#and gin's pardoned fully.

[themurderofcrowscollective]

And we leave it at that as I walk towards an ascending staircase, climbing it before grabbing a toolbox from a spot on the second platform to fix the lights in the attic. It doesn't take long, as downstairs I can hear a few of the men go 'Whoa!' As I head back down to the backstage and step out again, I look around before flicking on a lightswitch near the bar, the neons turning on. " You lads want anything to drink or eat? " I ask while leaning on the bar counter from behind. " It's the least I can do for you gents after all, but a few names would be nice. " The gentlemen turn to face me and take seats at the counter, the skeleton-masked man leaning forward. " I'm Lieutenant Simon Riley, but everyone calls me Ghost. The Scottish muppet next to me is Sergeant John MacTavish but we all call him Soap. " Soap looks offended as he smacks Ghost, the baseball-capped chap looking at me with a 'I have to deal with this. Every day.' look. " I'm Gaz, but officially I'm Sergeant Kyle Garrick. The guy with the cigar is our captain, and those two back there are Sergeant Gary 'Roach' Sanderson and uhh... Konig. " " That's quite a bunch. Anyone else I should know about? " " Well, leading some of our men outside are Horangi, Rudy and Alejandro. Rudy is Rodolfo Parra and Alejandro is Alejandro Vargas, they joined up with us after a life-threatening mission in Las Almas. " " So I see. " We both turn to look at Ghost and Soap who are smacking each other with a towel, somehow they found towels and decided to get up and smack each other. Quickly, Gaz looks away. " Can I get a coke and rum please? " " Sure thing honey. " I turn around and get him exactly that, handing it to him with a wink. For a second I think I can see him blush as he sips it and looks at the two being idiots. All I can do is giggle softly before looking at Price who takes a seat. " Care for a drink? " He looks at me with a smile and puts out his cigar in one of the ashtrays, sighing. " A gin and tonic please. " In a few minutes I hand his drinks to him, nodding to him with a smile. " No need to pay me, you lot could use some drinks and maybe food to substitute the terrible MREs they give you. " But before I fully turn to face the alcohol, Price grabs me by the arm as he stares at three claw marks on my lower arm. " Claw marks? " I look at him and smile warmly, giggling also. " I got that mark when I was a child, scared my mom half to death when I showed her. " He nods as if he understood, but he truly doesn't. " Ah, I see. Dog claw you? " " No actually, a wolf did. Had sharper claws. " He lets go as I finally turn around and grab a bottle of orange juice and a bottle of vodka, making myself a screwdriver. " Mm... I don't need you gents to pay at all, my home is yours. " I mention one more time before taking a drink, watching the door open quickly with three other men entering the club. " Welcome to the Sunset Cabaret, feel free to make yourself at home. " I call out with a smile, catching the eyes of two of the men. They approach the bar and sit down with a sigh of relief, one of them offering his hand. " I'm Alejandro Vargas, this is Rodolfo Parra. " " I'm Rachel Hargreeves, welcome to my club. What would you like? " " Just a screwdriver, yours looks delicious. " " Thanks, I make my own orange juice which is part of the house special, the Shimmering Sunset. Tastes wonderful in a screwdriver. " I mention as I actively making it, keeping eye-contact with Alejandro who looks surprised as I do so. " You're quite talented, did you have any professional training? " " Yes and no, I went to a high-class bartending academy in Europe and also learned a few tricks from my father while my mother taught my two other brothers how to kill and fight. " In that moment the whole bar went silent aside from the music that started playing, watching me as I serve a screwdriver to Alejandro. " Pardon? " Price mumbles.

Lycanthropy

In this world, nothing mythical exists. Sometimes you'll find the occasional nutjob screaming that there's a werewolf running around here and there, but that bunch of people are called nutjobs for a reason. However this time around, there's something strange happening in a quiet little town that's well known for it's small-town beauty, Rachel Hargreeves. She's a lovely singer and actress, but she is mostly seen at the cabaret club and never out in public. Some people believe she's a ghost or only exists whenever the club is full, but she leads her own life of secrecy to keep herself safe. During a mission taking place in this small town, the 141 main group gather at the cabaret club to recon as the town's been taken over by hostiles from a foreign country, meeting the one and only Rachel who peeked out of the backstage, having hid there when the first fight broke out. Let's begin. + + + Chapter 1: An Unexpected Meeting + + + The last thing I heard before the silence was gunfire and shooting, but when the front door opened quietly and slowly with heavy footsteps walking inside, I can hear soft muttering among the many men. I've been hiding in here since the first fight that started all of this mess, which is roughly 3 weeks now. I can hear them mutter softly about the other townsfolk who hid and stayed alive, discussing matters of what to do next. Are they friend or foe? I can only find out if I stop hiding, so as I take a deep breath, I slowly open my door and step quietly through the backstage area before pulling back the red curtain of the main stage. The first set of eyes I lock onto belong to an older gentleman with an astonishing beard and a bucket hat, smoking a cigar. For a second we stare at each other before I grab a rifle I've kept near the curtain and hold it at the ready as I walk through the curtain slowly and hesitantly. The room goes silent after I cock the rifle, all eyes on me as I stare at the group. However before things went quieter, I speak up. " Are any of you friend or foe? " I ask a bit coldly, I'd rather not deal with another break-in and deal with the body disposal. The man with the cigar slowly raises his hand and approaches the stage, approaching me with his hands shown. " Easy miss, we're the 141. We're regaining control of the situation as my men go through the town to get tie up loose ends. " We stare at each other for a moment before I un-cock the rifle and sigh in relief as I put it backstage again. " That's a relief. I've had to kill a few more than I'd like to admit, but they've called reinforces half an hour ago before you guys got here. " One of the other men speaks up, a fine chap with a baseball cap on. " How do you know? " " I stole one of their radios to keep tabs on the situation, here. " I unhook the radio from my waist and flick it on, tossing it to the man with the cap. There's audio of a few enemies being taken out but the reinforcements are soon to arrive. " You guys are free to use this place as a refuge or base of operations, despite there being a lot of chaos outside, there's still functioning electricity and wifi. " As I turn to go backstage, I'm grabbed by the wrist by a man in a skeleton mask, quickly looking at him. " Who are you first and foremost, lass? " God that's a lovely accent. " I'm Rachel Hargreeves, you must've seen my poster out on the front door before you came in. Welcome to my cabaret club, it's also my home. " He lets go after we both stare at each other, sighing. The man with the cigar approaches me again as I step through the curtains, gaining my attention by grabbing my shoulder. " I'm John Price, but you're free to call me Price. Thank you very much for allowing us to stay here, and if there's anything you need help with, let me or the others know. They all seem mean but they're loyal and kind. " He smiles at me as I smile back, grabbing his hand and shaking it. " Thank you, I just need to repair the lights as it's getting darker outside. "

[godkilller]

" how about another fight ? i'm stronger now. "

          �� H'oh~? Somebody’s gotten a lil cocky... ---- sounds like fun, kid, but my Zanpakuto ain’t the type to play nice durin’ a spar. It’s kinda meant for assassinating. I’m sure you remember... those years ago. I reckon Urahara Kisuke’s trainin’ methods got you pretty used to life or death scenarios durin’ a “friendly” spat... ---- ❞ 

          ❝ ... so, let’s see what other kinda magic tricks y’can pull outta yer ass, eh? Doesn’t matter how strong ya get, y’still won’t be fast enough. Ain’t no goin’ back now... ❞

[crinkle-eyed-boo]

Monday Snippet

I was most recently tagged in the last line challenge by @disgruntledkittenface @kingsofeverything and @lululawrence, as well as previous tags over the holidays, so I figured, why not a whole snippet? I took the holidays off from writing because it’s impossible to write at my parents’ house, and let’s face it, I needed the mental break. But I got back to it yesterday, and I really hope that I can get back to a better place when it comes to progress on this fic. Enjoy!

“Is that for me?” Harry asks quickly, gesturing to the champagne flute. 

“Yep.” Louis nods, handing it to him. “You said surprise you, and this matched your outfit, so I thought you’d appreciate it. I hope you like gin?” 

“Not really, but it’ll do,” Harry says, taking a much needed gulp of the cocktail anyway. He raises his eyebrows, surprised at the drink’s citrusy taste, the sweetness of the champagne complimenting the subtle spice of the gin perfectly. It’s completely unexpected, every gin cocktail he’s ever had before has just tasted like grass to him. 

“Good, yeah?” Louis asks with a hopeful smile. 

“Very,” Harry nods, taking another sip, a smaller one this time so he can fully appreciate the flavor. “Surprisingly so.”

“Empress gin,” Louis explains. “It’s less herbal than most gins, so it’s a lot smoother in a cocktail. Like I said before, Curly, I always get the good stuff.” 

“Says the man drinking a vodka Red Bull,” Harry teases. “What are you, Louis, fifteen?” 

“It’s a guilty pleasure, sue me,” Louis shrugs. “I wasn’t expecting them to have any Red Bull but they did. Anyway, it’s top shelf vodka, leave me alone.” 

Simon clears his throat and Harry flushes in embarrassment, having completely forgotten his manners all because of one stupid cocktail from one stupidly attractive man.

“Forgive me, I’m being so rude,” Harry apologizes in a rush, turning back to Simon. “Simon Cowell, meet Louis Tomlinson. Louis, this is Simon Cowell, the–”

“–CEO and founder of Syco Technology Group,” Louis finishes for him, holding his hand out in greeting. “Nice to meet you.” 

“It’s ‘psycho,’” Simon says, shaking Louis’ hand firmly. 

“Pardon?” 

“It’s pronounced ‘psycho,’” Simon repeats, his eyebrows knitting together as he releases Louis’ hand. “My company. You pronounced it like ‘sicko’ but it’s ‘psycho.’” 

“I mean, either way, it’s a choice for a name, isn’t it?” Louis grins, his eyes twinkling. “Didn’t really think that one through now, did you?” 

Simon’s nostrils flare and Harry wishes the floor would open up and swallow him whole. He knows that this is what Louis does, that he’s obviously joking to break the ice a bit, but if his sense of humor is going to be lost on anyone, it’s Simon Cowell. 

Totally broke the rules, so just tagging y’all back if you want to share anything else, plus @indiaalphawhiskey @myfineline @absoloutenonsense @jacaranda-bloom @daggerandrose @justalarryblog @uhoh-but-yeah-alright @allwaswell16 @haztobegood @twopoppies @princelyharry - no pressure of course!!

[gryffindormischief]

Simpatico

A/N: For @clarensjoy's hinny fic fest! Used a bunch of prompts and had so much fun. Thank you for organizing Clare! Thank you for the read @fightfortherightsofhouseelves

Also happy Hinny kiss day to all :) :) :) :)

FF and Ao3

----

Lee’s annual not Halloween “Fall Costume Party” has already ticked over into hour two when Ginny begins to seriously consider Harry has stood her up. Which is a pain in the arse in her situation because Harry not showing places isn’t just an easy ���oh my fiance is a selfish prick” event. He could be bleeding and half dead in a ditch, locked in a dark wizard’s creepy basement, hanging from the side of the Gerkin with a tiny scared muggleborn in his arms, or any other number of heroic unselfish and decidedly un-prickish activities. In case that seems an exaggeration of Harry’s day-to-day exploits, not a single one of those events was an invention of Ginny Weasley’s admittedly active imagination.

In fact, two out of three happened the day of their engagement party.

Plus, Ginny knows he’s not a selfish arse. Generally, Harry Potter is a considerate and loving partner who’s unselfish almost to a fault. And really, if Ginny is honest with herself for half a second, all this ruminating on Harry and his failings or lack thereof is just one big fat distraction from her worry that he is in fact, lying somewhere in a ditch, etc.

Because if she is directly thinking about it, but doing so in a logical and occasionally cheeky manner, her heart won’t pound and her palms won’t sweat and tears won’t rise to her eyes when her engagement ring glints under the low orange lights.

She’s wondering whether another shot of firewhisky will make things better or worse when a low voice sounds from over her shoulder. “Did you get my note?”

A grin - wide and uninhibited - rises to her lips. She doesn’t turn yet. Just savors the warmth that runs through her now that he’s here. Engagement aside, she can’t let him know just how soppy he makes her, so she laughs quietly and shoots back, “Of course I got it. You taped it to my forehead while I was sleeping. Plus anyone outside of work you’d be with is here.”

“Pardon me for my thoughtfulness. You’re not always the most observant, Gin,” Harry says, now directly behind her and close enough that his breath catches wisps of hair that escaped her plait. “For example, you were supposed to wear a costume. A shoddy wig doesn’t count.”

Ginny sighs and tips her head back to rest on his shoulder, blinking up into his green eyes. “I am wearing a costume - look at my jersey. I’m Harry Potter. The Chosen One, Youngest Seeker in a Century, The Boy Who Lived - twice. Biggest claim to fame - Ginny Weasley’s #1 Groupie.”

He snorts.

“Ring any bells - wait.”

Harry lifts his brows as Ginny twists away to face him fully. “Is that a cat onesie?”

“Uh, no,” Harry sniffs, doing an excellent Percy impression, “I am Mrs. Norris.”

Some sort of brain numbing dance hit blares over the speakers and Ginny feels as if her entire body will vibrate with the base until her insides are repurposed as outsides. Harry reaches for her, but doesn’t guide them from the room, just pulls her closer.

Ginny takes full advantage of the situation, enjoying the view of his long wiry form on the way and then getting her first hand reminder of the feel of him up close and in person. He might be dressed as a cat, but damn if he doesn’t turn her to mush and light her on fire at the same time.

When Ginny manages to refocus, resettling her haphazard wig, Harry seems just as lost as she was only moments before. She runs her fingers along the braid that sticks from beneath her wig and twists over her shoulder, grasps the tip, and proceeds to brush it back and forth across Harry’s nose. He wrinkles his face up and squeezes her waist. “What gives?”

She fiddles with the zipper beneath his chin. “Nothing?”

Harry shakes his head, a smug grin rising on his lips that leaves her torn between dragging him off for a snog and smacking him. “Don’t get all cocky.”

"Nope.” Harry shakes his finger in front of her face. “I saw that. You just checked me out."

“I did not.”

“You think I’m fit - super fit,” Harry crows. “So fit that even a cat onesie can’t stop you.”

“I thought you were Mrs Norris,” Ginny says archly. “Besides, it’s not embarrassing to think your fiance is fit.”

Snickering, Harry leans in and kisses her cheek, snuffling when the cheap wig hairs tickle his nose. Still, he manages to mutter, “It’s embarrassing when your fiance is essentially wearing footie pajamas.”

“How about we unpack you checking me out while I’m dressed as you?” Ginny snorts, tugging on the zipper at his throat just enough to pull him closer.

“Fine, let’s stick with we’re just super into each other.” Harry smiles. “I like you a bunch, Ginny Weasley.”

Ginny lets her hands slip to grasp his, their fingers locking together like puzzle pieces, as she pulls him further away from the undulating dancers. The thumping music is quieter, their dark corner almost beyond the reach of multicolored lights that swirl around the room. Soon enough, Harry’s back is pressed against the wall and Ginny is almost too close for him to think straight.

“Nice specs, by the way.”

Almost too close. But not quite. If he let Ginny’s nearness get the best of him as often as she was near enough to get to him, he’d be a blubbering mess 24-7.

“Thanks,” Ginny says, pushing the lens-free frames up her nose. “So. Hypothetically, if two people liked each other - ”

“You never said you liked me back.”

