#and I imagine aides dancing with each other to practice

[rushpush]

I have sometimes a random Headcanon, that Washington teached his aides or La Fayette to dance and I just can’t get rid of it!

[khaosrealms]

MERCHANT’S TRADE. / BARAKA X OUTWORLD! READER

a/n: this is a request that is dedicated to @odditycircus-2002 ! compliments to my work mean so much to me— so the least i can is do something for y’all in exchange 💕 thank you so much again as always for supporting my work ! 🧡

- It's suicide. That's what your associates told you when you'd made the choice to begin trade with the diseased folk of the Tarkatan colony. A fool's idea, tantamount to throwing away every bit of life you might have left in you. Yet, you'd refused to be told what to do with your own choices. Perhaps it was seeing the diseased be wrangled around Sun Do, maybe it was knowing there was business opportunity there untouched--- either way, taking all your goods with you and traveling by cover of the night, you made your way towards the Tarkatan colony with your head held high. Your goods held even higher.

- You'd prepared yourself for all kinds of terrible things. Whispers from those who had spoke of bloodshed and gore and the horrid smell of death and miasma. Draped yourself in big fabrics that touch would not invade. Covered your lips and nose with a scarf to keep the bacterium away. You'd expected brutality, crudely, but what greeted you instead was--- a community. A community lead by a well-spoken man, infected with Tarkat. If the weather hadn't already made you sweat, your own egregious precaution was enough to make a bead fall down your forehead.

"You put yourself in harm's way, traveling this far, merchant." In-between his rasping words, you can sense a degree of professionalism. A man, who much like yourself, had walked the world of trade. He keeps his distance from you as you stand on the precipice of the colony's entrance; arms locked over his chest. Protective, it seems. Making his body the barrier between the community he seems leader of and yourself. It's admirable, and even though you don't vocalize it, you hope your neutral posture is enough to show that you respect it. "I'm well aware." There's a flicker of confusion in the man's eyes. Hesitation lapsing over it. Then, with a pause of silence, curiosity. Flicking over at you and the large sacks of goods that sit behind you. "Aware that Tarkat has no sentence but death?" You don't know what to call the expression he makes when you take off the scarf covering your face. You think-- it's hope. But for now, you accept it as relief. "Aware that there is always trade to be found wherever hungry mouths wait." His laugh is deep and ghastly; so rough you can almost feel it in your chest. And even though his features are marred with scars and extra incisors, you can tell he's smiling. You'd never breathed such a large sigh of relief.

- His name was Baraka, as you'd come to learn well and fast. The people there practically calling his name once every minute. To discuss, to ask for assistance, to mediate. Everywhere you'd go in the colony, it seemed he was needed; and in a slightly less measure, it seems you were needed to. The hungry mouths. Citizens who needed shelter from the elements and clothing to keep themselves warm at night. Medicine, not for Tarkat, but for all the other afflictions that danced alongside of it. The fact that there had been so many people even still alive in the colony was proof enough to you. The people here needed external aid--- and the man who'd welcomed you at the gate was holding them altogether better than anyone you'd imagined could. A man who, after seeing the goods you'd be willing to trade, and some you'd been willing to give free of cost, requested you stick around. Who were you to say no to a good business offer?

- It was nice having a consistent business partner. Outworld was a savage mistress for traders, and though you hadn't expected to continue returning to the Tarkatan colony, you did. For months, you went back and forth from your home to the colony. Spending longer each time, even given a small corner in the commune to reside on your own when you were there to trade large quantities. Then, sometimes at night, you'd get the rare opportunity to spend time with your business partner. Share a drink or, often times, more than two--- talking for hours on end on all sorts of topics. Always across from a fire; as if the flames themselves would prevent the Tarkat from diving out to you. Baraka reminiscing on his life before his disease, his time as a merchant, now as a leader-- all while you listened, and you could see the relief in his eyes to being heard. As if it's been years since he's confided in another soul. Sat beside another living being when you'd planted yourself beside him to share another drink. Not fearing his Tarkat or his teeth or his crimson red eyes, turned ruby under bonfire light.

- Baraka wouldn't risk touch. He hasn't been touched since the disease took to him. Maybe it's the liquor that makes it seem possible. Maybe it's the reason why he doesn't pull away when you nudge him with your shoulder, cackling from a raspy, dark joke he had made. That small safety the shirt over your skin gifts. The momentary warmth that he can feel against his skin as you tap your thigh against his, pointing out the wide moon smiling down at you both. Not on ounce of fear or disgust in your features. Making the wine you’d begun to pour into his cup even sweeter. The hand you leave on his shoulder as you wish him a good night even warmer on his skin. Whatever small moment had passed that night, enriched with mulled wine and liquor, stayed in Baraka’s mind— even as the next day passed, and the day after that. Remaining on that moment; and the way you’d looked at him. Something he hadn’t felt in years— not since Tarkat had taken to him. Something he feared. The thought of someone like You.

[galebrainrot2024]

The Afternoon

A continuation of Night One | Day One a Gale point of view fic. We're going to ride this train as long as it will let me. I really enjoy writing Gale and grateful to have you along for the ride!

Master List | Ao3

“You led them straight to us!” The tension was palpable between the Tiefling and Man as they crossed the precipice of the enclave. Gale knew Goblins were not to be trifled with as they came in swarms, like ants, relentless in droves but singularly relatively harmless. 

The words that were spat between the two were lost on Gale because his attention was on the deep-seated hunger shaking his core. He needed a moment of privacy to absorb the weave from a necklace he managed to get his hands on. 

Although he worried whether Astarion would share his findings, he was focused on quieting the orb. There was enough at stake and the last thing he wanted was to cause any trouble. Or, worse, be expelled from the group. 

He was never particularly good at keeping company for extended periods of time, instead preferring one-off conversations to deep friendships. Sometimes he wondered if that was due to him. Even as a child it was difficult for him to keep friends, the relationships devolving over time due to jealousy, teasing, or the like. Gale was a bit thick-headed at times and he recognized his ego left something to be desired. 

But he had been Mystra’s chosen, after all, perhaps that ego was well founded. 

Had been, another part of himself reminded him, as if he forgot. Gale couldn’t help himself, though, as you pulled him from reverie. The tension all but recoiled, the air less threatening. His brows rose, curiosity piqued by your ability to calm the situation without so much as an incantation. 

This happened more than a few times throughout the day. Your soft heart made his own ache as you handled each situation with finesse, empathy, and your focus seemed centered on the aid of the other. 

Gale rather admired that, and he wondered whether you would cast him out once he needed to reveal his secret. 

It did not escape him that some of your companions were less than enthused by your bleeding heart. As he lolly-gagged, Shadowheart stopped a moment to rifle through her pack. “At this rate we’ll transform before we can find a healer,” she muttered under her breath. “I mean honestly, why do they seem intent on helping every straggler we come across?” 

Gale shrugged, waiting for her before moving forward with the rest. “I think it’s admirable.” Gale noted the surprise on her face.

“I thought wizards were only interested in power,” she scoffed. 

“An old wives tale, I assure you,” though that wasn’t necessarily true. Gale wouldn’t be in part of this predicament if it weren’t for his greed for more. 

A moment that was seared into Gale’s memory, though, was when you confronted Kagha. A child was in her midst, she threatening to jail her - or worse. He felt his teeth grind together in disbelief but before he could chime in, you stood up for the girl without hesitation. 

Gale studied your resolve, how your nostrils flared, how your cheeks brushed with crimson more delicate than a rose’s petal. He felt the same stirring within his gut, a stir he hadn’t felt in some time. Not even with Mystra. 

The last time he felt this way he was out for a drink at the Yawning Portal, chatting up people at the bar when he kept catching the eye of another patron. You can imagine where the night led. 

Gale turned the memory over, sad almost that the young, confident man he once was had been replaced by this shell of a person. Although his hubris was still comparable, the folly of youth was long gone. No longer did he think he could woo anyone with simple cantrips and honeyed-words. He was out of practice. 

Still, he noticed how the light of the candles danced across your face, and how a subtle smell of dirt and fire and something he couldn’t place caught him each time you moved. He caught himself inhaling deeply each time he did. 

Gale watched Arabella sprint up the stairs and out of the din, admiring your spirit. 

“Quit gawking,” Astarion chuckled, poking him in the rib. “Someone is obviously pent up.” 

Gale stiffened, brushing off his robes. “I have no idea what you’re implying, Astarion. I do rather enjoy our ventures in silence, don’t you?” 

Astation frowned and tutted away. 

You turned to Gale, lightly touching his shoulder, “Can you believe that monster was about to imprison a child?” He froze, looking down where your fingertips met his shoulder, swallowing hard. He was shocked by the sensations it sent through him, the warmth, the craving for more. 

By the gods, he was touch starved. He felt ridiculous, getting so worked up like this when it was no time to be getting worked up about. Not like that, anyway. 

“Monstrous is one word for it,” he grimaced, ignoring the quickening of his pulse. “What is youth but a time to be forgiven for one’s transgressions?” 

You smiled, a glint of deviousness in your eyes. He was taken back by the depth of them, how full of life and emotion they were. “Why do I have a feeling you had a few… youthful transgressions to be forgiven?” 

He felt his lips curl and he shrugged playfully, “Hard to say one way or another. I’m impressed by your remarkable guile and courage, though, standing up for the girl in the state we’re in,” he tapped on his head, “I’m not sure how well I could fight, considering our most recent tenants.” 

Your attention was pulled, though, by Shadowheart who cowered in the corner, away from the wolf in the room. Gale fingered the amulet in his pocket, turning around and absorbed the weave as quietly as he could manage.  

[wifetomegatron]

a study in metal and silk. mtmte imagines.

I think there's just something about the stark contrast between fabric and metal that makes me feral. The sharp, striking counterpoint of sentio metallico against human skin. It makes me lightheaded to think of the gentle brushes and soft strokes exchanged between cybertronians and their humans lovers — how painfully tender these titans try to be with hands that have most likely torn ships apart.

Fort Max holding your coat up and letting you glide one arm in after the other, cashmere wool against cyberium — and to think that when in oil form, it has the chance of poisoning you. Yet welded into his armor, the metal was ( what you claimed ) your favorite thing about him. You'd pepper kisses along his servos, feather-light and playful, against each finger to thank him for being such a gentlemech. He was always at a loss when it came to your soft gestures as if his hands hadn't been bloodied and torn and scathed with energon. Yet he doesn't have the strength to protest when you lay your cheek against his palm, which was big enough to cover your entire head, even with his mass displaced.

First Aid helping his beloved into their shirt, your eyes barely open as the sunlight hits you square in the face. You wanted to ask him why he had opened the curtains this early in the morning, on a Sunday too, but you can't seem to focus on anything else but his servos. The bed creaked and dipped on his side, the mattress straining under his weight even if you've lined it with a layer of metal below. He looks funny against the pristine blankets, and despite his reputation for a set of steady hands, they were still bulky and square. So he takes his time looping the buttons into their respective holes, and you rest your forehead against his shoulder, already lulling back to sleep. Your heartbeat was a strange, distant sound against the humming of his spark.

Minimus slowly eased his human out of their ballet slippers, untying the ribbons one by one: careful, patient, servos already soothing the irritated skin. The pink satin looks alien against his grip, out of place. And yet he handles them with care, knowing how much you prize them. His mouth ghosts over your knee, trailing down as he massages your ankle. He's saying something about not pushing yourself too hard, and you want to call him out for being a hypocrite, but it's impossible to speak when you're drowning in the sensation of his touch as it brushes over the hem of your skirt. So you sit in silence; admiring, watching, as he continues to give you a lecture (lovingly, of course).

Rodimus, adjusting you as you cling onto his back, arms looped around his neck as he grips both of your thighs on either side of his waist. He gives you a playful squeeze, and you laugh into his jugular cables, high heels — black leather and polymer — dangling off your fingers as he piggybacks you back home. He tells you that you should've gone with the more practical choice, and you tease him about sounding like his co-captain. Relishing in the subtle thrum of his frame against your chest, slumping forward to press your lips against his cheek — smooth, unbending, yet warm to the touch. Different from your perception of what metal feels like, you have to remind yourself living metal is far from cold. 

Ratchet sliding your gloves over your hands, the article of clothing an inconvenient little thing to a Cybertronian. And yet, for you, they help keep the cold out — especially when insulated by wool. The golden brooch by the ends of each wrist glinted under the streetlamp. Above, snowflakes danced in the light, a choreographed ballet conducted by the gentle wind. You tell him you feel warmer already, yet the medic doesn't seem convinced, holding your arms and lifting your fingers to his intake. He ex-vents, once, twice, the air warm enough for you to feel past the fabric. He then lays your palms across his chest and scoffs, pulling you flush against him. Ratchet says that if you were cold, you should've said it ages ago.

(suggestive, mdni!)

Megatron kneeling before you, servos dextrous as they give your stockings an experimental tug upwards, before rolling them down to your knee in one fluid movement. He hovers his intake over your inner thigh, the stiff arch of his helm, dipping against the curve of your skin. Your breathing quickened, and he seemed to hear this, already moving to undo the other leg. He holds you like you'll break any second. As if you were a porcelain doll, a thing of glass. You tell him that you can be malleable. That you can learn to bend and embrace him — and he seems drunk at the thought. He pushed the straps of your chemise, thin and flimsy, down each shoulder. Easing you back on the bed. And the fabric pooled around your waist to reveal your chest, silk moving like water against the seams of his plating.

