#and like. a dozen more titles in different territories. such is life. such is the way of the cheapy italian knockoff

[mariocki]

I predatori di Atlantide (The Raiders of Atlantis, 1983)

"It's terrible, Mike. It's like living something unreal."

"Unfortunately, it's all very true."

[gracehosborn]

So Let’s Talk About This Hamilton Series…

Many of you who have recently followed me (thank you, I greatly appreciate it and you’re all awesome!) might have noticed my mix of historical and writing reblogs, and might be wondering about what I’m even up to. So I thought I would go into more detail about my current WIP, The American Icarus. So… let’s go.

What Is TAI?

The short version is this simple pitch:

The American Icarus is a historical fiction series following the life of Alexander Hamilton—but told from his point of view, like a memoir or autobiography. Extremely ambitious? Oh yes. Maybe a little insane? That’s for you to judge.

The long version is well… long. Each book in the series (simply titled TAI: Volume I, II, III, and IV) takes you through part of Hamilton’s life, from his early teen years to his death—with a total span of about 35 and a half years. Volume I goes from February, 1768 to June of 1778, Volume II picks up in July, 1778, and stops in October, 1782; Volume III continues from there through the end of the New York Ratifying Convention (July, 1788), and Volume IV (and a possible Vol V) finish out the story to the end in July of 1804. Told from his point of view, Hamilton is both the protagonist and the narrator—this combination having previously been unseen amongst the many Hamilton-centric novels out there. Making this both a lot of fun—I get to explore new territory! But also stressful… I’m the first to explore this territory. I am currently drafting The American Icarus: Volume I (TAIVI), and am about one forth of the way to the end. As I get the opportunity to explore this new way of telling what’s now a pretty well-known story, I am focusing mostly on characters and fine details. TAIVI (and the whole series for that matter) is heavily based in the historical record—I’m reading period-accurate musket training manuals, slowly going through Hamilton’s mountain of papers, reading dozens of secondary sources with the latest scholarship I can get my hands on, and doing even more. The plot of each book is planned to be detailed yet rich—this is a story about a bunch of humans after all.

Why This Project?

This all started about three years ago when I was up late and should have been asleep. I was reading a biography on Hamilton (will not name for the following reasons) and got to a passage where the author was speculating what Hamilton might have been thinking in regards to the situation being discussed. As this was not the first time the author had done this in recent chapters, a small part of me got annoyed. My first thought was:

But what if I could be in his head?

Of course my immediate reaction to this was to scold myself. “No that’s stupid and insane what are you thinking?” Annnnd then I proceeded to store the thought away and not listen to myself. Come a few months later, I decide to pick up the idea after having been working on my young adult fantasy novel, Ink of Destruction (more on IOD in a later post!). Since then I’ve been slowly working on this story (with all my research to blame as to why it’s taking forever). I really feel like, despite the fact that this is super ambitious and “out there,” it’s a needed perspective. Further, I do believe that a good story is there within the piles of the historical record. I don’t need to take such large liberties with this to craft a good story (not saying doing such is bad—we are all allowed to create how we please and tell the stories we want to tell; dragging people for doing something different isn’t always right). But what I have found in my research varies from sweet to wild—let me tell you 😂

My plan here is to share the writing process for TAI and all the discoveries and such made along the way, alongside my other works-in-progress. I’d love to hear any questions or thoughts you might have (and I hope this was informative or enjoyable 😂)

[mariacallous]

While embroiled in warfare in Ukraine, the Kremlin has increasingly felt the need to explain itself to younger Russians. Starting this fall, Russia’s college students will be required to take a state-approved course on the “Fundamentals of Russian Statehood.” The curriculum (packaged as a series of video-lectures) is a brainchild of Andrey Polosin, a close associate of Vladimir Putin’s Deputy Chief of Staff Sergey Kiriyenko. Meduza’s correspondent Andrey Pertsev, who has covered Russia’s new ideological curriculum as it emerged and came together, watched the online lectures and talked to the people who made the videos. Here’s a survey of the new Russian ideology as it’s going to be taught at Russia’s schools, from “passionaries” and “the Russian world” to Russia’s unofficial state symbols — the birch and the bear.

The ideological course, long expected to be imposed on Russia’s colleges and universities, will be delivered in the form of video-lectures. Many of them are already available online on the website of Znanie, an academic society that developed the new program in cooperation with Russia’s Ministry of Education. (The organization’s advisory board is chaired by Vladimir Putin’s Deputy Chief of Staff Sergey Kiriyenko.)

The general editor of the video series, Andrey Polosin, is himself a longtime Kiriyenko associate. Two production insiders have told Meduza that Polosin determined the overall content of the lectures, while a team of historians and political consultants wrote the scripts and selected the footage to go with them.

Ten of the lecture videos have already been uploaded, with dozens more to come this fall. Sources familiar with the production process have said that some of the lectures will be about “general concepts” like “the Russian world,” and others will get into the nitty-gritty of life in different Russian regions and other niche topics.

Each film is about 25 minutes long, and the editing is straightforward: against the backdrop of Russian landscapes and industrial footage, the voiceover tells the students what to expect on the exam.

A ‘passionary’ civilization-state

One of the lectures takes its title from a phrase often used by Vladimir Putin when talking about Russia’s history:

In 2012, Vladimir Putin described Russia as a special type of civilization-state. He drew attention to the simple truth that Russia didn’t come into existence in 1917 or 1991, and that it has a single and continuous thousand-year-long history.

The lecture goes on to say that Russia is a “guardian of the world’s equilibrium,” whose special role in history has been the subject of philosophical and scholarly thought for centuries. To back up this claim with an example, the lecture mentions Lev Gumilyov (son of the Russian poet Anna Akhmatova), whose theory of “passionaries” (as Gumilyov called entire ethnic groups driven by a sense of historic mission) seems to appeal to Vladimir Putin.

Despite the pseudo-scientific quality of Gumilyov’s claims, the lecture presents them as perfectly authoritative. The course video goes on to explain his theory that “every ethnic group is propelled by its life energy,” which determines its “passionary” potential:

If the passionary potential is above the norm, this results in a drive to make sacrifices for a higher purpose. In Gumilyov’s view, this kind of high level of passionary potential characterizes the Russian people. Hence Russia’s desire to expel Napoleon’s army not only from its own territory, but even from Europe. The Europeans saw the Russian soldiers as invaders, since they couldn’t understand that the Russians were motivated by self-sacrifice for the sake of the Europeans’ own freedom.

The video then explains that “every ethnic group has its own system of values and aspirations, impenetrable to outsiders.” The world is, meanwhile, “heterogeneous and fractured into a multitude of civilizations.” This multipolar world envisioned by the authors has a total of seven poles:

Western

Orthodox Christian

Far Eastern

Hinduist

Arab

Iranian

Chinese

In this framework, the West “has always been hostile to Russia.” European culture, the video says, has long “reproduced Russophobic clichés” that presented Russia as a “huge, savage country where bears roam the streets” and natives “slurp their cabbage soup with bast shoes for spoons.” (In the backdrop of this discussion, Moscow City high-rises and St. Petersburg’s Winter Palace testify to the absurdity of such stereotypes.)

The lecture next poses a question: “If we are not Europeans, then who are we?” An answer is given without delay: Russia must be a civilization unto itself, one that evolved largely thanks to the “harsh winters” that determined “national character traits” like “willpower, persistence, and the tradition of Russian hospitality.” Rationality, on the other hand, didn’t find itself at home in these climes, where fickle weather could catch you off-guard, making riskiness an effective “decision-making technology.”

“What is an empire, and how do you govern it?” asks the next segment of this lecture, refining the question further: “What model of governance corresponds to our civilization-state?” Here’s a fragment of the discussion:

Russia is often called an empire. For some people, this word has a negative connotation, but opponents of empire define it somewhat erroneously. It’s important to understand that “empire” is not the same thing as “imperialism.” Empires can be different, too. Some people have always thought that Russia should look to other countries for a model of governance. This was attempted during the Boris Yeltsin presidency, but the attempt didn’t simply fail — it proved to be nearly fatal.

Footage of tanks on the streets of Moscow during the 1993 constitutional crisis flashes on the screen. The voiceover announces the inevitable conclusion: “It’s dangerous to take one’s cues from other countries. Russia is a particular type of integrationist empire. It’s in the nature of our country to improve and develop the territories it integrates.”

In love with ‘the Russian world’

The idea of “the Russian world” has a special place in the curriculum. “Throughout the ages,” begins the introduction to the topic,

no matter what was happening in our country, whatever the attitudes of other states, and however scattered our compatriots were around the world, they were always united by their Russian souls and their sincere love of the Motherland.

(Christ the Savior Cathedral appears on the screen, followed by shamans and pastoral views of the Russian countryside.)

“The Russian world,” the presentation goes on, “was formed over the thousand-year-long Russian history,” out of the consolidated “spiritual values, traditions, cultural mores, and moral norms.” (A traditional peasant log house illustrates this process.)

But “the Russian world” cannot be contained by state borders: it is “wider in its share of ethnic groups, territories, religions, political systems, and ideological leanings.”

“People fall in love with the Russian world,” the lecture continues,

because of the special traditions that come with its breadth of soul, power of spirit, and generosity. Visitors are greeted with bread and salt as a symbol of purity of intent. Hospitality is one of the traits of the Russian national character. Foreigners are not simply delighted by our culture — they adopt it as their own, becoming part of the Russian world.

The American-born actor Steven Seagal and the mixed martial artist Jeff Monson are named as notable examples of this transformation. Both of them became Russian citizens and visited the Donbas during the war. The lecture returns to the Donbas to justify the invasion of Ukraine with the old adage: “We had to defend the Russian world and the people who suffered from the Kyiv regime’s cruelty and genocide for eight years.”

The birch and the bear

A special course video is devoted to Russia’s struggle against fascism — an ideology, it explains, that sprung up “in the heart of the enlightened Europe” while being “completely alien to the people of Russia, as well as Asia, Africa, and Latin America.” (The lecture mentions neither the neo-Nazis spotted among the Russian troops in Ukraine, nor the Molotov-Ribbentrop pact of non-aggression signed by the USSR and Nazi Germany in 1939.) “Sadly,” the video laments, “some states and people have a very short historic memory.” Russia, it claims, is the only country that opposes fascism in today’s world.

The remaining videos are mostly devoted to regional trivia and Russia’s struggle with Western colonialism (contrasted with Russia’s “civilizational experience” of peacefully absorbing new territories). Russia’s far-northern Solovetsky Islands are praised for being larger that the Maldives. Тhe notorious prison camp established there by the Soviets doesn’t get a mention.

The most recent video, released on August 16, talks about Russia’s state symbols. The state coat-of-arms, flag, and anthem, it says, “fill the heart with pride, making a person feel part of a great power.” The lecture encourages students to use state symbols when celebrating personal events: “If you passed a test with flying colors,” it suggests, “try decorating your balcony with the Russian flag.” And of course, there are Russia’s “unofficial symbols” — the birch tree and the bear.

Production insiders have told Meduza that upcoming videos will talk about “the Russian worldview,” Islam and Orthodox Christianity, St. Petersburg, and the Russian Far East. “By mid-fall,” says a production team member, “we should have everything up on the website, so students will have something to watch.”

When asked why the educational videos don’t say a word about alternative viewpoints, a production insider replies: “The idea is to foster a patriotic attitude. Critical thinking wouldn’t help with that.”

[donutloverxo]

A Royal Scandal 3

Modern Royal King!Steve au

(Image from Pinterest)

cowritten with @lizzygal​

Note - There will be no taglists for this. You can subscribe to the  ao3 story to receive updates!

Please note that my stories are not to be stolen or reposted on any other site. Reblogs are welcome. This blog and this story is 18+. Do not read, follow or interact if you are not 18+.

Summary - Modern ruler, His Majesty King Steven G Rogers, is on a quest to make his long term secret relationship the real thing. He is a man in love and wants his lover and partner to be his queen.

Warnings - Smut (m/f), dub con/non con, sex tape, scandals, mentions of past domestic abuse, soft dark Steve, possessive Steve, spanking, power imbalance, mentions of previous domestic abuse, somnophilia.

Pairing - King!Steve x reader

Word count - 7k

Story masterlist

Sometimes Steven forgot that you weren’t that much younger than him. He forgot about a lot of things when it was only the two of you. You did that to him. You made him forget things that everyone else reminded him of constantly, intentional and not.

Early that morning was no different.

Long before his alarm went off, Steve found himself on his side watching you sleep. Feeling in every way equal to you, like there was not this huge ocean of things that he did not have in common with you, opposed to what the two of you shared.

Obviously, he was the son of kings and tyrants while you were the daughter of immigrants and a blue-collar family. You’d grown up in a house full of love and kindness and acceptance, he had not. You’d ended your teenage years going to college and then travelling and ending up here, where you chose to stay and work and travel and live a life that Steve could only dream of, his own had never been his own and never would be.

You had dreams and hopes, little things like aspirations. He didn’t.

Steve’s life was dictated by things like duty and obligations, expectations. Yours was not.

Maybe that was why he’d been so drawn to you?

Compared to all the royals around Europe and titled individuals, politicians, even old families, none of them interested him even a fraction of the amount that you interested him. To Steve you were exotic. You were a fascinating creature who might as well have come from Mars.

He couldn’t even say what it was or why.

For so long it had felt right to be alone. Considering the blood of monsters ran through his veins, Steve had been uninterested in any sort of companionship more than a brief encounter at a private location.

For Christ’s sake, he refused to sleep in the bedroom that his father had slept in.

Upon assuming the throne, he’d selected to take up older quarters in an unused part of the palace living complex. As if to ensure he was as far away from the rooms that his father and grandfather and great-grandfather had slept. Choosing to sleep in a bed untainted by any of those men, stored from when his land was ruled by an emperor. Hoping with the hopes of a young king that it would save him from their madness.

Beside him, you slept so peacefully, trustingly.

Steve had never brought anyone into his private apartment. Nor had his bed seen any carnal action since it’d gone into storage. Until you. He’d simply never been so inclined.

A rough sound from the growth on his cheek rubbing against his pillow. A pleasant reminder of that night that felt so long ago, yet also like only yesterday.

He’d had a beard back then he remembered.

A full bushy one.

One that had made you laugh softly at, roll your eyes and still manage to pull off an acceptable bow when you greeted him that late night.

“They beat Canada then Your Majesty?” You had inquired with good nature, setting down a whole stack of papers and folders onto the very modern conference table in a big room that could fit two dozen, more if the people were standing.

He’d beamed.

Steve remembered he’d been in a particularly good mood that night. Even if he was working late on the education push into the outer regions of his kingdom. A good amount was still very rural, many simple villages that lived as they had fifty or more years ago. Many parts of his kingdom were still deeply rooted in the past.

“Indeed. Eleven to four.”

He was beaming. Beaming! You were pretty sure you could see molars. It made you shake your head and begin to sort out all your work into piles to go over. Not that you’d ever admit to secretly being caught up in the hype of the team being so close to gold at the Winter Olympics. “So then the beard stays?”

“You of all people,” he admonished, coming over to help you. Picking up the well-marked up maps you’d spent hours annotating.

Making you roll your eyes.

On he went though, obviously needing to drive home the seriousness of this matter. “The beard stays until we win gold. Next we play Norway. I don’t think it needs to be said that we cannot risk it.”

He was serious. Really serious. If that full glorious beard was any indication.

More focused on the organizing task yourself.

Sorting your work by region, pile by pile, each had taken much work and effort and negotiation, endless phone calls and trips and emails to each area to get them to work not only with you, but one another. It was like herding cats. It had taken you months to get this all sorted out for Steve to see. His ideas weren’t even ready to be implemented. This was just the pre-gaming, the leadup, the work in preparation. You weren’t even on Step One. You were on Step Zero.

“Now that I know, I’ll be sure to grow a beard next Winter Olympics.”

And then you were rewarded with a rich hearty laugh from your king.

Well not your king, as you weren’t a citizen of this country. But you still liked to think of him as your king.

Watching you sleep was something he’d never tire of. Never get enough of. It was a luxury that he didn’t realize he wanted day in out.

The ability to wake up with you tangled up in blankets. Curled back against his front. Hogging pillows as you did. Allowing Steve to run his fingers up and down your bare thigh, along the curves of your body. Letting him lean forward to press his lips to your shoulder and see the peaceful rest of your face in his slowly lightening bedroom. Every last inch of you here for him.

Hungry.

That was what it was, he was hungry for you. Like a big bear that woke from hibernation after a long winter. At times he felt such a way. Never having felt this way about anyone prior.

In his own time, he slipped his fingers down along the round of your ass underneath the flesh of your hip. Warm. Soft. Smooth. Neither of you had left the bed since the late night bath in his tub.

Further down Steve allowed his fingers to trail.

Memorizing every last second to get him through his day. From how you felt pressed against the front of him, how your back moved against his chest with every steady breath you took. The way your legs tangled in his buttery sheets with his own, how the soft cheeks of your bottom pressed against his alert groin.

Most definitely though, how your skin tasted and felt beneath his mouth. Smelling like yourself from all your favorite bath products kept in his bathroom.

You’d smelled so good that night too.

You always smelled good.

It was something that he had noticed but hadn’t given any real thought to.

It seemed to be a mix of perfume and body lotion or cream. Cause Steve found the flowery smell would linger after you walked by in the way that perfume did, infusing the air and making his brain scream out that you were near. But also, when you shook his hand, it always had that sweet fresh clean smell afterwards.

Now, whenever Steve smelled it, all he could think about was you.

Those smells danced around him. Making the late hour bearable. Making the fact that the offices were empty but for the two of you, when you both should have been home in bed, not matter.

“Ok…” you were talking to him, pointing out places on the massive map that was his nation. Arms crossed. Legs spread. Standing beside you as you informed him with tones that indicated your happiness, your displeasure as well as your utter irritation. “…so I managed to get in touch with every Education Department in all nine of your territories.”

Though you were not looking at him, Steve nodded, laser focused on this project he’d tasked you with months ago.

“All of the department heads are on board with your desired overhaul to completely modernize the entire system. Unfortunately, they told me that I had to call all the district heads for all forty-six provinces to get their agreed participation too.”

Your tone went from pleased with yourself then skeptical and then annoyed.

You turned your head to look at him. “Which is what I spent the last three months doing. It was something of a thing.”

Steve could only imagine.

He was quiet though so you could go on. More than pleased with how well you worked in this position. He’d originally been skeptical with your being a foreigner. How dedicated would you be to a job in a country that was not your own? One hundred percent as it turned out.

Your hands flattened out dramatically on the table. Outrage surged from you. “I’m still waiting on two appointees because their predecessors apparently died during harvest season and no one could be bothered to replace the position. I literally had to fly out to the outer reaches of civilization to find this out. Cause all the government offices are closed during harvest season, fyi. But they’re literally filling the positions now.”

Such was the challenge of having a large kingdom with one foot in the future and one in the past. Such things led to the difficultly of keeping a Chief of Staff.

Steve’s previous Chief of Staff had come highly recommended and lasted a little over a month.

Whether it was from a lack of dedication, the obvious frustrations of the job or maybe he simply had not wanted to jump on a plane and fly six hours then ride by car five hours to remote areas in order to complete his work. Steve could not be sure. All he knew for sure was he’d keep you as long as humanly possible.

In his eyes, you were a saint.

“What’s with the question mark?”

Making you look to see which question mark you’d marked on the map full of stickers and marks and tabs. Hours had been spent working on the damn thing.

Seeing which question mark in question made your nose scrunch. “Oh…them, they refuse to even answer my calls until they are allowed to take their traditional name for their province. Which is way above my pay grade. Someone else is going to have to deal with them. I tried.”

Ah, Steve nodded, that was far from surprising. The far outer regions were notoriously independent or rebellious, depending on your stance.

He would deal with them accordingly. Not how his father did, but in his own way.

Steve’s attention was drawn to two nearby provinces. Each had a frowny face sticker. Without asking, he merely pointed.

A noise of pure disgusted frustration came from deep in your throat. Making you stand and look to him, brandishing your hands in all directions. “I tried my best with them. I really did. Both of those provinces absolutely refuse to take part in anything if the other is involved. Apparently, they’re still salty at one another over something that happened in fourteen-seventy-three and refer to me as the foreign she-devil. So…good luck with them Your Majesty.”

Soundly you slept.

Comfortable. Safe. At peace.

Making him feel like a true man. A provider able to care for you, protect you, satisfy you. As if he were stripped down to what nature intended. Instead of what society had dictated for you both.

Reaching down to that heavenly place between the V in your thighs, Steve pushed his fingers further to find your softness slippery, your skin slick with viscous arousal. In pushing his finger up further, running it around the edge of your slit to where the gateway to your body was hidden, he found you heavily aroused. Coating his fingers with a thick fluid that promised you would be able to take him now. Oozing into the cervices between his fingers and smearing thickly down his palm and over the back of his hand.

Unable to help himself, he brought his hand out from between your legs in order to look at your arousal. Merely the sight made his balls clench in eager anticipation. Tasting the bodily excretions had his hips moving against yours on their own.

A noise came from you. Though you were far from waking. Always one to enjoy your sleep.

On his tongue you were heady, ripe. Tasting like sin. Steve licked his fingers. Eyes closed so he could savor the taste, how you clung to his tongue and were thick, like a burst of brandy swirling with his saliva.

Awakened now from his deep sleep. Ravenous like a beast of the forest. He pressed a lingering kiss to your shoulder. Making you mumble. Making you wiggle in your sleep, causing you to reach your arm out for a pillow to pull close. Hooking your leg up higher too. Becoming more comfortable in the bed in addition to opening yourself up more to your king. As if your body had connected to his on a level your mind was unaware and encouraged him to take you.

Down he peered. Strands of hair fell across his forehead at the harsh angle. A soft lightening of the sun through drapes he never closed last night allowed the sight of moisture. Folds of bare skin sheened up at him. Tempting him with that webbing of goo that promised him you were ready.

Taking himself in hand, he caught sight of your name curled over his side. Reminding him of your absolute possession over him. Sending his hand low to pull his foreskin back in order to feed this hunger of you that consumed him.

Your signature was all swoops and swirls.

Recognizable above anyone else’s writing he came across on a daily basis.

All over paper and on the maps. In little corners. Highlighted. In different color pens. On stickie notes. Written on napkins or on the back of random pieces of paper.

At the time, he’d had no idea how far gone he really was.

Not even when he watched you take note after note with a purple inked pen, your hand flowing across paper like a swimmer cutting through the water. Taking down his every word, every command.

A incredibly distinctive feeling of being full woke you up from your glorious sleep, in a very singular sort of way that could be from only one thing. Only one thing on earth felt like that when waking you up.

Pulling you out of a warm blissful sleep only to wake you with the exquisite feeling of being stretched open, pushed into, filled up. Making your fingers clench bedding or pillows or whatever they could grab.

A low breathy moan came from you in the time between you were woken and awake, your face burrowing in a pillow was followed by a soft profanity. Weight slowly covered you. Weight pinned you down to the bed a little at a time. Skin and sheets and soft dustings of hair rubbed against you.

Only when you had fully woken did you feel pubes brush against your cheeks. A light tap of scrotum bumped you too.

Long arms wrapped around you. Wet lips mouthed along the curve of your neck.

This was a far superior way to wake up. Compared to your apartment, in bed alone, to your neighbors loud shrilling alarm clock through your paper-thin wall.

Groaning out at the feel of His Majesty’s cock stuffed safely up in your secret garden. You found yourself whining at Steve at whatever time it was in the early morning. “…fuuuuck…what’d I say about doing that…” A swivel, nay, a swivel with a pop of his pelvis followed, making you see stars, gasp deeply as if you’d been stabbed in the lungs and then add on for God and Country. “…My King…shit, My King…oh shit, My King.”

Though it may have been said in jest, his tone was hot enough to scald. “If memory serves me correctly…” another deep push of thick hips shoved you forward into the pillows. “…you say, not in my ass unless I’m awake.”

Stars.

So many bright and colorful stars.

Mmm.

Yes, that was something you had told him on many occasions and it still held very true. If Steve was going to put anything in your ass, forget that thing he claimed was a dick, you needed to be fully awake so you could both physically and emotionally prepare yourself.

Nothing at all could have prepared you for the drastic turn your life was about to take that night.

Nothing.

Everything had been so normal. It was so regular. Like many a long night working late hours at the palace before. Hours had been spent going over all your hard work contacting each and every head in each education department per province, as well as per territory. In addition to the national department of education, preparing to prep them for what the king wanted.

Like any other late night, Steve helped you put all of your paperwork back in the correct order you had it in. Like every other time, he requested a palace car take you to your apartment. Granted the apartment you shared with your best friend was walking distance away. It was late and simply not safe and you found were touched that Steve would think about your well-being.

For a king, he wasn’t that bad. When it was the two of you anyway.

Looks aside, which he had in spades, he could be very funny in a sarcastic sort of way. He was very well read and intelligent, quick on his feet. Although people seemed to think of him a certain type of way based on his father and his own kingship at a young age, when he really was his own person.

You’d noticed he had a definite interest in the classical masters and had on rare occasion seen him sketch out something on a flight or during a less than stimulating event. He had an artistic ability that would never come to anything due to his role.

His strong sense of duty paired with a disgusting moral obligation pretty much guaranteed his life would be spent in service to his country. Period.

You could see why people thought he was hot. The man had been blessed by the genetic gods. Plus he was a king. Who didn’t grow up dreaming about being a princess? Or think about a literal Prince Charming from fairy tales?

Having now had the benefit of working in a real life palace. You knew the realities of that fantasy.

You had two pages of notes that could attest to the reality of your childhood Disney Princess movies.

Reality was always so different.

Not for the first time, you found yourself repeating yourself. “…and let me say one more time. Thank you so much for talking with my parents. I know it was only ten minutes, but, I know how busy you are and it just completely topped off their visit. My mother has been telling everyone about how she met the king. You even have my father cheering for the hockey team.”

A smile came over Steve’s face that was real.

It wasn’t one of his practiced smiles. It was an actual smile. You could tell because it reached his eyes.

“Well,” Steve answered you with a shrug, sounding genuinely pleased even if he also sounded tired and like he wanted nothing more than to go off to his living quarters in the palace and crash into bed, before he had to get up to start a new day. Helping you stack the last of your papers up. “Anything to convert a soul to hockey. Technically, it is his team too.” And because he could not help himself, Steve added on, “Even if his grandparents fled from here for a cushy life in the west.”

Up your hand flew to your chest.

Your jaw dropped in mock pain. “Ouch, Sir! That one was painful.”

His smile grew at your over-the-top reaction.

Still though, he dipped his head and you noticed there was a little blush on his cheeks above where that magnificent beard grew. Chagrined, he quickly followed up with, “I apologize. That was a cheap shot.”

In a physical sort of way that his people were known to interact, personal space be damned, Steve reached over to touch your arm apologetically. Not something he did frequently. Although he had done it a handful of times. The press of his mouth to your cheek was new. The little kiss was brand new. Steve’s lips were gentle on your skin. His beard tickled your face.

Never in your life had your heart pounded as violently in your chest as it did at that gesture. Quickly, your head turned. Though you did not move back or say anything. Instead, you found yourself staring at Steve. Looking into those pools of blue that were looking at you with the same amount of surprise that you felt. His lips were right there, right there.

Blood roared in your ears, your heart pounded faster and faster and faster.

He kissed you.

Did he really though?

Was it a kiss or was it a kiss?

For a moment in time, you leaned in. Leaned closer. Leaned till you almost touched him because that was what your body wanted to do. Until you remembered that Steve was a king. A KING. Remembering that made your head command your body to lean backwards a bit. Allowing you to see that he had leant in to meet you.

He’d leaned closer to kiss you.

What were you doing? What in the hell were you doing? You had no business doing this, no business at all messing around with Steve.

Fingers moved along your arm, tracing up the back of it softly. That simple touch made goosebumps break out over your skin. It made your breath hitch. Your hands began to shake so you grabbed the fabric of your skirt.

However, you made no move to step away from Steve. Nor did he make any sort of move to step away from you.

Another attempt at a kiss was not made.

Fingers touched your face instead. Steve was close enough to you that you felt his legs brush yours. You felt his breath against your face. Fingertips ran across the swell of your cheekbone, down over your lips, tracing the bridge of your nose in what felt like a desire to memorize your face.

Steve was gentle. His fingertips felt like feathers on your skin. He made you shake like a leaf in terror because you wanted him to touch you more. You wanted to be touched. You wanted to feel his hands on you and the soft glide of his thumb along the line of your jaw was painfully insufficient.

Without thinking, you reached up with your hands until you remembered that he was the king.

Were you allowed to touch the king? You weren’t sure. He was touching you and it was fabulous but were you allowed to do the same? You wanted to. You so deeply wanted to. You just were not sure what was allowed in this situation. It had not exactly been covered in the Royal Protocol Guidebook you had.

Then came Steve’s voice. Harsh. Gravelly. Desperate.

“Touch me. It’s ok. I want you to.”

For only a heartbeat or two you remained still, observing him, making sure. Only after that did you reach up with your hands to cover his wrists. Rub along the fabric of his button-up shirt. In doing so, you not only felt the strength in his well-muscled wrists, or how warm the silky fabric was, but, you could feel him tremble. He was shaking about as much as you were.

A rush of air surged from his lungs as if you had burnt him.

Curious, you turned your head so you could place a single kiss on the inside of his hand touching your face, right at the base of his thumb. In doing so, you ripped a noise from deep within him. A noise that was both pained while also infused with wanting.

“This is ok?”

“Yes,” he croaked out, as if he were terrified you would stop.

Never would you have ever imagined he would be so responsive. Almost touch starved it felt.

Sometimes, Steve still felt as if he were a little touch starved to you. Sometimes it felt like he’d gone his entire life without having that physical connection between two people. As complicated of a man as he was with as complicated of a life as he had, you at times forgot that he was still a human being with human being needs that were essential to thriving.

And it wasn’t like you were complaining.

Far from it.

Not after the orgasm you just had, not from on top of him either. Lounged across the front of him. Loose limbed. Languid down to your marrow. Peppering the damp skin of his neck with slow wet kisses and scrapes of teeth. Long drags of your tongue collected drops of salt that tasted of him. Lazily. Heart to heart. Stomach to stomach.

