#and my trust will be a bit eroded whether i want it or not

[followfire]

Just had something happen to me which was very close to a situation I often have nightmares about, and I thought those nightmares were a bit over the top, like, you know, the way dreams tend to be...

Well turns out the dreams weren't exaggerating at all. In fact it's worse in real life. The nightmares were the game turned on easy mode. :)

[astroa3h]

Composite Mars in Libra

Blake and Ryan are the epitome of what we imagine as the “ideal” couple—good looks, great banter, and a picture-perfect family. But with their Composite Mars sitting in Libra, you better believe that all those smooth, Instagram-worthy moments might be covering up a whole lot of tension bubbling beneath the surface. Composite Mars in Libra is frustrating because it’s like trying to drive a car with one foot on the gas and the other on the brake. You both have desires, needs, and ambitions, but instead of going after them directly, you’re caught up in this endless loop of overthinking and second-guessing. It’s like, “Should I say something? Should I not? What if they get upset? What if it’s not the right time?” Honey, by the time you’ve decided whether or not to make a move, the moment has passed, and you’re both left feeling like, “Why didn’t we just do something?”

Now, let’s talk about conflict—or rather, the lack thereof. Mars is all about action, right? It’s the planet that drives you to fight for what you want, to assert yourself, to claim territory. But in Libra, Mars is like, “Ugh, do we have to fight? Can’t we just talk it out?” And while talking is great, sometimes it just turns into endless debates where nothing actually gets resolved. You both might end up tiptoeing around real issues because neither of you wants to rock the boat. The result? Resentment. Deep, simmering, passive-aggressive resentment.

You might find yourselves in situations where instead of confronting issues head-on, you both play this subtle game of one-upmanship. It’s all about who can stay the most composed while silently stewing inside. The problem is, this doesn’t just create tension; it creates distance. You might start to feel like you’re walking on eggshells around each other, never quite sure when something small will blow up because it’s been left to fester for too long.

In relationships, this can be downright toxic. You’re supposed to be a team, but with Mars in Libra, you might feel like you’re constantly in this unspoken competition—who’s more agreeable? Who’s more accommodating? It’s exhausting! And when it comes to decision-making, don’t even get me started. You could spend forever weighing pros and cons, trying to find a solution that makes both of you happy, but end up doing nothing at all because you’re too afraid to make the wrong choice. It’s paralyzing.

And then there’s the bedroom. Mars in Libra wants everything to be balanced and beautiful, which sounds nice, right? But sometimes it feels more like performance art than passion. You’re both so concerned with making sure the other person is comfortable and satisfied that you forget to actually let loose and enjoy the moment. The result? A love life that can feel a bit…meh. All the ingredients are there, but the heat is turned way down because you’re both too polite to really go for what you want. Composite Mars in Libra can make it hard to trust each other. Not because you’re dishonest, but because there’s always this underlying question of, “Are they just saying that to keep the peace? Do they really mean it, or are they just trying to be nice?” That doubt can erode the foundation of your relationship over time, making it hard to feel truly secure with each other.

So, what’s the bottom line? Composite Mars in Libra will create a relationship that looks perfect on the surface—like one of those glossy Instagram couples—but underneath, it’s all about unspoken frustrations, missed opportunities, and a lot of unfulfilled potential. If you don’t address it head-on, this placement can slowly drain the passion and vitality out of your relationship, leaving you both feeling like you’re stuck in a beautiful but lifeless partnership. My advice? Don’t be afraid to get messy. Stop worrying so much about keeping the peace and start focusing on keeping it real. Otherwise, you risk ending up in a relationship that’s more about appearances than true connection, and darling, that’s no way to live.

Blessings,

Ash ✨

Get your own reading at astroash.net

[crazy-pages]

People like you showing Biden and other democrats that even genocide won’t stop you from voting for them, no matter what, have destroyed this country.

Fucking genocide apologist.

Okay I'm gonna rag on you for a moment because you're dropping anon-hate and anon-hate always deserves that, but then can we talk seriously?

