#So she's a 'bad influence' for him in malik's eyes

[acgames]

Me thinking about how if Malik survived he would have adored Mira's antics. Like, yeah, this little and fiesty devil girl can get on his nerves just as her father and his father before did, but I just think Malik in his elderly years and teen Mira would just tease shit out of eachother...

Imagine 80 year old elderly Malik and this 15 year old twink just going at eachother for days and laughing about it afterwards.

[xadoheandterra]

Series: The Heir, The Reader, and Clay

Title: Run It Again Fandom: Assassin’s Creed Characters: Desmond Miles, Malik Al-Sayf, Kadar Al-Sayf Pairings: Altair/Malik Chapters: I | II | III | IV | V | VI | VII | VIII | IX | X | XI | XII | XIII | XIV | XV | XVI | XVII | XVIII Enabler: @kingbob2-0 Tags: Slight Time Skip, Blood and Injury, Angst, Grief, Amputation, Time Travel, Desmond Raised By Others, De-Aged Desmond, Bad Ass Baby Desmond, WIP, I Had To Figure Out How Children Grow, I Was Very Confused, This Is Where I Break Things Before They Get Better Summary: They hadn’t found an answer yet, and Layla was impatient despite the promise of the Grey being timeless in its nature. She didn’t want to have to search for an answer that might never come–so she made another suggestion. Why not just change it? Why not counter the Isu influence on the Pieces of Eden where it counted, and counter what Juno inevitably did to the Eye in the Grand Temple?

It was all the push that Desmond needed to let himself be just that bit more selfish. So selfish he chose to be, and there was one moment where the Isu’s hold on the Pieces of Eden had a profound effect–the Levantine Brotherhood. Altair Ibn La’Ahad. Al Mualim. There was just one problem–Desmond was eight, a child, and didn’t remember dying.

Layla at least had his back, even if she was just a bit fashionably late.

Desmond grabbed the back of Kadar's robes as he bit his lip and stared wide-eyed at the mess of red in a sea of blue-grey-black. Kadar stood almost a full head taller than him, so Desmond ducked behind his back in an attempt to no longer see the red even as he held tight to the back of Kadar's robes--not the grey-and-white robes he'd had on days earlier. They exchanged their clothes shortly after Malik had stolen the horse and told them to continue on to Jerusalem without him. Now both Desmond and Kadar wore similar basic rough-spun cloth-and-cotton that wasn't really dyed except for simply.

"What is the problem?" Kadar hissed when Desmond tugged on the back of his robes and tried to pull him away from the red. "The bureau is right there."

Kadar wasn't happy--Desmond could hear it in his tone as he spoke his words. They were harsh and his eyes were harsher and Desmond ducked his head even as he peeked around Kadar's shoulder to verify the red was still there. Kadar hadn't been happy since Malik left them and Desmond couldn't blame him. He felt a bit of the sting of that, too. Malik had been far kinder than Desmond was used to any adult treating him--he let Desmond ramble on after all, and talked Desmond down when he realized he was nowhere near home.

Before the desert, before the talk of Jerusalem, before he saw the horses and carts and people dressed in armors and simple clothes Desmond had still thought that maybe he was just in a weird part of the Black Hills. That maybe he'd fallen asleep and somehow fell from a tree down into a cave just outside the radius of the Farm, and when they left since Malik-and-Kadar had Hidden Blades so were Brothers yet-not-Brothers Desmond would make his way back to the Farm and deal with his dad being extra forceful with training and not--not being so far from home he didn't recognize the landscape. Desmond knew of Jerusalem from lessons and it was so far away from America and home that Desmond had felt like he was dying when he realized he was so far from Home.

Malik had grabbed him, said words that Desmond couldn't hear, and Kadar even had looked concerned as Desmond cried himself out in a way his dad always said was stupid because Desmond was supposed to be a man which meant not crying and not being emotional but Malik hadn't cared. Afterward Malik stole a horse, gave them most of the provisions he had in his travel pack, and told them to head to Jerusalem without him.

"I will meet you there. It is not safe for us to travel together right now, but I promise I will meet you there."

Desmond hadn't understood it, and Kadar hadn't liked it, but Malik was stern with them and before they could argue he'd ridden off and left them on the side of the road. Kadar decided they were to listen to Malik after that, although he'd called his older brother some rather nasty names that Desmond wasn't sure if he was supposed to hear or not. By the third day of them traveling together to Jerusalem--and it took so long because Desmond wasn't used to walking so much and Kadar couldn't walk much with his wound and Desmond had to make sure Kadar got his medicine and he promised Malik he would make sure Kadar got his medicine which Kadar hated but at least he listened--both boys agreed that Malik was being the biggest dumb around.

Now here they were, Kadar-and-Desmond, in Jerusalem outside where Kadar said the bureau that Malik wanted them to head to for safety was and there was red, everywhere, and Desmond didn't like the feel of it. He hated the red color; he saw it during training the way his dad went from purplish in color to more red-than-purple. Red always meant danger, meant fear and pain and being not-good-enough and Desmond hated it. It soured his mouth and burned his eyes whenever he saw it, which was rare enough given most of the people Desmond was around were blue but then there were a few that were just like his dad that were more purple-than-blue or would be a little more red-than-purple and Desmond was terrified of those people. They weren't kind and he knew it.

"Desmond!" Kadar ground out and Desmond jerked while he struggled to actually say what had him spooked.

Eventually Desmond got out, "They're all red," and he felt the way Kadar stiffened behind him. Kadar who might be frustrated and upset with Desmond more days than not--a part of that Desmond felt it had to be because of the wound that needed a hospital because Desmond knew he got more frustrated when he hurt too--who was blue-and-gold-and-friend-and-ally-and-brother went still. Desmond didn't know if he knew what the red color meant, if he understood something Desmond didn't, but he stared down at Desmond from beneath the cloth wrapping that he used as a temporary hood and Desmond stared back up at him with wide eyes.

"Right," Kadar said eventually, voice light and airy in a way Desmond couldn't tell what he was feeling, but Kadar slowly shifted them back and Desmond followed the motion with his hands clenched tight in the back of Kadar's robes. "Right." Kadar cautiously led them to an alley off the main street where the red-red-red-red stood in front of what Kadar called the bureau that Malik wanted them to seek out. It was only when they were fully out of sight, when Desmond relaxed because he couldn't see the red anymore, that Kadar slumped against one of the buildings and placed his hand over his stomach wound.

Desmond bit his lip and bounced from leg to leg as he eyed the teen and waited. Kadar had to know what to do--he'd known where Malik wanted them to go when Malik said Jerusalem; he knew the safest route here, too--Desmond could see that clearly in the way how Kadar had them avoiding the red so far in the city with care, without knowing apparently--so surely Kadar had to know what to do next, where to go? He peered up at the shadowed face, the way Kadar pressed his hand against his still healing would, and how his brow was furrowed down and cheeks pinched.

Kadar raised his head and stared at the opposite wall, at the roofline for a moment. Desmond followed his gaze. What was Kadar thinking about? Desmond didn't know how to read someone's thoughts--sometimes he thought his dad knew how to do that, when he'd get mad about things that Desmond was certain he shouldn't know about--so he kept quiet and let his eyes wander around the alleyway. He focused on nothing, just bounced around and looked at thinks in black-grey-white-blue as he tried to stop the tight feeling in his chest and the urge to cry. He had to be strong right now; Desmond had to be strong.

"Can you climb?" Kadar asked, and Desmond looked back to him as he fidgeted slightly. Kadar still didn't look at him, instead staring up at the rooftops with a frown. "It is just--Malik says...height helps..." Desmond cocked his head to the side and looked up at the rooftop. Kadar tilted his head back down. "If you get up there, could you see a place for us to hide nearby? Until Malik comes?"

"Mmmmaaybe?"Desmond drew out the word, eyes wide in thought. He could climb the building certainly; there were plenty of hand holds that he could see already in the grey-black of the world. He liked being up high when the world was like this anyway; he could see such interesting things in the forest. The bunny burrow--the baby that had gotten lost from its mama, the injured deer--so why couldn't he find a place for him and Kadar to hide away until Malik came for them like he promised. Desmond squared his shoulders, looked at Kadar's nose, and nodded. "Yes."

Kadar nodded more slowly, said a short, "Go," and Desmond ran at the wall with all the grace of a child. He blinked and the world faded back into color as he ran and kicked his way up to a higher reach, and then began to grasp loose brick with his fingers. He was up and onto the roof in less than two minutes. He stayed low, the way he was taught, as he ran across the rooftop and looked for a suitable perch to climb to. Desmond blinked and the world returned to grey-white-black-blue and a ledge one building higher shined to attention.

A set of discarded boxes and a small canopy were all Desmond needed to vault his way up to the higher roof, finding little handhelds as his gaze returned back to normal once more. His head started to hurt but Desmond ignored it--ignored the way pain began to slowly blossom behind his eyes and at the sides of his head. He needed to find a safe place for him and Kadar and he wouldn't fail this--he wouldn't. Desmond scrambled up to the ledge that had shined, breathing just the slightest bit heavier from the exertion and the heat that baked down on him stronger than on the simple roads. He crawled over to the lip, got his feet under him, and blinked back into that strange not-sight. Desmond ignored the way his eyes hurt, the way his vision swam as he looked down at the streets below and tried to find somewhere safe, somewhere the red-red-red-red below him could not find him and Kadar. He searched for a place Malik could find when Malik came back for them.

It was easier than Desmond thought it would be. Several places practically shined as he looked at them, but one--one had boarded windows and seemed to be rather left to disuse. It was close enough that he and Kadar could reach the place without possibly straining Kadar's wound any further, and far enough from the red-red-red-red-red that surrounded the building Kadar wanted to head to to make Desmond feel just a bit less tense. Satisfied Desmond started to shimmy backward, on his hands and knees, and paused when he caught sight of one glowing golden person hidden in the shadows. He frowned for a moment, but within seconds the shape was gone and Desmond blinked back to a world of color and had to wince at the brightness of it all.

"Ow..." Desmond whined, rubbed at his face with his hand, and began to scoot his way back off the ledge. He was slower to climb down from the higher roof to the lower. He stumbled when he walked, and his stomach felt like it was in his throat. His head practically throbbed with each movement, but Desmond forced himself to keep moving. When he finally reached the edge of the alley that Kadar waited for him in, Desmond tried to figure out a way down that wouldn't have him falling.

"Desmond?" Kadar whisper-hissed, and Desmond blinked and tired to focus on the darkly dressed teen. It hurt too much so instead he turned himself around and decided he'd just have to climb down the way he came up.

"I'm coming," Desmond replied with a grunt and wiggled his way over the edge. His feet kicked at the wall in an attempt to find a foothold--first one, then the other. He grasped the ledge with his fingers and then reached down with first his left until he grasped a loose brick, and then with the right. He repeated his fumbling attempts to find footholds and for a moment it seemed to be going well.

Then Desmond slipped, and with a surprised yell lost first the chance at a foothold, and then the loose brick he held actually slipped from the wall and Desmond found himself falling backward. He heard Kadar utter a an oath and felt arms around grab him around the waist with a loud grunt of pain. Desmond felt tears in his eyes as both he and Kadar tumbled to the ground; Kadar with a hiss as one of Desmond's elbows landed into the soft flesh above his wound. Quickly Desmond tried to roll his way off of Kadar, one hand to his head as the tears now that they started couldn't stop. He couldn't even look at Kadar as he tried to stifle the tears as he rubbed at his head and winced at the way everything now hurt.

Desmond's head hurt, his chest hurt, and he could barely breathe given the way his breath kept hitching and his stomach was in his throat. He felt like he was going to throw up and he keened when Kadar tried to touch him but he couldn't think beyond the fact that his head hurt and he felt so sick to his stomach and he couldn't breathe and--he hurt Kadar. Desmond hurt Kadar when Kadar had a stab wound and he'd fallen on him and failed something as simple as getting down from the roof of a building and it was wrong and he was horrible and Malik was going to hate him.

Kadar said something else, something Desmond didn't understand, but suddenly Desmond hand arms around him tugging him close and assurances. It took time, but eventually the tears began to abate and he began to calm if only because he wasn't breathing. His head hurt even worse and he squinted at Kadar as he finally fell silent and listless, held in the teen's arms curled against an alleyway.

"--going to be okay, it's alright," Kadar said, over and over and as Desmond finally fell quiet enough he could hear the words. He could feel where Kadar pressed his face into his shoulder, cheek against his head as he held him. "I'm okay and you're okay and its going to be alright, going to be okay, it's alright...." Kadar petered off his repeated phrases as Desmond's breathing finally evened out. "Desmond?"

Desmond let out a faint whine.

"Allah," Kadar breathed out a heavy, thankful breath and Desmond felt him full body wince at the motion. "You with me again?" Desmond didn't say a word, but he did make a sound of ascent. His head was throbbing, but at least his stomach seemed to have gone back down to where it was supposed to be. "Good," Kadar kept his words quiet. "Do you think you can move?"

Cautiously Desmond nodded his head, and he felt Kadar's arms slowly let go of him. He scooted back, winced as the sun hit his face, and tried to gauge how bad Kadar was. Kadar watched him with wide, worried eyes as Desmond settled back onto his heels and pressed a hand to his head.

"What's wrong?" Kadar asked. His hands twitched at his sides and it brought to mind the few times when dad was holding him back from a smack that Desmond deserved. Desmond winced again.

"Hurts," Desmond said, and Kadar's hands went to his head and Desmond flinched back before he realized they weren't moving to hurt. Instead his fingers brushed the sides of Desmond's head, lightly, and Desmond squinted to try and understand the expression on Kadar's face. He couldn't.

"Okay," Kadar said, voice heavy. "Do you think you can lead us to a safe place still?"

"Mn," Desmonded nodded his head slowly and winced again as it made everything throb and move. He swore he could feel his whole brain shift behind his skull. He whined a second later, and between one blink and the next Kadar was on his feet and had Desmond pressed into his side.

"Just nudge me where to go," Kadar said, and when Desmond keened a bit and buried his face into the dark cotton cloth Kadar nudged Desmond slightly so that at least one eye could peer out into the sunlight and direct them. "Come on, Desmond. Show me where to go."

They hobbled toward the boarded up house Desmond saw; he knew the direction because it still burned like an afterimage in his eyes, bright between the walls of the world around him which only made his head hurt worse really. Kadar asked him to though, and Desmond was determined to at least do this for the older boy because the red was still there and he knew it and he was terrified as much as he was sick to his stomach. Once they reached the building Desmond buried his face back into Kadar's side and Kadar breathed out slow and tugged Desmond around the side of the building. The sun was beat back, somehow, and Desmond blinked to find them shaded by a slight overhang where Kadar set him against the building.

"I am going to look for a way in," Kadar said, voice soft. "Wait here, okay?" Desmond nodded, then shoved his hand against his mouth when it felt like he was going to suddenly lose the contents of his stomach. Kadar was already gone by the time Desmond got himself back under control, squinting in the shade as his head throbbed incessantly and reminded him that it existed.

It felt like hours before Kadar returned to Desmond's side hobbled him into the crack in the wall that he found to get them entrance to the boarded up building. Then they were blessedly in the shadows and Desmond's head felt a little bit cooler and the pain was just a bit softer--and Kadar helped him down into what were a few dusty old pillows and then there was a flask at his lips and a soft, "Drink," and before Desmond knew it he was drifting off curled against Kadar and safe.