There really were worse ways to wake up.

Like, for instance, in your apartment taking cold showers cause the building’s water heater was ancient. That wasn’t fun at all and usually had you shivering and hurrying through an icy shower. Straight up not a good time.

This? This was soooo much better.

Feeling Steve’s long legs wrapped up in your own, paired with his softening member filling you by virtue of sheer size not letting himself just pop out…this was a much better way to wake up. Far superior in every way.

Not that you were willing to waste precious time like this luxuriating in post-coital bliss. No, no. A burning question was hot on your mind that kept popping up after last night. After all, you were a modern woman and this was a serious relationship. You had every right to ask this question at any time you wanted. Even now. As your boyfriend, the king, fondled your breasts in his hands with such intensity that you would have thought he’d just broken out of Alcatraz after a decade of no nookie. Not that you were in the least bit complaining. Not one bit.

“Am I going to have to quit my job?”

It was something of a concern.

You loved your job. You loved working with Steve. You loved your life as it was and a big part of you suspected becoming queen would mean big changes.

Not that you lifted your head from his neck, or ceased your trek down towards his collarbone. Trail of your kisses never slowing or stopping. No hint of any sort of disruption came. Not for a moment or two. Not till your ravenous boyfriend squeezed your breasts possessively. Thumbed your nipples and finally opened his eyes, as if it were the biggest chore on earth.

His voice was rough. His tone felt like hot gooey honey that just got everywhere. “No…not yet…”

Leading you to make a noise. A pop followed when your mouth left the dark spot you’d been sucking on nearly at his collarbone. What with your name already etched on him. What else could you leave in a display of ownership over him? “Nothing else to add My King?” For added emphasis, perhaps you gave you vaginal muscles a clench knowing what that did to him.

A grunt came from beneath you.

Wrapped up in yours, Steve’s legs clenched in response to what you did. White teeth sank into his upper lip and you absolutely thrived at the sight and feel of him arching up against you, shifting around beneath you at the way your body squeezed him.

Those hands left your breasts only to reach down, run over your waist as they had so many times before, leading you to grab them. Snatch then right up. Press them down into the mattress over Steve’s head. Since the man was far larger than you, this sent you leaning downwards and ever closer to his face. “Steve? I asked you a question.”

How easy it would have been for him to get free. Yet, he seemed content where he found himself. Still wedged within you. Warm in bed. Body a sea of a complex cocktail of chemicals after physically releasing into you. A far better way to wake up than alone in a massive bed. Or worse, to his mother jabbing at him to urgently tell him something that was not urgent at all.

Feeling your breasts press against his chest. Lightly brushing over his skin, your nipples little points that sparked a definite interest in his dick.

God did he want you to be his queen.

“Not yet,” Steve ground out, nearly close to being overwhelmed by you. Each and every word was enunciated to utter perfection, as if it took all of his concentration and effort to get them out. “I’ll have the palace leave your name out of the official statement today. We can go slow. Ease you into things…ease you out of your job…” and to reward him for such a thoughtful statement, you clenched around him once more.

However, it seemed, there was more and even though his eyes rolled up into his head at the feel of your core squeezing his not entirely soft organ, he pushed on with the determination of his ancestors. Grunting. Arching back into the bed as the pillows had all wound up on the floor. Perfect teeth clenched together. “M-my people…will…love you…too.”

So, it was entirely possible, that you were feeling all kinds of powerful watching him writhe beneath you. Knowing exactly what sort of repercussions this could have to your morning. Which was still progressing on time. It was entirely possible that you may have intentionally pushed your own pelvis against his to reseat yourself.

“Oh yeah? How can you be so sure? You saw what happened with those two over in England. And that prince isn’t even next in line to the throne.”

Perhaps it was the seriousness of the direction in which your conversation had taken, Steve remained beneath you. Taking no action, even though you could quite literally feel his dick grow more interested in what your hips were doing.

A panted out, “…fuck…” escaped from him, before he opened his eyes to look at you seriously, if not also a little heatedly. “Quit obsessing over them. The King of Jordan married for love. Queen Rania was a commoner. If you must, focus on them.”

Sudden movement found you falling off Steve and onto the bed, shoved onto your back and in a flash, he was on top of you again. Over you. Hovering. Though he’d escaped out of your body, you could feel the king’s most delicious semi, slick from your previous copulation, squish between you both.

Admitting on an exhale, “Forgot about them.”

“Everyone does.” He agreed, surveying down, taking in the sight of you. “My country appreciates you. They’re fond of you. You’re in all the papers and they’ve given you a nickname.”

And that. That. Nearly killed the mood.

It sent your eyebrows together dubiously so.

Everytime you were in the press it was when your skirt had been blown up on a windy day, or if you’d accidentally gotten food on your shirt. Or that time a baby goat pooped on your shoes. Or when you’d tripped and fallen off a dock into a lake. Who could forget that time you’d accidentally called the Prime Minister of Canada a ‘moose fucking cannibal’ when you’d still been getting the hang of the language, your first year on the job?

You’d been affectionately dubbed, ‘the King’s Foreign Devil’ and it had stuck.

Hell, you still got asked about your thoughts on the Canadian Prime Minister whenever a member of the press was around.

“Most the time, you have a higher approval rating than I do,” he added. Much to the consternation of Maria Hill in PR. “Trust me. There is nothing my country loves more than a hard-working loyal servant of the people who talks shit about western leaders.”

Mood totally killed, you seethed and not for the first time, “That was an accident! I was trying to call him Canada’s Disney Prince.”

***

The note had been hand delivered to the palace and was now crumbled into a ball in the Queen Mother’s bedroom as she stormed off, once more, that early morning in a fury of rose satin and silk. Her perfume clouded around her, drifting behind her, much like the wake of a boat cutting through the water.

Thick carpets silenced her heels. Doors opened for her as she neared them, allowing her to not need to slow her step even for a second. Not a single moment wasted as she made her way through the private living quarters of the palace.

Down hallways and around corners, over to the rooms that her grown son had selected as his own.

It would have been so much easier if he would have just taken the rooms that his father had lived in.

Although, with the horrific memories attached to those rooms, how could she blame him when he elected not to? She had her own private rooms. The dead kings rooms were locked up tight and still not used. Abandoned like so much he’d done, started and accomplished in his life.

Upon coming to her only child’s rooms, those doors were held open for her and on she pressed on. Sailing through his rooms, one after another, until she got closer to his bedroom and could hear his shower which was the direction she headed.

A brief glance was made at the mess that was his bed.

A roll of her eyes was followed by a shake of her head.

Some things males never grew out of it seemed.

“Steven!” She called out in warning, should he be in the bathroom about to come out in the nude. Which was the last thing she wanted to see.

Not only was his bed a mess but his clothes from yesterday were all over the floor.

She had every intention of telling him that he needed to straighten up this mess before the cleaning staff came in his room. The last thing she wanted was for them to think he was messy and then tell their families and friends when they went home that the king had a messy bedroom and word would get out that her son was a slob. Ugh. No. She’d make sure that he straightened up.

Speaking of the devil.

As his shower ran, Steve peered out of the bathroom with a wet head. A midnight blue towel was wrapped around his waist. A toothbrush was in his hand. To Sarah, it was very clear that her grown son had not shaved yet either.

Seeing him in such a state that morning along with his messy room and the fact the shower was going wasting water. It did not make her mood any more agreeable.

Though her son was taller than her and considerably more muscular, she never feared him.

She knew he would never hurt her like his father had so many times. Towards the end, Steve had even defended her from his father’s physical attacks. Those days. They had been dark. Horrible. Terrible. When she noticed that her husband had begun to carry a knife to protect himself from his son. Well. What was she supposed to do?

Attacking her was one thing. Being violent towards her was one thing. There were some things that she learned to tolerate. It was unescapable. Their son though. To take a knife to their son? Her son? Sarah would never allow such a thing.

She was queen at the time.

It was not so difficult to get the drug that she put in her husband’s evening nightcap. She’d used all of it. Thrown the vial away the next day when she went to rouse the king as she did every morning, only to find him dead in his chair. Fireplace having long gone out. Slumped down. Cold. The coroner had said it was a heart attack. Exactly as she’d been told the drug would work. He’d been buried with no one the wiser. Not even Steve.

“Yes mother?”

Sarah rolled her eyes. “You are not growing another beard. Last time you looked like some man that lives up in the mountains in a tiny shack.”

Just as her own father once did, Steve’s eyebrows rose in surprise and question.

No. That was not why she was here.

Sarah had a higher calling that morning and straightening her slim shoulders, she so informed him. “Hope and Janet are here in the city. They’ve come for a surprise visit and will arrive at the palace within the hour.”

Steve’s eyes narrowed at her in response to her information.

It was horrifying. It was outrageous. It was not what he wanted to hear that morning one bit. Not at all. Not one single bit.

Hope and Janet?

Those were two names he never wanted to hear with the additional words being, ‘on their way’. No. Just no.

All he could say that was remotely civil, after what the then Princess Hope van Dyne had done, came out in something of a tone. “I don’t want to see either of them. If you want to see them, that’s your choice. Keep them away from me.”

Considering what the now Duchess Hope had spewed to every reporter, journalist and whomever with a platform…Sarah was a little surprised that Steve was being so kind.

She’d expected a bit more of a reaction from her son.

Could she be holding a bigger grudge against her one-time closest friend’s daughter? After what had happened, Queen Janet van Dyne had become somewhat distant. Which was not surprising. Hope had not broken the engagement gracefully. Nor had she been anything less than opinionated afterwards.

“I suspect she is in trouble,” Sarah confessed. “Why else would they come here? Considering everything that Hope has said over the years.”

Steam continued to seep through the cracked door.

Sarah was about to say something about the shower. Steve was wasting a considerable amount of hot water. She herself was leading the Go Green Initiative in the country and as she stated constantly, it all began at home.

“Mother, don’t take this the wrong way, but, I wouldn’t shit in Hope’s mouth if she was starving.”

Ah.

Perhaps she’d been too quick to judge Steve’s current opinion on the wayward duchess?

Pondering his statement, Sarah found herself looking for any way to come back with a counter when she noticed that the shower turned off. Which was odd. Shower’s didn’t turn themselves off.

What was even more peculiar, Steve reached back behind himself to shut his bathroom door.

It clicked.

Like a light going off.

How could she not have noticed? How could it not have been obvious?

Blue eyes that were a little softer than her son’s narrowed. “You aren’t alone.”

Silence.

Quiet.

Her pink lips opened in surprised. A question hovered on her tongue.

“No mother.”

“But…”

“Mother,” he implored as only a son could. “Not now. She would not want the first time she officially meets you to be when you’re dressed for the day and she is not.”

And though her son’s words were true. They were right. They were exactly what she would have wanted him to say and because she had raised him well, she was even proud that he had made such a quick decision. It wasn’t fair.

Sarah wanted to find out who you were. She wanted to meet the woman that her son was involved with. Was that so wrong? Sarah wanted to meet the woman that her son was considering marrying. There was so much she wanted to say to you, so much to teach you, so much she wanted to learn about you. Perhaps her desperation showed because her son reached out to place a hand on her elbow.

“If you can chase Hope and Janet away, we could have lunch together. The three of us. If not, dinner? Or even tomorrow. I’m not doing anything with Hope under this roof. Not after she referred to our country as a third world plus hellhole full of war criminals and superstitious backwoods heathens.”

Ah, so he did remember.

Those words had been seared into her memory as well. Sometimes Sarah wondered, as Steve had never really given much indication that he cared one way or the other what Hope had said. It was only after she began to speak unflatteringly about their people that he grew irritated, much like herself.

Although, what irritated Sarah more, was the quiet that came from the royal house of van Dyne and Pym a few countries over. Never once had Janet spoke up. Never had Janet said anything about her daughters outrageous remarks or behavior. Nor had she apologized.

Knowing her son, Sarah knew that he would never court anyone who was not kind or compassionate. Steve would never pick a Hope as his queen.

Up came a hand that bore a lovely ring decorated with fresh water pearls from their own waters. “I’ll have them gone before lunch and then we will all sit down together so I can finally meet her.”

[obstructed-birdsong]

The social aspects and appeal of having a wolf theriotype

My theory on why wolf therians are so common

Note: these are only my own thoughts and observations from a few years in the therian community, so don’t take my ramblings too seriously. I’m not accusing anyone of being fake, y’all are valid regardless of how common or uncommon your theriotype may be.

As the title states, one of my main thoughts is the social aspect of being a wolf therian. There are plenty of therian videos online, of pack members hanging out or individuals doing vocals and quads. It looks like fun, it makes you wish you had that sort of life and group. Being a wolf means you get to have a pack, you get to have a territory, you can do quadrobics and howl, though not everyone does these things. 

With wolf therians being so common, they are often the first thing you come across when learning about therianthropy. A new therian may see a wolf therian’s content and go “that feels familiar, it feels RIGHT, it feels like my experiences, it clicks. That must be what I am” and stop their questioning there without considering or questioning many other similar animals. After all, it’s easier to think about it briefly and confirm wolf than to spend months or even years documenting experiences and researching animals in an attempt to figure out your theriotype.

Being a wolf is so much easier than having a more obscure theriotype in a few ways, both because wolves are often seen as cool animals and because wolf therians are so common. It’s so much easier to find other wolf therians than trying to find another non mammal therian. Gear is incredibly easy to find. You can search “wolf tail/ears” and get dozens of results, multiple different online shops. Even things with wolf imagery on them are very easy to get due to the animal’s popularity. 

It is much more difficult to find good gear for obscure theriotypes without resorting to making it yourself. Bird gear is particularly tough to find because many people don’t seem to know or care what bird anatomy actually looks like. Where are you going to find things like a set of wings for a specific kind of bird, or something like a giraffe tail or wearable fish fins, as a random example.

It is easier to feel connected to your theriotype as a wolf. Meat is much easier to get than whatever obscure plants, bugs or various small creatures a different animal may eat. Wolves are more similar in body mass to humans than smaller animals, there is less of an issue with feeling like your body should be much smaller than it is. Aside from a snout and tail, body shape is much closer to a human’s than that of a bird or fish, you don’t feel as much like entire limbs are missing or like a part of your body is nowhere near what it should be like. I know bird posture can be uncomfortable to hold for more than a few minutes whereas being on all fours or sitting in a canine manner is much easier.

Vocals are less of a struggle to learn as well. Sounds like a bark, growl, realistic howl or simply going “awoo” are much more compatible with human vocal cords than the complex warbles, grunts and screeches that many other animals make.

TL;DR

People are quick to question wolves theoretically because they are common and often a person’s first experience with the therian community, “cool”, and a lot easier to find gear and others with the same theriotype. To many, being a wolf therian means you get to do all sorts of cool stuff like having packs and territories and howling. Having a common theriotype comes with benefits that aren’t as available to more obscure theriotypes.

[thebusylilbee]

When the world's leading conservation congress kicks off Friday in the French port city of Marseille it will aim to deliver one key message: protecting wildlife must not be seen as a noble gesture but an absolute necessity -- for people and the planet. Loss of biodiversity, climate change, pollution, diseases spreading from the wild have become existential threats that cannot be "understood or addressed in isolation," the International Union for the Conservation of Nature (IUCN) said ahead of the meeting in a vision statement endorsed by its 1,400 members. [...]

Mass extinction

The creatures with which we share the planet are at high risk too --- from us. As the human population climbs toward nine billion by mid-century, many creatures are being crowded, eaten, snared, poisoned, poached, hawked and hunted out of existence.

Current extinction rates are 100 to 1,000 times greater than the normal 'background' rate. (pic by Eric Conroy)

Craig Hilton-Taylor, head of the IUCN's Red List Unit, said that if species' destruction continues on its current trajectory, "we'll be facing a major crisis soon". [...] In each of the previous mass die-offs over the last half-billion years, at least three-quarters of all species were wiped out.

The IUCN has assessed nearly 135,000 species over the last half-century for its Red List of Threatened Species, the gold standard for measuring how close animal and plant life are to vanishing forever. Nearly 28 percent are currently at risk of extinction, with habitat loss, overexploitation and illegal trade driving the loss. Big cats, for example, have lost more than 90 percent of their historic range and population, with only 20,000 lions, 7,000 cheetahs, 4,000 tigers and a few dozen Amur leopards left in the wild. [...] Invasive species are also taking a toll, especially in island ecosystems where unique species of birds have already fallen prey to rodents, snakes and disease-bearing mosquitos that hitched rides from explorers, cargo ships or passenger planes. An update of the Red List on September 4 is likely to show a deepening crisis.

Our right to exist

For the first time in the IUCN's seven-decade history, indigenous peoples will share their deep knowledge on how best to heal the natural world as voting members. (pic by Carl de Souza)

One proposal calls for a global pact to protect 80 percent of Amazonia by 2025. "We are demanding from the world our right to exist as peoples, to live with dignity in our territories," said Jose Gregorio Diaz Mirabal, lead coordinator for COICA, which represents indigenous groups in nine Amazon-basin nations.

Recent research has warned that unbridled deforestation and climate change are pushing the Amazon towards a disastrous "regime change" which would see tropical forests give way to savannah-like landscapes. Rates of tree loss drop sharply in the forests where native peoples live, especially if they hold some degree of title -- legal or customary -- over land.

"Indigenous peoples have long stewarded and protected the world's forests, a crucial bulwark against climate change," said Victoria Tauli-Corpuz, UN Special Rapporteur on the rights of indigenous peoples.

An ocean of plastic pollution

Other motions offer a lifeline to ailing oceans, including one calling for an end to plastic pollution by 2030. Plastic debris causes the deaths of more than a million seabirds every year, as well as more than 100,000 marine mammals, from otters to whales.

Current global extinction risk in different species groups, according to the IUCN (pic by Erin Conroy)

And then there's the question of money, and the fact that so little of it has been earmarked for nature. Current global spending of about $80 billion a year needs to be increased 10-fold, said Sebastien Moncorps, director of France's IUCN committee. "That's about one percent of global GDP, but when you realise that half of all economic activity depends on nature being healthy, that's a good return on investment."

[god-of-dust]

after much deliberation, i decided to post what i wrote of chapter 2 and 3 of Trick Me here. this will probably never end up on ao3 because of Reasons, but someone might enjoy reading it and i definitely enjoy the validation. (also, leaving this to rot in my folder seems like a waste.)

this is rated T, no particular warnings apply besides tom’s occasional murderous thoughts.

-----

There’s no sign of Potter. Figures. Tom glares at the suit of armour as if it’s the one meant to carry the blame for this situation.

Disillusionment Charm firmly in place, he leans on the rough stone wall and resigns himself to wait.

“You’re early. Why am I not surprised?”

In a split second, Tom turns in the direction of the voice and points his wand towards... the empty corridor?

Then Potter’s head—only his head—emerges from thin air.

“Jumpy, too. Again, not surprised,” Potter says, smirking. Then he moves, revealing the rest of his body and the rippling fabric of a cloak.

An Invisibility Cloak. No wonder Potter can get wherever he wants without getting caught. “Where did you get that?” Tom asks, envy colouring every word. That kind of Cloak is worth thousands of Galleons, which is more money than Tom has ever possessed in his entire life.

The things Tom could do with one... he’d have no need for permission to slide beyond the wards of the forbidden section of the library. While certainly tame compared to what a collection from a Dark pureblood family would hold, there are also many old books there that Tom has been dying to get his hands on since he’s seen their titles and felt the power they contained.

“Family heirloom,” Potter says with a shrug.

Of course Potter has a family that provides for him, and of course he has the gall to shrug, like it’s absolutely normal to carry around an object this valuable and use it to go to the Quidditch pitch at night. It’s maddening, to witness this utter lack of ambition in someone who has so much at his disposal and wastes it so pitifully.

He reaches out to touch the fabric. It’s soft and perfect, spells woven so beautifully that it appears not to be enchanted at all. He refuses to believe that this Potter is the one who cast them. “What kind of spells does your family use to prevent the magic from fading? How frequently do you have to refresh them?”

Potter only smiles and shakes his head. “You and Hermione would be amazing together if you just stopped being an arse to her.”

Tom glares at him. His thoughts on that particular topic must be crystal clear, because Potter laughs that full-bellied laugh of his. “You haven’t answered my question,” Tom insists.

“Do you want to stand in the corridor all night discussing my cloak? I thought we had Quidditch to play.”

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Tom says: “Fine.”

“Get under here, then,” Potter beckons, holding a side of the cloak open for Tom to slip under and cover himself.

Sliding in the offered space, Tom instantly becomes very aware of how close they have to stay for them both to be concealed. Wonderful, he thinks, just wonderful. Just what I needed: more contact with him.

He lets Potter lead the way outside; after a bit of fumbling, they find a rhythm that allows them to walk in sync without constantly bumping into each other’s shoulder.

“Thank Merlin you’re shorter than Ron. His feet try to peek out all the time, it’s an absolute nightmare.”

Are his friends all he can talk about? Tom vaguely wonders, before noticing the route they’re taking. “The Quidditch pitch is the other way.”

“We’re not going to the pitch,” Potter replies.

Tom stops in his tracks, making the cloak tangle around Potter’s form; unsurprisingly, it only takes a moment for the miraculous Golden Boy to recover his balance. Tom, voice strained with the effort to keep it under control, hisses: “If you’re trying to trick me, Potter, I swear—”

“I’m not,” Potter interrupts. “The pitch is too open and couples go there to shag all the time, so the chances of someone seeing us are too high. I’m taking you to a place only I and my closest friends know about.”

Again with his friends. “Are you really so arrogant as to believe you’re the only one that knows anything about Hogwarts?”

This time, Potter is the one who stills abruptly. He turns to face Tom, noses almost touching under the cloak, eyes ablaze with an emotion that Tom has never seen on him: genuine, unfiltered anger. “Listen, Riddle. I offered my help, but what I didn’t offer was being target practice for your fucking abrasiveness. You want to learn Quidditch? I can teach you. You want to act like a bastard? Go do that somewhere else, because I’m not afraid to punch you in the face if you insist on constantly accusing me of imaginary crimes.”

“As if I’m not able to defend myself from your punches,” Tom snarls.

Potter’s eyes narrow. “Were you even listening to me?”

There’s nothing stopping Tom from hexing Potter into the next century; nothing, except for the fact that he’d be expelled and then the whole Potter clan would ensure that he’d rot in Azkaban for an indeterminate amount of years. Right now, it seems like a minor price to pay.

He keeps his twitching fingers away from his wand. He needs to hold himself in check if he wants to avoid Potter’s suspicion. After a steadying breath, he says evenly: “I was. My words were... out of line. I apologise.”

Silence stretches while Potter stares at him. Then he turns on his heels, facing away, and they resume their walking.

It takes them a few minutes to reach the boundary of looming trees that students are supposed to never cross. “Is this secret place of yours really inside the Forest?”

“Yeah. That’s why I’m reasonably sure that no one else has discovered it. A wrong turn would take them either into an Acromantula nest or in centaur territory,” Potter explains, navigating with sure steps amidst trunks and twigs and weeds and bushes as if he owns the place.

Both options are incredibly dangerous, for many different reasons. Not even the Headmaster has jurisdiction over the creatures in the Forest, and any reckless student who wanders too far is responsible for their own fate. Over the years, Tom has done a little exploring of his own to gather herbs, shed fur and other potion ingredients, but he never went as deep inside as wherever Potter is taking them now. “How did you discover it, then?” Tom asks while memorising the convoluted trail so that he’ll be able to return later. The potions he could brew with even a small vial of Acromantula venom, or some eggs... he has to find out more about those supposedly wrong turns.

“I followed my nose,” Potter says with a mischievous smirk, previous anger washed away like a leaf in a river. “And perhaps I had a bit of help.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Well, sorry, but I’m not going to divulge my secrets to anyone who asks... besides, you’re smart enough; perhaps with time you’ll figure it out on your own.”

Focus still firmly placed on their surroundings, Tom ignores the compliment. He has no use for Potter’s pretense.

A large clearing suddenly materialises before them, encircled by towering trees whose foliage forms a protective half-dome high over their heads. Ancient magic caresses Tom’s skin, making him shiver with anticipation. There’s a circular area in the center, large enough to hold a dozen people, empty of any grass or stone; Tom is certain that someone has built it that way on purpose. He steps closer, prudent and fascinated in equal measure. “What is this place?” he wonders, eyes wide and searching as he studies the stone while taking in the feeling of rightness and inspiration the space emanates.

“Somewhere where we can have all the privacy we want,” Potter says lightly as he slides off the cloak from their shoulders. To him, this secret spot humming with magic that vibrates in Tom’s blood and bones must be just another day, just another priceless thing dropped on his lap that he wields without a care.

After enchanting a few Lumos spheres to hover around them, Potter extracts a small object from his pocket, lays it on the even ground and enlarges it with a wave of his wand, revealing it to be a trunk. Then he points to a twisted root that peeks out from the soil and transfigures it into three Quidditch hoops, about three meters high.

“I assume you know about Quidditch roles and rules even if you’ve never played, correct?”

“Yes.” Tom’s skimmed through a Quidditch book, if only not to be completely unprepared when it came to playing his part in this charade. He will carry his plan forward and rip the rug from under Potter’s feet, even if it involves studying a few tedious rules of a tedious sport.

“So, you can probably imagine that every role requires different skills, which is why we’ll explore every one of them and gradually build up your stamina and reflexes while you discover what you’re naturally good at.” He scratches at his head contemplatively. “When was the last time you rode a broom?”

“First year flying classes. I was average at the basics and never tried anything more elaborate.” Tom isn’t eager to recall most of those memories because, in truth, it had been humiliating to realise how far behind his peers he was. Unlike them, he’d never had a broom of his own to practice and his confidence had faltered when he needed it the most. The broom’s magic had caught on his hesitation and thus his performance had been lukewarm at best.

“Yeah, I can imagine it wasn’t pleasing for you. Hermione was the same. You really can’t stand it when you don’t excel at something, huh?”

“I doubt anyone enjoys the feeling of being incompetent.”

“Good point,” Potter admits, “but that’s not the attitude you need right now. You always have to start from somewhere and build from there, even if that starting point isn’t as glorious as you’d like.” He squats to open the trunk; it contains a clearly well-loved yet also well-kept set of Quidditch balls.

Tom eyes suspiciously the Bludgers struggling against the chains holding them in place.

“Since we’re starting from the basics, tonight we’re both going to play Chasers, which means that we’ll pass the Quaffle between us and do our best to score through the goals. Of course, there’s more to being a Chaser than this, but it will be enough for now. Before that, though, I want to see you on a broom.”

“I don’t have one. I presumed we’d use one of the school brooms,” Tom says, crossing his arms, mild irritation colouring his tone.

Unbothered, Potter reaches again into his pocket to produce two shrunken brooms. “I brought my Nimbus. It’s very good, especially for a beginner, with quick responses and great stability.”

He holds out his hand and Tom takes the now appropriately sized broom. “...Thank you.”

“Wow, you’re really making an effort into being polite. I appreciate that,” Potter says, apparently pleased. “But now, Riddle, show me how you ride.”

There’s nothing in Potter’s smile and in that particular phrasing that Tom could possibly care for. He straddles the broom and pushes himself to hover in mid-air, one meter from the ground and then one more; feeling how precarious and uncertain his posture is, he does his best to correct it.

“Good. You don’t seem to be struggling much. Are you afraid of heights?”

Tom shoots him a venomous look. “No.”

“That’s one less thing we have to worry about, then.” Potter jumps on his broom and rises too, graceful as a phoenix. Bastard. “Let’s try some loops.”

Tom nods and watches as Potter demonstrates a few simple figures: circle, spiral, figure-eight. They seem easy enough, but when Tom tries to follow Potter’s directions his broom moves in shaky zig-zags instead of the smooth curves he expects it to perform.

“This broom isn’t working,” Tom snarls. He looks at Potter, who’s certainly dying to make fun of him... only to find no trace of sadistic glee on his expression.

Potter circles around him, examining him from head to toe with furrowed brows, almost hawk-like in his focus. “You’re clenching your thighs and hands too hard. The broom reads that as a sign for ‘straight line’ and ‘speed’, and right now that’s not your objective. For curves like these, you have to flow with the movement and lean into the direction you want without overbalancing.” His posture is relaxed, bordering on lazy, as he flies in a large, slow circle for Tom’s sake. “Like this.”

Tom imitates him as best as he can, loosening his grip. “What if I want to achieve a fast curve?”

“Fast curves are more advanced. We’ll try those later.”

Tom tries again with a figure-eight, and he’s surprised when he finds that the broom’s following the path he intended with increasing ease.

“See? Way better,” Potter beams. He looks like he’s genuinely enjoying this.

After a few minutes of loops, Tom’s acquired a mild amount of confidence in his form; at least the feeling that he’ll tip over every time he steers the broom has lessened until it’s nearly gone. Seemingly satisfied, Potter instructs him on how to repeat the same figures with a single-handed grip, then handless, as he explains: “You’ll need your hands free for the Quaffle.”

Even while going through boring drills at this insignificant height, there’s an undeniable thrill to flying, to acquiring control over something as elusive as air. “One day,” he declares, “I’m going to invent broomless flying.” Perhaps a variation of Wingardium Leviosa, combined with a Feather-Light Charm... yes, he’ll do it, and succeed.

“That would be amazing. And honestly, if anyone could do that it would be you.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Tom scoffs, close to amused. Does Potter really think that compliments will have any effect on him? Tom’s too acquainted with the subtle art of manipulation to take any of Potter’s amateurish attempts seriously.

Potter rolls his eyes. “It’s not flattery, it’s me making an observation. Every single person in Hogwarts knows that your knowledge and control over magic are impressive.” Smoothly diving forwards, Potter reaches for the trunk and grabs the Quaffle inside it.

“Catch!” he says, and throws the ball at Tom.

Instincts rearing up before he can think, Tom steers sideways to dodge, but he’s too quick, too sudden, the broom refuses to cooperate—fuck, he’s lost his balance, he’s going to slip off and fall on his face like a bloody—

An arm slides around his torso, holding him up. A steady hand over the handle of his broom stops its lurching. Tom is barely breathing, his mind catching up to the fact that he’s not going to become one with the forest soil.

