) untangles it quickly, and Wednesday finds herself missing the warm pressure immediately. It’s replaced with the demon’s warm hand padding at Wednesday’s thigh carefully to smooth away any pain and check for an injury or a bruise. The touch sends a small shiver down the goth’s spine.

“Are you alright? Did it hurt? How did that even happen?” (Y/n) exclaims, grabbing at her tail to give it a sharp tug, as if to check if it’s really there, attached to her loin, and winces when the not-so-gentle movement brings a sting to her coccyx.

“It must be some kind of a side effect of your transformation,” Wednesday observes calmly.

“This has never happened before!”

The smaller girl is grabbed and lifted, as gently as possible, off the demon’s frame before she can retort – the oni gets up from the bed hastily, her brand new appendage swishing behind her with aggravation, knocking a picture frame off the bedside table that Wednesday manages to catch before it can hit the floor and shatter into many pieces.

“(Y/n). You need to compose yourself.” The ravenette places the frame back carefully, tilting her head to inspect the photo. It’s a picture of her and the oni at the last year’s Rave’n Dance, Wednesday’s hand on (Y/n)’s shoulder as she looked up at the demon with what could only be described as adoration.

“I can’t!” The demon flings her arms, “Look at this!”

She makes a demonstrative movement of her tail, the long scaly limb moving sharply from side to side. The sight is, indeed, bizarre, doubled by the fact that the demon is stark naked.

Wednesday finds her gaze lingering.

“What am I supposed to do with it?”

“You’re exaggerating,” Wednesday sighs, swinging her feet over the edge of the bed, “Go cool yourself off. I’ll think of something.”

(Y/n) shakes her head in irritation but complies, walking into the bathroom, her tail hitting the doorframe as it swings around furiously. The door slams closed, and Wednesday is left alone with her thoughts, some of which are far from innocent.

The water’s been running in the bathroom for half an hour now as Wednesday sits at (Y/n)’s desk, having moved closer to the window for better lighting, the demon’s uniform pants in her hands as she works with a needle carefully, making a stitch around the small circle she has cut out from the back of the garment. Her brows are furrowed in focus, her thin elegant fingers handling the tool with masterful precision. She makes a few of the last stitches, tugs at the seams to check the sturdiness of her work, then cuts the thread with a quick bite of her teeth and puts the needle away. She holds the pants up to the sunlight, a small smile on her face, just in time with the door bursting open to reveal a fuming half-dressed demon.

“I’m skipping classes today.” (Y/n) grunts, holding a towel in a clawed palm and rubbing at her damp hair with extra vigor.

“No, you aren’t,” Wednesday gets up and offers the improved garment to the girl, “Put these on.”

The demon dresses reluctantly, leaving her blazer undone, then tugs her uniform pants up her waist. She growls with ire when the base of her tail bumps against the belt.

“This fucking thing.”

Wednesday smacks (Y/n)’s hands away and pulls at the boney limb gently, guiding its end through the makeshift hole as the demon continues to whine and growl softly.

“I hate this.”

“I know.”

Just as Wednesday expected, it fits like a glove, sliding through the hole smoothly.

“There.”

The demon is silent for a moment, moving her tail back and forth to check for any discomfort or obstacles for the appendage, before she turns round and gives herself a once-over in the mirror, eyeing the hole in her pants.

“Did... did you do this?”

Wednesday hums noncommittally.

“It’s nothing complicated.”

(Y/n) grins at the goth, leaning down to press a kiss to the corner of her mouth.

“Thank you. I love you.”

“It’s quite alright. I assure you... the view is more than appealing. It would be a shame to hide.”

The demon purrs in reply, her tail moving to wrap around Wednesday’s middle and pulling her into its owner’s chest so she could press her lips to the seer’s.

“Honestly, I don’t think I’d be able to hide it. It’s worse than a boner during a rut.”

Wednesday hums, her hands busying themselves with buttoning the taller girl’s blazer up.

“Don’t worry. I’d take care of that, too.”

She gives a small satisfied smile at the red hue of (Y/n)’s cheeks.

The long, boring essay on botany is the last thing on Wednesday’s mind when they sit together, shoulders touching. The demon seems focused, the tip of her sharp tongue sticking from between her lips as she scribbles something on her paper, determined to get a good grade (or maybe a praise from her very intelligent girlfriend, but that’s irrelevant), and her tail swishes slowly and calmly in her concentration.

The Addams girl eyes it discreetly, her gaze following the blunt spikes framing the texture of the appendage, before she gives the class a small look around. Everyone’s heads seem to be down: Enid is on the verge of tears, struggling over her paper, Kent scratches at his temple with a pen, and somewhere in the front rows Bianca is whispering something to Divina.

Perfect.

After a brief moment of mischievous scheming, Wednesday leans back in her seat and reaches her palm to rest on the small of the demon’s back experimentally.  (Y/n) gives a quiet appreciative hum, but doesn’t switch her attention to her girlfriend, too engrossed in her writing. The seer palms at her waist for a bit, caressing gently, before she curls her fingers and begins to scratch at the demon’s lower back.

(Y/n)’s eyes widen, and she turns to meet Wednesday’s, her face flushing slightly. The goth only offers a small smirk as an answer to the silent inquiry of the demon’s confused gaze, and slides her hand even lower, slender fingers slithering under the waistband of the oni’s uniform to scratch at the base of (Y/n)’s tail.

A small surprised whine leaves the taller girl’s mouth, and she folds over the desk, burying her face in her hands to keep any more pathetic noises from escaping as goosebumps raise up her spine and all over her limbs at the feeling of Wednesday’s blunt nails at one of her most sensitive spots.

Wednesday scratches deeper, and the demon grasps at the edge of the table in an attempt to calm down, her talons leaving deep marks on the polished wood. Her tail starts to wag emotively, catching the attention of some of the students – the ravenette meets Xavier’s amused glance, and the glare she sends his way is enough to refrain him from looking in their direction again.

“What’s it with you and humiliating me in public, Addams?” (Y/n) seethes through clenched teeth. She lifts her head from the desk, revealing her crimson cheeks.

Wednesday can’t hold back a smile. The tiniest bit smug one, too.

“Oh, I just can’t help it. Chaton.”

[amyriadofleaves]

outside it starts to pour — neuvillette | chapter six

synopsis: in the limelight of fontaine, the prying eyes of its people never truly tears their gaze off the iudex and you, the présidence du conseil d'état, which makes for baseless rumours to fester and echo throughout the theatrics of opera. you and neuvillette are challenged by the reputations the both of you are expected to uphold, and the weighty decision to navigate these intricacies rests upon the discerning judgement of fontaine's archon.

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⌗ pairing : neuvillette x fem!reader ⌗ feat : neuvillette, reader, charlotte ⌗ warnings : n/a ⌗ word count: 4.8k

A subordinate of whom you do not recognise leaves a copy of the latest news on your desk and you do not pay it any mind until your lips leave your teacup of Fonta.

A MOST ROMANTIC SIGHT OF FONTAINE’S MOST INFLUENTIAL COUPLE SHATTERED BY THE BURSTING OF THE FOUNTAIN OF LUCINE!

You cannot say you are surprised; such a reaction was to be anticipated. The events of last night were far from ordinary, and the ring adorning your finger gleams in the sunlight streaming like bands through the blinds, affirming the reality of it all.

“An official report of this has been issued. Of whom do you wish to appoint this case to?”

“Why, myself of course,” you say primly, intonation insinuating the end of your phrase — but you take in a sharpened breath to continue. “Unless the Chief Justice — my fiance, might I add — wishes to accompany me. And if that ever so happens you may scribble his name of contribution in a footnote.”

The boy takes a hesitant step forward. “But, Madame, we have fresh graduates awaiting a job to take up. Wouldn't it be easier to have them do the work for you?”

You tut. “Oh, but that just won’t do. Doing the ‘work for me’, young man, does not mean doing the work effectively. I am not partial to cleaning up after my… protégés, if you will.” Another sip of your Fonta seems to shush any questions he might beg, and he complies, leaving you alone in your office. 

And he’s left the door ajar. Pity.

As you stand, your chair scrapes against the marble and you wince. I should call for someone to replace the rubber padding of the legs, you note, rolling the tabloid into a scroll. 

Though your stride is fast and your heels click a little too loudly for anyone’s comfort, you steal some time to skim through the newspaper.

A monochrome print of your outfit from yesterday makes a statement in a tiny corner of the paper you hold in your hands, and you almost smile. So people do like me! Perhaps it is your own self critique, but the words on the street after the Poisson incident were nothing shy of foul — not to mention how your rising to fame caught the attention of all the aristocrats in Fontaine (as Furina had once quipped, unaware you were right outside Monsieur Neuvillette’s office). You do not know what to take from it. 

If more surges of the prophecy begin to manifest, it is mostly up to you to take yourself up on the job — another result of Furina’s damned dereliction. 

Being proposed to does not cease the relentless flow of living, and thus is the sole reason why your feet drag you to the very precinct of Palais Mermonia. Fear lingers; you had just narrowly scraped death by a hair’s breadth, saved by your own reflexes at freezing the Fountain of Lucine before you could witness people dissolving into the very floors at which justice is determined.

Though the case is not very much ‘civil’ as your title suggests, there is no one better to take care of the problem if not you. And it does take into account the lives of people, so you do suppose that it is quite ‘civil’; in the context that it won’t very well be if more people die.

In layman’s terms, you have a case to solve that is very much your sole responsibility.

But this does not mean that you aren’t blazingly furious at the one who is supposed to spare her subjects from the injustice that is death; the sole guillotine looming over Fontaine. 