Malik woke to the faint curling smoke of Masyaf infirmary, the herbal scent from the incense next to the cots ticked at his nose and drew him out of the deep haze of a drug-induced slumber. His right hand came up to press at his head as Malik shifted in the bed--and then one of their healers had already shuffled over and helped him sit upright with barely a word. He cup was placed in his right hand and he was encouraged to drink the lightly fragranted water. He sipped the water that he was given as he tried to work through the haze that still half-clouded his mind. The Brother who attended him slipped away, and an older Brother took his place between one moment and the next. The beard and rolled sleeves were familiar; Kareem, Malik thought was the name.

"It is good to have you back among the land of the living, Dai," Kareem said. Malik blinked at the form of address. He turned his head almost lazily toward Kareem with his brow furrowed in slight confusion; last he recalled he'd been nothing more than a Master Assassin. He wasn't one to hold the confidence of Al Mualim, not with the way he tended to question things. It had been part of the point of contention between him and Altair. Malik knew he often overthought, where as he often felt Altair didn't think enough.

"Dai?" Malik eventually got out through a thick tongue. Kareem gestured to the robes on the chair beside the cot--black, like a Rafiq's, but with the subtle pattern along the hemming and a far more unique stitching that took up a large corner of the robes. They were not Rafiq's robes, Malik realized. They were Dai's robes--and not a Master Assassin's robes, either, Malik noted with muted hysteria.

"You were promoted after your surgery," Kareem nodded and Malik frowned. He opened his mouth to ask, but then Kareem gestured to his side and he looked and--Malik felt his breath catch at the sight of bandages wrapped around a stump where his left arm should have been. He swallowed, heavy and raised his gaze back to Kareem throat suddenly tight. "Your arm was irrecoverable," Kareem said, face stern. "The splint did little to preserver anything below the elbow, but it did allow us to save everything above."

"How--bad," Malik choked out.

"It was beginning to rot," Kareem said tiredly. "If you had taken any longer to return you might not have survived." He sighed heavily. "As it is once you collapsed we got you to surgery immediately. The arm was removed and you have been resting for the past three days since." Malik swallowed heavily and his right hand shook around the cup he'd been given. Kareem gently pried it from his fingers and set it down next to the pitcher on the bedside table. "You are going to be on strict bedrest for the next week, and if you have improved by then the Master has an assignment for you."

Malik breathed through his nose. His heart wanted to race, but he could still feel the drugs in his system muting everything down into quiet. "A Bureau then?" Malik asked, voice surprisingly steady.

"Yes," Kareem nodded.

"Where?"

Kareem shook his head and said a soft, "I do not have that answer, Malik. If I were to guess though--we received word that the Templars discovered our bureau in Jerusalem." Malik's breath caught and he had to swallow down the sudden spike of panic in his breast.

"The novices?" Malik eventually got out around his thick tongue.

Kareem said softly, "We have not gotten word yet as to their status but...it does not look good." Malik closed his eyes. "You will be pleased to hear however that the Master has had enough of Altair's....indiscretions." Malik's eyes snapped open, surprised, and he stared at Kareem for a long moment with wide eyes. "After we cleared Masyaf of the Templars and those foolish enough to support them Al Mualim took knife to Altair and ended his place within the Brotherhood."

Malik felt himself tense, for as much as he could, but the rest of him felt numb. The Master, Al Mualim, ended Altair; he'd grown tired of his prized Assassin flaunting the Creed and finally, finally took offense only to--to take a blade to his most prized student? Malik didn't know what to think--couldn't think really because it was unfathomable. That Al Mualim would respond in such a way--

"I say this to warn you," Kareem touched Malik's shoulder and he jerked in surprise, "as the Novices have not been quiet in their words as to Altair's fate."

"He really--" Malik couldn't say it, but the way Kareem ducked his head was all the answer he needed. Al Mualim really had ended Altair. Malik looked down at his lap, at his singular hand, and felt like this couldn't be real. He had to be dreaming. He had--he had to be dreaming. He blinked dry eyes and breathed, slow and measured.

Kareem patted Malik's knee and got to his feet with a faint groan. "Rest, Dai. Before you know it the Master will be by to talk to you of your new duties." Kareem left Malik to his thoughts--to the turmoil that brewed within his chest and the numbness that swallowed him with gaping jaws wide. Malik wanted to laugh--wanted to cry--he pressed his hand to his face and could feel the way his left arm moved for a hand that not longer existed to follow his right. He clenched his fingers tight over his mouth as he breathed through his nose and--existed. Existed with the thought of a world without Altair, a world that might potentially no longer have Kadar--of little Desmond, the child he'd known for barely a day but knew he would kill to protect if need be, just as he would his brother and--Malik bent forward and pressed his hand tighter to his mouth and stared at the sheet that covered his legs and--just existed with it, with the grief in his chest and the numbness in his heart.

It should have been me, Malik thought with the slightest edge of muted hysteria. Allah, why wasn't it me? Altair dead, and Malik had a new rank and a new position. Tears; now the tears came and Malik breathed sharp through his nose as he bent forward until he touched his knees, hand clamped firmly over his mouth. His eyes slid shut. Why did you spare me?

Al Mualim had never liked him; had named him Dai; had killed Altair.

He felt the tears on his knees, down the edge of his nose, against the edge of his palm and he bit back the cry that wanted to escape with the bruising grip of his right hand as he breathed. Just breathe; just breathe--breathe. Malik couldn't block out the thoughts, though, that he was given a chance he did not deserve. He betrayed the Brotherhood, potentially exposed Masyaf so that he could protect his brother--Kadar might be dead, the hysterical thought reached him in that moment because--because the Jerusalem bureau had fallen and that--he hadn't accounted for that. It might've all been for nothing--all of it--and Malik couldn't stop the muffled sob that escaped him then, and as if that were the start, the dam broken, Malik couldn't stop the rest of the muffled sobs that escaped him after that. Everything had gone so wrong--and now Malik would never be able to set right or talk sense into a fool because Altair was--and oh Kadar--

Malik settled with his grief, and was thankful to be left to it in peace.

[dances-with-kuribohs]

A continuation of the previous Trustshipping installment, though not as focused on Seto and Isis. 3200 words. 

...

It had been a normal excursion: Seto and Ishizu had left early in the morning for a hike, braving the humidity of the day, and they’d returned to find the house empty, windows open to allow a breeze through the kitchen. It was a comforting kind of silence, and as Seto ordered them lunch, Ishizu selected their next outing for the day. The seaside town was alive with culture, arts, food, and history, and though Ishizu knew Seto disliked the continual visits to the hillside temples and museums, she planned the outings anyway, determined to convince him in the end. 

Her research occupied a pleasant portion of the morning, and lunch was the two of them, still alone in the house. Ishizu contented herself with the sunshine and the company, lifting her head when Seto moved behind her chair to rest a hand on her shoulder. The sounds of an arrival were hardly enough to disrupt her good mood, and Ishizu smiled to hear Malik and another voice -- Mokuba -- unlocking the side door to let themselves into the house.

“Seto!” Mokuba was always first to say hello, still enthusiastic in his greetings even as he’d reached the turbulent age of fifteen. Malik was somehow more muted, smiling broadly as he spotted Ishizu, and Ishizu waited for a third figure to enter before realizing that the two boys were alone.

“Malik?” Ishizu turned in her seat, then stood. “Where is Rishid?”

Malik shrugged, apparently unconcerned. “He wanted to do some reading, so we showed him a path to another vineyard. Orchard? Something like that. He had a lunch with him.”

“Then what were you two doing?” Ishizu’s tone was firm, lilted with the question but still solid. 

Mokuba had ducked into the kitchen, pouring glasses of water for himself and Malik, and he opted to answer the question as he leaned against a chair. “Well, first we went to the market.”

“Again?” Seto interjected, his protest overridden by Mokuba’s explanation.

“Then we went through one store. And another.”

“There was a fortune teller.”

“And a guy with a monkey.” Mokuba wrinkled his nose. “Then we ran into the guys selling boat tickets again--”

“Oh, and then we tried the tea stand! Awful. Awful stuff.”

“There were tons of people.”

“And you went without Rishid?” Ishizu repeated the information in shock, reaching out to grip the back of her chair. Malik faced her, his ease fading to be replaced with a wary anger. 

“Rishid didn’t have to come with us. We started out together, but he wanted to spend some time on his own. So we let him.”

“Malik, you’re telling me you wandered a foreign city with a fifteen year old boy.”

“Hey!” Mokuba tried to protest, studying the Ishtars. “I am a teen.”

“I’m twenty, Ishizu, it’s not a big deal to hang out with Mokuba for a few hours--”

“That’s not the point! What would you do if you were stopped? Questioned? Do you know where his passport is? How would you explain the fact that he’s clearly Japanese, and you aren’t? Think, Malik, there are more things going on than just wandering through the market!”

“You’re being paranoid. It’s Greece. Half of the people don’t even care that we can’t speak Greek, they just smile and wave at us anyway. There’s not some Stazi thug waiting to check our papers.”

Ishizu scowled, holding herself taut. In the back of her mind, she knew that Seto and Mokuba were still watching, but it was more important that Malik was challenging her, that he was staring at her with the familiar fire in his eyes and the anger of a man denied. 

“Why would Rishid leave you? He never leaves you.”

“Ishizu. Sister.” Malik slipped into the tongue of their childhood, the sounds more familiar to her ears. “I don’t need Rishid for everything!”

“Yes, you do.”

“I am a grown man!”

“Then act like it.”

“Ishizu.” Seto spoke again, shocking her out of her stance and forcing her back into Japanese, and Ishizu straightened to take in the three men arrayed against her. However, Seto was not finished. “I don’t have a problem with Malik going with Mokuba, as long as Mokuba doesn’t mind.”

“Seto, he is the one who nearly killed Yugi and Jonouchi, who threw your entire city into chaos--”

“Ishizu! It was three hours at an outdoor market! You think I’m going to resurrect the Ghouls in three hours?” Malik moved toward her and Ishizu did not give way, though she saw her avenues closing. “Why even let me come along if you won’t let me do anything?”

“It’s not about you going out, it’s that you were responsible for Mokuba. Seto may see no issue with it, but I know you, Malik.”

“You don’t trust me with Mokuba?”

“I wouldn’t trust you with my own child.” Ishizu felt the words leave her, and then she felt the rest of her world give way. It wasn’t--

She hadn’t--

Malik’s face fell, his anger now giving way to something even more rare and vulnerable. She hadn’t seen this in him after Battle City (damn that tournament). She hadn’t seen this kind of pain in him even after he exorcized the terror living in his soul. Her own brother stared at her, and she could not take back what she’d said, even as his pain etched itself over his face.

He said nothing as he recoiled, turning to leave the room through the side door, and Ishizu was suddenly aware for the third time of both Kaibas still in the room. Mokuba had been deathly quiet, an observer rather than a participant in the conversation, but Seto’s gaze was more intent, darkened with something she could not identify.

Ishizu also turned to leave the room, fleeing into the darker hallway and closing the door of her own room behind her. Back in the kitchen, the Kaibas were left in silence, and Mokuba took another sip of water before letting the glass clink against the tabletop.

“Malik was fine. Really.”

Seto exhaled slowly, releasing the tension from his shoulders. There was nothing to say, not really -- Mokuba was fine. In truth, Seto had not been concerned about Malik’s presence on this holiday. Whatever Malik’s grudges in the past, he’d grown since then, and while Seto might not find him a scintillating conversationalist, Seto did consider him a decent enough companion. This trip had revealed that both Mokuba and Malik possessed a high level of enthusiasm for whatever whim had possessed them, and Seto didn’t find it surprising that they’d both gotten caught up in their exploration of the city center. 

Seto poured a cup of water for himself, asking a few light questions about the outing to assure Mokuba that he had been paying attention. In contrast to the Ishtars’ heated words, the Kaibas comported themselves with even tones and banal pleasantries, finishing their water and moving the glasses to the sink. Facing the outside window, Mokuba paused, reaching for a towel to dry off the glasses as he rinsed them.

“Seto? Are they going to be okay?”

It was an unusual question. Seto knew that there was a necessary deception here: perhaps a pleasant lie, simply to reassure Mokuba for the time being. It was complicated to navigate both Ishizu and Malik, particularly now that they’d disagreed. Even so, it was good for Mokuba to have someone who related to him, someone who would spend time with him outside of Seto’s influence. Seto watched Mokuba closely, considering his answer, then nodded with more confidence than he felt.

“Of course they’re going to be okay. You heard Ishizu: she still talks to him after everything that happened at Battle City. I suppose they just need a little bit of time.”

Mokuba nodded, but didn’t say anything. As he set the glasses beside the sink to finish drying, Seto reached up to ruffle Mokuba’s hair, turning at last to leave the kitchen. 

“I’m going to go talk to Ishizu.”

Seto made his way down the hall to the room Ishizu had taken, knocking once on the door before hearing her muffled voice from inside. He let himself in, then closed the door behind him, surprised by the darkness of the room and by Ishizu’s stillness as she sat on the edge of the bed. Seto navigated to a spot beside her, waiting to listen if she had any instructions or requests for him, then sat beside her to feel the bed shift. 

It would be easy to blame the movement of the bed for the way Ishizu moved toward him, but Seto could also feel her hand reaching up to grasp his arm, steadying herself as she pressed her cheek to his shoulder. He was surprised: she worked so hard to remain steady, to project an aura of peace and strength, but now she was curling against him, her breaths shaky. 

Occam’s Razor was a surprisingly effective tool in understanding Ishizu Ishtar, he’d found. She often made sense, and followed her own patterns with frightening consistency. It made this deviation all the more worrying, and he lifted a hand to brush her hair back over her shoulder and pull her closer to him. She exhaled with a soft moan, a noise he had heard from her so rarely, and he adjusted his other arm to support her back. Even now, she was so quiet that he couldn’t tell if the sounds she made were truly sobs, or were simply her breaths, muffled by her posture. 

Finally, Seto shifted again, moving his hand to her cheek and found the dampness of tears there. “You’re not all right.”

She tensed, curling even more tightly, her knees pressed tightly together. “I didn’t mean to say what I said.”

“Is it because Malik is your brother?”

“I told my own brother I wouldn’t trust him with my child. I don’t even have any plans for a child, certainly not any time soon, and I suppose you would...be involved in that.” Despite her distress, Ishizu still pulled away, reaching up to press a hand against her eyes. “That wasn’t my point. If that ever becomes a possibility, you would have your say, of course. But I cannot go to Malik and tell him that I didn’t mean it. I will not lie to him.”

Seto considered the words, the weight of experience that lay within them. “You would not leave your child unattended with him. You still think he’s dangerous.”

“Not ‘dangerous’. Just irresponsible. Foolish. A bad influence.”

Seto shrugged. She wasn’t wrong, at least. “You think I shouldn’t let Mokuba be alone with him.”

She tensed at that, finally pulling her hand away from her eyes to face him. “I should not have said that either.”

“Ishizu, if that’s what you truly think, you should say it.”

“Mokuba is your brother. It’s your decision to make. I’m hardly even a--”

“I trust you.” Seto overrode her denial, watching her retreat, then regain her strength. “You are a part of Mokuba’s life, even if it is only as my partner. I do think it’s good for Mokuba to make his own decisions, to explore things on his own, but I cannot let him wander into danger.”