First of all, lol, this is hopelessly optimistic of you to think that Biden's loss would change the mentality of the Democratic party when Hillary Clinton's loss didn't. It makes me look fondly back on my childhood when I was fresh-faced and naive enough to believe that a presidential loss could change the trajectory of a political party whose election officials, party apparatus members, and most of their elected officials will remain unchanged regardless of the outcome of a presidential election. I know you think you're a cynic kid, but trust me you have levels deeper to dig. Get on my level.

But to move past ragging on you and to speak seriously-

Sometimes, there is no winning move in an election.

Let's talk about an issue a bit more abstract than genocide first. I would really like the United States' business system to function more in line with socialist principles, where holding any sort of position of authority over others in a company requires the voluntary and democratic buy-in of those they oversee. I think unions don't go far enough, I want business executives to be elected and constrained in their actions by internally enforced constitutions.

And there is no elected official I could vote for to make that happen. They do not exist. But I can make decisions about which elected official will be easier to organize under, to get closer to making that happen. Who's going to be easier to fight? I'm not talking about voting for someone I think can be pressured into giving me what I want, I'm talking about someone who will simply be less hostile to organizing efforts. Sometimes that's as simple as "which state officials will let me have a graduate student union at all in this state?" and sometimes it's a question of what Supreme Court precedent I expect to be set by a president's judges, and which will be easier to fight later through other non-voting actions.

So here's the horrible, awful, sad truth I have for you.

There is no voting option for USA citizens, including non-participation, which will save the Palestinians in the Gaza Strip. We can hope for protests to continue to erode support and keep the issue in focus, we can use our financial positions to donate aid (as much as is allowed through), hell those of us with access can perform sabotage. But there is no voting option which will affect whether the genocide is permitted to continue by our officials, because this is a two-party oligarchy, not a genuine full democracy.

There is no voting option which will influence the long-term trajectory of the Democrats or the Republicans and whether they continue to be the kind of parties which will support genocide either. Neither is there a no voting or third party voting option which will replace either of them.

If you want that to happen, you're going to need to do organizing and disruptive actions outside the voting system. Maybe if we form enough connections at pro-Palestine protests, do enough organizing work, we can mimic the March on Washington and show up at Washington DC with a hundred thousand people and the implicit threat of "we are capable of putting this many people in the capitol, do not make us come back here". (It worked to get the Voting Rights Act passed).

But that organizing will not occur independent of our voting political system. Obviously not, Biden has been happy to give his seal of approval to police violence against pro-Palestine protests. But Trump's response to the Portland protests was worse. Much worse. He sent in federal troops who were even more violent than the college crackdowns and who black-bagged random people off the street to intimidate protestors, without even the fig-leaf of legal justification the college crackdowns have used (which is scary because it opens the door for even further escalation).

If you want to continue organizing outside the voting system, who is voted in is going to matter for that organizing. Biden is making it difficult, but it can be worse.

Also, Trump is going to make things much worse for a lot of different demographics, who will have much less available bandwidth to help with pro-Palestine organizing. One of my close friends is a trans woman living in California and right now she can and does help with the pro-Palestine movement. But if Trump is elected and passes federal anti-trans laws, that's not going to be possible for her anymore. She'll have to hunker down and go into defensive survival mode, just for the right to exist.

I know this probably sounds like me being derisive and saying, "Ohh, you're a single issue voter about genocide, tch, how naive!". But it's not. It's the practical reality of organizing. People who can commit hard, on the level necessary to affect change outside the voting system for people on the other side of the planet, are not people who are desperate and barely surviving. People who can help are people who are in a position to help others. And if Trump gets elected, a lot of people are suddenly not going to be in a position to help anyone but themselves, if even that.

As an extreme example, when Hitler came to power in Germany, well before the Holocaust got underway, he successfully killed socialist organizing in Germany. But not just because he was directly targeting them with police and the army. The previous regime had been doing that too and they hadn't successfully killed German socialism (hell they'd slaughtered socialists with cops after the socialists saved the freaking government from a coup, they were certainly no allies of socialism). But Hitler, by targeting Jews and disabled people and Romani and queer folk directly, hit populations who otherwise represented possible socialist allies. He made them hunker down and focus on purely self-defense, which allowed him to fully clean up socialist opposition before turning on minority demographics with the full force of the Holocaust.

Direct police violence against political opposition (what Biden has to offer) is less effective than that and a prejudicial campaign of dehumanization and oppression against demographic groups aligned with political opposition (what Trump has to offer).