“Shit, Tom, I’m sorry, I thought you were ready, I should have warned you—”

Heart still finding the way back to its regular beat, Tom interrupts Potter’s rambling: “It’s fine. Nothing happened.”

“Well it was a stupid thing to do, and I won’t do it again,” Potter insists, wide eyes painfully green even in the dark.

“Just drop it, will you?” It’s embarrassing enough that he ran away from a Quaffle like it was the Killing Curse; Potter’s self-flagellation is just rubbing more salt on the wound. As if he hasn’t done it on purpose anyway, the fucking prick.

With a sigh, the arm around Tom tightens briefly before Potter releases him. “Do you want to stop? We’ve done a lot already. You’ve been great.”

More useless flattering.

“Let’s try again,” Tom orders. He wants to challenge Potter, confuse him, shock him, give him a lesson that he’ll never forget. The plan to ruin his reputation isn’t enough; the matter has become personal.

Uncertain, Potter nods. This time, when the Quaffle comes towards him Tom catches it, albeit unsteadily. A victorious glint in his eyes, he does his best to throw Potter off-balance by flinging the ball back at him.

The back-and-forth of the Quaffle between them slowly acquires a flow. Potter accepts Tom’s viciousness and in turn pushes Tom’s limits, building his reflexes with progressively more elaborate throws, flying around him in circles like an annoying snidget. Tom fumbles, stumbles, grumbles, but he manages to avoid another fall, and he even scores a few points through the unprotected goals.

By the end of the lesson they’re both sweating—disgusting—and Potter is positively radiating joy.

Tom can’t say the same about himself. His performance’s been nowhere near satisfactory, his dexterity and form nowhere near Potter’s. While he still holds no interest for Quidditch, he also can’t stand the thought that Potter can have this golden opportunity to gloat over him. There’s no way that Tom will accept being considered inferior to anyone.

“So, uh... how was it?” Potter asks once they’ve dismounted, self-consciously running a hand through his hair. It looks like a habit of his.

“You’ve been patient,” Tom concedes. It’s true, at least on the surface: Potter’s been nothing but helpful and tolerant of every mistake, adapting his teaching to Tom’s pace with flawless precision. “I could have done better.”

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” Potter says, “will you stop with the self-deprecation? You’re learning. It’s all part of the process. Believe me, I’ve seen worse.”

Tom hands the Nimbus back to Potter, who’s extinguishing the enchanted lights and reverting the goal posts back to their original shape. “You’ve also seen best, I reckon.”

Potter huffs in annoyance as he takes the broom and stores it away along with the rest of the equipment. “Yes, and it doesn’t matter. This isn’t a competition. The whole point of us being in the middle of the forest instead of the pitch is that you can be away from judgemental eyes, so could you please stop being your own worst critic?”

“We should go.” If Potter considers having standards the same as self-deprecation, then Tom has nothing else to say. “I can find my way back.” He turns to follow the hidden trail that led them here.

“Wait,” Potter says, interrupting Tom as he was about to cast a wordless Disillusionment Charm on himself. “Do you want to do this again? More lessons?”

Does Tom want to? Is the headache of spending time with Potter worth it?

Like a sharp edge, a thorn stuck in his side, Potter’s words echo in his head. This isn’t a competition. But it is, in a way—it’s Tom’s endurance against his desire to chalk up the whole plan as a failure and sweep it under the rug.

And Potter is still an issue—he still needs to go down in flames, and Tom is the one who has to ignite that fire.

He straightens his back. I won’t quit now. “Same time, next Saturday?”

“I’ll be here,” Potter says. It sounds like a promise.

##

[missing scene with Tom and snake-Harry]

##

At half past eleven on Saturday, Harry prepares to slip away from the Gryffindor dormitory under his Cloak.

“Ron, hey,” he whispers in the darkness of the dormitory, shaking his friend’s shoulder.

Still more than half-asleep, refusing to open his eyes, Ron mutters, “What?”

“I’m going out, will probably be late again. Don’t wait for me, okay?” He’s a little ashamed of taking advantage of Ron while he’s in this state, knowing that he won’t ask questions.

“Yeah, yeah—g’night, mate,” Ron says, words slurred as the dream world ensnares him again.

Then Harry leaves, sliding through the many corridors of the castle as if he were in his Animagus form, until he crosses the entrance; outside he can run, free, breathing in the cold wind that chills his face and lungs. He feels so light, like the world is full of exciting possibilities, like he’s on the hunt for something marvellous.

Yes, he hates hiding these nighttime escapades from his friends. However, he also loves the secret thrill of this undefined thing he and Tom have, this strange agreement that’s neither friendship nor rivalry, while not being neutral either. He knows, he can see that Tom—and how weird it is, that he already thinks of him as such—still despises him... yet he’s also invested in Harry in a way that goes beyond simple hatred or spite.

He could have used many excuses to get his hands on Harry’s Firebolt and sabotage it. He could have cursed Harry himself, especially with how close they’ve been, and Harry has no doubt that Tom possesses a sizable arsenal of slow-building, undetectable curses that would have sent Harry to his grave with no one the wiser.

But then, how absurd it is that Harry’s still not afraid to know that a part of Tom, a loud and powerful one, would rejoice in his pain and in having caused it?

He’s certain that Tom Riddle’s bite is deadly venomous, and he’s been thirsting for Harry’s blood for a long time. The bane of his existence, indeed.

Yet Harry saw something else during their time together: the fierce competitiveness, the stubbornness, the drive towards excellence, the desire to be greater than anyone... and also the insecurity, the self-loathing, the fear hidden behind harsh perfectionism, the sense of not being enough, of having to push himself harder, of not belonging anywhere, of being unloved and unlovable.

Tom Riddle is human and flawed. And he has bite, yes, but along with the venom comes a blazing fire that he keeps carefully concealed under his detached, polished façade. Harry wants to witness more of that fire, wants to bask in it, wants to revel in the privilege of being the one who can bring it out.

He knows what Tom could do, the potential of his cruelty. However, night after night, he discovers an inescapable curiosity for what Tom will do.

A laughter, full and thrilling, shakes Harry’s body as he skips through the forest, jumping over traitorous roots and avoiding thorn bushes intent on drawing blood.

Tom, of course, has already arrived.

Harry admires the transfigured goal posts, smoother and more symmetrical than how his own half-arsed magic would ever mold them, and thinks, This is going to be fun.

“Eager?” Harry can’t help but tease.

Tom gives him one of his looks. “I don’t like wasting time.”

“Of course. Let’s get to it, then.”

Like last time, Harry offers Tom his Nimbus; they warm up by playing with the Quaffle, letting Tom reacquaint himself with the feeling of flying by revisiting a few of the trickier turns. Tom’s control over the borrowed broomstick is still shaky and hesitant, which he clearly hates with a passion, but he’s also improved considerably in a small amount of time.

This may be the one thing in which Tom Riddle isn’t a natural. However, for some reason he’s actually putting in an effort to learn, which leaves Harry wondering why. Merlin knows Tom’s mind works in mysterious ways, and even after spending a few nights with him as a snake and witnessing his unfiltered rants Harry’s not closer to understanding his convoluted reasoning.

“Tonight I think you could try your hand at playing Keeper.”

Tom, always straight to the point, immediately flies towards the transfigured hoops and circles around them. “On a practical level, how is it different from playing Chaser, anyway? The ball is the same, it’s just a matter of catching it as we’ve already been doing.”

Harry feels an appraising smile rise on his lips. “Interesting question,” he replies, turning the Quaffle in his hands. “I believe the main difference is in the freedom of movement. As a Chaser, you can follow the trajectory and position of the Quaffle and other players in the way that’s most convenient for you, while as a Keeper you have to stay in a confined area, since leaving the goals unguarded equals failure. You need sharper eyes and quicker reflexes, which is why I considered it more advanced.”

“But the smaller area should make it easier, not harder,” Tom says with a small frown.

“Theory is theory, practice is practice. You’ll see by yourself.”

“Let’s begin, then.” He looks impatient, and Harry privately thinks that it’s kind of adorable. Perhaps my love for Quidditch is rubbing off on him. Or perhaps he’s just that competitive.

So Harry begins throwing and Tom begins to understand Harry’s point as the Quaffle slides under his guard and passes easily through the hoops time after time. With sweaty hair plastered to his forehead, eyes aflame and gritted teeth, Tom struggles to prevent Harry’s craftiness from allowing him to score yet another point. He’s only managed to catch five out of twenty-four throws.

“You have to keep in mind that I’m not an actual Chaser myself,” Harry says, immensely enjoying the murderous look on Tom’s face. “This could be way worse.”

Tom stills, holding the ball as if he wants to strangle it. “You do so love to make fun of me,” he snarls. “Idiot Tom Riddle, who’s never learned to play Quidditch, who can’t even catch a bloody Quaffle. Must be so nice to sit on your throne and laugh at my pathetic attempts.”

The aggressiveness in Tom’s tone makes Harry feel all kinds of ruffled, and perhaps he should be keeping his mouth shut, but when has he ever listened to reason? So he says, “I thought you had more spine than this, for someone who sits on his throne and laughs at others all the time.”

“What?” Tom says, eyes narrow and voice sharp as a potioneer’s blade.

“You heard me. Is it fun, being an arsehole to Hermione and who knows how many others? How does it feel when you are the one whose efforts feel inadequate, Tom?”

“It’s Riddle, to you.”

“Well then, Riddle: how does it feel? And mind you, I was teasing you as I would with a friend, but I could also be cruel and cutting like you. I could get on the same level of ‘polite bastard’ you seem to revel in.”

The look Tom gives him is utterly blank, which could be seen as an improvement over being murderous, or could also mean that he’s so much more murderous than usual that he’s already on the phase where he’s choosing how to dispose of Harry’s body.

Harry sighs. This is all pointless. Tom hates him, will always hate him, and they’re just dancing around each other waiting for the perfect opportunity to... what? Tom is most likely waiting for Harry to lower his guard enough for him to strike undetected, but what does Harry want? What’s his excuse for being here?

Perhaps this time his curiosity is better left alone.

“Forget what I just said. I’ve been an arsehole,” Harry says. “We don’t have to do this if you’re so frustrated it makes you miserable.”

“Is this what you think of me? That I go around lording my knowledge over people?” Tom doesn’t sound angry—he just stares at Harry like he’s speaking in a different language.

“From what I’ve seen of you... well, yes,” Harry says, uncertain. He feels like this whole conversation is balancing on a very delicate thread. “It’s not overt, but you do act superior and rub your grades on other people’s faces, with those condescending smirks and such... and I don’t believe that you don’t do that on purpose.”

“I—do that,” Tom admits quietly, almost disturbed by the revelation. Even more interesting, he appears to be honestly considering it. “Perhaps... it’s a bit excessive.”

“We all know you’re the most skilled student in this school anyway. It’s not just about grades—you clearly have a touch, a passion for magic that can’t be found in books and that most of us can’t hope to replicate.”

Tom’s eyes catch Harry’s then, a blazing intensity passing between them that makes Harry feel… funny. “You’re telling the truth. You do think that.”

“Yeah. I mean, it’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?”

“Not coming from you.”

Harry frowns. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“You—” Tom pauses, raking a hand through his already mussed-up hair. He looks more unbuttoned than Harry’s ever seen him. “I’m not sure.”

“That you wanted to murder me in my sleep, probably,” Harry says unthinkingly. He knows that Tom has never been confused on his opinion of Harry; he’s heard enough dramatics when Tom’s spoken to him as Ezra, long tales on how insufferable Harry is, and how much of an attention-seeker, how brainless and privileged, and so on.

Surprisingly, Tom laughs. It’s brief, blink-and-you’ll miss it, but it’s happened.

Tom Riddle has laughed.

“I might have considered it, yes,” Tom confesses, not even remotely apologetic.

Harry is shocked and more charmed than he’d like to admit. “I don’t know what to do with this sudden honesty.”

Tom shakes his head, and he’s still smiling—not smirking, but smiling—and he looks as unbalanced as Harry feels. “Neither do I.” He locks eyes with Harry, and for a few brief seconds there’s that intensity again; then he breaks the spell to Accio the Quaffle from where he’d dropped it. “Let me try again.”

“Sure,” Harry says, quietly thrilled.

##

[missing scene with Tom and snake-Harry]

##

The trunk containing Potter’s Quidditch equipment sits on the forest floor, lid open. Tom studies the set of chained Bludgers and lifts an eyebrow. “Last time you said that in this lesson I was supposed to ‘learn my way around a Beater’s bat’.” The unspoken question of why Potter hasn’t handed him any bat yet hangs in the air.

“Yeah, I said that, but then I realised that Bludgers might not be the best idea right now,” Potter admits, shrugging. “You’re probably already familiar with how they work from a spectator’s point of view, but this is another instance of theory being very different from practice.”

“In short, you believe I’m not able to undertake this particular task,” Tom says. Of course Potter wouldn’t consider him worthy enough for the scary, angry balls, not when Tom still struggles with inconsistent balance and shaky steering at the best of times. Furthermore, Potter’s famed superior abilities allow him to keenly judge the depth of Tom’s incompetency and find him wanting.

Unimpressed by Tom’s logic, Potter rolls his eyes. “Is it necessary for you to be so dramatic?”

“Don’t bother with lying. We both know it’s the truth,” Tom insists. He has no patience for this display of futile denial.

“It’s a distorted version of the truth, so you can beat yourself up for not being perfect enough, or some crap along those lines. Yes, it’s probably not safe for you to engage with Bludgers yet. No, it doesn’t mean that you’re useless of whatever you’re telling yourself.”

“You seem awfully confident in your ability to interpret my thoughts.” Out of ingrained habit, Tom reinforces his Occlumency shields. While it’s unlikely that Potter has the wits and finesse to master the delicate art of Legilimency, he’s also revealed himself to be unpredictable in many occasions. Better safe than sorry.

“Maybe you’re just obvious,” Potter says dismissively, before tapping his wand on the small set of chains that holds the Golden Snitch in place at the center of the trunk. The ball springs free, only for Potter to catch it immediately with practiced ease and a gleam in his eyes that promises nothing good for Tom. “Tonight we’re Seeking.”

“Will the Snitch’s movements be restricted to this clearing, or will we have to follow its path amongst the trees?”

“Only the clearing,” Potter confirms with a small smile.

Tom lets his gaze roam to evaluate the length and breadth of the space. The shiny surface of the ball would be easily discernible against the dark background. “Seems feasible.”

The smile on Potter’s face grows wider. “Let’s begin, then.”

What followed were blurred hours of Tom fumbling his way through sharp turns, desperately trying to keep himself from losing his grip, then losing it anyway at every attempt to catch the blasted ball, then trying to regain his balance, then remembering to loosen his posture, then failing at commanding his limbs to go on a single direction, thus dipping downwards at uncontrollable speed until he would have surely eaten grass if not for Potter’s steadying hand.

Once they finally touch the ground, Tom flings away Potter’s broom, rage painting his world in red. He doesn’t give a single fuck about the bloody stick of wood and the bloody Snitch, he’s bruised all over the place and he’s sick of this, he won’t stand a single second of humiliating himself any further, he’s utterly and completely done. “How do you fucking do this?” Tom roars. “Why would you willingly subject yourself to this torture?”

“Uh, T—Riddle—”

“I don’t know what I was thinking,” Tom goes on, ignoring him. “Why I even considered to accept this whole ordeal as if it deserves any of my time.”

“Riddle, I told you, this isn’t an obligation,” Potter says. “We can stop, it’s okay.” He’s dismounted too, and he stands there, slowly and cautiously inching towards Tom.

‘It’s okay’—as if Tom needs to be soothed or, worse, coddled. The infantilising undertones make Tom want to tear Potter to shreds. There’s a Cruciatus on the tip of his tongue, waiting to be unleashed, waiting for him to reap Potter’s pain for witnessing Tom making a fool of himself and daring to treat him like a volatile child. I doubt he’ll be so entertained when he’s contorting on the ground, screaming his lungs out, he thinks savagely, extracting his wand from its holster.

As the first syllable of the curse leaves Tom’s mouth, red light charging on the tip of his wand, Potter is fast—he crouches and rolls away from its trajectory, touching down over the stone in the middle of the clearing and drawing up a Shield Charm strong enough that Tom can hear it crackling like lightning. “What the fuck, Riddle?” he snaps, but there’s no surprise or fear on his face, only the sharp focus of a seasoned duellist.

Unfortunately for Potter, a mere Shield Charm isn’t enough to deter Tom; many Dark curses are designed to eat through them like a parchment set aflame. He smiles, all teeth, and Potter seems to sense his intentions, eyes narrowing.

Then the unthinkable happens.

Potter casts non-verbally at the same time Tom’s spell almost strikes home; the jets of their magic meet in midair and twine together in a single stream of pure gold light. Birdsong erupts, filling the space with an otherworldly melody, while luminous threads of magic are birthed from the stream like a spiderweb, surrounding Tom and Harry in a dome until the forest disappears beyond the shimmering brilliance.

What in Salazar’s name is this?

The entirety of Tom’s world is reduced to this moment in time, to Potter’s green eyes reflecting the light. Mesmerised, Tom watches as beads of light appear in the stream of their magic. His wand vibrates and he clutches it harder; the beads gets closer and closer to its tip, and Tom feels the light whispering at him to accept sanctuary in its song, to let it wash away his anger, to cease fighting, to surrender, and his whole body becomes weightless, being gently lifted from the ground by this invisible, absurd, liminal force—

And suddenly it ends.

The light disappears, leaving them to adjust to the night again: the link has been broken. Tom aches for it, deep in his bones. He can already tell how the echoes of that melody will haunt him for many nights to come.

He and Potter stare at each other, feet back on the ground, eyes wide, breathless and at a loss for words.

“What was that?” Tom breathes. “What did you do?”

Potter shakes his head, bewildered. “I have no clue. I just—stopped it.”

“You stopped it?”

“I think so.” Potter crawls towards a point to his side, scanning the grass back and forth until he recovers his wand from where he must have lost it when he interrupted the contact.

“Why?” Tom asks, unable to keep the word inside his still pounding chest. Why would you commit such a blasphemous act?

“Because—whatever it was, I’m not sure either of us was prepared for it.” He’s holding Tom’s gaze, straight on, in a way that reaches deep under his skin.

Unnerved, Tom skims the surface of Potter’s mind and finds a confusing jumble of... something. Too many somethings, all swirling in dizzying patterns. Wonder, doubt, curiosity, wariness, joy—all underlined by the same pure bliss that has enveloped Tom under the dome.

This magic is messing with my senses. “Don’t speak to me ever again. We’re done,” Tom says, with as much vicious strength as he can muster, rising on wobbly legs.

Potter sits in the grass and says nothing, making no move to stop him.

Tom can feel the weight of his gaze all the way to the castle. Once he reaches the dungeons, the Slytherin common room and finally his own bed, he realises how not a single part of his plan has worked out as expected.

His wand, who’s been a faithful companion since he was eleven, has acted in a way that was absolutely mystifying. Still shivering with the residue of that golden magic that doesn’t let go of his limbs, Tom performs a series of spells only to have the proof of what he already expected: the wand responds as usual and nothing is out of the ordinary—not now, not anymore. But if that unreal... thing wasn’t a malfunction, or caused by a curse, then what was it? He’s never heard of anything like it.

For the first time in what feels like forever, Tom’s out of his depth.

He thought he’d ruin Potter’s reputation, only to end up tired, bruised, with his magic acting up unpredictably and his thoughts scrambled beyond recognition. He thought he would teach Potter a lesson, and yet he lost himself in birdsong and light, giving away his power like an utter fool, until Potter was the one to separate them. And isn’t it funny that the reckless Gryffindor poster boy was the one who acted appropriately, while Tom has been too weak, too compromised? Weak, his mind provides.

How could it all have gone so wrong? How could Tom have lost the guidance of his own compass so completely?

For the briefest of moments, he wishes for Ezra’s presence; the snake has no interest in what he calls ‘complicated human affairs’, and his snark would help to keep Tom grounded. And isn’t this another sign of Tom’s weakness, to need another—an animal—to recover his balance?

He rubs his eyes, feeling both keyed-up and drained to the bone. A restless night awaits him.

However, he refuses to surrender to the hold of these thoughts. It’s completely useless to wallow in defeat and waste any more time contemplating this utter failure. Whatever happens next, whatever stunt Potter pulls that could interfere with Tom’s position in Slytherin, he’ll deal with it. Tom is cunning and capable enough to adapt to what fate has in store for him, as he’s always done.

He digs into his potion stash for a vial of Dreamless Sleep.

Potter can rot.

##

Harry crosses for the millionth time the opening sentence of his Potions essay. His parchment has turned into a blot of ink and he sighs, his wand to vanish the black stain. Then, he stares at the blank scroll, mind empty of coherent thoughts, unable to string together the meaning of a single line in the open book before him.

“I need help,” he finally says to Hermione, almost begging. They’re sitting, along with Ron, in their usual corner of the library. “I know, I know, I should write my own essay, but this isn’t—Hermione?” Harry hesitates, as he sees her casting a sturdy Muffliato around their table, the usual sign that a serious conversation was about to happen. Harry shoots a questioning look at Ron, but for once his friend appears to be on the same page as Hermione, leaving Harry out of the loop.

“Harry,” Hermione begins, with a concerned tone and furrowed eyebrows, “what’s going on? You’ve been distracted and spacing out for days, like you can’t focus on anything. It’s the third time you’ve asked for my help this week—even with difficult assignments, it’s not usually that bad.” She’s studying Harry’s face like she would a particularly complex Arithmancy equation, looking for the familiar tells that will betray his secrets.

Even though he knows perfectly well that she’s right, and that he did in fact intend to have one of those conversations, Harry protests on principle: “It’s Potions, you know how much I struggle with it! These essays are an absolute nightmare!”

“Yeah, mate, but maybe it would help if you read from the Potions book, instead of the Defense one,” Ron suggests, tapping his index finger on Harry’s book.

Harry stares at him, mild horror creeping up on his face, before letting his eyes fall on the book. He closes it and, sure enough, the battered cover doesn’t lie. “Fuck,” he says, defeated. He pushes up his glasses to rub at his face. “No wonder it didn’t make sense.”

Unlike Hermione, Ron doesn’t seem bothered by Harry’s behaviour; he shakes his head in playful disbelief, but he seems more curious than worried, which is relieving.

“So, what is it?” Hermione says.

Here it is, the moment Harry’s been dreading since this whole ordeal with Tom has started: telling the truth to his friends.

Like many other times, he doesn’t have a proper explanation for acting the way he does; in true Marauder fashion, he’d just acted on impulse, following the trail of fun. Unlike those other times, however, an explanation will be needed at some point.

This doesn’t mean that he isn’t also feeling quite defensive about this particular issue. After all, it’s not just about him; this is Tom’s business as much as it’s Harry’s, and Hermione won’t be happy to discover that her rival is involved. Harry still isn’t prepared for the fuss she will undoubtedly kick up.

And of course, predictable as the sunrise, Ron asks: “Is this because of whatever you’ve been doing when you sneak out at night?”

“Why are you being so secretive, Harry?” Hermione questions, leaning forwards and lowering her voice even though the Muffling Charm protects them from eavesdroppers. “Are you doing something that could get you expelled?”

“Hermione, I do things that could get me thrown in Azkaban on the regular.” Like being an unregistered Animagus, for instance.

And isn’t that another guilt-flavoured train of thought? The list of people that will need an explanation does include Tom himself. He’s warming up to Ezra in a way that he would have never allowed if he were aware of who hid behind the snake’s form. Yeah, Harry can’t say he’s looking forward to confessing that particular secret to Tom. After all, how can Harry admit to him that’s listened to his unfiltered rants and musings without Tom murdering him in cold blood? The Slytherin is already mistrustful enough, and lying by omission is one of the most dangerous things Harry could do, especially considering that Tom is a Legilimens.

Hermione waves an impatient hand to dismiss Harry’s point, snapping his attention back to the conversation. “You know what I mean, and you’re deflecting.”

Harry begins to open his mouth, but before he’s figured out what he’s going to say Hermione interrupts him again, voice gone soft: “Did you break up with your partner?”

“My what?” Again, Harry looks at Ron and finds none of the confusion he expects on his face.

“You have been disappearing a lot,” Ron offers with an half-shrug. “It was the most obvious conclusion.”

Harry gapes, stunned by the turn the conversation has taken. “Did you two really think that I have a secret lover? Why in the name of Merlin would I hide that?” If only they knew who my supposed ‘lover’ is. And isn’t that a thought, Tom being anyone’s lover, and Harry’s lover to boot? It’s too absurd, too unthinkable to even consider.

Yes, Harry can admit that Tom is handsome, and that he certainly doesn’t lack admirers; even with his poor eyesight, he’s not that ignorant of the Slytherin’s charms. However, Tom’s usual regal demeanour creates a distance between him and the rest of the world. Like a marble statue, Tom Riddle is meant to be admired while staying unreachable, and Harry can’t imagine him letting his shields down for anyone.

Except he did with me. Harry has been a witness to Tom’s temper, his cruelty, his smile. As obstinate as Tom has been with his will to drag Harry into the mud and his constant misinterpretation of Harry’s motives, he’s also let Harry see unflattering, vulnerable sides of him that many others would kill for.

How did that happen? What does this say about us?

“You’re spacing out again,” Hermione sighs. “But if it’s not a secret lover, then what is this all about?”

“I’ve been seeing someone. Not in that way,” he adds, before they can say anything. “But we kind of, uh, had a disagreement, and our magic reacted strangely and I was wondering if you knew something about it that I don’t.”

At the mention of an intellectual debate Hermione perks up, her posture instantly straightening. Harry tells them an abridged version of what happened in the clearing, glossing over the more incriminating details that could reveal Tom’s identity or the reason behind their fight.

“I’m pretty sure I’ve read about something like this before,” Hermione says, tapping her index finger to her lips. She bends to the side to rummage inside her magically expanded bag where she keeps a ridiculous amount of books—though Harry has to admit that, on occasions like this, having a portable library does come in handy. “I believe it was on a wandlore book I got last year. It’s hard to find any useful information on the subject because wandmaking is passed on through apprenticeship and very few masters have bothered writing down their knowledge, but I lucked on this tome that was gathering dust on a corner at Flourish and Blott’s, I’m fairly sure they didn’t even remember having it—ah, here it is!” she exclaims, showing them an ancient leatherbound volume whose title has faded completely. After a few minutes of leafing through the yellowed pages, she says: “I was right! Priori Incantatem, an extremely rare phenomenon that manifests when two practitioners bearing twin wands—that is, wands with the twin cores—attempt a duel.”

“So my... acquaintance’s wand has a phoenix feather core like mine?”

Hermione studies the book again. “Not just any phoenix feather, apparently. It has to be a feather from the same phoenix as yours, which I guess is why most wands don’t have a twin at all, or never meet their twin.” She lifts her gaze from the page to meet Harry’s eyes with her bright ones. “Harry, who is this person? This could be an amazing opportunity to study something that—”

“I can’t tell you, and they made it very clear that they don’t want me to speak to them ever again,” Harry says. Classes with the Slytherins have been... something. While outwardly nothing had changed between them, as they’d never interacted in the first place, Harry could feel the spiky coldness radiating from Tom as if it were alive and ready for him to try and cross it.

“But mate,” Ron interjects, gesturing vaguely at Harry, “wouldn’t they like to know about this? If my wand started shooting weird golden light during a duel, I’d be freaking out and thinking that my magic isn’t working or something like that.”

“I think they’re perfectly capable of researching this on their own.” Maybe that’s the reason behind their odd connection. Their wands... attract them to each other, or something.

Would Tom even want to know? The truth is... Ron is right. Someone like Tom, who prides himself on knowing everything and always being in control, must have been utterly shaken by his magic going haywire all of a sudden.

Harry’s choice is made.

##

A week after the last encounter with Potter, Ezra reappears in the dungeons just as Tom’s Prefect rounds come to an end.

Tom wonders at the snake’s ability to be so precise about his routine. Ready to cage his wayward almost-but-not-quite familiar again, this time with no intention of letting go, Tom lifts his wand in lieu of a greeting.

“Put that away, human,” Ezra hisses, and his tone is enough to still Tom’s tongue. He sounds stiff, his muscles tight and struggling against his obvious distress.

Eyes narrowing, Tom asks: “What happened to you?” If someone had dared to hurt his snake...

“Too many questions.”

“That was one question.”

“Pointless details. Follow me,” Ezra commands, before slithering down the dimly lit corridor, wasting no time to check if Tom is going after him.

Tom curses under his breath. Disrespectful, disobedient creature. He casts a silent Disillusionment Charm over himself and trails behind the sinuous shadow; the snake avoids the treacherous staircases, leading Tom behind faded tapestries and secret passages that he’s never encountered before. Spelling away the cobwebs to prevent them from sticking to his skin and hair, Tom finds himself thinking that not even Potter would have discovered these places—then banishes the reminder of Potter’s existence from his head entirely. The bastard doesn’t deserve a single crumb of his attention.

At this point he’s also wondering if Ezra is trying to get him in trouble on purpose. While the snake has never been particularly talkative and often acts oddly even by reptile standards, this mysterious demeanour is unusual and bordering on suspicious.

Ezra halts in front of a familiar, half-open bathroom door, flicking his tongue at the air; then, apparently satisfied, he slides inside.

More and more confused by this bizarre pseudo-adventure, Tom follows.

Once they’re under the greenish, dim light of the Chamber of Secrets, surrounded by snake-decorated pillars that hold up the vast ceiling, Ezra melts into the shadows and disappears from sight. The last shreds of Tom’s patience evaporate. “Ezra, what is going on?” he barely refrains from shouting.

He hears rustling from behind him, and when he turns in the direction of the sound his eyes fall on the pavement. There’s a book in front of him that hadn’t been there before. The cover is clearly old, black and unassuming, but it means very little for Tom. Wary, he extracts his wand. The Chamber is not a place in which one can trust random books appearing out of thin air.

It’s enough to distract him.