[rel124c41]

NOW PLAYING ‘EVERYBODY LOVES A CLOWN’ BY GARY LEWIS & THE PLAYBOYS. floyd leech

The truest mark of a jester is not in his ability to make others laugh, but in his capacity to find humor in his own pain.

tags: unrequited love, hurt no comfort, character study, friendship, wishful thinking, angst, floyd is in his stańczyk era, complicated relationships

word count: 2,282

The game is in the first quarter. There are twelve minutes on the clock.

Floyd does not know where to start his confession to you.

As he plays, he tries to come up with ideas of love confessions: a dance, a letter, a bite, or a gentle touch? Planning however puts a damper on the sweetness of what should be a romantic fantasy. Not that Floyd allows the turmoil to show, he plays perfectly. Each move of his is effortless, on the court and when playing with you.

He has been trying for a while to confess. Cowardness ties him up like seaweed.

If anyone were to rival Floyd’s energy, it would be you. You are eudaimonia incarnate. Flourishing with happiness and good spirit, you are a wonderful yet unexpected addition to Night Raven College. Where even Floyd falls into tepid moods of anger or sadness, you stay afloat. Somehow, someway, you are always happy.

Dribbling at practice, Crabby once joked that you were made of sugar, spice, and everything nice. Floyd yearns to know what a combination like that would taste on his tongue in a mating bite, sealing you two in marriage.

The Coral Sea is a triptych of shadow black, unwelcoming black, and cold black. You jump into his world, exploding with the color your soul carries. Through grimacing eyesight, he watches the gaiety of you bounce around even if it is blinding. You are the pinkest of pinks. You are the brightest orange that would rival sunkist shrimps. You are as yellow as the sun or a sky of stars, all consuming.

If shooting stars could fall into anyone’s eyes, they would fall into yours. Making little homes of fluctuating solar energy and the thumping glow of hydrogen and helium. The only eyes worthy of having stars in them.

He can feel the heat of those blazing stars on his neck as Sea Snake passes the basketball to him at midcourt line.

You sit in the bleachers with a handmade poster in your hands. To keep himself happy, Floyd deludes himself with the image of you making it alone. Without anyone handing you certain markers or glue for the glitter, you wrote WIN WIN WIN FLOYD in big, bubble letters for him and him alone. In his mind, you did not ask for the green colored pencil from anyone’s hand to shade in the caricature eel’s skin and you did not hyena-laugh when you accidentally got glitter on someone’s cheek or clothes.

The delusion of a reality where you only think about him 24/7 is sugar, spice, and everything nice. That is eudaimonia.

When Floyd scores twice in the first quarter with the aid of Sea Snake, you raise that poster up. Cheers from you are whole-hearted and never half-assed, you put everything into rallying encouragement you hope reaches and motivates Floyd.

You could frown and it would still motivate him.

When he scores for the third time, there are no vocal cheers shining down from the bleachers. Looking at the sea of unimportant guppies, he finds the reason your lips are silent. You are sharing a kiss with Jade, just two short pecks. Something you definitely initiated as Jade is timid with affection.

As he turns back to the court, Floyd imagines his confession would go like this:

“I love ya, Shrimpy.”

You laugh, almost falling off your seat, and say with a happy grin, “That’s a good one, Floyd. Tell another joke!”

The game is in the second quarter. There are twelve minutes on the clock.

Floyd is a clownfish of an eel. Not entirely like Crabby or Sea Otter, but Floyd has been marked as a class clown enough. Loud and boisterous, he is a presence that fertilizes laughter and amusement with ease. Perhaps the amusement is only shared by him, Jade, and Azul mostly, but it is still a jester’s position he has fallen into.

Nothing he says is ever taken seriously unless his words are threats. Unlike Jade, whose words are always heeded and who is taken seriously as a plague.

Floyd can be serious too though! Him and Jade are cut from the same cloth. Why can’t you see the other side of him? Why can’t your bright star eyes comprehend him as something more than a joking jester?

For a while, Floyd was content in that position. Jingling bells, stomping around in oversized shoes, falling over himself to fish that melodious laughter out of your throat. And then one of Jade’s mushroom puns got you snort in the midst of stomach deep laughter. Since then, no matter how many more quarters he plays, Floyd knows he lost.

Pure laughter is pure love in many cultures. And he, trapped in that monk’s cowl and sea anglerfish bells costume, has failed to make you laugh in that same intensity.

As he dribbles and passes the basketball, blocks shots and runs across the court, Floyd unpurposely distracts himself with a vile memory:

A party in Ramshackle. Not as extravagant as Sea Otter’s but still entertaining. As always, Floyd was like a lamp for tiny moths to gather around. Despite his pendulum-ing emotions, his company is enjoyable.

One off stories and jokes were a jester’s speciality. Capturing the attention of your friends and his fellow second years, Floyd keeps the conversation light and draws laughs out of throats like the Sea Witch once did with the little mermaid’s voice. The corner of where he is in Ramshackle is usually the loudest, brimming with comedy. The kind that should have gotten you to come over and ask curious, “What’s so funny?”

Crabby would have dismissed you but Floyd would have reeled you right in. His little Shrimpy, snug under his protective arm, as he recounted another story.

You do not laugh.

You do not look.

You just do not care.

That fucking party in Ramshackle? You spent it giving Jade a tour around the place, showing him the garden you started in the backyard, and chatting with that magnetizing, permanent smile on your lips. Before you two even were dating.

Floyd knows he does not have your total attention. Your attention is always spread in too many directions in his opinion. But sometimes, he wants more than anything for just one period of twenty-four hours where all you think about is him.

You may hold a sign with his name on it but he is not your focus. Star eyes follow the basketball that bounces from player to player; you watch the game fully, but not him.

Who would ever want to see a crying clown?

The game is in the third quarter. There are twelve minutes on the clock.

And Floyd finds himself benched.

Coach pulls him out of the game when five minutes are left in the second quarter. Coach worries about that rapidly declining mood of his in the second quarter. It is a volatile, gambling choice but the Coach thinks it is the correct one. Better to have him refuel and get back into the swing of the game. “Have a Gatorade and take a minute, Leech. No need to dig yourself down.” Floyd doesn’t want to drink his passion fruit Gatorade, he wants a different drink and he wants a peppermint to crush between his sharp teeth.

Elbows on knees and head in hands, Floyd watches the red clock go down number by number. Anger pulses off him like smoke. Fifty-eight. Fifty-seven. Fifty-six. Fifty-five. Stupid fucking Coach. Stupid fucking game. Stupid fucking Gatorade. Forty-nine. Forty –

“Peppermint for your thoughts?”

Stupid fucking Coach, Floyd thinks a second time. As is per tradition, if Floyd ever finds himself on the bench, call in Shrimpy. A small little crustacean that can reverse whirlpools back to sailable water and can make even the hungriest shark swim in the opposite direction of blood.

“It's a penny for ya thoughts,” Floyd grumbles into his hand.

“Nah, I don’t think so!” Is it possible to hear a smile in a voice? Because it feels like you speak in smiles; he imagines an alien language made by grins, one where no words like bad moods or anger exist. “Can’t eat a penny, can you?”

You take a seat by him on the bench. The space is left wide open because no one ever wants to risk being so close to the eel-mer when he is explosive with rage. When you sit, your shoulders bump together and from hip to shin, you two press against one another.

“So, the doctor is in. Doc. Shrimpy.”

Even when you are handing him something, his world minimizes down to the sight of your star eyes. The crunch of a peppermint wrapper in his hand is infinitesimal to the scorch of nuclear fusion and fire.

Still, he pops it in and relishes in the calming breakage of candy in his razor sharp teeth, replying, “I don’t know, just pissed I missed that shot.”

“Yeah, I saw that.” Liar. “I also saw you make two of the cleanest shots of the entire game in the first five minutes of the game.” Floyd hums instead of grumbling. It is the slightest, micro improvement but you still hammer on your past doctor-slash-therapist metaphor. “Say aaah for Doc. Shrimpy!”

This is the hardest part of being a clown. You do sweet, pseudo-romantic things with Floyd and never take it seriously. Everything between the two of you is shrouded under the blanket of comedy. There are zero feelings behind it. Even when you unknowingly partake in eel courtship (opening your mouth wide as you demonstrate your ‘aaah’), it is hollow and satire. And when you learn about his species’ courtship you will really only mean it with intent when you are with Jade.

“Aaah!”

Into his mouth, you pour a drink. His shoulders recoil at bit, premature disgust at the thought of tasting passion fruit which he is not in the mood to drink. Floyd is surprised when the drink starts to fizz in his mouth.

As he savors it, the carbonation and sourness a welcome burn in his throat, you smile and show him the drink you have on hand. “Shit’s good, right?” In front of him, you shake a monstrously bright pink and yellow can with the words Ghost on it. “Sour pink lemonade.”

You take the Ghost you just waterfall into Floyd’s mouth and down your own sip. Be careful, Shrimpy, Floyd thinks. Sharing food and drink is also a part of courtship.

“Gross, Shrimpy. You backwash?”

“Yeah, I did. How does loogie and lemonade taste?”

At that, Floyd snatches up the energy drink from your hands. He downs a much larger sip, going as far as to have some spill around the corner of his mouth. He takes the opportunity too to touch his lips on where yours once were.

Once he robs you of half your lemonade, Floyd brings his wrist to wipe his chin and grins wolfish, “My compliments to the chef! Think Azul’ll add it to the menu?”

You laugh just as Floyd was aiming for, all saccharine and lovely, and joke, “Oh my spit could make a fortune! I can see it now!”

“Shrimpy spit?”

“Oh my God, Shrimpy spit! It has alliteration!”

You two fall into each other, cackling and laughing at the stupidity. When your hair brushes his cheek, Floyd thinks of how easy it would be to find his lips falling to a place more forbidden than the metal rim of an energy drink can.

After you both stop laughing: “Ya gonna feed me some more, Shrimpy?”

“Hm, I don’t know. Mmm, how about this,” you grin, stretching out your sentences teasingly. “I have some takoyaki with your name up there on the bleachers. Jade and I made it yesterday. You can have the rest when you win this game!”

Your star eyes burn him. Floyd melts under their intensity.

The game is in the fourth quarter. There are twelve minutes on the clock.

Everybody loves a clown, so why don’t you?

Has he not been enough? Self-sacrificial to always keep you bright and laughing, giving you his own light, letting you bleed him dry until his skin is sandpaper and his bone rice. This constant fear that he should always try to keep you happy lies in his heart like a nematode worm.

His sugar, spice, and everything nice Shrimpy who does not belong to him.

Standing on the edge of the 3 point line, Floyd, despite his cowardice, sends out the last shot of the game.

The basketball glides across the rim like a ship caught in a whirlpool, once. Then a second time, it makes its circular route around the open mouth of victory, leaning capriciously. With a suicidal fall, the basketball falls to the right. It bounces double on the ground before rolling away out of Floyd’s reach. Over the white tape of the endline, the orange ball is now out of the court, signaling the end.

Though under typical circumstances that losing shot should usher him into despair, a smile grows on Floyd’s face. It is only broken when he starts to laugh, his own joy singular in the groans and moans of his teammates.

He turns towards the bleachers, knowing you are expecting a miserable frown; he waves happily at you when your worried eyes fall onto him. You are out of his court. But … eels mate for life which means … Floyd gets to keep you in his life, just a bit out of reach, as he dreams of your love, not knowin’ where to start.

The game ends in the fourth quarter. There are no minutes left.

[theflyindutchwoman]

| ANATOMY OF A SCENE - ANTHOLOGY |

So this is something that started as a way to occupy myself during this long hiatus… To make my rewatch that much more fun. But I never would have imagined writing so many analyses. My original plan was maybe a dozen… two dozens if I was feeling really inspired… Most importantly : I never expected that many responses… It has been so heartwarming to read your comments every time. So from the bottom of my heart : thank you all.