Before you allow the guards to open the door, you lose the pencil in your hair and card your fingers through it to restore its lost volume. When the door does open, a crowd seems to swarm when you make an appearance at the front step — and you eye them with a sort of caution that has you preemptively biting your tongue. The stench of sweat and body odour shoot through your senses in one swift motion, and you almost lurch forward to gag, the flashing of cameras a blinding curtain over your sight. 

And the queries commence.

"What measures have you taken to avert us from the prophecy?" a reporter cries out, thrusting a microphone toward your face, his crew trailing closely behind.

Another person, to whom you presume to be no older than twenty shouts warily. “Is it true that you are to be wed to the Chief Justice? What does this mean for your future and your new career?”

“Over here!”

“One for the cameras!’

You take a calculated move to disregard their questions and push further through the crowd — only to realise how much of a grave mistake you’ve made. An influx of more people come pouring in, snuffing the place out of any oxygen you can steal for yourself; and before you know it, you are unable to breathe. The throng of people swells and the contact of skin against skin from all the pressing bodies floods over you like a deluge.

Navigating your mind is the main challenge for a situation like this; how is one meant to think straight if all compass fails?  Your eyes flicker to the floor, and you realise the space that surrounds you as if you are a magnet repelling its own pole; but this does not stop them from pushing in further. Regret is the first emotion you feel out of anything; Why did I sign myself up for this job? Is one of the questions that cry out— but it dissipates when the more people fight through the field.

Shitshitshitshit! It almost feels like the very ground you stand on begins to cave in and you’re shrinking under the captious gazes of all the cameras and you feel so small. A fruitless attempt to create space brings everything to an impasse; and then everything falls silent. 

The crowd parts as your vision clears and your breathing slows. Damn it to the heat of the moment, but you swear you hear your heart pounding like a gong in the very forefront of your head. There he is, your knight in shining armour, as another headline stated — and if you were any more spiteful, your voice would’ve dripped with malice at the very notion of having him, the Chief Justice, by your side at every inconvenience.

But he seems to just do that at this ‘inconvenience’.

A low voice vibrates against your back and you feel a chill tease at your spine. “It is not necessary for you to converge at the Palais at this hour. I implore you all to return to wherever you came from, for my partner and I have important matters to attend to at this moment.”

This only prompts a surge of questions that drown out any attempts of the people to break through the surface of the stampede. Something — of what you presume to be a sharp edge of camera gear — grazes your side, and you physically feel a stitch come undone. The initial sting is almost akin to an ant bite, and you instinctively press your palm against it and hope that the pain from the pressure can override any pain from the wound. Pivoting, your left knee buckles as you shift your weight, your frame now shielded from the majority of the crowd. Lifting your cupped palm away from your hip, a little patch of red comes to bloom under the soft drapes of fabric of your blouse. This is what happens when you don’t take health care seriously, you jest in your mind: a fruitless attempt at diverting your attention elsewhere even if it is for a measly few seconds.  Allowing your arm to slacken, your elbow nestles firmly against your side, offering brief respite from the discomfort.

Your ears begin to ring at the sudden crescendo of voices after the Iudex’s silence, and you briefly glance at him before you realise he is peering closely at you, ultramarine eyes trailing to the very curve of your hip. 

“Must I reiterate — my partner and I have an urgent case to attend to, so if you would please excuse us.” A brief smile tugs at his lips, but it is an exasperated one. He reaches for your waist — to which he then withdraws, choosing instead to have his fingers interlace with your own. Almost dazed, you stare at your now elevated hand, and then to him, with an almost astonished awe that can only be considered as such: a want to slap him. This is certainly not of his character! What audacity…

It all happens so swiftly you have no time to turn your head at the voice that comes from the man to your left. He brings his lips to your ear and you barely make out the words — and yet the main message still prevails. “Stay close to me,” is the honey-lined command he mutters under his breath. 

He starts his advancement through the crowd, and you absentmindedly comply and attempt to replicate his pace — albeit with a noticeable limp in your gait (your attempt to shield it only has the multiple daggers piercing from within to grow into a grotesque violence). A certain demographic splits away from the crowd, retreating; another, more resilient and stubborn, stand as though secured with screws embedded into cement. Some claw at your blouse, and some to your skirt — and you cannot tell if the shouts that leave their mouths are profanities, praise, or whatever else stands in the blur of the in between.

The autumn chill freezes the warmth that once wrapped around your limbs and leaves a delicate, yet lingering frost on the apples of your cheeks. Suffocating as the influx of people was, you are now free from them, and you look back to see the aftermath of dejected faces and the subsiding of camera shutters. 

Awareness has you stealing a  brief look downward and and you feel a slight prickle of a sting at the clarity. You do not want to tend to it now; hence why you freeze a layer of ice under the gauze with strained effort. 2-in-1! Numbing cream and makeshift stitch!

With now being spared the imploring curiosity of mortality, you do not hesitate to drop Neuvillette’s hand. 

For good measure, you look past the man’s shoulder and over your own; a part of you tells you that no one is around — but how can you trust your surety? You are human; and to be human is to be defined by the errors that scream through the flesh of your being.

“There was no necessity for you to aid me, Monsieur. I was — and still am — completely, and utterly alright.” You do not turn to face him, nor do you dare to stop walking.

Neuvillette lags behind, his presence only recognisable from the shine of his boots under the sun. “I assure you it was not an action of intent, Madame; I was only off to seek a brief reprise from my duties, but instead, I was met with quite the group of people swarming you outside the Palais. Surely you must know this act was merely my own responsibility as —”

Strides fueled by adrenaline come to a brief stop and you whirl on your heel, met with a bewildered Neuvillette stopping just before he can collide into you. “Yes I do, very much know that, Chief Justice.” You lift your heel and swing it lightly backwards, stretching the distance between the two of you. “Now if you’ll excuse me; I am to mediate the threat that the Fountain poses right now.”

Instead of being patient enough to wait for a response, you curtsy and turn to leave. Someone just so happens to not take the memo, and you stop your stride again. “What is it now?”

“I am a man of my word, Madame; I claimed to have a role in what happened last night to the people, and so I must certainly be of service.”

Dejected as you are, you still remain unwavering in your gaze. “...Right.”

Neuvillette chooses not to refute, and you do not find it in yourself to speak. It is a walk of shame, almost — but the indignity lies not in the quiet, but rather in the Chief Justice's inaction in releasing the tension.

You steal a glance at Neuvillette, hoping for some sign of reassurance or understanding, but his expression remains impassive.

Your pace is now unrhythmic. The impulse to disrupt this unsettling silence with anything — a word, a gesture, or a mere breath — becomes a refuge sought in the recesses of your mounting desperation; because, God, you cannot stand another minute with this man! Yet, a brief flit of what he might be thinking gives you a taste of how, most probably, he is not feeling as disturbed as you are right now. Observing him from the corner of your eye, his demeanour remains unperturbed. Damn him and his impartiality.

Someone chooses to finally shatter the static, and it is not you nor Neuvillette. Instead it is that reporter: Charlotte. Though you do not see her, the sheer recognition of who it is is confirmed when she sounds from behind, and the two of you turn your heads almost in unison. A head of baby pink hair is the first aspect of her that you notice, and everything else comes into full view.

She claps her hands with a roll of paper in her left. “Oh. My. God. I have been struck with luck today, it seems! You would not care as to spare a few minutes of your time for some questions, would you?” 

You exhale a nervous laugh, looking to Neuvillette to reject the offer.

Beaming, she turns to you, and lays a friendly hand on your wrist. “I’m a big fan. It is an honour to finally meet you in person.” 

That is undoubtedly a first. Maybe she thought you were the acting chief justice? As President of the Conseil d'État, you haven't accomplished anything particularly noteworthy to warrant or merit such commendation. 

Clearing your throat, you bring forth the most professional smile you can muster. “And to you, too, Charlotte. Though I am afraid we are quite occupied with other responsibilities… Perhaps we could arrange an official meeting for an interview? Just let me know of your schedule.” 

“Oh! That is very kind of you, Madame. I will certainly send you my schedule and please, pick what date as you see fit.” Her eyes shift from yours to Neuvillette. “And congratulations on your engagement! The topic of your engagement has been thrown into every conversation under the sun. Trust me, I’ve seen it.”

Neuvillette closes in a little nearer, clearly piqued by her claim. “Really? I certainly did not foresee this to be upped to such a… grand scale. But surely —” He jolts at you nudging his arm to stop. “Ah. Yes. I apologise greatly, Charlotte, but the matter at hand is far too grave.”

“Yeah, sure — no biggie. See you two around!”

And there she goes, frolicking like a little girl in an open field. “A strange one, that girl.” You say, a tinge of amusement in your tone. Deep down, you are grateful that she happened to be there: a casual catalyst to have conversation up and running again. You pretend you do not dislike the man in front of you.

He hums a little. “Her childlike innocence is seldom seen nowadays; it is a quality I have so wished to feel.” 

You turn to him, eyes narrowing in scepticism. “Never have I met someone with a childhood so terrible.”

His expression seems to tighten, almost as if he’s been caught. “That was not what I meant, I am merely enamoured and simply jealous at how people can still enjoy their youth. You feel that way, too, don’t you?”

You do not completely buy into his claim, yet you decide to play along. “What do you think?”

Another beat of silence.

“We must make haste,” he says.

“Indeed we must.”

To feel relieved or concerned at the lack of people at the Opera Epiclese is another question that looms like jeopardy trivia. Its perimeter is boarded by tape and identified with a bold AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY at its entrance. A peculiar stillness blankets Erinnyes, the previously flowing waters now arrested in their motion, the sight of a frozen fountain showing bright and iridescent in the setting sun.