“Incarcerous,” a voice says—a treacherous, insufferable voice—and Tom is bound and constricted by ropes of warm magic that bring him to his knees. As if the humiliation wasn’t enough, he watches, powerless, as Potter waltzes in his field of vision and oh-so-casually disarms him.

“You utter bastard,” Tom snarls, like a flesh-eating curse, “release me.” The spell holds strong against his attempts to free himself wandlessly.

With a grin that shows too many teeth, Potter replies airily, “I don’t think I will. We have a lot of things to discuss, you see, and I don’t fancy being hexed.” His gaze turns sharp and he crouches in front of Tom, mockingly. “Besides, you deserve a little taste of your own medicine. Going around caging random snakes? Very rude, Tom.”

“What have you done to my snake?” No ropes will protect Potter from Tom’s ire. His magic is beginning to flare up, warming his skin, ready to set ablaze everything on its path.

Potter feels it, but all he does is sit cross-legged before Tom, unbothered. “Your snake?” he laughs.

“I caught him. He’s mine.”

“Putting me in a glass case and having a few one-sided conversations about how much you hate me is hardly enough to call me yours.”

Tom’s thoughts screech to a halt. The implication behind Potter’s words dawns on him, like curtains closing at the end of a play. It can’t be true, can it? Tom couldn’t have been so foolish—but wasn’t he the one who’s compared Ezra to Potter more than once? Oh, the irony. The cruelty of his misplaced belief that he could be himself with anyone, even an animal.

And then, Potter’s face opens, and his expression morphs into a genuine smile. Something travels down Tom’s spine at the sight. “You’re surprisingly warm, though. And you smell good under that posh cologne,” he says.

“You knew,” Tom says. “You knew all along that I wanted to sabotage you. That I despise you.”

“Yes.”

“You had no right.”

“You put me in a difficult position, Tom. On one hand, I was very aware of the fact that I was taking advantage of you; on the other hand, however... what was I supposed to do? Let you harm me out of the goodness of my heart? I’m not that self-sacrificing.”

[uboat53]

My Dream Total War Game: Part 1

Well, I've had a solid go of Total War: Warhammer III having played several races and I'm just waiting for Immortal Empires to drop. I suppose it's time to do the big project I've been thinking about for a while, what would my dream Total War game look like?

To start with, I've been thinking back to the previous games in the series. I've played every single Total War title except the original Shogun, Napoleon, and Thrones of Britannia, so I think I've got a fairly good background. Each one of them introduced something cool or different to the series, so let's take a look at those things

Here's what I really liked that I associate with each of them:

Medieval: Total War

My goodness, the original for me. I still love this game, though I am glad that we've moved away from that tile campaign map. One thing I remember about this game was being able to assault the gates of a castle even without building siege equipment. Infantry could undermine the foundations, scale walls, and attempt to torch the gates. It was way less efficient than building or bringing along real siege equipment, but there are times when you just need to take the dang thing and this option was great to have in your back pocket.

Princesses were also great. They weren't just pictures on a family tree that meant very little, they were very real agents in the campaign and that really brought the socio-political side of the game to life.

Finally, I loved the religion aspect of this. Fighting a war with troops and diplomacy is one thing, but adding religion to your arsenal really added another dimension to it. Being able to influence the Papacy as a Catholic faction especially was a ton of fun.

Rome: Total War

Oh my (George Takei voice), the realistic campaign map and 3-D units. I never want to play without those again. Definitely have to be a part of any perfect TW game.

Rome was also the first game with real diversity in factions. I mean, in Shogun the factions pretty much all use peasants and samurai and in the time period of Medieval the mounted knight is pretty much the main unit on the battlefield that all factions build their armies around. In Rome, by contrast, each faction has a very unique way of making war that forces different strategy and tactics than any other faction. The Romans have the legion, Greeks have hoplites, Macedonians have pikes, Gauls have warbands. Each one of those brings a totally different flavor to how they play and I love it.

Other than that, I miss the trade system. I liked it when a trade agreement meant that any territories that could trade with each other would do so instead of this new capital to capital link.

Medieval II: Total War

There's nothing quite like the feel and fanfare of medieval warfare and there were three things in particular from this that I'd want in a perfect TW game. The first is the synchronized kills, where the animation of an attacking unit matches the death animation of the unit it's attacking. Sure, I spend a lot of time zoomed out and issuing commands to the army, but there's nothing like zooming in and actually seeing dozens of men directly interacting with each other instead of just using stock animations without regard for one another.

The next one is the individualized units. Making different men in the same unit look unique was amazing and I was surprised at how well they were able to manage it. And, taking off from that…

…is my next point, the visual impact of armor and weapon upgrades. You see, Medieval II didn't just have armor upgrade by colors (upgrade to the bronze, then the silver, then the gold), it had types of armor. Leather, Padded, Lamellar, Light Mail, etc that were made in different kinds of facilities. Different kinds of units started with different types of armor and could only be upgraded to types of armor that made sense for them to wear. More importantly, you could SEE the change when you went into battle. Line infantry with heavy mail or partial plate LOOKED different from the same unit with light mail. This is a feature I'd really love to see again.

Empire: Total War

NAVAL COMBAT! I mean, seriously, the age of sail. No other TW game has done naval combat as well since and it's a feature I really want to see again (particularly in the Warhammer games, how do we have Vampire Coast and Druchii without naval combat?).

This was also the first TW game that featured automatic replenishment of units which is definitely a feature I would have to have in my perfect game.

I'm still not 100% sure I like not being able to just build every building in a single city given enough time, but I really loved the fact that not all buildings in a territory were in the central settlement and that new cities would spring up in a territory over time with enough growth. It made the provinces/territories more of a strategic battleground when you couldn't just retreat to the city and hole up while the enemy ran all over the place without accomplishing anything.

There's also the settlement garrisons. It was so nice having at least a rudimentary defense in place even if I didn't put an army in every. single. city. They've been balanced differently in different games to various results, but I think any TW game from now on needs them.

Finally, dismountable cavalry. There are so many situations where it would be more useful to take my guys off of horseback, so why can't I do it anymore?

Shogun 2: Total War

Shogun 2 for me is all about the multiplayer. I loved the clans system, I loved the progression system, and my favorite part was how you could save a veteran unit from your battles and customize it. No more nameless, faceless armies, I want my personal troops again!

Rome II: Total War

Let's face it, the combined land and sea battles really gave the navy its punch in this game. The ramming of sea battles was fine, but being able to use your ships and their full crews on land made them ten times as valuable. That would absolutely be a part of my perfect TW game.

Total War: Attila

Attila, more than any other TW game really had a strong feel. The world was getting colder and civilization was falling apart and it FELT like that was happening all around you. I'm not 100% sure how you would get that level of theming in another game, but I want it!

Total War: Warhammer, Warhammer II

So for me these are in the same boat, Warhammer II was a great improvement over Warhammer, but for me it didn't do anything new that Warhammer hadn't already done, it just did the things better. That said, I liked the single entity units and I liked the monstrous units, they really added some difference in gameplay. I also liked the magic which really opened up a ton of tactical and strategic options.

These games also brought in unique faction mechanics, different kinds of machinations and strategies that each faction could employ, further differentiating them beyond even their unique unit rosters and building trees.

Total War: Arenas

This one never officially launched and it wasn't even an official Total War thing by the end of it, but I love it so much I'm going to talk about it anyways.

Arenas was the greatest multiplayer experience I've ever played in any game ever. The gameplay was set up so that you controlled three units in an army with nine other players against an enemy army of ten. You had to cooperate over a divided battlefield in order to secure victory either by destroying all enemy units or by capturing their flag.

I'm sure there'd be a ton more work you'd have to do in order to get this to work and you'd probably want different modes because how often do you have 20 players at a time, but it was the coolest TW experience I've ever had and I really want to see it again!

Total War: Three Kingdoms

My goodness, the diplomacy. Give me the diplomacy system. This was the single most refreshing TW title I have played in a long time and it still holds a special place in my heart because of this. Yes, other titles since have used the diplomacy system to some degree, but in Troy and Warhammer a lot of the faction relations are hard-coded in. In Three Kingdoms the alliances and confederations can shift in a heartbeat, completely changing the shape of the campaign.

The way the diplomacy system interacted with the character relationships was also brilliant in that it allowed a real connection to your generals and officers. They were no longer just cogs in a machine, they had likes and dislikes and developed friendships and rivalries over the course of the campaign. It was great!

The personalities were also fantastic because they hooked them up to the play style. A brash and aggressive character would genuinely play in a brash and aggressive way which led to whole new level of strategic planning.

I also really like the idea of an army being composed of multiple generals and their retinues. This worked really well with the relationship and personality system, adding new depth to the campaign where you had to work to ensure that you composed armies not just with generals who complemented each other well, but also who got along well enough to work together.

Total War: Troy

I liked the mythological elements of this a lot. They weren't overwhelming, but it was just really cool to see a huge man dressed as a cyclops on the battlefield. It was impressive enough to be cool but still within the bounds of reason so it didn't break historical verisimilitude.

The other thing I really liked about this one was the currency system. It was really fun putting together the different pieces in order to buy what you needed. Three Kingdoms started this a bit with their food mechanic, but Troy took it to the next level and it was a great feature.

Total War: Warhammer III

Warhammer III separates itself from I and II based on one thing only, the Warriors of Chaos rework that's being prepared for the launch of Immortal Empires. You see, this rework has something I've been wanting from a TW game since I first started playing them back in 2001, the ability to upgrade a unit to a better type instead of having to disband it and recruit a new one. It's great, it's fantastic, and I'm super looking forward to getting to use this feature.

Conclusion

So yeah, that's what I love about each of the games and what I'd put in my perfect Total War game. The thing is, though, there's still some stuff that I've seen in other games that hasn't made it into a TW game yet. I'll do another rant in a bit with some of those things.

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Lasting Rivalries.

Word Count: 4.0k

Written for an anonymous commissioner.

Synopsis: Izuku loves you, but he doesn’t like Katsuki very much. It’s just a shame he can’t separate one feeling from the other. 

TW: Kidnapping, Imprisonment, Mentions of Past Assult, Violence, Non-Graphic Injury, Mentions of Drug Use, Implied Death, Unhealthy Relationships, and Delusional Mindsets.

[Part Two]

Within the day, Izuku’s base was abandoned.

It was a temporary measure, he’d explained, just a precaution to make sure Katsuki and all his nasty little friends couldn’t find their way back to his hide-out, which turned out to be a bunker tucked away underneath one of the many discarded office buildings on the edge of the city. It was almost impressive, how with only a wave of his hand, all of his lackeys uprooted themselves from the home they seemed so accustomed to with little more than an exasperated sigh or a remorseful shake of their head. If Izuku had been disappointed, you weren’t able to tell. Despite the rush, the anxiety that came with releasing a scorned hostage, he was all smiles, all gentle touches and soft tones and sentiments so patronizing, you began to think you’d almost prefer his anger.

He knew you were quirkless, now, and there wasn’t an observant civilian in the city who didn’t know about Izuku’s troubled past, of his fondness of those born without a gift. You couldn’t say you blamed him, not if you approached it objectively. It hadn’t been an easy burden to carry, growing up, but you weren’t growing up anymore, you weren’t a kid waiting for a quirk that’d never come or a teenager, balancing the embarrassment of daily life with the humiliation that came with being so undeniably different than your peers, and in such an unhidable way, too. You weren’t over it, but you were past it. You still remembered all those awful, disgusting things people said to you, but you didn’t let them keep you awake at night. You were dealing with it. You were moving forward.

Izuku wasn’t.

He wasn’t even trying to.

But, it wasn’t your place to call him out, not when it came to that, not when you were stuck inside your new prison - someplace just as confining, but only half as tolerable. Technically, it was an improvement. After abandoning his bunker, Izuku’s followers had dispersed, and along with a handful of his closest companions, you’d been taken to a seedy bar on the worse side of town, locked inside of a small, windowless room on the second story and forced to watch as Izuku threw away the key. There were no cards, this time, no unbais locks with a dozen different work-around, just a deadbolt on your door and four-digit code you’d never get the chance to guess at. He wasn’t taking any risks, this time, he wasn’t giving you the smallest opportunity to jump at. It was a new sense of determination that’d come in the form of a shackle around your ankle and a bottle of white, circular pills Izuku forced down your throat every time he took you beyond the confines beyond your four walls. Ones that made you dizzy, weak, sedated. A measure that couldn’t be for your own safety, despite Izuku’s attempts to insist otherwise.

He seemed busier, too, than he was before your abduction. It might just be because you didn’t have anything else to focus on. As far as you could tell, Izuku only let his inner circle know where you were being held, and they still seemed hesitant to do more than deliver your meals or offer a few passive niceties when they were forced to interact with you. Saying your company was limited would’ve been an understatement. He tried to make it up to you with books and gifts and outfits that were more for his enjoyment than yours, but you were lucky if his visits lasted longer than an hour. His wasn’t the face you’d prefer to see on a daily basis, but it was still worrying to have your captor be too preoccupied to serve as a real threat. And when he did make time for you…

Izuku liked to have something to hold on to. He liked to be able to squeeze, and pull, and bruise, even if the pain he caused was more of a byproduct than a goal. His intentions didn’t matter, though, not when his fingertips dug into your thighs, not when his teeth sank into your neck, not when he got a little too excited and only stopped because your complaints had gotten frantic enough to be annoying. You’d learned quickly that Izuku was an affectionate man, but you’d learned even faster that you never wanted to be the one that affection was directed towards. Having him go days at a time without checking in with you was concerning, but having him next to you was unbearable. You tried not to think about it, when you could help it.

Luckily, today was a case of the former, when Izuku had too much on his mind and too little time to sort it out to bother convincing you to love him back. He’d let himself into your room an hour ago, and yet, he hadn’t been able to do more than kiss your forehead and offer a muttered greeting before loosening his tie and setting to pacing, wandering back and forth through the cramped confines of your homey cage. It was starting to scare you. No, it was starting to terrify you. You’d passed the point of just being scared days ago.

You doubted he could say anything to comfort you, but you found yourself talking regardless. If only to fill the silence with something that wasn’t his constant, incoherent mumbling, really. “Something’s going on,” You started, trying to sound more confident than you’d ever be, around him. “Something’s going on, and you’re not telling me about it.”

His answer was automatic, the one he’d given you a thousand times over. “I’m taking care of it, darling.”

“Midoriya, please.” It was more of a plea than a request, an appeal to whatever love he might’ve had for you, whatever trust he might’ve had in you. You weren’t blind, you knew he didn’t think you were strong or capable or of any particular use beyond serving as a particularly high-maintenance ornament, but if he thought you were endearing enough to keep as a companion, he should’ve been able to treat you like a companion, too. “Right now, your safety is my safety. If someone’s going to break down that door and kill both of us…” You trailed off, forcing yourself to let out an airy, humorless laugh. “I should get to know who it’s going to be.”

For a moment, Izuku hesitated, but it was only for a moment. With a small sigh, the tension in his shoulder dissolved, and he took to rubbing the back of his neck, one in a never-ending line of nervous ticks. “It’s really nothing either of us can help,” He insisted, making a half-hearted attempt to break his concerned frown into a small smile. “A lot of my recruits were training to be heroes when I picked them up, did I ever tell you that? I got to most of them too early on for it to be useful, but a few have some experience. It makes it easier to tell with the other side’s planning something, not that they’d ever miss a chance to put on a good show.”

“And it’s been getting worse?” The sentiment left a bitter taste on your tongue. You never thought you’d speak a word against the hero industry, not so generally, but Izuku had a way of rubbing off on you, or the way you spoke, at least.

“It’s certainly busier than it should be,” He admitted, the words grumbled through grit teeth. “I’ve had to lie low, but that makes things difficult. There’s a hierarchy in this city, and people don’t tend to react well when the one on the throne goes into hiding. Weapon distributors aren’t getting their shipments on time, gangs aren’t keeping to their own territory, it’s all devolving into chaos, and all because those bastards can’t take a step back and let me tend to things.”

His hands were curling at his sides, now, his nails driving themselves into his bare palms with so much repressed ferocity, it almost looked painful. It was an impulsive thing to do, an act that’d play right into his delusional little fantasy, but that didn’t stop you from reaching out and taking him by the sleeve, pulling him towards your cot. Your chain rattled as you swung your legs over the side of your bed, but you tried to ignore it, biting the inside of your cheek and letting Izuku fall into place next to you. He didn’t try to resist, only going slack as his head lolled onto your shoulder.

Your next question came reluctantly, guiltily. You couldn’t be sure how long it’d been since you’d last seen Katsuki, but after a month came and went without the slightest hint of your boyfriend, your hopes had dampened, dimmed, turned into something much darker than you’d ever thought they would be. You still knew he’d come back for you. He had to come back, but you couldn’t know when he would. You couldn’t know how he might’ve changed, by the time he did.

You couldn’t know if he’d still be your Katsuki, by then.

“What about Bakugo?” You asked, your voice barely above a whisper. “Have you heard anything about him?”

With that, an almost sympathetic aire found its way to his tired expression. Somehow, he found just enough energy to reach up, running his finger through your hair as he drew you closer, his face soon buried in the crook of your neck. You went stiff, but you didn’t shove him away. You knew better than to reject Izuku so blatantly, by now. “You don’t have to worry about Kacchan. I let him get away, but I made sure he didn’t leave unscathed.” There was a pause, a hand finding its way to your hip. You fought not to recoil, and Izuku pretended not to notice. “He only picked up his patrol routes last week, and I’ve been keeping an eye on him. If he wants to get to you, he’ll have to pry you from my cold, dead hands.”

You wanted to ask again. You wanted to ask again, and again, and again until you ran out of breath and Izuku had to decide whether to gag you, starve you, or find a way to combine the two. It was a common choice to get stuck on, whether to quell your paranoia or side with your common sense, but ultimately, Izuku was the one to make the decision for you. It was soft, at first, the feeling of his lips ghosting over your skin, but things with Izuku rarely stayed innocent. Your body was rigid by the time you felt his tongue run over your jugular, your hands on his shoulder as his teeth ghosted over your neck, but by the time you moved to shove him away, he was already clinging to you, snaking an arm around your waist as his teeth sunk in, as he drew blood.

“I don’t--” You tried to complain, but you were cut off by a low hum from Izuku, a half-hearted sign of dismissal as he moved on to his next target, just above the dip of your collarbone. “Midoriya,” You tried, trying to shove him away. “This really isn’t the time, I’m really not in the mood. You were just talking how screwed we’d be if--”

“I was worried about it, and then, my angel comforted me. That’s wonderful, isn’t it?” He pulled you closer, nuzzling into your chest. “I’m just repaying the favor. It’d be unfair if I didn’t show my (Y/n) how much I appreciate them.”

He moved to go on, but suddenly, his eyes opened, his posture going stiff before he could say something to make you squirm and do something to make you hate him even more. You heard it a moment after he did, and felt it a second after that - voices, louder than they should’ve been, coming from the floor below, and then a crash that couldn’t have been accidental. There was a subtle tremors, a reverberation that left you locking your jaw into place. Izuku didn’t let go of you, but his grip loosened, his attention suddenly elsewhere.

And then, without warning, the floor caved in.

It happened in the blink of an eye, in the space between one second and another. One moment, you were sitting on a cot, and the next, you were lying on your back, every part of your body aching, a dozen things sprained and another hundred bruised, or cut, or ripped open and left to bleed. You forced yourself to open your eyes, but it was pointless - the world around you was grey and brown and nothing. Dust and debris polluted the air, clouding it beyond recognition, and if there was anything salvageable left of the first floor, you wouldn’t have been able to tell, much less do something with whatever you found. The fall couldn’t have been very far, but the ground was unforgiving, and everything hurt. It was all you could do to push yourself to your feet, your legs threatening to buckle under your own weight. You pulled yourself through a step, then another before you realized what was wrong.

You could stand.

You could walk.

Blearily, you focused on the shackle around your ankle, the thing that should’ve been keeping you bound to the cot now buried under a pile of rubble twice as tall as you were. The metallic circlet was still there, only slightly scoffed, but when you followed the short chain, the only thing it led back to was a pole, one leg of the makeshift bed you’d become so acquainted with. You almost left it there. Right now, you were  more focused on finding an exit and getting out than celebrating such a convenient victory, but a low moaning tore your attention towards another mangled form before you could stagger away. A mass of black fabric, a white shirt soaked through with something dark and rusty. Hair, darker than it should’ve been, and just as tangled as it usually was.

Izuku. Injured and beaten, but unquestionably Izuku. For a moment, you thought he was dead, but a guttural cough tore you away from that daydream. He didn’t move, but his eyes flickered open, finding you among the ruins. It almost seemed like he would smile, like he would laugh and call his henchmen and you’d be recaptured before you could get so much as a breath of fresh air. You could hear fighting in the distance, yelling from heroes and villains alike, but they weren’t here, not yet. Izuku could still do something crafty and clever and evil, and you’d have to pay for it. 

You’d be the victim again, and he’d come out on top.

By the time you made up your mind, your hand was already closing around the pole, the metal heavy in your fist. Izuku watched you silently, only forcing something out as you came to stand over him.

“You’d be better off with me,” He spat, his voice raspy, feeble. “If you go running back into his arms, into his world, you’ll regret it.”

You were tempted to listen. You might’ve, but you couldn’t. You wouldn't be able to live with yourself, if you did.

It wasn’t like he’d ever stopped to listen to you, after all.

You were only returning the favor.

~

You didn’t remember passing out.

You didn’t remember it, but you must’ve, because the next time you woke up, you weren’t in the debris of Izuku’s hideout, anymore - you didn’t seem to be anywhere. The lights were blinding for a second, fospheresent and white and searing, but the onslaught retreated as quickly as it attacked, disappearing completely as you remembered how to blink. If your body hurt before, it was even worse now, but the pain was at a distance, forced back by a translucent liquid and a handful of needles pumping the substance into your bloodstream, one drop at a time. You were tempted to rip them out, if only as a learned instinct, but a glance around the room revealed that you were in a medical bed, not on a cot, that the walls around you were white and speckled with dark blues and greens, rather that the dull grey you’d grown used to. It was a silent relief, not unexpected but certainly not unappreciated, the type that made you want to fall into the stiff mattress and sleep until you got used to the feeling of being able to, but you had a reason to stay awake. You had a reason to want to be awake.

Because someone was holding your hand.

Because Katsuki was holding your hand.

He was slumped against the arm of a sterile, poorly cushioned chair, his eyes nearly closed. He must’ve been here for a while - he was still wearing the essentials of his costume, but his mask had been discarded, as had his belt and his gauntlets, anything he didn’t need to sit by your bedside and fret over you. He looked exhausted, but he perked up as your fingers intertwined with his, a small smile spreading across his lips as he scanned over you.

His voice was raspy, obscure by sleep, but his tone was light, affectionate. You were thankful. That was all you needed him to be. “You took your fucking time.”

“So did you.” You might hold it against him, later on, but right now, you just wanted to settle onto your side and grin as Katsuki’s expression softened into something apologetic. “How long was I--”

“A little more than a day.” He must’ve gone over that a thousand times before you woke up. He wasn’t eager, but the speech was rehearsed, practiced, just bordering on scripted. “It’s just a minor concussion and a few fractures. Taking out Deku’s hideout was riskier than it should’ve been, but we couldn’t think of another way to separate him from his lackeys without putting civilians at risk. By the time we handled his lap dogs, you’d already collapsed.”

You hesitated, but you forced yourself to ask. You needed to know he wouldn’t come crawling back. You needed to know you hadn’t fallen to his level for nothing. “And Midoriya?”

“Died in the crash, as far as anyone can tell.” Katsuki took a deep breath, just a hint of regret finding its way into his disposition. It didn’t last long, though, dispelled with an heavy sigh. “It’s for the best. The sooner that motherfucker’s wiped off the face of the planet, the better. I was just hoping it wouldn’t be so…” He trailed off, running his free hand through his hair. “Would you believe me if I said I still thought he might not be so… fucked up, once we got him back?”

You wouldn’t. You’d spent weeks under Izuku’s thumb, tripping over yourself to keep him happy with you, spending every waking moment trying to please a sociopath, but that didn’t change the fact that he used to be Katsuki’s friend, that they’d grown up together, and that it’d been Katsuki’s fault they grew apart. You couldn’t answer, not in a way that would soothe his lingering doubts, But, he didn’t seem to need you to. Before you could think of something to say, he was already shrugging it off, shaking his head as he turned towards you. “I can’t keep focusing on shit like that, though. You’re back, and you’re safe, and that’s all that matters to me.”

You let yourself relax, melting into your pillow as Katsuki bent over the side of your bed, pushing a light, delicate kiss into your temple. “I’m just glad I got out of there,” You admitted. Katsuki only nodded in acknowledgement, nimble fingers beginning to comb through your disheveled hair. “I can’t wait to see everyone again, it feels like years since I’ve talked to someone besides Midoriya. Mina’s going to smother me, and Denki -- Wait, do you think I still have a job? They can’t fire me for getting abducted, right?”

You felt Katsuki stiffen. It took him a second to respond, just long enough to let you know something was wrong. “I… I don’t think you should head back to work, just yet.”

“Well, yeah, I’m still in a hospital gown,” You laughed, attempting to ignore his sudden seriousness. “But eventually, I’ll have to--”

“I don’t think you should go back at all.” If he was reluctant before, he’d gotten over it. Reflexively, you pushed yourself up, your arms shaking under the strain, but Katsuki was quick to backtrack, to flinch away and curse under his breath, cupping your cheek as he urged you to hear him out. “I know you’re probably dyin’ for things to go back to the way they used to be, and I know I’m being selfish, but… You were kidnapped, (Y/n), by a villain. Deku was the worst ‘em, but he wasn’t the only one. There’s probably hundreds of-- thousands of people out there who’d be willing to rip your heart out, if it means getting back to me. I don’t know if it’d be able to take it, if you wanted to risk that. I don’t know if it’d be able to let you risk that. I...” He forced himself to stop, to take a steading breath. “I just want to keep you safe. I need you to let me keep you safe.”

Huh.

It hurt a lot less than you thought it would.

It was the numbing sort of shock, a cold wave of a scenario you’d imagined (albeit, one you’d never liked) plenty of times coming to fruition. Part of you thought Katsuki might burst out laughing, that he might be joking, but Katsuki didn’t move to back down, didn’t move to do anything but stare. It made sense. He hadn’t known if you were dead or alive for a month, and Katsuki was the type to get nervous when you went more than a day without seeing him in person. He’d probably been worried sick. He’d probably been pulling his own hair out. He’d probably been… What was it Izuku said, when he was first warning you about Katsuki?

He’d probably been ready to lock you away somewhere so deep and somewhere so dark, you’d be lucky to ever see sunlight again. As long as it meant you were protected.

That didn’t mean you wanted to be locked away, though.

It was all you could do to keep your voice from shaking. You didn’t want Katsuki to lie to you just because he thought you might start crying, if he didn’t. “What happens if I don’t let you?”

He could only frown, the calloused pad of his thumb rubbing over your cheek. “I don’t want to hurt you, angel.”

He didn’t want to. He’d never want to. Even if he did, even if he didn’t regret it, he’d never want to.

That already made him better than Izuku.

The slow, muted beat of the heart-monitor began to race as you leaped towards Katsuki, nearly falling off of your bed as you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him against you burying your face in his chest, allowing Katsuki to tentatively pull you closer, too. You could’ve called for a nurse. You could’ve screamed. You could’ve done something to put yourself at arm’s length from anyone who wanted to keep you cornered and caged, but you didn’t want to do something, you couldn’t want that. You loved Katsuki. You loved him, and you’d missed him, and the only thing you wanted to do was fall into his arms and let him take care of you, regardless of how paranoid he’d gotten. You just wanted to know he’d be there, if someone like Izuku ever came after you again.

Everything else was a small price to pay, if he could just give you that.

“Please.” You didn’t try to hide your vulnerability, anymore, you didn’t try to hide anything. Tears were already clouding your vision, something jagged and tight burrowing into the back of your throat with every word, every painful thought. Katsuki moved to speak, to comfort you, but you didn’t let him. You didn’t want to be comforted.

You just wanted to feel safe.

"I just want to go home.”

[untitledtheunknown]

Valor Rzeszutek timeline from birth to 2077+ cuz have put way too much thought and planning into his dumb ass. It's not 100% to everything, a lot of things are over simplified and had major effects on him, as well as other smaller events that did occur. But its something to kinda base him on of where he's been and where he's at now.

October 21st 1994 - Valor and Glory Rzeszutek were born to engineer Jeremiah and corpo Vivienne Rzeszutek in South Africa.

August 2005 - Vivienne received a new position with the HQ of her company, uprooting the family from SA to NUSA Las Vegas.

June 2006 - Jeremiah takes Valor with him on a small trip to NC, surprises him with tickets to see Samurai.

October 21st 2006 - Valor gets his first electric guitar for his 12th birthday.

November 19th 2010 - Vivienne dies of sudden health complications. Corporation covers her funeral costs and gives an additional 1 year salary to the family.

July 2012 - Valor joins Lazarus Group starting his mercenary/solo career.

September 2012 - Jeremiah leaves LV joining a group of Nomads heading East.

2013-15 - Valor served as gunner for Trauma Team LV; Glory was quickly rising through corprate ranks with Liive a doll company.

December 2017 - Corprate counter extractions, target found dead in a warehouse with a wreath around his head. First of many to be found this way.

2021-27 - Valor is assigned on military contract back to SA, orders suggested territory dispute and area fortification but actual politics of it was left out for troops. Mostly a show of muscle and patrolling different hot zones.

February 4th 2027 - Transport detail, halfway camp under fire. 14 dead another dozen injured, Valor and 3 others are taken prisoner.

February 6th 2027 - Valor wakes up strapped to an operating table, system diagnosis states a foreign piece of unregistered cyberware has been installed. Installation location is unknown as all ports are open, given the bandaging around his head and the pain at the base of his skull, assumed it was surgically implanted.

February 8th 2027 - Dumped in an unknown location, small town, in the middle of the night. Bloody, bruised, and weak manages to get himself up and starts to stumble down the empty street. Chip is activated, neural system goes offline, cyberpsychosis takes over sending Valor into a chaotic feral state.