To make it a bit simpler and easier to navigate, here is the complete masterlist (that I will keep updated).

| SEASON 01 1.01 - The meeting 1.03 - Outside Isabel's apartment 1.05 - Roundup Winners 1.06 - Money Clip 1.07 - Outside Isabel's apartment 1.11 - For what? doing my job? 1.18 - Paintball 1.19 - Checklist 1.20 - Quarantine House

| SEASON 02 2.02 - Audiobook 2.03 - Short Sleeves & shirtless 2.04 - Finding a Gift 2.11 - Conversation with Angela • Feral Tim • The Rescue • You know me so well 2.12 - The Ring 2.13 - Say bye to the Promotion 2.14 - Kojo 2.17 - Conversation in the shop

| SEASON 03 3.01 - Part of his job description 3.03 - Shooting Range 3.06 - Nova's arrest 3.09 - Last Evaluation 3.14 - Thirsty Nova • Save me a dance     

| SEASON 04 4.01 - Tim's invitation • The Hug 4.02 - Boots! 4.03 - Becoming an aide 4.05 - Kids discussion 4.07 - Undercover Tim 4.09 - The Hug 4.10 - Talking about Ashley 4.12 - Partners at work • Double Date 4.18 - The Dance 4.22 - Practice Kiss • Morning After

| SEASON 05 5.01 - Lucy's dream • Tim & Angela • In the hangar • In the airplane • Holding her hand • Mile High Club • In the Limo • Hotel Room • Do you want to come in? 5.02 - Breakup Scene 5.03 - Radio Silence 5.04 - Going down 5.05 - Keeping Tim company 5.06 - In the parking lot 5.08 - Worth the effort • Unless it is 5.09 - Do you want to go out on a date? 5.10 - Get ready with Chenford • 1st date • Cover Story • In the principal's office • 2nd date 5.11 - Coaching Baseball 5.12 - Tonight's the night • Conversation in the shop • Last shift • Good at other things 5.13 - Tim's Promotion 5.14 - Boots • Tamara 5.16 - Apology • Necklace 5.17 - Happy around each other • Good Influence 5.18 - Interview at Lucy's place 5.19 - Morning Scene • You owe me 5.20 - Pancakes 5.21 - Rom-com Montage • Hospital Room • Shooting at the restaurant • Laundry Room • The Hug 5.22 - The Hug • Battle Couple

[abtrusion]

Homosex Regimes

I walk the rest of the way alone. Pramod was right; the figure is indeed Kamal, my neighbor, whom I've known for several years. He sleeps outside his family's house in the lane; he is the youngest of several brothers, who are mostly tailors; he has held several jobs during the time I have known him; he has been fired from a soap factory and now works on odd tailoring jobs with his brother and several other tailors; he supplements his meager income, as before, by cruising street corners in this part of the city, in men's clothes but with a bend of the waist -- lachak -- and jiggle of the bottom -- mathak; he hangs with a group of sahelis, who often dance for weddings, in saris, somewhat like hijras. "They do births; we do weddings," Kamal once said of the difference between him and the girlfriends on one hand and hijras on the other. "Where are you coming from?" he laughs. I evade his question, and tell him his friend Ram Prasad, whom he sometimes calls Rita, has been bothering me, stopping me on busy roads in broad daylight and making passes. With sahelis, Kamal calls himself Kamala. "And what am I called?" I once pleaded somewhat pathetically, afraid to be out of the loop. "You, you're called my husband," Kamala returned. "But I don't want to be your husband." "Yes, you do, of course you do. And what else could you be?" "Your friend… your saheli." "You can't be my saheli, you're too siddhe-sada [straight and regular]…" I perhaps misread "straight," and responded: "What do you know? I have a husband in America." "Oh, that again." "Why won't you believe me? I do." "You really want to be a saheli?" "Do I look like I want to be your husband?" "Well. We'll see. We'll call you Anita. Anita Devi." [1]

The 20th century gay search for history saw transfeminized groups enlisted as highly visible and global examples of male homosexuality. Combining the anthropological "third gender" obsession with longstanding USAmerican "gay tourism" practices in Latin America and Southeast Asia, academics like Lawrence Cohen, Don Kulick, David Valentine, and Tom Boellstorff performed long-term fieldwork with transfeminized groups alongside and through the burst of NGO global health scholarship that came with the AIDS epidemic. The opening vignette is one product of this strange joining, and Cohen’s uncertainty is not just a question of academic-race-class divides [2], although that's certainly part of it. Rather than being held to the standards of the groups they were working with, masculine gay academics like Cohen and Kulick were much more tractable as "trade" or "panthis" or "husbands," the quasi-marked group of 'straight men' that transfeminized groups tended to fuck. The ideal of ethnography is "participant observation," sharing the long-term rhythms of everyday life and work with a group, and while Kulick et. al certainly fucked, they were fitting in and "participating" as a very different group than the people they were studying. This is a collection of a few of these moments of awkwardness, points where several different regimes of homosex-gender rubbed shoulders with each other.

David Valentine is probably the scholar that engaged with this most intentionally. His 2008 text Imagining Transgender: an Ethnography of a Category traces "transgender" as it emerged from Bay Area activism out through the rest of the US, carried in large part by NGO and activist institutions. He begins the book with one of these moments of friction:

‘‘I’ve been gay all my life, been a woman all my life,’’ says Fiona. I am sitting with Fiona and five other people around a table at the semi-monthly support group for transgender-identified people with HIV at New York Hospital in Manhattan. Two of us—myself and James, the group facilitator—identify as non-transgender gay men and are white, male-bodied, middle-class professionals. The other five, including Fiona, though born male, present themselves and live their lives as feminine people and are either African American or Latina. However, although the group is billed as a transgender support group, none of the participants routinely refer to themselves as transgender. More often, they talk about themselves as girls, sometimes as fem queens, every now and then as women, but also very often as gay, this category being one I share with them in talking about myself. ... This is not to say that Fiona and her peers did not make distinctions between themselves and other kinds of people, though. This became apparent when I turned up for the next meeting two weeks later. With great sensitivity for my feelings, the participants told me that it might be best if I didn’t attend the group anymore. Not everyone felt this way: Diana said she didn’t mind if I attended because ‘‘we’re all gay.’’ However, Frederique, speaking for the majority, said: ‘‘You aren’t a girl, you don’t have boobs and this figure,’’ motioning down her body with her hands. ‘‘With you here, there’s another man in the room.’’ Even though Diana, Frederique, and other members of the group had spent much time jesting with me about our common identification as ‘‘gay,’’ it was clear that being ‘‘gay’’ meant something different for me and them.[3]

While nearly every one of these academics were deemed only partially 'gay' because of their masculinity, Valentine was the one to make a book out of it. He focuses almost entirely on how people answered direct and indirect questions about gay / woman / butch queen / fem queen / TV / TG / TS status, and while he is nominally interested in "transgender," that term mostly just appears in his literature review. He's very distant for an ethnographer (and of all of them, I think he was probably the only one that didn't fuck), but the book is still good for both the institutional trace and the actual systemic grounding of "transgender."

Don Kulick brings lesbians into the picture. While he does express plenty of the standard trade anxiety (above) in his 1998 book, there's something especially interesting in his certainly named article "Fe/male Trouble: The Unsettling Place of Lesbians in the Self-images of Brazilian Travesti Prostitutes:"

Keila is here expressing an opinion that I found to be prevalent among travestis in Salvador. Numerous stories circulate among travestis about how lesbians are attracted to them. Almost any travesti can tell stories about how lesbians have come on to them. One travesti told me that several lesbians who lived on the same street as she were 'impassioned' (apaixionadas) with her, one so much so that she would 'go up to the sky and take down the moon' if the travesti wanted it. Another woman once told me that she was having a clandestine relationship with a woman who she said was a lesbian (This travesti was a notorious liar and other travestis to whom I mentioned this doubted that it was true. What is important in this context, however, is that the speaker stressed that the woman was a lesbian). Yet another individual who lived for years as a travesti, and who has prominent breasts from years of hormone consumption, but who now dresses in male clothing and considers himself to be 'bisexual,' lived for 6 years with a woman who works as a prostitute and who is considered by everyone (including, I am told, by herself) to be a lesbian. And the occasional woman who accompanies her husband when he seeks out the sexual services of travestis is always considered by travestis to have 'something lesbian in her disposition' (um quê de lesbica na mente dela). I have no idea of the extent to which Brazilians seeing a travesti in male clothing will actually identify that travesti as a lesbian. The point is, however, that travestis themselves are convinced that they are seen in that way. What is more, there are occasions on which they see one another in this way: two travestis living together as a couple (something which in fact occurs only extremely rarely in Salvador) are talked about as a lesbian couple, and one of the words used to describe the kind of sex they are publicly imagined to be having is roça-roça (rub-rub) -- the same word used to describe lesbian sex (the other expression used to describe this kind of sex is quebrar a louca -- literally 'break the china,' an expression whose meaning I am still puzzling over).[4]

More broadly, the piece argues that "travestis interpret lesbians as commentaries not primarily on femininity, but rather as on travestis. They see lesbians as 'caricatures of tranvestis' (uma caricatura do travesti)." This isn't especially interesting, and Kulick kind of hates the people he's working with, but it's at least quite in the weeds. One thing that strikes me is the way the dick is positioned in many of these anecdotes: several travestis Kulick cites "just don't get" lesbianism because unlike with gay men, there's no dick to use, and Kulick ultimately argues that his travesti acquaintances believe lesbians want them for "one distinctive male body part;" whether or not that's true in the way Kulick describes, the travestis he speaks to certainly see themselves as objects of lesbian desire:

I asked Keila if she perhaps didn't feel comfortable around lesbians because lesbians didn't like travestis. Her reply was completely unexpected: 'No,' she said, 'the worse thing is that they like them more -- I think here in Salvador, lesbian women look at travestis as instruments of pleasure. They are turned on by travestis.' [4]

There is something else in this piece about "caricature," but to end this let's look at Tom Boellstorff's 2005 text "The Gay Archipelago," which provides a few good anecdotes from yet another direction. Boellstorff is predominantly concerned with gay men in Indonesia, and he spends the text contrasting them sharply with warias, a transfeminized group that coalesced over the 60s and 70s in postcolonial Indonesia; "waria preexisted gay, but they now form a binarism making thinkable a noneffeminate male homosexuality." His work with Indonesian gay men constantly navigated this tension:

During my Surabaya fieldwork I conducted three focus groups bringing together approximately ten gay men for an evening in a neutral environment. Toward the end of one focus group a debate broke out between the members of the group and Faisal, a gay man who assisted me in moderating the groups. We were discussing marriage when the focus group members asked if Faisal or I would ever marry. My negative reply brought surprised looks, but it was Faisal’s firm contention that he would never marry (“because I am gay after all”) that brought an air of distress to the room. No one was more upset than Ikbal, a friend of Andy who was married to a woman. “Maybe you are more modern and liberal, Faisal. I am absolutely in disagreement and unhappy with your decision. I’m sure you could do it with a woman if you tried.” “Ikbal, I think you are biseks,” Faisal said, using a term unfamiliar to most gay men that reflected his work in HIV prevention. “But I only became able to have sex with a woman after I got married. You’ve already condemned yourself to be gay,” Ikbal replied. Murmurs broke out around the room. One person said, “I think that Faisal is really waria, not gay, because he never plans to marry.” Ikbal leapt on the statement: “Faisal, the problem with you is that you don’t want to take any steps toward being normal. You’re being shallow.” Then, in exasperation, Ikbal turned to me: “I just can’t imagine you not getting married, Tom. I’m trying to understand it, but my mind just can’t believe it. I’ve always assumed that all men get married, even warias, even gay men.” [5]

Boellstorff and Faisal consider heterosexual marriage to detract from 'gay' identity, but this contrasts messily with the way that gays distinguished themselves from warias: as Boellstorff notes, "most gay and lesbi Indonesians marry “heterosexually” and may not see this as inconsistent with being gay or lesbi," while warias "are the only major class of persons beyond the disabled who are not typically pressured to marry heterosexually." Heterosexual marriage positively forms gay identity by distinguishing married gays from unmarried warias, but it simultaneously serves as a marker of difference from Boellstorff's unmarried transnational gay, a constant threat of being deemed bisecks. Boellstorff talks a lot about marriage in the text -- it is a major difference between his gay and the gay of many of his interlocutors, and a difference that is being actively targeted by an AIDS NGO focus on super-spreading bisecks men -- and it's also almost certainly informed by the book having been written before any major US gay marriage laws (homonationalism etc). One interesting comparison would be Howard Chiang's Transtopia in the Sinophone Pacific, which discusses gay groups and activism after the 2010s. That's all.

Although waria do have sex with each other on occasion, they tend to regard this as strange, and they joke good-naturedly that it is “like a woman sleeping with a woman.”

Footnotes

Lawrence Cohen, "The Pleasures of Castration," in Sexual Nature, Sexual Culture.

One interesting example of this on the lesbian end can be seen in Sabine Lang's "Travelling Women; Doing a Fieldwork Project on Gender Variance and Homosexuality among North American Indians."

David Valentine, "Imagining Transgender: an Ethnography of a Category"

Don Kulick, "Fe/male Trouble: The Unsettling Place of Lesbians in the Self-images of Brazilian Travesti Prostitutes:"

Tom Boellstorff, "The Gay Archipelago"

[granvarones]

A song about the end.

Ain’t it funny?

I always thought “End of the road” was a funeral song, as it blasted on radios in 1992.

“Although we’ve come to the end of the road, still I can’t let go.”

STILL I CAN’T LET GO.

STILL

I CAN’T LET GO.

It was about the end of a relationship.

What songs are sung about the start of a connection that happens long after death?

On Monday October 26, 1992 Melvin Winfred Dixon “a professor of English at Queens College whose works on African and African-American literature were widely praised, died” his New York Times Obituary read. This was published on October 29, 1992, that was a Thursday. Further, “Professor Dixon died of complications from AIDS.”

How many times have we heard those words echo within our bodies?

AIDS complications

Complications from AIDS

Complicated AIDS

AIDS complicated

AIDS is so complicated.