The man next to you looks forward as if entranced, the reason for the fall of his expression unreadable. His gaze drops to yours and he snaps himself out of it. “Ladies first,” he says, extending his arm as a gesture of courtesy.

“I do not like that this is the first time you’ve shown me such courtesy in the context of such dire circumstances in which I could possibly die if the water thaws,” you jest offhandedly, but you do not think he takes it the same way. 

“Forgive me if I have insulted you, Madame. I did not think my actions through,” he starts, but you stop him with a tut before he can continue further.

“Yes, Monsieur. You have insulted me and you certainly did not think your actions through.” you shoot him a glare.

"Was that... a joke? I certainly have not the talent which some people possess of conversinf easily. I apologise."

You scoff and brush past him, and though you do not see it — you just have a feeling he won’t attempt to overtake you in the dominance of your stride. And he doesn’t.

The Fountain is now dripping as it melts, its opal waters catching itself in the crevices of the ground. It lulls you ever so slightly, at how it trickles with an inexplicable slowness, a second longer than that of normal water; a possible explanation for why the Fountain has not fully melted yet.

There is a puddle of the Primordial water in front of you, and a sudden desire to touch it surges through you; it is a strange longing, but it lures you in like a moth to a flame.  It wouldn't harm anyone to continue staring at it for a little bit, would it? You've always questioned if you were indeed Fontainian, and the solution to your dilemma is poised in front of you, pulling you toward it. 

“Just what do you think you’re doing?” The Iudex has his hand wrapped around your wrist, his gaze a warning. You do not know what has gotten into you — hell, you don’t even remember reaching for it. 

You wriggle your arm from his grasp. “Don’t think much of it.” You feel protectively at your hand up until the base. 

Neuvillette’s gaze lingers, before he soundlessly leaves your side. He makes his way to the other end of the Fountain of Lucine, where he examines it with such curiosity you begin to wonder what he finds intriguing about the rear end of a Fountain that appears uniform at every angle.

A shout sounds from you and reaches the man on the other side of the fountain. “So. Mister Chief Justice. What do you think we should do?" He seems just as entranced as you are, eyes not compensating to find yours as his lips move to find a response.

“I think I can possibly revert the waters to how they once were — store it deeper inside the Fountain,” as he speaks, he begins to advance in a return to your side.“But I can only work with bodies of water, not ice. So I need to request a favour from you.”

Unsure of where he is taking this, you reply with a diffident: “Sure.”

He is now standing in front of you (it is a little too close, however — so you shuffle backwards). “Could you… possibly — no, that wouldn’t work.” He stops midway, a wrinkle forming between his blond brows. What an awfully peculiar man he is, you think, eyeing the way he seems to be finding other words to phrase what he was to say better. You think he fails to do so when his slightly ajar mouth closes.

You would be a fraud to say you weren’t curious. “No. Tell me.”

“It was merely an afterthought, and I suppose now that you still wouldn’t be up for it if I told you, so I might as well. Is it possible for you to reverse your freezing of the ice? To revert it back to its liquid state, so to speak?"

Your eyes dart to your hands, and you bargain the sheer potential of your power; you are able to manipulate the waters into ice — this you know — but to revert ice to water? It is certainly not unheard of, and yet you would consider such a method to be unorthodox; nothing of the sort was ever taught in schools, let alone by tutors. A memory from your youth resurfaces, your father’s blaring, forceful voice a menacing exploitation of your power he so desperately wanted to possess.

Flair was a spectacle — a luxury; for flaunting your own strength resulted in punishment.

“I cannot promise you anything. Do not be so much as dejected when my attempts prove to be futile, Monsieur.”

With an interest piqued, he brings his eyes to level with yours. “There shall be no need to worry if it fails. I have another idea we could resort to.” Something in your intuition had you feeling he thought you wouldn’t agree. 

“Wouldn’t the water annihilate the both of us?”

His eyes shoot to the now dimming sky, not stealing a glance at the gloves he begins to adjust. “I will restrain the flow of water, you need not be concerned.”

You roll your shoulders back. “Well. Doesn’t hurt to try.”

Though he does not respond, he takes a step back, allowing you the full expanse of the Fountain. You wriggle and flex your fingers. Shouldn’t be too hard, you tell yourself. How difficult could it possibly be? If anything, it is just a test of your skill; where are the cameras? If they were to take photos of you, you would love it if they would right now. Or maybe they find it all too mundane. Downfall and drama is what they prey on, after all.

Your eyes flutter closed, and you begin to reach into the ice with everything within you, forcing it toward you with a tug so hard it has you winded. The autumn chill intensifies as the wind carries the ice like a vice. Of all the things you think of, you are reminded of your father’s distant coldness: an extinguisher of warmth (of which belonged to your mother). It is a bitter childhood memory — one of an empty seat at dinner tables and palpable fury. You can almost hear your father’s voice, distorted as all memories are (they all come perfect, uniform — and yet they leave like glass breaking off at the hands of an all-too-passionate lover).

Ice crawls up your arm, the numbness a factor you do not pay any attention to. You cannot deny that this does bring you an odd discomfort, for the discomfort you usually feel at the use of your Vision is a draining of energy to create; yet this is the first time you’ve ever been required to destroy. 

It slows your pulse, as ice does, and your eyes fight to shoot open at the idea of a slip of your consciousness. Yet you still pursue. Pulling harder this time, the oxygen in your lungs grows frigid and cut like knives against your ribcage. You attempt to channel more with pure instinct, but you cannot. There is nothing for you to reach.

With finality, you permit your eyes to flutter open, all the pain you should be feeling blurring into the foreground when greeted with a vista of bright blues and the billowing of the Iudex’s robes. Your arm instinctively lifts to shield yourself from the roaring wind.

A halo of azure hues encircle his wrists, lacing through his hair. The water remains frozen, but it is not from the ice that you hold dear, and instead it is from his outstretched hands, twisting against the tide in attempts to turn back time against the current.

You stagger backwards, and yet you miraculously feel grounded in place, a paradox of numbness and pain you wish not to acknowledge. The seal he begins to place against the water ripples through the air like a soundwave, stripping you of any hearing and in its absence is replaced by a constant ringing. 

Neuvillette drops his arm, the suspended droplets of water following suit, crushed under the weight of his command. Everything seems to snap into motion the second the Fountain stills, a single wave of harsh wind fluttering through Erinnyes, the familiar rattle of trees swaying teasing at your ears.

Something about the whole spectacle seems like a fantasy, those of which you hear about in fables and folklore. 

“Bravo,” you muse, noticing the way his shoulders sag.

The Chief Justice looks over his shoulder, slate eyes morphing into wide ones as he takes in your frame. “My, you’re awfully pale.”

You flash him a tired smile. “Nothing I can’t handle. And no, I am not pale — this is an insult. I am perfectly sunkissed, so much so that every man and woman desires me or desires to be me.” You wave him away, your hand limp in its action.

The Iudex’s face only deepens in distress. You do not give him room to speak. “Why the long face hm? Surely you don’t think so lowly of me. Surely you…” Weights weigh in on your eyelids, and your knees buckle. An attempt to balance yourself with your other foot fails, and instead of meeting hard cement the warmth of an unwanted embrace greets you. 

“(Name),” he mutters. Your name rolls off his tongue like a curse; ludicrous. “You’re bleeding.”

Instinctively you use his arms as leverage. “I am fine, Monsieur. I am no princess in need of saving — oh! Nevermind, you are right,” you slur, a hand you never realised was on your hip coming away red. A drunk smile flickers on your features for a brief moment before you slump again into his arms.

He stumbles backwards at the suddenness of your movement, but his grip is firm. “You are unfit for a trip back to the city. I must escort you.” His breath brushes against the nape of your neck. 

You push him away. “Do not treat me as if I’m a child, young man. I can manage myself, I am a grown woman and I am employed. That says something, doesn’t it?” Defensively, you point at yourself to prove that you are not injured. Your claim contradicts itself; your sight begins to fail, blurred by growing black spots dotting your vision.

“Madame, please. You have over-exerted yourself.”

The Iudex’s voice comes as a muffled blur, and you attempt to take a step forward — but it is limp and miscalculated. Neuvillette's gaze briefly falls to your hands, his touch supporting you with one hand on your back and the other delicately grasping your fingers. “Goodness. Your hands are cold.” Sapphire peeks through the ice, the engagement ring a cruel reminder of the tie that binds you both.

You manage a whisper. “Not entirely. Just the palm.” You wiggle your fingers slightly, albeit with great effort. 

“Please, refrain from speaking,” he implores gently, a hint of concern laced in his voice. “It is imperative that I help you back home, so forgive me if my hold happens to be a little rough.” Before you can cry out in protest, he scoops you up, arms sliding under your inner knees and upper back. Platinum strands fall against your chest, his own rising and falling peculiarly slow. You can still make out a frown that pulls on his lips, and you almost smile at the notion that you’re the reason for his agony.

How sightly.

Your arms naturally curl around the groove of his neck. “I’ll hate you for this. Up until I am brought to my grave.”

“I believe your disdain for me would be far greater had I abandoned you,” he says plainly, no hint of jest in his tone. He adjusts his hold of you, and you slide further down into his grasp, now sandwiched between his arms and chest; you do not make any alarm of it, however, thoughts trailing to your fluffed mattress and plush pillows.

“My disdain for you is already much too cruel for a soul to comprehend,” you garble, a wisp of your misty white breath escaping as a plume.

"As it is for me," he breathes out, but you cannot read his lips.