“My brother is…” Ishizu had to look away, folding her hands in her lap. It was fascinating, how even now the tracks of tears were still visible on her cheeks, but her features were composed, unmoving. “Is that evil of me? To look on my own brother and still doubt that he could be, that he might be, a decent man?”

“I think it is reasonable to state that your brother has made many bad decisions.” Seto lifted his chin. “You said that he tried to kill Yugi. I could be guilty of the same crime, if that’s part of your assessment.”

“Yes, well.” Ishizu closed her eyes to exhale, discovering her resolve. “I did not see that attempt. I was never included in your list of victims.”

Seto was prepared to respond, to speak again, but his refutations seemed too flat, too pale in light of those words. A victim? Yes, Ishizu had been wounded by Malik’s actions, even if she’d never faced his violence directly. 

It was a better track record than Seto had, at least.

Seto looked away, feeling again the fragile barrier between what was needed and what was accurate. He prized accuracy, and yet in learning about Ishizu, he’d found more and more opportunities for the small white lies. The gentle smoothing of facts to offer reassurance. But this idea was too uncertain, and Ishizu’s pain too real for an off-hand comment.

“You don’t have to make a decision now. You don’t even have to discuss this with him now.” He paused, then forged ahead. “I would ask that you talk to Mokuba. You can disagree with him, but he chose to go with Malik today. And he is fifteen.”

“Malik was seventeen when he led the Ghouls.”

Oh, she could be so right and still so infuriating. “So you can see why I want to make sure Mokuba has the wisdom and life experience to make good decisions.”

Ishizu waited, reaching out again to take Seto’s hand in her own. It was not as tender as their previous embrace, and Seto made no movement to return to that level of affection. He knew all too well what she might be facing: the rush of thoughts, too many to name, the onslaught of possible avenues with no answers and no path forward. Indeed, after nearly a minute of silence, Ishizu released him again, her hand clenching instead on emptiness as she returned it to her own lap.

“You shouldn’t have to.”

There was the barrier. The eggshell’s edge between what should have been, and what truly was. Seto felt his temper rising, his anger at the reminder unfair and unjustified. Had that been Ishizu’s intention? Had she sought to divert him by making him angry?

“I have been Mokuba’s guardian since I was eight. No matter what the law says, I was the one responsible for his protection. That won’t be the case in a few years. When Mokuba is able to make his own decisions, he deserves to understand the consequences and reasoning behind his choices.” There was a gap, something missing. He plunged into it. “I don’t want him to be lost or to blame me for holding him back. I don’t know that he would. But even the possibility that he might accuse me of limiting him is terrifying.”

Ishizu moved, and Seto turned to see her pressing both hands to her face again. He didn’t understand, and he hated not understanding, but then she leaned forward with a short, pained sob, and Seto replayed the last few seconds in his head.

He’d simply been talking about Mokuba. As difficult as it was, he knew that Ishizu usually understood. She’d listened to him talk about Mokuba before, and she was even quite fond of Mokuba in her own way. What was this, then?

He’d said something. He knew that. What part of it was the key? 

I don’t want him to blame me for holding him back.

He stood in order to move in front of her, reaching out to find her shoulders and guide her upright again. He could feel how she resisted, how she wished to turn away from him even now, but he did not let go as he stepped forward. It was a careful orchestration, guiding her against him so that she could hide her face against his shirt. With the additional contact, her trembling was even more apparent, and Seto moved a hand to her head to attempt stroking her hair in a soothing motion. 

He’d wanted to bring the Ishtars here for an escape. A chance to see more of the world without the pressures or expectations of dueling, of cards or companies. Somehow they’d only ended up here.

“Does Malik blame you for things that have happened?”

“If he didn’t before, he likely does now.” Ishizu’s voice was still firm with the resolution he appreciated about her, but she did not look at him, did not change her position.

“Neither of you are blameless. But Malik made his own decisions. Now he must live with the consequences, one of which is that you do not trust him.” Seto had the disconcerting sensation of deja vu. “He must learn to live with that truth. At the same time, you can’t ignore your own position. You can’t keep sacrificing yourself for him.”

“I know.” She pulled away, sitting upright again, reaching for Seto’s arms to brace herself. “Seto, I am grateful that you invited him. That you asked him to attend.”

“I didn’t consider what it might provoke in him. Or in you.”

“That’s not your job either. We have had a good time. It’s simply--I can still love my brother. I just cannot trust him. And to see him, to know that he spent time with Mokuba without me there, or without you present, that is hard to accept.”

Seto waited, realizing that they were back to old ground. Ishizu would retread this path again, trying to resolve things, trying to wrestle with these things in the darkness of her own room. 

“Would you want me to prevent Mokuba from going with him?”

“I would never ask you to do that. Or force him to choose between you and Malik.” Ishizu shook her head, finally pushing Seto backwards. “I don’t know what to do.”

How often had she had to admit that? Seto smiled grimly, considering this Ishizu Ishtar who had faced the world without the comfort of the Millennium Tauk. He backed away so that she could stand, moving through her room with an eerie silence in order to redirect her attention.

“I’ll talk to Mokuba,” she said after another moment. “None of you should feel compelled to avoid Malik for my sake. I will speak with him too, only...later. When we’re both ready.”

Seto watched her, unable to see her face. “I’d rather spend my time with you than with him.”

Ishizu turned, her smile gentle. “You don’t know what that means to me, Seto.”

He had a rather good idea, but he decided now was not the time. He left without a farewell, closing the door behind him, and ventured back to the kitchen to find Mokuba still waiting for him. It was unusual to consider him now: to know that he’d spoken with Ishizu about Mokuba, all while having Mokuba himself right here. Seto impulsively tugged Mokuba into a lop-sided hug, amused by Mokuba’s sputtered resistance and fascinated to notice that Mokuba’s head now reached up to Seto’s chin. 

He’d take Mokuba out for the afternoon, let them both get out of the house. If Malik or Rishid returned, Ishizu could discuss things with them in her own time. It wouldn’t be over in an instant: Ishizu had made that clear. But Seto had meant what he’d told Mokuba before. The Ishtars would solve their dilemmas in their own way, in their own time. And if they could emerge on the other side of this and still look one another in the eye, then there was hope for the Kaibas too. 

[skamamoroma]

REWATCH: Skam Italia s4 - Episode 5

Ah the inevitable Episode 5...! Shit always goes south. It’s Skam! The fact that Sana can’t concentrate just after she has said to Malik that prayer, for her, provides focus. He is affecting that for her. It’s not his fault but to hear her dad so dismissive of Malik just adds to the pressure. It’s from every angle now and that text off Malik just confirms to her that she can’t. I like that she messaged him first and asked for him to respect her choices... but my heart breaks for her. That denial of her true feelings.

I hadn’t realised how much I’d missed Ele until she appeared on screen. FEMININE ALPHA. Edo, I miss him too! I love that Sana and Ele still have their chats and I think her lack of presence was felt because she is always slightly more on Sana’s wavelength, a little more mature than the others and I loved that she could give some advice from a distance. Sana immediately opened with “I’m bummed out” and opened up.

I LOVE that Sana got accepted after her exam. She’s so dedicated! 🔥🔥🔥

Her talk with Rami is just so precious. They care. The way Rami looks out for her and yeah he might be a bit of a douche sometimes with his jokes but he wants the best for her. The way he teases her but then tells her he wants to see her respected. He’s such a BROTHER and I don’t even have siblings but I know a good brother when I see one!

THE EIGHTIES STYLE DRESSING UP MONTAGE. How bloody cute! Sana is so adorable dancing in front of her mirror in her sparkly dress. She looks all lit up inside and has this new found positivity that maybe she can decide for herself and forge her own path. A little bit of hope after weeks of feeling down trodden... seeing her swirling so happily made my heart soar

And then the party happened 😂 genuinely don’t remember feeling THIS devestated in the original. The end of this episode made me cry.

I love that we get to see little moments this season of random dynamics like Gio, Sylvia, Elia and Sana having a chat about their band...! The fact Sana is so preoccupied with Rami, Elia is looking at her all weird because he likes her and all the while Luchi is going insane on a sofa 😂 this is why I love this show and Ludo’s influence. He keeps them all perfectly in character even in the background.

Can we take a moment and recognise Fede for how BEAUTIFUL she looked! Her space buns and sparkly jacket. Total babe! I love that they had their little chat and we got to see Sana wondering why Fede ever spoke to her. So interesting that we find out so much more later on.

I love that Ludo made all of these moments make much more sense than they ever did in the original. Malik thought that Sana was interested in Elia and after blocking him... no wonder he put two and two together! He looked like such a kicked puppy though 🥺

Whoever decided to have a SOMEBODY THAT I USED TO KNOW remix playing is my new hero. Cheesy and genius.

The biggest elephant in the room is Marti and Nico and the total meltdown. I’ve already made posts on this but Marti is a complex soul. He isn’t all sweetness and light but he’s also a LOT of that too. The end of s2 framed Nico as Marti’s family; that’s how he considers Nico. He walked away from his father’s home and chose his mamma, his friends and Nico as the family he wants and feels a part of. Being left behind is a major issue for him. We know how he feels about Nico and how much he loves him, how happy they are with each other but, above all, how comfortable. They always have been settled and just always sharing this connection that was there from the start. They were so open with each other at the end of s2 with so much and they created this real intention to be open and to take each day as it comes. But life doesn’t always work that way. Nico is someone who loves with his whole heart. He’s exceptionally sweet and adoring. He sees Marti with eyes so full of love for who Marti is and nothing else. He feels listened to, cared for and told Marti he fell in love and has never felt that way before. He’s also vulnerable and has been mistreated in the past by those professing to love him. He has been spoken for, dismissed and has felt trapped. The whole Last Man metaphor was even an escape for him and he took Marti with him. Now? He has a secret he doesn’t want Marti to know about because he didn’t want anything bad to come of it and worried it would cause issues. I think Nico worries about losing Marti quite a bit. The presence of Luai is a reminder of his past that wasn’t too positive, a reminder of who he used to be but ALSO of what he has. He has Marti but all of the things that came with meeting Marti like the boys, the whole group of friends who love him too. He risks losing it all because he lied. I understand him. It’s up to Nico to decide when to share his past. It doesn’t mean he can switch off the way he cares for people though and when Luai saw him, that could never be mistaken. Nico clearly hasn’t seen him since and I don’t think anyone could blame Nico for being stunned.

But Marti doesn’t know a thing. He knows Nico is keeping something from him and he sees Nico staring at another guy who is handsome... and then he walks away from Marti. Now, Marti is not a rational soul at times. I wouldn’t have presumed he’d react so quickly but I think it’s much more telling the way it evolves here that there’s something much more focused on Nico and Luai than there was with Even and Mikael. In the og it was more about Even’s attempt at his life. Here, it’s more about a previous relationship and it’s framed that way so Marti feels threatened. It kills me because just mere seconds before they’re dancing and smiling and Marti even agrees to stay on a dance floor for Nico. They kiss so close and cuddly and Nico looks so so happy, grinning like a fool at Marti’s smiles and his dorky dancing.

I just think it triggered this fight or flight response in Marti. To consider even for a second losing Nico is just something fundamentally not ok for him. Marti is also someone who acts before he thinks - we’ve seen this before multiple times. He also has a temper and when he feels cornered, he lashes out. Marti is obviously an idiot here. His actions can never be excused because he doesn’t ask, he acts and every moment of it is out of fear of loss it seems. That intense worry that Nico is becoming distant, is lying to him and could have something with someone else... Nico’s actions in the past are always going to have to come to light and the fact that Marti clearly has that one worry left just kills me. They’re so great for each other but they’re also both so complex and difficult and also both full of contradictions and struggles. Neither of them are perfect but when they’re together things are just so settled and calm...

Watching Sana run to them and seeing the two parts of her life colliding like that is painful. She loves both. So much. The way she touches Marti’s face 😭. All around Marti, as expected, are his boys and CHRIST Elia is scary when he wants to be! Gio being there OBVIOUSLY right beside Marti. Nico trying to stop it all and still focusing on Marti even though he was a total IDIOT. For Nico, that all must have been so painful. But he’s still there checking Marti is ok. MARTINO RAMETTA. I just wanted to shake him. I love him so so much but in that moment, even Gio’s words were filled with “come on, you idiot, what the fuck are you doing, I don’t understand you”. I also love that La Rosa squad were so protective of their Luai. They are good boys.

For me, I cried for Sana. The way she burrowed her way into the middle of that scary fight when she’s pretty tiny in height and screamed for them to stop. She sounded strangled and afraid and then when she was left alone with blood on her hands and she couldn’t breathe for crying... it hurt. It’s the fact that she was left alone. Then to go back inside to be trapped in a toilet with sounds of betrayal coming through the walls and to see the boy that makes her smile kissing someone else... the pretty Italian NON MUSLIM girl just like her worries. My heart broke for her and I just felt desperately sad. Ludo managed to make me feel so connected with her and here I was a little unsure if I would have that because I didn’t connect to Sana as much early on. Now? I hold her so dear. I was even ok with seeing Marti and Nico and Gio and everyone walk away because I was focused on her being ok!

I love that from this point, things change quite massively from the original! Up to episode 5 things were kind of mapping the og but Epiaode 5 was a total game changer.

[ygonerdherd]

Yugiohmens

Since I’m buzzing with Good Omens AU puzzleshipping ideas (source), I figured I’d share a few with y’all. (Note: This is based on the show. I haven’t finished the book yet.)

Meet our cast:

Atem and Yugi: Atem’s the angel and Yugi’s the demon do not @ me

Atem’s black and white sense of morality and that whole righteous condemnation/punishment thing he had going on in the beginning of the manga? Has Heaven written all over it.

Plus Yugi can’t get his black, skin tight leather pants or chokers in heaven, I can promise you that

.Also being a fallen angel opens the possibility to eons of self-loathing and feeling like you aren’t worthy of love or other good things in your life and we know that’s our boy’s M.O.

Zorc and Yami Bakura: This one’s obvious. Zorc is Lucifer and Yami Bakura is Beelzebub. (TKB wouldn’t have fallen/become Yami Bakura without Zorc’s influence.)

Pegasus: Gabriel. They give off the same big dickhead energy and both have a lot of influence and power. Also, “THANK YOU FOR MY PORNOGRAPHY” but in Pegasus’ voice.

Ryou: Antichrist. This kid can’t even catch a break in a damn AU I’m so sorry.

Blankey (Honda’s dog): I can’t make this fit any sort of logic but the anime left her out and I will not be making the same mistake. She gets to be Dog a.k.a. the Hell Hound.

Isis: Anathema. Her family has been preparing for centuries to combat the Antichrist and stop Armageddon. Her brothers Malik and Rishid are there too. Now you get witch siblings on a mission to stop the end of the world.

The rest of Yugi’s crew: The Four Horsemen. Honda (War), Jou (Famine), Otogi (Pollution), and Anzu (Death). Can’t you just see their otherworldly motorcycle gang like how fucking cool.

The Kaiba brothers: Witch Finders, descendants of Thou-Shalt-Not-Commit-Adultery Pulsiver. Seto is Newt. The idea of him fucking up technology with just a touch is hilarious. P.S. Isis is a lesbian and Mai is her also-a-witch girlfriend. Isis and Seto are just partners in stopping the apocalypse.