Our relationship to AIDS is complicated by the histories rendered muck

By the moral antagonism of the time. As Mariah Carey sang in 1990, “love takes time.” They just couldn’t “see” they “treated you wrong.”

Plural you. Big wrongs.

That same day that “Professor Dixon died” I turned 9 years old. I was born in Philadelphia on October 26, 1983 and Dixon died on October 26, 1992 in

Stamford, Connecticut.

Nine, the number of completion.

Melvin died on my birthday.

Big head me, running into the gaze of those who beheld me at a tender age, much to be joyous about. Surrounded by the possibility of the world. Loved on, poured into, not fully seen.

Him, held in the memory of the loved ones gathered to see him depart us earthlings. At rest and filled with the rhapsody of everlasting life in the after. Seen fully, fully loved without question or requirement. I imagine he is not hurting, not overinflamed from a viral death.

I imagine his family still can’t let go.

Do you see him in the Pantheon of AIDS heroes? Or are his glowing bones lodged in a blind spot.

Bright like a stolen diamond, captivating as a Pearl necklace.

“Then there is the chilling threat of erasure.”

After death the archives speculate our disremembrance by suggesting white time.

Because love takes time at the end of the road.

Because you have to first be a person; to be a person living with AIDS.

Because you have to first be a person; to be a person who died of AIDS.

Who died of AIDS?

How many can you count?

Love takes time.

Love takes our time.

Our time is love. A loving time.

STILL

I CAN’T LET GO.

Gone & For Ever

The pain feels like shards of glass in your feet, the milked honey turned into clotted cream.

Wafts of your smell lingers in air, eroding acids enter soil near the disturbed earth you were meant to lay.

I guess this is what it feels like to be dangerously in love, close to you, yet deathly far.

A box on shelves with you inside.

A body to ash, magnificent dust of glittery magic, these bones live and dance their demands of respite.

Melvin transitioned celestially, his words as pillows, his heart bleeding love.

I am here dancing in the practice of making sounds with my quiet anger, forming shapes out of his legacy.

To return to him his body, made home for the spoil of the grid.

The lights out, party floor, quilt made of red ribbons swimming in the sky, a memorial to a full-blown possibility of being.

A cake made of sweet taboo, topped with candles burning rush, eats itself.

As the Pantheon of decadent forebears watches the folding onto each other for the love of sexual rapture.

These lovely bones hold heaven in its gristle. Parts of your world unearthed, saponified remnants of old grudge made new beef.

So I creep to waterfalls made of sand, fisting the stream with calloused hands, I make sculpture out of pounded yam.

I see your silhouette and then this song plays “can I call you Rose (Can I call you Rose?) ‘Cause you’re sweet like a flower in bloom.”

Roots, sacred acre that is washed with the squeeze of one lemon.

They got the juices drooling on mucosa kissed by a bug.

Time after time, making bread out of yeast.

“We got everything to lose with you” like Gary Clark Jr. said.

To lose all of Shange’s stuff, left discarded on Avenue unknown, drenched with rain water and some sweet tea.

A teddy bear ripped open, its insides like cotton clouds of regret lay bare the truth that we are Gone & For Ever.

A body that dies

A body is born.

Then a body grows.

A body is loved.

Then a body hurts.

A body dies.

Then a body is mourned.

Then we are bones.

I love us bone-in.gristle love.fat love.

fall off the bone Black love.

I love you in the Mournin’. salt taste love.

I love you like love ain’t never loved before. futurity love. like we ain’t ‘spose to be here love.

that love.

A body to love. When you have nobody to love.

The reanimated body whispering:

“I am soot-made-mud into moons.”

“If i had the spoons I’d be a glowing red balloon.”

“I am in your stories deeply buried.”

“made to glamor in vanishing rooms. Swept under your feet.”

“Sweet.”

“I am sweet.”

“I live in the phantom times. when macrophage and dendritic cells were in me.”

“I am memory, come to reflect on the boundless archive of neglect.”

“I caught your eyes gazing on me.”

“Love on me.”

“I Tended the cells of my rebirth.”

“Take pride in my bloody ways.”

“I never hid love’s tapestry.

“My body changed territory.”

“I was washed with the glitter of a thousand Black faggots”

“Hung in the cold of past-ness”

Time has a way of looping in the cold, the warm, and the hot.

“Hot like fire”

Our work burns hot into the minds of the possible you.

Grief

Tell the truth,

grief is HEAVY like Effie’s Dream—

gurl, bulbous and magnificent.

“I’m magnificent.”

all you can do is wrap your arms around it.

feel its warmth enrobe you.

let it live in you.

the aliveness of sorrow. the sorrow of being alive.

the salt.

the sweat.

the wail.

Like Rivers

All I see are faces.

What is there to be done about memorial, exalted death mounted on blue clouds, the death rattle now. Our “double cremation” caused by the sexual and gender subjugation in our Blackness, the white supremacy of the maelstorm of gay normativity binds us. Our collective resistance to Black deviance has de-remedied freedom. Has displaced us from the recordkeepers’ gaze.

There is repair in water.

Streaming the hearts of our wayward ancestors, coming together a mighty river of magnificent energy.

We are the water that washes the pain away.

We are the water that remembers their joy.

We are the water of ceremony.

“Like rivers remember source”

We remember them.

And Melvin is somewhere listening for his name.

aAliy A. Muhammad is a poz writer born/raised in Philadelphia. In their work they often problematize medical surveillance, discuss the importance of bodily autonomy and center Blackness. aAliy is the creator of Black Reverence Chair, a joy and affirmation ritual. With Dr. Lyra D. Monteiro, aAliy is a co-convener of Finding Ceremony, a descendant community-controlled process, restoring the lineages of care, reverence, and spiritual memory to the work of caring for our dead.

[flamieo20]

FIC #1 - Nightmares

Putting up a Percy Jackson one-shot I put together, mainly to practice writing these characters and this ship for a bigger fic that's still coming together. Once I get an Ao3 account, I'll post this there as well, but I just wanted to post this somewhere in the meantime. If for nothing else, just to mark this down as done.

Sleep was something Zoë Nightshade had adjusted to. As a true immortal, rest was something to be indulged in, not something that was necessary, and she often found herself skipping it entirely. But, once she was cast out, and the pains of mortal life arrived, she found it was something she could no longer ignore. And while the hunters promised their own form of immortality, some of her new aches and pains never truly went away.

Still, it was something that she had grown to love, as with sleep came dreams. Sometimes, they were prophetic, providing insight into an upcoming foe or a challenging hunt, allowing them to better prepare for the trial ahead. Sometimes, they were simply a respite as Zoë imagined herself running through the forests with her new sisters, relaxing on a lake side, and enjoying each other’s company by the campfire. In the land of dreams, she need not worry about wild animals, dangerous monsters, or conniving gods taking her new family away from her. Here she could finally let her guard down with the knowledge that they would all be safe.

The most precious dreams of all, however, were the ones she had of Artemis. Of dancing together on Olympus, with the rest of the room fading to the background. Of sharing stories in the goddess’s tent, her hands absentmindedly braiding thick auburn hair. Of Artemis collapsing into her arms as they relaxed under the stars, the two immortals losing track of the time that had passed. Many of these dreams had since become reality, but they were no less treasured by her.

But with sleep, came nightmares. The furies would never forgive Zoë for her treachery against the Hesperides and Atlas. Her true family. And while they had not yet enacted punishment in the physical world, they often haunted her in her dreams. She dreamt of her sisters rejoicing in her exile, laughing and joking about any number of tragedies that could befall their now mortal sibling. She dreamt of Queen Hera, disappointed that her beloved garden, the one sanctuary not tainted by Zeus’s infidelity, had been defiled by Zoë’s hands. The queen of Olympus held grudges like no other and would certainly never forget the damage her actions had wrought.

And tonight, she dreamt of him. Zoë found herself running through a forest, surrounded by her father’s booming laughter, as the hunter became the hunted. She would catch a flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye, her instincts telling her to dodge. But she wasn’t fast enough, would never be fast enough, and was struck each time by a black javelin that would disappear into the shadows as quickly as it had arrived. Zoë had no weapons in her nightmare, no allies she could call for aid. All she could do was run. Flee the wrath of Atlas as he methodically ripped her apart, bit by bit. She couldn’t do this forever, but she continued to push herself further and further through trees that seemed to stretch on endlessly. The laughter closing in all the while. Eager to finally catch his little traitor.

Zoë awoke with a start, breathing labored, as she struggled to come back to reality. A quick glance confirmed her surroundings as the tent she and Artemis shared, but it didn’t elicit the comfort normally found there. She next tried to calm herself, focus on breathing, as her hands grasped at one of the many pelts strewn across the bed. But it was all for not. That horrid laughter continued to echo in her mind.

She’s here, she’s safe, she’s…

A light touch of her arm brought her back to the present. “Unpleasant dreams, my dear” Zoë looked down to meet Artemis’s eyes, the silvery irises looking alert as ever, with a light touch of concern hiding under the surface. Zoë nodded as the smaller girl sat up and wrapped her arm around her shoulders.

“It was my father again, my lady” Artemis hummed, and placed her lips to the side of her neck in the spot she knew her lover preferred.

“You need not worry about him.” Her soothing touch beginning to rub light circles her arm. Grounding her. “You are here, with me, and he is still trapped under his eternal burden. It’s all right”

Zoë wasn’t so sure. “He has been freed before”

Another hum. “Indeed. And such things would not go unnoticed by Olympus I’m sure. Besides..” She leaned upward, whispering in her ear. “If he ever tried to lay a hand on you, he’d have to go through me first.”

The words didn’t have their intended effect, as Zoë pulled away from her goddess. It wasn’t the first time the thought of Artemis fighting Atlas had crossed her mind. And while her lover was both a powerful goddess and capable fighter in her own right, the very idea sent shivers down her spine. For a moment the fear won, and she imagined the goddess being skewered in front of her like a wild animal, her father’s javelin piercing her throat and drenching her pale skin in thick, gold blood. And then he went back for more, reveling in it as he brought his arm down again and again, with Zoë utterly powerless to stop him.

The very thought made her sick, as she shook herself out of the vision. “I do not want thee to fight him either”

Artemis’s eye’s softened, picking up on her concern and fear. “Of course, my love. And I do not intend to ever come to blows against him.” She brought her hand up to Zoë’s cheek, rubbing away some of the tears that she hadn’t even noticed had fallen. “I only wished to make you feel more at ease. I will not bring it up again.”

Zoë nodded, satisfied with the answer, and closed her eyes again, holding the hand to her cheek and relaxing into her touch. She took a deep breath.

She is here, she is safe

Before long she opened her eyes. “I am sorry for worrying thee my lady. Thy words were helpful, and I will try to keep them in mind, should unhappy visions haunt me again.”

At that Artemis smiled. She laid back down and opened her arms. Zoë took the invitation, resting her head on the goddess’s chest, as her arms wrapped gently around her shoulders. The calm breaths of the goddess and the steady rhythm of her heart soothing her back to sleep.

The goddess was right, of course, her father’s punishment was to be eternal. He could stand on his mount top and curse her name all he likes. It would do nothing under the weight of the sky, that would surely hold him in place forever.

And as immortals, both Artemis and Zoë could appreciate the true length of forever.

[long-furby-father]

HELL

---------------------------------- Prologue ---------------------------------

This post is titled hell for a good reason. I don't know if you, dear reader, have ever tried to use a software called FreeCAD, but let me tell you it is not a pleasant learning experience. Imagine a software that has all the capabilities you could ever want, but none of the UI. The creators of this software conveniently forgot that the average user was not one of the developers and hence does not know the magical order in which things must be selected to make the shapes bend to your will. Nothing is where you assume it would be and nothing does what you think it would do. Want to make a cube? Fuck off. A cylinder? Go fuck yourself. Oh, you want to make any shape more complicated than the simple shapes we make children's building blocks out of? Ok yeah sure, but you'll have to sacrifice your firstborn. I believe this software has the tools and power to model the Notre Dame but will spit in your face if you want to make a basic pyramid.

---------------------------------- Part 1 ------------------------------------

The first shape is one that has no practical use other than being a display couch in a rich aunt's house that no one is allowed to sit on, and could not physically sit on even if they tried. It was created for the sole purpose of torture and pain. This was the only object with a tutorial, but that was not enough to save me. I spent a week on and off trying to make this shape, seldom getting further than the starting quadrilateral. This is because, despite how detailed the tutorial may appear on the surface, it fails to mention what I think is an important piece of information, this being that if when you are creating your sketch you do what you think is a good job and place all the vertices where they should go, you will be trapped in a state of limbo where you cannot constrain the first and last vertex because they are occupying the same point in a 2D space, yet are not connected. This is apparently enough to make someone cry and consider forfeiting the entire unit, contemplating if performing a musical number for the class is enough to save their GPA.

But the threat of being ineligible for my undergraduate thesis due to being kicked in the non-existent balls by an open source software, which would be standing over my conscience for the rest of my life laughing at me and calling me a coward, was enough to push me to fight this demon head on. I grabbed it by its throat and commanded it to obey, and with this was able to complete the first trial of my sanity.