Ginny pins him with a glare and continues, “If two people liked each other, what would it take to get the stupid guy to kiss the girl?”

“Well I’m a cat right now, so I’m hardly an expert in the ways of human love affairs.”

“Wow, you’re choosing cheek over a snog in a dark corner?” Ginny smirks, “Or are you creeped out to snog yourself.  Might be kind of hot.”

“Except - ”

Ginny grabs the tip of his nose between her knuckles. “Yes, yes. You’re a cat. You could’ve been me. We could’ve done a couple’s costume,” she lets her eyes lose focus for a moment, “We could’ve snogged each other as each other.”

“That is sort of making sense to me,” Harry says, gripping her hips, "I think we need some time apart."

Ginny lets out a dramatic gasp, almost losing her precariously placed wig as she tips backward. “No! I almost have your brooding emo boy face down.”

“I take it back, I don’t want to get married.”

Immediately, Ginny’s face falls into a soft expression, eyes distant. “Sorry. Too late. We’ve broken each other in.”

“You’ve heard of the fallacy of sunk cost right?” Harry asks with a grin, the crowd dissipates a bit, a few stragglers stumbling toward the bar, most likely. Lee loves the unpredictability  of an open bar at his parties. It’s not just a focus on the temporary wildness, Ginny’s fairly certain he uses it to get show material, or at least ideas of who to bug to get as guests. Then a few carefully placed questions...

“I can guess,” Ginny rolls her eyes, “But we’re essentially ruined for anyone else. You really think someone else will find you hot in a Mrs. Norris costume?”

Harry’s finger shoots into the air as he lets out a triumphant, ‘HA!’ that’s still mostly muffled by the music.

“Plus all that effort. I’m an ‘old has been with sad dreams of grandeur’ now,” Ginny sighs.

“The irony that Rita Skeeter said that about someone,” Harry mutters, ending on a chuckle as he finds the tip of Ginny’s braid and fiddles with the strands.

“Gwen was angrier than me,” Ginny says as Harry brushes the end of her braid over her nose, “I’m twenty something and she’s close to forty.”

“Back to the main point,” Harry cuts in as he leans closer. “We’re not us because we have to be.”

“Elaborate?”

“I dunno, you could - that bloke from Quidditch Monthly is a fan,” Harry says finally, nudging her nose with his. Harry puts on a nasal tone and parrots, “Though Weasley rides a firebolt, this author finds watching her streak across the pitch akin to a shooting star.”

“Nah,” Ginny shakes her head, “Not my type.”

Harry reaches to fuss with his hair only to get a handful of faux velvet shaped like a cat ear. “No attraction there?”

“I’m attracted to you,” Ginny brushes her finger over his jaw before pulling his gaze back to hers. “Not some swotty bloke who waxes poetic instead of reporting on my gameplay.”

“Sunk eight shots in the first forty minutes that day,” Harry says.

Ginny surges upward, grasping the back of his neck. Between the two actions she brings their lips together for a short, biting kiss.

Long enough, though, that Harry’s a bit dazed when she drops back onto her heels. Honestly, dressing as Harry was her best costume idea yet. Especially if she dresses like ‘I can’t be bothered’ Harry, which of course she did, because she’s smart.

Harry blinks. “So me, as Mrs. Norris is more enticing and attractive than your biggest fanboy?”

“Don’t forget quoting my  Quidditch stats at me,” Ginny says with a wink. “And don’t sell yourself short, we all know you’re my biggest fanboy.”

He kisses her again. “Nonetheless.”

“Sadly, yes. You can show up in footie pajamas and apparently I still have the hots for you,” Ginny says, wistfully as she grasps the zipper on his onesie again, drags him close enough that their lips almost touch.

As she tilts her head back, Ginny lifts her free hand to hold her wig in place. Harry’s eyes dart upward, crinkle with laughter. “I would say I'm creepy for finding you this attractive in a me costume, but it’s really a pretty terrible costume.”

“Rude.”

Harry tugs at a loose tendril of her hair. “Yeah?”

She tugs the zip on his front down further and slips her hand beneath. “Yeah.”

Ginny clenches her fingers, gripping his t-shirt. Harry in turn, grasps her wrist. “What’cha looking for?”

“I’m just busy being disappointed that you’re not naked under there,” Ginny answers with a sigh.

“Wanna get out of here?”

In place of a response, Ginny grabs his collar and pulls him through the tipsy - drunken - mass filling the party and toward the floo. She turns, palm already open and waiting for Harry to drop his personal floo powder pouch into it. Instead, she finds Harry trying to fumble for the pouch through his onesie. “Alright there Harry?”

“Help?”

Ginny twitches her brow up. “Gladly.”

Her eyes don’t leave his as she slowly draws the zip down further, causing Harry’s breaths to quicken as she reaches inside and lower. Her touch lingers at the draw of his joggers for just a moment before turning toward the pocket and reaching inside. Ginny pulls it out and dangles the pouch in front of his nose. “Gotcha.”

Harry snatches it away and pulls Ginny tight to his side. He glances down, watching as she wraps her arms around his middle. “Get a good grip Mr. Potter.”

“Don’t let me go Mrs. Norris.”

Grimmauld Place is dark, quiet aside from the tick of the clock on the mantle behind them as Harry and Ginny stumble from the fireplace. Ginny turns to step further into the living area though Harry’s apparently not eager to let her leave his grasp. His arm stays banded around her middle, her back to his front and his lips increasingly enamored with her neck. And ear and - apparently just any bit of skin he can find.

“Take this off?”

“What?” Ginny asks, twisting around, her back arched away from him so she can look directly into his eyes.

“Ideally, as much as possible,” Harry says with a laugh. His touch rises to her hair, and then suddenly a rush of cool air hits her scalp as the admittedly terrible wig falls from her head. “But I meant that.”

Ginny winks. “You can leave your cat on.”

That brings Harry to a halt, his palms paused at her waist where he’s bunched her borrowed jersey. He blinks. “Really?”

His grip on her has loosened enough that Ginny can dart away and toward the staircase. Harry rounds the corner and follows her upstairs, taking them two at a time. Ginny turns back and grins. “Going to have to be faster than that.”

“I have socks for shoes, Gin.”

She shakes her head. “Too bad.”

Harry’s retort - whatever it was, ends with her jersey atop his head and her cackling laughter echoing from down the hall.

Eventually though, Harry catches up - if you ask Ginny it’s purely because she wanted him to - and the evening ends with all costumes discarded until the next time Lee has a bright idea about ‘getting the gang together.’ Ginny drifts to sleep, Harry snuggled close behind, just as the clock strikes the witching hour.

Ginny wakes hours later, a short enough time that it feels like she simply blinked, to an insistent tapping at the window closest to her head and increasingly frantic pounding at the door.

A grunt is the closest Harry comes to acknowledging the forces currently invading their sleep. Ginny prods his side, but he simply cuddles closer. She tries to wriggle away, muttering, “My hero.”

“S’just Ron,” Harry grumbles, then in a louder growl, “Ron bugger off. We’re engaged and tired.”

Another thud at the door and then Ron says, “Not according to the Prophet.”

Both Harry and Ginny jolt up at that, remarkably able to resist lingering on the swathes of skin revealed when they sit forward. Ginny turns when more taps sound at the window, there are at least three owls fighting for first access, Howlers smoking in their talons.

Ginny runs her hands through her hair, fingers catching on knots in the process. “Ron, what’s in the Prophet?”

“Apparently Harry dumped you last night.”

Harry kisses her shoulder and she can feel his grin against her freckles. “I most certainly did not, Ron.”

“Ew, please don’t sound so smug,” Ron groans, “And I know. You two are gross.”

“Stuff it,” Harry shoots back, pulling at Ginny’s elbow. “We’re tired.”

Another thud sounds at the door, likely the result of Ron kicking at it helplessly. Then a long sigh, “Me too, mate. Future reference, maybe keep the sassy faux break ups to non-public venues?”

Ginny twists beneath the sheets, slants her lips across Harry’s, feels his body waking against hers. “Ron?”

Harry groans. “Please don’t when things are picking up downstairs,” he glances at his lap.

“Ron, go snog Hermione - or buy some earplugs,” Ginny continues. When his muttering and footsteps fade down the hall, Ginny turns back to Harry. “And you, how about some ‘partnered relaxation techniques’?”

He pulls her atop him and tucks his hands behind his head. “Have at it.”

[the-last-teabender]

FANFIC: Oxventure - Duel Destinies

RATING: G

WORDS: Just under 7k

SUMMARY: Corazón gets hit on the head.

A/N: This isn’t my first time writing fanfic, but it’s my first time in literal decades writing something that a) isn’t going into a charity anthology and b) isn’t single-sentence goofs in my Gchat window with @randomthunk. So I actually am a little nervous to just yeet my work out into the world without an editor/publisher frontline protecting me from looking foolish. I do have plans to fic more tho.

I approached this as though I was writing an official tie-in because that’s my comfort zone (and occasionally my job). Which was a little challenging because there’s a lot that’s not part of the story but is part of the viewing experience. I have not mastered it in one story but the attempt was fun. Also I haven’t smashed alt-codes this obsessively while writing since I wrote about Señor 105.

Thanks aforementioned Ginger for being my beta reader and basically sitting on me to post this instead of hide it in my writing folder.

Anyway, if you like what I’m throwing out here, I have actually a lot of stuff in print and even more coming.

----------

“Right,” Dob said, pacing the length of the deck, “before we go, let’s review. Prudence, what happened yesterday?”

“We found a bad man killing off local slimes to make slime booze.”

“Good. Corazón, what happened yesterday?”

“I began my awesome new career as a detective and threw someone out a window.”

“All right. Merilwen?”

“Mow.”

“Excellent. Egbert?”

“I set a tavern on fire and got my seal very drunk on slime gin.”

“All right, that’s us caught up.”

That wasn’t the entire catch-up, but all of them knew the events of the day before well enough. The forest outside the town of Esterwell was in turmoil, according to the wizard Binbag after he tumbled unexpectedly out of a pantry. It was suddenly bereft of slimes — the cute little blobby creatures generally used for target practice by up-and-coming adventurers. As it happened, slimes had other uses. Serving as the base for a delightful high-end alcoholic brew, for one. Serving as the base of the entire local food chain, for another. If the slime population continued to plummet, eventually the other animal populations would follow suit.

An investigation of the local slime hunters (led by DCI Jeff Crimestopper, a pseudonym Corazón was becoming increasingly attached to) turned up that they were all in the employ of the same man: one Alonzo Horgan, owner of the Horgan Distillery. One especially talkative young hunter revealed that Horgan intended to “wring all the slimes out of Esterwell Forest” before upping sticks to his next hunting ground.

The goal was, in short, to stop Horgan’s machinations before he destabilized the entire local ecosystem and went on to do the same to others. Somewhere along the way, Dob had got it into his head that the goal was to start a brewery of their own and hold a cider-making contest in the Esterwell town square… an idea the group at large now referred to as “Plan C.”

Plan A, currently underway, was to continue the detective lark and either talk sense into Horgan or (more likely) run him out of town. Plan B was burning down the distillery.

“I’m still very much in favor of bumping Plan B up to Plan A,” said Prudence, wiggling her fingers as the group made their way back into Esterwell.

“Mrow,” Merilwen the cat grumbled from Dob’s shoulder, which translated to something like, “But that doesn’t actually solve the problem of making him stop.”

“Oh, fine,” Prudence huffed. “Detectives it is.”

Corazón pumped a fist low and (he thought) out of sight. “DCI Jeff Crimestopper back on the case, bay-bee.”

They arrived at the home of Alonzo Horgan — a palatial manor in a town that really wasn’t the sort to have palatial manors. At least half a dozen residences would have to have been knocked down to make way for the place, which stood half again as high as the buildings around it that had survived.

Merilwen hopped lightly from Dob’s shoulder, turning back into an elf again, as the half-orc tapped politely on the door.

“No, no.” Egbert shoved past him, balling up one scaly fist. “You’ve gotta really punch it.” He slammed his fist against the door several times, making it bow slightly under the pressure.

“Open up!” Corazón shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth. “We have a warrant!”

“Don’t just say we have a warrant!” Merilwen hissed.

The door was opened mere moments later by a tall, rail-thin man with an upturned nose and a downturned moustache. “Mmcan I help you?”

Corazón pushed past the man. “Yeah, you can take us to Alonzo Horgan. We’re taking him down to the station for questioning.”

“I’m afraid Mr. Horgan is not—” But the man was cut off as the rest of the group piled past and into the house.

“Where is he, then? Upstairs?” Corazón pointed up the stairwell, one foot on the steps.

The man at the door, to his credit, did his best to maintain his decorum. “Mr. Horgan is not taking visitors.”

“We’re not visitors,” Dob said gruffly, looming over the man, “we’re detectives.”

“Is that so? Well, I do hope you meant what you said about having a warrant. Otherwise I may have to take you to the authorities.” 

Alonzo Horgan’s voice silenced the group, but had it not, his presence would have. Fully six-foot-four, a stocky mix of fat and muscle generally only seen on back alley brawlers, stuffed into a fancy suit. His glare was imperious; his moustache was excellent.

Corazón swiveled and approached the master of the house. “Alonzo Horgan?”

“Yes, I’m… not sure who else I would be.” Horgan seemed put out for a moment, but recovered himself. “May I ask what business you have here?”

“DCI Jeff Crimestopper.” Corazón pulled a piece of paper from his coat, flashed it briefly, and put it away again. “This is my DI, Dob Tyler.”

Dob grinned toothily; had it not been Dob, it might have looked threatening. “Here to make sure my loose cannon superior does things by the book.”

Corazón gestured to the rest of the party. “DS Prudence, DC Merilwen. And, er, PC Egbert, he mostly makes the tea.”

“It’s really good tea,” Egbert piped up.

“No offense, sir…” Horgan gestured to Corazón. “But you look more like a pirate than a detective.”

“Deep cover, obviously. I wouldn’t expect a civilian to understand.”

Horgan waved a hand dismissively. “Even if I were to entertain the idea that you’re who you claim to be, I feel I’ve done nothing to warrant an investigation.”

Merilwen narrowed her eyes. “Nothing, Mr. Horgan?” Her voice was tense, hitting that slightly higher octave that her friends knew meant violence was quickly becoming an option. “Killing off an entire species for your own benefit is ‘nothing’? Allowing the local wildlife to starve is ‘nothing’?”

“Oh, it’s about the distillery, is it? I promise you, my dear, I’ve heard it all before.”

Dob gritted his teeth, giving Horgan a highly dramatic, highly knowing look. “I’d be careful if I was you, sir. DC Merilwen has a license to… er. Bear.”

Still, none of this seemed to faze Horgan. “If you think complaining about my methods is going to have any effect… let me assure you, it hasn’t yet. Now, unless you have any actual business with me…”

Prudence stepped up. “All right, look. Fine. We’re not actually detectives.”

“You don’t say,” Horgan deadpanned.

“That said… the whole slime issue is a real thing, and we really do need you to stop hunting them out completely. Or at least cut back.” Prudence looked back at Merilwen. “Cut back? Would that be good enough?”

“I prefer the idea of him stopping completely,” Merilwen seethed.

Prudence gestured to Merilwen. “Yeah, what she said. But I mean, it affects you, too. Do you like, uh… wild boar? I guess? Rabbit? Pheasant? I don’t know.” She spread her hands in an exaggerated shrug. “Screw up the food chain and you don’t get any of those.”