Rex and Weevil: Rex is Ligur and Weevil is Hastur. The first one walks around with a chameleon on his head (easily switched out for a dino), and the second re-manifests through a flood of maggots like come on.

Okay now back to the puzzleshipping:

Oh, that wily adversary, the demon Yugi, and Atem, angel of the Eastern Gate

Literally known each other since the beginning of the Earth

They’ve been each other’s constant for 6,000 years, even if they are supposed to be mortal enemies. (Which they’re not, and after a few thousand years they start getting sloppy at even pretending.) 

They share a fondness for the Earth and the humans that none of their fellow angels or demons can understand.

They see each other. They see the person beyond the neat little boxes that they’ve been shoved into labeled ‘angel’ or ‘demon’: all the quirks and human tendencies that have rubbed off on them over millennia, all the things beyond their job descriptions that truly make up who they are. They both see a beautiful soul before them; how could they not fall in love?

But Atem doesn’t actually realize he’s in love until the church bombing during WWII. (And immediately he buries it as deep as he can. It would never work: Heaven and Hell would kill them both. Besides, there was no way Yugi felt the same way about him.)

Fun fact Yugi been pining for at least a millennium haha.

The whole holy water thing: How upset Atem is when Yugi first asks for it, how he can’t even bear the thought of Yugi dying, period, let alone killing himself. They get into a big fight and don’t see each other for a long time. Still, the pain is just as fresh decades later when Atem ultimately hands over a thermos of holy water because Yugi won’t stop until he gets some, and just attempting to steal it could get him killed. Atem has never hated being thanked until this moment. He can’t take it.

Y: I’ll give you a lift. Anywhere you want to go. A: … You go too fast for me, Yugi.

Several more decades later the two of them getting drunk and bickering about how to stop the end of the world.

Yugi convincing Atem to go along with his cancel-each-other-out Antichrist plan.

Y: We’d be godfathers! Sort of. A: Godfathers… Well, I”ll be damned! Y: ‘s not so bad, once you get used to it. A: Y: *winks*

The two of them watching over and influencing young Warlock throughout his childhood, both of them puzzled ha and slightly flustered because why do people keep assuming the nanny and the gardener are a couple?! That isn’t part of the act??

At the not-Antichrist’s 11th birthday party, Atem with a drawn-on mustache performing bad magic tricks while the secondhand embarrassment rolls off of Yugi in waves. When they leave the party and Atem discovers the poor smothered bird, Yugi gently takes it and miracles it back to life. (It is Crowley who does it in the book, not Aziraphale. I demand to have this tender puzzle moment.)

Yugi asking Atem to run away with him across the universe, on more than one occasion.

Yugi running into a burning building to save Atem like come on that is textbook puzzleshipping.

Atem being discorporated but leaving Heaven to get back to Yugi stop Armageddon.

Atem’s soul finding Yugi in the bar just hours before the end of the world, and this dumbass in love tries to make small talk:

A: Did you go to Alpha Centauri? Y: Nahh, changed my mind. Stuff happened… *voice cracking* I lost my best friend.

(Atem would give anything to reach out and be able to wipe away the tears Yugi is trying to hide behind his glasses.)

Atem needing a body to inhabit but he and Yugi quickly ignoring the desired intimacy and innuendo agreeing he shouldn’t try it with Yugi’s body.

A: I do need a body. Pity I can’t inhabit yours! Y: Oh... A: Angel, demon… Probably explode! Y: Blehh!

And I shall close with some puzzleshipping lagniappe:

Yugi with golden eyes and slit pupils can you imagine. Atem would lose his damn mind every time he caught a glimpse of them let alone when there are no glasses to shield him from Yugi’s absolute love and adoration.

Atem snuggled up on the couch with a blanket, a book, and his little reading glasses perched on his nose. Yugi would melt.

But also warrior angel Atem with his flaming sword, poised for battle as Lucifer/Zorc claws his way to the surface. Don’t try to tell me Yugi wouldn’t find that hot.

Yugi with the Crowley Saunter™

Yugi in his Bentley flooring it through London/Domino blasting Queen songs

Snake!Yugi wrapped around Atem and dozing while Atem reads by the fire. Atem booping snake!Yugi’s snoot (and regular Yugi’s nose).

Yugi, mockingly: “Oh Lord, heal this bike.” Atem: *fuck you look*

And finally, puzzleboys with wings. Yugi’s black wings have a purple sheen in the sunlight. Atem’s white wings have red tips.

Thank you and good night.

[taecheeks]

Annual Writing Self Evaluation 2018

I wasn’t tagged in this but I wanted to do it so here we go

ALL FICS MUST HAVE POSTED ON AO3 IN 2018

1. Number of stories (including drabbles) posted to AO3: 10

2. Word count posted for the year: 774,856 lakdjflkjfladklf

3. List of works published this year (in order of posting): (my wips are in order of when I last updated, not when I first posted)

Through Time I Found You (I feel like I posted this 9837473 years ago, I can’t believe it’s been less than a year since i posted my last ziam fic)

Enticing

play with me

Greedy

Wandering

media naranja

Kinktober ‘18

Maybe

Home For Christmas

Nodus Tollens

4. Fandoms I wrote for: One Direction/Zayn, BTS

5. Pairings: Liam Payne/Zayn Malik, Jeon Jungkook/Kim Taehyung, Park Jimin/Min Yoongi, Park Jimin/Min Yoongi/Jung Hoseok, Kim Namjoon/Kim Seokjin, and Kinktober has multiple pairings.

6. Story with the most:

Kudos: Nodus Tollens and then media naranja (this one was the fastest to get kudos, so I’m adding it)

Bookmarks: the same ^^

Comments: Nodus Tollens and then Through Time I Found You

7. Work I’m most proud of (and why): Nodus Tollens because it’s a lot different than what I’m used to writing and it was very difficult plot wise and characterization wise, but I’m happy with the way it turned out. There’s things that need to be fixed because I kind of just wrote and let the plot develop itself, and I was sure people wouldn’t like the plot twists. I also love my characters, I’m so attached to them. It’s also my longest fic and I don’t feel as if it’s dragging on, so I’m happy about that.

Also, media naranja. I wrote this fic as a break from the angst in nodus tollens and I was attempting to write a crack fic, and just a stupid/dirty overall fic and I actually got really great feedback for it. It made me really happy write it and really happy to see it do well. 

I didn’t think Through Time I Found You was last year but since it was, I’m going to mention that one too. That was SO hard for me to write because of the dialogue and because it took place in the 18th century. But my writing really improved because of that fic (and my amazing beta for that fic). 

8. Work I’m least proud of (and why): None really. I post a lot of pwps that probably could be better, but there’s none I would say I’m not proud of. 

9. A favorite excerpt of your writing: ugh this is hard did you see the WC from this year kldjalkfjda. Here’s something from NT I was really excited to share:

“The new living room is a little off putting. Taehyung’s definition of homey means a little messy - his tattered couch a big eye sore in the middle of the room but after a few nights cuddling with Taehyung on it, he’s starting to fall in love with it.

Taehyung’s a little messy too, their relationship or whatever it can be called a little messy, but Jeongguk’s past the point of falling in love with it.”

And then here’s one from Wandering bc that fic is my baby and sope are platonic soulmate brothers and I need them to be happy and finish the story okay:

Admittedly, Yoongi has never understood the phrase “seeing red” when angered.

He understands now.

It is a volcano inside of him, moments away from erupting and destroying everything around him. The only thing keeping him from yelling at the group of people in the waiting room, who never fucking called him, and the doctors who waste his time, is Hoseok.

The shallow breathing doesn’t calm his anger, but it keeps the tremble in his limbs at bay. The flinch of Hoseok’s fingers against his own makes it difficult not to squeeze on tight in a hope of waking him up.

It is too difficult to look at him bandaged up, his face so swollen and bruised he is almost unrecognizable. So Yoongi rests his cheek on their clasped hands where he sits beside him and stares at the monitor instead. He’s thankful they took the breathing tube from him, it made it too difficult to look at him.

“Never thought I’d wake up next to that face.”

Yoongi rubs his sleep ridden eyes against the soft sheets. There is a slight quirk to Hoseok’s lips as he makes an attempt at squeezing Yoongi’s hand.

“Savor the moment, it won’t happen again,” Yoongi mumbles as he sits up. It is still difficult to look at him, but Hoseok doesn’t look his way either so he can divert his eyes for the time being. “Special circumstances.”

Hoseok attempts to laugh, but he ends up groaning instead. “Don’t make me laugh. I feel like a bucket of shit.”

“You look it,” says Yoongi, but the joke doesn’t feel genuine. He knows he should call the doctor, but there is a flicker of fear in his chest at the idea of leaving his side.

“What’s the damage?”

The doctors had told him the moment he stepped inside of the room, but Yoongi couldn’t focus on anything but the sight before him and the rage he felt at whoever did this.

“They broke your face. A um - in your stomach. Stitches, lots of stitches.”

A tightness takes over his throat and he swallows it down as he finally moves to the door to call the nurse. He can’t say it. Stabbed .

“I don’t remember much. It was dark. Nari, is she okay?”

Yoongi’s heart drops into his stomach as he sits by the bed again. “Your parents are out of state. But mine are here if you need them.”

This seems like a better thing to tell Hoseok, but it makes his chest ache.

Assholes, they always have been.

“I told them I was your brother so they would get off my ass.”

Hoseok snorts. “Idiots. You’re too ugly to be my brother.”

10. Share or describe a favorite review you received:

Ah, I received so many great reviews this year. I am quite lucky.  I think my favorite recently was the latest on Nodus Tollens, which says: “ WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK” x 3934 lmao

11. A time when writing was really, really hard: This year has been pretty good for writing. The last couple years, I’ve been struggling. But this year, not so much. There were times where the plot was a bit heavy and difficult and I couldn’t figure out how to get it to where I wanted, or I realized I messed up a timeline and I had to work around that, but overall, pretty good. 

12. A scene or character you wrote that surprised you: Um Sope in Wandering. Like, it was supposed to focus on the romantic ships in that fic but it focuses on the platonic ones more. And sope a lot. I really, really enjoy their relationship in that fic.

Also, Bobby in Nodus Tollens. He’s a minor character in the fic, but I also get a lot of feedback about it. He’s a, bad guy but with a tortured past so you feel for him and realize he’s not really a bad guy. That trope, I’m protective of him and I’m sad when I write his scenes.

13. How did you grow as a writer this year: Specifically? Not sure. I got better at commas lmao. I’ve tested myself and wrote things I hadn’t before. I went from really dark to comical stories, I wrote different kinks. I wrote characters as bad when they aren’t in real life, which I normally don’t like doing. I’m not usually a big fan of writing characters OOC, but I’ve gotten more comfortable if it’s appropriate for the story I’m writing. I put a lot of my own self into stories, I wrote about something very traumatic that happened to me in one - something that I haven’t even talked about really. 

14. How do you hope to grow next year: I can be a bit repetitive within my writing, I am working on this and I hope I improve. (Like for example, in the fic I’m about to post in a few days, I wrote JK saying he’s suffering and dying like 343 times lmao.) I also really suck at outlining and planning out fics in advance, which hasn’t been a huge issue but it’s offered me some roadblocks that I need to focus on bettering.

15. Who was your greatest positive influence this year as a writer (could be another writer or beta or cheerleader or muse etc etc): Oh man, well I’ve read some really amazing fics and the writing was so beautiful that it offered me a lot of motivation. @strawberrysuga is always a huge support for me and my writing, even though ambra offers me like 9897 au ideas when I’m trying to focus on the 8979 ones I’ve already written. There’s a lot of people on twitter who come to me between updates and though I write for myself, seeing their feedback and their love and encouragement has been such a good influence on me. 

16. Anything from your real life show up in your writing this year: Oh yeah, every one of my fics has part of me in it whether it’s a character based on someone I know, or an event in my life. Wandering has a lot of it; the police scene, Taehyung hating cheese (me), it takes place in NE where I grew up. One of my fics has a scene based on me and my girlfriend. Umm so yeah a lot lol

17. Any new wisdom you can share with other writers: So, this year was a good year for me and I was nervous because I was in a new fandom. As much as I’ve done well, I’ve never really gotten negative comments on my fics before until this year. And none of them were about my writing or my storyline, but unnecessary/rude comments. Like someone didn’t like how often a side ship showed up. Things like that. They bothered me, not necessarily because I took it personal, but because I can’t believe people can be so rude and think it’s okay to be that way lol. I think this will always continue to happen, I think it’s best to ignore these comments and try to focus on the good ones. Because the bad ones stand out, but there were very few compared to the good ones - but the bad always stands out more than the good. And it’s important not to focus on the bad. 

18. Any projects you’re looking forward to starting (or finishing) in the new year: I’m actually writing a fic right now I’m very excited to post. It was supposed to be a ‘I’ve never kissed anyone, please teach me’ type fic, but it’s not quite that anymore haha. There’s a lot of frog references because Jungkook’s an animal biology major who loves amphibians lakjldfkjda 

19. Tag some writers whose answers you’d like to read: since I stole this, you can steal this from me and say I tagged you mwah

[pileofsketches]

Hi Writer!

I’m noun on Ao3; thank you for writing for me! To give you an idea of my tastes, I’ve got the standard DNWs below. Anything not mentioned is fair game.

On consent, I’m ok with dubious consent—be it because consent cannot be discussed beforehand, dubcon turning into con, or simply because desire overcomes reasons why person didn’t consent fully in the first place. Otherwise, go wild. I like enthusiastic consent, arousal is arousing.

DNWs: dialogue lifted entirely from canon (callbacks are fine!), first-person writing (unless in epistolary format), character studies (whole fic musing on someone’s canonical actions, no new content/action), hopeless or depressing endings (angst and struggle during the fic = great), coffee shop/minimum wage struggle AUs, noncon, trans headcanons, autism headcanons, asexuality headcanons, prostitution as a positive (background prostitution/mentions of trafficking are a-ok), daddy kink or parental role kink, and sexualized choking.

A/B/O is a trope I absolutely adore—the changes to society! the possessiveness! the various kinks!—but please no male pregnancy/women who can impregnate.

If, in any place, a kink/trope looks to override any specific DNW, the kink/trope wins out. That shouldn’t happen in this exchange, but if it does—kink/trope trumps.

List is organized by fandom, then universal kinks, parings, then paring specific kinks if applicable. There are so many freeform tags, I tried to give a sentence each as to why I like each one, and more if possible. Also, you can assume if I like a specific kink (ie, Breeding Kink -- We Have to Conceive the Chosen One(s)) then I will like it in a general sense (= breeding kink) and it’s a-ok to use it in combo with another prompt.

Assassin’s Creed – All Media Types

I have not played anything after Syndicate, but am familiar with the comics up to Juno’s death and some of the YA novels. Please do not use any of the Odyssey/Origins lore, be it on whatever they’re doing with the Precursor backstory or Assassin motivations or whatever.  

 A/B/O - Alpha begs to be allowed to knot: I love the desperation and the contrast between perceived authority of the alpha versus the omega actually giving permission.

 A/B/O - Animalistic Behavior: Biting, marking, a general retreat to more animalistic instincts. I like A/B/O set-ups where it’s the alpha who gets uncontrollable while the omega, while in heat, retains their wits. I do love nesting omegas!