If there's no voting option which will free Palestine (and there isn't), ask yourself the next question then. Is there a voting option which will free up people to help fight for Palestine's freedom?

If there is, and you're honestly more concerned about Palestinians than your own feeling of moral gratification, take it. Vote, get it over with, and then go back to doing the actual damn work.

[annagaw]

You seek permission to use my artwork? Read on!

AMENDMENT 09/10: I’m about to update my policies to address some previous oversights and frequent FAQs. Feel free to direct any queries via DM if you feel like I’ve not covered something!

My policy for using my artwork for book bindings is as follows:

I give permission for my work to be used ONLY for personal bindings and bindings intended as one-off gifts. I DO NOT give permission for my work to be reproduced in any way for profit. This includes, but is not limited to, bindings made for sale or other forms of distribution, even if the sale price only covers the binder’s material costs.

Basically, if any money is changing hands whatsoever, you do not  have my consent to use my work.

My policy for any public sharing of my artwork:

Please DO NOT post my work in other online spaces without my permission. Please DO NOT post my work separately on tumblr instead of reblogging. If you publicly share images of a personal bind that features my work, please DO tag/credit me in your post.

I won’t demand that every person who wishes to use my artwork for binding individually seek out my permission before doing so, but I’d really appreciate an acknowledgement in anything shared publicly. Partly because I just really want to see the beautiful things you make!

If anyone is unsure about whether their intended use falls within these parameters, my DMs are always open. :)

Closing Thoughts on Fan Works

Obviously, I am powerless to stop anyone taking my work and reproducing it without my consent. Such is the internet. I am sharing my fan art purely for the joy of participating in this community that I love. I am not here to in any way profit from that community, and I do not intend to ever hide myself behind a paywall or otherwise restrict access to my artwork. But online fan spaces, like all communities, require a degree of trust and mutual respect in order to survive.

We are so lucky to have spaces like tumblr and AO3, but we’ve already seen how a handful of bad-faith actors can undermine the integrity of these spaces, to the extent that authors and artists feel the need to withdraw entirely. By releasing our work into the world, creators are trusting that others will not take advantage of something they have given freely. So it’s hard not to feel a bit betrayed when people abuse that trust - and if that betrayal begins to erode the joy these interactions once held, then you start to wonder what it is you’re even doing here. What is the point in fandom if it’s no longer fun?

*anna has a mild existential crisis but it’s fine*

✨ Anyway, let’s keep fandom free and accessible for all! ✨

[thatsladyfaggottoyou]

Unfinished Snippet

Here's a bit of a piece that probably won't ever get finished since we've grown the characters so much since then, but I'd be sad if no-one ever got to read some of the really good bits.

Leaning into James's touch, Madeleine snorted. "I trust him like I trust the Moon," she said. "If it chooses to come crashing down, what possible defense do I have? I must simply trust its orbit and not concern myself with whether it can be swayed to come or go." Still, after a moment, she sighed and turned and buried her face in the curve of his neck. "Did you wish magic was real as a child? I... don't know that I did. I worried if it was that it would just be another thing we could hurt each other with. I didn't imagine the magic would have a say in how it was used." James wrapped his arms around her again, rubbing at her back as he held her close. "I remember entertaining ideas of magic when I was younger." That wasn't a lie, he did have a vivid imagination, even if it was stifled when he was still young. "And then the real word hit me a little too hard. Maybe that's why I'm still trying to fully wrap my head around what is happening right now. And maybe I will never truly get it." He paused and let his gaze fall over the baths for a moment, squinting through the steam as if he was searching for someone standing close by. "I just know that whatever this all is, wants us to be well. And for right now I'm going to take what I can get." "How strange is it, now, to think the real world has been this, too, all along?" Madeleine asked, and followed his gaze into the steam. It had taken a while for her to piece together when she'd first arrived. First, she'd thought perhaps magic cared more for intention than immediate action: if he wanted her to be comfortable, the place they were would make her comfortable. Slowly, though, that certainty eroded and realization dawned in its place. She dipped down into the water a moment, letting it cover her wholly to rid herself of the last of the soap before pulling herself up to sit on the edge of the pool, her legs still covered in the warm of the water. "You're wondering how he knows to move where things were left, to lift or drop the water, to warm the room, aren't you?" "It's a question that makes my mind go a bit muddy, honestly." James easily spoke the truth here, with her. He didn't even struggle to try to keep it in, it was just a second nature kind of thing. He turned his gaze to her and nodded, before slipping down into the water and do the same. When he put himself next to Madeleine again, he made sure to keep very close. There was only so much more time he had with her. "It has crossed my mind, maybe it's just a sense he has. Being Destiny and all. Like he has seen all of this happening, before." And even in the midst of the steam and soft lighting of the bath area, she would notice a touch of color on his cheeks.