Horgan looked them all over, one by one. “You come into my home. You pretend to be something you’re not. And then you make demands of me that would effectively shut down my business. Give me one reason why I should even listen to what you have to say.”

Egbert had mostly detached from the scene in front of him, his eyes scanning his surroundings in search of something entertaining. They lighted on a pair of crossed swords on the wall, with a bronze plaque underneath: Esterwell Annual Fencing Championship, Second Place. Without thinking, he blurted out, “A duel.”

“I beg your pardon?” Horgan asked. The rest of the party fixed Egbert with confused looks.

“A duel,” the dragonborn repeated, with a little more confidence this time — confidence filled in a lot of blanks, in his experience. “If one of us bests you in a duel, you have to at least give us a proper audience.”

Much to the group’s surprise — including Egbert’s, truth be told — Horgan seemed to consider it. “Hmm. Well. I suppose it makes more sense than… whatever we’ve been doing.” He gestured at the room in general, then turned to Corazón. “On the condition that I fight this one.”

Corazón grinned. “Hell yeah. I’ll fight you. Prepare to have your whole scene wrecked by Corazón de Ballena.”

“I thought you said your name was Jeff Crimestopper.”

“I told you. Deep cover.”

Horgan sighed wearily and turned to his doorman. “See them out. Tomorrow at sunrise on the lawn. Come alone, whatever your name is. And pray you do not lose. I have no patience for time-wasters.”

The five were ushered out without another word.

“Not sure it’s wise to challenge a prizewinning fighter to a duel,” Merilwen noted when they were outside town again. “That sort of seems like the main thing he’ll be ready for.”

Egbert waved a hand. “Pff, it’s fine. The plaque on his wall said he was only second place. That means there’s at least one person better than him in town.”

“Still… What’s going to happen if Corazón if he loses?”

Corazón laughed. “Pff. Hah. Nothing. Because Corazón won’t lose.” He unsheathed his rapier and stopped to take a few jabs at a nearby tree. A heavy branch, near to breaking, creaked overhead. “You know what my crew used to call me?”

“Yes,” said Prudence, “you’ve complained about it several times.”

“I mean in battle. You know, when we captured ships. My swordsmanship is second to none. They used to call me Corazón the—”

There was a crash, and silence.

Egbert stopped walking, waiting for the punchline. “Corazón the what?”

“Er.” Merilwen pointed back toward the tree hesitantly. “Corazón the unconscious, apparently.”

Prudence turned and lifted away the branch, wincing at the sight of the pirate splayed out on the ground. “Oh, dear…” Then she looked up at the group. “So does this mean I’m captain now?”

---

The general consensus had been to let Corazón be once he’d been carried back to the Joyful Damnation and bundled into bed. He would likely be full of opinions and complaints as soon as he woke up. That, and he’d need his rest before dueling Horgan the next morning. 

There was no bleeding as far as they could tell. Just a big bruise that would get bruisier over the next few days. Egbert dropped a quick bit of healing on Corazón which, while it would likely be helpful in the long run, did nothing to wake him. Eventually, Dob took up a seat by the enormous bed in the captain’s quarters, keeping an eye on the patient and picking out a few chords to pass the time. Just as he was getting a good riff worked out... 

“Ow.”

“Ow?” Dob leaned over the bed. “Did you say ow?”

“Yes, I said ow. Because I’m in pain.”

Dob jumped up from his seat and threw the door open. “Guys! Guys! He’s awake!”

Prudence was the first to run in. “Is he okay?”

“Sounds like it.”

Egbert followed, with Merilwen bringing up the rear. They crowded around Corazón’s bed, realized at the same time that that would probably look weird from his vantage point, and backed off a bit.

“Corazón?” Dob leaned in slightly. “How’s your head?”

He squinted up at Dob. “What did you call me?”

“Oh, right.” Dob laughed. “Silly me. How’s your head, DCI Crimestopper?”

This just seemed to confuse him more. “Who… what are you talking about?” Then he pulled himself up to sitting, perhaps a little more quickly than he ought, and pressed a hand to the top of his head, looking around. “I feel like I’ve been beaned with an entire tree. Where the hell am I?”

“Your room,” Prudence offered. “We figured you’d want a nap after the bludgeoning.”

He shook his head, still sounding a bit dazed. “No… this isn’t my room. My room is bigger. And it doesn’t rock and creak. Are we… are we on a ship?” He looked up at the others again, as though seeing them for the first time.

“... who the hell are all of you?”

There was an awkward silence.

“He’s messing about, right?” Egbert grinned nervously at the others. 

“It’s Corazón,” Prudence said quickly, “of course he’s messing about. Just humor him, he’ll be on to something new when he’s tired of it.”

Dob was already on board at humor him. He pressed a hand to his forehead. “Oh, no! Corazón! All our precious memories, lost forever! Please say it isn’t so, old friend!”

If Corazón was acting, he was really leaning into the deadpan delivery. “Is this some sort of prank? It’s not a very good one, if…” His gaze wandered down to his hands resting on the bed sheet, his sleeves wrinkled back somewhat. His eyes went wide, and he made a sort of choking, stammering sound.

Then, again far more quickly than he probably should have, he threw himself out of bed, shoving past Egbert on the way to the largest of his mirrors. Carefully, he pulled his collar aside. And gasped.

“Oh, my God, I’ve been tattooed in my sleep!”

“Gosh,” Egbert said with an admiring smile, “he’s really devoting himself to the bit, isn’t he?”

Merilwen shook her head slightly. “I… don’t… know if it’s a bit.”

“Which one of you did this to me?!” Corazón pointed at the tentacle tattoo emerging from under his collar. “Why would you do that? Why… what happened to my hair!? How long have I been asleep!?” He grabbed the nearest person — Egbert — by the collar. “Are you trying to change my identity!? Am I going to be sold off to the highest bidder!? What’s your plan!? You have to tell me!”

Dob grabbed for his lute, a nervous grin plastered on his face. “Ooooh! Oh, dear! Looks like someone could use a nice lullaby.”

Merilwen held out a warning hand to Dob. “No? No. One second.” She waved a hand to Corazón, the way one might a skittish fox. “Hey, over here.”

“What!? What do you want now!?”

“Just. Okay. Calm down for a second. Calm…” Merilwen inhaled and exhaled slowly, guiding the breathing with her hands. Corazón, surprisingly did the same. That in itself was a sign that something was off.

“Okay, just keep your eyes on me, all right?”

“Sure.” Corazón’s voice was strained.

Merilwen rooted around in the pocket of one of Corazón’s jackets, folded neatly over a nearby chair. She found what she was looking for — a little leather pouch of gold coins — and poured the contents out into her hand. She showed them to Corazón, as though setting up a magic trick. He watched and nodded tensely, his jaw set.

“Dob,” she said with a sweet smile, opening the cabin window. “Would you do the honors?”

“Would I?” Without hesitation, he took the little handful of coins from Merilwen, slid over to the window, and chucked them out into the sea, one by one.

All eyes turned toward Corazón.

“Yes, and?” The nervousness was tinged with irritation. “What?”

Another awkward silence, this one longer. And awkwarder. As they all, in their own time, came to terms with the fact that Corazón was not, in fact, acting.

Prudence tapped him experimentally on the shoulder. He flinched away, balling his hands into fists and holding them in front of his face.

“Hey, hey, whoa! No, no, we’re your friends! It’s us!” Prudence smiled, gesturing around the room. “You know. The Oxventurers! Can’t you recognize us?”

Corazón lowered his fists. “If you mean could I pick you out of a lineup, then yes, I certainly could.”

“Corazón…”

“Hff… and stop calling me that! It’s weird!” He brushed off his sleeve where Prudence had tapped him. “If you’re my kidnappers, then I would hope you already know who I am.”

“Y-Yeah.... Sorry.” Prudence frowned, then smiled. “Percy?”

“Thank you. That’s more like it.” And Corazón made a break for the deck. 

---

“All I’m saying,” said the half-orc with the large hammer and the very nice hair, “is that we could be having a cider-making contest in the town square right now.”

“Or burning things,” said the tiefling, as a pair of ancient tomes played around her heels like rowdy puppies. “We could also be burning things right now.”

If this was a kidnapping, it was a very civilized one. Percy hadn’t had any practical experience with being kidnapped, to be fair. His father had suggested that it might happen once or twice in his youth, because that was just how life was for the children of rich and influential people. But after making it to adulthood without ever waking up in a dingy cellar surrounded by leering mercenaries, he’d just put it to the side.

He’d also been a bit disappointed, as escaping from said mercenaries could have been fun. But in retrospect, he might not have done as well at that as he liked to pretend.

He wasn’t tied up, or locked up. At worst, he had been prevented from leaping off the ship by all four of his kidnappers (and a seal, he was still contending with that information) piling themselves on top of him. They’d bundled him back into the captain’s quarters while they consulted with each other. Percy took the time to shave — the itch from his stubble was frazzling his already-frazzled brain — and change into a shirt that still had functional buttons.

The change had gotten a slight stare of disbelief from his captors, as though he’d gone and swapped heads, but no actual comments were made. And now, the dragonborn was sitting by him on the deck and handing him a cup of tea, and it smelled suspiciously like what he drank at home, and yes, this was absolutely one of his teacups.

“So!” the dragonborn said with a toothy grin. “Cora-... er, Percival. Percy? Mr. Milquetoast? Sorry, not sure what to call you now.” He had a cup of his own, but rather than sipping from it, he opened his long snout and splashed the contents inside. Judging by the reaction that followed, the tea was still very hot.

“Just, er… whichever? I guess?” Why was he sitting on a ship drinking tea with his kidnappers while they asked what to call him? Why had his father not been mentioned yet? Was that still incoming? His teacup rattled against the saucer.

“Mmmm… Percy. I’ve always thought you looked like a Percy.”

“Always?” Percy put his teacup down shakily on its saucer. “Then you’ve been spying on me? For how long?”

“No!” The dragonborn waved a hand frantically in front of himself. “No, no, I mean… we’re not…” He looked behind him, where the other three were peering at the scene thoughtfully. “Um, guys, I’m not doing great. Someone else try.”

The elf stepped in and tapped him on the shoulder, as though relieving him from duty. Good. As far as Percy could tell, she was the most logical of the group. She wasn’t panicking… not that he could see, at least.

“So you’re Good Cop, then?” Percy eyed her warily.

“No…” The elf sighed, a sort of long-suffering sigh that made him feel like this was not the first long-suffering sigh she’d issued him. “We’re your friends, really. And we’re just trying to figure out how to help you.”

Percy narrowed his eyes. “My friends.”

“Yes.”

“Not magical kidnappers looking for a piece of the Milquetoast fortune.”

“No. Not magical kidnappers looking for a piece of the family fortune. I promise.” 

“I mean, I have friends at home. I can just go home to my actual friends, and not whatever you guys are pretending to be.”

The elf’s face settled into an expression that somehow managed to be both neutral and confrontational, her lips pressed into a line. “Name four friends you have at home.”

Damn. “Uh, th-there’s, uh… there’s Steve… F-Friendsman.”

“Yeah.”

“There’s, a-um, Roger… M’buddy.”

The elf pressed a hand to her face. “Please, at least let us try to help you.”

She seemed absolutely genuine. It was making his head hurt. This was not how criminals acted. As far as he knew. “Fine, help me, or whatever it is you want to do.”

“All right, so…” The elf clasped her hands together. “It’s probably just a matter of jogging your memory. You got a little bop on the head, it shook things up, but we can help you connect things up again. Right?”

“Sure,” Percy said hesitantly, now with the added wrinkle of wondering when and how he’d been hit over the head. He considered asking, but he could already hear the answer. No, we didn’t hit you over the head intentionally. It was a love tap. Something like that.

The elf smiled. It didn’t seem like a kidnapper’s smile. But again, he had nothing to go on. Maybe kidnappers had really nice smiles. “Okay, good. So let’s just rattle out a few of the high points, and see what your brain latches onto.”

Percy nodded, taking a sip from the teacup he still held in a death grip.

“Okay. Spicy rat?” She paused, and he wasn’t sure what for. After a short silence, she picked up again. “No? Okay, that was a while ago, admittedly. Uh… baby-making watch?”

“Babies don’t come from watches,” Percy scoffed. “They come from under cabbage leaves.”

The elf ground to a halt in her questioning, but picked up again with a shake of the head. “What about the party? The one where you went dressed as a sexy nurse and made a teenage girl cry.”

Percy scowled. “I would never do that!”

The half-orc chuckled. “Oh, you very much did.”

“I will not allow you to paint me with the same brush as you, you… s-scoundrels!” Percy felt a chill down the back of his neck. “That’s what this is, isn’t it? You’re trying to convince me I’m one of you and whisk me away to do unspeakable crimes, is that it?”

“Hasn’t taken much trying so far, mate,” Merilwen grumbled.

“Waaaait wait wait wait.” The tiefling squeezed up next to the elf. “We’re coming at this from the wrong angle. He’s clearly forgotten stuff from before we met him, too, right? What we need to do is remind him of why he became a pirate.”

Percy looked around the ship. Then down at the clothes he’d woken up in. And the tattoo on his wrist. “I’m a pirate?”

“Yep, you are a pirate.”

“So… this really is my ship?”

“Er, our ship, yes.” The tiefling seemed to take a lot of pride in saying that. Well, being co-owner of a ship was something to be proud of… if it was true, he’d probably let himself feel a bit proud, too. “So, maybe if you can summon up the feelings that made you want to run away from home and be a pirate, the rest will follow. So, tell us about your dad.”

“He’s… dumb?” Percy shrugged. “He’s annoying? I don’t know, it’s a lot of effort to run away from him for being dumb and annoying. I’ve got nothing.” 

The tiefling leaned in conspiratorially. “Nothing about what a bad dad he is? How he has ridiculous expectations of you? Doesn’t want you to have fun and live your own life?” She paused. “How he’s got a stupid wig and he’s all stuffy and bossy?”

Percy leaned away from her. “You seem to have plenty against him already.”

“Oh, no, no. I don’t hate him. You do.”

“No, it really does sound like it’s you.”

The tiefling laughed, waving a hand. “Oh, no, that’s just because he bothers you. It’s a support thing. I’d totally love to live in his big ol’ house.”

“So you’re telling me you don’t like my father, but you do like his money, and that’s supposed to make me feel better?”

The tiefling’s face twisted into a confused frown. “Oh, man. Yeah, we do kinda sound like we kidnapped you for ransom, don’t we?”

Percy flinched away, nearly dropping his teacup. Oddly, the tiefling was once again trying to reassure him. “Which we didn’t?? Which we didn’t. I’m just saying.” She sighed. “I guess he forgot whatever happened that made him want to run away, too. How about you, Egbert? Got any paladin magic for him?”

“I’ve got something better!”

All eyes, Percy’s included, turned to the dragonborn — who was now swinging a mace from one clawed hand.

“So, you know how in all the stories, right? Someone gets knocked on the head and gets amnesia, but then they get hit in the same spot and all their memories come back. Let’s just do that!”

The dragonborn strode over to Percy, winding up the mace. Percy stumbled backwards, his teacup falling and shattering on the deck. “Don’t you dare!”

“Egbert, not that mace!” the elf shouted.

“Oh, it’s fiiiine. I had to hit whatsisname loads of times before he actually turned into a seal.”

Percy looked at the seal. The seal looked back.

“Eg.”