---------------------------------- Part 2 ------------------------------------

That was not the end of my suffering though, because another beast stood in my path. Before I had a guide with me, one to tell me each and every move to make with my sword to slay the dragon, but he had left me before I could learn to appreciate him. Dear reader, you must learn to appreciate the help you take for granted, because you do not know when it will be taken from you, pulling the rug out from under your feet just as you have gained your footing. Now I was left to fight on my own, with nothing by the help of my sword (unholy amounts of caffeine) and the hands that held it. The task before me was this: create an attachment for my desk that would hold a cable on place. This was all I was given. No guide, no starting point, no measurements to aid me in my fight. Only a concept with which I was supposed to bring to life a creation with purpose. What a cross to bear, for a man who had formerly danced only the Macarena with TinkerCAD, and now had to tango with a being beyond my comprehension.

Not halfway through the dance, a storm struck, and I found myself in a dark room with no power. I cannot transcribe the feeling I had, the deep sinkhole in my chest that opened up, when I thought all the work I had done had just vanished before my eyes. No record of my work, the shape I had molded, all gone before my eyes. This moment of despair made the bliss that followed even better, as I realized that FreeCAD is locally run and doesn't require Internet. My fears subsided and I completed the model. even adding beveled edges to make the victory all the more sweet.

---------------------------------- Part 3 ------------------------------------

My journey was almost over, when I came across the most terrible, fearsome leviathan I had yet to face. This one asked of me two parts, which would come together and not divorce when held at any angle. I must admit, dear reader, I had no idea what to do next. I was considering the shapes I could make with my limited abilities when a wizard approached me. He suggested a simple solution that would meet the requirements, albeit via a technicality, such as a box with a slot through which one could insert a coin-shaped disk. His proposition tempted me, but as I looked at the battle before me, I had one resolution: I wanted whatever skills I came out of this fight with to be useful to me in my future battles. I didn't want to fight dirty, using tricks to best my opponent. I wanted to make a shape that I could be proud to call my own, and would not be ashamed of if shown to my classmates. I steeled my resolve and accepted the solution I so feared. I would make a nut and bolt.

I was about to fight the beast barehanded, sifting through the ocean of buttons to find one that fit my needs, when I spotted something glimmer out of the corner of my eye. I couldn't believe what I was seeing, as nothing more perfect could have been gifted to me in my time of need. A workbench add-on, one with the capabilities to summon any threading I wished, had been revealed to me. I took the Fastener add-on, and with one mighty swing, slay the demon that stood before me.

---------------------------------- Epilogue ---------------------------------

And that, dear reader, is the end of my tale. I'm sure you'll see me again, but it won't be in this battle. Nevertheless, I've lived to see another day, and I will spend these precious hours gifted to me playing Katamari Damacy between working on final projects that I put off until Thanksgiving weekend.

[purebodyxtra]

Detoxification: Unmasking the Inner Cleanse for Optimal Health and Well-being

Imagine your body as a bustling city, a vibrant hub of activity where life unfolds amidst the constant ebb and flow. But just like any metropolis, yours accumulates a fair share of byproducts and pollutants – the inevitable leftovers of daily living. This is where the concept of detoxification takes center stage, offering a chance to hit the reset button and refresh your internal landscape for optimal health and well-being.

But what exactly is detoxification? Is it a fad, a fleeting trend, or a genuine pathway to enhanced vitality? Let's embark on a journey to unmask the inner cleanse, exploring its significance and potential benefits for your mind, body, and spirit.

1. The Silent Toxin Buildup:

Our modern world is a veritable cocktail of toxins. From the air we breathe and the food we eat to the products we use, we're constantly exposed to environmental pollutants, heavy metals, chemicals, and processed foods. These unwanted guests, if left unchecked, can accumulate in our bodies, potentially impacting our health in various ways.

Think of these toxins as microscopic troublemakers, clogging up your internal systems and hindering their optimal function. They can disrupt digestion, compromise immunity, trigger allergies, and even contribute to chronic diseases like cancer and neurodegenerative disorders.

2. The Detoxification Imperative:

Detoxification, then, becomes the counterpoint to this silent toxin buildup. It's the practice of promoting the body's natural cleansing mechanisms and facilitating the removal of accumulated toxins through various pathways. This isn't about overnight miracles or unrealistic transformations; it's about creating a supportive environment for your body to do what it knows best – cleanse, renew, and thrive.

Imagine detoxification as a spring cleaning for your internal city. By focusing on healthy habits and natural solutions, you can open the windows, sweep away the dust, and let the fresh air of vitality seep in.

3. The Detoxification Toolbox:

The good news is that detoxification isn't some esoteric practice requiring access to rare herbs or expensive cleanses. It's about embracing a holistic approach that incorporates readily available tools into your daily life. Here are some key players in the detoxification toolbox:

Dietary Choices: Prioritize fresh fruits, vegetables, and whole grains, opting for organic produce whenever possible. These dietary powerhouses are brimming with fiber, antioxidants, and essential nutrients that aid in natural detoxification processes.

Hydration Hero: Water is your body's ultimate cleansing agent. Adequate water intake promotes flushing out toxins through urine and sweat, keeping your internal systems running smoothly.

Movement Matters: Exercise gets your blood pumping and lymph flowing, aiding in the efficient removal of toxins. Choose activities you enjoy, whether it's brisk walking, dancing, or yoga.

Liver Love: Your liver is your body's detoxification champion. Support its function by limiting alcohol consumption, avoiding processed foods, and incorporating liver-friendly foods like turmeric and cruciferous vegetables.

Sleep Sanctuary: Prioritize quality sleep, as this is when your body repairs and detoxifies most effectively. Create a relaxing bedtime routine and aim for 7-8 hours of restful sleep each night.

4. Pure Body Extra: Your Detox Ally:

While these foundational practices form the backbone of detoxification, consider including Pure Body Extra by Touchstone Essentials as your trusted ally in this journey. This unique blend of natural ingredients, including zeolite, activated charcoal, and other detoxification powerhouses, provides targeted support for your body's cleansing mechanisms.

Pure Body Extra acts like a microscopic magnet, attracting and safely binding to toxins before gently ushering them out of your system. It effectively tackles a wide range of harmful substances, including:

Heavy metals: Lead, mercury, and arsenic find their match in Pure Body Extra's zeolite component, effectively reducing their absorption and promoting their elimination.

Environmental pollutants: Activated charcoal, another key ingredient, binds to harmful chemicals and toxins from air, food, and water, preventing them from wreaking havoc on your health.

Free radicals: These damaging molecules accelerate aging and contribute to chronic diseases. Pure Body Extra's antioxidant-rich ingredients neutralize free radicals, protecting your cells from oxidative stress.

By incorporating Pure Body Extra into your detoxification routine, you can empower your body's natural cleansing abilities and potentially experience a range of benefits, including:

Increased energy and vitality: As toxins are removed, your body can function more efficiently, leading to enhanced energy levels and a renewed sense of well-being.

Improved digestion and detoxification: Pure Body Extra supports healthy gut function and promotes the removal of accumulated waste, optimizing your internal cleansing processes.

Enhanced immune function: By reducing the burden of toxins on your system, Pure Body Extra can potentially strengthen your immune defenses and make you more resilient to illness

Visit this link to read more about detoxification https://purebodyxtra.com/category/detox/.

[brooklynislandgirl]

"So your familiar wi' da Fair Folk, yeah? Keep a horseshoe above your door? A few ten penny nails in ya pocket? If not, mebbe plant some ivy an' boxwood 'round ya hale, or rowan an' blackberry. Natural repellents dat look pretty and smell good or taste good when dark berries ripen in da summer sun." She says these things as easily as someone would mention the recent sports score or the nightly news. That is, she seems to be serious about it and is trying her best to afford him a measure of practical protection. Menahune are certainly different and she's too far from her native shores for them to really bother being a nuisance. The fae of the other side of her family are a far different story. "Me too. Have a patented way of dealin' wi'dem so dat dey understand how terrible dey are, an' nevah trouble any being again." Her gaze strays briefly out the window where the snow has begun to fall lightly again. Within her woods is a young oak, its roots beginning to become stained red. Not exactly an accident and nothing she can bring herself to feel guilty about. It's all a part of nature. Poachers slaughter and encounter her. Her world tree drinks, crows and other scavengers feed, the soil becomes more fertile. Waste not, want not as the old saying goes.

Unbeknownst to the little witch, the dance between them continues. Each step countered, and thoughts so very closely paired that if one were to mention to the other they might find themselves relieved and laughing just how alike they are. "I promise," she says and there's only a tiny hint of a fib there. If someone were truly in need, she'd not deny them aid. But she'd be careful if only because Lou asked her to be. For a split second Beth is absolutely certain she'd sensed...something. A silent appeal made to fluid nature, a heaviness between them begging to fill the silence with words that never come. And just like that, it's over. Begs her to consider maybe her imagination is painting lines between her and Lou because he's been generous and kind to her at her most vulnerable and she hasn't felt that kind of sweetness in a long time. She watches him dip down and stoke the fire. Light limns his dark hair, caresses the angles of his face. She'd almost forgotten about teasing him with work until he brings it up again. He is beauty in motion and suddenly her palms itch with the urge to take down her oil pencils and her sketch book. She hasn't been inspired to do anything like since she'd left New York. She closes the space between them until she's nearly standing on his toes. Her hands flow down his sleeves until her fingertips coil around his wrists. Close enough that she can almost taste him. "I was gonna in fact aks you if you wouldn't mind finishin' up da wood not yet cut down. Axe is sharp, an' dere's only mebbe half an hour's worth of it left. She catches her lower lip between her teeth and regards him with a half-lidded look. "But it's cold an' hard work, before even bringing wood inside t' refill da box, so how 'bout I keep coffee flowin' an' you consider stayin' for supper. Mebbe you can tell me stories local around here."

The blooming warm blush dallying across those delicate features was noted. There were other little tells he caught ever so often. At times if close enough he could pick a crescendoing heartbeat amongst other things like microexpressions and delicious beckoning scents. On more than one occasion he's felt the pull to answer the primal connection but kept himself in check. A confession would need to come first about the beast within; anything else would be deceptive on his part.

At the mention of the wild things stalking the woods, he waded through the topic carefully. Balnacing wanting to express his concern, but not wanting to push her into trepidation. Arms crossed against his chest he shifted his stance. At the jest of fairy rings a smile lifted to his eyes but the mention of poachers quickly cast it away. "Between the two I'd take my chances with the poachers."

Albeit, he hated them, they'd been driven out of their woods a while ago. A series of misdeeds befell any poacher that entered and left their neck of the woods with a reputation.

Lou knew all about it.

Finally, one last word of warning, "Don't open the door at night unless you know who's on the other side. Promise me," his eyes darted back to the window. Snowflakes began to stick, and a lovely transparent white etched the corners.

The taste of the sweet bread lingered in his mouth and he thought to cut another, but noticed how she daintily nibbled as he'd almost swallowed his piece whole. Best not to be rude, eat up her bread.

There it was again: a shift in her demeanor. This time his body responded in kind, as a ripple of pleasure traced down his abdomen as the darkness of his pupils pushed their boundaries. Beth wasn't the only one experiencing a rush. This time his body answered her call.

Needing to put space between them, he gazed at the fireplace in the hope of an excuse. Granted, the logs were perfectly content he made his way over to ready the next log.

Crouching down he turned slightly offering a profile, as he poked the unnecessary log into place. Putting the metal piece back onto the setting plate he was happy for the distraction, "Put me to work? Absolutely." Standing up to his full height as he made his way back to the table and rested his hands on his hips.

Looking back out the window he gestured, "I'm gonna cut you some more logs before I go, just in case, but otherwise I'm at your disposal for the next couple of hours." Grinning he shook his head, "It's peaceful out here and I've no place I'd rather be."

[depressedhatakekakashi]

my biggest pet peeve about some interpretations of KakaGai's friendship is that sometimes it's depicted as only Gai being devoted and supportive (and never criticizing) of Kakashi while Kakashi is indifferent/cold towards him when really i think im pretty sure that Kakashi and Gai are the founder and president of each other's fan clubs since childhood-

(barring that their fathers didn't know about it/ didn't think you could do that or else they would've been first XD)

Warning, long post ahead

Hatake Kakashi and Maito Gai are best friends. Both of them are invested in their friendship equally.

Did that have a rough start? Yes. They were kids with extremely different personalities who found their friendship over time. Kakashi started arrogent and full of himself but came to realize Gai was in every way his equal as a Shinobi and an incredibly important person in his life.

We obviously have a whole lot of Gai protecting and supporting Kakashi that no one questions exists, but a reminder of the things Kakashi has done for/with Gai.

Beat up grown ass men who were bullying and hurting Gai

Did Kakashi scold Gai for not lifting a finger to defend his father? Yes. But Hatake Kakashi, age five, saw two grown men attacking Gai and interviened without hesitation. His father could have stepped in, since he was right there (Kakashi runs back to him after), but it was Kakashi who went to Gai’s aid.