February 9th-15th 2027 - Valor is held prisoner by local military company. Believing he works for the black market vendors he is tortured for days on end until information arrives that he is one of the MIA soldiers with Lazarus Group. Returned to a nearby base and sent back to NUSA for medical evaluation.

March 30th 2027 - Valor is released from medical care, honorably discharged from Lazarus for medical purposes. Do to the chip's nature it is unable to be removed, with no known tracers on the technology he is put on as risk for possible cyberpsychosis relapse. No evidence to prove that he will relapse he is free to leave the facility.

June 2027 - Valor meets a street drummer that goes by Rango. Former Nomad, part time roadie. He's a part time drummer and makes for good company, two start hanging out on the regular.

August 19th 2027 - Abduction in progress, high on painkillers Valor gives chase. First official run in with Arasaka Extractor, Umbra. Though the fight was short lived and Valor failed, Umbra, impressed with vitality and fight, severs Valor's ring finger. Taking it as an oath for the fight to continue on a better day for the solo.

December 7th 2027 - Valor is selected among a small group of Solos for a new prototype of cyberarms known as the MonoBlades by Kendachi. Do to his medical records he is unable to undergo the procedure for the new cybernetics though is assured his spot will be held until he's well enough.

April 2028 - Once again confronted with Umbra, though no fight happens, terms of the affair are made clear. Valor is being stalked by the other, for better or for worse. Next several months this obsession is made clear.

September 2028 - Convinced by his sister that he needs to get out more, get back to work, do something with his time. In a haze of foggy memories ends up joining an inferno and becoming a dom for hire. Pays good and keeps his nights filled can't complain.

December 19th 2028 - Clearance for the new cyberarms is granted, Valor is sent to one of Kendachi's orbital stations to receive the procedure and physical therapy for the new arms.

March 14th 2029 - Contacted by an old Netrunner friend asking to meet up. Meeting up at a Café off the old strip Sami introduces Valor to Kelvy Kai-Eurodyne, an independent media hunting down a Netrunner killer in NC. The name Umbra comes up in intercepted Arasaka documents, Valor tells them to drop it if they value any part of their lives before leaving the Café.

September 2029 - Working more on his music, got a group of friends together and produced their first demo by the end of the year going by the name Herken.

April 2030 - Local rock station for Central Vegas started playing their music, shortly there after Damion Kre Saint for No End Records signed the band, started work on their first official album.

August 2031 - Herken releases their first studio album, Remembering Nothing More to major success

October 15 2031 - First major tour for the band, switching from opening act to headliner at different gigs

May 2033 - Second album is released, touring there after

September 2036 - Third studio album is released, Cherish the Pain, album becomes a sensation in the rock scene

2038 - after several strings of murders, and NC naming a new serial killer, Sami contacts Valor thanking him for his warning nearly 10 years ago about Umbra.

February 2040 - Fourth album is released

August 2045 - Valor returns to work with Lazarus, back into solo work, mainly preforming counter extractions.

November 2046 - Attempted counter extraction comes too late, Valor calls in the body only to be confronted with Umbra as he attempts to exit the scene. Conversation was not recorded, both men left unharmed.

March 17 2049 - Glory Rzeszutek is murdered several blocks from her home, during an attempted robbery. Trauma is unable to revive her, information regarding her death is forwarded out to Valor there after.

March 23 2049 - Valor is switched from ops being put back on leave to manage his sister's affairs. He is the sole beneficiary to her estate, inheriting her wealth and stock with Liive, overnight making him a multi-billionaire and part of the Vegas elite.

April 2049 - dealing with the loss of his twin sister, Valor begins to go through a deep pit of depression. Having dealt with loss before, Solo career wasn't uncommon to lose friends, this however was different. Depression began to manifest into visual and audio hallucinations, making work nearly impossible to do

May 2049 - Jan 2050 - Valor is in and out of court and legal hearings in regards to his inheritance and the remainder of his sister's estate. Interviews running like its a celebratory thing gaining this wealth, truth being he just wants to get back to work. Ending result 75% of the wealth is locked in accounts and will not be released for another 20+ years.

February 2050 - Valor once again returns to work with Lazarus taking on smaller gigs for a time. Still dealing with his own mental state, he refuses to take on anymore large gigs.

July 2051 - Contract comes in for a security gig, easy job, 24/7 body detail for 1 year on tour. Contract is immediately pushed forward to Valor who accepts, only during briefing for the gig find out its for Kerry Eurodyne.

July 2052 - contract concluded with the tour a benefits relationship starts between Kerry and Valor. Valor opting to stay in NC for a few months extra on a "private" contract with the Rockerboy.

September 2054 - Kerry once again hires Valor as security for a shorter tour, media events for new album put on by his label.

2057 - Rumors start to surface that Umbra has been decommissioned amongst a small group of extractors, Sami brings up that Arasaka is keeping it quiet because he was the NC Gallery Killer and that is not a PR mess any company wants to deal with. All traces of him have been scrubbed from their databanks.

2058 - Valor receives a token from the Nomad group The Veils, and invitation to join them. Having heard rumors of the group, he's hesitant to act, even more so to inform anyone.

June 2059 - Valor retires from Lazarus and takes up the offering on The Veils token, following it out into the desert.

2060 - He is officially accepted into the clan, given a title by Azera and branded as part of them with his unique code. Beginning of a new life.

2067 - Valor begins spending more time at the Edges of Silence, a bleak stretch of dead desert where nothing grows. The clan believes the desert out there will either consume or the spirits will direct. Something keeps calling him back whenever he is close.

August 2074 - The choice is made to continue heading out West, follow the signs and see if he can make sense of the visions and voices. Gifted passage and return by Azera it is not a final goodbye from the clan.

2075 - Settled into NC, doesn't take long for his reputation to catch up with him, starts taking on independent Solo gigs. Quickly climbing up the chain and becoming a regular at the Afterlife, a gifted work horse for Rogue, but one she knows will get any job done.

2077 - Happens, that was a thing... yeah.

January 2078 - Valor and Kerry make the trip back out to The Veils, after a trial devoted to loyalty, Azera decides to spare them both, attempting to save Valor from the effects of the Relic.

May 2078 - Finally wakes back up, and on the recovery as his vitals have evened out and a sense of normalcy is restored. Though some side effects of the Relic cannot be reverted in his current body, he has his life with no threat of a imminent collapse.

[waywardwrestlewritingwaif]

Whisky Secrets (sequel)

Here's something different. Before I ever thought about posting fanfic here, I used to write things inspired by fanfic I found by some of the incredible writers I found on tumblr. I've never posted any of them but I've really felt like writing something for Aleister Black/ Tommy End lately.

So I reached out to one of my original favourites on this site, @ghostofviperwrites and asked her if she'd mind if I published this sequel I wrote to her story Whisky Secrets. She gave me the ok (for which I thank her very much).

You absolutely have to read her piece first or this won't make any sense. It picks up literally at the point where hers leaves off and the entire premise is based on what she wrote. I think this goes in a very different direction than what she had in mind, though.

Since this is an old story, some of the characters are very different than they are now. It was set at around the time I wrote it. Based on events in the story, it's pretty clear when that was.

It's a bit dated but I hope you enjoy.

Pairing: Aleister Black x OFC (hints of Roman Reigns x OFC)

Word count: 7,031

Content advisory: graphic sexual content, language, incidental roughness that some might find stressful

You rested on the sofa for too long, knowing that you had to get to work, that you were already behind on an assignment that was due that afternoon. As much as you desperately wanted to cling to the scent and the feeling of him being there with you and the idea that he might someday want to be there with you for longer, you knew that you were only wasting time by indulging in a fantasy. Once again, you reminded yourself, he saw you as a friend, a landing pad after he was finished his adventures. And so you dragged yourself to the computer and tried to focus.

It was a fluff piece you’d been hired to write: places for new residents of Orlando to meet people. You’d accepted it because the pay was good and it had seemed easy. But what the hell did you know about meeting people? You’d barely met anyone and the only ones that you’d call friends were the ones you met when you’d done an in-depth profile on the WWE and their development territory NXT. Of those, only Aleister had remained close and even then, you couldn’t say that the two of you had ever properly opened up to each other. Nevertheless, you’d stayed in touch with a number of them, occasionally meeting for coffee or drinks. None of this was in any way useful when it came to recommending locations to connect with strangers.

You’d tried to start the article the day before but now when you opened the file, you discovered that you’d only come up with a half a dozen corny titles and one word of text:

When?

The word was too painfully appropriate.

When were you going to run out of luck and be unable to find further work as a journalist?

When were you going to admit that what kept you here, rather than moving to another state and pursuing more secure work, was the fact that you were in love with a man who was only interested in your capacity as a friend and caregiver?

When was your hopeless love going to break you beyond repair?

Annoyed with yourself, you deleted the word and tried to start again. You could meet people at the gym classes that were ubiquitous in this city. You could meet people at get-togethers for shared hobbies like hiking or pottery or basically anything. No one had to meet people by getting thrown into their orbit and being unable to extricate themselves.

About half an hour into your resentful hammering on the keyboard, you were startled by your doorbell. For one sweet instant, you imagined that it was Aleister dropping by to pass some time with you. Then you realized that he never came to you without an invitation unless it was dead drunk in the middle of the night. Even when you invited him, it was only every fourth or fifth time that you asked that he agreed to come over and watch a movie or go for a walk in the nearby park. There was no way it was him at your door at eleven o’clock in the morning.

In fact, the person at your door was Bayley, chipper and warm as always, returning the spare laptop you’d lent her a few weeks before.

“Thank you so much,” she beamed, thrusting the computer into your hands. “You are a lifesaver. I’d have lost my goddamn mind if I hadn’t had this while mine was in the shop.”

“It was nothing,” you insist, smiling at her unconstrained warmth even though you didn’t feel very positive about your life at that moment. “Do you want to come in for a minute?”

She nodded cheerily and stepped across the foyer. You never really knew how you fit in with the women of WWE, even though you’d spoken to many of them in depth. Bayley stood out because she was determined to be your friend despite your introvert’s reluctance. And, indeed, she was irresistible. Much like her in-ring character, she cast sunshine wherever she went and her glow was contagious, even in your darkest and lowest moments.

You motioned her into the kitchen, offering her a choice of lemonade, iced tea or water. Her eyes immediately fell on the empty whiskey bottle you’d left on the counter, her expression growing more serious as she focused on it.

“Getting started early?” she cajoled.

“A friend left that here,” you replied guiltily.

She narrowed her dark eyes as she looked at you. Sweet and optimistic as she was, Bayley was not naïve. She knew exactly what friend had left the bottle behind and she knew how you felt about him.

“I’ll have a glass of lemonade,” she said, the smile slowly returning to her face.

You joined her and the two of you jokingly touched glasses before drinking.

“So, a few of us are getting together tonight,” she said hesitantly. “I thought you might like to join us.”

Your first instinct was to ask if Aleister would be there, but you thought better of it. Instead, you responded, “Well, I have an article I need to finish.”

Of course, your article was due by the end of the afternoon, which meant that your evening was free regardless, but part of you wanted to be at home in case Aleister came staggering over again.

Bayley’s jaw set in a determined expression you’d only seen from her in the ring. “We’re having a party for Roman, to celebrate him going into remission.”

Well now you felt like a bit of a bitch for making excuses and didn’t know what to say.

“It won’t just be wrestlers there. Some other journalists are even coming. And I know that it would mean a lot to him if you were there.”

When you’d done your article on the WWE, you’d interviewed Roman Reigns and he’d been incredibly generous with his time. He’d even contacted you after your interviews to confirm that you had all the detail you needed. He was the face of the company and had done everything possible to make sure that the company had provided what you required. He’d clearly wanted to make sure they’d left a good impression and you couldn’t help but be impressed by his PR skills. Although you knew it wasn’t true that it “would mean a lot to him”, you were touched by the idea that he remembered you and might like you to be there to celebrate his great news. At the same time… you needed to be there for Aleister.

“Look,” Bayley insisted, “I’m going to text you the details for the bar where we’ll be. It’s not a big deal, just a bunch of us getting together to be happy for our friend.”

There was no way that you could refuse that, so you shyly thanked her as she gulped the rest of her lemonade and made for the door.

“I’m serious,” she said as she departed. “You work so damn hard you deserve a night off. Finish what you’re doing and come have fun with us.”

As soon as she’d left, you once again sat down at your computer. Before you could return your attention to your work, however, you couldn’t resist checking Instagram.

Someone had tagged Aleister in a photo on Instagram.

Yes, you were that pathetic that you always checked.

With trepidation, you clicked the link to look at what was there. As it too often did, the notification came from an airbrushed-looking woman, her collagen-enhanced lips pressed against his. She looked arrogant and proud, while he looked smug and inebriated.

“Guess who I got to hang with last night?” the caption gloated.

You knew damn well what “hang” was a euphemism for. He never cared that the Barbie dolls he hooked up with advertised their conquest on social media. He was single and hot. Why should he care if people knew that he always scored with the sort of women other men lusted after? Why should he care that it ripped your heart to shreds every time you saw him with another woman so unlike you in every way?

The woman had posted a few other photos of the two of them together, embracing. Every part of her magazine-ready body was on display, save those parts that would have gotten her in trouble. Her artificially perfect breasts were spilling out of a tiny tube top while her endless legs were shown in their full glory between the edge of a skirt that likely required her to trim her pubic hair and the sky high heels that raised her enough to press her lips to his without having to stretch herself awkwardly. She was nothing like you, with your unkempt hair and loose, bohemian dresses, your comfortable ballet flats and blandly natural face. She had all the glamour that you lacked and he ate it up.

The images of the two of them cut into you like a laser and, for once, all you desired was to break free from the pain of feeling. A few minutes later, when Bayley sent the text she’d promised with the details of where you could find the party tonight, you immediately responded.

“I’ll be there. I promise.”

To hell with Aleister and the designer women he adored, you told yourself as you returned to your article with a vengeance. Tonight you were going to do whatever it took to break the spell he had cast over you.

*

It was just after nine when you found yourself teetering to the entrance of the bar where the party was taking place. It was marked only by a subtle sign, no words, just a stylized anchor, and it was hidden away on a tiny street that was hardly more than an alley. In your fit of pique, you’d finished your article two hours before your deadline and then, having examined the options in your closet and found them wanting, headed out and spent entirely too much money on a new dress that clung perfectly to your breasts before flaring out to highlight the movements of your body, while covering just the bare minimum to maintain decency. You’d also picked up a stylish pair of ankle boots with heels higher than you were used to and that posed a legitimate threat as you made your way down the roughly paved road to the speakeasy-style bar.

A little further down the alley, you see a couple leaning against a car, taking turns swigging from a liquor bottle. The woman is one of those glamorous animals that makes you so insecure, laughing in drunken delight in a way that only confident people can. In one quick movement the man spins her around and bends her over the hood of the car. He immediately takes out his cock, stroking it a couple of times before he thrusts into her, one hand on her back while the other holds the bottle that he continues drinking from. And it’s a moment before you realize that it’s Aleister, fucking away at a woman whose name he won’t remember in a few hours.

The sight makes you want to curl up and die, makes you want to say that you’ve made a mistake and run along home so you can bawl your eyes out while you wait for his inevitable drunken arrival. But, if nothing else, the damage that you’ve done to your credit card in order to make yourself look just a bit more sexy and edgy than usual, as well as the glasses of wine you had already consumed to fortify your courage, push you forward. This is a test. In order to pass, you need to be able to ignore the man whose indifference is killing you and enter the world of others, where someone who wasn’t up to the standards of the rarified model girls might be willing to give you a second look.

Aleister doesn’t even glance up as you enter the bar a few feet away from him, can’t feel the dark weight of your eyes on him or the force with which you tear them away as you step through the door.

As soon as you do, you are once again frozen with the idea that you’ve made a mistake. When Bayley characterized this as a “get-together”, you’d assumed it meant a group of people spread out around a few tables chatting away and toasting Roman’s health. Instead, what greets you is a basement club full of people with a dance floor alive with writhing bodies. You recognize a few journalists but for the most part, the space is taken up with every WWE and NXT star you’ve ever heard of. It’s a convention of beautiful people and you can’t help but feel dowdy even in your overpriced finery.

You slowly descend the stairs, fully intending to look around, say hello to a few familiar faces and then bolt for the exit, but you’re immediately greeted by a familiar voice that fairly shrieks. “Oh my god woman, just look at you!”

It’s Sasha Banks, standing at the edge of the stairs with Bayley, who gives you an exaggerated round of applause.

“Miranda, you look amazing,” Sasha continues breathlessly. “Seriously, you’re putting everyone to shame.”

You don’t feel like you’re putting anyone to shame, least of all Sasha in her body suit that hugs every curve of her perfect little hourglass, but you blush at the compliment.

“Come on,” Bayley gushes, “we need shots to celebrate your hotness!”

She pulls both of you through the crowd to the bar and somehow is able to get the bartender’s attention almost immediately, ordering two rounds of tequila shots because, she tells you and Sasha, there’s no point in getting just one round when you know you’re going back for seconds. The three of you toast and toss down the shots and then immediately do so again and you have to admit that you’re feeling the warm glow already. Sasha, apparently feeling something herself, wraps her arms around you and once again reassures you that you are devastatingly beautiful.

Another shot is thrust into your hand, this time by Dash Wilder, who’s arrived with his Revival partner Scott Dawson. Wilder has always been attractive to you, so you give him as radiant a smile as you can manage and you swear he blushes a little just before he downs his shot. Dawson is hugging Sasha and Bayley close to him, allowing Dash to edge a little closer to you and you’re feeling a little high on yourself when another voice cuts through your circle.

“Miranda? Holy fuck I can’t believe you’re here!”

Roman Reigns pushes right through the bodies close to the bar and grabs you firmly by the shoulders, his eyes gradually focusing on yours. He’s grinning with an intensity that clearly comes from his being a little past feeling no pain but it doesn’t hamper the thrill it gives you when he wraps his arms around you and nearly crushes you in a hug.

“I mean, shit, I don’t think I’ve even talked to you since you did that interview,” he pouts. “Thank you so much for coming.”

You smile as another shot is pushed into your hand, biting your lip self-consciously. You down about half the shot before Roman grabs it from you and finishes it, breaking up with laughter. He signals the bartender for another round, keeping an arm around your back until the tray of shots arrives. You’re all toasting each other and you wonder why you ever questioned yourself for coming here because this is exactly what you needed.

“Come dance with me,” Roman chuckles, grabbing your wrist and pulling you towards the dance floor. He’s clearly floating on a sea of drunken bliss, goofing around and happy to have someone to have fun with, someone he didn’t expect to be there. Even if you wanted to resist his offer, you couldn’t because, while he isn’t doing anything that might hurt you, his grip is strong enough and the rest of him powerful enough to compel you forward.

The two of you deliberately dance like complete nerds in high school, awkward movements and ironic posturing until you’re both laughing so hard you can barely stand. It’s then that you realize that you’ve become the focus of some attention; Roman goddamn Reigns, the face of the company, the locker room leader, the man who everyone has come to celebrate, is dancing with you. Most of the people here have no idea who you are but because you’re with Roman, you are somebody. Basking in the subtle attention and envy, you close your eyes and allow yourself to get lost in the music, swaying to the beat until you feel a large pair of hands on your hips.

You open your eyes to see Roman pulling you closer to him with a devilish grin before spinning you around and pulling your back against his massive chest. You continue to move but at a slower pace, your movements limited by how close he’s holding you and the sensual way in which his body moves against yours. Keeping one arm loosely around you, he lets his other hand fall against your thigh, lightly playing with the hem of your dress. It makes you gasp.

“You never responded to any of my texts,” he murmurs gruffly in your ear.

You remember at least half a dozen messages asking if he could clarify anything or if you needed any additional material for your article. You hadn’t needed anything else but you suddenly feel terribly rude for not answering.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, “you were very professional and I should have at least told you that I had what I needed.”

His voice drops even lower as he speaks. “I didn’t mean to be professional about them. And I was hoping that you didn’t have everything you needed.”

He pulls you up and firmly against him and for the first time you can feel his hardening cock through his pants. You can’t help but thrust your hips into him, barely able to process what’s happening to you. The two of you are still ostensibly dancing, although it’s more like a rhythmic grinding to the music as he reaches down and pulls the hem of your dress up, rubbing your thigh and then your ass as he presses his lips into your neck. His hands are everywhere on you and you’re aware that your entire lower body is basically on display for anyone who cares to look but you don’t care because it feels like you’ve won the lottery. You moan at the feeling of his growing excitement against your flesh, both his large hands grazing up the front of your thighs and for a moment you think that you’re ready to beg him to take you right there when you’re violently spun away from your dance partner, a bruising grip on your arm.

It’s Aleister, eyes incandescent with rage as he tells Roman, “I need to speak to her for a minute.”

Roman looks confused and tries to speak to you but Aleister drags you away and a gaggle of women immediately descend on Roman, desperate to take your place.

Aleister flings you against the wall, glaring at you with an intensity that you’ve never seen outside the ring.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he growls.

“I was dancing before you interfered,” you snap back at him, rubbing your arm.

“Dancing?” he repeats with derision. “That’s what you call that?”

“I was having fun.”

“What the hell are you wearing?”

For the first time since you saw him with his woman of choice outside, you feel ridiculous, like a girl trying to look glamorous by donning her mother’s clothes.

“I wanted something a little different.”

“A little?” he hisses back. “Do you realize what you look like? You’re all tarted up and letting some guy grab at you and get you half naked in front of a bar full of people.”

“What I look like?”

“Everyone could see practically your whole goddamned body. They could see what you were letting him do to you.”

“You mean to say I look like a whore.”

Aleister crosses his arms and glances away, refusing to confirm what you’ve said.

“So what, Aleister? So what if I’m letting a man touch me and show me that he wants me? Who cares who else sees? Maybe that’s what I want!”

“Are you so stupid that you think he wants you for anything other than a one night stand?”

The accusation stabs at your heart and your confidence but you’re determined not to let him see that.

“Again, so what? Maybe I’m happy to have this big, gorgeous man want me. Maybe I’m fine bringing him back to my place for a few hours of fun because at least it means someone is thinking of me as a sexual being for a change.” You pause, knowing the danger of what you’re about to say but unable to stop yourself. “Maybe I’d be fine if he just took me outside and fucked me over the hood of a car.”

For a second, you think that Aleister is going to strangle you. The look on his face is like the moment before the sky erupts in thunder and lightning. Truthfully, you expect that he’ll turn on his heel and walk away from you and never come back, and perhaps that’s what you need him to do so that you can get over him.

Instead, he grabs you, pinning you to the side of his body and pulling you towards the door. His movements make you stumble, and the more you try to resist him, the more ungainly you look.

“She’s dead drunk,” you hear him assure a few people, “I’m going to make sure she gets home.”

And while it’s true that you are drunk, you’re not nearly as drunk as he’s making you out to be. The second he has you outside, you try to twist away from him and go back, only for him to wind you closer, pulling you off balance so that you look even more inebriated.

You hear him whisper to Seth Rollins, who’s observing the spectacle through the corner of his eyes. “Look, tell Roman that she’s falling down drunk and I just had to get her home. No disrespect meant.”

Seth has a confused expression on his face but nods and tells him, “Sure thing.”

Realizing what Aleister is doing, you once again try to rush past him, but he blocks you, gripping your arm and pulling you after him so that you really do appear pathetically unable to take care of yourself.

“Why the fuck are you doing this to me?” you shout at him, figuring that there’s no reason to worry about who might hear you, there being no further you can sink in their estimation. “Why can’t you just let me enjoy myself?”

“Jesus, Miranda, you’re loaded. You can barely stand up.” He emphasizes this by jerking your arm forward, which almost causes you to keel over onto your face. “You’re just embarrassing yourself.”

“No,” you insist, pulling yourself to a halt. “I knew what I was doing. I knew what I wanted. Sure I’m a bit tipsy but-“

“You don’t want that,” Alesiter snaps, threading his arm through yours and continuing down the street. “You don’t just want to whore yourself out for a night because you think it might help your self-esteem.”

“You don’t get to decide what I want, Aleister.” You’re crushed against his side and he’s moving so quickly that your feet only graze the ground every third or fourth step. “Let me go. I’m sick of playing the surrogate mother for someone who’s incapable of seeing me as a real woman. I want to go back there. I want to have someone make a show of wanting me. I want to get fucked so hard I can’t walk tomorrow.”

Aleister shakes his head like a parent frustrated with a misbehaving child. “Stop it. You’re being ridiculous.”

“So let me be ridiculous!” you yell back, trying unsuccessfully to extricate yourself from his grip. “What the hell is it to you? Are you worried that for once I’m not going to be there when you need a place to collapse at four in the morning?”

The two of you reach the corner where the alley meets the street and he swings you to face him, glowering at you with a terrifying expression, gripping your biceps so hard you know you’ll be bruised in the morning. He says nothing but stares at you until he whips his arm out and hails a taxi seemingly out of nowhere.

He launches you, there’s no other word for it, into the back seat of the car and snarls your address to the driver as your tears start to fall. The cabbie is noticeably uncomfortable with your quiet whimpering and seems confused by the fact that Aleister does nothing to comfort or engage you. He sits with his arms folded, scowling, until you arrive at your building. Reflexively, you reach for your purse only to have Aleister swat your hand away and pay the driver himself. You try to keep pace as he yanks you towards the door, but stumble because of your unsure footing in these strange heels and because your vision is glazed by the tears you’re fighting to hold in.

When Aleister pins you against the door and rummages through your purse to find your keys, it somehow feels more invasive than Roman gripping your ass for an entire bar full of people to see. You feel, for a moment, that he is looking at you with tenderness. But when the door opens, he simply guides you through it. As you hear it click shut, the last of your strength, physical and emotional, gives out and you drop to your knees, finally allowing the tears to fall. It’s a full-on ugly cry, punctuated by guttural, anguished sounds you’d never allow anyone else to hear. Despite everything, you desperately want to hear the door open again behind you and to hear him say that he’s realized he loves you.

But no, in the end, he’s just found it gross that the woman he sees as his caregiver might have another side. He found you pathetic in your overpriced dress and shoes. He knew that you were desperately trying to act like something you could never be: like someone who could compete with the perfected Instagram beauties he fucks every night. You could never be that. He knew that you were just a sad little woman decked out in a gaudy outfit. You’d never be that sexy, desirable person who stopped men dead in their tracks, no matter what your dance with Roman had temporarily led you to believe.

You’re on your knees for what seems like hours, choking on tears and snot and trying to restrain yourself from howling. Just as the sound overpowers you and a low wail escapes your lips, you’re startled by a pair of arms, familiar, tattooed arms wrapping around your waist from behind.

“Shh. There’s no need for any of that,” he grunts into your hair.

And while you’re shocked and thrilled that he actually stayed behind to make sure that you were ok, it’s also even more humiliating that he’s seen you fall apart so spectacularly. Your body feels limp with defeat and unable to react at all as he gathers you up and carries you into your bedroom, setting you gently on the edge of the bed. He rests his hand on yours for a moment and you’re able to stem the flow of tears until he stands up and heads back towards the door. This time, you’re determined to hold in the worst of your misery until you’re sure he’s gone, even though you can’t stop the tears from running down your face.

But after a few minutes of straining to hear the door close, you see Aleister return, a damp washcloth in hand, and he sits once again beside you on the edge of the bed. He presses the cloth, cool and soothing, against your cheeks and then holds your chin as he delicately wipes it across your face. It takes you some minutes to realize that he’s removing your smeared makeup, cleaning you off so that you look good as new, so that you look more like the plain girl who lets him into her home in the middle of the night, his touch filled with a tenderness that you never imagined him capable of. When he’s satisfied with his work, he tosses the cloth aside and wraps an arm around you, pulling you close against him. The sweetness of his friendly gesture makes you want to cry all over again but you choke it back, knowing that you’ll have plenty of time for that when he’s gone.

“Can I stay here tonight?” he whispers, the sound of his voice making you feel weak.

You nod and roughly pull back from him, unsure of your ability to stop yourself from throwing yourself at him and begging him to wreck you. You fumble with the zipper of your boots until Aleister slides off the bed and onto his knees and removes it for you. He glides his hand along your calf, up to your thigh and then moves to your other boot. As he slides it off, he presses his head against the side of your knee, giving the skin a light kiss before rocking back on his haunches. You know he’s being gentle with you because he feels sorry for you. He finds you pitiful, which is even worse than finding you asexual.

The feelings are too much for you to take and all you can think of is that you want to get into bed where you’ll be safe and where you can sleep off the nightmare your evening out has become. You clumsily shed your dress, stockings, bra and panties without thinking much of the fact that you have an audience. Why should it bother him seeing you naked, after all? Normally, you put on some nightclothes but you don’t even have the strength to bother. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see that Aleister has turned his head towards the door. He’s embarrassed for you, the way you would be if a parent or sibling was undressing around you.

You crawl under the covers with a grumbled “good night” and immediately start to feel yourself drift off. You’re jolted back to wakefulness when Aleister climbs in beside you. In all the time you’ve known him, as many nights as he’s come and collapsed on your sofa, you don’t think he’s ever seen your bedroom. Now, having seen it, he’s apparently happy not to leave it, indulging in the comfort of your bed without even asking permission. It makes you a little self-conscious that you’re nude but it’s hardly the most humiliating thing to happen to you tonight, so you let yourself ignore it. If you can just fall asleep, this night will be over and you can begin the process of trying to forget it.

It’s only a matter of seconds, though, until you feel his body pressed against yours from behind, one hand coming to rest flat on your stomach and pushing you back against him so that you are acutely aware that you are not the only person naked in the bed. The hand on your stomach flutters downward until his fingers are moving lightly over your pussy, like he’s plucking the strings of a harp. His other arm wraps around your shoulders and keeps you flush against him, close enough that you can’t mistake the feeling of his erection against your back.

He presses his lips and tongue against your neck, making you whimper as you try to keep your heart rate stable. Your little noises seem to motivate him further, his touch becoming more insistent and one of his legs snaking over yours, pulling it back to give his hand greater access.

“Such a little fool,” he murmurs, his fingers stroking insistently along your fleshy folds. “Thinking I don’t see you as a sexual being.”