The blush on his face brought a wide smile to her own, and Madeleine giggled as she kissed his cheek. "Has this only just occurred to you?" She teased, and when she reached to her side the bottles of juice and little snacks settled there were closer than they had been before they'd bathed. She popped open a jug of pomegranate juice and took a long sip before offering it to James. "What if it was stranger than that?" Madeleine asked, feet splashing a bit in the water. "What if he knew where we were because he was here, too? Not shaped as a man, but as a room. As a temple. As water and steam and air. Shaped as bottles and juice and... It is an impossibly strange sensation to think every stone of this place is not stone, but Destiny made to form. And then stranger, still, to think it changes to our comfort." James took the bottle from Madeleine and nearly choked on the sip he took as he listened to what she said. His gaze drifted to the bottle, and he stared at it with a baffled expression. For a moment a touch of the color that was in James' face faded to pale. They were in Destiny. "Well..." he started in a low almost whispered tone. "This brings a new meaning to the idea of strange doesn't it." "I feel like I'm right at the brink of understanding something," Madeleine admitted, and furrowed her brow in frustration. "He said--he said there was a library that his brother had, but it's not available because his brother is--and these are his own words--stuck in a trap of his own making. He said every book I could ever hope to find, every explanation I could ever need, would be there, but..." She sighed, at last drawing her feet from the water to rest her head atop her knees. "I am grateful that I can air this to you, at least. I do not think any of them can understand how impossible it all feels from the outside. Will you walk with me back to my rooms, and will you lie by me until you must go?" "In a trap of his own making? Goodness, that sounds dramatic." James laughed lightly, and turned to look at Madeleine, placing a hand gently on her back. "No I don't suppose they can really understand things from our side, can they?"

Standing up slowly, James stepped out of the pool, offering a hand for Madeleine to help her up. There was a low, amused snort when he looked to see warm towels and robes waiting for them in a large basket near where he stood that had not, when they’d entered, been present. "I'd like to lie with you until I have to leave. I...I'm not sure when I will see you again." Madeleine let James help her up, and let him fuss over drying her off, and stole kisses where she could. "I promise to keep your heart safe until you come back for it, then," she said, and led him to the door which had, before, opened into the hallway. Now, though, she swung it open and on the other side was her own quarters. Destiny had put her somewhere beautiful. The back wall was all glass, overlooking the sprawl of the garden and laced by ivy whose leaves would move to keep the sunlight from overtiring her. There was a sliding glass door that led onto a small balcony where plants languished from the rails, floral and drunk on the delicate breeze he'd learned she liked. The bed was wide and soft, and the furniture in the room was all warm-colored wood and glass and settled with flowers, foxglove and iris and hollyhock, spider lily and Queen Anne's lace. There were tea things in a cabinet, and a kitchenette with a small stove and oven, and even there greenery stretched throughout with herbs spilling over planters along the shelves. She sighed, and looked amused, and turned to James. "I think I see what I like about him, now; he's as bad as you are. I told him not to move the baths for my convenience--I suppose he did not move the baths, then, and thinks himself clever for it."

And, as if in response, the sun's light began to fade in soft sunset to splay colors across the bedroom. James smiled brightly, pulling Madeleine into his arms. He held her with an awed gentleness, as if she was the most rare thing to ever exist. "I'm beginning to like him more as time goes on." It would be the kind of thing James knew he would do if he had such power. He reminded himself to try to talk to Destiny later, to thank him for taking such good care of his love. As the light began to fade, James lead Madeleine over to the bed. He slipped her out of her robe, and helped her lie down. Slipping out of his own, he climbed into the bed beside her, wasting no time in pulling her back into his arms, stealing a soft kiss. "I love you." And as saddened as she was to think that when morning came she would once more be without him, Madeleine moved easy with James, pressing herself into his arms to kiss back sleepily. "I love you, too," she mumbled, and though she fought her best to stay awake and enjoy the way he held her sleep soon stole Madeleine to a dreamless rest--as was all sleep in Destiny's realm. Dreamless, but peaceful.