Pointing blindly in a direction you assume is north, you declare: “Well then; if you don’t have any objections, to my apartment it is."

a/n: spot the subtle pride n prejudice reference I put for fun teehee

taglist : @sek0ya, @souxiesun

[wanderingcritter]

Just in case anyone still has any doubts that the "anti-therian packers" argument is at least partially based in transphobia, this is a real, dead serious statement one of my (ex) mutuals made about why minors potentially having access to species affirming gear is wrong.

Like.

I legit don't even know what to say. This is genuinely so upsetting and concerning to hear from someone with a platform in a community meant to be accepting towards all types of individuals.

Not only is this a super inaccurate and invalidating way to think about nonhuman/transspecies identities, but it's also blatantly anti-transgender rhetoric. Replace the word "transspecies" with "transgender", and you have lines straight out of a speech given by a conservative politician about why queer books need to be banned in schools. The fact that they knew what they were saying was similar enough to transphobia that it was going to catch my attention is even more concerning, because it shows that they are capable of recognizing the similarities in their mindset but are simply choosing to ignore it.

I was a transspecies child. I knew there was something innately canine about me years before I even began to question my gender or sexuality. And I wish I had had the language to describe what it was that I was experiencing, instead of thinking I was going crazy for not feeling human.

Mark my damn words, we are going to start seeing a LOT more of this kind of thinking in the next few years (probably even months) and it's only going to get more aggressive, so if I were you guys I'd start putting petty differences aside and start banding the fuck together to help each other and our transgender human friends and family out.

[feminismisstillahatemovement]

If you are not a close follower of American college campus politics, you are likely to be unfamiliar with a woman who has been making headlines for over a month in the US and increasingly around the world. The lady in question, one Claudine Gay, was President of Harvard, one of the most renowned educational institutions in the world, until earlier this week when she resigned over plagiarism allegations.

Why does or should anyone care about this? Well, Gay’s decision to step down is the culmination of long-running efforts to address the cancer at the heart of Western societies: the idea that the way to fix injustices of the past is to commit injustices today.

Following her resignation, Gay’s defenders were quick to emphasise the racial dimension of this story. Ibram X. Kendi, for example, tweeted that “Racist mobs won’t stop until they topple all Black people from positions of power and influence who are not reinforcing the structure of racism”.

And while his claims of this being a racist campaign are absurd, it is true that Gay was not targeted solely for seemingly adopting the personal motto: “I came, I saw, I copied”. She became a focus of major Harvard donor concerns and a media campaign led by Christopher Rufo – a man I would approvingly describe as the diversity industry’s greatest enemy – in the light of her mind-boggling testimony in Congress. Her statements, given alongside the Presidents of MIT and UPenn, revealed the core of the ideology the entire Western education system is based on in all its glory.

The oppressor vs. oppressed mindset which is - no matter how uncomfortable this may make some readers - cultural Marxism, says simply that white people and “over-performing” minorities like Indians, Jews, Chinese, Japanese and Korean Americans should be discriminated against in hiring and student applications in favour of “underprivileged groups”. As a result, college campuses on which regular meltdowns have occurred for a decade over such “hate speech” as dressing in a Mexican costume for Halloween found themselves with nothing to say about pro-Hamas demonstrations and the harassment of Jewish students on their campuses in the wake of the October 7 attacks.

But even that is not painting the full picture. Yes, Gay, a darling of the diversity industry, was targeted for her plagiarism following her complete failure of leadership in recent months. But she was also partially targeted because of the assumption, if not outright conclusion, that the reason she was appointed in the first place was, to put it mildly, not merit alone.

After all, Gay’s primary achievement is not stellar academic work, exemplary managerial skills or even charisma and force of personality. She was appointed President of Harvard following a distinguished career in fields like “improving diversity” and researching “race and identity”. To put it bluntly, many people believe that she is a diversity hire and the reason she pushed the DEI ideology that eventually led to her appalling testimony in Congress is that she is herself a beneficiary of it.

To be clear, she has not been forced out for being black. She has been forced out for being placed in a position for which she had neither the skills nor experience to succeed and then failing in it. This is the rotten legacy of affirmative action, which, as Thomas Sowell explained decades ago in 90 seconds and in many of his books since, hurts the very people it is attempting to help:

If allowing students to enter universities in which they are destined to fail for the sake of diversity harms them, then what might be said about hiring people for leadership roles in major institutions in which they are destined to fail? This harms not only them but also the people who work and study at those institutions.

To be clear, I have no evidence that Claudine Gay was hired ahead of better, more qualified candidates. But it is not hard to imagine that a position holding the prestige, reputation and nearly $1-million-a-year salary the role of Harvard President commands could have been filled by someone with more executive experience, academic achievements and other relevant expertise.

This is the other curse of the counterproductive attempts to artificially increase the presence of “underrepresented” groups in employment and education. Because everyone knows that some people are routinely given unfair preferential treatment, it becomes easier and easier for the rest of us to suspect specific individuals of being there for reasons other than merit.

So here is the truth: we must return to pursuing the goal of a colour-blind society immediately. There is no such thing as positive discrimination. All discrimination is wrong. And because it is wrong, it will create precisely the kind of resentment that Claudine Gay is now facing. She is seen as the standard-bearer of the DEI industry and is being treated as such by people who have had enough.

All of us must be treated on the content of our character. When we refuse to follow this principle, we hurt everyone: white, black, hispanic, Asian, Jewish. A healthy society relies on the equal treatment of all individuals. The fact that we have to say this out loud in 2024 is a sign of how far we’ve fallen.

DEI must be dismantled. This will take years, perhaps decades. But, in recent weeks, for the first time in a long time, we have grounds for optimism.

[umbracirrus]

WIP Wednesday!! 💛

I have an on time WIP this week, and not one posted three days late! And I'm even posting this in the morning, as opposed to some point in the afternoon/evening! 😅

Here is a snippet from the next chapter of The Perfect Storm, where the Idiots Who Are Totally Not Pining™️ have a quiet, early morning moment together. It's also Elyse's birthday, but he doesn't know that... yet.

Tagged by @hircines-hunter, tagging @thequeenofthewinter, @skyrim-forever, and anyone who wants to share a WIP 💛

-----

It was a rare occasion that Balgruuf would see Elyse up and about so early in the morning in Dragonsreach. He had noted that she would often sleep in until later in the morning, but it wasn't common at all for her to be awake before the sun had barely just started to rise.

She was sat over a mug of tea at one of the long tables near to his throne, silently eating what he could only presume was a partially stale muffin from the day before, no doubt grabbed by her whenever she got there because the kitchen staff were barely just awake themselves. She looked tired, as though she didn’t really want to be awake at that time but was forcing herself to be. If that were the case… it was certainly a sentiment which he shared. He slept so lightly as of late it took almost nothing to wake him up, the sound of a guard on patrol in the vicinity of his room rousing him from sleep that morning, and the knowledge of a packed agenda which made him get up and move.

Perhaps he really should begin considering what he had been told time and time again about a door for his room.

Silently, he made his way into the kitchens and picked himself up the last of the muffins from the day before which were still set out, knowing it would still be some time before anything substantial would be available to eat – likely about the time in which his children would be up and about. He then returned to the main hall, and took a seat beside Elyse.

“You’re awake early.”

A quiet mumble which affirmed his statement came from the Dragonborn, accompanied by the sound of her stifling a yawn with the back of her hand. “Unfortunately…” She then straightened her back and stretched her arms out before her, before letting her hands fall down onto the table before her and moving her hand slightly towards the pot near her half-empty mug. “Help yourself to some of the tea if you want any.”

“I’d have to get myself a mug, but if you’re offering…” He stood back up for a moment as he went into the kitchen, only realising just now that his mouth didn’t half feel dry. When he returned, he poured himself some of the tea and went to take a sip.

He was completely taken aback by the sickening sweetness of honey which took over his tastebuds, though had to do his best not to spit it out so as to not come across as rude because she hadn’t needed to offer him any in the first place. Her fondness for anything sugary that he had experienced at the festival at the end of last year appeared to have not been a one-off occasion.

“By the Divines, that is sweet-“ He winced for a moment as he waited for the taste in his mouth to subside. “Perhaps a bit too sweet for my liking, so apologies. You can drink this?”

Elyse chuckled quietly to herself. “I don’t normally have it this sweet… but added some extra honey as a treat for today.”

“And you added the honey directly to the pot? Not to the tea once you poured it?”

“Balgruuf. I’m half asleep. Do you really think that I’m thinking clearly at this point in the morning?”

[olderthannetfic]

A question regarding this ask: https://olderthannetfic.tumblr.com/post/745442144318259200/so-have-you-seen-the-new-changes-patreon-pushes

I know the ask is specifically about Patreon's changes regarding NSFW stuff and I admittedly haven't looked at the changes myself, but the phrasing "creators demonstrate consent in all works between adult participants or characters" sounds to me like it could just as well endanger SFW stuff on Patreon. Maybe it's just my brain being funky sometimes, but I'm imagining a piece of SFW art that's just supposed to be cute or funny and is meant to be completely non-sexual, depicting a couple that's asleep and cuddling in a spooning position. Now, since the characters are asleep, and since people who are asleep cannot in that very moment give a "specific, informed, unambiguous indication of consent by a statement or by a clear affirmative action" due to being unconscious, could that mean it potentially wouldn't be allowed unless it's just one panel in a comic with previous panels showing the couple first getting into bed and giving clear affirmative actions and/or unambiguous spoken consent?

I just feel like the phrasing is very vague... I may just be misinterpreting things though.