He sinks his teeth into your shoulder, making you cry out- more from the shock than the pain. His mouth continues to move around your neck and shoulders, nipping and sucking on the skin there, his grip on you tightening until it’s nearly painful.

“What are you doing?” you manage to ask.

“Leaving marks,” he says matter-of-factly.

You’re at a loss for what to say, but are saved from having to answer as he pushes two fingers inside you, his thumb rubbing slow circles over your clit. You’re embarrassed that he must have felt how wet you were just from being in his presence but he says nothing, quickening his pace and giving satisfied little growls when his touch elicits gasps and cries of pleasure from you.

It’s pity, you remind yourself; what he’s doing to you, he’s doing it because he feels sorry for you and because he’s drunk and horny despite his encounter earlier in the evening. But the thought gets whisked away as he brings you closer and closer to what you’ve desperately needed from him for so long. You let out a little shriek when he removes his hand, unable to believe he’s so cruel as to bring you to the precipice and then deny you. But he simply flips you onto your back before pressing his fingers inside you once more, watching your reactions to be sure he’s hitting just the right spot before burying his face between your legs. His tongue, lips and fingers work together like an orchestra. Your knuckles are white from the force of clenching on the sheets and you’re biting down so hard on your lip to muffle the sounds you’re making that you’re worried your teeth will end up permanently embedded. He unexpectedly raises his head and stills the movement of his hand inside you and the shock is almost enough to make you start crying again. You look down at him, his eyes sparkling in the low light with an expression you can’t read.

“Why won’t you let me hear you?”

Because you don’t want him to know how good his merciful little gesture is making you feel. Because you don’t want to admit to yourself that it’s better than you’d imagined. Truthfully, whenever you’ve thought about the mechanics of sex with Aleister, you imagined that it would be fast and rough and hedonistic, much like his other sexual encounters seem to be. But he’s chosen this moment to take his time, to focus on his partner, rather than go for a quick, dirty fuck in a darkened corner.

You don’t tell him any of this, instead croaking out, “I’m shy.”

He raises himself up and over your body with the effortless grace of a serpent, pressing his head close to yours and kissing along your jawline.

“What do I have to do to make you not be shy?”

“I don’t know… I just… am.” You wriggle a little under him, turning your face away when he looks directly into your eyes.

He cups your face in one hand and runs the other, still wet with your juices, over your breast, teasing the nipple and making you shudder involuntarily.

“Am I moving too fast?”

You shake your head, not quite trusting your voice.

“Is there something that you’d enjoy more? Something you want me to do for you?”

You give him another little shake of the head.

“You don’t have to be shy with me. Whatever you want, I want you to tell me so I can give it to you. Anything.”

For the first time, he kisses you on the lips, his tongue, that still tastes of you, slides against yours and the hand at the side of your face slides to hold your neck, cradling your head so that you don’t have to tense any muscles to stay in that position. Your body has nothing it needs to do but experience the sensations he’s creating. Of course, you still answer his kiss, hungrily flashing your tongue against his, reveling in the light scrape of his lip ring against your lips. His hand glides back down between your legs, and even the proximity is enough to draw a couple of little mewls of pleasure. You feel him smile a little against your lips at the noises and he pulls away from the kiss.

“Am I making you feel good?”

You nod as he starts to work his fingers around your entrance once again.

“Do you want my mouth down there again?”

You nod even more vigorously than the first time but he shakes his head.

“Tell me. Say it out loud.”

You open your mouth to do so and he immediately thrusts his long fingers into your g-spot and your clit at once, making you yelp in pleasure. It’s almost enough to make you cum on its own but he eases the pressure before you reach that peak.

“Yes?” he asks again.

“Yes, fuck, yes!”

“Then let me hear you. Please.”

He returns his attention to your core and has you making all manner of unholy noises in short order. He expertly teases you and then holds back, so many times that when he does finally take you over the edge, you feel like you might pass out from the intensity of it. Your gasps for breath sound cavernous in the quiet room.

He keeps the palm of his hand firmly against you as he leans forward and presses his lips into your neck, letting out a satisfied purr every time an aftershock rolls through your body.

When he’s satisfied that you’ve fully come down, he raises himself up on his arms, giving just the hint of a smile when you grab onto his biceps to steady yourself.

He’s so rigid that he doesn’t even need a hand to guide himself into you. He simply presses forward in one slow but sure moment, his eyes closed as if it’s a kind of religious experience, not opening them until he’s fully seated inside you. It’s been long enough since you’ve been with anyone that the feeling of being stretched draws a little whimper from your throat. He remains still, his eyes open and bearing down on you with a delirious kind of excitement, aching prick twitching inside you, desperate to proceed but waiting for a signal that he can.

And it’s at that moment that you allow yourself to think that this isn’t pity or a drunken mistake, that he’s as hungry for you as you have been for him and that what’s happened tonight has just served to connect a circuit. The fiercely possessive look in his eyes as he watches you, the fury when he thought someone else was claiming you, the need to mark you to make you his, the flush of pure lust on his face and chest… it is just a little frightening, something you suspected was in him but never that it was focused on you. But you’ve always known you could handle his darkness if he let you in. So you thrust your hips a little and wrap your legs loosely around his waist to show him that he can continue. Just as he starts to move, he cups your face and presses his mouth to your ear.

“You deserve so much better.”

“Stop trying to make those decisions for me,” you moan, feeling your insides flutter with his movements.

“I’ve never felt anything like that jealousy.” He’s staring into your eyes as he confesses. He lifts one of your legs over his shoulder pressing deeper inside you and gasping at the feeling. “Knowing that everyone could see how sexy and beautiful you are… And I’m an idiot for waiting for that to happen before I did anything, I just…”

He grimaces and slows his pace a little, obviously trying to prolong the sensation.

“You mean it?” You have to ask because you still can’t quite believe that this has been on his mind for all this time when he’s shown no sign of it to you.

“God yes,” he answers through gritted teeth, once again allowing himself to move faster and more urgently.

You can’t completely banish your fears that he’s going to regret this in the morning and just shut you out again but every second with him is pushing them further away. You lace your fingers through his hair, nipping at the shell of his ear as he lets out his own stream of desperate, lusty noises, running your nails gently down his back as he approaches his crescendo.

His head drops to your chest and he cries out as he releases inside you.

“Fuck I love you, fuck I love you, fuck I love you.” He repeats it like a mantra that brings him back down from his high, saying it a final time as he looks into your eyes.

Slowly, he rolls onto his side, gathering you close to him like he thinks an errant breeze might carry you away.

“I have…” he begins quietly, “… there’s a lot that goes on in my head… Bad things, I guess. I thought you’d run away. Or that I’d pull you down with me. I still don’t know that won’t happen.”

He looks so vulnerable that it makes your heart hurt but at the same time you have to stifle a smile.

“Well I’d rather you let me try to deal with it. I’m a lot tougher than you give me credit for being.”

His expression grows a little guilty and he nods. He wraps his arms tighter around you and you do the same until the two of you are lying in your bed, wound around each other.

[courtlyharlequin]

For🌙 - Before me stood the Malleus Draconia himself. He guided me into the more thorny parts of the woods where his castle stood, once inside we had some tea and spent the night talking and cuddling by the fireplace

Aromatherapy

A/N: Not that you need to know, but this fic was inspired by black chamomile bergamot hand soap. It had such a calming effect on me that somehow transferred into my writing. It smells really good I’m ♡♡♡

A/N²: This was a little self indulgent as I wanted to establish some lore of the event into this fic. Also, my writing might be a little rusty after my semi-hiatus so I’m sorry if it’s not up to par as my other works. Thank you for being so patient. I should be able to write more frequently now  <3

A flurry of delicate crystals fell from the sky, nipping the tip of your nose with a slight sting. You held back a sneeze as you quickened your pace. The creatures of the night howled with the wind. You spun your heel, meeting with dozens of glowering eyes that illuminated the forest. They crawled towards you. Each step forward unearthed more grotesque features ranging from more than one set of jaws to foaming mouths. Your breath hitched and you turned around, picking up your pace. Your legs were light as a kilogram of feathers. As the snow fell more vehemently, you prayed that the sun would rise soon.

When the White Rabbit led you into the woodlands, she had stated that you were invited for a tea party, one where you could eat anything you desired– if those things fit weren’t mustard and could fit into the Hatter’s hat that is. Yet here you were, ready to become a night creature’s late night snack. Apparently, slightly crumbled cookies from your basket did not suffice. They discarded the goodies the moment they received the basket. Granted, you did throw it at them as a distraction.

Your foot collided with something underneath the thin sheet of snow. You yelped as you fell to the ground. The snow crunched under your weight as you shifted onto your knees. It was warm, like an embrace. Since when was snow warm?

The beasts’ growls were in earshot. Rising to your feet was a struggle. You scrambled across the snow, but to no avail. At this rate, you were going to be devoured. It was so cold. You were so tired. Perhaps it would be alright to give into a kiss of death. You were alone and lost in the woods, searching for an exit aimlessly. The night creatures inched towards you with precise steps. There were three of them– three ghastly beasts fueled by hunger.  One of them appeared to be the alpha, leading the others towards you. You closed your eyes as it pounced onto you, sinking its jaws onto your calves. The snow was terribly warm. It was almost cozy. You cried into it like a child would into a mother’s sleeve.

Thunder clapped and the night wailed. A flash of green flames illuminated the sky and disappeared as fast as it came. Your legs felt less heavy. Then, the numbness in your leg faded. You groaned. Was that it? Had you perished so soon? 

“Are you lost, little lamb?” a voice cooed.

From the corner of your eye, you saw a figure painted in black from head to toe crouch before you. You felt cold, but it quickly faded as you felt them scoop you up into their arms. You gazed at the ground. They were quite tall or so it would seem. Their warmth differed greatly from the snow’s.

You opened your eyes drowsily, meeting your gaze with your savior. Your senses were hazy, but you were certain that snow was not an ethereal being with long ebony locks, brilliant viridian eyes or sleek horns. Perhaps this being was your guardian angel. Or the devil? Angels didn’t don black cloaks, but he resembled one in every way. Divine. Absolutely divine,

You mewled and hugged him a little tighter, darkness engulfing your consciousness.

There was a bright light. You blinked twice. This was not the afterlife at. Or at least not what you imagined it would be. You thought it would be more extravagant than the interior of a gothic castle. It seemed dull– gray, somber. The candelabras were lit with viridescent flames, adding an eerie and unsettling aura to the bedroom. You sat up, wincing. You felt a small prick against your calves.

You lifted the covers to reveal your leg. It was bandaged neatly and elevated on a small throw pillow. Your eyes drifted to your clothing. In exchange for your cloak and travelling ensemble, you wore an oversized silk dress shirt. The hem barely covered your knees while its sleeves extended to your thighs. It was comfortable nonetheless.

“You’re awake.”

You were alive.

You hugged your legs and nodded sheepishly. There he was, an angel. Your savior set down a tray at the nightstand.

You stared into his eyes. Though you were certain that this was not in the afterlife, this man was an angel. No doubt about it. His presence said it all. It radiated power. He was ethereal. He had long ebony locks and porcelain skin. His eyes were akin to emeralds. He stood tall, towering over you with his arms crossed and a faint pout evident on his lips.

“Well, Child of Man?”

You broke eye contact.

“Child of Man,” he said.

“Hmm?”

“Perhaps you would regain your focus if you help yourself to some hazelnut soup,” he gestured to the tray.

You peered over his figure to examine the foodstuff. He saved you, treated your wounds, and now he offers to feed you. Truly, he was a seraph.

What could you possibly do to repay him? Did he desire compensation? Although you were hungry, guilt swelled in the back of your mind.

“It’s edible. The fair folk have a reputation for being terrible cooks, but I assure you that the fire fairies in my castle are well immersed in human cuisine,” he said.

“Fae?”

“My, you /are/ a lost little lamb, aren’t you?”

“I don’t follow.”

“Do you know where you are?”

“Wonderland. A forest.”

“Anything else?”

“The White Rabbit said something about a tea party,” you said.

He straightened his posture and bowed.

“So you are the Hatter’s guest. Pleasure to make your acquaintance. One moment please. I won’t be long. Help yourself to the soup in the meantime. I know the fire pixies won’t be pleased if you let it grow cold,” he said, walking out of the room.

Hatter? Fire pixies?

His footsteps echoed throughout the hall. You stared at the tray. Alongside the ceramic bowl, there was a small dinner roll, a side salad, and a cup of tea. You clutched your stomach as it growled.

You swung your legs over the mattress and let them dangle off the bed. Your eyes trailed down to the ornate carpet. You were famished. The man did tell you to eat. It would be rude not to comply with his request after he nursed you back to health.

You bit your lip as you reached for the tray, setting the cool metal surface onto your lap. You took the spoon and raised it to your lips, blowing the ribbons of smoke away as if you were making a dandelion wish. You wrapped your lips around the utensil, taking in the soup’s warmth. It was rich, sweet, and  creamy with an earthy undertone. A sigh escaped your lips.

“Not bad, I presume?” your savior chuckled.

You flinched. He had returned.

He received a hum of affirmation in response. With that, he pulled a wooden chair from the bedroom’s study area and placed it beside the bed, directly in front of you. He sat down, crossing his legs. He opened up a leatherbound book, raising an eyebrow at you. You nervously grinned and fiddled with your thumbs. It was a decent sized book, not too large, but not too small to be a novella either. It was worn and torn around the edges though its gold detailing on the spine was still prevalent.

He met your gaze then snapped his fingers. Your eyes widened as the tea cup on your tray multiplied into two and the contents changed from a murky green to a cozy brown. They then lifted themselves off the tray and waltzed in the air for a few moments before stopping on their own saucers at the nightstand.

“I heard chamomile tea calms the nerves… for humans, anyway. I do love the flavor of it as well. Would you like one lump or two?”

“Are you not human? And two please.”

He blinked. The sugar cubes sunk to the bottom of your cup.

“I am affiliated with the fair folk,” he said.

He waved his hand around, dismissing the fact that he had summoned another teacup along with matching saucers and sugar jar and changed the teas with the snap of his fingers. Having been in this wonderland for a while now, you were familiar with magic. The possibility of fair folk couldn’t be ruled out, but you had never considered much about their existence until now. Then again, you didn’t know what night creatures were either until recently.

“Who are you?”

“A fae who happens to live in these parts and nothing more,” he said.

“And nothing more… then do you have a name?”

“You may call me anything you’d like. I do not have a preference. Names are merely labels no?”

“I suppose so.”

“There once was a little beastie that called me Tsunotaro. You may call me that if you’d like.”

“Tsunotaro?”

“Yes, I’m quite fond of that name too. You remind me of them therefore I shall allow it.”

“Alright then.. Tsunotaro.”

The light in his eyes faltered. He turned past the title page.

“And what do I call you, lost little lamb?”

“(y/n),” you said curtly.

“(y/n)... I like that,” he whispered softly, “Well, then (y/n), welcome to the Tugley Woods. We are in the northern part of Wonderland. It’s a hub for mana which draws in a plethora of characters such as merfolk and beastmen. Are you familiar with mana? It’s essentially a life force used as a catalyst for magic.”

You hummed along to the inflections of his voice.

He continued: “Perhaps you encountered some paragons of mana on the way here. Or wherever your destination was. They’re troublesome bunches, really. They have their own territories. Anything that trespasses those borders is beyond my control, even as the Prince of Thorns, I—”

You fidgeted with the sheets, a minute action and yet the fae’s eyes peeled up from the book.

“Does the origin of the woods bore you?”

You shook your head, “Not at all. I’m just having difficulty visualizing the entire forest and the factions. It must be vast.”

The fae grinned. With a flick of his hand, he conjured green flames within a furnace, illuminating the side of your bed with a faint yet welcoming warmth.

He rose from his seat, edging the covers, ushering you aside as he climbed into the comforters. He shifted around. Once he was satisfied, he propped open the book, continuing on with your history lesson. There was a large map sprawled across the thin pages. The words were racked from Tsunotaro’s memories.

You leaned on his shoulder. He was oddly warm despite his pale, lifeless complexion. Tsunotaro’s voice soothed your soul, spelling away all your fears— no matter how grand or horrible they may be.

“The West is guarded by the beastmen. They aren’t aggressive when you cross borders, only when you mess with their prey. They congregate here due to their affinity towards the mana here.”

Malleus pointed at the map. His fingernail made the book sound hollow.

“This allows them to use their magic easily as the area’s terrain is filled with sand and earth magic despite being surrounded by trees. You could say the same for the merfolk in the East as well. Except that area consists of woodlands with a large loch in the middle. The loch is deeper than it seems. It leads to the Coral Sea, I believe. The ‘monsters’ —”

“Why must they be monsters?”

“Aside from their appearances, the beastmen and the merfolk are experiencing a mana drought as of now as a majority of the magical energy here has ceased over the years. The ley lines have been exhausted due to constant irrigation and migration of the forests’ inhabitants. Nowadays, they attack travelers, driven by their hunger and thirst for mana to strengthen their magic and sustain their own livelihoods. Aside from them, there’s also night creatures. Those were the wolves that attacked you on the first day. ”

“And what does that make you?”

“Certainly not a monster if that is what you were implying. The fae generate their own mana. In fact, this castle is fortified with mana spun on a single spinning wheel. This prevents attacks from the other night creatures,” he said.

“That does not make the others monsters if they were merely trying to survive.”

“Did they not attack you on your journey?”

“They did, but it was the wrong timing. Besides those were wolves, I’m sure the factions have their own reasons.”

“Touché, Beastie,” he said.

Tsunotaro glanced upward.

“Oho?”

“I suppose they all have their reasons. As you said, they might just be doing so for their survival. Though the fair folk could never empathize with them, we are typically not shackled by the limits of age nor are we familiar with death. We create our own mana and we seldom consume food for survival, only pleasure.”

“I see…”

You yawned. He placed a slender ribbon in between the worn pages of the book. It clapped into place as he set it on the nightstand.

“Perhaps I’ve said more than a beastie could handle. Nevermind that. The chamomile must finally be settling in on you.”

For a mere moment, his eyes flashed into silts and glowed. Your lids were heavy.

“Rest well, Beastie—  for you have a long journey ahead of you.”

He rose from his seat, striding towards the door. The candles’s flames extinguished as he walked past them.

“You too, Tsunotaro.”

The fae halted.

“Yes… thank you, Yu—,” he paused, “(y/n).”

He sighed.

“Thank you, (y/n)” he said.

[shywhumpauthor]

In terms of the clans, is there any kind of hierarchy in them? Do you have and more information about them you can share👀?

~ mysteriously cool anon HEHEHE

aw shit, here we go. stupid worldbuilding ew. Thanks a lot mysteriously cool anon i was trying to avoid this

For note, this is how the Wolf clan is set up, things and titles vary across the clans

So there are a couple dozen clans, they all consist of groups of ~30 people, give or take. Within each clan, there's a leader, who's sometimes elected (but most often it's whoever formed the clan)

This leader chooses a first lieutenant, someone who can take care of more minor issues, and take over if anything were to happen to the leader (kind of like a vice-president)

The leader also chooses a second lieutenant, as a backup. They don't have as much responsibilities as the first lieutenant, but they hold more than a regular member. (circe is the Wolves' second lieutenant)

Another notable person in the clans is the healer, who, well, heals. Most clans have a designated one, though some don't. some clans have more than one. This person usually has some experience in the medicinal field, with herbs and other natural healing shit

Some clans have designated Fighters (basically soldiers), Gatherers (They go out and find food- ie berries, roots, etc), Hunters (who hunt for other clans, but mainly animals), Patrollers (who go out and patrol the perimeters of the territory) and then regular people who just do jobs around camp, like take care of the horses, cook, and really all of the chores. These may be the newer members.

The Wolf clan is not set up like that. Duties rotate between the members, on one day one person might be sent on a raid, while the next they have to go out and hunt. The first lieutenant determines who does what each day.

The second lieutenant is to watch over all that happens in camp, and basically ensure everything is going smoothly. They are allowed to go wherever whenever though (Ex if circe wanted to go on a hunting mission, she just could)

Now onto the Clans as a whole.

As I said earlier, there are a few dozen clans. Each has a name, one that the original leader chose. A common theme is animal names (Wolf Clan, Lion Clan, Tiger Clan, Bear Clan, Oh My clan)

Some clans have a greater reputation than others. For example, the Wolf Clan is widely known and feared, because they appear in public more often than others, and are known thieves and killers. One may say that the more well known a clan it, the more powerful it is. After all, power comes from fear (at least in Circe's head).

The clans don't really get along. Sometimes they will form alliances with each other, when in need of defeating a greater evil or whatever, but these never last very long.

Other clans are more peaceful. These ones are usually found more towards the East, spread along the coast. They mind their own business for the most part, and the other clans ignore them.

Fights between clans are usually over territory or possessions. Occasionally they will break out for no reason except the wish for bloodshed.

One may join a clan because they were banished from society, are on the run from authorities (mhm circe), or they wish for a different life. Usually it's one of the first two.

[umbry-fic]

“Hello, How Are You?”

Summary: The Great Pasca Tree has stood for millennia, longer even than people have walked the land. It has seen much.

But this is its first time seeing a little girl come up to it, asking, "How are you?"

Fandom: Tales of Symphonia, Tales of Crestoria Characters: Colette Brunel, Lloyd Irving, Great Pasca Tree, Lutesse Relationships: Colette Brunel & Great Pasca Tree, Colette Brunel & Lutesse, Background Colloyd Rating: T Word Count: 10824 Mirror Link: AO3 Original Post Date: 10/07/2021

Notes+Warnings: More Lloyd side story stuff, so spoilers! This is mostly written from the POV of The Great Pasca tree, who I refer to as Pasca and who uses it pronouns. (Sorry if that's confusing.)

Just expanding on some more headcanons I have! (And possibly straying into AU territory too...)

Title from Nanou's song.

~~~

It was born into darkness, having sprouted from a seed carrying the promise of life, ferried to fertile dirt by the beak of a bird, one of many in a flock. That fragile seed grew into a tiny sapling that knew of nothing but the slow and enduring process of growth - new tips appearing, new leaves protruding out of branches, and roots extending further into the dirt.

The passage of time was marked only by seasons.

Spring brought with it flowers, and the fuzzy snouts of animals that nosed and chewed at the tree’s leaves.

Summer brought with it rain, the droplets cool against the tree’s leaves and sating its thirst.

Autumn brought with it strong winds that tore away the tree’s leaves and left it barren.

Winter brought with it biting frost that caked the tree’s bark, making each day a struggle for survival.

Countless seasons passed as the tree grew taller and stronger against the forces of nature. Its collection of branches became wider, its roots forming an unseen labyrinth. It did not mind the passage of time, did not register it at all, for each day was much the same as the last - darkness, and the occasional sensation. The tree simply existed, living out each second, experiencing emotions it was not yet able to describe or understand.

The tree was not aware of mana, even though it had always known it. The sphere of life contained within itself, the energy that ran through the dirt which its roots tapped into, the particles that floated in the air like fireflies, burning bright but going unseen as they brushed against its bark.

Even millennia later, the same question haunted the tree, a question that had never received an answer. Why had mana picked it to be its vessel? After all, there were a dozen other trees just like it close by that were surely all viable candidates. But the collection of mana ignored them all, coming to the tree with no explanation, with nothing but a vow to be made - that the mana was never to be controlled. The tree would act as the source through which mana was equally distributed, and nothing more unless absolutely necessary. To break that vow would mean betraying the essence of the world itself and disrupting the natural order, possibly dooming every living creature.

And so the tree agreed, for it had no reason not to. The existence that the collection of mana proposed seemed to be no different from the one it led now - quiet and peaceful, just with the addition of mana running through itself.

How wrong it had been.

Its insides were flooded with bright, sparkling lifeforce, the flow of energy in its roots reversed such that it was giving instead of taking. The surplus of mana bolstered its growth, causing its trunk to widen ever more, until it was truly massive, looming over all. Its branches and leaves became an umbrella, providing shade for any creature that decided to rest beneath its boughs.

But that was not the only consequence - there was also knowledge. The ability to read the mana signatures around it, the ability to convert the waves of mana that surged through the air into sight and sound, despite its lack of eyes or ears.

The tree came to know the colourful creatures that walked the land beside its immobile form. Creatures who slaughtered each other in a blood-soaked cycle of survival, but a cycle that was built on mutual respect. It came to know its three other counterparts, trees which stood equally as tall as itself in other corners of the world. They communicated sparsely through the channels of mana that connected the four of them. Not through words, for those would not come for another few centuries. No, they communicated through emotions, those that the tree had only now learned to interpret.

Happiness at growth and a beautiful day.

Sadness at death.

And loneliness.

The ever-present loneliness permeated all. For the tree found that it could not communicate with any of the creatures that stopped before it, seeking shelter or hoping to enjoy the bountiful mana around.

All it could do was watch.

And watch it did, as the first people to walk the lands settled down next to the four trees of mana, for the land was fertile and the harvest plentiful. They gave it a name, and so it came to be known as the Great Pasca Tree. It decided to simply call itself Pasca, for that rolled off the “tongue” much easier.

Pasca was delighted to have permanent company, to learn from these interesting creatures the way of words. The people, meanwhile, came to see it as some form of sacred deity. They took to praying before it, in hopes that their wishes could come true, while the shade under its leaves became a favourite spot for children to play in. People from all walks of life, elves, humans and half-elves alike, all coming to gather before Pasca.

It was disappointing to learn that no one could hear its voice, no matter how loud Pasca shouted. Still, it tried to answer every question that was asked of it, to acknowledge every wish that it was entrusted with, even if no one could understand it.

And so a few centuries passed in a blur as Pasca serenely watched. Faces that came and went, eventually all being swallowed up by time, none important enough to be remembered. The people slowly developed, making new and impressive advancements. Small conflicts arose from time to time, but they were easily resolved.

Pasca told itself that it would be content to simply watch for all eternity. The prosperity of the world was something all four of the Great Trees wished for, and watching that wish be granted brought Pasca happiness. Even if that joy could not chase away the shadow of loneliness.

There was a growing frisson between the different species, however. One born of an unknown reason, but one that soon became too large to be ignored, and one that broke Pasca's heart. It hated what it saw: cruelty, the mocking of suffering, belittling. Elves derided humans and half-elves as lesser species, humans saw half-elves as impure and elves as arrogant, and half-elves withdrew completely, trampled by the hatred of the rest.

What Pasca hated the most was its inability to reach out and reason with any of them, to tell them that what they were doing only hurt themselves in the end.

The people began to tear each other apart, each species trying their best to take control of the mana by contesting the territory around the Great Trees. Bloodshed, betrayal, heartbreak... Pasca witnessed it all.

In the end, the elves succeeded in staking their claim on the land next to Pasca, but not without soaking their hands in an endless river of blood. The dirt by Pasca’s roots would forever be stained, even after the blood was washed away by the rain. And the elves did not stop there.

They began trying to harness the mana for much more nefarious purposes, to try and control Pasca itself. Communication with the rest of the trees proved that the same thing was happening everywhere.

This could not go on. All Pasca had ever done was its role: to give. And people had taken, and taken, and taken, and they would not stop taking until they had destroyed everything in their wrath.

To protect that wish for a happier world, to safeguard the vow they had once sworn upon, the Great Trees sealed themselves away with a fog. A fog that would confound any that walked into its endless white, for any who tried would only end up emerging elsewhere, unable to make any headway.

None would ever lay eyes upon the Great Trees again. None would ever try to corrupt them, to harness the mana that ran within them.

It would be better this way, if the knowledge of the Great Tree’s existence were to fade away into nothing, if the memory of their existence became nothing more than a legend.

And Pasca was tired. So, so exhausted, its branches drooping and leaves fluttering to the ground. Heartbroken from people shattering the trust it had placed in the benevolence of all who walked this land, and by the actions of the elves, who had gone so far as to carve directly into its trunk.

It would live out each day in this clearing, doing its job. Surrounded by other, smaller trees that eked out existence day by day, entirely unaware of Pasca’s presence. All alone.

It would have been better to remain in the darkness like those trees. Then it would not have known betrayal, would not have been able to put a name to the loneliness it felt.

With no one to keep it company, Pasca slipped into a slumber, barely aware of time passing it by. A slumber that lasted a few millennia.

At least, it thought so. There was no real point in keeping count.

~~~

What attracted Pasca’s attention was the unique mana signature. It wasn’t that of a bird, or a squirrel’s, or a dog’s. Not any of the creatures that frequented this clearing, for they were spared from the effects of the fog.

No, it was a mana signature that Pasca had never come across before. Which was unusual, considering its many years of existence.

Intrigue was what Pasca felt. An emotion, after an eternity of emptiness. It was enough to get Pasca to open up its sight and hearing again.

Bright colours flooded its vision: the vivid green of the leaves of the trees that formed the border of the clearing, the tiny windows of blue sky that were visible between the criss-cross of its branches, the deep brown of bark. A cacophony of sounds invaded its hearing: the rustling of the leaves in the wind, the cries of birds in the far distance, and the crunching of grass under the feet of the intruder.

Said intruder was a girl. A young one, Pasca supposed, though it was never the greatest at guessing ages. But surely she had to be young, if her head didn’t even reach the lowest of Pasca’s branches. She was wearing a plain white dress that was much too big for her, with sleeves that dwarfed her slender arms, and with a hem that nearly touched the ground. Her short golden hair did nothing to hide the pointed ears that marked her of elven descent. She most likely hailed from the village of elves that was situated outside the forest. If that village still stood after all this time.

Yet her mana signature was not that of an elf, or even a half-elf’s. It reminded Pasca more of its fellow Great Trees. But that wasn’t possible.

There was a large smile on her face, one that Pasca couldn’t help but fixate on. It had been so, so long since it had seen a genuine smile, one that could light up its surroundings in its innocent joy.

The girl came up to Pasca without any fear in her step at all. She lay a careful hand on its bark, pressing her ear against it like she was listening for a heartbeat, in a place where she would find none. For Pasca’s heartbeat was nothing more than streams of mana.

“Hello, Mr Great Pasca Tree, how are you?” she chirped in a sing-song voice.

“How did you find your way here, child? It should be impossible!” Pasca asked grumpily, still trying to shake the sleep out of its leaves.