 A/B/O - breeding triads:  ‘Successful’/stable relationships involve either one of each, or two alphas and an omega, or two omegas and an alpha.

A/B/O - First time rut Alpha with experienced omega: Self-explanatory.  

Alternate Universe - Role Reversal: Fandom specific! Either a) make the Assassins Templars, or b) swap motivations as far as Pieces of Eden.

Bondage and Discipline - Honor Bondage: Give me some of that Assassin control! Does the paranoia and like, actual expertise with restraints and weapons make this the more interesting/more sexual option? How does control get handled when that’s one of someone’s huge ideological pillars?

Breeding Kink - Those are some excellent genes you have there: For any of the past parings, they know they have to have a kid to make Desmond happen. For any of the later ones, is it a pre-Flare attempt to get them a backup plan? Is Abstergo making them do it?

Breeding Kink - We Have to Conceive the Chosen One(s):  For any of the past parings, they know they have to have a kid to make Desmond happen. For any of the later ones, is it a pre-Flare attempt to get them a backup plan? Is Abstergo making them do it?

Character From Future Tries To Convince Current Enemy They Will Be Friends/Allies In Future: Desmond going back to the Farm, Desmond going back before his kidnapping, Desmond waking up from any of his Animus experiences with knowledge of the Flare and trying to get to Lucy earlier, Maria going back to the first time she met Altair and trying to help him, Altair waking up in the middle of his missions from either the end of his life or the middle of his successful relationship and trying to mend things with Malik/meet Maria sooner.

Character goes bad to save the world and enjoys it more than expected: I will kill for this in a ToWK setting for Connor. Or, Desmond—the Eye somehow gives him all the power, and he decides to fix everything/break the cycle. I’m also for this with anyone in the Altair/Malik/Maria trio—what does it look like if one of them manages to use the Apple?

Comes Back Wrong: Mostly for Desmond. Everyone is glad he’s ok, but there’s some element of Precursor/just plain done with being manipulated/whatever you want to slap on. Also, for Malik or Maria after their canonical deaths.

Dubcon voyeurism to consensual threesome: self-explanatory.

Lavish Descriptions Of Historical Clothing: specifically 18th century, but I’m flexible.

Loyalty Kink: self-explanatory.

Sex Pollen: self-explanatory.

Soulmates: Characters have each other's names on their wrists: self-explanatory.

Soulmates - they know from a young age that they're soulmates but smth keeps them apart: self-explanatory.

Touch-Starved Character Having Overwhelming Tender Long Foreplay First Time Sex: self-explanatory, but it does scream Connor.

Werewolves - Sex With Werewolf in Wolf Form: self-explanatory. 

Desmond Miles/Lucy Stillman (Assassin's Creed)  

I like this paring because of what an effective lure Lucy was for Desmond, with the fact that she was 1) attractive 2) saved him and 3) had a relationship with Bill that seemed like perfect bait (and was) for Desmond’s own issues with him. Desmond’s forgiveness of her, Lucy’s tragic death, the parallels that were made in the game between him and Lucy and Maria and Altair—all great.

Malik Al-Sayf/Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad/Maria Thorpe (Assassin's Creed)

My favorite OT3s are the ones where each person has an independently strong relationship with the other two in the trio, and supports each one/gets different things out of each one. I like Maria and Malik moderating Altair and dealing with the complicating feelings he has for each one when he’s been such a lone wolf for most of his life. (I am also a big fan of Tazim being Malik and Maria’s kid)

Ratonhnhaké:ton | Connor/Original Female Character(s) (Assassin's Creed)

This ship is entirely a vehicle for kinks/tropes, do whatever you’d like to make the OFC work. My only request is that she not be a colonist who’s Not Like Other Girls, ie, won’t wear stays/a corset and a skirt, or be someone that Connor rescued who now has a crush on him. Also, I would kill for a ToKW setting.

Rebecca Crane/Shaun Hastings/Desmond Miles (Assassin's Creed)

Pretty much the same as the Altair/Malik/Maria ship- I like OT3s are the ones where each person has an independently strong relationship with the other two in the trio, and supports each one/gets different things out of each one. I would be as happy for something set pre-Flare where the three of them fall in together because hey, it’s the end of the world, as much for something Syndicate/Black Flag era where Desmond is revived/downloaded from the cloud and they’re very glad to have him back.

Dishonored (Video Games)

 Arranged Marriage - Public Consummation

Bondage and Discipline - Honor Bondage

Breeding Kink - We Have to Conceive the Chosen One(s)

Character goes bad to save the world and enjoys it more than expected

First Time - A Patient with B's Clumsy but Enthusiastic Blow Job/Cunnilingus: Would prefer Emily to be the experienced one. 

If I Must Solve A Dozen Geopolitical Problems Just To Have Sex With You Then I Will

Lavish Descriptions Of Historical Clothing

Loyalty Kink

Ritual Sex Magic

Soulmates - they know from a young age that they're soulmates but smth keeps them apart

Emily Kaldwin/The Outsider

General monster boyfriend vibes, the idea of the destined lover, the inevitability of fate vs active and individual choice. I prefer Outsider-Outsider, but am ok with a story that splits between divinity and mortal or sets him as the slightly-off human. Please no naivety/woobie human Outsider.

Xeno - Loving oral on Wet Pinecone Dick (Awapuhi Plant gif)

Xeno - sex shouldn't be physically possible but we're not cowards

Be Not Afraid for I have some excellent dick

Consentacles

Kirin Jindosh/Emily Kaldwin

Coup-tested royalty vs clawed his way up from the gutter genius—the class divide is a huge part of why I like this paring. I like Emily pushing and Jindosh resisting—until he doesn’t—and the idea of the public/private divide as far as behavior.

Masked Ball As An Excuse for Inadvisable Sex: This is just the Fugue Feast, so. 

Pregnancy - Impregnator Wins the Throne

Soulmates - Characters have each other's names on their wrists: The angst! How does Jindosh handle this, growing up. (How do you even prove it’s real?) How does his struggle to get close enough to Emily influence his choices? Is he even interested in nobility? How does Emily handle her side? Just give me class issues and the concept of fate/avoiding fate.

The Witch (2016)

Please don’t make Thomasin’s age/youth a kink. In the period setting, she’s more or less a full adult, dresses like one, etc. Also, I would prefer a benevolent/semi-benevolent Black Philip in the sense of a viable alternative to the religion Thomasin was raised in, and a humanoid over a goat. The theme of willing and educated consent is particularly important to me in this one- Thomasin makes her choices understanding the cost, and is an enthusiastic participant, or is actively convinced. 

Black Philip/Thomasin (The Witch)

Alternate Universe - Formal Matriarchy: How does the witch commune in the forest work? Where do they get their food/supplies? (’noun, that’s too much thought for a horror movie’) How does this turn out in fifty years/sixty? Listen, I just want a functioning magical matriarchy that yells fuck off/fights expansionism. 

Breeding Kink - We Have to Conceive the Chosen One(s) Slash anti-Christ, or a bunch of demons, or whatever.

Lavish Descriptions Of Historical Clothing: Particularly corsets, or the sort of clothing that wealthy women would wear in this time period. She was tempted by a pretty dress, among other things. 

Pregnancy - pregnant with multiples

Sex with Monsters

The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel (TV)

Please keep this in the era the show is set in! I am a-ok with period homophobia, but am not interested in a coming out type story where the focus of the struggle is triumph over adversary- I like Midge’s career being the focus, or little domestic scenes. Maybe something where they’re in a relationship by the time she realizes that Shy’s gay? Is she able to handle herself better because of this? I am also perfectly happy if Midge and Susie remain closeted to friends/family during the story/their relationship seems like how it is in the show to everyone else, and there’s no angst over that.

Miriam "Midge" Maisel/Susie Myerson (Mrs Maisel)

Butch woman is allowed to remain butch for entirety of story

Canon Got Fucked and They Lived Happily Ever After

Character A thinks they're just character B's rebound but they're not

Lavish Descriptions Of Historical Clothing

Make This Fic Super Excited About Bing Set in New York

[recklesstreacherous]

Taylor Swift just can’t win. Someone might read that and think, What do you mean she can’t win? She has 10 Grammys! She’s worth a quarter of a billion dollars! But those units of measurement merely apply to her success as an artist—not as a person. Taylor Swift as a person is a completely different entity. First off, she is, in fact, human, something that many of her critics and haters choose to ignore by rote. She’s also miles apart from her superstar persona, which she parodied in her number-one hit “Blank Space” and demonstrated in that leaked phone call between her and Kanye West wherein she admitted to being “this close to overexposure.”

Recently, after Swift filmed the video for her recent musical collaboration with Zayn Malik, boyfriend of gal pal Gigi Hadid, the public was quick to question Swift’s motives with the former One Directioner. This led several outlets to presume that Swift, the compulsive maneater that she is, had her eyes on him. Thankfully (sarcasm intended), TMZ cleared all that up after speaking with Hadid’s team, which said the supermodel is confident in her relationship with Malik and doesn’t try to restrict his work “even if it’s with a hot chick, who happens to be her friend.” Meanwhile, others noted it strange for Swift to collaborate with her ex Harry Style’s former band mate. Mind you, Swift didn’t even do press for the video. All she did was film it.

Understandably then, as media, fans and adversaries have become quick to attack her on just about everything, Swift, who is between albums and touring, has been cautious as of late about revealing too much about her personal life—and her political beliefs. But now, it appears, even that abstention is a problem.

On January 21, Swift tweeted “So much love, pride, and respect for those who marched. I’m proud to be a woman today, and every day. #WomensMarch.” Afterward, tabloids and blogs reported on a movement to label Swift a “bad feminist” for tweeting about the event instead of attending it.

Swift’s tweet summoned a volcanic outrage. Many believed that sending a message with no political leanings was more offensive than saying nothing at all. Evidently, Swift wasn’t aware that offering support in an apolitical way would start a fire; if she had been, she’d likely have said nothing at all. Still, it’s hard to believe that people would have tolerated her not tweeting anything at all. So, you see, Taylor Swift can’t win.

It’s lonely at the top, and nobody has reached peak fame in the current landscape quite like this 27-year-old pop queen. But before we review the effort to label her as a bad feminist, let’s tally some stats. How many times has she been in rehab? Zero. How many times has she been married? Zero. How many times has she starred in a leaked sex tape? Zero. How many reality shows has she pursued for fame and money? Zero. 

To say Swift is a bad feminist is irresponsible. The pop star has been promoting girl power long before the Women’s March, writing songs of female empowerment and personally tweeting victims of bullying. In 2014, DoSomething.org ranked Swift first on its “Celebs Gone Good” list for the third consecutive year for her charity work and impact as a female influencer. In 2016, Swift donated more than a million dollars to charity, showed up to jury duty and spent a half hour on FaceTime with a young woman suffering a congenital heart defect. For outsiders to say, “You didn’t march, so nevermind, you'e not a feminist” is without merit.

Some worry that Swift didn’t march or publicly endorse a candidate during the 2016 presidential election because she fears dividing her fan base, much of which was built in red states when she emerged as a country star in the late-aughts. It very well could be true that Swift doesn’t hate President Donald Trump as much as the rest of Hollywood, but do we really believe that? It’s more believeable to think that Swift, who for years has kept Hollywood wrapped around her finger, is simply an A-student in the study of celebrity science.

In 2003, when Dixie Chicks’s lead singer Natalie Maines declared, “We do not want this war, this violence, and we’re ashamed that the president of the United States is from Texas” in opposition to President George W. Bush, she nearly ended her band’s career. Fans launched insurmountable amounts of hatred at the trio; as a result, the Dixie Chicks were boycotted from radio airplay and lost millions of dollars in concert ticket sales. In 2007, the Recording Academy offered redemption when they awarded the Chix three Grammys for “Not Ready to Make Nice,” their record about the backlash they received for Maine’s political statement. But the band never quite recouped their reputational losses as a much-adored super-group in America’s Heartland.

Are so many of us so willing to say goodbye to our careers like the Dixie Chicks—or more recently, Sally Yates—have? We can say we are, but when confronted by the reality of unemployment and public disgrace, odds are few of us would  make the decision to be a martyr. That is, of course, ignoring the fact that as an American, Swift is well within her rights to keep her political beliefs private, even if the rest of her life is anything but.

So who are we, the public, to judge Swift’s feminism? Just because it’s not in line with what some perceive to be the “right” way to protest isn’t a reason to villainize her. (And by the way, “good feminists” Selena Gomez and Anna Kendrick didn’t attend the Women’s March either.) Criticizing a woman for choosing to protest the way she wants is more anti-feminist than supporting a women’s decision not to. If the message is positive at the end of the day—and Swifts’s message to 83 million followers was—let’s leave it as that, especially since Queen Bey, as Hillary Clinton’s biggest supporter, exemplified the diminishing returns of celebrity activism in Trumplandia. For all she’s worth, Swift might owe us many things—a new record for her fans, a break from the spotlight for her haters—but the last thing she owes us is an explanation.

[bunimalsfiberdolls]

           The morgue was empty.  Silent.  The air heavy with the smell of bleach and rotting meat and the hum of flies.  The flickering florescent light reflected dully off of glazed porcelain and cloudy metal.  He didn’t want to be there – wanted to be anywhere but there – but the Rafīk’s hand was hard on the back of his neck and there was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.            Altaïr…            She was calling to him, calling him, and he didn’t want to answer, but she got so angry when he disobeyed and he was moving forward when every instinct was telling him to run away.            Altaïr…            The coroner looked like a ghoul, short and slight and skeletally thin, with unnaturally raven black hair and sunken eyes, sallow skin and a sinisterly straight pencil-thin mustache.  He was leading them down a nightmarishly narrow hallway, their footsteps echoing off the tiled walls and concrete floor, amplified and repeating into an army’s worth of marching feet and softly, beneath the noise, he could still hear her calling him.  The coroner stopped before an open doorway and then stepped aside, waiting for them to enter, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his once-white, splattered and stained lab coat.            “She’s just in there.”            He didn’t want to go in that room, digging the heels of the new shoes she’d bought him only a few days before into the smooth concrete floor as the Rafīk’s hard hand pushed him forward.            Altaïr…            There was only one occupied slab; a woman’s body obscured beneath a pale shroud of mosquito netting.  He didn’t want anyone to see her like that; he didn’t want see her like that.            “- and not a mark on her -” the coroner was saying, voice rusty and dry.            The contents of his stomach roiled – bitter black tea and the honey pistachio pastry she’d given him before she went out – his ears were ringing and his vision swam, dappled with darkness and anemic fluorescent light.            “- such a senseless waste of an extraordinarily handsome woman.  You said this is her son, yes?  He looks just like her-”            The coroner was reaching for the edge of the shroud and someone was screaming, jagged and raw like a lamb being slaughtered, and his throat hurt, his chest was burning, and the Rafīk was shaking him, shaking him.