Looked at the community guidelines (in german) now, and apparently it's specific to 18+ stuff (I think?). So now I'm wondering what if that picture described above was NSFW, like showing through visual cues that the couple had just had sex and they've fallen asleep together, as in the couple is depicted partially naked (but not explicitly shown), they're under a blanket and the big spoon is cupping the breast of the small spoon, and on the nightstand there's an open condom package, and they have some indicator that they're asleep above them like speech bubbles that say "zzz..." or something. Since they're asleep, they cannot consent through statement or conscious action, so the breast being cupped or the general situation may lead to the art be taken down if someone decides to be a dick and reports it, due to no totally unambiguous clear consent being given, even if the artist and their patrons know and understand it to be.

I'm probably being silly here and probably overlooked a shitton of obvious things, but I still feel like the phrasing is a bit too vague and isn't as unambiguous as Patreon and its creators are hoping, and may really fuck over some creators...

I've never used patreon as a creator or a patron, only sometimes downloaded public free Sims CC and posepacks by other simmers, but I know for example of a Sims 4 fan who creates or used to create sexual poses/posepacks for adult sim couples and published them for free public download on Patreon, and I'm also wondering how that will/would affect them.

--

Based on Patreon's past behavior, what I expect is unequal enforcement where they use the new rule to selectively go after porn peddlers they find distasteful.

[abdullahblogsposts]

I have some confusion regarding women's hijab.(I don't have much knowledge about it.)

According to:

Hanafi Fiqh: It is recommended for women to cover their entire body, except for the face and hands.

Maliki Fiqh: Similar to the Hanafi school, women are advised to cover their entire body, with some interpretations suggesting that covering the face is also part of this obligation.

Shafi'i Fiqh: Women are required to cover their bodies, including the hair and neck, when in the presence of non-mahram men. The face and hands are generally considered permissible to expose.

Hanbali Fiqh: This school emphasizes the obligation for women to wear a full hijab, including covering the face.

So here my question is: Is it obligatory to cover the face and hands for elder cousins or older relatives who frequently visit?

and how much hijab is required in their presence? should we maintain full hijab, or can we leave our faces and hands uncovered?

The Prophet (ﷺ) said:

“The woman is ‘awrah.”

[Narrated by Al-Tirmidhi with a sahīh isnād]

Imām Ahmad commented on this hadīth,

“This includes all of the woman.”

[Sharh al-‘Umdah, 4/267-268]

Shaykh Sulaymān Al-‘Alwān said:

“The Sahābah unanimously agreed upon the obligation of covering the face (for a woman), but rather the differences (of opinion) occurred afterwards.”

Shaykh Sulaymān al-'Alwān also said:

“The 4 Imāms are in agreement regarding the obligation of covering a woman's face...”

Also!!

①A Note On The Ruling On Islamic Ḥijāb According To The Four Imāms [Al-Ṭarīfī]

❝ From the mistakes ⌜on this topic⌝ is attributing the three Imāms — Abū Hanīfah, Mālik and Al-Shāfi’ī — of permitting a woman to reveal her face. (In those statement) the three Imāms did not mention uncovering the face in itself, rather they talked about its requirement connected to a ruling: such as in prayer, in iḥrām and in ⌜the case of⌝ ẓihar. So they (who attribute the Imāms falsely) take a text out of its context, giving it a new meaning.

The quotes that are erroneously attributed to Abū Hanīfah, Mālik, and al-Shāfi’ī regarding a woman uncovering her face are not (totally) forged, but they are ⌜originally⌝ the sayings of the Jurists from ⌜the schools of⌝ Shāfi’iyyah, Mālikiyyah, and Ḥanafiyyah — not the Imāms themselves.

The Shāfi'ī jurist, Al-Mūzi'ī said: “The Imāms like Mālik, Al-Shāfi'ī and Abū Ḥanīfah, did not talk ⌜on this topic⌝ except regarding the 'awrah⁽¹⁾ during prayers.”

I (i.e. Al-Ṭarīfī) have read the general books of Mālik, Al-Shāfi’ī, and Abū Ḥanīfah and their juristic matters (masāil), and I have not seen an explicit statement by them that permits uncovering the face. Rather, what is proven is them affirming it. As for their followers then yes (opposing views are found.)

In Al-Umm, Al-Shāfi'ī said: “...If she makes ṭawāf during the day, she is to do it while pulling down her garment over her face.” There by, while it is forbidden for a woman in iḥrām to cover her face, he waives the prohibition because the obligation of ḥijāb is definite.

The three imāms while talking about the prayer, says regarding women: “All of them are ‘awrah, except for her face and hands.” From the partial phrases ⌜used in this topic⌝, this is that which is used the most. Verily this is ⌜regarding⌝ the ḥijāb during the prayer, and not the ḥijāb of woman ⌜in general.⌝

In Al-Mudawwinah, Mālik said: “...⌜while⌝ even others can look at her face...”. Verily this ⌜statement⌝ was regarding the matter of Ẓihar. And its meaning is that: ẓihar does not make her (the wife) forbidden to be seen by those who were allowed before it. Rather her marriage persists, him being allowed to see her, as well as others who were allowed to see her before it.

Attaching the ruling of forbiddance of the niqāb for the woman in iḥrām to the chapter on "the ruling of ḥijāb" is like attaching the forbiddance of pants for the man in iḥrām (to men outside iḥrām). Because these are the prohibitions ⌜specific⌝ to Iḥrām, not the aḥkām (rulings) of ḥijāb and clothing. =

②The Ṣaḥābiyyāt (female companions) and tābi'iyyāt (followers) used to cover their faces in front of men, even during Ḥajj. ‘Āishah was asked: “How does a woman veil (with head cover) her face?” So she took the end of her veil (khimār) and covered her face with it.” This report is authentic, narrated by Musaddad [bin Musarhad] in his Musnad.⁽²⁾

Imām Mālik waives the obligatory fidyah (penalty), for a woman in iḥrām who covered her face due to the presence of men, and ⌜it is know that⌝ the fidyah is not waived for a permissible act (i.e. not obligatory) ⌜which are done⌝ by choice, because the fidyah is obligatory...” Al-Bayan 13/4

The error in attributing the permissibility of uncovering the face to the three imāms is not in the base of the matter. Al-Mūzi'ī Al-Shāfi'ī said: “I do not think that any of the four imams allowed a young woman to uncover her face without a necessity.”

Al-Mūzi'ī Al-Shāfi'ī said in Aḥkām Al-Qurān: “People have always practiced this, in the past and in modern times, in all (Islāmic) regions. So they tolerate the old woman in uncovering her face and do not tolerate the young woman, and they see it as 'awrah and (revealing it as) reprehensible. The aspect of combining the two verses (i.e. from his previous explanations) has become clear to you, as well as the error of those who permitted looking at a woman’s face without a necessity. And the predecessors (salaf) and Imāms such as Mālik, Al-Shāfi'ī, Abū Ḥanīfah and others did not talk ⌜on this topic⌝ except regarding the 'awrah pertaining to prayer. Al-Shāfi'ī and Mālik said: “Except for the face and the hands” and I do not think that any of them permitted a young woman to uncover her face without necessity. Nor is a young man allowed to look at her without necessity.” — Aḥkām Al-Qurān (2/1002)

It is inferred from the ḥadīth of the ⌜young woman from the tribe of⌝ Al-Khath‘amiy, that it is permissible to uncover the face. It was authentically reported in the Musnad on the authority of Ibn 'Abbās that her father came to offer her to the Prophet ﷺ for marriage, and revealing ⌜the face⌝ for this is permissible, so Al-Faḍl turned away and stayed...” —Narrated by Abū Ya’lā with an authentic chain of narrators.⁽³⁾

As for the ḥadīth: “When a woman reaches menstruation, it is not correct to reveal from her except her face and her hands.” The ḥadīth was narrated by Khālid bin Durayk from ‘Āishah, and he did not hear (ḥadīth narrations, directly) from her, so it is disconnected... Abū Dāwūd weakened it and Al-Bayhaqī and others.⁽⁴⁾ Then again, it was regarding the clothing of prayer not about ḥijāb.

And in the end: Here are the books of the four Imāms: Mālik, Abū Ḥanīfah, Al-Shāfi'ī, and Aḥmad amidst our hands. There is no text in them that permits the uncovering of a woman’s face. And whoever stops at it, let him benefit ⌜from this summary⌝, and the saying of their students, is not a saying attributing to them. ❞

— ‘Abdul ‘Azīz Al-Ṭarīfī

--------------------------

[1] That which should be covered as intimate parts.

[2] See, ibn ‘Abdul Barr "Al-Istidhkār" (4/25)

[3] Also, ibn Ḥajar cited it in Fatḥ Al-Bārī (4/80) and he said: “Narrated by Abū Ya'lā, with a strong chain, from the path of Sa‘īd bin Jubayr, from Ibn ‘Abbās from Al-Faḍl bin ‘Abbās.”

[4] See, Abū Dāwūd (4104) and his subsequent comment.

+You should maintain a full Hijāb in their presence!!

And Allāh knows best!!

[practically-an-x-man]

Prompt:

"It's days like this that make me wish I had stayed in bed."

Hm... there are a few different characters who could fit this sort of angst, but I'm gonna go with Quinn for this one

____ Out to Lunch

Word Count: 2.0k Content Warnings: mentions of chronic pain, hurt/comfort, swearing

____

Quinn winced as she took another step down the street, leaning heavily on her crutches. She'd been walking too long, with too little a break, and she knew it. Partially it was the weather, too - wanting to rain but not quite summoning the moisture for it, which just left everything uncomfortably muggy and sent her joints into hysterics.

"Alright, love?" Billy asked from beside her, a crease pulling between his brows in concern. Quinn shrugged, not quite an affirmative.

"I've had worse."