Why did it even bother talking? It wasn’t like the girl would have any way of comprehending its words.

“Oh, I just walked, Mr Tree!”

“Through the fog?” Pasca replied absentmindedly, before its mind screeched to a halt. “Wait, how are you able to hear me?”

The girl cocked her head, looking utterly confused by its answer. “You’re talking, so I’m able to hear you…? Though your voice does sound a bit weird, considering it's only in my head.”

“You… Who are you…?” How was a mere child able to do this? To understand it, where thousands had failed?

“Me? Oh!” The girl laughed sheepishly, her laughter filling up the entire clearing and chasing away the dreary silence. She spun in an excited circle, her dress flaring around her and the blue ribbons attached to her short sleeves continuing to sway even after she came to a stop. “I’m Colette! Colette Brunel! I’m sorry for not giving you my name first when I already knew yours!”

Pasca didn’t quite know how to react, how to feel, even, in the face of this eager child who was actually managing to talk to it. How did one deal with an excitable child whose full attention was focused on it?

“Ah… You sounded quite tired before.” Colette clasped her hands behind her back, swaying from side to side. “Did I wake you up? I’m really sorry if that’s the case, Mr Tree! I can leave if I’m annoying you…”

“No, it’s… alright,” Pasca answered, finding that it didn’t want Colette to leave just yet. “And you can call me Pasca.”

Easier than calling it Mr Tree all the time...

“Okay, Pasca! That’s a really nice name! Um, but you haven’t answered my first question, so I’ll ask it again. How are you?”

“Fine, I suppose?” Pasca replied, not certain what an appropriate reply was. Nobody had ever asked it that question before. In fact, no one had ever asked it about itself.

“That’s great!” Somehow, Colette’s smile only grew brighter as she clapped her hands together. “Now that that’s answered, we’re officially friends! So let’s talk about anything and everything!”

~~~

Colette had left not soon after, exclaiming about being late for lessons. Pasca had still been in shock, unable to process that a living, breathing person had stepped foot before it for the first time in millennia. And that said person could understand it.

When the girl had not turned up the next day, Pasca had chalked it off as a hallucination, one born of an impossible desire to connect. No matter how improbable it was for Pasca’s mind to have thought up an entire girl, what else was it supposed to believe in? After all, no one should have been able to find this clearing, let alone understand the words of a tree with no mouth.

Pasca had tried returning to its slumber, but found that no matter how hard it tried, it couldn’t succeed. Stupid delusions.

Yet Colette had turned up the day after that. And again. And again. And again! Today was her sixth visit!

Actually, now that Pasca thought about it… Why was it keeping count, exactly?!

Pasca was fairly certain Colette was real by this point - if not for her continued presence, then because her hand on its bark seemed too warm to be fake.

She would always start out each visit by asking how Pasca was. It had not replied since their first meeting, uncertain if it could trust her. Or anyone, really. People had shown the depths they were willing to stoop to long ago, and Pasca was unable to forget. So it was safer for Pasca to remain at a distance, to avoid getting hurt ever again.

Though that was rather difficult to do, honestly speaking, when confronted with her boundless energy.

Even without an answer from Pasca, Colette would forge on, keeping her promise to talk about anything and everything. She would chatter on and on, about the village of elves that was her home, about what she had done that day, about stupid jokes that got a silent chuckle out of Pasca, about the human boy she knew. Mundane topics that piled up atop each other, filling up the time before she left the clearing to go home, ensuring that there was never silence when she was around.

Pasca couldn't help but absorb every word voraciously. It wanted to know about the outside world and how it had changed in the time it had been asleep. The flame of hope that things might be better was carefully tempered, but could not be put out.

Pasca’s feelings were quite the contradiction.

“Hello, Pasca,” Colette called out, settling herself down in a cross-legged position by Pasca’s trunk, laying a hand on the bark as she always did. “How are you?” she asked, saying the words just as eagerly as she always did, yet already tinged with a hint of disappointment at the expected non-answer.

“Good.”

Wait. Wait, it had just replied without meaning to. Oh no, no, no! It was failing in remaining at a distance already!

“That’s great!” Colette pounced on the tiny moment of weakness like a ravenous predator, eyes shining as she stared up at the canopy. “How so?”

Pasca cursed internally. It would feel horrible if it was the one to cause a crestfallen expression on Colette’s face, now that it had gotten her hopes up.

“Well…” it trailed off, casting its mind back to what had occurred over the course of the day. It wasn’t even sure why “good” had been its answer. “There was a nice breeze in the morning before you came. And yesterday, there was a refreshing drizzle.”

“Oh! That drizzle in the middle of the night? It sure left some puddles!” Colette giggled, fingers smoothing against the grass, droplets of water sliding down the bent stalks. “I’m glad you had a good day. I hope your next one is just as amazing, if not more!”

“...thank you,” Pasca muttered, deciding that this was its limit on speech for the day. And maybe the rest of the week.

It did feel good to say something again, though.

Colette didn’t seem to mind the silence that Pasca lapsed into, simply continuing on to her usual topics of one-sided conversation. There was a little more of a spring to her step when she left that day, waving goodbye in a cheerful manner.

Pasca sighed. Now that it had let down its impregnable walls - or, more accurately, Colette had smashed its fragile, hole-riddled walls with her cheerful words, kind smile and gentle touch, there was no going back.

Oh well, Pasca thought to itself. What harm was there in talking to an innocent child, and one as sweet as Colette?

Besides, Pasca still had the power to protect itself if the need arose. And it would do so with no hesitation if Colette proved to be a threat to the vow it held.

That’s what it told itself, at least.

~~~

Pasca came to expect the question of “How are you?” And it began to give actual answers, to tell Colette about everything that had happened in her absence.

For it was now counting the seconds between her leaving, always before night fell, and her next appearance, instead of letting time slip through its branches. Sometimes Colette was absent for two days, sometimes two weeks. But she always returned.

Pasca would tell her of the new nest that a bird had crafted upon its branches, of the family of fluffy squirrels that had made their home in one of its hollows, of the colourful butterflies that had turned up, flapping their wings as they explored the fresh air. They were events that, for the longest time, had been nothing special to Pasca. Yet the mere mention of them was enough to make Colette squeal in delight. The sight brought joy to Pasca, a radiant joy it had never felt before, not even when reaching a new milestone in height or gaining a new circle of tree rings.

And in return, Pasca gradually got used to Colette’s antics. How she would sometimes tip-toe into the clearing, like she was trying to scare Pasca by sneaking up on it. An impossible task, as Pasca pointed out, but Colette never stopped trying, always sinking into a pout whenever she was inevitably caught, promising that one day she’d do it.

Not that she didn’t scare Pasca enough by continually climbing it. Whether it was to look for critters, or just to enjoy the breeze from a higher elevation, Colette would ignore Pasca’s consternated scoldings and take to finding footholds in its bark. Not without falling, of course, both on the way up and on her way down. She had done so countless times, tumbling back to the dirt and never failing to give Pasca a scare. Every. Single. Time. Did this girl want poor Pasca to grow old and withered from all the stress?

But Colette always got away with nothing more than a scratch, eager to get right back to climbing, until she finally managed to scramble up onto a branch like a monkey, where she would sit swinging her legs. Pasca couldn’t believe this clumsy girl’s luck! Even knowing that, it still told her off in an exasperated tone every time she started climbing. Colette would get to a secure perch on a branch with a triumphant yell of “I did it! I told you I could do it!”, before sticking out her tongue to irk Pasca. But she always took care not to exert too much strength on the branches or pull off any leaves, like she was afraid of hurting Pasca somehow, even though her tiny body was unlikely to hold the necessary power.

Their time together gradually accumulated, as Pasca noted the seasons that passed.

Their first meetings were in summer. Colette’s hair would sometimes be wet from the showers, and she would take shelter under the shade of Pasca’s branches to escape the vicious sun, thanking Pasca for the help. She would sit completely still, letting various insects come to rest on her until she resembled a rainbow. A very dusty rainbow. When the insects inevitably brushed her nose, she would break out into giggles, causing a mass exodus of fluttering wings.

In autumn, Colette teased Pasca about its “bald” branches, prompting half-hearted comebacks from it. She would curl up on the natural bed of red leaves, going to sleep. Pasca couldn’t control the rate at which its leaves fell or their trajectory, but it wished more might fall upon the peaceful girl who brought peace to Pasca as well, to give her a comfortable blanket and a rejuvenating rest. Once she left, the wind would blow away her bed, and a new one would be made.

In winter, Colette dressed appropriately for the weather in a coat and a beanie. Her cheeks and the tips of her ears were flushed red, and she would sit with her back to Pasca’s rough bark, rubbing her hands together for warmth. Much to Pasca’s amusement, she also brought along heaps of knitted blankets. Colette painstakingly wrapped them around Pasca’s wide trunk, though she still did not possess enough to go around the whole perimeter. When questioned on why, Colette only giggled and patted the blankets, stating that surely Pasca got cold too. It didn’t make sense, but Colette’s actions rarely did. All that mattered was that it made Pasca laugh. When it snowed, Colette would catch the snowflakes on her tongue, until they melted and disappeared.

In spring, Colette complimented the multi-coloured flowers that bloomed on Pasca’s branches. She collected those that had fallen to the ground - sometimes to place behind her ear, sometimes to make intricate flower crowns that she would hang upon Pasca’s lowest branches, which she could now barely reach if she stood tall on the tips of her toes. Pasca knew that the flower crowns would be ripped apart by the birds that roosted on its branches once Colette left, but it made no mention of this, for what made the flower crowns special were their intent as gifts. Colette herself also brought flowers, little seedlings that she planted around the clearing. “To give this clearing more colour, and to keep Pasca company!” she exclaimed.

But time was marked not only by seasons. It was also marked by Colette - her hair growing longer until it covered her ears, the centimetres of height she gained, the way she slowly filled out the sleeves of her dress better.

Watching Colette grow older and actually caring enough to follow that process… It was not a future Pasca would have thought possible before. But, against all odds, this child had imprinted herself onto its heart. Always looking out for the good of others, even a tree such as itself that everyone always assumed did not possess a soul or dreams of its own. She had touched Pasca’s lonely soul with a kind hand and had been the only one to give instead of take.

Pasca never wanted this tranquil time to end.

But… It would, someday.

It had to.

~~~

Today was one of those rare days where Colette’s voice did not fill the clearing, attracting the squirrels to scurry out onto Pasca’s branches to listen to her. Instead, what did fill the empty space were her sobs, echoing between the leaves.

Colette was covering her face with her hands, her shoulders shaking with her back pushed up against Pasca’s trunk, knees pulled up to her chest.

What to do, what to do...?

It wasn’t like Colette hadn’t confided her troubles in Pasca before - she had talked about difficult homework, about punishments for oversleeping, trivial little things like that. It wasn’t like she hadn’t started crying before - she had done so over the smallest things, like one of the baby birds that had not survived winter, despite it being a death by nature’s fair hand. But she had never sounded this sorrowful, like something was reaching into her chest and twisting her heart.

Colette had started talking about that human boy she’d mentioned before, mentioning how he’d taken a rather terrifying fall off a cliff and how he’d finally woken up after hours spent by his side. Then she’d burst into tears, her sniffles interspersed with mumbles of “It’s all my fault.”

What could it do, really? All the other times Colette had started crying, her tears had disappeared within minutes as she returned to a smile, all before Pasca could even say anything. It didn’t even know what to say, was woefully inexperienced in the field of comforting a child. Couldn’t hug her, couldn’t press a kiss to her forehead like worried mothers had when they brought their sick children before Pasca to pray for their recovery.

All Pasca could do was wield the power of words clumsily, and hope that was enough.

For its wish for a better world had changed, had become a wish for a world where this child who had wormed her insistent way into its heart would be free to be happy. It wanted to see her smiling.

“It wasn’t your fault, Colette. It was an accident,” Pasca said, believing in its own words but not knowing if Colette was even listening. She would never act maliciously of her own volition. Her soul was far too kind to be able to accept doing so. “Besides, Lloyd’s alright now, isn’t he? Then there’s no use worrying over whose fault his fall was.”

“But… Lloyd doesn’t remember anything! What if he forgot something important to him? Like his parents, or the friends he had before he came to the village? I would have stolen those precious memories from him...”

“What’s done is done, Colette. Why not make new memories with him instead of focusing on that which was lost? And you said you helped tend to his wounds. Even if you had some small hand in his fall, I say you’ve done enough to atone for it.”

Honestly, losing memories did not seem to be that horrible of a fate. Especially if those memories held nothing but pain. Pasca would not have minded restarting with a fresh slate, if that meant it could freely trust in people again.

Colette wiped at her tears with her sleeve, rising unsteadily to her feet. She swayed, tiny shoulders seemingly about to collapse under the crushing weight of guilt. For a soul so kind as hers was also one that would accept everything as her responsibility.

“Thank you, Pasca, for the kind words. They mean a lot. Really,” Colette whispered, finally breaking into a smile. It was a weak smile, not fully true, but it was a smile nonetheless.

“I’m sorry I can’t do more for you.”

It was the inevitable realisation that Pasca had come to. Despite all the power that supposedly ran through it, Pasca could do nothing.

“No, don’t say that. You’ve done more than enough!” Colette insisted, her smile turning into a true one. If there was one thing Colette would not allow, it was someone putting themselves down. “So, truly, from the bottom of my heart, thank you. Is there anything I can help you with?”

“No, Colette, I’m all good. But, thank you for asking.”

“No problem!”

Colette always asked if Pasca wished to air anything itself, despite knowing it would always decline. For it did not wish to burden Colette with the mistakes people had made long ago. They had nothing to do with her, and surely her thin shoulders would break under the weight of it all.

Pasca could not save Colette from the dark sorrow that lurked within her heart, the shadow that trailed the both of them and would one day swallow them whole. The sorrow she covered up with a cheery attitude and had let slip today, unable to keep the overbearing pain within.

For even though Pasca may be awkward, it was not stupid. It could easily see the secret that lay behind her refusal to fully answer the question of who she was, even if she had not uttered an outright lie. Pasca held its own theories on her identity, but did not speak of them. And the connection between the two of them allowed Pasca to peek within her heart, just slightly.

Pasca could not shower her with love through physical acts, could not show her affection through anything other than speech. All Pasca could do was make this clearing, the place it suspected was the only one where Colette was free to be herself, as safe and happy a space for her as possible. To keep fear and sadness out of its sacred confines. And on that front, Pasca would do its very best.

Pasca would be happy to provide Colette with a home.

~~~

“Oh, be careful!”

Colette came into view with a merry shout, another presence by her side - a human boy that Pasca reasoned was likely to be Lloyd, easily identifiable because of the bandage wrapped around his head. He appeared a little unsteady on his feet, stumbling occasionally, with Colette holding his hand tightly to ensure he didn’t fall over as they made their way over to Pasca.

So her ability to make her way through the fog extended to anyone who accompanied her, huh? Interesting. That only added to the mounting theories swirling in Pasca’s mind, that it continued to swallow down.

Pasca remained silent, attention focussed on the boy it had not met before. A stranger… But if Colette had brought him all the way here, then she must trust him completely. Perhaps that meant the two of them were friends now?

“Whoa,” Lloyd exclaimed in awe, staring up at Pasca with wide eyes as he and Colette came to a stop. He scanned it from top-to-bottom twice, as if in disbelief that Pasca’s branches could extend that high, up into the heavens. “It’s huge!”

“Pasca is huge!” Colette agreed with a happy nod. “Oh, right! Introductions are in order! Lloyd, this is Pasca! Pasca, this is Lloyd!” she said, gesturing between the two.

“Hello, Lloyd,” Pasca replied, deciding that it would put in the effort to try and get to know Colette’s new friend. After all, it was probably for the best that the two of them got along.

Colette fell into a pout as Lloyd failed to respond for a full minute, squeezing his hand to get his attention. “Lloyd! It’s rude not to reply when someone talks to you! Especially if they’re greeting you.”

Pasca was inclined to agree. Did Lloyd have a bad attitude or something…?

Lloyd blinked in confusion, swivelling his head around. “But… I don’t hear anyone talking to me! And I know you mentioned that Pasca’s your friend, but how does it talk to you without a mouth?”

Ah, right. Colette had been the only soul Pasca had known for so long that it had completely forgotten how everyone else couldn’t hear its voice.

“Colette, he can’t hear me,” it pointed out before this farce could go on any longer.

“Oh. That’s right.” Colette appeared to wilt, shoulders drooping. “But… then how will you two talk to each other?”

“Colette…” Lloyd muttered, seemingly crestfallen at his friend’s disappointment. “Oh! Wait, I have an idea! How about you translate for me?”

“That’s a great idea, Lloyd!” Colette replied, perking up immediately. “You’re so smart.”

“Ehehe, I try my best.” Lloyd blushed, moving a hand to scratch at the back of his head, before stopping once he came into contact with the bandage.

In truth, Pasca didn’t think it was a very impressive idea. In fact, it had been about to suggest it. If this was what passed as smart for Lloyd, then the boy didn’t seem very bright.

But he had made Colette’s smile return, so Pasca would let this slide. Just this once.

Only this once.

“Okay, Pasca!” Lloyd grinned, turning to face Pasca with his hands on his hips. “I’ll be getting to know you today!”

In the end, Lloyd didn’t manage to ask that many questions before fatigue’s claws dug into him. And the questions he did ask were pretty stupid, including the star example: “How do trees go to the toilet?” Pasca’s impression of Lloyd as not very bright was further reinforced. Maybe it was just because of the head injury? Or maybe Lloyd really was just this dumb, all the time. Its memories of individual humans were few and far between, but Pasca didn’t remember them being this devoid of smarts, so it appeared to be unique to Lloyd.

Pasca watched the two - Lloyd asleep with his head pillowed on Colette’s lap as she sat facing Pasca. He occasionally mumbled the slightest phrase, while Colette gently ran her hand over the tips of his brown hair, careful not to disrupt Lloyd’s rest. She was humming a little tune, her now shoulder-length hair swaying in the breeze.

“You’re fond of him,” Pasca said. It had noted the way Lloyd stared at Colette when she wasn’t looking, almost like he was constantly in awe at being in her presence, the way he occasionally reached out his hand as if to grab Colette’s, only to retract it before Colette turned around and noticed. Just one advantage of Pasca’s unique vantage point. Colette didn’t quite look at Lloyd the same way, but she was showing him a lot of affection. “How fond?” Pasca teased, wishing it possessed eyelids to wink with and elbows to nudge with, just like how the children used to do beneath its leaves when gossipping about first loves. This wasn’t as effective with just its voice.

“Uh…?” Colette’s humming came to an abrupt stop, though her hands continued in their constant rhythm. She spoke only in her mind, refusing to open her mouth and wake Lloyd up. “He’s my friend. So I like him,” Colette replied, craning her neck up to stare at the leaves.

Damn it. Pasca felt like it had been shot through the trunk. Was it this out of touch after sleeping for so long? The meaning behind its words had flown completely over Colette’s head!

…

Was it ever in touch in the first place? Gah.

Silence fell within the clearing again as Pasca sulked, not speaking another word. Not that it remained in a bad mood for long, even as Colette fell asleep as well, her head coming to lean against Pasca’s trunk as her arm went slack.

There was a special contentment in watching the two children sleep, utterly at peace in each other’s company. Dreamy smiles played on their faces, their chests rising and falling steadily as butterflies came to perch on their prone forms.

There was joy blooming in Pasca’s heart, at the knowledge that Colette had found another companion. One who was actually capable of protecting her, of giving her the touch and the love she so sorely needed.

Sure, there was jealousy involved - that Lloyd, even as a child, held more power than Pasca ever would. But those were inconsequential bursts of ugly emotion, far overshadowed by the immense relief Pasca felt. Colette had someone that would stay with her now, even outside the boundaries of this clearing. Someone who might even be able to save her from her looming fate. And if that became the reason as to why it and Colette’s time together had to end, then Pasca would accept that. As long as Colette was happy and safe.

Lloyd made Colette smile, and his heart was in the right place. That was enough for Pasca to declare Lloyd good.

Though Pasca would maintain that Lloyd was dumb. It would not give that up.

It would never give that up.

~~~

“I’ve been meaning to ask this for a while, Pasca, but…” Colette laid a hand on a special section of Pasca’s trunk. One that even Pasca itself avoided looking at as much as possible, but one that Colette must have noticed immediately upon first walking into the clearing, for it was far too obvious to avoid detection.

It was a section on the side that had been completely hollowed out, much like how rot and mildew had made quick work of other trees. Pasca’s tree rings were exposed to the elements, free for the coldest of winds to brush against. If it were any other tree, it likely would have died from the damage, collapsing onto its side to become just another fallen log on the forest floor, soon to return to the earth. But the mana had somehow kept Pasca alive all this time, its form too precious of a vessel to lose.

“What happened?”

Colette asked the question not with fascination, but instead out of concern, as if hoping she could somehow make things better. Her finger followed the path of one tree ring, gentle.

Should Pasca answer? That was the question it struggled with. But withholding the truth would only make things worse, would only further strain the already breaking illusion. Besides, Colette, more likely than not, already held the answer.

"The elves took it. A long time ago," Pasca replied hesitantly, unsure what reaction Colette would have.

The shadow that fell over her eyes was the final nail in the coffin, enough to confirm its suspicions over her origins as fact instead of speculation.

But still, Pasca brought nothing up.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

What Colette was apologising for was unclear. The actions of the elves in the past? What she would have to do in the future?

Perhaps she was apologising for everything, small and large alike, that had befallen Pasca in the past, and would befall Pasca.

"It's alright, Colette. It doesn't hurt anymore."

That was almost a lie. Pasca did not bleed, not like deers did when wolves dug their fangs into it, not like Colette did when she scratched her elbow against a particularly sharp branch. It had not bled when the elves used their magic-imbued knives to cut into it, and perhaps that had been justification enough to the elves that Pasca felt no pain. But it had burned, stung as a part of Pasca had been stolen away. The crevice continued to ache, even now, but Pasca had gotten so used to the sensation that it no longer registered it.

"I'm glad to hear that," Colette said, the usual happy expression slipping onto her face in practised motions.

That was where the conversation ended, even as Pasca yearned to say more.

But what? It didn't know. What could make this all better? That inevitable shadow was fast catching up to Colette, and she would not be able to escape it, no matter how far she ran.

Pasca had a feeling that the moment where everything would come to light was soon approaching.

And that, at that moment, things would have no choice but to fall apart, no matter how much it wished to protect Colette.

~~~

Fall apart it did, in the most horrifying of manners.

On that fateful day, Colette did not walk into the clearing, or attempt to sneak into it, or skip into it, each spring full of joy. No, she was dragged in, her feet digging into the dirt in a futile attempt to stop the person who was dragging her. An elf with long flowing blue hair and eyes narrowed into a cruel glare, hand painfully squeezing Colette’s arm. Perhaps this elf had been among the innocent children who had played in the shade of the tree, once upon a time. Or perhaps not. Pasca didn’t know, for the faces from then had all been lost to time, happy memories relegated to nothing more than a fairy tale.

But the scene before Pasca now was no fantasy. This was cruel reality.

Colette’s head was bowed, those blue eyes now dull. Her entire body was shaking, angled to be as far from the elf as possible, but unable to escape the elf’s iron grip.

So this elf was one of the sources of Colette’s pain, of the anguished guilt and the fear that radiated off the child at this very moment.

Pasca wanted to rescue Colette from the elf's grip. Wanted to embrace her, shield her, protect her, even with just its branches…

But it couldn’t even do that.

There was nothing it could do but watch events play out before its eyes, unable to break out of its role of unbiased guardian. At the end of the day, it was nothing but an immobile tree.

“Do it, Chosen,” the woman commanded harshly, her nails digging into Colette’s arm as Colette winced. “Time to see if your lessons have paid off.”

“But - Chief Lutesse, can you not hear Pasca’s voice, feel its wish? That’s not what it wants!” Colette retorted, voice trembling with fear. But still, she spoke up, shoulders tensed, determined. “It wants a better world for everyone, one-”

“Shut your mouth, insolent girl,” Lutesse snarled, interrupting Colette with a slap across the face. “Your childish delusions do not change the fact that that is a mere tree, one that is incapable of thought! And if it could, surely it would lament how the rest of the world is wasting its mana! Are you simply afraid you can’t do it? Because we could simply replace you if that’s the case.”

“N - no!”

“Or do you not want to, Chosen?” Lutesse leaned closer to Colette, making the young child seem even tinier as she cowered. “Because you’re not the only one I can lay my hands on. Perhaps one of your precious friends? How about Genis?”

“W - what…? Genis…?” Colette’s face lost all colour, her eyes widening in horror like she couldn’t believe her ears, like she couldn’t believe Lutesse would ever hurt anyone other than her.

“So? Will you do as you are asked to, Chosen?”

“It’s alright, Colette.” Pasca reached out, reassuring her. It was unbearable, watching her anguish and uncertainty, watching her be torn apart into two. “You can do whatever it is she’s asking you to do. Please.”

Colette screwed her eyes shut and raised an arm, palm facing Pasca. Pink wings unfurled from her back, tears leaking from beneath her eyelids that shimmered in the pink light radiated by her wings, tiny balls of mana becoming visible around her.

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. That was the sole thought looping through Colette’s head that she was transmitting, akin to a chant, as the mana spheres began to swirl.

And that was when Pasca felt it.

Channels of mana shutting off, like veins being squeezed in a vice, allowing nothing through.

Pain enveloped it, plunging Pasca into darkness. It felt like a rot had taken hold in its core and was slowly eating it alive. It was choking, despite it not needing air. Everything burned, for it was fundamentally wrong for the mana to be restricted. And without a pathway, the mana could do nothing but slam against an impregnable wall repeatedly, screaming in pain at the wrongness of it all.

“Enough, Chosen. This is a satisfying performance.”

Lutesse’s sharp voice cut through the haze of pain, bringing a stop to the chokehold. Mana began to flow freely again, the streams darting around in joy as they returned to their rightful journeys through the earth.

Pasca scrambled to cut through the darkness, clearing away the veil that clung to it just in time to catch the heartbreaking sight unfolding before it.

Colette had collapsed to her knees, fresh tears still streaming down her face. Her wings drooped behind her like dead butterflies falling through the sky, her hand clapped over her mouth like she was doing her utmost to not retch, whimpers falling from between her fingers.

For she must have shared Pasca’s pain, just as Pasca could feel the overwhelming guilt drowning Colette, wave after wave that forced her head under the tide.

What was this emotion that simmered within Pasca’s core? It was not the anger Pasca had once felt towards people, for that had been akin to a gentle wave, slowly chipping away at a stone. No, what it felt now was a tsunami, holding enough power to snap the top of the stone off.

Rage.

For the first time, Pasca was feeling rage. It was unthinkable for anyone to desire to hurt such a kind child as Colette.

The mana shared Pasca’s rage, infuriated that anyone would be impudent enough to try and play God. Pasca had to do its utmost reining in the streams of mana and preventing them from striking out in a blind rampage, to attempt to calm that which could not be held in check, for the only thing Pasca would be allowed to do was remove the direct threat.

And it refused to touch Colette. Perhaps that meant it had finally broken its vow.

Pasca did not care.

“It’s not your fault!” was what Pasca wanted to shout, to pound into Colette’s head. But Colette’s mind was locked behind a door, and all Pasca could do was knock on it with no answer. She almost appeared soulless, gaze focussed on nowhere as Lutesse dragged her to her feet and out into the fog, their silhouettes rapidly dissipating into nothingness.

Left in silence, Pasca could do nothing but muse.

How petty of the elves, to create and abuse a child just so they could hoard the mana for themselves, when mana was something meant to be freely given and graciously shared amongst all. They viewed Colette the same way they viewed Pasca - an object that did not feel, and was not worthy of compassion.

How cruel of the elves to treat Colette as nothing more than a puppet, to heartlessly tug on the strings of her soul and manipulate her to do their bidding, to push an immoral duty onto a child that only wished to be loved without any care of the weight that was crushing her.

How vile of the elves, to force Colette to shoulder the pain of the world, to force her to go against the wish she had inherited at birth. For she was just as much a child of the Great Trees as she was a creation of the elves, and if this kept up, she would shatter from the inside.

Pasca wanted to embrace her, but it had no arms. It wanted to protect her against the coldness of the elves, but it could not move. It wanted to tell her that it would be alright, but it had no power to influence events.

It was utterly helpless, and once again, it cursed that helplessness.

~~~

Colette did not return, even as Pasca waited and hoped. It did not lapse back into slumber in her absence, for it did not want to miss any moment in which she might return, where it could finally tell her that nothing was her fault. And if she chose to never return, Pasca would simply wait for all of eternity, for that was the only thing it could do.

With no one here, Pasca had to endure the silence again. In the past, it had yearned for what it did not have. Now that Pasca had experienced true companionship, even if only for a short while, a time that amounted to only a tiny blip among its many years of existence, it found that the loneliness had become much worse, the silence much louder and drowning out all. For one only learned the hole that someone would leave behind once they were gone, and could only know how precious something was once it had been lost.

It spent each day wondering if she was doing alright, worry eating away at its leaves. Was she with Lloyd? Her other half-elf friend that she had mentioned before? Pasca hoped so, hoped that there was someone there to cheer her up, to wipe away her tears and hold her in their arms. To do what Pasca could not.

Pasca also wondered when mana would choose to find another vessel, to finally leave it to rot and die. After all, it had voided their vow.

But mana said not a word, simply continuing its silent routine.

And so to pass the time, Pasca counted the seasons. Each one brought with it memories, and the memories brought with them fresh grief. A wound that would never scar over.

Seven winters passed, slow and arduous without anyone to pass them with. By now, the time in which Colette had been absent far surpassed the time in which she had frequented this clearing. Yet the memory of the little girl with the sweet words and kind smile persisted, refusing to fade, and Pasca continued to wait.

Until, finally, the silence was broken by hesitant footsteps.

~~~

Colette had spent many a moment with one foot in the fog, even before she met Pasca. There was a thread in the endless white that was invisible to all but her, tantalising and calling for her to follow it.