The dragonborn raised his mace over his head. Percy stumbled backwards towards the door to the captain’s quarters, eyes locked on the cursed weapon. He reached behind him for the doorknob and twisted frantically. The door wouldn’t give way.

The elf flung herself at the dragonborn, turning into an octopus in midair. The two hit the deck, the mace rolling harmlessly across the deck as the octopus held the would-be attacker in place. Percy finally managed to yank the door open, racing into the captain’s quarters and slamming the door behind him.

“I meant a spell!” Percy heard the tiefling yell from the other side of the door. “You’ve got more healing spells, don’t you?”

“Oh, riiiight…”

There was a gentle tap at the door. Percy eyed it nervously.

“Heeey, buddy. You okay?” It was the half-orc. “Can I come in?”

“No, you absolutely cannot come in. You’re all insane and there’s a seal man out there saying egg.”

“That’s cool, that’s cool. I’ll just sit out here, how’s that?”

Percy heard a gentle thump against the other side of the door. “So… you really don’t remember anything, do you? About us, or your pirate crew, or any of that?”

“Last thing I remember is going to bed at Milquetoast Manor and thinking tomorrow night’s party was going to be very boring. Then I woke up in bed on a strange boat, with all of you standing over me looking ready to dissect me or something.” Percy sat down, leaning on the other side of the door. His head still felt foggy. “So? Which one of you blackjacked me?”

“You blackjacked yourself with a tree.”

Percy frowned. “Is that the sort of thing I’m likely to do?”

“Oh, yes,” the half-orc said cheerfully. “Merilwen had a stack of tree puns ready to go, but under the circumstances it seemed, uh… bit tasteless.”

“Merilwen?”

“The elf. Don’t worry, you can hear them later. You know, when your head’s right again.” A pause. “Oh! Haha. Of course. I’m Dob, by the way. The tiefling is Prudence, and the big dragon man is Egbert. And we’re all your friends, and we all do super cool things together.”

Percy nodded, still not completely convinced. Then he realized Dob wouldn’t be able to see him on the other side of the door. “If you say so.”

“Gosh. Introducing myself to you. That brings back memories.” Dob stopped himself, fumbling, as if he’d just said something extremely offensive. “I mean… you know…”

Against his better judgment, Percy got up and opened the door. Dob, leaning heavily on it, tumbled backwards… but turned the tumble into a backwards somersault and landed lightly on his feet. He gave a little bow, and Percy felt he ought to clap. Just considering the effort.

“You ready to come out and talk to the others?”

Percy leaned to one side and looked out onto the deck. Egbert was on his feet again, with Merilwen (now an elf) still clinging to his back, as though uncertain whether the dragonborn could be trusted on his own yet. Prudence wore a friendly smile that seemed to say “I’m not going to sacrifice you to my eldritch god, but I’m also not not going to sacrifice you to my eldritch god.” His trusted friends. Apparently.

Before Percy could answer, Dob slapped him on the back and walked him out onto the deck. “All right. We’ve all had a little breather, a little think, and I think… and this is just me… we should back-burner the memory loss issue and focus on the bigger problem.”

“There’s a bigger problem?” Percy looked at Dob incredulously.

The group at large winced. “Yeah…” Dob continued to speak for the group, and no one seemed to mind being relieved of that duty for the moment. “See, Percy. Percival. Friend. Our good friend of so long…”

“Just tell me what’s going to happen to me.”

“You have to duel someone tomorrow morning.”

Percy extracted himself from Dob’s friendly side-arm. “What? Why? Why would I do that?”

“Again,” said Dob, “if it makes you feel better, it is extremely on brand.”

“Hsfd… it doesn’t make me feel better! I have to fight someone tomorrow and I’m not me! I mean, I am me, but I’m not this other me who went and did a thing I didn’t do!”

Amongst them, Percy’s friends(?) laid out the entire situation. All he managed to retain were slimes, collapse of the natural world, very large man, and imminent swordfight. The rest was a sort of blur, and one he was in no mood to attempt to figure out.

“I can’t do this.” It was a statement of fact. “Maybe this Corazón guy can do this, but I can’t. Horgan’s going to be expecting some jerk pirate who can swordfight.”

“We can try another refresher,” suggested Merilwen.

Egbert reached for his mace. “I could try—-”

“No,” said everyone, possibly even the seal.

“Look,” Dob said gently, “we’ll have puh-lenty of time to work on the memory thing, right? All we have to do is get through tomorrow, and if it hasn’t cleared up by then, we’ll find someone to help you, no problem.”

“How can you be so sure?” Percy asked, the fretting feeling coming back even stronger than before.

Egbert shrugged. “It’ll happen. That’s how it tends to go. A problem comes up, and then a couple days later someone comes along with a quest that’ll fix it. It’s really handy.”

“Okay, that’s great for after tomorrow morning. But what about me, tomorrow morning, with swords? What’s my guarantee I get past that alive? Because I’ve never actually stabbed a man.”

“Yes you have,” Prudence pointed out.

“Like a lot,” Merilwen added.

“Apparently you kicked a man to death once,” said Egbert. “I mean, I found out later, but I believe it.”

“But I don’t remember that!” Percy flailed an arm helplessly. “It’s… hds… that’s some future guy and I’m not the future guy, I’m the me guy. How is the me guy going to survive?”

The group fell silent.

“... did I actually kick a man to death?”

They all nodded.

“Oh…”

“And see? That’s why we believe in you, Cor… er, Percy.” Dob threw an arm around Percy’s shoulders again. “We know what you’re capable of. We know it’s in here.” He jabbed at Percy’s chest with one finger. “And in here.” At his head.

“Ow!”

“The head, Dob,” Merilwen hissed, “watch the head.”

“Right, right. Look. We’ve got tonight to train you up into a believable Corazón de Ballena. You’ve already got the look, you’ve already got the voice. That’s more than most people start with.”

Percy let out a weak groan.

“Hey! No, this is good! We can do this! And maybe, somewhere along the way, something will trigger the ol’ bean and the memories will just come flooding back. Right, guys?”

The rest of the team seemed to believe it about as much as Percy did. Which wasn’t much.

“Are you sure we can’t just…” Percy motioned to the anchor rope. “Leave?”

“No,” Merilwen said firmly. But her expression was still hesitant. “No, we have to stop Horgan. More than anything else, that has to happen.”

She was insistent. This was important to her. Percy groaned again.

“Come on, buddy.” Dob lifted his arm from Percy’s shoulders, grabbing him by both arms and staring him in the eyes. “Look me in the eye.”

“Yeah. Looking.”

“Now. Are you a Thieves Cant, or a Thieves Can?”

Merilwen, at least, seemed to appreciate what Dob was going for.

---

Plan B no longer stood for Burning. Plan B, as indicated by a wild-shaped Merilwen taking up a spot behind the topiaries on Horgan’s lawn, now stood for Bear. And possibly Bomb, and Blast, and Bard Casts Thunder Wave, depending on who got trigger-happy first.

No amount of swordfighting or storytelling brought Corazón’s memory back. Nor did any amount of actually insisting on calling him Corazón. Their last ditch hope — that he’d wake up the next morning acting like nothing had happened — didn’t pan out, either. Dob gave pep talk after pep talk as Corazón fretted uncharacteristically, the latter eventually wrapping the uneaten bacon sandwich he’d made for himself in a piece of paper and stowing it in a jacket pocket. Finally, though, they’d all had to take up their positions and leave the rest to luck.

Corazón was left to make the walk up the lawn alone, but the other four had formed a perimeter: Merilwen in the topiary, Dob in a nearby tree, Prudence behind a fence, and Egbert peering over a hedge. Dob promised to shoot Corazón an occasional prompt if things got hairy; but, by and large, it was all him.

As the sun began to rise, Corazón walked up the paved path to the appointed spot. He’d not quite gotten his own swagger down, instead walking slow, measured steps with his hands stuffed in his pockets.

Try to look like you’re too cool for the room! Dob thought; Corazón looked up and around, surprised, then seemed to remember what Dob had said about sending mental messages. He stopped where he was, pulled his hands out of his pockets, squared his shoulders, and walked even more awkwardly up the path.

Fine. It’d have to do.

Just as the light of sunrise hit its best and most aesthetic hue, Alonzo Horgan and his servant walked out. The former wore a rapier at his belt.

“Corazón de Ballena,” Horgan said broadly, his voice dripping with fake friendliness. “Or are we going by something new today?”

“No, er, that’s me.”

Dob thought another swift message.

“I mean… that’s right! That’s me, Corazón. The mighty pirate. Here to run you through like a tasty kebab and grill… grill you on the fires of justice? What the hell does that mean?”

Just go with it, Dob thought irritably, but the moment had passed. Shame. He was rather proud of that one.

Horgan eyed Corazón with amusement. “I can wait if you need a moment.”

“No, no. Erm. Yes, that’s me.” Corazón’s hand hovered over the hilt of his rapier. He was tense. He was ready. He might have been about to faint. It was hard to tell.

Horgan’s retainer’s voice was soft. None of them could hear it from their respective points along the perimeter. Corazón didn’t look especially surprised by any of it, which hopefully meant there was nothing odd about the rules of the duel.

From their spots, separated though each of them was, they all had the same thought at the same time: what would it take? What hadn’t they done? Would they need a spell? Some sort of quest? A skilled healer? Would another bop on the head really have done it?

A shrill whistle blew. Each of them was shaken out of their thoughts to see that the duel had begun, and Corazón was already flagging quickly. It was less of a duel and more of a chase, the enormous Horgan lumbering across the lawn after his smaller opponent. Corazón, for his part, was holding his ground… though “his ground” was constantly moving backwards across the lawn in zigzags.

His heel came dangerously close to a stray root, nearly hidden by the grass.

“Look out!” Egbert shouted. Merilwen, Dob, and Prudence shushed him. Horgan looked up and around for the source of the voice. Corazón, on the other hand, missed the warning entirely. His heel caught on the root, and he windmilled backwards, landing flat on his back.

Merilwen hesitated behind the topiary, one huge, clawed paw creeping around the side of the greenery. Was it go time? The others were in the same state of indecision, poised to attack but waiting to see what happened.

Corazón lifted his head slightly. The massive form of Horgan hovering over him, blade raised threatening, blocked out the faint light of sunrise. The sword hung there for a moment… then was flung across the lawn, accompanied by a disgusted sigh from Horgan.

“How very disappointing.”

The group shot each other quick glances. The message was clear. Well, clear-ish. “Stop Horgan before he can leave” was clear enough, but what would be done with him once apprehended was likely still up in the air. Corazón, unaware of any of this, propped himself up on his elbows.

“Where are you going?” he asked weakly. “We’re not done here.”

“I rather think we are.” Horgan shook his head in… amusement? Disappointment? It was hard to tell. “What a shame. You were so full of piss and vinegar yesterday, and today you’ve got no real fight in you.”

“I’ve got fight… I’ve got plenty of… hhhh.” Corazón put a hand to his head.

“Serves me right, thinking I’d get a good fight out of some puffed-up fake pirate.”

“... what did you say?” Corazón’s voice was suddenly oddly sharp and cold.

Horgan chuckled. “You heard me. You’re less convincing than the chap I hired for my niece’s seventh birthday party.” He waved a hand to his servant. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve not had breakfast yet and I’m peckish. Think I might go to the kitchen and have a bit of a graze.”

On his next step, Horgan’s booted foot slid forward, sending him falling backwards into a puddle of grease that had absolutely not been there moments ago. Now it was his turn to look up at a looming silhouette: Corazón de Ballena, sword pointing down threateningly in one hand, bacon sandwich in the other.

“How appropriate. You fight like a cow.”

Horgan spluttered, eyes bulging. “You… what nonsense is this!?”

“It’s called the power of grease, that’s what nonsense this is. Now get up and fight me so we can have our little talk. Or would you rather we just go ahead and burn your whole scene down?”

“You wouldn’t dare!”

“Yeah, you’re right, I wouldn’t. I think Prudence might, though.” Corazón shouted toward the fence. “Prudence! Plan B for burn?”

Prudence threw her hands in the air. “Plan B for buuuurn!”

Horgan had managed to pull himself up to one knee, the grease still dangerously slick beneath him. “I said to come alone!”

“Yeah, well, pirate. Don’t know what you expected.” Corazón stepped back, taking a bite of his sandwich. “So, I’m calling this a win for Team Oxventure. Which means it’s time for some negotiations concerning your, er, current business model.”

“But…” Horgan looked in the direction of his servant. He was long gone. Whether he’d run off, or whether the large bear standing where he’d stood had disposed of him, Horgan couldn’t tell.

“Oh, yes. That’s our sustainability advisor, Merilwen. She’ll be taking over from here.”

Merilwen growled.

---

“So what you’re saying,” said Egbert, “is that my plan was the best and would have worked.”

“Hff… no! Absolutely not.” Corazón was rubbing a hand over his chin, displeased with the lack of facial hair. “A one-in-six chance of being turned into an animal is not a best plan. Why did you let me shave? I hate it.”

“It’ll grow back.” Prudence poured out a mug of slime beer… the last remaining barrel, which they’d taken with them as a gratuity after aggressively convincing Horgan to discontinue his fermented slime line. She offered the mug to Merilwen, who waved a hand in front of herself emphatically.

“No, I don’t want to drink the poor baby slimes…” The rest became too high-pitched and tearful to translate.

“I’ll drink the poor baby slimes.” Dob grabbed the mug and necked half of it, much to Merilwen’s chagrin. “Anyway, what snapped you out of it? Was it hitting your head again?”

Corazón wrinkled his nose and shook his head. “Don’t know. I know I got really mad when whatsisname called me a fake pirate, and I wasn’t having that.”

Prudence’s eyes lit up. “Ohh, spite! Literally the one thing we didn’t think to try!”

“Well,” said Dob, passing Corazón his mended teacup topped off with beer, “I think we’ve all had a chance to learn something about friendship and patience and being true to ourselves.”

Egbert poured himself a pint. “I haven’t learned anything.”

“I have.”

Everyone looked at Corazón. “Have you?” Dob asked.

“Yep.” Corazón took a sip of beer from the teacup. “We are absolutely terrifying.”

Merilwen nodded sagely. 

“Yeah,” Prudence said dreamily. “It’s good.”

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to my room, and I’m not coming out again until my good facial hair is back.” The door to the captain’s quarters slammed behind Corazón.

And that is the story of how the Oxventurers brought down a corrupt businessman with a breakfast sandwich.

[antidrumpfs]

Traitors for Trump ... Exhibit #3

Steve Bannon the controversial former  tRUMP “strategist” ... only the best people...

Bannon's appearance has been described as “gin soaked” and that's being extremely kind.

Cartoon by Clay Bennett

Cartoon by Jim Morin

So, this goon Bannon was arrested and indicted for fraud by Trump's own justice department (while Trump is president) for ripping off Trump's own followers, and is then pardoned by Trump, and the followers cheer them on instead of being angry at both Trump and Bannon. Prosecutors had charged Bannon with conspiring to cheat hundreds of thousands of donors by falsely promising that their money had been set aside for new sections of the border wall, and then using nearly $1 million of it for personal expenses. While Bannon like Trump himself likes to portray himself a populist, Mr. Bannon was arrested on a $35 million dollar, 150-foot yacht belonging to one of his business associates, the fugitive Chinese billionaire Guo Wengui.