           “Altaïr!  Altaïr! Wake up, habibi.”            He jolted awake, struggling against the hands that gripped his shoulders, disoriented and throat burning with bile.            “Aunt Maria?” he croaked uncertainly, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the light.  He and Tārā had arrived in Rome late the previous evening and, as he usually did, had chosen to spend the night at his aunt’s home rather than at Rome’s Motherhouse. It always pleased Aunt Maria when he made it a point to squeeze in a visit between contracts or assignments.            “Yes, Altaïr,” his aunt murmured soothingly, easing him back against the pillow and pulling the rumpled covers up over his chest.  “What were you dreaming about?”            He shook his head.  “Nothing, it was nothing.  I don’t remember.  I’m sorry I woke you.”            Maria sighed and brushed a loosened lock of hair out of her face. “It wasn’t nothing.  She was my sister, Altaïr.  I feel it when she lingers.”            “Yes.”  He swallowed convulsively.  “It was Syria.  It’s always Syria.”            “Altaïr-”            He mulishly clenched his teeth and hugged the covers to his chest.  His aunt looked younger than her years, strong brows and stern mouth softened with concern and her dark hair loosely braided over one shoulder, the soft light of the lamp she had set on the bedside table was not strong enough to illuminate the gray that streaked her hair or the lines grief and bitter times had carved across her face.  Her arms were bare; she must have rushed to him, not even pausing to throw a dressing gown over the long white nightdress she slept in.  He realized he must have forgotten to cast a silencing ward around the room before he went to bed and he felt guilty for disturbing her.            Following her forced retirement as a fidā'ī, his aunt had taken over management of a struggling brothel and became a shadowbroker for the Order, training her newly acquired stable of whores to deftly ferret information and secrets out of their clients.  Under its ruthless and shrewd new madam, the brothel’s clientele had steadily improved to encompass nearly every sphere of power and influence, not only in Rome itself, but most of Italy as well.  The majority of the Order’s intelligence from area surrounding the Tyrrhenian Sea now came through his aunt, making her one of the Order’s most powerful shadowbrokers. It was an almost fitting revenge against her detested brother-in-law that he was almost entirely dependent on the intelligence she provided.            “I’m sorry I woke you,” he repeated, staring up at the shadowy ceiling.            She sighed and he felt her weight shift on the bed as she pushed the pillow under his head aside and settled her back against the headboard.  She nudged his shoulder, encouraging him to rest his head on her lap.            “I’m not a child; I don’t need coddling,” he muttered, pressing his shoulders more firmly against the mattress, annoyed with how sullen and petulant he sounded even to his own ears.            “You and Mari, both too stubborn and proud for your own good,” his aunt chided softly.  “What harm is there in humoring me when there is no one else to see?”            He sighed and turned onto his side, cheek pillowed against her thigh. Her clothes smelled of hyssop and cedar; comforting, familiar.            “Do you know why that memory is haunting you now?” she asked, carding a hand through his hair.            “No, Aunt Maria,” he replied.  He wondered if that memory would ever fade, if the sharp-edged clarity would soften over time, like his other memories of his mother.  It was inexplicably painful that his most vivid memory was of seeing her dead, while the sound of her voice and the feeling of her touch were slowly fading away.            “I’m sorry she didn’t get to see how you’ve grown up.  She’d be so proud of you,” Maria said softly.            “What is there to be proud of?” he demanded bitterly.  “I have hardly exceeded any expectations and spectacularly failed at others.”            “You are a Master, Altaïr, the youngest ever to achieve that rank,” his aunt reminded him fiercely.  “And more importantly, you are a good, decent, man – dependable, honorable – and that is no small thing in this world.”            “I failed Malik.  I’m failing Hadassah,” he replied bluntly.  “And I will not be named Al Mualim’s successor because he feels that I have been compromised by my relationship with Sirocco.”            “What’s this?” she asked sharply, her expression momentarily reminding him so strongly of his mother it almost hurt to breathe.  “You have not failed anyone, Altaïr, and Al Mualim is a fool if he doubts your commitment to the Order.”            He slung his arm around her legs in a quick, hard hug.  “Be careful; it is dangerous to be disloyal.”            “I know.”            She gently smoothed her hand over his shoulder, lingering over the sunken circular scar where he’d been shot in the back during a contract in Falluja. He’d been young, careless and sloppy; he hadn’t checked that the area was clear before dropping his barriers to eliminate the target.  He’d been lucky the shooter’s aim was bad, lucky Malik was with him and he hadn’t been alone; if things had been even slightly different he probably would have died. He shifted slightly so he could look up at his aunt.  She was staring into the distance, expression empty and serene; the waxy-pale shrapnel scars scattered across her upper arm seemed to glow in the soft lamplight.  His mother had had shrapnel scars too, she and his aunt had been on a contract together when they’d gotten them, only hers had never faded.            “I love you, Aunt Maria,” he told her softly, feeling clumsy and awkward. It felt unfair that words were so much harder for him than Ezio and Mari; he envied the ease with which they conveyed their emotions.  He felt the flash of tension through her muscles, heard the half-second hitch in her breath, things he only noticed because he’s been trained to his entire life.            “I love you too, habibi,” she murmured, smoothing his hair back from his brow with careful fingers.  “Is something the matter, something I should know about?”            “No.”  He hitched one shoulder awkwardly in a shrug.  “I wanted to tell you, so you’d know, just in case…” he trailed off uncertainly as he felt her muscles tense again.  “Aunt Maria?”            “There is no just in case, Altaïr,” his aunt replied stonily.  “And besides, I already know.”            “But I wanted to tell you,” he insisted.  “Siro says it’s important to tell people – so they know for sure if they didn’t already, and to remind them in case they’ve forgotten.”            “Siro says,” Maria repeated with a sigh.            “She loves me; she tells me so often and it feels good.”            “She is a succubus, Altaïr,” his aunt responded tersely.  “She feeds on lust, what can she possibly know of love?  I’m sure she’s very fond of you, in her own way, but she can’t possibly love you the way you think she does; it’s not in her nature.”            He stayed silent, cheek pressed firmly against the side of his aunt’s thigh as a searing bud of pain burst into blossom inside his chest.  His heart knew that he and Sirocco loved each other deeply, but that certainty was weakening, fracturing, under the relentless gnawing doubt everyone around him was so intent on sowing.  The people he’d trusted, loved, looked up to and obeyed his whole life – Kadija, Aunt Maria, Al Mualim – how could they be wrong?            “Why am I so hard to love?” he asked softly, half afraid of how she was going to answer him.            “We’re all hard to love, habibi.  It’s a family trait.”  She sounded bitter, tired.            “Ezio isn’t hard to love,” he commented after a moment’s hesitation.  “And Federico too, everyone loved him.”            “They take after their father,” Maria sighed.  “Giovanni was easy to love, too easy.  He never had to learn love’s true value because it came to him so easily.  Figlio di una cagna barare.”            He didn’t understand the last part of what she said, but he didn’t really need to either; his aunt’s marriage had not been a particularly happy one.            “Do you ever miss him?”            “No.”  Maria’s expression hardened.  “That fool of a man got my son killed.  And himself,” she added as an afterthought.  “Left me alone in this barbaric country with two children to raise.  Praise Allah for you and Malik; Gio left all the money to be managed by that bastardo, Mario.  Mari and I would have died of neglect if we had to depend on that man.”            “I wish you’d come back to Alamūt.  We’d take care of you,” he coaxed.            “And what would I do there?  Sit around knitting socks?” she demanded with a dismissive snort.  “I’ve worked hard to build a life for myself here, habibi.  If I just leave everything, return to Alamūt, they will have won.”            “Who?” he asked softly although he suspected he already knew who she meant; his aunt had a certain tone she only used when talking about her despised in-laws.            “That drunken bastardo Mario and his harpy of a mother, Claudia. Vile, evil-minded old woman,” she added with a disgusted shudder.  “And besides, I can’t just abandon my girls, and Lucia, they need me.”            “Hadassah will need all the family around her that she has when I bring her to Alamūt.”  He knew using Malik’s daughter was a low move, but he wanted what was left of his family safe within the walls of the Order’s fortress; he couldn’t stand the thought of something happening to his aunt, all alone in Italy.  He already planned on Ezio permanently relocating to Alamūt, and he suspected Taline would be a willing, if not eager, ally in that endeavor.            “When you bring Hada home I’ll consider it,” his aunt replied as she slowly carded a hand through his hair.  “What is the real reason Mari failed her promotion to Mercenary, Altaïr?”            “I told you earlier this evening – I failed in my duty to ensure both that she was adequately prepared for the trial at hand and that she is prepared for the challenges and burdens of a higher rank – there is no other reason.” He shifted his weight slightly off his shoulder and chewed the inside of his cheek.  He’d never had a student fail to advance; he still didn’t understand what had gone wrong, why Mari made such obviously bad choices.  He hated the faint taint of doubt that had dogged his decisions since then; that Al Mualim felt his judgment and dedication were compromised.  He wished his aunt would let the matter drop.            “I hope my daughter appreciates how adamantly you shield her from any blame for her own failures,” Maria replied, words clipped short and hard. “Sometimes I think you shelter her too much, habibi.”            He harrumphed under his breath.  “And Kadija tells me to be kinder.  It seems that I’m always doing something wrong when it comes to Maria.”            “Enough.”  She gently tapped her palm against the side of his face.  “How is Ezio?  I can’t help worrying for him.”            “He’s... adapting,” Altaïr said guardedly.  “I don’t think his marriage is what he expected it to be.”            “That does not surprise me.”  His aunt sighed.  “How do you find his wife?”            “I like her.”  He hitched his shoulder in another shrug.  “She’s interesting.  I don’t know why Ezio hasn’t brought her to you yet, I think Taline would like that very much.  She seems very interested in meeting you.”            Maria smiled bitterly.  “Ezio knows what he’s doing; the Auditores will be outraged.  She’s not Italian.  Not Catholic.  Not even an Assassin.  His grandmother will be furious.  At least Cristina was two out of the three.”            “Taline will be a much better wife to him than Cristina – she wants to be his wife and have his children,” he retorted.            “Peace Altaïr,” his aunt sighed.  “They’ll have no choice but to accept her – she’s their only hope of keeping Claudia’s precious villa in their branch of the family; Ezio is his uncle’s only heir and she’s his wife.  But that doesn’t mean that they’ll be kind to her.” Her fingers tightened on his shoulder. “Promise me you’ll come when Ezio brings her here the first time.  I think she’ll appreciate a familiar face.”            He sat up and resettled on the bed with his back against the headboard, next to his aunt.            “I wouldn’t want to intrude,” he said softly.  “It isn’t my place.”            “Your place is with your family, Altaïr,” Maria replied sharply. A tense silence hung between them for a long moment, then she sighed and pinched the point of his chin between her thumb and forefinger, turning his face towards her.  “You look so much like Aaliyah.  I don’t see you enough, habibi.  I miss speaking my own language.”            He twisted his chin out of her grip and tilted his head back to study the interplay of lamplight and shadow across the ceiling.  They’d been speaking Farsi, the language they almost always used when they spoke together.  He sometimes wondered why his aunt hadn’t taught it to Ezio and Mari, like she had Arabic.  He remembered his mother and aunt speaking Farsi together when they’d stop for a visit on the way home from one of her contracts.  Ezio and Fredo would pester him – and Malik, if he came along – to translate what they were saying.  Malik loved to make up wild translations, laughing at the expressions on their cousins’ faces as he spun more and more outrageous discussions between his aunts in the other room.  Altaïr always ended up giving him away – he had never been as good at improvisation as Malik had been – but Malik never stayed annoyed with him over it for long. Your mask needs work, Aquila.  You won’t make it far as a fidā'ī with a face that gives everything away.            “At least you visit me more often than Kadija does,” his aunt continued her all too familiar grievance.  “How is she?  It’s been an age since I’ve seen her.”            He sighed; Kadija liked visiting Italy even less than he did. “She’s been well – very busy – but doing very well.  Al Mualim is going to name her as his successor.”            “Is that so?”  His aunt’s lips parted in a hard sharp smile.  “Good.  It’s been far too long since a woman was Al Mualim.”  Maria contemplated the shifting shadows on the ceiling.  “Your mother would be so proud of her.”            “She would,” he agreed.  “Kadija deserves to become Al Mualim; she’s the strongest candidate.”            “Aside from you.”            “No.  She’s the strongest candidate, period.  She’s the best choice for the Order,” he corrected her softly.  “Not me.”            “Aaliyah raised you to become Al Mualim-”            “And then she died and I’ve had to find my way without her-” He clenched his teeth and tilted his chin back.  He hated how much it still hurt, even after so many years.            “Altaïr-”            “No.”            “So much like her,” Maria murmured so softly he almost couldn’t hear her words.  She sighed and intertwined her arm around his.  “Perhaps it’s best this way, for Hadassah.  We should find you a wife.”            “I don’t want a wife,” he replied, slitting a cautious look towards his aunt.            “You have to think about what would be best for Hadassah.  She needs a woman’s influence in her life, especially as she enters her teens,” Maria lectured him.  He swallowed a sigh at his aunt’s latest tactic in their longstanding argument.            “She’ll have Kadija.”            Maria’s mouth twisted as she exhaled loudly through her nose.  “I mean a woman who is a bit more … feminine.”            He rolled his eyes; he knew exactly what his aunt was trying to convey without outright saying it.  “Siro will also help me; she’s very feminine.”            “Sirocco is not a woman, Altaïr.  It’s dangerous to keep forgetting that,” his aunt bit out.  It stung.            “Why does everyone assume that my care will be insufficient?” he demanded, fury creeping into his voice as he temper flared.  “I only ever had Mother, until she was taken away.  You raised Ezio and Maria essentially on your own, even before their father died.  The only thing your husband ever did for his children, aside from sire them, is get Fredo killed.  Hadassah will be fine with me, I would not be raising her in isolation – I have Kadija and Ezio and Taline and Maria to help me.  And Sirocco.”            “Altaïr – habibi – I know you’ll do your best for Hadassah, but I think it would be better for her if you were to marry,” she said softly.  “A nice girl, maybe one of the dā‘ī, someone to be home with her while you’re away and watch over her like a mother.”            “I will not marry,” he repeated, the temperature of his tone dropping in inverse proportion to his rising temper.  “Hada will have someone to watch over her like a mother once you return to Alamūt.”            His aunt sighed.  “You should still marry.  You’ll want children of your own someday.”            “I’ll never have children of my own.”  He swallowed his brimming frustration and anger shakily; he was tired of being pressured to marry.  “It has always been enough for me to be an uncle to Mal’s children.  I look forward to Ezio having children and being an uncle to them as well.  I don’t want a loveless arranged marriage.  I want to be with Siro.”            “Life seldom gives us the things we want,” Maria replied bitterly.            “I know,” he mumbled.  “But is it too much to be allowed just one thing in my life that is wholly mine?  I have nothing of my own, Aunt Maria – only my love for Sirocco.  Please, don’t tell me I must now give that up as well.”            “Altaïr-”            “Please, Aunt Maria,” he pleaded.  “Please don’t make me.”            “If it were up to me, I’d let you keep your lover as long as you wanted her.” Her hand against his cheek was gentle. “But we are Assassins, Altaïr, our choices are not our own.”            His chest hurt.  “You would see me left with nothing?  I’ll die without her.  Losing her will kill me.”            “No, habibi,” she insisted, hands on either side of his face, forcing him to meet her eyes.  “You’re stronger than that.”            Her eyes were dark and deep, just like his mother’s had been, and he was falling, falling into that darkness, weightlessly sinking. Everything seemed so far away, echoing and distant.  It took an extraordinary amount of will to force himself back to his conversation with his aunt; he hoped she didn’t notice how his attention had drifted.            “I’m not.”  His cheeks were wet and his aunt looked worried.  He wondered when he had started crying.            “You’re just tired,” Maria soothed.  “It’s getting early habibi, you should get some more rest.”            He slid his eyes away from hers and nodded.  She doesn’t understand.  She doesn’t want to understand.  The realization made him feel even more isolated, lonely.  He slid back under the covers and let her tuck him in; her hands were gentle as she adjusted the blankets over his chest and smoothed his thick hair back to press a kiss against his brow.            “I love you, Aquila.”            “I love you too.”            “She’s gone now, get some sleep.”            His aunt was wrong; his mother was never completely gone.  He closed his eyes and wished for Sirocco, he slept so much more easily in her arms.  Night faded into morning, yet still his mother’s spirit lingered, calling to him, and Sirocco never came.