Stated he would always be Gai’s friend/rival and need Gai by his side

Told Gai after receiving flowers and listening to Gai talk anout how he thought their race would be their ‘Final challenge’ that he can’t imagine his life without Gai by his side and even if he becane Hokage their challenges would not stop. That gai was important to him and he would always need him and want him by his side

He did this again but opposite in the Vacation arc in Boruto. While overlooking Mirai and Tatsumi, Kakashi mentions that if there was a magical spring that could heal Gai’s leg … he doesn’t finish his sentence but it’s pretty clear he means ‘i would do anything i had to to give you use of your leg back’. At which point Gai say’s ‘i’m here, alive with you by my side. That’s all i need’ making it clear that they both need and desire each other in their lives

Also look at that dorky little dance he did with gai. That was practiced

Speaking of vacation arc

Went on an entire vacation with Gai

Hatake Kakashi was finally free of his duties as Hokage and Naruto’s mentor. He was entrusting Konoha completly to Naruto without his hovering, and what does he do?

Grabs Maito Gai and goes on an extravegant vacation. This is manga canon as it’s shown in chapter 700 after Kakashi retires that Kakashi and Gai are talking about ‘seeing all the places with memories they hold dear together’

Cut lightning to protect Gai

You know how Gai calls Kakashi’s Chidori ‘Raikiri’? It’s because Hatake Kakashi saw multipule Iwa shinobi pulling up a massive lightning Jutsu that was sure to kill him and Gai, and in that moment he didn’t think of saving himself. In a moment of sheer chakra exhaustion and panic, Kakashi produced another chidori and ran up a mud wall jutsu to slice through a BOLT OF LIGHTNING because he wanted to protect Fai.

He HAD to protect Gai.

Maito Gai is so incredibly important to Kakashi that Kakashi looked at a bolt of lightning that was destined to kill him, and not only faced it head on but BEAT IT to protect Gai.

Trusted Gai to have his back when he was blinded in battlef (became blinded protecting Gai) but also fought back to back with Gai. While he couldn’t see.

During their fight against the ‘deadly duo’ of the seven deadly swordsmen, Kakashi took a hit for Gai that temperarly blinded him. Instead of leaving the fighting to Gai aline, Kakashi stood back to back and continued to fight while unable to see, using Gai’s movements to lead him through battle. During this fight he mentions that all of his spars with Gai have resulted in this.

That he knows Gai’s movements so well and trusts him so deeply that he can continue to fight with him while blinded. A thing he would not be confident/able to do with anyone else.

Actively and enthusiastically took part in their competitions.

Sure Kakashi might ask why they’re doing a competition, but in the heat of it he is putting his all.

It was Kakashi who threw the first object at Gai during their race through Konoha.

It’s Kakashi who remembers the Sushi eating competition against Gai (which Gai had forgotten), not only proving he takes part in the competitions but that he cares enough to remember each and every one of them and keep track and his and Gai’s score in their rivalry.

Went to Gai’s Physical Therapy sessions with him

In The first Kakashi novel Kakashi thinks about Gai’s physical therapy sessions. Him sitting there with Gai and supporting him through an incredably tough time. How Gai would struggle and how he would be there with him through it because he cared about Gai.

There’s also a scene where they fall out of a plane and towards the earth down below. They think theg’re as good as dead and Kakashi is ok with that because he’s with Gai. He’s not alone and he’s not just losing Gai (as he thought he had in the war)

Gave up after Gai’s sacrifice in the war

all through the war Kakashi fought with everything he had. His goal was to win and he showed no hints of giving up his life to do it.

This changed after Gai opened the eigth gate to fight Madara.

During the fight Kakashi is off to the side on his own not participating anymore. Basically sulking. But kore importantly, during the fight against Kaguya Kakashi makes it clear he doesn’t really plan to survive. He says with his own works ‘we resigned ourselves to die when we came here’ which i’m Pretty sure Naruto, Sakura and Sasuke DID NOT, but Kakashi clearly did.

When Kakashi thought he had lost another precious friend, someone who had been by his side since childhood, he gave up. Not on the world, but on his own life.

(This isn’t to romanticize or talk about how ‘cute’ that is. It’s horrible Kakashi gave up like that, but it does show the importance of Gai to Kakashi by him giving up like that after he thinks gai has died)

Went to Gai while Gai was watching over Lee during his Acadamy days

Gai was completely wrapped up in his own world and thoughts and Kakashi sought him out. Went to his side when Gai needed to hear supportive words and offered him that support.

Offered Gai supportive Words when he was struggling with his feelings over his Father

When the entire village had Gai believing his father was an embarrassment and terrible shinobi, Gai spoke to Kakashi.

Kakashi offered him words that Gai needed to hear in that moment.

“I think your dad is the coolest shinobi ever”

Hatake Kakashi, the genius prodigy of their generation, was calling Maito Dai a perpetual failure Genin the ‘coolest shinobi ever’. He offered Gai an outlook on his father he NEEDED in that moment, without hesitation.

[minsyal]

The Fugitive: Finding Home, Pt. 2

Karl Heisenberg x Reader

Warnings: strong language, Resident Evil-esque violence and descriptions of gore, and dark/sexual themes

Summary: A once-in-a-lifetime trip turned dark. You're quickly exposed to the sinister and mysterious world of a cursed village under the control of dark leaders. How long will you last and will you ever return home in one piece?

The Fugitive: Finding Home Masterlist

Part 1 - The Beginning

“Mother Miranda, I’ve been requesting new maids for at least six months to this day.”

“That’s because you keep eating your other ones.”

You were shaken awake.

“I think that my castle would be best suited for her.”

“Oh, so you can bleed ‘er dry? You think that would really be the best use of anyone’s time?” A familiar voice retorted.

“Good morning!” A shrill voice squeaked as what felt like wood kicked at your face. “She’s up! She’s up! She’s up!” It exclaimed excitedly with a bounce, the voice became softer as the skittering of feet scrambled away.

“Ah,” the unfamiliar smooth woman’s voice cooed as your eyes adjusted to your surroundings. There were what looked to be six figures in the room. Miranda stood before you, perched upon a stage-like area that once housed what you could only imagine was a priest or preacher. To the left sat a cloaked woman with a blob of white resting in her lap. Another woman, also adorned in a white garb, sat towering over the rest, the light constant trickle of smoke danced upward from her vintage cigarette holder. On your right sat a familiar face, the man from the village who had saved you only a few hours prior. You’d come to know him as Lord Heisenberg. He maintained the large woman’s gaze, but the look held no love or any remote sense of familial belonging. Instead, his eyes were set ablaze, even behind the shaded rims of his glasses. Lastly, a shorter creature with a large hunched back moved ungracefully around. Its long gangly arms accompanied by its deformed face only aided in the growing unease.

The dull ache of your shoulder only distracted you from the bindings of your wrists for a moment. Your attention was quickly drawn to the rough ropes that dug their thorny threads into the soft skin of your wrists. Everything ached, mentally and physically.

“I do think she would be best suited with me.” The tall woman repeated herself. “There’s no doubt Moreau wouldn’t be able to handle her, and likely not the rest of you either.”

The hunched creature whirled back, throwing a forlornly glare in the woman’s direction. You supposed that was Moreau.

“You think I couldn’t handle her?” Heisenberg shot back, bent forward to rest his weight on his heels. His relationship with the large woman was clearly tumultuous given his outburst and her subsequent reaction.

“You always get them.” The shrill voice called. It was the doll; the fucking doll was talking... not that this should surprise you at this point. “She should come with us! We need more friends.”

“You’re not included in this conversation.” The tall woman mocked with a fierce glare shot violently at the doll as its mouth hung slack.

“Can someone please tell me what the hell is going on?” Thus far, nobody had managed to answer your simple question. The lot turned toward you, the majority with piercing stares. “Guess not.” You muttered, becoming quite fed up with the range of emotions you had been experiencing over the past day. If it kept going in this direction, you’d surely have to be treated for whiplash.

“She’s already proven to be a considerable pain in my neck.” Miranda loudly projected. Her steps were a clear juxtaposition to her tone, falling light on the church floor as she approached. “One villager is unable to walk, another dead.”

“Dead?” The words fell before you could stop yourself. She didn’t answer.

“Please,” Heisenberg leaned back once more, his hand moving to the interior of his jacket, “the dumb thing practically laid down when she was attacked by a lycan.” His fingers fumbled around the darkened paper of a cigar. Yellow, blonde streaks flashed upon his face as the distinguishable clink of a metal lighter was flicked. “I wouldn’t call that too capable.”

“My friend pushed me.” You argued, once again mentally reeling for the outburst.

Heisenberg let out a huff of smoke, intentionally blowing it in the tall woman’s direction, “sounds like a piss poor friend.”

“Enough.” Miranda had taken to her spot at the front near the alter once more. “The girl shall go to Alcina.”

A wicked smile crossed the tall woman’s face. “Thank you, Mother Miranda. It is so good to have you back.”

“Where are you from?” One of the girls ushered you through the depths of the castle. She wore a simple gown with stitches at the bottom, holding together the frail fabric that looked to be decades old.

“America.”

The girl cocked her head to the side like a newborn. “I don’t know of that town.”

Upon arrival you were escorted down to what was described as the maids’ chambers. In a small stone room, you were assigned a cot, given a chest, and told to change into uniform. Your arm ached and spasmed as you lifted the lid of the trunk open. Somewhere between being shot by the villagers and being transported to Castle Dimitrescu, the bullet was removed from your shoulder and replaced with gauze that limited the mobility of your arm. The distinct oily feeling of grease caused friction between the bandages and your clothes; the ache of alcohol still stung, causing a sore numbness.

The Lady insisted all maids conform to the strict code of dress. Long, unflattering dresses, short heels, and sometimes a headscarf if hair wasn’t pulled tautly into a bun at the base of one’s neck were a few things to name the least. You always wore the headscarf, which was a thin piece of grey lace that attached at the peak of your hairline, cascading over your shoulders to land at waist-length.

The rest of the day passed slowly. You learned the ins and outs of the castle, became acquainted with the sparse staff that only consisted of women, and met Alcina’s daughters from a distance. The next two weeks passed the same way.

Wake up, clean the castle, serve Lady and her daughters, go to bed. That was your routine. Though, the sounds that seeped from the halls at night prompted unwavering curiosity. Heisenberg had mentioned the ill-fated maids that had the luxury of serving the Dimitrescu women back in that church. Nothing at this point had you doubting that was the case. But you assured yourself daily that you would not accept the castle’s fate; you would get out of here one way or another.

You had only been at the mercy of Lady Dimitrescu once to this day. A small spat broke out between maids and the arrival of the head of house had the women squealing lies of how you were the one to start it.

“She stole our rations!” The girl with the wide nose accused her chubby finger outstretched in your direction.

“I didn’t steal anything, you dirty fucking liar.”

“She did. We were squabbling over how she should be punished.” The other girl replied, tucking a shaking hand behind her back as she straightened her poor posture.

“A thief,” Alcina regarded you, “that’s a shame.” Knives skid across the thin skin of your forearm. “Another outburst like this and there will be harsher consequences.” Red stained her tongue as she ran the claw through her cherry-red lips.

As she sauntered down the hall and out of sight, you uncurled your arm from your chest, wincing at the large crimson stain it left on your dress.

“Fresh face.” The words ricocheted off the wall in front of you. Footsteps steadfastly approached from behind. He walked with an effortless swagger, legs slightly bowed with each lyrical step. You’d gone for the quiet route after the situation, finding that silence often pleased those that ruled over the castle. “Here I was thinkin’ it would take you a little longer to lose that fight.” He stepped closer; the unmissable smell of tobacco seeped from his lips. “Looks like I was wrong.”

Instead of words, you held his gaze through unimpressed eyes. Hues of yellows, greys, and greens met yours from beneath his rounded glasses. You could see more of him from here. A large scar ran from the right of his face to the left, the lifted skin healing over leaving memories of whatever had happened. In fact, the majority of his face was plagued with scars. One ran from the bottom of his lip down to his chin, disappearing beneath the stubble of his beard. You wondered if his disdain toward Alcina was founded by those wretched claws of hers. His hair was wirey with shades of brown and peppered grey streaking through the ends. Quite honestly, he was an attractive man.

“I’ve got a name, you know?”

“I don’t think I cared to ask.”

“Then I suppose you aren’t deserving of one either.”

“Well,” he tapped at your chest with a gloved finger, “I think you’ve got a little spunk left in you, sweetheart.”

“Call me Y/n.”

“No last name?” He deadpanned.

“L/n.”

He nodded, but you felt as though your words had passed through him like a ghost.

“Karl.” He gave a lazy bow, tilting the rim of his hat. “But I think you probably already knew that.”

“Gossip and information don’t come easily from the maids here. Sorry,” you pressed your lips together, “I didn’t know.”

Karl gave a shrug.

“Do you know what happened to my friend?” The thought had been playing on your mind for the past few weeks.

He raised an inquisitive brow and turned his head to peer out the shaded window. “The so-called friend that left you to become lycan chow?” A hearty tut left his chest. “I think she’s assimilated into the town.”

“Dumb bitch.” You breathed.

“There’s that spark.” He stood tall with an artificial sense of pride. It had been a long time since somebody in the village was willing to use such crude language in front of any of the Lords, let alone Miranda. It almost astonished him that they’d let you live after the killing of Adelina’s brother. The gun misfired; it wasn’t really your fault.