That is some powerful cult delusion ... Pure stupidity in its purest form. It does however make it possible to appreciate the role delusion plays in the cult member wanting an authoritarian daddy figure. The problem for them was Trump was incompetent and could never be the Hitler figure they desired. If they were able to reason or ponder history a bit they would realize that the Nazi authoritarian experiment didn't really work out that well for the Nazis or for Germany. Hopefully the role that Bannon played in promoting the insurrection and the big lie that lead up to it will be fully investigated and he will be indicted on new charges. 

[dokuhai]

After asking GODKILLER about how Gin would act as a parent, I have to hear about the other half! How would Rangiku (with Gin) act as a parent?

                  𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐈𝐒 𝐀 𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐒 𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄  but now that I’m off of my hiatus I hope you don’t mind me answering!!!  Branching off of Godkilller’s response to how Gin would act as a parent, it’s important to also consider how Rangiku’s lifestyle and priorities would greatly shift if she were to become a mother.

                                                                   ———

                  Firstly, I think it’s worth mentioning that there isn’t any potential for my Rangiku getting pregnant until after the Blood War, when Soul Society has finally entered into a time of peace.  @godkilller and I developed a canon-divergent verse a while back that ultimately comes into fruition after their bond has strengthened beyond anything we’ve seen in canon.  There are no longer any secrets between them, and Rangiku’s trust in Gin has been fully restored.  

                  So much of Rangiku’s personal growth can be attributed to Gin’s initial betrayal, as well as the Winter War  ( and the events that unfolded after the war was over. )  Her entire world was flipped upside down when Gin defected.  She went through incredibly low moments riddled with self-doubt, that ultimately pushed her further into a state of alcoholism.  SHE BURIED HERSELF IN BOOZE —— anything and everything that could distract her from Gin’s betrayal, and the fact that she would eventually have to face him as an enemy on the battlefield.

                  When Aizen was defeated, Gin was on the brink of death —- fading in and out of consciousness in Rangiku’s arms.  The idea of losing him completely is a fear that has never truly left her, even after Gin had recovered in Soul Society and was pardoned for his crimes.  ( small easter egg being my verse name for Gin’s survival — “these new fears ; i carry with me (v.)” )  Rangiku was forced to grow up quickly, taking on the role of a caregiver and provider while Gin struggled with chronic illness and attempted to recover in spite of the wounds Aizen inflicted upon him.  DRINKING TOOK A BACKSEAT, as well as partying and shirking away from the responsibilities she held as Lieutenant of the 10th Division.  Suddenly Rangiku was doing everything she could  ( and then some )  to get the Gotei 13 back on their feet.  At the same time, she was dealing with an INCREDIBLE amount of backlash from her friends and the shinigami population at large about her continued relationship with Gin.  

                  Rangiku knew what it felt like to hear her name within rumors and gossip in the past —— but this was something else entirely.  The amount of hate spewed in her general direction for harboring a war criminal and continuing to stand beside him was something she wouldn’t wish on ANYONE … however she also grew so much because of it.  Rangiku THREW herself into her work as a way of showing her colleagues that she was still on their side.  Despite avoiding the angry gazes and awful insults that were practically spat into her face every day, her avoidant nature could only take so much … patience would truly begin to wear thin surrounding Gin’s dishonesty.  Eventually she would demand answers, and Gin would find a way to provide them ——— ultimately resulting in these two finally having a chance to mend their broken bond, and heal.

                                                                    ———

                  ALL OF THIS TO SAY THAT RANGIKU IS, IN FACT, MOTHER-MATERIAL POST-BLOOD WAR.  She knows how to balance her responsibilities, and her communication with Gin has strengthened considerably.  She doesn’t bottle up her emotions anymore  ( or, well, as much as she used to )  nor does she try to drink them away.  So when those little lines on her pregnancy test appear, signifying that she’s expecting, Rangiku is SO much more prepared to share her life with a little bundle of joy.  

                  Having a child is something that Rangiku’s always dreamed of, but never talked about or felt truly ready for.  It was always a ‘maybe one day’ thing in her mind ------ something that could happen when she no longer wanted to drink away her sorrows, or dance the night away and stumble back home in the early hours of the morning.  Rangiku has matured considerably by the time she’s expecting post-Blood War; Gin has already put a ring on it, and they’ve been enjoying married life for quite a while before embarking on their next adventure into parenthood.

                  So how would she be as a mother?  PATIENT. LOVING … ACCEPTING.  A bit overbearing, at first.  She would dote on her child so much —— attempting to cook more  ( despite her food tasting terrible )  and involve herself in her child’s activities as much as seemingly possible.  Rangiku is that mom that goes to ALL of the soccer / tee-ball / cheerleading / tap-dancing practices and cheers from the sidelines.  She’s the mom bringing cupcakes to the fundraising event that taste awful, but all of the other parents and kids pretend to be grateful for her contribution.  

                  Rangiku would most likely have a hard time letting go in the first few years of her daughter’s life, out of fear that something could happen while she wasn’t looking.  This is a direct result of her OWN upbringing  ( or lack thereof )  and the events that transpired in her past.  Rangiku wants her daughter to never struggle, or want for anything.  She would most likely spoil Keiko rotten until she learns to let up a bit.

                  Something I’ve always loved about Rangiku is her ability to tell it like it is, and to offer tough love to her friends when they need it.  This would translate beautifully into her relationship with her daughter, especially during those terrible teen years.  Despite doting on her daughter and always doing what she can to offer Keiko a better life, Rangiku knows when to put her foot down.  She also respects the advice Gin gives to Keiko, and his own way of parenting.  What a cute little family, eh?  Plus, Rangiku is MORE than ready to talk boys, outfits, and makeup when Keiko is older~ ; )

[cooliogirl101]

I was rereading your hisana AUs (which I love so much thank you) and was wondering: in the Nobody AU what would Hisana and Gin’s interactions be if they ever meet at all? Since hisana met gin at the seiretei and that’s not the case here would she meet him instead while he was out on a mission in the rukongai? Im curious to hear your thoughts. And thank you I love your writing!

Funnily enough, I feel like out of everyone she knows, her relationship with Gin would change the least. With everyone else, she refuses to get close to them because they either a.) have a preexisting relationship with canon!Hisana and she refuses to mess that up or b.) she doesn’t want to risk their safety by getting them involved in her personal vendetta against Aizen, or c.) both. With Gin, well...he has zero relationship with canon!Hisana (he like, is vaguely aware of her existence but that’s it) and he already has his own personal vendetta against Aizen. 

On Gin’s part, I feel like he would be the first person to figure out the puzzle that is Nobody. Not her identity, but the fact that she originally wasn’t from his world. 

“You know, I gotta thank ya. It’s been a while since I’ve been this interested in something.” Gin said, tilting his head to the side. “You really are a fascinating little puzzle, aren’t ya?” 

“Are you going to get to the point sometime this decade?” The cloaked figure in front of him asked irritably. “Because if not, I’d like to go get changed. I hate the feeling of blood on my clothes, ugh.” 

“I agree. The way it gets all sticky and tacky as it dries? Gross,” Gin said, giving an exaggerated shudder. “And honestly, it makes doing laundry such a pain. At least most of the uniform is black, but--”

“Some of it’s white and while fresh blood adds a splash of color, rusty brown isn’t an appealing shade on anyone,” Nobody finished, giving Gin the strong impression of rolling her eyes despite 90% of her face being covered. “My deepest apologies for disrupting your aesthetic sense by bleeding on you, shinigami-san-- next time, I’ll do my best to aim my blood away from your pristine robes.” 

Gin simply smiled. 

“And there it is again,” he murmured. “Tell me, Nobody-san. How is it that you know me so well when I don’t recall ever meeting you before today?”

“What are you talking about?” Nobody asked, folding her arms across her chest. 

“What you just said right now. About how ‘fresh blood adds a splash of color,’ and how ‘rusty brown isn’t an appealing shade on anyone.’ They’re not the exact words I’d have used, but they’re pretty damn close. Interesting that a mere two hours into our acquaintance, you would already know me well enough to predict my next words, wouldn’t ya say?” 

“Perhaps you’re simply predictable,” Nobody replied coolly. Gin’s smile widened. 

“I’ve been accused of many things, my dear, but predictable isn’t one of them,” he said softly. “You know, I couldn’t figure it out for the longest time. Couldn’t figure you out for the longest time.”

“Well, that’s on you,” Nobody muttered. “I’m not that complicated.”

He ignored her. 

“How was it that a stranger, someone no one had ever heard of, a complete nobody-- pardon the pun-- could know so much about the inner workings of the Gotei 13? How to get in and out unnoticed, how to wander the Seireitei without getting lost, exactly what to offer Kuchiki Byakuya to get him to agree to all of their demands...” Gin’s voice trailed off. “Too many things didn’t add up. Too many things didn’t make sense.” 

“I could be a rogue shinigami,” Nobody said evenly, voice giving nothing away. 

“The prevailing theory in the Seireitei right now,” Gin agreed. “But then you started going after Aizen Sousuke.” His smile turned sharp. “Not directly, of course. I don’t believe you’re that stupid. But you started going after his spies, his labs, even the most hidden ones. You started tracking down powerful hollows, warning them about him, about his shikai-- his most guarded secret, something you should’ve had absolutely no way of knowing.”

“You think just because you’re Aizen’s second in command, he trusts you with everything?” Her voice was mocking. “Have you considered that-- maybe, just maybe-- he knew about me and didn’t tell you? It would be awfully humiliating on his part to admit that an experiment of his had gone rogue, managed to escape, and was currently messing up his plans, after all.” 

“I’ll admit, that’s what I thought had happened. But then I met you.” He shook his head. “And I realized you knew me, even though I didn’t know you. More than that, you knew how I talked, you were familiar with my fighting techniques in a way only someone who’s fought me before would be, and--” 

He paused, smile slipping for the first time during their conversation. 

“And you know enough about me to know that I’m not loyal to Aizen. And someone who knows that, knows me very well indeed,” Gin finished quietly. “So let me ask you again: why don’t I know you?”

Nobody didn’t say anything for a long moment. Then--

“You’ve never been good at remembering those who didn’t interest you, Gin,” she said, a strange note in her voice. It almost sounded as if she was smiling beneath her mask. “In fact, I’m willing to bet a hundred dango that you can’t name five officers in your own division. By their actual names, not whatever weird nicknames you’ve come up with them in your head,” she added when he opened his mouth. 

Gin looked at her for a moment. 

“I can’t imagine I would’ve forgotten you,” he said honestly. 

“Well, what other explanation is there?” She asked, tilting her head to the side. 

“Just one,” Gin said, opening his eyes fully. “What did he mean to you, the other me?” 

“I--” For the first time, Nobody seemed truly caught off guard. “What?” 

“The other me. The future me, or perhaps the me from another dimension. What did he mean to you?” Gin asked, leaning in. 

Nobody turned away, ducking her head. It was all the confirmation he needed. 

“What does it matter? He’s gone,” she snapped after a second’s pause. “They’re all gone. There’s nobody left.” 

“Nobody left,” Gin repeated. Ah. So that was how she’d come up with the name. 

She looked up at him for a moment. 

“You were the last one to go,” she said distantly. “You asked what you-- the other you-- meant to me. You weren’t...we weren’t anything, really. Not friends and not even enemies, towards the end. You were just someone who was there, constantly, this incessant, unending presence I could never get rid of, that showed up everywhere, up until...up until you weren’t, anymore.” She laughed hollowly. “But now you’re back and you’re exactly the same, and--”

Someone who was always there. 

Someone who stayed. 

Gin wasn’t sure how he felt about that. 

“Exactly the same? I doubt that. I like ta think that I’m unique in every universe,” he said instead. 

“Well.” She considered his words for a moment. “You’re right, you aren’t exactly the same. There are some slight differences I’ve noticed.” 

“Oh?” Gin asked curiously. 

“Yeah. The other you was better looking.” 

[basicsofislam]

ISLAM 101: Muslim Culture and Character: Morals And Manners: Defusing Hatred And Animosity

Harboring rancor and animosity means looking for re- venge and retribution. The heart of one who is envious or rapacious has been darkened and their mental facilities are taken over by vengeance. This feeling of vengeance grows until it pushes out all the love and faith in a person, and they be- gin to put revenge before everything, even obedience to God.

By contrast, freeing the heart of rancor and enmity quickly brings a psychological balance and harmony between the heart and mind, the physical and the spiritual. A person who can keep their temper under control will be of greater benefit to society and able to cultivate their higher emotions to their full potential.

In the Qur’an God tells us that the rancor and enmity harbored by people have a dangerous potential to trigger injustice:

O you who believe! Be upholders and standard-bearers of right for God’s sake, being witnesses for (the establishment of) abso- lute justice. And by no means let your detestation for a people (or their detestation for you) move you to (commit the sin of) deviating from justice. Be just: this is nearer and more suited to righteousness and piety. Seek righteousness and piety and always act in reverence for God. Surely God is fully aware of all that you do. (Maeda 5:8)

Every type of anger and vexation gives rise to mental problems and physical illnesses. Without sincere forgiveness, without “letting go,” total recovery is impossible. Hatred, animosity, rage, wanting to “get even” or see others punished, even criticism and reproach, all pollute the mind, weaken the soul, and eventually ruin a per- son’s health. It could be said that overcoming anger can be achieved if one nurtures a desire to help others and trains one’s thoughts along these lines, as well as trying to seek to live a life that is more “behind the scenes” rather than striving to be the center of atten- tion. In the Qur’an God says,

They spend (out of what God has provided for them,) both in ease and hardship, ever-restraining their rage (even when pro- voked and able to retaliate), and pardoning people (their offenses). God loves (such) people who are devoted to doing good, aware that God is seeing them. (Al Imran 3:134)

Human nature is created in such a way that a person can fluc- tuate between good and bad. Knowing this, it is necessary to know how to deal with one’s own ego, keeping in mind that good comes from God while evil comes from the ego and leads to ulti- mate destruction. A person who knows that they are prone to vac- illating between good and bad actions must expend extra energy to ensure that they refrain from major sins and to avoid situations that could lead to doing wrong: “Those who avoid the major sins and indecent, shameful deeds (which are indeed to be counted among major sins), and when they become angry, even then they forgive (rather than retaliate in kind)” (Shura 42:37).

Furthermore, in order to avoid anger or antipathy, we have been given several strong mainstays, such as praying for one’s own forgiveness, the forgiveness of our brothers and sisters in religion, and that of our spiritual ancestors, asking God not to allow seeds of bitterness and anger against believing people grow in our hearts, and expecting these prayers to be accepted; these are all stated in the following Qur’anic verse:

And all those who come after them (and follow in their foot- steps) pray, “O our Lord! Forgive us and our brothers (and sisters) in Religion who have preceded us in faith, and let not our hearts entertain any ill-feeling against any of the believers. O our Lord! You are All-Forgiving, All-Compassionate (espe- cially toward Your believing servants). (Hashr 59:10)

There are also some useful indications in the life and practice of Prophet Muhammad, peace and blessings be upon him, regarding the control of anger and animosity. Some of these enlighten- ing hadith are as follows.

The Prophet warned Anas ibn Malik while the latter was still a child, telling Anas that he should forgive those who had done him wrong, and thus avoid having his spirit sullied with enmity or lin- gering resentment. Anas ibn Malik related the following narration from the Messenger of God: “My child! Every morning and every evening, make sure you hold no grudge or enmity against anyone. Do this, if you can, my child! This is my example. Whoever fol- lows my example truly loves me. And whoever loves me will be with me in Paradise.”16 As we can see, those who can purify their hearts of jealousy, anger, and animosity will be together with the Prophet and reach Heaven.