             He gave up trying to sleep shortly before dawn and got up to stretch and meditate, moving fluidly from posture to posture, focusing on his breathing.  The Assassins of Alamūt had practiced yoga since the Order’s scholar, Abū Rayḥān Bīrūnī, had returned to the fortress with his translations of Yoga Sutras around 1050. Usually he found peace in the activity, but snippets of last night’s dreams and the nearly constant worry over Sirocco’s absence and silence kept intruding into his meditations.  The sun had fully risen before he gave up; his muscles were loose and limber but his mind was still seething with anxiety and frustration as he dressed and went to join his aunt for breakfast.  He remembered to admire the new Afghani carpets Kadija had sent their aunt, pausing to study the designs and commit a few details to memory for when his sister inevitably asked what he had thought of them.  He liked the blues she’d chosen; they looked nice with his aunt’s furniture.  Tārā and Lucia were already seated at the table when he entered the room.  He hesitated uncertainly in the doorway a moment, watching the three women.            “Altaïr,” Maria greeted him.  “Come, sit down.  It’s not like you to sleep so late, habibi.”            “My apologies,” he murmured as he slid into the vacant seat his aunt indicated.  “I was meditating and stretching, and I lost track of the time.  I hope you didn’t wait on me?”            “Of course not.  But your timing is good; the elves just delivered a fresh pot of coffee,” he aunt replied, pouring him a cup.            He watched her stir in milk and sugar, her movements practiced and certain, before she handed the coffee over to him.  He accepted with an inarticulate murmur of thanks but did not immediately bring the cups to his lips.  He watched the surface of the liquid slowly still after being stirred.            “Tell me why you’re here to speak with Italy’s Grandmaster,” his aunt demanded in softly spoken Farsi.  He glanced up at her sharply, noting her use of a language only they spoke.            “Why do you think I am here to speak with him?” he countered easily, in the same language; his aunt must have a reason she didn’t want Lucia or Tārā following their conversation.            “Your student let it slip.”  His aunt took a dainty sip of coffee, but her eyes never left his face – hard and shrewd and calculating.            He forced a bland smile.  “Why shouldn’t she?  It’s not a secret.”            “What did the Mentor send you here to discuss?” she asked, the barest shadow of impatience hardening her tone.            “The Italian brotherhood has not been performing as it should.  Its Assassins are barely earning,” he replied softly.  “Other branches have contracts going unfilled and could use the extra help, but the Grandmaster has not only failed to reach out to other Motherhouses to keep his Assassins working, he has also rebuffed requests for ranking fidā'ī to fulfill contracts. The eyes of the mountain find this behavior suspicious.  I am to remind the Grandmaster that he only holds power so long as the Mentor allows.”            “My son is not returning to Roma, is he?” Maria said, carefully stirring a finger in her coffee.  “He’s a hostage at Alamūt for his uncle’s obedience to the Mentor, isn’t he?”            “He is not a hostage, Aunt Maria,” he retorted.  “His wife is more useful to the Order teaching at Alamūt than she would be if he brought her here, and the mountain is in need of Masters.  Besides,” he added, sliding a sidelong glance at Lucia. “I don’t think he has recovered as well as we had hoped.  I fear his wounds will turn septic if he returns here now.”            “Your fears are not unfounded,” Maria acknowledged as she studied her coffee.  “He’s not careful.”            Altaïr pursed his lips to contain the disparaging sound he was tempted to make. ‘Not careful’ barely begins to describe Ezio.  He genuinely liked Taline; she was cautious, complex, interesting. He doubted Ezio fully appreciated how lucky he was to have stumbled across such a prize, luckier still that she was willing to try so hard to make their marriage work.  His aunt was studying him with an unsettlingly speculative look; he hurriedly took an overlarge gulp of his coffee and didn’t allow himself any outward indication when it scalded his throat.  He smiled at his aunt again blandly.  Tārā was picking at her breakfast and kept her eyes demurely averted; he wouldn’t have been at all surprised if she understood some of what they were saying.  Lucia was anxiously watching Maria, but she had better manners than to interrupt her de facto protector’s conversation.            “Will the Grandmaster be told his nephew is not a hostage?” Maria inquired, taking another delicate sip of coffee.            “He will be informed of the transfer and the Mentor’s concern regarding his management of the Italian brotherhood.  How he chooses to interpret that information is entirely up to him.” He hesitated, watching the way his aunt was savoring her coffee, the suggestion of a smug smile ghosting across her lips.  “I trust you will not share our conversation with your brother-in-law?”            “Of course not.”  She tilted her head as she studied him, eyes narrowing thoughtfully.  “Has my son been informed of his transfer?”            “I expect Kadija has already informed him, or will do so shortly.” His aunt pushed a plate of toasted bread towards him; he took another drink of his coffee and pushed the plate back towards her.            “Kadija orchestrated this plan didn’t she?”  Her smile widened when he didn’t deny it.  “My god.  I can see my sister’s influence in this; in uncertainty lies infinite possibility.  This had to be Al Mualim’s plan all along.”            “What plan?” he asked, unsettled by her casual reference to his mother.            “People are so taken by how you look so very much like her, they forget that she also raised Kadija, that she is just as much Aaliyah’s creation as you are, habibi.”            He sighed.  “What’s that got to do with any plan?”            “She always intended that you and Kadija serve the Order in tandem, one in the light and the other supporting from the shadows,” Maria explained softly as she slid the plate of toast back in front of him.  “Kadija is better suited to be Al Mualim; Aaliyah would have seen that, had she not fallen.”            “Many things would have been different had she not fallen,” he replied stiffly.            “Take a piece of bread, Altaïr.  You cannot subsist on coffee alone, and every Assassin in Roma will want to test themselves against you,” his aunt said sternly.  “You have a reputation to uphold.”            “I’m here to deliver a message, not train sloppy fidā'ī,” he retorted, taking a piece of toast.            “Eat,” Maria commanded in Arabic as she rose from the table.  She brushed his hair back and pressed a hard kiss against his forehead.  “I have business matters that need attending.  Will I see you later tonight?”            He shook his head.  “Doğan expects me this evening.”            “Yes, of course.”  His aunt carefully smoothed her hair.  “How is Marian these days?”            “Garrulous, as always,” he shrugged.  “I’ve trained a few of her Masters; it will be nice to see my former students.  She’s not as pretty as you, Aunt Maria,” he added as an afterthought apology for his short visit.            “She never was,” Maria sniffed.  “And I was better with my blades, but that was a lifetime ago. Safety and peace be upon you, habibi. Come visit again soon, and give my love to your sister.  Safety and peace upon you as well,” she added, addressing Tārā.            “And also upon you, Madonna,” Tārā replied with just the barest hint of shyness.  “Thank you for your hospitality.”            “Of course.  It is always a pleasure to meet Altaïr’s students,” Maria smiled serenely before she turned to the door.  “See that he eats a proper meal, Lucia,” she commanded just before she left the room.

             “What are you here to speak to Granmaestro Mario about…Effendi?” Lucia demanded, belatedly appending his title at his warning look.  She shoved the plate of toast at him.            “Sugar,” Tārā enunciated the English word carefully as she lifted a spoonful of said ingredient and slowly poured it back into its container. “Sugar.”  She nudged him with an expectant look.            He sighed.  “Yes, yes. Soo-gur.”  He shoved the plate of toast away and scowled at Lucia’s questioning expression.  Tārā had taken it upon herself to try to teach him some English after learning that Hadassah had been taken in by an English-speaking family.  Kadija must have told her.  The fact that he wasn’t interested in learning the language hadn’t deterred her in the slightest.            “You’re not trying, Effendi,” she scolded.  “Listen: sugar.”            “Now is not the time, Tārā,” he snapped before taking a deep drink of coffee.            Lucia pushed the plate of toast back towards him.  “Shh-ou-ger.”            “Closer,” Tārā said, and Lucia smirked.            He slid an irritated look at the two of them and reached for the coffee pot to refill his cup.            “What are you here to speak to Granmaestro Mario about,” Lucia repeated, pulling the coffee towards herself, and out of his reach.  His temper, which had been steadily fraying since his aunt had left the room, snapped.            “Coffee.  Now.”            Lucia’s eyes widened at his tone and she wordlessly surrendered the coffee pot.  He could feel both women watching him as he poured himself more coffee and added milk, skin tight and itching under the intensity of their combined gaze.  Tārā flinched when he swiped the sugar bowl from in front of her.  He forced himself to exhale slowly and unclench his jaw.  It’s not either of their fault that I am the one ordered to deliver Al Mualim’s message, he reminded himself. He wasn’t looking forward to the inevitably ugly conversation that awaited him with the Grandmaster of Italy. It felt like a punishment.  Al Mualim’s will be done.  He reminded himself that there was no excuse for inflicting his ill-temper on those around him.            “The word for it in Persian is shakkar,” he said, tone carefully neutral, as he stirred a spoonful of sugar into his coffee.            “It’s zucchero, in Italian,” Lucia offered after a moment’s hesitation.            “In Sanskrit it’s śarkarā,” Tārā added, glancing up at him through her remarkably long eyelashes.            She has eyelashes like a camel.  He knew better then to verbalize that particular observation; he didn’t need to be told comparing a woman to a camel was unflattering, no matter how kindly meant.  He thoughtfully sipped his coffee and wondered why it somehow always tasted better when someone else prepared it for him.  Maybe I’m just bad at preparing my own coffee.            “Shouldn’t you be concerned about being late for training?” he asked, flicking a quick glace towards Lucia.            She stretched languidly before responding.  “I’m escorting you, Effendi.”  She smiled and fluttered her lashes at him.  He wondered if she and Tārā had agreed to make flirting with him that morning’s sport; they were both acting strangely.            “Besides, I haven’t gotten much actual training since Ezio’s been away,” she added with sudden, surprising, seriousness.  “I haven’t worked in months, not without a Master to assign me anything.”            “Are all of Ezio’s students so neglected?” he asked, trying to ignore the unwelcomed twinge of guilt he felt; keeping Ezio at Alamūt where he could oversee his recovery was more important than any temporary inconveniences to his cousin’s – soon to be former – students.            “Mostly just me,” Lucia shrugged.  “The Granmaestro has never liked me, and he doesn’t have to pretend without E-zo around to bully him into good behavior.  Vincenzo is like a lost puppy without his idol,” she added with another shrug.  “He’s pining for him.  Innocenzo’s taken him on, but Cenzo won’t stop asking when Ezio is coming back.” She fixed a very pointed look at Altaïr. “That’s something I think we’d all like to know, Effendi.”            “Perhaps you should ask Ezio Effendi that question directly,” Tārā cut in, her meticulously maintained brows drawing down into a frown.            “Why should I when he always does whatever Madonna Maria and Altaïr Effendi tell him?” Lucia shot back, eyes narrowed.            Altaïr’s gaze flitted between the two women, unable to shake the feeling that there was some undercurrent between them he was missing.  “Peace, Tārā,” he admonished his student softly.  “Are you all packed?  It’s at least three hours from Rome to Istanbul and I anticipate my conversation with the Grandmaster will take a while; it’s going to be a tight schedule and Doğan expects punctuality.”            “Of course, Effendi,” Tārā murmured, rising from the table.  “I will go get our things now.”            He dismissed her with a curt nod and watched Lucia gnaw on her thumbnail while she scowled at the tabletop for a moment before standing. “Perhaps you should request a transfer. What other languages do you speak?”            “Turkish, but it’s not great.”  She looked up at him and there was a brief flash of something in her expression that caused his muscles to instinctively tense.  “Ezio isn’t coming back here, is he?”            “That’s not my place to say-”            He remembered where he’d seen that look before.  He’d been nineteen the first time.  His target had fled to the roof of the building – foolish really, he’d never understood why people always ran up the stairs instead of out the front door – and, of course, he’d followed.  The target was waiting for him at the roof’s edge, watching the street far below.  He was barely five feet away when the target had looked over their shoulder at him with that same strange expression before calmly stepping over the edge.  He’d looked down at their body, unnaturally splayed against the pavement several stories below, and wondered why they had chosen to die that way.  His blade would have been cleaner.            “- but the only certainty is change,” he replied.            “That this too shall pass?” she scoffed.  “Jesus Christ and Mary too, you being understanding is probably driving Ezio to drink.”  She stood and raked a hand through her thick blond hair; he didn’t comment when she swiped the back of her hand across her eyes.            “So only Turkish?” he asked, rolling his weight from one hip to the other.            “And Italian, and Arabic,” she snapped defensively.  “A smattering of English too, but it’s really not that great.  I met a handsome Australian, on a contract in Tripoli a couple years ago.”  She folded her arms across her abdomen and avoided his eyes.  “It was nice, until he found out, and then things went really bad really fast after that. He had great shoulders.”            “Was this the one who broke your jaw?”            Her expression tightened.  “Ezio told you about that then?  Of course he did.  That man couldn’t keep a secret to save his life.”            “But you can?” he hummed, letting doubt bleed through his voice as he studied her shuttered expression and stiff body language.            “Yeah.  I’m good at learning other people’s secrets while keeping my own.  How else am I supposed to scratch out a living?”            He raised a brow at the bitterness in her voice.  “Do you desire to be a shadowbroker then?”            “No.  I don’t know,” she sighed and raked a hand through her hair again.  “I want to earn a decent living – not just hand to mouth, always a slip away from destitution – and be treated with respect, like any other person.”            “Perfectly understandable; those are reasonable desires,” he conceded softly as he studied her.  There were weeks of tension in her shoulders, the yellowy-green traces of a fading bruise along the left hinge of her jaw – probably a backhanded strike from a right-handed man – his eyes narrowed.  “I’ll speak with Ezio when I return to Alamūt.  He’s still your mentor since you haven’t been reassigned to anyone else; perhaps there is something he can do to redress this neglect.”            “Thank you, messere-” She probably would have said more, but Tārā had returned with their bags and Lucia hastily swallowed the rest of what she had been close to saying.  He was grateful for the interruption; Lucia’s gratitude discomforted him.            “Come Tārā, it is time for us to go,” he said, taking his bag from her and slinging it across his body.  “Lead on, Lucia.”

[gyrlversion]

One Direction singer Louis Tomlinson’s sister Felicite dies aged 18

Felicite Tomlinson at the Pretty Little Thing and Maya Jama collection launch last year

The 18-year-old sister of One Direction star Louis Tomlinson has been found dead at home from a suspected heart attack.

The tragic death of Félicité, a fashion designer and Instagram star who had almost 1.3million followers, comes after Louis’ mother Johannah died from leukaemia in 2016.