Another week of growing suspicions and two newly missing maids, you finally attempted to seek out the dungeons that everyone spoke of but warned to stray from. You had to know what was going on here.

“Lost?” Heisenberg’s voice appeared at your right side. His chin almost rested upon your shoulder; the stubble of his beard scratched at your neck. “This isn’t a place I’d get lost in if I were you. In fact, it’s not even a place you should be exploring.”

“Are you going to run to Alcina if I do?” You didn’t face him, why would you? The hallway was cramped, restricting of any sort of movement other than in the direction you were going.

“Me?” He leaned backward to stand at full height. Your body cursed silently, wishing nothing more than to have him close again. How he wasn’t hitting his head on the rafter just inches above floored you. “I hate that bitch. You do what you want, but I won’t bail you out when you get caught.”

“Good thing I don’t plan on being caught then.” You descended the metal ladder, only looking upward for a moment to catch a glimpse of Heisenberg leaning over the opening. An eerie smile was plastered on his lips, it was almost smug.

The dungeons were as you imagined. Cold water trickled down some of the walls, likely due to cracks in the castle’s foundation accompanied by the ever melting of the outside snow. It smelled of mothballs and garlic, something musty was clinging to the air. You noted a few turns here and there, attempting to memorize the path you had taken in case you needed to make a swift escape. What didn’t help was the skid of your maid’s clothes along the rigid floor.

Muffled cries put you further onto the edge. The narrow hall gave way to a large room filled with arched stonework. Metal bars shot from floor to ceiling, hinges creaked as the sound of hands banging against them filled your eardrums. You didn’t want to go further, scared of any repercussions should any of the jailed women recognize and rat you out.

Turning to head to the ladder, you collided with a chest. “Leaving so soon?” Heisenberg again.

“Shh!” You slapped at his chest with a closed fist, only realizing what you had done when the action was completed. He looked rightfully amused. Everything that you had learned of these “Lords” up to now told you to act less casually with him, to put on an air of respect at the very least. But there was something surprisingly human about him. Something that told you it was okay despite it potentially not being so. At this point, you were only prolonging the inevitable.

“What?” He started, swiftly being cut off by approaching footsteps. Firm hands grasped at your arms, pulling your face forward into his chest. “Open your mouth and I’ll feed you to whatever’s coming.” He said through his teeth, trapping your arms between your two bodies.

The room grew dim, the wall behind your back became close even though you had not moved at all. Heisenberg’s grip was strong on your forearms, causing you to inaudibly hiss as his thumb dug into the slash Alcina had left weeks prior. The footsteps were accompanied by the soft cries of a woman, gasping pleas of being let go falling silent on the ears of her assailant. A minute passed; the dungeon fell soundless.

“You can breathe now.” His lips lingered close to your ear, once again sending a rush of chills crawling down your skin. He knew what he was doing.

“I’ve been breathing.” You breathily retorted sounding as if you had just run a marathon.

“Whatever you say, doll.”

The wall behind you gave way, moving on its own. You turned; the materials that had been pressed to your back laid themselves on the ground. Heisenberg’s smile was unmissable. “Go ahead.” His voice was gravely, gruff, a slight melancholy dismay underlying. Heisenberg desired for you to implore what just happened, but you wouldn’t give him that satisfaction. You refused to see him as anything but normal, for if you did give in to the village’s mental games, you’d likely find yourself going mad. He was a man, you told yourself, nothing more.

“I thought you weren’t going to bail me out?”

“I wasn’t.” He tightened his grip on your arms. “But I figured it’d be a shame to lose such a pretty face so soon.”

“I, I’m sure you say that to all the girls here.” You couldn’t hold his gaze at this distance. Perhaps Adelina was right, you were rather frumpy and unexperienced.

A huff came as he exhaled, a thoughtful tug of his lips upward accompanied it. He didn’t answer, a reoccurring event with those who inhabited this town.

Heisenberg had been keeping his trips to and from the castle a secret. Truthfully, he wasn’t sure why he felt so inclined to bother with the outsider woman who appeared in the village one fateful evening. Perhaps he was growing bored of his daily routine with no results to show. Maybe he was enticed by the well of knowledge you held of the outside world. Maybe it was something else, something human. The Lord’s weren’t allowed to stray far from the village. The other three lived delightfully oblivious, completely okay with never exploring the unknown. Heisenberg, on the other hand, was not. Your friend, Jess as he recalled you calling her, was far from interesting to him. It didn’t take a genius to tell how low her I.Q. had to be. She conformed easily to the village and by all accounts had been down talking you to the others she met. She quickly fell into the same brainwashed daze of worship.

It had been another turbulent week of utter chaos around every corner. Nobody knew of your adventure into the depths of Castle Dimitrescu and you had no intentions of spreading any gossip among the maids. They all seemed to have it out for you anyway. You were the “outsider,” as one described it. It was so blatantly evident to them that you were not going to conform to their ways. And that disturbed them.

It wasn’t that you hadn’t your fair share of punishment to this point. In actuality, you had received a significantly greater amount of beratements and surface wounds from Alcina and her daughters. You thought to Heisenberg often, continually wondering how your life would differ had Miranda bestowed you upon him. He was irresistibly charming in his own twisted sense. Every word that escaped his mouth heavily contradicted his actions. You received a good number of swats to the hand stemming from woeful daydreaming of the man you hardly knew.

He could be dangerous, you’d tell yourself before slipping into yet another sequence of fervent and unrelenting thoughts stemming from the mysterious man. He was a Lord, one placed in a top position according to the village’s hierarchy. You just weren’t sure why.

There had been countless times the man had sauntered into the castle, “accidentally” run into you, and held brief conversation.

The other maids were assholes. Though you had concluded this swiftly upon entering the castle, their recent actions only solidified your feelings.

It had been only a day since Heisenberg’s last visit. He strolled into the castle, easing his way past the maids as they hurriedly passed by. They paid him no mind. The evening sun had begun to set in the sky. Lady Dimitrescu had gone out for the night, instructing her girls to hold down the castle while she was away. The three of them had descended into the dungeons, not to be seen again until morning. This left the halls free and roamable for the savvy Lord.

“That’s bullshit and you know it.” Your voice caught his attention. “Oh, shut the fuck up, Marybeth.”

Shrill voices argued back and forth behind the kitchen doors. The sound of muffled giggles fell on his ears; it was an unusual sound within the castle walls. The girls must be relaxed knowing they’re safe from punishment tonight. At least, that’s what they thought.

In a second, the hinges of the door burst off, sending the heavy frame crashing down to the tiled floor. Shrieks came quickly and died on their lips as soon as the girls realized who was there.

“Lord Heisenberg.” One woman bowed her head, concealing something within her hands as she placed them in her lap, clasped tightly together. “Lady Dimitrescu has left for the evening.”

“I know.” His brow raised at the scene set before him. You stood to the rear of the kitchen, clearly irate at something the woman who regarded him had done. Five other women were huddled with the one who spoke, following her lead and averting their gazes. No aroma of cuisine drifted from the empty cauldron, only the stale scent of curing meats clung to the air.

“What’s going on in here?” He looked directly at you from beneath the lid of his hat.

“We were cleaning the kitchen.” The maid spoke through shaking breaths.

After a pensive moment, he waved his hand. “You’re dismissed. Except,” he held his hand at your chest as you attempted to pass, “you.”

The girls stumbled over the door, making quick work of getting back to their quarters and away from the Lord. You listened as the audience of feet trampled away. None of the girls here knew how to walk in heels causing for a rather elephant-like clomping of shoes wherever they went.

“What really happened?”

“Do you care?”

“Not particularly, but color me curious.”

“Don’t get them in trouble.” You demanded through gritted teeth. “I don’t want to deal with the aftermath.”

He chortled. “You seem more afraid of them than you are of me.”

“You’ve not given me a reason to be scared.”

Your back pressed to the wall, a glass chalice fell, shattering against the floor. The lapels of his jacket and dog tags pushed to your chest were still cold from the frosted night air. “Do I need to give you a reason?”

“I just,” embarrassment rose in your cheeks, “would you stop doing this?” There was no budging the man. His strength far outweighed yours, easily acting as if your pushing against his chest was nothing but a soft breeze.

“Doing what?” A smirk grew on his lips. God, he loved this.

“This!” Your clenched fist banged on his chest, not rattling him in the slightest. Droplets of claret liquid ran from your palm to your elbow. “Dammit, Karl. Move.”

The use of his first name was new. A solid hand closed around your wrist, bringing it up to eye level. He tilted back, adjusting his vision. The raise of his brow signaled that he wanted you to open your hand. Complying, you cringed as the reddened skin screamed for relief.

“They did this?”

“It’s no different from the other injuries I’ve gotten here.”

“It’s deep.” He reached into the pocket of his trench coat. “Don’t let anyone know you’ve got this.” A silver tin slipped from his hand to yours, you pried at its ridges with your nail.

Heisenberg disappeared after that, taking off with a dramatic throw of the castle doors as he disappeared into the dense forest. He had given you a tin of salve and a bandage.

“Lady Dimitrescu has requested your presence.”

The Fugitive: Finding Home Part 3 - Foreign Thoughts

I'm so excited for where this fic is going...

Feedback is always appreciated

Tag list: (let me know if you want to be tagged)

@ambiguous-g @ren-ni @metaphorical-love-for-a-car @lgbtomatoes

[wolffe-simp]

A Clones Padawan (18+)

Another 3am piece of work

Pairing: Reader x Wolffe

Warnings: Smut, established relationship, creeping around, marking, Dom!Wolffe, V in P, unprotected, Wolffe wanting to be a baby maker, Jealous!Wolffe

Wolffe can't control himself when someone tries to flirt with his Padawan.

The music seeped into the body of the female as she danced to the beat, her very being trembling with the vibration of the speakers. While her skills for graceful movements were usually used in lightsaber training with her master and other Jedi, (Y/N) enjoyed the rare moments where she got to dance and let go, to be herself in one single moment.

After many weeks spent on the battlefield, the Padawan of Plo Koon just wanted to enjoy a night out with her clones. Sinker and Boost had "persuaded" her to tag along, telling her that the whole squad, including Commander Wolffe were going to be there. The thought of her Commander, her secret clone boyfriend, giving into the pestering of his brothers had made her giggle to herself, telling her friends that she would see them later on. Moments of self enjoyment were rare but getting to spend time with her Commander were even rarer. She had spent the rest of the day picking out the perfect outfit, fixing her hair and applying the right amount of make up to try and drive Wolffe mad.

Her mission to tease her Commander was what had led her to the dance floor, moving her hips to the beat. She threw her hair over her shoulder, sparing a glance to the table where the Wolfpack usually occupied. Most of the lads were locked in conversations with clones from other squads that had decided to join them. Yet he sat there, eyes transfixed on her figure, fingers tightening around the glass in his hand, imagining her body beneath the dress that hugged her features. She made eye contact with Wolffe, wetting her lips with the tip of her tongue as she threw him a wink. She watched his jaw tighten, trying to keep himself composed, not wanting his brothers to take notice of his slowly crumbling composure. There was nothing in this galaxy as beautiful as her, the second his general had introduced her to the pack, he had been transfixed by her sheer beauty. A goddess that had somehow fallen as deeply in love with him as he had with her, the fact that only he got to hold her, please her, made flames of arousal spread through his veins.

The music changed to a low song, causing her to let out a small breathless laugh. She moved away from the dance floor, heading to the bar to order herself a drink before she returned to her squadron. As she leaned against the bar, the air rippled around her, the force alerting her of the presence that appeared by her side. Slowly, she turned her head to face the person, raising a thin eyebrow at the man in the seat next to her. He wasn't a clone, that was for sure, from what she could see, he was a green, plump male of a race unknown to her and looking her up and down with dark beady eyes.

"Hello beautiful, can I buy you a drink?" He tried to purr at her, the words only coming out as slurred syllables.

"No thank you, I can buy my own," She replied as the bartender brought her, her drink.

She picked it up, moving to make a quick get away when the man suddenly took her by the wrist, jerking her in his direction. She leaned away in disgust as he leaned towards her, his breath stinking of both alcohol and rotten fish.

"Just one, little drink." He insisted.

"I said no, now release me." She snapped in return.

Before he could say anymore, the man was suddenly ripped away from her and slammed against the side of the bar. Wolffe practically growled and he held the man by his shirt, eyes alight with pure, burning fury.

"She said no, take the hint or you'll be swallowing your teeth." Wolffe snarled lowly. "Do. You. Understand. Me?"

The man was whimpering in the presence of the clone commander, intimidated by the sheer anger radiating from him. He couldn't find his voice, so nodded quickly, letting Wolffe know that he more that understood what would happen if he bothered you again. Wolffe slammed him into the bar again for one final measure before letting him go, watching the man stumble into the small crowds of clones scattered around. A few had seen the transaction and glowered at the man, while a few others came to the aid of their vod and led the man outside, likely to follow through with Wolffe's threat or to intimidate the man enough to ensure he never came back.