Anger that burns the soul brings a feeling of vengefulness to the heart and can feed vengeful actions. Some people easily lose their temper. They are merciless, severe, and cruel. Some people, though they have quick tempers, are also quick to recover from anger.

In this regard the Prophet divided people into three basic groups, according to how quickly they anger and how quickly their anger departs. He also explained which one of these groups is most virtuous. In addition, he gives an immediate practical so- lution for anger: taking ablutions to help the feeling subside.

Abu Said al-Khudri narrated, “God’s Messenger said, ‘Be aware that there are people who are slow to anger and quick to repent of their anger; there are also people who are quick to an- ger and quick to get over it. There is also a third group of people, who anger quickly and are slow to let their anger go. The best of these are those who are slow to anger and quick to turn from an- ger. The worst are those who are quick to anger and are slow to let their anger go. Beware! Anger is like a burning ember in the heart of man. Do you not see the eyes that glow and the cheeks that puff out? Whoever feels himself beginning to get angry, he should touch the ground….”17

Accordingly, taking ablutions or bathing as well as touching the ground or walking on the soil barefoot are some practical ways of dispelling anger. But there is another dimension as well: one who feels overwhelmed by anger should seek refuge in God.

Muadh ibn Jabal relates, “Two people cursed each other in the presence of the Messenger. The face of one of them showed anger at the other. God’s Messenger said, ‘I know a word that you can say to ward off the anger that I see in your face. That is a‘udhu billahi min ash-shaytan ar-rajim (I seek refuge in God from Satan, who is eternally rejected from God’s Mercy).’”18

Abu Hurayra provided the following hadith: “A man asked the Prophet, ‘O Messenger of God! Give me a short, easy piece of advice, that I won’t forget it.’ He repeated his request several times, and the Prophet answered with, ‘Don’t get angry!’”19

A person with a quick temper should be careful not to miss good advice or exhortation by becoming upset at being urged to that which is good or commendable (and therefore not listening to the other person). Ibn Abbas narrates that when Uyayna ibn Hisn came to Medina, he stayed with his nephew Hurr ibn Qays, who was a person whom Umar used to keep near him as one of the learned men who knew the Qur’an by heart (qurra) and who by virtue of their knowledge can give legal opinion or judgment (fuqaha). Uyayna said to his nephew, “O nephew! You are close to this ruler, so ask him for an audience for me!” So the nephew asked Caliph Umar for this. But when Ibn Hisn came into Umar’s presence, he said, “Beware! O the son of Khattab! By God, you neither give us enough provision nor judge among us with jus- tice!” Umar was extremely upset. He was almost ready to hit Uyayna when Hurr jumped up and said,

“O Ruler of the Believers, God said to His Messenger, ‘Adopt the way of forbearance and tolerance, and enjoin what is good and right, and withdraw from the ignorant ones (do not care what they say and do)’ (A’raf 7:199). This man is ignorant.” When Hurr recited this verse Umar instantly froze in his tracks; he could not ignore the Qur’an, so he did nothing to the insolent man.20

A person who is overwhelmed by anger will have trouble making sound decisions. There is a direct prohibition regarding situations like this. Abu Bakr told his son ‘Abdullah, who was serving as a judge, “When you are angry, do not judge between two people. For the Messenger said, ‘No one should judge be- tween others when he is angry.’”21

Concerning the verse, “Goodness and evil can never be equal.

Repel evil with what is better (or best). Then see: the one between whom and you there was enmity has become a bosom friend. And none are ev- erenabled to attain it (such great virtue) save those who are patient (in adversities and against the temptations of their souls and Satan), and none are ever enabled to attain it save those who have a great part in human perfections and virtues” (Fussilat 41:34–35), Ibn Abbas said, “‘what is better (or best)’ in this verse means ‘patience at the mo-ment of anger, and forgiveness at the moment we are wronged.’ If people do these things, God will protect them from their enemies; He will cause their enemies to become friends for them.”22

[homesoutofhuman]

Scarlet- Hannibal X Reader Part 2

A/N: I’m beyond touched by the comments on the first part of this story, I never thought something so dark and deep from my head would resonate with anyone else so here is another part, hope I didn’t mess it up, this is such a tricky subject.

Summary: You’re seeing a psychiatrist, Dr Lecter for your issues with sex, loneliness and hyperfixatons. Will he be your cure, or have you just met the man who will only make things worse?

Warnings: D/S themes, choking, slapping, smut...also this is way too long.

Hannibal opens the door to you and stands to the side so that as you walk by him into his office you’re forced to brush against his chest. You look up to find him watching you closely, analysing you. He shuts the door with a sharp noise and grabs your hand, bringing it to his nose and taking a deep inhale.

You stand, rooted to the spot, feeling your heart thundering in your chest. He releases your hand and shakes his head at you in judgement, and you avoid his gaze, thinking of every night since your text conversation that you’ve been furiously trying to get yourself off in the hope of quenching your insatiable hunger for this man. (You’re not sure if Hannibal is smelling your blood or your arousal, or both.)

From his boldness in touching you, you assume that he will bring up the incident straight away, but he follows his usual routine of asking about your week, an attempt to break the ice on previous sessions, but today an attempt to break the heated tension.

It doesn’t work. Having him so near to you, looking taller and broader than ever in an expensive tweed suit, the purples and reds if the fabric bringing out the tawny streaks in his eyes, is torture. You fidget in your seat while Hannibal scratches his pen against his pad, monitoring your nervous movements. Suddenly you’re angry.

“Dr Lecter…”

He doesn’t look up.

“Hannibal….” you whine, a desperate noise from the back of your throat, the kind you’ve been making every night this week.

His eyes are on you then. “Yes we should discuss…” he trails off and you pray he won’t apologise, please anything but that.

”...it was unprofessional of me and I have considered transferring you to another psychiatrist.” You wince but he continues steadily, either not observing or not caring to relieve your pain. “In my defence I find myself drawn to you, find you alluring, and I suspect my...proclivities, would align with yours.

“That’s how I was feeling” you whisper, voice tiny. Not daring to trust he is really agreeing with you

“You failed in your assignment.” he nods towards your hands which lay in your lap. Instinctively you clench them together as if in prayer.

“What do you think about? When you pleasure yourself?”

“You.” You say, staring down the barrel of the truth, adrenaline making you brave. “You fucking me.”

Hannibal raises an eyebrow and then you know for sure he is Lucifer in disguise when he calmly responds, “I need more detail than that (Y/N).”

He asked for it. “It’s rough, you’re always fully dressed. Sometimes you rip my clothes. You hurt me…”

Hannibal looks intrigued, and you crave his interest more than any drug.  “How do I hurt you?”

“Choke me, slap me, degrade me by pushing me on my knees.”

“Why do you think you want that from me?”

“I don’t know.”

“I could slap you.”

“Pardon?”

Hannibal moves to sit next to you on the couch. “An unorthodox method but I’ve found those to be effective. I will slap you lightly so you get a taste of what you think you want, then you’ll see, without the mystique it’s nothing so erotic.”

The way he says the word...erotic, you cannot help but sigh. If only he knew, his voice is so much of what turns you on, his accent with it’s smooth purr- a combination of clipped vowels and rich tones, a contradiction so like the man himself - pristine suits with a wild animal inside.

You nod, and he ducks his head to look into your eyes, making sure you are consenting. The angle brings his mouth close to yours, if you tipped forward just an inch you could kiss him. Hannibal seems to be having the same thought, his eyes suddenly dark, flick to your mouth.

“If you think about it, kissing is such an odd behaviour for humans to show affection. Why not, some other way?” his voice is velvet but his touch even softer, Hannibal brings a finger to your cheek and traces a line down to your chin, the path a tear would take.

“I’m sure there’s some...scientific explanation.” you reply, trying to follow the conversation

“Oh there is...apparently it helps us sniff out the perfect mate…”

“And do you like the smell of me?” you joke, an old habit, trying to break the tightness of the moment.

Hannibal brings his nose to your throat, taking an even deeper inhale than before. “You smell of bedsheets and cheap gin...loneliness if that’s not taking poetic license. It’s divine.”

You feel his tongue on your skin and have no choice but to close your eyes, even though you want to see, you want to be aware this is actually happening and not another of your fevered dreams.

“Are you going to hurt me, Hannibal?”

“Only a little…”

He cradles your head with one large palm and you nuzzle it briefly. His mouth quirks with a smile even as he scolds you gently. “Focus now.”

A stab of fear before you tell yourself, he’s a doctor, he knows what he’s doing. When he slaps you it doesn’t even hurt - the base of his fingers hitting the fleshy part of your cheek, perfectly planned to be benign it’s just a taste, a warning. Still, the flash of sensation is alarming, nothing you’ve ever felt before and it’s exhilarating to feel something new, a staccato on the frequency after years of monotone.

Hannibal is waiting for your response, his body language is tense, and you can tell that you’ve finally cracked that outer shell of his. The man has shown you a side of himself he normally keeps hidden from the world, and now you have the power, the thrill of it is intoxicating.

Holding his gaze you see him take a deep breath, beginning to panic, to cover for his actions. “Ow.” you say simply, bringing your fingers to touch where your skin sings with the warmth of his violence.

Hannibal gapes at you, then starts to chuckle, low and deep and you join him until you’re both laughing loud, the noise echoing around his office.

“What are you?” he murmurs, pressing those thin lips against your reddened cheek. You give an allowance for things lost in translation.

“Just like you.”

“Not like me, you’re, the other side of the coin to me.” Hannibal tilts his head and you see more than a psychiatrists fascination in his eyes. You feel like a butterfly pinned to a board, struggling to survive. It’s liberating.

“You desire me Hannibal, you admitted it yourself….” you dare to move closer, placing your smaller hand on top of his, bring your lips up to the elegant shell of his ear, “scarlet” you whisper and he grasps your hand, giving it a tight almost painful squeeze.

“We could take this treatment to it’s inevitable conclusion.” he says, voice hoarse even as he continues to try and sound professional. Hannibal clears his throat, annoyed at its betrayal and you hide a smile at his reluctance to appear weak. Despite his attempts to the contrary, he’s still just a man.

Your eyes stray to a picture on the wall of his office, the large gilt frame, the flesh of the girl, the feathers of the bird. It’s pure erotic violence makes you grasp at Hannibal’s shoulder, the fabric of his suit jacket unyielding and rough. You need to feel his skin to know he is human and you lay back, opening your legs like Leda.

“Are you going to take me on your couch Hannibal?”

He leans over you, pushing up your flimsy skirt and splaying his fingers over your thighs, clutching them hard enough to leave marks. Your head lolls back against the cushions, exposing your throat to him. Hannibal collars it with the web of his hand, his thumb tapping your carotid artery, his forefinger stroking your jaw.

“Show me….”

“Hmm?” You can feel yourself slipping already, your head growing dizzy as he restricts your oxygen. Hannibal loosens his grip and you slide your hand down your body and into your underwear, not even bothering to protest.

Hannibal moves to get a better view, pushes your head back against the cushions using his hand on your neck and stares into your eyes, watching them grow hazy with pleasure as you rub yourself wantonly.

He takes your hand from between your legs, brings it to his mouth and slides his tongue across the side of your fingers, tasting you. Then he replaces it, directing you with his strong grip, pushing two of your own fingers inside you. Your eyes widen and you gasp, wishing they were his. Hannibal appears to read your mind and nods, his face a mimic of sympathy.

“You think you want me instead?”

“I know I do…” your words are each a single moan as you never stop touching yourself. You’re sweating onto the velvet of his couch and you just don’t care.

“I’m not sure you’re ready for that…”

You make a noise of protest, attempt to reach out and touch him to show you are, but Hannibal keeps you captive, one hand encircling your wrist, fucking you with your own fingers, the other back at your throat.

“Watch what I’m doing...what you’re doing. This sexual act makes us like animals, no better, no worse. Does that bring you comfort?”

You can barely make a sound with him cutting off your airway but force a groan from your throat, ripping it raw. Nothing could be more humiliating than the way he is treating you, and yet you continue, touch yourself just the way you know will make you come hard, but it never felt like this, so visceral, so dangerous, with Hannibal above you, over you, threatening your life and sanity.

“Let it go….” he whispers into your ear, giving your neck one final wring as your body arches violently off the couch, the convulsions spasm your muscles so hard you fear they will be torn.  You hear Hannibal breathing hard beside you as you give in to the darkness, rolling your head on the cushions and moaning as if struck with fever. He relinquishes his grasp on you and lifts you into a more comfortable position, brings you a glass of water and helps you to drink, one hand on the back of your neck, supporting you like a newborn kitten. Slumping against him you pray he won’t push you away, and he doesn’t, lets you rest your head in his lap as he strokes your hair, making soothing noises, almost a lullaby, in a language you don’t recognise.

You turn your head to look up at his handsome profile, whispering, not trusting your voice “What are you saying?”

“Oh, you don’t speak Lithuanian?” Hannibal regards you with wry amusement and you laugh, the tension broken. “Don’t you worry...it doesn’t translate.”

“Teach me…” you urge, feeling soft and boneless, pressing your cheek against the cool metal of his belt.

“Not now…” Hannibal replies gently. “Your hour is almost up.”

Suddenly reality hits you like a cold flinch of water and you sit up, your head spinning. Hannibal grunts with displeasure and steadies you, pulling you back into his arms for a moment. His eyes flick to your mouth and you pray he will kiss you at last, but he resists, instead helping you up and towards the door.

“Next week?” you croak, flushing to realise your throat is sore both from screaming with pleasure and from Hannibal’s choke hold.

He nods and you back out of the room, lifting a hand to wave at him, you wish to signal peace in the motion. When you get to your car you sit for a few minutes, stunned. You press the knuckles of your hands under your eyes and wish you could cry, crave the release of  that pure, innocent emotion. You feel like you’ve left everything behind on Hannibal’s couch, and the emptiness is not as terrifying as you may have imagined.

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

A/N the second: I’ve taken poetic license and put Hannibal’s dining room art in his office (he likes to mix it up). Also I did find a Lithuanian lullaby that is beautiful so I imagine that is what Hannibal was half-singing to her but we shall see...

Shit I forgot the tags! @diditpoof @johnwickthirstclub @thatlittlered @keanuincollars I’m tagging peeps who either asked or I would appreciate your feedback (but don’t worry if not), anyone else wanna be tagged lemme know ILY 

[liliansilverstuff]

OMG... DRAMIONE LOVES, I NEED YOU

I just found this random snippet of writing on my computer, and I legitimately can’t remember if I wrote it, or if it’s somehow something I copied and pasted when trying to import something into voice dream :D

Imma paste it here, and maybe you all can help me find my sanity.

If I did write this I have no idea why or what context it’s in or what it even is, but like... I like it? idk, I’m tired... Here it is: -----

She had said the affirmation...

She moved into the elevator fully....

How were they the only two people in there?

“Did you just call me a genius, Malfoy?” She breathed, without looking at him.

He let out a low laugh. Gods, it was sexy.

“Perhaps.”

A peaceful silence fell over them as the lift descended. How strange it felt to not experience that awkwardness typical of elevator trips involving only one other person.

It was eerily comfortable to be alone with him.

The lift reached her floor, which she then remembered was also his floor. Assuming he would make some sort of “witches first” gesture otherwise, she made to leave first. Just as she stepped out, he took her wrist gently in her hand, causing her to spin and look up at him.