Louis has been left ‘devastated and ­distraught’ by the death, the Sun reported, and praised his sister as ‘loveable, caring, bright and beautiful’ last night, sources close to the One Direction singer told the paper.

He has pulled out of tomorrow night’s Comic Relief, where he was due to perform his new single live as one of the headline acts. 

She collapsed after a suspected heart attack at her fourth-floor studio apartment in Earls Court, West London, on Wednesday lunchtime.

It is understood police found no signs of drugs at the address. They say they are in the process of informing next of kin. 

The death of Félicité — known as Fizzy — is being treated as ‘unexplained’ at this stage.

A full post-mortem examination will take place and toxicology tests will be carried out.

Felicite Tomlison, pictured here at a wedding in a photo from her Instagram feed followed by 1.3 million people, has been found dead at her home

Her Instagram feed has more than 1.3m followers who enjoyed her posts about her lifestyle

A person who was with the aspiring fashion designer and social media influencer called 999. 

A spokeswoman for the Metropolitan Police said: ‘Police were called by London Ambulance Service at 12:52hrs on Wednesday, 13 March to a residential address in SW5, following reports of a female in cardiac arrest.

‘Officers attended. A female believed to be aged 18 was pronounced dead at the scene.

‘Police are in the process of informing her next of kin. At this stage the death is being treated as unexplained. A post-mortem examination will take place in due course. Enquiries continue.’  

In her last Instagram post to her 1.3 million followers, four days ago, Felicite wrote: ‘Don’t know why I look so shocked’

Felicite was a social media influencer in her own right. This post from last summer received more than 110,000 likes

Louis Tomlinson and his sister Felicite Tomlinson aka ‘Fizzy’ on Belgravia Street last year

Louis Tomlinson and his mother Johannah Deakin. Last night a family source told The Sun: ‘Félicité was an absolutely adored young woman’

 A London Ambulance Service spokesperson said: ‘We were called at 12:51pm yesterday to reports of an incident in Earls Court.

‘We sent two ambulance crews, a single responder in a car and an advanced paramedic to the scene.

‘Sadly, despite efforts of our medics, a person died at the scene.’ 

Louis, 27, was working in London last night when police informed him of his sister’s death. Other family members, in Doncaster, have also been notified. 

The X Factor judge was extremely close to his sister. They regularly saw each other in London.

Last night a family source told the paper: ‘Félicité was an absolutely adored young woman who was loved by Louis and her whole family.

‘They are all totally devastated, as you can imagine.

‘She had so many friends and was such a positive happy person. It’s a massive loss to the world.

‘She was a loveable, caring, bright, passionate, popular and beautiful young lady.’ 

Louis, 27, was working in London last night when police informed him of his sister’s death

The Instagram star was close to her mother, who died in late 2016, and had a motif of the year Johannah she was born, 1973, tattooed on her. 

She shared it online where she also spoke about Louis’s song, Two of Us, on Sunday. 

Louis’s song, Two Of Us, is a tribute to the pair’s mother Johannah Deakin, who tragically succumbed to leukaemia three years ago, in December 2016. 

Asked about it on Instagram, she said: ‘I cried my eyes out in the back of my Uber, but I loved the song filled me with hope.’  

She told fans she would be ‘very different’ had her mother not died, writing: ‘Very different, in both good and bad ways, there is collateralized beauty in everything.’ 

Last month she posted a grab of Christina Aguilera’s song Hurt which is about the loss of a parent. She also retweeted a picture showing her resemblance to her mother.

Louis Tomlinson and mother Johannah Deakin at the Believe In Magic Cinderella Ball, 2015

‘She was a loveable, caring, bright, passionate, popular and beautiful young lady,’ a source said

Felicite was close to her siblings, and recently got their initials tattooed in old English letters, which added to an inking of a red snake on her left middle finger.

Asked if she was proud of her siblings, she said: ‘More than I can express — including the little ones.’ 

And she used her platform on Instagram to speak out about mental illness, writing on January 12: ‘I think there is a lot of stigma around addiction and the disease of addiction is misunderstood.’ 

She added: ‘Depression and anxiety is less stigmatised but there is still a lot of stigma around other mental illnesses.’ 

But asked about rumours she had been battling depression, Felicite wrote: ‘Everyone struggles with things in life especially if they suffer a huge loss or life changing event but I don’t think that’s something rumours should be spread about. 

‘It should be up to the person to talk about it when and if they’re ready to.’ 

Felicite recently reminisced about her favourite moments with her older brother: ‘Car rides home from X Factor auditions, all giving opinions and being so excited and seeing him so excited.’

The Instagram star was close to her mother and had a motif of the year she was born, 1973, tattooed on her

Louis Tomlinson and his sister Felicite Tomlinson, known as Fizzy, have a cigarette on Belgravia Street

Felicite said that she would be ‘very different, in both good and bad ways’ had her mother not died

Louis’s estranged father, Troy Austin – who split from Johanna when Louis was just five, revealed in May 2018 that he was battling cancer just 18 months after his ex-wife died from a ‘very aggressive’ form of the disease.  

The then 49-year-old had a four-hour surgery to save his life. Louis took on his stepfather Mark Tomlinson’s surname when his parents split up. 

Felicite was one of six children. She leaves behind her older sister Lottie, younger twin sisters Daisy and Phoebe and the youngest, twins Ernest and Doris. She was also an aunt to Louis’ son Freddie. 

  Scarred by tragedy: Louis Tomlinson’s close-knit family reel for second devastating time soon after death of their mother from blood cancer at 43 

The tragic death of Louis Tomlinson’s sister Felicite aged just 18 is the second devastating blow for the family in little over two years, after his mother died of leukaemia in December 2016.

Midwife Johannah Deakin lost her battle with cancer at just 43, leaving behind Louis, Felicite and their five siblings.

Her husband Dan Deakin paid tribute to his late wife saying: ‘Incredibly selfless, she would always look to put other people before herself. She desired nothing more than for everyone around her to be happy and loving.

‘She worked tirelessly on numerous charity campaigns, creating memories for many individuals and their families.’

Louis Tomlinson pictured with his mother Johannah. She spoke often of her pride in her eldest child’s generosity towards his siblings, saying: ‘He always asks me, ‘Tell me what trips they’ve got, where do they want to go? Let me use my money to pay for their trips”

As well as Louis, devoted mother Johannah left behind Lottie, Felicite, twins Daisy and Phoebe, and twins Ernest and Doris, whom she gave birth to prematurely in 2014

‘It wasn’t uncommon for Johannah to hear through the media of an individual in need of assistance, and she would immediately make it her objective to get that person what they often desperately needed, and rarely without success.’

Louis’ former bandmates sent their love in a series of heatrbreaking tweets.

On Twitter Liam Payne wrote: ‘Louis, I’m so sorry for you my brother my heart aches for you, just know I love you the same from a million miles away as i do right next to you. I’m always here for you through everything as you have been for me. 

‘My thoughts and prayers are with you and your family at this incredibly sad time I can’t begin to imagine what you are all going through. Rip Johanna you are forever in my thoughts.’ 

Louis’ bandmates and stars including Cheryl Cole and Simon Cowell sent heartfelt condolences after the death of his mother 

Johannah Tomlinson pictured on her wedding day to Dan Deakin. She passed away in December 2016 after a fight with cancer

The death of Felicite Tomlinson aged just 18, on the afternoon of Wednesday March 13, is the second tragic to hit the family in just over two years. Pictured above: Louis and his late mother, Johannah

Two Of Us: The moving tribute to his late mother Louis was due to perform tonight

In a now-cancelled Comic Relief performance on BBC One, Louis Tomlison would have performed his new single Two Of Us, a loving tribute to mother Johannah who died of cancer just over two years ago.

The poignant lyrics speak of the singer’s love and loss:

It’s been a minute since I called you

Just to hear the answerphone

Yeah, I know that you won’t get this

But I’ll leave a message so I’m not alone

This morning I woke up still dreaming

With memories playing through my head

You’ll never know how much I miss you

The day that they took you, I wish it was me instead

But you once told me, ‘Don’t give up

You can do it day by day’

And diamonds, they don’t turn to dust or fade away

So I will keep you day and night, here until the day I die

I’ll be living one life for the two of us 

 Zayn Malik tweeted: ‘@Louis_Tomlinson love you bro! All of your family is in my prayers. proud of your strength and know your mum is too x’.

Meanwhile, Niall Horan posted: ‘Very sad news . Louis I love you mate and I’m / all of us are here for you all the way. You’re mum was an incredible person.

‘Thinking of you and your family. Love from my family to yours..’

A devoted mother, Johannah said in an interview she couldn’t have been more proud of her eldest child, Louis.

Calling him ‘a really nice lovely brother,’ she went on to say that the 1D star always offered to pay for his sister’s trips at school.

‘He always asks me, ‘Tell me what trips they’ve got, where do they want to go? Let me use my money to pay for their trips’,’ Johannah said.

‘He’s always been like that. he’s not a materialistic person himself, but he likes to give people things. He spoils me and the girls and he’s happiest doing that.’   

Born Johannah Poulston on March 25 1973, Louis’ mother grew up in Doncaster in South Yorkshire, and worked as a midwife and a TV assistant.

Johannah gave birth to Louis when she was 18, but split from his biological father Troy Austin, in 1997 when Louis was five.

She and Mark Tomlinson, whom Louis has said he considers his real dad, then had four children: Charlotte, now 20, Felicity, 18, and twins Phoebe and Daisy, both 14.

In 2013, Johannah announced her engagement to doctor Dan Deakin and that the couple were expecting twins.

Their wedding in July 2014 saw her son as best man, while Louis’ band mates, Harry Styles, Liam Payne and Niall Horan all attended.

Twins Ernest and Doris, both now five, arrived prematurely in February 2014. 

The post One Direction singer Louis Tomlinson’s sister Felicite dies aged 18 appeared first on Gyrlversion.

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[cartoonus-maximus]

Wrote my own answers because I wanted to. :-D

I chose to talk about my current YGO fic “Geemu no Joo,” since that’s the one I’m putting a ton of work into and am really excited about.

If you would like to see me answer the questions about a different fic of mine, feel free to ask.

[ link to fic ]

[ link to questionnaire ]

A: How did you come up with the title to [insert fic]?

I wanted to title my fic a variant of “the Queen of Games” without actually using that title, since that was the title of a previous fic/this fic’s previous form. I put the phrase “queen of games” into Google Translate to translate into Japanese and “Geemu no Joo” was what came out of that.

B: Any of your stories inspired by personal experience?

While some of my other fics have certain elements borrowed from my own life experiences (Jackson making mac ‘n’ cheese in “the Misfit” or Ryou being sick and miserable in a couple of my older YGO oneshots), there aren’t a lot of parts of “GnJ” that stick out to me as anything from my life.

Maybe the scene where Atem doesn’t know what to do with his life and spends most of his time in bed? But that’s all I can think of.

C: What member do you identify with most?

Probably either Anzu or Honda. Anzu because she’s focused on personal safety and making sure her friends don’t get molested or anything, and Honda because he stays off to the side and really doesn’t do a lot but he does occasionally ask important questions like “wtf is that?!”

D: Is there a song or a playlist to associate with [insert fic]?

Pretty much any ‘Music to Duel By’ songs will work. Especially “Shadow Games,” “We’ll Be There,” “No Matter What,” and “Duel Madness.” Any of the character themes of the monster summoning themes are good, too. They help me get in the mood, especially that first one.

E: If you wrote a sequel to [insert fic], what would it be about?

A sequel to “Geemu no Joo” would probably include silly scenes, like Atem working in ‘Jii-chan’s game shop or Bekhura meeting Ryou’s father. I think it would be about the developing relationships that are being/will be established in “GnJ,” as well as maybe more adventures against a new villain, like Dartz or someone.

F: Share a snippet from one of your favorite dialogue scenes you’ve written and explain why you’re proud of it.

I’m really happy with the conversation held between Pegasus and Shadi in the prologue. Writing it and then rereading it later, it was seriously the part that made me continue on with the story.

G: Do you write your story from start to finish, or do you write the scenes out of order?

I’m trying my darn hardest to write this baby from start to finish. And it is an uphill battle all the way, believe me.

H: How would you describe your style?

Too close to Dickens for my own taste, tbh. I sure love commas, don’t I? And weird, flowery, descriptive language? But, on the other hand, someone left a comment telling me how immersive my writing was and how appealing it was to read, so I guess I won’t complain too much.

I: Do you have a guilty pleasure in fic (reading or writing)?

Characters who are holding hands and gazing into each other’s eyes, aaaah!... Especially Ryou and Bekhura. Also writing loving cuddles and kisses with Yuugi and Atem.

J: Write or describe an alternative ending to [insert fic].

First, I need to write the canon ending. But (SPOILERS!) it will be a happy ending, so I guess alternatives would include unhappy endings... Like, for examples, if certain characters didn’t survive...

K: What’s the angstiest idea you’ve ever come up with?

Actual canon for the previous incarnation of this fic, “the Queen of Games,” not only was Ryou molested at one point in the story, which leads to Bakura’s sad past being revealed, but the story’s sequel would have included Yugi and Atem suffering a miscarriage and losing their child. You’re welcome.

L: How many times do you usually revise your fic/chapter before posting?

Generally two or three times. I used to think once was fine, but I’ve been revising and editing a lot more diligently in recent months.

M: Got any premises on the back burner that you’d care to share?

Unrelated to this fic, but ask me about my EEnE fic plot bunny if you dare.

N: Is there a fic you wish someone else would write (or finish) for you?

O: How do you begin a story–with the plot, or the characters?

I started this story with characters and ships that I wanted to use in mind. The plot came later.

P: Are you what George R. R. Martin would call an “architect” or a “gardener”? (How much do you plan in advance, versus letting the story unfold as you go?)

... Both? I have a basic structure written out, but a lot of details, like specific actions or dialogue, just sort of fill in as they happen. And then sometimes they don’t work and I have to rewrite some things.

Q: How do you feel about collaborations?

R: Are there any writers (fanfic or otherwise) you consider an influence?

S: Any fandom tropes you can’t resist?

Tbh, when I first got into YGO and started readings fanfics, there were so many written by younger viewers in which Yugi, Ryou, and Marik were girls and their darker selves were both separate people and their tboyfriends. For some reason, I really liked that concept. So, at its heart, this fic is my own spin on that trope.

T: Any fandom tropes you can’t stand?

While there are plenty of them, I don’t know how many of them are really influential on this fic. Mainly I’m just trying to keep the characters as much like their canon portrayal as possible while also including a few of my own non-conflicting headcanons. Tea/Anzu-bashing might be the only trope I’m really actively writing against, but that’s probably it.

U: Share three of your favorite fic writers and why you like them so much.

V: If you could write the sequel (or prequel) to any fic out there not written by yourself, which would you choose?

W: Do you like more general prompts, or more specific ones?

X: A character you enjoy making suffer.

Malik, apparently.

Y: A character you want to protect.

Malik has been through a lot, including getting his heart broken, his feelings trampled on, being manipulated by his “lover” into killing his own father, and nearly being killed by his “lover” for the amusement of a dark god. I kinda feel bad for the guy and want to give him his happy ending as soon as possible.

Z: Major character death–do you ever write/read it? Is there a character whose death you can’t tolerate?

Spoilers for “GnJ:” Later on in the story, there will be some character deaths and some near-death experiences. I won’t say who, but yeah, be ready for that. *evil grin*