It was true, but she was in a lot of pain regardless. Each step brought shooting agony up her legs, and her spine felt like the Leaning Tower of Pisa- which was to say, crumbling architecture at a very unpleasant tilt. She'd surpassed her daily quota of physical exertion at least an hour ago, and now she was paying the price for it.

"Dunno why One picked us for the fuckin' supply run," Billy muttered, Quinn's pain bleeding into him in the form of annoyance.

"Probably 'cause I pissed him off at that last briefing."

"Ugh. Dick."

"It'd have been done an hour ago if he'd sent someone else, too." Quinn pointed out, "And 'e knows it. It's a punishment that doesn't look like a punishment."

"I repeat my earlier statement. Dick." Billy huffed. He tossed his head, even as his eyes roved the storefronts and pedestrians they passed along the street.

Almost unconsciously, like a bell had chimed in their head, Quinn spotted a potential target. Their fingers slipped easily into the man's pocket, drawing out a thick wallet and tucking it into the sleeve of their jacket without so much as a heartbeat's pause.

"Not bad, Q." Billy murmured, hardly loud enough to be heard, "I saw that one too."

"Practically daring me to take it," Quinn agreed, pausing to adjust their crutches and using the motion to slip the wallet into a hidden pocket in her jacket. The weight of it was oddly comforting, the success even more so. Even on one of her worse days, her fingers were quick and confident. The pedestrian hadn't even spared her a glance. She'd never lost her skill.

A moment or two later, Billy's pace quickened as an idea struck him. They'd always found that awfully cute, the way they could read his thoughts in his movements like that. He turned to face them, walking backwards a few steps so they could see his smile. His green eyes shone in the sunlight.

"There's a good Greek place down the street," he said, "Can I take you to lunch?"

"I'd love tha-"

She took another step, but her crutch caught on an uneven sidewalk panel. She lurched forward at one, momentum twisting her body in an awkward way. Billy's eyes flashed with surprise, and he surged forward to catch her before she could topple. He moved quickly - quickly enough that she didn't go down - and briskly steered her into the nearest alleyway to look her over. His hands lingered on their waist, a firm grip that kept them from curling in on themself.

"Q?"

For a few long moments, she was in too much pain to speak. Their breath came in sharp gasps, and fire arced up and down their body in artillery bursts. Every muscle in their body locked up, like they'd been shocked with a bolt of electricity.

"Love?" Billy tried again, one warm hand pressed to her waist to keep her upright, "Talk to me, Aces."

"Fine." she managed, leaning her weight against the brick wall behind her to try and get the strain off her legs. She exhaled a tremulous breath, trying to pull herself together. Pain had scattered her thoughts like dandelion seeds to the breeze. She couldn't remember what they'd been talking about before.

"How can I help?" Billy asked, speaking fast. She could see the adrenaline wrought into his posture. His hands stayed steady on their waist, but one foot tapped restlessly against the sidewalk. He was a mover. He needed something to do.

Quinn shook their head.

"Just... hang on," they mumbled, face twisted in agony, "Holy shit that hurts. Fuck, man. It's days like this that make me wish I'd stayed in bed."

"Wanna take lunch to go, then? Head back?"

She grit her teeth. No, she wanted to sit down and enjoy a nice, private meal with her lover while she had the chance. Because she hardly ever had the chance. They never went into town like this. Either they were off on missions, or One forbid them showing their faces in public, or Quinn was simply in too much pain to consider so much time on her feet.

She wanted to take this chance to act like a normal couple. At least... semi-normal.

But she doubted crying into her souvlaki would go over well.

Billy saw the answer on her face before she said a word.

"Alright, uh, just hang here for a minute." he said, his hands finally drawing back from their waist, "I'll pick us up some food. What do you want?"

"I- I dunno," Quinn muttered. They were in too much pain to have an appetite, at least for the moment. That crease reappeared between Billy's eyebrows, but he nodded.

"Alright, I'll pick something for ya," he promised, then leaned in to peck her on the cheek, "Stay here, yeah?"

Quinn nodded, the action still tight with pain. Billy hesitated just another moment, his eyes flicking up and down her figure, and then he disappeared into the crowd.

And she waited.

Nobody spared her so much as a second glance. That was big cities for you - people saw a six-foot-three pink-haired punk propped up in an alley and weeping, yet they didn't even bat an eye. There was only one person who ever had, Quinn thought. Billy. Years ago. He'd found her in an alley a lot like this. He'd picked her up from the gutter, long before all of this.

For whatever reason, it was that thought that sent the tears falling.

They'd never wished for a normal life. That all sounded hopelessly dull, repetition into madness. For the most part, they very much enjoyed the life they had, all its excitement and risk.

But once in a while, they just wished they could have a normal day. Not a normal life- just a normal day. Twenty-four hours where they could go out to lunch, where their supply runs were for groceries instead of explosives, where they could hold Billy's hand instead of gripping their crutches.

Twenty-four hours where it didn't hurt to walk down the street.

Billy had to be so sick of this.

She wasn't the person he'd once known. They used to claim the rooftops together, all hairpin turns and leaps so daring it felt like flight. Now... here she stood. Leaned against a building like a coat rack with a broken stand, drowning in pain. She'd never be able to keep up with him again. Not like she used to. There would be thousands more days like this, and he'd be stuck taking care of her.

It was unfair in so many ways. He'd never complained, not once, but she knew that things were different. They could never go back to the way things were.

Did he really want to spend the rest of his life doing this? Changing plans with no warning, forced to surrender his rare chances at a normal afternoon, devoting his already-limited free time to taking care of her instead of doing something he wanted to do?

"Whoa, hey, you alright?" Billy's voice, shockingly tender, startled them out of their thoughts, "Need me to call Five?"

"No, ah-" Quinn started, shaking their head and swiping one hand across their eyes, "I just... need to get off my feet."

"Alright." Billy said, but didn't move right away. Instead he rustled through the bag of food, coming up with a Styrofoam container and flipping it open, "Loukoumade for the road?"

"Loukoumas," Quinn corrected, plucking one of the fried dough balls from the box and popping it into her mouth. Billy took one for himself, then closed up the box and tucked it back into the bag.

The walk back to the car was shockingly quiet. On Quinn's end, the pain sparked back to life the instant she started to move, and she was mostly focused on just keeping her steps steady. She wasn't quite sure what had Billy so quiet. Maybe he was still concerned for her.

Or maybe he's annoyed, her brain chimed in, Maybe he's not speaking because the restaurant was nice and he wanted to sit down, and instead you're making him eat his lunch in an old, sandy trailer in the middle of the desert.

They reached the car in near-silence. Billy held the door open for her, acting the part of a perfect gentleman. He set the food and Quinn's crutches in the backseat, then slid into the driver's seat.

He didn't drive. He just looked at her, fixing her with eyes the color of springtime. A moment later, his hand snuck over to rest on her knee.

"You sure you're okay, Q?"

"Aren't you tired of it?" they blurted, unable to hold the words down. Billy tilted his head.

"Tired of... what?"

"Just... all of this. The canceled plans. The fact that I can't keep up anymore. Just... dealing with me."

Billy opened his mouth and closed it a few times. He looked more confused than anything else.

"C'mon, love, you know I don't care." he finally said, speaking fast but with total earnestness in his voice, "Besides, they're not canceled plans, they're just... adjusted. And I'd rather have lunch back at the Graveyard where you're comfortable than cooped up in some stuffy Greek place. The hostess was glarin' at me anyway. They'd've gotten sick of us in there. And I've got that soda you like back in my trailer, too. The cherry kind. And booze. Don't forget the booze."

"You know I don't just mean lunch." Quinn pointed out, "I mean all of it."

"I know. And I'm tellin' you I don't care. We've been through this, Q. A dozen fuckin' times. Have I ever told you anything different than I'm telling you right now?"

"Well- no. I guess not."

"So wouldja just trust me on this?" he huffed, looking a little annoyed even as his eyes sparked with thinly-veiled concern. Irritation was easier than worry, they both knew that much. Neither of them had ever been the soft type. "I mean, hell, it's not like I'm just gonna wake up one morning and decide I'm done with you. We've made it this far, innit? I'm stickin' with you."

He squeezed her knee, his grip just firm enough to be comforting.

"It just... doesn't feel fair." Quinn sighed. It didn't, and it never would. She'd never be able to do enough to match the care he offered her. Even in this, she couldn't keep up.

"I mean, I'm the reason you've got to deal with One. I brought you into this whole mess." Billy shot back, a faint glimmer of humor shining through the words, "We're totally even. Hey- our food's gonna get cold. S'it alright if I start driving?"

"Yeah. Go ahead."

But he paused an extra moment, and stretched across the center console to steal a kiss. Quinn couldn't help but melt against him, emotions be damned.

"Hey, I love you, Q," Billy said as he pulled back, then shot them a broad and almost laughing grin, "Busted-up body or not."

It startled a laugh out of them, and Billy's grin widened for a moment. He dropped back into his seat and started the car, all heavier emotion cast aside just like that. Quinn tossed theirs out along with it. There was no point dwelling on it. Not with this, at least. Billy was right - they'd been through this a dozen times if not more, and he always said the same thing. He always stayed rooted to her, not faltering for even a heartbeat.

She'd never met a person quite as loyal as him.

[moony-books]

── ❝ shifting realities ❞

What is reality shifting? 🖋️

Reality shifting is a term used to describe us, shifters, moving our consciousness to another reality. For example: I am in this reality right now (this is my CR - current reality) and I have made my script here. I am not creating the reality but instead I am just specifying which (already existing) reality I want to go to. Think of your script as a search bar. You are searching for a reality you want to go to! Idk if that makes any sense!?