Wolffe was still shaking with rage, his hand clenching and unclenching by his sides. (Y/N) reached out a hand to rest on his arm but he recoiled from the touch and stormed outside. Worried that she had done something wrong or that he was going to get himself in trouble, the Padawan put her drink down and raced after him, wanting to make sure he was okay. She followed him a few blocks away from the club before he stopped, allowing her to catch up with him, his back still turned to her. Once she finally reached him, he suddenly grabbed her by the arm and dragged her into the closest alley, pinning her to a wall.

"Wolf-"

His name barely left her lips before her was silencing her with his mouth, hot and heavy. She whined softly into the kiss, eyes fluttering close as her hands fisted into the material of his shirt, pulling him closer. The kiss was rough and intoxicating, arousal sparking in the pit of (Y/N)'s stomach. They were lost in each other, both we desperate to have the other, especially after not being able to alone for so long. But after her display and the audacity of that drunkard trying to take what belongs to the commander, the dam finally broke, their self control giving way to the need to feel the others body against their own. After a moment, Wolffe pulled away, dark eyes taking in the red, kiss swollen lips of his precious Padawan. She was breathless, panting softly with parted lips, making the Commander smirk down at her. His large hands stroked down her sides, sliding down to her backside so he could lift her up, giving her a moment to wrap her legs securely around his waist.

Normally, Wolffe would want to take things slow, to show (Y/N) how much he loved her, to tease her until she was begging for him to take her. But something feral had taken over him, making him want to do nothing more than fuck his love until she was screaming his name, until she was filled to the brim with his seed. The thought of her carrying his child suddenly crept into his mind, enticing a low, rumbling growl from the depths of his chest. His lips moved to her neck, biting harshly into the skin as he pressed his body into hes, his arousal grinding against her core.

The feeling of him grinding against her made her moan wantonly, her hands reaching down to push down his pants, wanting nothing more than to feel him inside her. He groaned when he felt one of her hands slip past the waistband of his blacks, slender fingers wrapping around the hardened flesh of his manhood, stroking along his length for a few seconds before pulling him from his confinements. There was no slow burn, no teeth rotting romance, no dirty talk, no pleading, only one simple need.

She gasped, hand gripping his shoulders when she felt him push her panties to the side, giving himself access to her core. For a split second, he ran his manhood through her fold, allowing her juices to slick him up but to also give her a moment to back out. Instead, she pulled him into a seering kiss, whimpering as he slammed into her with one powerful thrust. He didn't wait for her to adjust, simply pressed her further into the wall, pulling almost all the way out before surging back into the depths of her sex.

She cried into his mouth, allowing him to swallow her noises of pleasure as he continued to slam into her, her legs tightening around his waist to draw him in more. Wolffe groaned, finger digging harshly into her hips as he took her, bruising her with the mark of his fingertips. (Y/N) pulled away from the kiss to bury her head in his neck, growing more vocal as began to thrust faster, plunging into her even harder.

He could feel her walls trying to clamp around him every time he went to pull out, felt them quiver in excitement when he brushed against them to seek out the spot that would make her scream. She was practically sobbing against him, feeling him fill her like no other, feeling the jab of his manhood against the entrance to her womb. The heat inside her was growing, building into a raging fire, growing hotter with every thrust. The alley echoed with the sound of skin slapping against the skin, the sinful voices of their pleasure bouncing off the walls and fading into the night. Both could feel themselves growing closer to their releases, it had been so long since they had done this that it was almost impossible for them to hold on for much longer. (Y/N) could feel the falter of Wolffe's hips, his movements becoming erratic. Wolffe slipped a hand between them, fingers circling her clit and making her keen. He toyed with the bundle of nerves, feeling her tighten around him like a vice, making it harder for him to push deeper into her. She felt his lips on her neck, feeling his teeth sink into her tender flesh, the pain and the pleasure making her cry out as the fire inside her erupted. Her insides quivered around him as he continued to fuck into her, riding her through her climax until he buried himself as deep inside her as possible, spilling his seed into her awaiting womb.

They stood there, panting softly as they basked in each others presence and the aftermath of their releases. (Y/N) left soft kisses along the length of his neck whole Wolffe ran his hands soothingly up and down her sides.

"I should try and make you jealous more often if this is what happens." She mumbled into his skin.

Wolffe chuckled softly, turning his head to place a gently kiss against the side of her head.

"I'll just have to start punishing you Mesh'la."

His words made her moan at the image of being punished, not realising how enticing the idea sounded until now.

Wolffe pulled out of her, setting her down gently before tucking himself back into his pants. They made themselves look more presentable before leaving the alleyway, making their way back towards the barracks and the Jedi Temple, both feeling more relaxed.

"You know I love you right?" (Y/N) suddenly blurted out, the scene of the creepy guy playing on her mind.

"Yeah, I know and I love you too."

[nervoustoastthing]

I think I’m gonna go relationship for the two ocs I was talking about buuuuuuut I have another qpr planned in the “partner in life” type way ;)

here’s some physical descriptions of the characters (including some photos off of Pinterest)

Caspian:

Brown skin with black dreads. Small gray hairs in his facial hair despite his age. Medium amount of facial hair. Very dark brown eyes, nearly black. Large eyebrows. Small piercings.

First photo is exactly what he looks like. Suits are his usual wear, but this is what I usually see him in.

Cordelia:

Brown skin with French curl braids. Afab but got top surgery. Large brown eyes. Large lips. They usually wear skirts and go topless.

Couldn’t find one of a face and the hair style I wanted :( so I hope my description was good enough!! Skirts of all kinds of styles!!

Rome:

Latino, always has his hair buzzed and dyed. Green eyes. Bushy eyebrows, he doesn’t dye usually and are naturally dark brown. No facial hair other than a few dark hairs above his lip and on his chin. Many many piercings. Top surgery tattoos that look like an animal jaw.

He usually wears his jacket with something like a crop top and baggy dark wash jeans. Also on the jacket has an embroidered cheetah, mid sprint, on the back as it is his “sacred animal”. (Remember his people think he’s divine)

Agatha

Dark brown skin. Warm brown eyes. Clean eyebrows. Chubby. Usually wears long, flowing, dresses because she likes the twirls it makes when she dances.

Practically exactly how I see her. Usually a longer dress but this is pretty much her usual dress.

Virgil:

Caucasian, brown hair. Bushy eyebrows. Dark blue eyes. Spock ear (means pointed/slightly pointed). No facial hair. Scar on his throat covers the entire front of his throat. Always has dark eye bags and tired eyes.

Hair is usually pushed up a bit more. Outfit is usually how I imagine him.

some miscellaneous things:

Virgil is a smoker. More in detail, a nervous smoker (this will be important later!!). Rome wasn’t born blind in one eye, it was more so during the annual brawl a corner of his opponents armor got shoved into his eye and ruined the it. They were able to save the eye itself and he can only see from a very small blurry spot in the edge of his eye. The eye is a murky gray around the parts of the pupil that are still there. (That’s why only leather armor is allowed now). Cordelia was born deaf in one ear and uses a hearing aid (She is not entirely deaf, hence why the aid works). No homo/transphobia in this universe!! Top surgery and the gender affirming care is free and easy to get.

religion:

not all kingdoms have a religion, in fact most don’t! rather most of them just believe in certain legends (that may or may not be legends 👀) unique to each kingdom! metallum is heavily based on religion so I’ll go a bit more into depth (and I might tell you some specific myths if you ask 👀).

the people of metallum believe in three major gods. the god of mining and war, the goddess of trickery and intelligence, and the guard. buuuuuut… these gods are animals in their mythology and beliefs. the gods are also the gods of different things, such as the sun, the stars, etc. the war and mining god is named after the hero, Ulysses. the goddess of trickery and intelligence is named after, Gorgo, the intelligent queen. the guard is named after the loyal dog, argos. Ulysses is a brown wolf, gorgo a black cat, and argos a brown wolf as well (but he is always wearing yellow armor). here’s a full list of what everyone is the god of:

Ulysses, god of:

war, mining, sun, crafting, order, gold, forge, and, falcons. also “king” of the gods. sometimes referred to as order.

Gorgo, goddess of:

trickery, intelligence, stars, chaos, serpents, iron, crows, and, transformation. sometimes referred to as chaos.

Argos, god of:

guardians, protection, weather, and loyalty. sometimes referred to as the guard.

a common symbol throughout metallum, (also the seal of metallum) is Ulysses and gorgo in battle with suns as Ulysses’ eyes and the two stars as gorgo’s eyes. Ulysses’ brown pelt is streaked with orange fire and gorgo’s fur is peppered with stars. Ulysses is mid air in a pounce, his claws extended. gorgo is in a low attacking stance, claws digging into the ground.

another common symbol is a falcon with a snake in its talons, but the snake wrapped around its throat. this depicts Ulysses and gorgo as the falcon and the snake. it represents the constant battle of order and chaos, and without the balance of the two, we would have nothing.

argos is a believed to be resurrected as a real brown wolf that protects the ruler. he is neutral in the war between order and chaos, rather he watches over and intervenes when one is overpowering the other. a symbol of argos is an eye with a star pupil and a iris make of the flames.

every ruler (or soon to be ruler) on their 14 birthday is chosen one of the gods. (pls pls pls ask about the ceremony). the blessings are hard to tell what the ruler will be like, unless it’s a blessing of argos. blessings of argos are extremely rare and mean an imbalance in order and chaos. it represents a rule full of change and puts a huge burden on the ruler’s shoulders to find out what to fix.

religion isn’t forced but you may be confused or left out of activities because a lot of them are old games to please the gods. (If you’ve ever read warriors think mothwing). (might tell you about the games if you’re interested 👀)

that’s all for metallum rn!

hope you enjoyed this post that went way off the rails 😭!!

Hello lovely, tell me about your ocs please. :D

I’m so so so so so so sorry I didn’t see this until now!!! Here’s some about the kingdoms and their rulers :)

VALORYN

The war kingdom. Known for aggression and brutality. They train from very young ages. The people of this kingdom were mostly born there, with little to no outsiders allowed. They don’t have a main religion, rather that they give offerings to their king. They are ruled heavily by a king. The people are relatively alright with their ruler, with small amounts of backlash. 

LUNARIS VALE

The modern kingdom. Also known as the nocturnal kingdom. The kingdom is inhabited by people who are either former nomads or people who left the other kingdoms. Rather than a Ruler reigning over them, their Ruler represents them and the citizens rule themselves. There is no backlash due to this. They don’t have a single culture or religion either.

METALLUM

The mining kingdom. They mine mostly for iron and gold. Their kingdom is relatively rich. Their king is believed to be a messenger of their gods and a minor god himself. Their kingdom is based heavily on their religion. They also host a major brawl which is attended to by nomads, citizens, and others alike. Hunting dogs they train are also their pride. There is little to no argument with the king.

SYLVAN SERENITY

The peaceful kingdom. Also known as the earth kingdom. A kingdom made of mostly natural material and taken over by nature. It’s cool due to the large canopy. Vines snake around and inside out of buildings and roads. Animals are at peace and work with the inhabitants. It’s a war-free place where all are welcome to rest for a while or stay and help the kingdom flourish. Their queen is beloved by all with zero uprising. No religion is forced.

SIRENVEIL

The ocean kingdom. Also known as the kingdom of trickery. The people there are tricky and cunning. They can either be your best asset or your biggest fear. The people are especially skilled in traps. It is widely believed that they have the power to convince people when speaking a certain way but this has neither been confirmed nor denied. Their king is fair but angry and the people have very little problem with him. Religion is not a big thing.

RULERS

VALORYN KING

Lord Caspian

-Always dressed up

-usually very cold to people

-Short temper

-Destructive when angry

-loves to weld

-he/him

-6’1

-37

LUNARIS VALE RULER

Ruler Cordelia

-likes to wear dresses a lot

-very kind

-suspicious of nearly everyone

-deaf in their left ear

-loves to make bracelets

-they/them

-5’6

-34

METALLUM KING

Lord Rome

-trans ftm

-likes to dye his buzz cut with different designs

-blind in his left eye

-extremely kind but does have a crazy smile

-short temper

-he/they

-6’5 (no one knows how)

-25

-main main character

SYLVAN SERENITY QUEEN

Lady Agatha (called Agatha by her people)

-extremely trusting

-extremely giving

-loves to make homemade earrings

-best friends with Rome

-great dancer

-she/her

-5’4

-28

SIRENVEIL KING

Lord Virgil (called Captain Virgil by his people)

-large scar on throat from assassination attempt

-Spock ear

-loves to carve wood

-very snappy

-rough exterior but very kind and soft on the inside

-he/him

-6’3

-26

-main main character but his pov later

Lord Rome and Captain Virgil are my favorites and will be the most important characters :). The plot mostly about the problems of the kingdoms but it focuses on the war captain Virgil started.

half of me wants to tell you everything even the plot twists but another part of me wants to keep as much secret as possible.

I can’t decide if I want two characters (I won’t name to prevent spoilers) in a relationship or a qpr. a relationship would cause more problems they’d have to solve but also solve A LOT of the problems they have rn. whereas a qpr would cause different problems that would be easier to solve, they wouldn’t have as much character development and character arcs that route. I feel like the problems of the relationship would make it stronger than the qpr in the end. I’m leaning relationship but I haven’t decided.