These days, she would stand at the boundary between clear air and fog, staring into it and unable to take another step. She’d been caught in this position multiple times by her friends - Genis, who just appeared confused, and Lloyd, who asked why she no longer went to visit Pasca. In response to that question, Colette could only shake her head and say that she was waiting to depart on her journey. Just another lie to add to the endless pile - a pile that might be higher than Pasca itself.

In truth, she yearned to return to the beautiful clearing that had once been her sanctuary, to go back and see the first soul she had ever connected with.

But she was chained down by guilt, the inky substance wrapping around her neck and choking her. She told herself that Pasca wouldn’t want to see her, not after what she’d done, but that was just an excuse. In truth, she was a coward, unable to face the reality that Pasca might despise her now. She couldn’t blame it for doing so, for their entire relationship had been built on a lie. A lie of omission, but a lie nonetheless.

The first time she had set foot in that clearing and met Pasca, it had been under orders. Lutesse had asked that Colette try and make her way through the fog. “And if you fail,” Lutesse had threatened her, “you will be replaced, Chosen.”

Fear had been what first drove her to stumble into the fog that no one had ever made it through. It was a common dare among the children of the village, a rite of passage, even, to enter the maze of white and lose all sense of direction. But she had held onto that thread desperately, following the dim light it emitted until she finally emerged.

The sight she had been met with was astounding - a gorgeous clearing wherein a tree that pierced the heavens stood, rays of sunlight filtering through its leaves. All assortment of creatures frequented the grass and the boughs of the Great Pasca Tree, which was far more majestic than even the legends passed in whispers from child to child proclaimed it to be.

The clearing had felt… strangely familiar, like she was returning to a home she had not been to in years, despite her having never left the Elven Village. Or perhaps not strange at all, considering the matter of her birth. Something Lutesse had gone to great pains to constantly remind her of - how she was crafted directly from the Great Tree itself, and owed her very existence to the elves.

Essentially, she had been going home.

She’d found herself calm again, all of her fears and worries forgotten, and had immediately taken to trying to befriend the Great Tree. But all the time she had spent with Pasca was but a facade. She had always known that she existed to ultimately harm Pasca, and yet she had continued to visit anyway, unable to stay away from the one place where her heart was at peace.

Even the time she had brought Lloyd to meet Pasca had been fabricated, forced into existence when Lutesse asked that she bring someone with her to further test her abilities. “And why not Lloyd? Lutesse had suggested, voice bitingly cold, though it had wavered slightly at the end. “It would be no loss for him to disappear.”

And with each visit, Colette only grew more disgusted with herself, that she would be so desperate to return each time. (It was the only place she could go.) Perhaps she might have been able to go through with the mission the elves had entrusted her with when she was still practising on an isolated piece of bark, disengaged entirely from the sins she was committing. But she couldn’t, not anymore. Not when she knew she would be condemning her friends, and not after feeling Pasca’s pain.

For on that final day in the clearing, Colette had felt like fire was burning through her veins. And that had been but a fraction of Pasca’s pain. She couldn’t do that, not again.

Which left her with her current dilemma. There were but two weeks left until she was to depart on her journey, and she had made her decision. She couldn’t go through with tuning the Great Trees, wouldn’t.

But she would still have to put up a performance, and repeating the mannerisms of that fateful day from years past with no explanation would only serve to strike terror into Pasca’s heart. She owed it an explanation, at the very least.

And an apology, for all that she had done, all the ways she had hurt Pasca. If Pasca hated her… Well, that was justified, and she would accept that.

Determined, Colette took a deep breath, plunging back into the familiar white.

~~~

The clearing was much the same as she remembered, even after seven years. The same trees made up the perimeter, perhaps a little taller than before; the same nests lined Pasca’s branches at the same positions, filled with new eggs that would soon welcome hatchlings; the flowers she had once planted were still in the same spots, new flowers having sprouted to form a grove of colour. So many of her memories had been made here, as was her first experience of happiness.

Colette could feel Pasca’s presence brushing against her mind as she made her way to the middle of the clearing, the Great Tree remaining silent as it watched her. It almost felt like a mirror of the day she had first met Pasca, if not for the trepidation in her heart. The air itself seemed to weigh on her, the animals coming to a standstill to stare at her with inquisitive eyes as well.

The passage of time was easily demarcated by the height she had gained and the hair that now reached the middle of her back, the new clothes she wore. Did Pasca even recognise her? See her as the same Colette? Or did it see nothing but a stranger, or worse, a sworn enemy?

Colette came to a stop, taking a shaky breath as she tried to ready words. But what words would ever be enough? How could what she had done ever be forgiven? Pasca had been scarred from past betrayal, and yet she had heartlessly betrayed it again, broken its trust like glass, into a thousand shards.

“I’m sorry,” was what came out of her mouth as she fell to her knees, her heart hurting like it was being stabbed by the jagged shards of her own making. She covered her face with her hands to hide the tears that had started to stream down it, the tears that she had only cried within the safe confines of her bed, curled up and miserable, unable to share her grief with anyone. “I’m so, so sorry. I know you might never be able to forgive me, but that’s all I can say. I’m sorry...”

“Get up, Colette. Please...”

Pasca’s voice was gentle. Far gentler than she deserved. What she deserved was poisoned curses and stabbing words, and even that would not be enough to punish her for her sins.

Still, she did as it said, standing with her head bowed and her hands clasped. She had told herself not to get her hopes up, yet the flame of hope had been rekindled.

“Stop apologising, Colette. What happened was not your fault. Your hand was forced. I have never blamed you, so how could I ever forgive you?”

“Really?” Colette whispered.

“Yes, silly child. I could never blame you for anything.”

An overwhelming sense of relief washed over her, even as the tears came on stronger. She rubbed at them with her arms, but they wouldn’t stop. Despite the bravado she had tried to instil in herself before, she knew she would not have survived the realisation that she had lost her first friend. Her heart would have broken beyond return, unable to be patched back together in the same haphazard manner she employed every night.

“I’m sorry. I can’t stop crying…”

“There’s nothing wrong with that, Colette. Take as much time as you need. I’m just glad to see you again. So… How are you?” Pasca asked, voice rising into a mischievous lilt by the end.

Colette couldn’t help but giggle at that. Her own words had been turned against her, huh?

“Good,” she replied, smiling. “I’m good.”

~~~

Pasca was more than happy to listen to Colette’s plan. It would have been happy to listen to anything Colette had to say, for it was just glad to hear her voice again, to see that she was safe.

Her plan wasn’t the most comprehensive, but her resolve was clear, spilling over in her voice, in the shine of her eyes, in the clench of her fists. Her desire to prevent the world from getting harmed, to allow everyone a place to live out their lives.

She apologised for having to leave so soon after reuniting, but Pasca reassured her that it would be fine. She should do what was necessary - both for the good of the world and for herself.

On the day of Colette’s departure on her so-called journey, everyone seemed to buy the falsehood. No one - not Lloyd, not Genis, not Lutesse, raised a single protest or question. No one caught the mischievous smile playing on Colette’s face. Not a single eyebrow was raised as Colette retracted her wings, proclaiming the tuning done. Even though Lutesse’s steely gaze did not leave the girl’s back, the elf remained silent.

Colette had pulled it off, and Pasca could not be any prouder.

She had grown so much, into a girl who grasped determination in her hand and who held kindness in her heart.

“Colette,” Pasca called out, wanting to say its piece before Colette left for what it knew would be a long time, perhaps even longer than the four winters that had elapsed without her. “I wish you the best of luck. And thank you, for everything. Goodbye.”

Colette, in return, left Pasca with a smile, a wave, and a promise.

“No. Thank you, for everything. I’ll return, one day! So… this isn’t a goodbye, it’s a see you again. And then I’ll tell you about everything I saw! I’ll be your eyes and ears, and I’ll experience this beautiful world for you!”

“I promise.”

Pasca watched as Colette heeded Lloyd’s call, running over to grab his hand and leaving the clearing together. Pasca thought it understood, now, how parents must have felt, watching their children leave into the world.

The fear, but also the joy, from seeing them do their best to achieve their dream.

~~~

Even though Pasca was left alone again, it was not lonely. Its parting with Colette was not sad, for it believed in the promise she had made. If she said she would return, then she would, no matter how many years it took.

Pasca once again went back to counting seasons, but it also began to note down all the interesting things that happened in its surroundings - how a new species of birds with colourful plumage began to pass in the skies over it, how the single family of squirrels had expanded into an entire colony. For Colette would no doubt have countless stories to tell when she returned, and Pasca would like to match that.

Otherwise, nothing much happened. Apart from the occasional message from the other Great Trees, talking of a child who had charmed them. It was just like Colette, to worm her way into the hearts of everyone else as well.

Things had gotten rough when Earhart had reported that Lutesse had shown up, and Pasca had spent an entire year panicking, only to finally calm down when it learned from the other trees that Colette was fine.

It appeared that Pasca’s faith in Colette’s friends was not misplaced, that its decision to leave Colette in their company had not been a bad one. After all, Pasca could tell her friends loved her, and believed they would protect her. The only other thing Pasca could do was cheer her on, and believe in her completely.

So Pasca waited.

And waited.

And waited…

~~~

It was countless years later, so many that Pasca had lost count, when someone stepped foot into the clearing.

That someone was not a girl, not anymore. She was a woman now, the familiar tips of pointed ears poking out of her short hair, a serene smile on her face. There were still remnants of sorrow in those blue eyes, but they were far overpowered by the bright happiness found there. Her fingers were intertwined tightly with that of the human she had once brought here, the two of them standing close together. It was clear to Pasca that they found comfort in each other, and that Colette had found a home in another.

Yet she had returned to this clearing anyway. And perhaps home was not a single place, but every moment spent with a loved one. No matter if she considered this place home or not, Colette was welcome here anytime.

Colette stepped away from Lloyd, walking towards Pasca. The grass crunched under her feet, her hair swayed in the breeze, and she did a little twirl as she approached, the child shining through and reminding Pasca so strongly of their first meeting, long, long ago.

“Welcome back, Colette.”

Colette opened her arms and wrapped them around the bark in her best approximation of a hug. She barely covered an eighth of the trunk, and it tickled, making Pasca let out a chuckle.

There was so much to catch up on, so much to say…

So many memories to make.

But Pasca knew the exact words that would soon fall from Colette’s lips, the words it had heard so many times that it had been engraved into its memory.

“Mm. It’s been a while, hasn’t it, Pasca?” Colette let out a little chuckle of her own, looking up at the topmost leaves with a grin lighting up her face.

“How are you?”

~fin~

[puppy-phum]

thank you once again @yibobibo​ for tagging me ♥ even if, like I said, this is pure torture. I have so many sons that I’ve given up on counting them sigh but here goes.

favourite male fictional characters.

I took it that this meant ten so am going with that (tho am not gonna try and put them into order). am also sticking to all the characters I loved this year. and gonna ramble and add gifs so cutting it here. 

1. Liu Sang

The Lost Tomb Reboot/Reunion: The Sound of The Providence

I have so much love for this boy it’s not even healthy. it’s a bit funny tho bc once I started tltr, I didn’t really like him and almost forgot about him as the first season ended. he just felt so annoying and bitter in what I saw him, even if I did get that he had a Tragic BackstoryTM (I felt for him but well. tltr really made him hard to like at first). but then they brought him back in the second season with his sad puppy eyes and inability to handle his thoughts on wu xie and being all touch-starved and pitiful and whatnot and baam, I had the adoption papers ready. he’s wonderful and so strong and so smart and amazing. and liu chang as his actor has been wonderful (and he’s so pretty my god, have you seen him??)

2. Shen Wei

Guardian

never did I expect to just. fall into this hole after a year? I remember what a mess I was when I first watched guardian over a year ago, right after finishing the untamed. I was in shambles even as I knew how it would end. and now I’ve done this all again while also reading the novel and. my love for shen wei, especially bc it’s zhu yilong acting as shen wei? astronomical. I want to write poetry about him and his stupid responsibilities that he chooses to carry silently and his devotion to zhao yunlan and his love for his ppl and his didi and. I hope that one day I manage to write weilan bc I have this one idea and you can come pry it from my cold, dead fingers if it doesn’t get out there (am also super happy about the edit I made bc my god does he deserve at least that)

3. Cloud Strife

Final Fantasy VII

ok so stepping into the video games territory now. I was waiting for the remake like crazy and it was everything to me once the quarantine hit during spring. the game is so beautiful and I felt like I looked at this gorgeous boy once and was ready to give him my heart (tbh am quite sure he owned my heart before I even learned to know him). he is tragic in so many ways (I’ve only scratched the surface of all of his pain I know) and I wish I could just. hug him a lot. he is kind and cares very deeply even if he hates to show it and I love it how remake showed him also just being a human disaster (some of his scenes are just. peak comedy). I would kill for his smile (I have already cried for it a dozen)

4. Geralt of Rivia

The Witcher (The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt)

if there’s one grumpy, brickwall of a man I love, it’s geralt. I affectionately call him “papa wolf” while playing witcher 3 and his voice in it does things to me (I am just so fond of him ok, begone you dirty fuckers). I got introduced to him through the books and adored him in them bc he is so prickly and sarcastic and still so full of love even if he will never admit to it. he is the father figure I wish I could have in real life. (and yes, I’ve seen the tv series (or at least a couple of the first episodes) and it looks stunning but. this is my version of geralt and that’s the hill I will die on)

5. Xiaoge

Zhang Qiling, Daomu Biji (The Lost Tomb 2)

(wow finding a gif for him was a pain, apparently I gotta learn how to gif or?) ah, my dear boy who I’ve ended up just calling xiaoge bc he seems to prefer it over his real name/title/whatever zhang qiling really is. I got introduced to him through tltr where we really didn’t get to know that much about him bc he was just... there. huang junjie was absolutely stunning tho and his soft smiles made me super fond, but only in the lost tomb 2 did I really fall in love with xiaoge as a character. I was surprised tbh bc I didn’t expect it to be this drama? I had so many doubts about the cast in tlt2 but they all delivered! and I think cheng yi’s xiaoge is now my favorite bc he somehow captured that softness and the pain of him? (and we do not talk about that buxun storyline tyvm) tho now that ultimate note is on the way, I gotta say that xiao yuliang does a wonderful job as xiaoge too!

6. Wu Xie

Daomu Biji (Ultimate Note)

(sorry we have to go with a pingxie gif now but maybe it’s only fitting) tbh it’s hard to choose my favorite version of wu xie. I think all of the actors for him have done amazing job showing wu xie in different parts of his life (all of them are very distinct but still feel like the same person) but currently zheng shunxi takes the lead. I really wanted to put the reboot version of him here (bc I love that mature, relaxed and somehow very soft version of him and the angst is phenomenal and the thoughts he has about death... yeah) but I already have zhu yilong’s face here once so :’D wu xie is just one of those characters you cannot not like. he is so strong, so kind, so stubborn, so wonderfully stupid sometimes and in need of careful protection. I also adore it how smart he is and I could listen to him spew history facts for 10 hours straight (even if it was in a tomb full of blood zombies) ♥

7. Jiang Cheng

Jiang Wanyin, The Untamed

my darling boy! my beautiful angry grape! I love him beyond words. I love him in all of his raging, misunderstood, stupid, sassy, constipated, abused, tragic, bitter, big hearted glory. I could write novels about him (and I did and am still writing oh boy) and his love for ppl and his inability to show that love and his loneliness and his issues. I could also write another novel for all of his outfits etc. bc damn, what a fashion king. he is just so great. he owns my soul. he deserves happiness and in this essay I will

8. Isana Yashiro

Adolf K. Weismann, K Project

I rewatched k project this spring bc a) it’s one of my favorite animes ever (it just looks stunning with all the colors) and b) I love yashiro to bits. I remember falling in love with him when I first watched k project many years ago bc he was just so kind and bright. this time though, I ended up seeing another side of him and my god did I cry. he is... so sweet. he cares for others so deeply and is ready to sacrifice so much for them and his love for his two clansmen... yeah. I think I finally saw the tragedy of him too, all the pain and loneliness and insecurity he decides to hide behind his smile and obnoxious personality. he reminded me a lot of myself and watching him made my heart bleed in a good way

9. Qi Tiezui

Ba Ye, The Mystic Nine

(wow am going to riot for the lack of all the gifs hhh) yes, we’re continuing with the dmbj universe that sucked me in big time this year. the drama of the mystic nine wasn’t probably that earth shattering for me as it somehow got boring more than once but I did love ba ye to bits. he was just... so nice? I got it that he was somehow this “comedic relief” in the drama with all of his funny scenes and ridiculous mannerisms but I could see the brilliance of him. he is warm and smart and kind of a romantic too and he cares for all of his friends so deeply? it was also sweet how protective of him his two zhangs were (does that run in the family? the tendency to imprint into one smart but disastrous man and keep him safe? maybe) and I really hope I knew more about him bc he seemed to have a lot of knowledge and a lot of impact to ppl’s lives (I yelled when they mentioned him in ultimate note, I miss him ;;)

10. Dorian Pavus

Dragon Age Inquisition

(yes I’ve been replaying DA:I this year, this counts!) another darling boy! my lovely sass master son! I have so much love for him and his story in DA:I. he is my favorite companion (and his romance is my favorite too, probably obvious in the way am currently romancing him for the third time) and he has given me a lot of strength. the way he stands up against his father, how he’s ready to reform his homeland instead of walking away, how he’s so caring for those he sees struggling... it’s very warming and I feel like I’m safe with him. it feels a bit silly to say that but he really is that comfort character I will seek out when I just want to know am doing fine :’) (and I am so excited to see him again in DA4! probably?)

+ 11. Li Cu

Tomb of the Sea

yes I cheated a bit (with my own rules lol) to fit li cu here. I didn’t really expect to like him or tomb of the sea as much as I did once I started it? I’ve seen leo wu elsewhere before this (battle through the heavens, nirvana in fire) and his face always makes me think about a sad puppy so maybe I just grew fond over li cu instantly bc he was... so hurt? the first episode really slaps you in the face with all of it, showing him being abused, wounded, kidnapped, tortured, used and then just very, very scared and broken. he continues being that throughout the whole drama and I feel like tomb of the sea (or sand sea or sha hai idk) is the darkest and angstiest story in the dmbj universe. I know it deserves to be bc this is a dark time for wu xie but... my darling li cu. I wish him only happiness ;; he was so strong and smart and wonderful in this and it was just so amazing to watch him grow and find his own place in the world just bc he did something himself (even when he got dragged into all of this bc of wu xie) also I support the wu xie adopts li cu -agenda

Honorary mentions: 

Zhang Rishan, Xie Yuchen and Hei Xiazi from DMBJ universe. The Twin Jades of Gusu and Ouyang Zizhen from The Untamed. The Iron Bull and Fenris from Dragon Age games. Thane Krios, Kaidan Alenko and Jaal from Mass Effect games. The whole lot of Assassin’s Creed protagonists (especially Ezio Auditore and Shay Cormac). Adam Parrish and Ronan Lynch from The Raven Cycle. Neil Josten from All For The Game. Eduon and March from The Smoke Thieves. Qiling from L.O.R.D. Critical World. Luo Fei from Detective L (played by Bai Yu). 

well, with this I can really see that I have a thing for those who are tragic :’D I have a thing for grumpy, prickly and antisocial guys or those who hide their pain behind a smile. maybe it’s bc I am somehow both, even if I can’t show my anger or be mean to others and even if I feel like my smile never sticks either. I just find kinship in all of the characters who are on this list. and I feel like I aspire to be as strong and as kind and as loving despite all the pain I’ve been put through.  

thank you, this was so much fun! and sorry I made this so long and so complicated ^^’ but well, there are just way too many male characters I love haha

at the end I want to tag @i-am-just-a-kiddo​ @ashenwren​ @kholran​ @tiesanjiao​ @lan-xichens​ @aheartfullofjolllly​ @manhasetardis​ and @lzswy​​ ♥ feel free to do this in your own way or not at all! and thank you if you managed to read through my rambling :’D

[gloves94]

Kingdom of the Sun [Fire Lord Zuko] 1

Story Warnings: Violence, NSFW, Smut Chapter Warnings: None Rating: M Pairings: Zuko/OC Summary:  It has been three years since the end of the war. Fire Lord Zuko has his Empire to reconstruct and multiple assassination attempts to worry about. Across the sea Tsai is occupied with the Restoration Movement in the new Republic of Nations. Together they must: define their relationship, push some boundaries, bring down a dangerous enemy and most importantly work together to restore order and prosperity to this new world. Kingdom of the Sun MASTERLIST Last Airbender MASTERLIST My MASTERLIST

- SEQUEL to: SUNBURN . You don’t have to read Sunburn to enjoy this story, but if you want go ahead. - This story is loosely based on the ATLA comics, so don’t read if you don’t want spoilers. No Korra spoilers since I haven’t watched it myself.

AN: Woo!! We are finally here. I’m really excited about this story (also kind of very nervous, it’s going to be pretty different from Sunburn so let me know how I do!) I’m almost done writing it and it should be about 10 chapters long or so.

xxxxxx

Zuko lay awake in his bed.

It was a cold night despite the spring season that graced the Fire Nation's capital. He let out a miserable long sigh before turning to face the empty side of the bed. It was then that a rustling behind the bedroom’s maroon curtains nearby caught his attention.

Paranoid, he quickly sat up glaring in the direction where he could've sworn, he heard an intruder's movements. His eyes scanned the darkness of the room, heart at his throat as he held his breath waiting for his attacker to show.

It was then that he felt it, the blade pressing tightly across his neck. It seemed the assassin had finally gotten to him. His body was stiff for a moment before relaxing into the knife. He let out a deep breath and allowed the blade to take him…

Xxx

Zuko awoke alone and cold still heaving from his night terror. His eyes danced around the room fearfully scanning every possible nook, cranny and hiding place for an assassin. He sat up and ran a hand through his sweaty bangs pushing them back, catching his shaking breath. It wouldn't be the first time somebody broke into his room and tried to pull a stunt like that…

He exhaled a sharp breath and again collapsed back on his pillow. He couldn't believe he had caved into the assassin's blade like that. It had only been a dream, but still... For a moment he had forgotten his will to exist. After all, did anything matter? Every day was the same over worked routine of a Fire Lord having inherited a monarchy on the verge of a colonial disunion and at the end of a lost war. Not to mention the frequent assassination attempts he had to endure from the New Ozai Society. A group of loyal members of the Fire Nation mainland who were still supportive of his father and wanted to see Zuko dead and off the throne. But worst of all was that he had never felt as alone as he did now… He was cold, alone, unhappy… Did anything really matter?

His eyes turned to look at the painting he had framed next to his bed. It had been the last painting that him and Tsai had gotten. He wore his royal garments and head piece, she sat next to him hugging his arm. It had been painted that day the two saw “Love Amongst the Dragons,” the last time they saw each other...

He missed her. He needed her in his life now more than ever.

He dreaded the morning that was to come. He already knew he had a mountain of work to do, but the worst part about it were the Fire Sages. He did not want to be in the same room with a handful of them and a dozen of elite Fire Nation women who were all considered 'fit' female suitors eligible enough to one day take seat next to him as the Lady of the Throne.

"Will you be making your decision today Fire Lord Zuko?" One of the Sages had inquired hiding its hands in his sleeves. It had been weeks now and all those old crones did was pressure him into seeing these girls.

Traditionally Fire Sage's were the advisors to the crown and all royal marriages were arranged. However, considering there was no former Fire Lord in power to order such decree no such arrangements could be made.

His eyes glazed over the nervously fidgeting dark haired women before him. Some looked awfully nervous, others giggled at the situation hiding their blushing smiles before waving fans.

He was silent, his eyes boring ahead.

"I already know the one for me."

Xxx

"Wake up!" A loud voice shouted.

"Wake uuuup!" The voice repeated in an even louder tone.

Tsai lay exhausted and alone in her bed. She let out a grown and pulled the sheets over her head. "Get out of my room Mecha!" She shouted loudly at her older sibling. However, he had no mercy, he ripped the covers off her waking her up.

She glared at her brother upset.

"You overslept, again." He said with his arms crossed over his chest. The scarred man glared down at her. "This isn't like you," he said frowning slightly.

She ran a hand through her messy hair in hope of taming it down a little. "I was up late last night," she grumbled. "Has there been another bombing? Another protest?" She asked more accustomed to being awoken due to the sporadically protest of the Anti Revolutionary Movement that was against the independence of the Fire Nation’s colonies.

"Oh yeah?" He challenged arching an eyebrow, ignoring her questions. "Doing uber important things like midnight snacking or writing sad poetry about your ex-boyfriend?"

"Out!" She roared throwing her pillow in his direction.

He caught it with ease. "Be ready." He said cooly sounding like their over-bearing mother and throwing it back in her direction with all of his strength making her slightly jerk back.

She sighed hugging the pillow and hunching her shoulders over. It had been three years since the One Hundred Year War was over and since the Fire Nation colonies had been liberated, and lot had happened since then. Ever since, her family had renounced to all of their royal titles, after all the Vice-Royal Colony of Yu Dao was no more. Instead now this territory belonged to the sovereignty of the United Republic of Nations. After losing his position her father had become… She didn't even want to think about it. Thankfully, her mother had forgiven her for everything that she had done during the time of war and her family now focused on running the United Republic of Nation's first newspaper. She did that and also working as an ambassador for the young nation, attempting to solve the thriving nation's issues a strong leader of the post-war restoration movement.

She had also ended her brief relationship with Zuko. You think dating is hard, imagine when your ex-boyfriend is the Fire Lord? She let out an exhausted breath and looked up to see the painted portrait of the two of them that hung on her wall. It was small and simple, her red head and broad cheesy smile standing out as she hugged onto his arm. He wore a smile as well and wore his hair down and wasn't wearing his royal robes. He was like she remembered him, he was simply Zuko, he wasn't his Lordness. She couldn’t even remember when they had gotten that painted. It had been a little more than a year since their breakup and she missed him dearly…

Dating of course had been an option but nobody had come close to filling the void she felt inside when she thought of him. She would never admit it out loud but a part of her was miserable without him in her life.

She missed him.

The memory of their breakup still fresh, she shook her head and clapped her cheeks lightly hoping to smack some sense into herself and push that depressing memory back in the attic of her brain. She didn't want to think about what had happened in the Dragon Catacombs the last time she had been in the Main- in the Fire Nation. She corrected herself.

Xxx

"Aang! Katara!" Tsai stood in what was now the former palace's tearoom as she welcomed her friends. She embraced Aang and then Katara tightly. She had been happy to have kept in contact with them after the war. Katara was usually traveling between the Republic of Nations and the South Pole to visit her family, so they would see each other whenever she was in town. Aang was pretty much the same, except his travels were more worldly, after all, he was the Avatar. The bridge in between all nations as well as humans and the Spirit World. Tsai's mother had arranged for an elaborate tea party for just her children and their two friends. It was very over the top with teas, pastries and decorations, but then again, that was just the type of woman she was.

"It's so great to see two!" She said. Her brother greeted them both with a rough hug and took a seat next to his sister.

Aang was taller, fitter, and looked more mature. However, he was still his same goofy self and wore his nation's symbolic colors of yellow, ochre and orange in traditional robes. Katara had grown to be even more beautiful, her hair was longer, and she still wore her trade mark hair loopies. The two of them had been inseparable and had started dating at the end of the war and were still together. Distance and other factors not str Tsai poured a brewed floral tea and the four made idle talk catching about what the most recent news in town were, trending restaurants, theater, each other travels and what not.

"So, we've come with news!" Aang said excitedly shifting on his seat. He hadn't even touched his tea. Katara smiled at him lovingly and hugged his arm taking his hand in her own. "Shall we tell them together sweetie?"

Tsai arched an eyebrow, she mentally gagged at Katara's pet name for her boyfriend. Yikes, those two were so sappy. She took a sip from her tea to hide her smile.

They spoke loudly in unison. She wasn't sure if she had heard right. She was only aware of the sacred sin she had just committed. She spit out her tea in surprise spraying the couple before her who were overjoyed and simply laughed at her surprised reaction.

"Congrats!" Mecha stood up from his seat and walked around the table to give the couple a congratulatory pat in the back.

Tsai still sat stunned unsure of how to process the news.

AANG AND KATARA WERE GETTING MARRIED? Was Aang a child bride? Sure, he was now past sixteen, the customary marriage age, but really what was the rush? She shifted uncomfortably in her seat before realizing she had to say something to them.

"Congratulations!" She said sincerely excited going around the table and hugging the both of them again. "Katara, let me see your necklace!" She said inquiring about the engagement jewelry that Aang had made for her. It was a traditional Water Tribe necklace that had carved the Air Nomad's symbol in the middle. It was very cute.

"We'll be sending invitations out soon, but we wanted to tell you two in person." Aang explained.

"We were both very moved by your family," Katara began. "I know it's not usual for people to have interracial marriages, but when I saw your family- Your mother being from the Earth Kingdom and your father's side being from the Fire Nation. I saw what my future with Aang would be like." She said once again hugging his arm, he smiled at her and kissed the top of her head.

Both siblings noted how she mentioned her "father's side" and not the monster himself but said nothing.

"We are getting married here in the Republic of Nations. However, Gran Gran is getting a little too old for travel so we're having a ceremony in the Southern Water Tribe and we'd love for you two to come!" Katara beamed.

xxx

"You have to go." Her brother insisted chasing after her as they walked back to the dining room where they would now be joining their mother for dinner. "No. I don't. I have work." She barked back; fists clenched at her sides. "No," he drawled out stepping around her stopping her walk. "I'm staying so you can go. Besides, you already agreed. You can't back out now."

Tsai glared at her older brother; he could be such a pest sometimes. "I only said that to be polite!"

"Come on," She lowered her shoulders her brown eyes meeting her brother's forest green ones. "I look like crap- and well you know he's going to be there."

She said referring to Zuko, a thought that made her stomach twist nervously at the thought of seeing him again.

"So? Are you scared of him?" Her brother scoffed. "What's the worst that can happen?"

She remained silent.

"Who knows," he began moving out of her path. "You know he is married to his work, just like you. Odds are maybe he won't even show," Mecha said optimistically.

'Maybe… Just maybe he was right?'

next: https://gloves94.tumblr.com/post/624849870080131072/kingdom-of-the-sun-firelord-zuko-2