Another explanation:

Reality shifting is a term that refers to the spiritual practice of "transferring" or "shifting" one's consciousness to an alternate reality, and/or the attempt to alter the reality one is experiencing and transcending one's physical confines to visit alternate universes.

Methods 🪶

There are many methods of reality shifting. They include, but are not limited to, relaxation, visualization, manifestation, affirmations. These methods are considered to be similar to meditation and self-hypnosis. Nicole Hernandez, a hypnotist stated that "...shifting essentially taps into two techniques: lucid dreaming, associated with REM sleep, the fourth stage of the sleep cycle before waking up, and self-hypnosis, which shifters have rebranded into different methods." Although each method is a little different, they all involve the individual having intent, being relaxed, affirming oneself, and visualizing their desired reality, (DR.)

Scripting 📜

I know how writing a shifting script can be difficult, especially if you start from scratch. But with the right tools and instructions, it can get pretty simple and fun. So...Before we start, let’s go over some basic scripting terminology:

Dr : Desired reality 🗞️

Cr : Current reality 📜

Affirmations : positive statements that can help you get rid of a negative mindset and help you on your journey to change 🪶

Oh, and for all of you asking “Can you script on your phone for shifting?”, yes you can.

I recommend Amino app, Lifa App and notion!

No, it is not necessary to write a script in order to shift to your desired reality. Many people have shifted into their desired realities without writing a script. However, if you’re having trouble with shifting realities, incorporating a script into your shifting routine helps a lot. Writing a script can help you shift for the first time!

You write about yourself, your goals, and the people you know, among other things! Some argue that having a script is unnecessary because your subconscious knows what you want, which is partially correct. Most people I’ve read and watched who have successfully shifted, on the other hand, almost always recommend having a script. This is , it helps you by being crystal clear about where you want to shift, what you want, and what you don’t want in your desired reality.

Even if your subconscious already knows what you want, writing a script allows you to concretely define in words what you want to happen in your desired reality.

── source 🗞️

[walterdecourceys]

what do you mean official member of the church? why do you have to be in the church? if theyre saying all of that then why even go? whos making you?

okay i'm done sorting through books i can answer this now. for clarity's sake: the christian reformed church (crc) is a christian denomination that the church i attend is (at time of writing) part of. i'm a professing member of my church's congregation, which in simple terms means last december i sat down with my pastor and the church council and talked about my belief in god and they decided i had a complete and mature enough understanding of my faith to become an actual member of the church. so now i'm understood to be like, an actual active member of this particular faith community, rather than just going because my parents go or what have you, and i can do things like vote on church council decisions. it's very scary i don't know how i ended up in this position but i'm told it was a good profession of faith so i guess i did something right

following the decision by the crc a lot of lgbt-affirming churches that were previously part of the denomination have decided to split from it. this is all very typical church politics to be honest protestant churches split like it's their fucking job. it is likely that my church will also split from the denomination, because if they don't they will probably lose a good portion of their members, but they've never made an explicit statement either way regarding same-sex relationships and there's also some very staunch conservatives in my church so it's going to be kind of dicey either way. we'll find out! it's going to be fun and not at all awkward and distressing. thumbsupemoji

as for "who's making me," i mean, like.. i'm partially going because i live with my parents and it means a lot to them that i go, but also, like. i've been in this church my whole life and regardless of how my personal religious beliefs currently stand, the place and the community still mean a lot to me. and seeing as i'm now a professing member i do feel a certain obligation to actually participate in the life of the church. i have a lot of complicated feelings on attending church and christianity as a whole that are absolutely not your business but it still is kind of my choice to keep coming back. um so hopefully that answers your question

[thevibraniumveterans]

STAR WARS — The Acolyte

EP 2 — Revenge / Justice

MAIN THOUGHTS:

Another great episode

More conflicting feelings

Great action in unarmed combat

(Spoilers in my notes below)

- On the planet of Olega is a local Jedi Temple.

- Mae pays that Temple a visit, and greets Master Torbin. How does she know him? Unless she was also once a Jedi, who was turned.

- She greets him the exact same way she greeted Indara, and issues a challenge. She charges, but is repelled by an invisible Force-field, pun intended. Torbin does not budge. Mae tries using her daggers, but does not succeed either.

- A Jedi Master enters the room upon news of a break-in, but leaves after seeing nothing.

- TITLE CARD!

- On the Jedi’s ship, Osha wakes to see Jecki troubleshooting the machine, and offers advice, The issue is resolved, and Sol walks in.

- Yord is still unconvinced that Osha did not kill Indara, but thinks that Osha and Mae might be in cahoots simply because they are twins. Sol reminds him to not let fear cloud his judgement.

- Sol comms Vern, who is “inclined to agree” that Osha did not kill Indara but that Mae did. Vern adds that someone looking like Osha (again, could be Mae, but we know it is) broke into a Jedi Temple. And it could NOT have been Osha because Osha has been in custody of Sol, Jecki, and Yord, all of whom have been watching over Osha. Vern points this out in fewer words, leaving only one suspect. Sol is given permission to take Osha to investigate this break-in.

- Yord calls Osha a “prisoner” but Sol refers to her by name. That’s telling of how differently they view the same person.

- On Olega. Mae walks through the town square, a market of sorts. She hardly stands out, and that’s maybe the point.

- She arrives in a shop and asks for Qimir (pronounced kai-meer). He is asleep in a corner, so she wakes him up and requests he make a poison for her. She says she has three more Jedi to kill, Torbin being the first of those three.

- Qimir states, “The Jedi justify their galactic dominance in the name of peace.” (One could clearly see this statement through a political lens, if they so chose to.)

- Back on the Jedi’s ship, Osha tries to sync her PIP droid with the ship, and Sol asks about her tattoo, then gets to the point, asking, “Do you believe that Mae is behind India’s murder?” Osha responds with the affirmative, because through deductive reasoning (Mae is Osha’s twin, and Osha could NOT have been anywhere near where Mae was when Indara was slain), that was “the only way to explain” this mystery. Osha does not know how Mae survived, also having last thought her dead.

- Ever humble, Sol still carries some guilt, telling Osha, “Perhaps I wasn’t a very good teacher.”

- They arrive on Olega, and is greeted by a Jedi Master.

- Sol wishes to speak to Torbin, who is revealed to have taken a vow of silence. Unfortunately for Torbin, Mae is in the room with him. Looks like Torbin knows Mae, and states that he has “been waiting” for her.

- A vision of young Mae distracts Osha and leads her away from the route Sol, Jecki, and Yord take to Torbin’s chambers. Is this vision one of Mae’s powers?

- Osha arrives in Torbin’s chambers and sees him collapsed on the floor. The Jedi Master finds Osha crouching over Torbin’s body, and accuses her or murder; Yord, surprisingly, defends Osha and says she did not do it, as he “followed her when she broke off” from the group.

- Osha describes the poison a tool in hunting that she and her sister Mae were taught to use. She is instructed to go interrogate Qimir, due to her likeness to Mae. Sol, Jecki, and Yord are to keep watch.

- Osha obtains a long scarf to partially make herself look like Mae and trick the unsuspecting Qimir. Osha didn’t even have to say much, and let Qimir reveal his secrets. Yord, Jecki, and Sol corner Qimir, who reveals that Mae will be back the same evening. Yord is to “secure the perimeter” for this reason. But perhaps this would mean that he, Sol, Jecki, and Osha are in a trap, since Mae needs to kill 4 Jedi, and there are 4 Jedi in the room.

- Sol commands Jecki to return to the ship, and Osha to follow him.

- Nightfall on Olega. Yord thinks it’s a trap; it may well be, he doesn’t like the vibes the situation is giving him.

- Sol speaks to Osha. She wants to confront Mae, but Sol, still harboring grief over not being able to save both Osha and Mae, strongly advises Osha against revenge.

- Osha names the 4 Jedi that Mae wants dead — Indara (dead), Torbin (also dead), Kelnacca (we don’t see him yet), and Sol. Osha is not on that list.

- Mae is spotted by Yord and intercepted by Sol. Mae attacks Sol empty-handed; Sol questions the reasoning for this. All of his moves are thus far defensive and deflective, using minimum energy as opposed to Mae, charged up and on the offense.

- She is momentarily bested, and Sol reveals that he has taken her daggers. They clash again, and Mae ends up lying parallel to the ground, suspended in midair by Sol.

- Sol notes that Mae doesn’t even know who her Master is, but that she has one. Mae believes that Osha is dead, but Sol and Yord disagree.

- Jecki, onboard the ship, commands Mae to surrender, but Mae uses the Force to kick up a dust cloud and escape.

- Osha walks through the corridors of the Temple, while Mae tries to flee. She can’t, and sees Osha pointing a blaster at her.

- Osha pulls the trigger but misses, twice. Understandable, there’s no way she could have stunned her sister, and could have made things worse if so. If Osha had successfully stunned Mae, Mae would never forgive her twin. There might not have been bad blood between the sisters, given that Mae has a nickname for her twin, “Oshie”. Osha does not want to make this any worse than it has to be. It may read as Osha allowing Mae’s escape, but this might not be intentional.

- Next morning, Mae confronts Qimir. She uses the slang “hell”, which may have been only mentioned once or twice in the Original Trilogy by Han Solo.

- On Khofar, two scavengers look for parts, and are accosted by Kelnacca.

[nimbasa-librarian]

You did It, (Old) Friend

Anya could not believe what she was seeing. 

But there he was. Leon. From last Summer. Her “Summer Best Friend” from back in Postwick. 

The Galarian Champion. Just like he said he would be. 

“... Mum!! Mum come look! Look at the TV!!!” 

“What?” 

“Mum, look who the champion is! Come in here!” 