“It's Draco, by the way. I prefer not being addressed by my surname anymore.”

Holy hell, she was going to pass out right in front of him. He might as well have resuscitated a house elf in front of her.

“Oh, um... alright... see you later, then, Draco.”

He smiled and it lit her very soul.

“See you, Hermione.”

She must have been looking at him like he was a recently frosted fresh cinnamon roll from the oven, so she turned quickly and left the elevator banks, heading right to her office and shutting the door behind her.

Stalking over to her desk, she pulled out a parchment and quill and began to scribble a note before eyeing her floo with determined resolve and shoving her writing supplies aside. After tossing a bit of powder into the hearth she cried, “Ginny are you available? It's an emergency!” . . . . The two witches sat together over mostly forgotten lunch at The Leaky.

“Hermione, I see no reason why you should not absolutely go for it.”

“Are you mental, Ginny?! This is Draco bloody Malfoy we’re talking about!”

“Oh is it?! Oh really?! Pardon me, I must have missed the last twenty minutes of our conversation!”

Hermione groaned and put her head on the table next to her untouched salad.

“He doesn't even want to be called Malfoy anymore,” Hermione mumbled into the table.

“Really? Has he changed his surname to Black or something?”

“Not that I know of, he just asked me to call him Draco.”

Ginny gasped.

“Oh I'm sure he wants to hear you say his name, Hermione.”

She lifted her head to glare at the redhead.

“Don't be vulgar, Ginny.”

“Oh but why not?! It's sooo what you want, otherwise you wouldn’t be calling me here in hopes of talking you out of it! I mean honestly Hermione I do not see the trouble here. You're both single. You're both fit as fuck.”

Hermione scoffed at that.

“Hardly. I've put on weight.”

“You have CURVES Hermione, there’s a difference. Just so we’re clear, I am very happily married but if I was just a stranger in this bar I would buy you a drink in a heartbeat.”

Now she was blushing. She knew Ginny swung both ways, but it was something else entirely to hear such a proclamation.

“Well thanks, Gin. I guess I just don't see myself that way.”

“Well you should. Malf- Draco definitely does.”

“But it makes no sense, Gin! He hated me! He called me repulsive!”

Ginny rolled her eyes. “Words. They mean very little.”

“I disagree entirely!”

Ginny’s eyes left her skull. “Of course you do,” she said into the mouth of her glass before taking a deep swig.

[godkilller]

          out of character.  Gin eventually being fully pardoned in Redemption Verse. No longer bound by regulations or held to a strict parole... or kept leashed and dormant by a reiatsu seal. Gin getting to breathe a little easier, no longer kept at half-power in fear and precaution. Gin earning back respect and trust from the Gotei 13. Gin being redeemed.

[scarbladed-archive]

❝ it's just a scratch. are you okay? ❞

❝ THIS ONE APPRECIATES YOUR CONCERN .  ❞ He was still admittedly, getting used to this world of the living intermingling with the dead, as they had in common - a newer concept to one, and older to the other . 

From different times in their country’s history, somehow meeting in some juncture point of FATE . 

The humble rurouni with a spirit transfigured into a soul much like the ginger-haired boy’s could only blink in mute astonishment at how easily his blade could cut through the mindless beasts that this young man had echoed from a face more familiar. That had introduced him to this world when Kenshin had first seen him. 

The boy was ripe with potential, and his aura was one of strength combined with youthful recklessness - a very dangerous combination from a man who had possessed both once upon a time . Even now that didn’t fully abate when the weak and oppressed were in need of saving. 

No, now, both living and dead in need of saving by his transmuted blade . He really had to thank Gin-dono for being able to have such a rare opportunity - although being considered what he called a ‘human shinigami ‘felt far more fitting during his time in the Bakumatsu . 

Gently sheathing his reverse-blade,or perhaps to Ichigo, his zanpakutō,  it seemed to have taken on a form instead of merely being the holy sword of Arai Shakku’s final batch intended for him all along . 

To think again, that fate would lead him to be able to continue using his power to protect all life, in various stages, even in the passing of it . The soul they had saved bowed in traditional Japanese, they were in Kenshin’s time, after all, and the rurouni bowed gently back, surprised at the lack of malice that the spirit had for a man who had killed hundreds . 

❝ While you’re here, however so, this one still will take perhaps many years even into this ‘life after death’ in that place you’ve told me of to understand some things . 

One thing he understands is that your wound needs treating, and lacerations are something this unworthy one can mend on his own from experience, it might benefit you to meet a dear friend. 

Someone to be respected . Megumi-dono is a fine doctor, even if her methods may seem…perhaps not….as ‘modern’ as the efforts you’ve made. 

Truthfully there is much to think about. That you stand before me a product of the coming ages where there is strife, yes, but peace for this country, a continued future of hope and minimal bloodshed if none at all….he cannot tell you in words what it means to have met you - a representation of a long-held wish.

That was always the hope of every blade this one has wielded - and will be unto death, where it seems he will not rest either now, if he is like now, no ? ❞ He gently puts a hand to his arm.

❝ Enough. This one has spoken enough, has he not? Perhaps the change to this shinigami-while-staying-human-while-alive process has truly jarred his brain.   ❞

 An airy chuckle before the shorter red-headed gracefully strides past their battle, Kenshin only for lack of breath in realization; his eyes veering to Ichigo’s in concern and gentle protective lights. 

❝ It’s just this way, Ichigo. Please bear with this one. We wouldn’t want it to get infected - although something tells me your personality may have led to more than just a scrape. To help others…is a high calling and purpose. 

But remember that if you are injured you are also injuring the life you mean to protect - and putting it at risk. Please do have a care even for something as small as a scrape when you fight - and oh, this one’s pardons, if he sounds as if he’s scolding. He does so with respect, that he does. ❞

 And so they walked into the lantern-lit streets of Tokyo, towards a certain flirtatious doctor and then hopefully a brief interim at the Kamiya Dojo - all the while Kenshin’s mind whirled in tumultuous new beginnings.

[razberryyum]

A Gintama chapter a day keeps the ending away...Lesson 472

MY 15 FAVORITE MOMENTS IN LESSON 472:

Based on the title, I think Sorachi-sama is basically saying that Gintoki and Hijikata COMPLETE each other and are the PERFECT PAIR. 

Moment 1: Once again Tama comes through for Gintoki and saves the day...although if I am to be honest, I was worried it would bring the arc to a quick end as a result. Thank the gods that wasn’t the case.

Moment 2: SUCH a complicated system for making a really kinda gross dish (I actually tried it after reading this chapter, and I have to say, not a fan at all...plus I worried about contracting Salmonella). 

Moment 3: Technically, if it can mix souls like this, it’s actually a pretty freaking amazing machine. They should’ve had Gengai mass-produce that thing so they could switch Utsuro’s soul with a dung beetle and then squash that dung beetle.

Moment 4: They’re lucky a fly didn’t get into the machine.

Moment 5: Tama may call that garbage; I call it the perfect culinary representation of their two souls coming together and forming a miraculously harmonious combination despite the utter disharmony of the ingredients.

Moment 6: They’re lucky Gengai wasn’t trying to make the perfect Rocky Mountain oysters with that stupid machine.

Moment 7: That anus...I laugh my ass off every time I see that.

Moment 8: I thought it was adorable that they were still freaked out about the idea of a zombie cat despite how important it is to them.

Moment 9: I screamed my fucking head off because suddenly the arc just got kicked up a mega notch. I couldn’t believe Zura was going to be part of this already super wondrous arc. And he looked especially pretty too!

Moment 10: I was wondering why he was so nonchalant about crossing paths with “Hijikata” since he would usually run the other way. 

Moment 11: I fully expected him to trip...of course not only did he not trip, but he saved Gin-Hijikata’s ass too (not that he was ever in any real danger, but I gotta give Zura some credit once in a while).

Moment 12:   Omg he looked so damn FINE. He wears that old school Shinsengumi uniform so well. Pardon me while I wipe the drool from my keyboard.

Moment 13: Still wiping. 

Moment 14: Madao looking actually pretty freaking cool. It’s that uniform, I tell ya.

Moment 15: Seeing Sacchan in that uniform was awesome as well, but I did also want to give credit to Hijikata for being such a great leader, it’s no small feat that he was able to recruit AND unite these different organizations. He really used his Gintoki shell to its fullest advantage. Man’s damn amazing.

SHIPS TALLY:  

Gintoki x Hijikata: they were looking and then touching each others’ balls. I will never stop screaming about this.

Gintoki x Zura OR Hijikata x Zura: choose your own adventure.

Gintoki x Tama: of course I still hardcore ship Tama with Yamazaki, but I did still think it was very sweet that she was able to see through his Hijikata exterior to the real Gintoki inside.

Amazingly, no GinSa even though Sacchan was present because she was in total professional mode this time.

Disclaimer: Gintama is not only about shipping. Gintama is hilarious, clever, exciting, poignant, heart-breaking, loving, brilliant, and just so freaking amazing.  It is only due to Sorachi-sama’s generosity that I can enjoy Gintama on yet another level, the shippy level, and I am forever grateful for that. GINTAMA IS LIFE AND LOVE.

4/19/2018

[agent-absinthe]

Excerpt from Honeyed Pt. 5

I won’t make any promises as to when this will fully be up by I hope this tides y’all over for a bit!

“What do you think about the current state of the Kingsman stocks and the company outlook?”  Percival asked, his gin and tonic lying forgotten in his hand as he and several others looked to Elise for her answer.

“Well, considering the fact that it’s been over six months since the company began its partnership with Microsoft I think it may be hitting that plateau of investing interest.  The stocks will probably fall a little, but I think Kingsman is in good enough health to afford to pay off some extra dividends and get that enticement back up.  Maybe offer a special deal to college students, they already love the brand and any promise of growth in their lives is always a welcome one.  I mean just by getting out there and talking about it on campuses could generate more cash flow than we have coming in from current holders.”

Elise took another drink of her cocktail and smiled at the sharply dressed business men, who nodded their approval and drank with her. Hamish had deposited her at the bar and went off to deal with some formal business matters, his colleagues becoming very curious about who Merlin was carrying around on his arm.  Percival had not expected an actual answer out of her, then again if anyone was going to bring in a gorgeous girl that knew her shit it was Merlin.  He was currently leaning against a table talking about quarterly results with several of their biggest stockholders including Joseph Hesketh, who was quick to ask about his date.

“She’s a cute little thing isn’t she?  Looks a bit young too, Hamish I didn’t take you as the uh, cradle robbing type.  Not following in Hart’s footsteps are you?”  Joseph’s eyes locked on to Eggsy across the showroom floor, the sugar baby brat was in line for a promotion that his son should be getting instead.

Merlin was on his fourth dram of good scotch so the insult didn’t sting as much as it should have, “She’s 23, tha’s not exactly a cradle robbing age.”

“My apologies, where did you find her?  She looks like she’s getting comfortable over there with Percival, seems quite friendly.”  He said it with a laugh, nodding to the bar where Elise had her hand over her mouth giggling at something the Software Developer said.

Hamish immediately scowled, his buzz turning his own insecurities to irrational anger in seconds, he huffed and turned back to Joseph downing the last bit of his drink before answering the question.

“Elise just likes to please, probably laughing at one of his fucking computer puns-“

He watched them talk excitedly to one another for several more minutes until Percival excused himself and Elise put a hand on his forearm as they said goodbye- an innocent gesture of friendliness.  Merlin took it as anything but.    

Elise was back at square one of sipping her drink alone when a younger man who didn’t seem so impressed with her knowledge slid across the bar to her side. He was handsome- curly hair, sharp cheekbones, a jaw of marble- and apparently didn’t realize who she walked in with.

“And who’s date are you then?  Must have cost him a fortune to have you all dressed up, although I will say the company knowledge is a very good touch.”

“Pardon me?”  Elise prayed she heard him wrong, her heart beginning to beat faster.

“Oh, drop the act.  Half of these old bastards in here have an escort or a whore on their arms instead of their wives.  You look far too uncomfortable in those diamonds and dress to be used to anything and I don’t see a name tag on you which means you are not part of the American sales team, obviously.  So the question still stands; are you an escort or are you a whore?”

She was caught in the headlights.  Eyes wide, heart hammering.  Was it that obvious that she didn’t fucking belong in here in these clothes? Was she that much of a low class fuck up?  

“Oi!  Charlie, how ‘bout you back the fuck up there, bruv.  Maybe try not to be such a posh fuckin’ prat, ya?”  Oh, Eggsy.  Thank fuck Eggsy.

This only made Charlie laugh, “Ah!  A sugar baby!  That was my next choice.  Ugh, do you lot just run in packs now?  God, I have to know who’s willing to pay to try and pull a Pretty Woman on you though. Is it Bors?  I bet it’s Bors-”  

Eggsy was aggressively protective of Elise, he remembered his first time being thrown to these wolves and dammit if he was going to let Charlie fucking Hesketh ruin Elise’s night.  He was prepared to make an absolute scene and embarrass the fuck outta Charlie, luckily there was no need for that because right at that time Hamish was making his way to them.  The look on his face less than pleased.  Elise didn’t notice it though all she knew was that he was coming for her and she wouldn’t have to stand around like a lost puppy.  

“Hamish!  Honey, Eggsy was just introducing me to one of the other U.K agents!”

The sudden terror on Hesketh’s face was enough to make Eggsy put a hand to his mouth to try and stifle the laugh that was going to bubble up.

“Hesketh, your father’s asking for ye, best go see to it.  And Eggsy, Harry is around here somewhere, go keep him out of trouble.”    

“Of course!  Lovely meeting your date, sir!”  Charlie turned sharply and drug his own feeble date along with him.

“Thank goodness you came back, I missed you.  I was starting to get really uncomfortable, these people are vultures- ah!  Hamish stop, Hamish that hurts.”

He had a possessive hand on around her upper arm, blunt nails biting into her as they paced across the room Merlin’s long and now quick gait made Elise have to hold up the front of her dress so that she wouldn’t tread on it.

“I do not appreciate you disrespecting me like tha’.”

“Disrespecting you? How?”  Elise felt like she had somehow been dropped into a nightmare.  What the fuck was happening?  

“Y’ were flirting.

Ah, Percival.  She rolled her eyes, "How? How was I flirting? I was trying to make a good impression!”

The hand around her arm tightens, nails now cutting into the skin. Hamish would wake up tomorrow with dried blood under them and have no memory of where it came from.  He pulled her closer to him and fixed his gaze on her, eyes heavy and dark with rage.  Fear now joined the growing shame as she looked up at him suddenly painfully aware of how small she was despite the heels that nearly put them on fair ground, but anger was also making its way into her system.

"Why are you acting like this?!"

"ME? You're the one soliciting with everyone else here!"

"Soliciting?! Hamish, you told me to socialize! What's wrong? Did you not know I was fucking smart? Did you not think I'd be able to talk to people here? I'm trying to look like someone who belongs here with you and not-" and you huff and look down embarrassed, Charlie’s words still echoing in her head.

"Like what? Oh like a paid date?  A whore?"

"... ya.”

He tosses her arm down and seethes, "Well that's all you are. I paid for everything on ye and I paid for you.  That makes you mine so, fuckin’ act like it.  Keep your mouth shut, stop flirtin’, and for fuck sake keep your hands to yourself.”

Elise turned her head away and blinked, fuck don’t cry don’t cry it’ll make the scene worse.   Bile was at the back of her throat, chest suddenly so tight she felt like she couldn’t fucking breathe.  Even though no one was watching them, Elise had never felt more humiliated in her life.  No one made her feel more humiliated than Merlin had just now, the whole relationship of trust and intimacy now broken down into labels.  The power dynamic more clear now than ever.

“I need a fuckin’ drink.  When I get back, ye better be here and have lost that attitude.”  Another scotch was definitely not what he needed, but at this rate nothing mattered.

Her voice was small and strained from trying not to cry, “You’re not who I thought you were.”

Hamish didn’t respond and instead stormed off leaving Elise on her own again.  She couldn’t stay here, not after that- he made it perfectly clear what he thought about their arrangement.  Made it clear that there was not a mutual respect, she was just some young piece of ass he could pay to carry around on his arm when it was convenient.  A panic attack was blooming in her throat, mascara already starting to run and blur her vision.  Elise was able to slip out the patio door before any of her sobs became vocal, how could she have been so fucking stupid?

“Somethin’s wrong.”  Eggsy had seen some of the exchange, saw Elise slip out.  His stomach was in knots.

“Darling, I’m sure everything is fine-“

“No, it ain’t.  Go stall Merlin, I need to make sure that El’s ok.”  

He handed Harry his martini and made for the door leaving the accountant looking a little bewildered.  It was easy enough to find her.  Elise was sitting on the steps leading to the gardens, it was a chilly night and most of the drunk crowd was happy to stay inside where it was warm.  To try and quell her sobs Elise was biting her fist, anything to keep the pathetic sounds from coming up.

“Elise?”  Eggsy knelt beside her and put a reassuring hand on her shoulder, she instantly leaned into him and he held her, “What ‘appened?  Is this about what Charlie said- don’t listen to him!  He’s just a posh snob, don’t know what he’s talkin’ about.”

All of his words of comfort fell short as soon as she spoke, “Hamish called me paid for.  Basically said I was just his whore.  Eggsy, I-“

More sobs came up from her lips, but Eggsy already had his phone out to grab her an Uber, one arm still protectively around her shoulders.  His own anger making his blood boil, he had to get her out of here before Hamish fucked up even more.

“Shhh, I’ve got ya a ride, they’ll take ya back to Merlin’s so you can get your car.  Go home, take a shower, don’t think about him, love.  I’ll call you in the morning and we can figure out what to do.  If you want to end it ya got every right to.”

“If I leave-”  Panic showed plainly on her face.  Panic and fear.

“Hey, ‘arry and I will handle him.  He’s gonna have a lot to answer for tomorrow, what he did was fucked and ya don’t deserve to be treated like that.  Now come on, they should be pullin’ up front soon.”

The poor Uber tried talking to her but eventually just handed her a box of tissues and turned up the music, it was a merciful gesture and she made sure to tip them well.  Once inside Elise could feel the exhaustion and shame seep into her, filling every fiber like she had been infected by something.  After the dress, jewelry, shoes, and lingerie lay neatly folded on a chair in his bedroom she pulled on some spare clothes she kept at the house and left, wanting nothing more than to curl up in the shower at home and finish crying.  

[aadmelioraa]

Mind the Neighbors

Happy (early) birthday, @flawlessbanshee! I know your 25th year will be as incredible as you are ❤️ 

Modern AU, 2k, fake dating, fluff: Bellamy’s new neighbor seems rather irritated with him, until it turns out she might need his help.

For the third time that week Bellamy had come home to a passive aggressive note from his downstairs neighbor. In the six years Bellamy had lived in that apartment, he had never had half as much trouble with one of the other tenants. But since his new neighbor had moved in that summer, she had found nothing but problems with him. The only things he knew about her was that her name was Clarke, she was a doctor, and by all signs she didn’t much care for him.

It was always the noise. She worked early shifts at the hospital, and when he got home late from parent teacher conferences or the occasional date apparently his normal tread would wake Clarke from the deepest of sleep. She had appeared at his door one night, clad in pajama pants and an oversized sweatshirt, hair mussed from sleep, and (almost politely) asked him to be a little quieter when he came home late. He had apologized, refrained from suggesting such a light sleeper should wear earplugs, and casually noticed that his new neighbor was pretty cute.

Since they worked such opposite schedules, the next time Bellamy saw Clarke was when he was taking out the trash late one night a few months later. He’d accidentally dropped a bag on the first floor landing. Clarke had opened the door to her apartment, wearing her scrubs and only half awake, and told him dryly he was lucky she was already up for work. He laughed and apologized again, but she brushed past him before he had a chance to reply.

The notes were new. The first one, which he found taped to his door on Monday night, read: “You either have a leak in your kitchen or you’ve left the faucet running for two days straight. For the love of god, please turn off the damn faucet or get it fixed. Mind the neighbors.” He’d rolled his eyes, but she was right…there was a leak. At least she’d caught it before the water bill did. The next note, on Thursday, simply read: “Please consider investing in house slippers.” He’d chuckled and made sure to take his shoes off as soon as he got home in future.

The third note came on Friday. He found it when he’d gotten home from work around six o’clock. He was starving, and just wanted to make some pasta and turn the history channel and put off grading papers until tomorrow. Instead, he saw Clarke’s tell-tale light blue stationary attached to his door. He sighed preemptively, and pulled the note down. It read: “If you don’t have plans next Friday, text me. I could use a hand with something.” Clarke had written her phone number at the bottom of the note. Bewildered and curious, Bellamy dropped his books on the coffee table and made his way downstairs. He had seen Clarke’s car, and heard music playing on his way past her door, so he knew she was home and awake.

She answered quickly at the knock, wearing leggings and an oversized sweatshirt, but frowned when she saw it was him. “I thought you were the Chinese food. Didn’t I ask you to text me?”

Bellamy smirked at her terse manner. “Sorry, I just knew you were home. What did you need a hand with?”

Clarke sighed and opened the door fully. “Come in, you’re letting all the heat out.”

Bellamy stepped inside and followed her into the kitchen. Her apartment was messier than he would have expected. Not untidy, exactly, but there were a few piles of clean laundry on the couch and the sink was full of coffee mugs.

“So…what did you need a hand with next Friday?” Bellamy asked, leaning over the laminate top of the island as she took a seat on the counter next to the sink. “Leaky faucet?”

Clarke laughed at his bad joke, and Bellamy grinned back.

“No,” she replied, looking a little sheepish, “I actually need a date.”

Bellamy didn’t bother trying to hide the surprise on his face. “A date? That’s what you need a hand with?”

“Alright, so I didn’t make the best choice of words. It’s been a long week. Anyway, are you free?”

“Yeah, sure…what’s it for? And why I am on your list of potential dates?”

Clarke sighed and launched into her story. “Every year the hospital where I work throws a big holiday gala. It’s black tie: catered, open bar, full band. I kind of told my coworkers I was dating someone and now they expect me to show up with you.”

“With me?” Bellamy asked. “You told them you were dating a person you’ve talked to a grand total of twice?”

“Four times if you count the notes,” Clarke replied. “Yeah, you were the first person that popped into my head for some reason.”

Bellamy ran a hand through his hair, utterly confused. “I didn’t even know you knew my name.”

“It’s on your mailbox. Not a name you’re likely to forget even if you only see it once.”

Bellamy laughed. “Alright, that checks out.”

“So you’re in?” Clarke asked, looking excited. It was cute.

“Sure,” Bellamy agreed, smiling at her. “I don’t have plans, and it sounds like a fun party.”

Clarke sighed, clearly relieved. “It should be, now that I can deflect people…do you have a tux?”

“Not exactly…”

“I’ll cover a rental, no worries,” Clarke cut in quickly. “Just save the receipt for me.”

“Ok, that seems fair.” Bellamy bit his lip, looking around her apartment. “So, what’s our story?”

“Pardon?”

“Our relationship story. For starters, how long have you been telling your coworkers we’ve been dating?”

“Oh, that…about two months. Not to get too personal, but I had this kind of awful breakup last year, and the rebound wasn’t great either.”

“Sorry to hear that,” he replied genuinely.

“It’s fine, I’ve moved on. They just don’t believe that I have.” Clarke rolled her eyes. “So now I’m going to show them I’m with someone else, and then we’ll ‘break up,’” Clarke did air quotes, “and they’ll let me alone for a while.”

Bellamy raised his eyebrows. “Your friends sound like a handful.”

“They are, but honestly they mean well. You’re right, we’ll need to exchange all our personal details in case you get questions.”

Before Bellamy could reply, the doorbell rang

“Food’s here!” Clarke jumped down from her perch on the counter and headed for the door. “Why don’t you stay for dinner? We can talk and get our story straight. I always order way too much, save me from the leftovers.”

Bellamy grinned. “Sounds great.”

—

On Friday night, Clarke took Bellamy’s breath away twice in the space of a minute. The first time was when she opened the door to meet him. She wearing an incredibly flattering red dress, her hair was swept up and off to the side, and she was already smiling—that was new. Second, when she leaned up to kiss him on the cheek.

“Sorry, just thought we should get into character,” she said lightly when he froze up.

“No, that’s good, that’s fine,” Bellamy murmured. Clarke’s eyes glinted mischievously as she gestured to her dress. “You like?”

“You look amazing.” Absolutely no point in lying, he supposed.

Clarke’s laugh wrinkled her nose. “Benefits of you only seeing me scrubs or pajamas before, I guess. Come in, I’m just getting my shoes. Tux looks good, by the way,” Clarke called as she walked into her bedroom. “You have your receipt?”

“Yeah, uhhh….it’s ok, though.” Bellamy replied, meeting Clarke’s eye as she reemerged with a pair of strappy pumps. “It wasn’t a problem, I don’t need you to reimburse me.”

Clarke sat down on the couch and began to put her shoes on, the slit on the side of her dress falling away to reveal almost the entire length of her leg. “You sure? It’s no problem, you are doing me a favor after all…”

“I’m sure,” Bellamy replied, trying his best not to stare. “It would make me feel less like a gigolo.”

Clarke snorted and glanced up at him, eyes twinkling.

“Besides,” Bellamy continued, “I’m getting dinner and drinks out of this, so it’s a fair enough trade.”

“I’ll say so,” Clarke grinned up at him. “Not to mention I’m a damn delight.”

He chuckled, and offered his arm to escort her out to the waiting car.

The gala was being held at the Arkadia, an upscale hotel and the nicest venue in town. The decorations were spectacular, and Bellamy was again reminded of the relative poverty of his chosen profession.

Clarke seemed far more comfortable on his arm than he had expected, so Bellamy didn’t have to try very hard to appear like a convincing boyfriend. He had privately felt a little like James Bond since putting the rental tux on, and Clarke certainly could pass for a Bond girl with that dress and those shoes and that everything else…

“You want a drink?”

Her question startled him back to reality. “Please.”

She grinned and took his hand, leading him towards the bar.

“Gin and tonic and a tequila on the rocks, please,” Bellamy ordered, remembering Clarke’s preferred inaugural drink.

“Thanks,” she smiled up at him, then turned to face the room. “Ok, so I see Monty and Miller over there, you’ll like them both.” She glanced back at him. “You ready for this?”

Bellamy took a sip of his cocktail and nodded. “Bring it on.”

Clarke slipped her hand into his again (he was already sort of used to that feeling), and they made their way across the room.

“Griffin!” a voice behind them called, and Bellamy turned to see a petite dark haired woman waving at them.

“Who’s this, Raven?” he whispered to Clarke under his breath.

“Nice,” she replied appreciatively in a low voice and called back, “Hey, Reyes.”

“So this is the mysterious boyfriend,” Raven said with a smirk, giving Bellamy a once over. “I don’t know why you were hiding him, you’ve got nothing to be ashamed of here.”

Bellamy smirked and glanced at Clarke, playing the part. “Yeah, babe, you embarrassed of me, or something?”

“Oh please,” Clarke elbowed him playfully. “Like any of us have a lot of time for socializing anyway.”

“Well, we were all starting to doubt that you existed, is all,” Raven replied. “Happy to be proven wrong!”

“Starting to doubt who existed?” a man had just appeared at Raven’s elbow. He glanced over at Bellamy. “Oh, holy shit, is this the infamous Bellamy? You’re real, huh?”

“Yes, Murphy, he exists,” replied Clarke shortly.

Murphy raised an eyebrow as he handed a drink to Raven. “Well, I guess I’m going to be losing some money on that betting pool.”

Bellamy laughed and placed a hand on Clarke’s waist. “Sorry to disappoint, man.”

“You’ve done anything but that,” Raven chimed in, giving Clarke a look that said nicely done.

Clarke rolled her eyes. “Well, now that you’ve both been proven wrong, excuse us, we have to make our rounds.”

Bellamy continued to enjoy himself more as the night wore on. Clarke’s easy manner with him helped. She was quite physically comfortable around him, or she acted like it. She was constantly running and hand over his back, pressing up against him, or playing with his hair. She wasn’t even tipsy, just—very convincingly playing his girlfriend. If he wasn’t careful, he’d believe it too.

Clarke’s coworkers were all very friendly, if a little too invested in their “relationship.” The rehearsed “how did you meet” story went over with a smash every time. Even Dr. Jaha, Clarke’s boss, complimented them on being a lovely couple. The dinner was great, the speeches bearable, and the booze continued to flow freely throughout. By the time the gala was wrapping up, Bellamy hated that he would have to go back to being just Clarke’s upstairs neighbor.

“You ready to get out of here?” Clarke asked, fighting back a yawn, as guests started to filter out of the ballroom.

Bellamy knew he wasn’t ready for the night to end quite yet, but they had made their agreement, and he was going to stick to it. He nodded.

The car ride back was pretty quiet, and though he had an urge to wrap an arm round her, he resisted. They were in private now, and that wasn’t part of the deal. He walked her to her door of course, arm in arm, but it was cold so that just made sense.

“So, thanks for tonight…” Clarke said when they reached her apartment. She had unlocked her door but had yet to step inside. She was still lingering in the hallway for some reason. He hair had started to fall down from its styling, and her lipstick had faded, but she still looked stunningly beautiful. It wasn’t making walking away any easier for him.

“Yeah, I guess it’s time for us to break up,” Bellamy replied, regretting the words before they left his lips.

Clarke bit her lower lip, still hesitating in the doorway, a curious expression on her face.

“Or—“ Bellamy continued hurriedly, “What if we didn’t?”

“Didn’t what?” Clarke asked, taking a step towards him. “Didn’t break up?”

Bellamy bowed his head, flushing slightly, but didn’t waver. “Yeah, I just mean…I had a lot of fun tonight. You can go back to leaving passive aggressive notes on my door, but maybe we can hang out again sometimes—“

Clarke grinned widely. “How about we just do that now?” and she kissed him. It was a good kiss, long and deep, her hands tangled in his hair and his arms wrapping round her waist. He pulled back after a moment, completely dazed but smiling ear to ear.

“You want to come in?” she asked in a husky voice, kicking the door open behind her.

Bellamy smirked. No more hesitation. He lifted her up in a single motion and her legs wrapped around him.

“Bedroom’s that way,” Clarke murmured, not bothering to stop kissing him, just vaguely gesturing with one arm behind her, throwing his bow tie aside as she did so. 

“Make sure we keep it down,” Bellamy whispered teasingly as he laid her on the bed, “We’ve got to mind the neighbors.”

Clarke grinned and pulled him towards her by his collar. “No promises.”