“Yamah!” Drew agreed with the urgency, looking absolutely bewildered in his own, funny way. 

When her mother popped her head in, she stared at the screen and gasped “Well I’ll be!” She exclaimed “Its the boy you befriended in Postwick! Wow, wouldya look at tha’” 

“Yeah…” Anya trailed off, seeing Leon holding the championship trophy with his big, doofy grin on his face, his guardians and little brother in the background, the toddler grinning and laughing excitedly. 

Though Anya’s mother had returned to whatever she’d been doing, Anya sat on the couch of their rental apartment in Wyndon, and stared at the Television 

“.. I wish he had a phone” Anya lamented “I wanna congratulate him. He did it!” She partially lamented to her Yamask. “And I wanna introduce him to Irene. Do you think he’d like ‘er?” 

“Yamah!” Drew nodded affirmatively. 

Anya contemplated it “But… he did it. Before me!!!” Anya suddenly jumped up “Do ya know what that means, Drew?” 

“Yah?” 

“That means I gotta work even harder!!! He may be the youngest Galarian champ, but Ah’ll be the youngest rest’rationist! I’ll work on the Book Ah The Wolves before ya know it!” 

Amused at her sheer enthusiasm, Drew gave an enthusiastic “Yah!” in response, and Anya cheered in repetition right after. 

“That way, when we meet again, I can tell ‘im that we both made it!” 

Drew nodded in agreement with the statement, seeing the enthusiasm for her passion - and perhaps just a hint of honest competitiveness burn in her eyes. 

The old pokemon had no doubt she’d accomplish that dream - though “how soon” was debatable. 

But he wasn’t about to snuff out such promising ambition

-

“Leon?” 

“Hm?” 

Hop poked his head into the kitchen of his brother’s apartment “Did you used to know someone named Anya? You did, right?” 

Leon paused, the microwave going off as he let himself think “Ah, yes! Yes, I did, way back when you were a baby! Anya Ambermight”  he laughed “Hard to forget a girl with a Yamask. Why?” 

“I was reading the Newsletter for International Battle Club, and her name came up” Hop held up the little magazine, open to a single-page article “its from the Nimbasa Battle Boss Newsletter” 

“Nimbasa? As in Unova?” Leon turned around, after opening the microwave, holding out his hand 

“Yeah, look” Hop handed it over. 

“NIMBASA CITY WELCOMES NEWEST MASTER LIBRARIAN AND BATTLE BOSS” he reads aloud “Galarian Native Anya Ambermight Takes Over As the First Immigrant to Run A Battle Challenge in Nimbasa City - We’ll I’ll be damned!!” Leon suddenly grinned, as if giddy 

“Huh?” 

Leon quickly read the short article, and spotted a particular phrase

“Head preservationist” 

“Aha! She did it! She really did it!” 

“What are you talking about?” 

“She works with books!” 

Hop gave a confused look “Yeah…?” 

“No that's - that's what she wanted to do! She wanted to restore books when we were kids - and she is!” 

“Oooh… that’s cool!” Hop commented “Her teams interesting though” 

Leon looked at the color photo just above the article, showing a now grown-up Anya with her team

“... She has two yamasks now” he can’t stop himself from laughing “with a Frosslass… and a Hatterene? Good for her. Hatterene are notoriously hard to train!” 

“Did you read it? Apparently her challenge is really hard. I kinda wanna go and try” Hop grinned

“Hah! Perhaps one day we will! I’ve never been to Unova!” 

The conversation died off after that, and Leon couldn’t stop smiling. 

To think, just one summer together, sharing adventures and dreams, and there they were as adults - accomplishing those dreams. 

He really did need to get himself to Unova sometime. 

[sylviazem]

FFXIV Write 2023- Prompt #16: Jerk

"So", Fjola poured herself a fifth drink and put the bottle away in the cabinet. She was alone with Bluebird, as Ekiki had left when she got a sudden notification from a merchant she was going to meet, and Nebula had already gone to sleep. "You're some kind of Allagan machine?"

"Affirmative", Bluebird replied. "Would you like to hear a comprehensive explanation about my specifications?"

"No, thank you. I doubt I'd understand any of it. Though, I have seen my fair share of Allagan automatons", she sipped her drink. "You seem...Special, somehow."

"Thank you. That is factually correct; I am far more advanced than any other android model."

"...May I", Fjola coyly circled the edge of her glass with her finger. "Might I touch your skin? I-I'm just curious."

"By all means."

"Wow", Fjola brushed her hand against Bluebird's cheeks and arms, occasionally giving her a soft poke with her finger. "It feels...real but also...artificial at the same time! How curious..."

"Highly advanced materials were used to create a lifelike, yet durable surface covering."

"It's certainly impressive", Fjola's hands continued to wander. "Can you...feel?"

"Yes. Synthetic skin and muscle fibers are woven with haptic receptors, which allow me to- Eek!" Fjola's hand happened to brush against Bluebird's lower back, which gave her hips a sudden jerk. "...It appears said receptors have partially malfunctioned and are hypersensitive in certain areas. Apologies."

"...I've never heard a machine make that kind of sound", Fjola giggled and poked her back softly again. "Cute."

"Ah! Please", Bluebird backed away and covered herself with her hands. "Please refrain from touching sensitive areas! Sensory overload can disrupt cognitive and motor functions..."

"That sounds dangerous", Fjola walked over to the couch and sat down, patting her thighs. "Maybe we should chart out your sensitive areas so we can fix them later."

"...I believe miss Fjola might be terribly intoxicated", Bluebird reluctantly walked over and sat on her lap. "But your statement is not without logic."

"Miss Fjola gets a little handsy when she's drunk. How about we use a scale of one to ten", Fjola laughed and rubbed her hands up Bluebird's shins and thighs. "Feel anything out of the ordinary?"

"Two. No abnormalities."

"All right", she continued up her belly and sides. "Here?"

"Seven..!" Again, Bluebird twitched suddenly. "Flagged for adjustments."

"And how about here..?" Fjola playfully squeezed her chest, completely lost in the spirits at this point. "...Shquishy and shoft!"

"Five...Within acceptable bounds."

"Nom" Fjola softly bit Bluebird's neck, which made her entire body stiffen up for a brief moment. "Oh my."

"T...ten" Her power supply was humming loudly. "Flagged for immediate adjustment."

"All right, I'm back with the new memory bank for-" Ekiki entered through the door, back from her mercantile dealings. "...I leave for half a bell. And you're groping the ancient android."

"Please do not misunderstand, Ekiki. Miss Fjola is helping me flag malfunctioning haptic receptors for adjustment."

"Yeah", Fjola let out a silly, drunken laugh. "It's just...haptic...s."

"...Uh-huh", Ekiki glowered at Fjola. "You're drunk, how about you go to bed and I get to work on installing this new memory for Bluebird?"

"Boo, okay...", Fjola flopped over on the couch and hugged a pillow. "As if you wouldn't want to grope a cute robot girl..."

"Yeah, yeah, fall asleep already. Sheesh."

[wanderingcritter]

The last couple days have been, rough to say the least. For me and many others across the nation.

As an American I would lying if I said I wasn't slightly terrified right now. I just watched the president of my country get up on national tv and declare that I do not exist ("male and female are the only recognized genders") and his side hoe do a full on nazi salute, among other horrendous and hate-fueled statements.

Im lucky enough to live in Washington state, where the governor has openly stated he will fight to defend my rights as a queer person and someone capable of becoming pregnant. But there isn't much that can be done about civilian actions. I think there's a bit of a misconception about Washington throughout a lot of the nation, that most of the people living there are progressive and blue, but that isn't entirely the case. Outside of Seattle and surrounding cities like Tacoma or Olympia there's a lot of rural or partially rural towns that predominantly lean Republican. If it wasn't for Seattle, Washington would likely be a red state. Not to dox myself, but I do not live in Seattle or particularly close to it. There are queer resource and nonprofit organizations where I live, as well as for other marginalized groups, but they've had a history of being vandalized or attacked and I fear that's only going to get worse in the coming weeks/months/years.

I am a pretty visibly queer person, from the way I dress, my hair, my body language. Ive never been very good at blending in even when I wanted to. If someone was looking for a queer individual to target I wouldn't be the worst option out there. I am not going back into the closet, I refuse to hide or suppress myself, trying to in the past has never worked and has only made me horribly unhappy. I am a lesbian, I am transgender, I have a uterus, I am alterhuman, and I am proud. I am going to continue baring my teeth, continue seeking gender affirming care, continue being part of my community. But it isn't going to be without fear. There's been a lot of writing on the walls lately that I don't like the look of and it's scary to think of what may happen going forward.

But I do know how important it is that we find ways to stick together now more than ever. America is speeding down the road to fascism. Do not let anyone convince you otherwise, because we are, and have been for a while. We desperately need to have each other's backs. Stay aware of what's going on, if you don't consider yourself to be political, GET FUCKING POLITICAL. Get involved in irl community as much as possible, make connections and find out how you can help others, mutual aid is based as fuck and something you should be participating in asap. Learn how to keep yourself safe, 2nd amendment applies to us too, if guns aren't your style there are plenty of other forms of self defense to choose from. To anyone who's outside of the U.S, help spread news you come across, whether it's about protests or laws being passed, and if you're able to be there to offer comfort to any of your American friends who are scared right now. We see you guys and appreciate you, as censorship here intensifies you're going to be an important lifeline for us.

To anyone who's feeling alone and hopeless, who's stuck in red states, living with unaccepting families, financially vulnerable, immigrants, and anyone else who is scared right now, you are seen and you are not forgotten about. Stay alive at all costs, fight like hell, do not let them erase you.