[findingariaene]

It feels hard to accept that I have value. Hard to trust in that being a reality. Subjectively, I know I have some value to others in such and such or so and so way, though it's easy to downplay or minimize said value. Concrete, enduring value; it's hard for me to say that life even has that sort of value. I feel like it's true, but then I also eat meat, don't I? And my ability to care intensely beyond my immediate circles is diminished, even though I'm still a fairly bleeding heart type.

The notion of, 'doing good makes you worthy' is hard to shake. For me, rather than everyone; it's far easier for me to be like, 'everyone deserves some understanding and respect for their personhood' even if they're a horrible affliction on others. Double standards. Why? Double standards seem really common in society, at least in our society, whether it's outwardly benevolent or cruel. 'I deserve more,' 'I deserve less.' I recognize the self-preservation, selfish defenses of 'I deserve more consideration/forgiveness/excuses' and it's been easy to push toward unraveling that to be less judgmental toward others. It's not frictionless to make progress on that front, but the purpose of it is clear and enduringly worthwhile to me. Being kind toward everyone is another matter, even though I gravitate toward it…

That's a tangent, though. Society bluntly and subtly cultivates that sense of 'not good enough' to fuel unease and its resulting purchases. Yay, capitalism. Then, personally, the wound of a willfully absent mother grew its own seed of worthlessness. That 'I wasn't worth sticking around for' grew much, much larger than what my dad sticking around communicated to me. It's too easy to dismiss his behavior as being morals and conviction, rather than proof of value. There's further unsettlement at his recent revelation that he got back with my mom so that my brother could be born to the same parents as I; that was more of a priority to him than being with her longterm, after she cheated on him and left the first time. I can't say how 'good' of a person my dad is, honestly. He's tangled between violence and not in a way I struggle to describe - heck, he struggles to adequately describe it, and I've asked many times.

Again, a bit of a tangent.

So, origins of double standards are clear enough. Why do they persist, though? Memories of arrogance, the shock of wounding others; they're hard to forgive in myself. To not build limiters and recursive incrimination to avoid inflicting pain again. Of course it's blurred the line between diligence and censure. Over time, disgust over indulgent self-pity proved more effective than else in driving me toward changing these behaviors. Not self-love or support. Which isn't to say I stopped feeling I deserved some castigation, I just… bled away the effort. Let it be belief with minimal activity.

That toxic mix of self-denial and self-hate has eroded much more than the social programming. Which surprises me and doesn't. The more I've leaned into transition, gender fuckery, embodiment, possessing an identity that wasn't mostly performance, the more sway the social programming has gained on me. The need to reach some threshold of femme beauty standards coalesced, specifically. There's a bleak humour in switching from disliking my height for decades to liking it, and not caring about facial hair to occasionally wanting to scar myself to stop growing hair in places. I'm surprised that I'm so surprised by that.

Positive social feedback feels important. More important than it should, from my perspective toward mental health, but social exclusion has always held vast power for our species. We thrive together and crumple alone. Still, clearing away internal notions of worthlessness will hopefully make it easier to selectively receive social feedback and create better filters between self and social programming. Hopefully.

It's enough of a path, anyway, and there's more of a self worth preserving now to motivate me. Self-valuation isn't merely instrumental anymore to the performance; it's vital to thriving. To making the most of what years remain in this life.

[onewomancitadel]

I've been seeing a lot of people recently correctly identify storytelling which doesn't take itself seriously and it being a major sticking point for audiences because it undermines emotional attachment, especially to weighty topics, and most of all erodes trust. Trust is very important for a story because you want to meet it halfway and invest your time.

This is a problem I have long talked about under my #narrative cynicism tag, which is a sort of broad approach - certainly a vernacular inapplicable academically - to understanding this phenomenon, which I don't put down purely to "millennial writing" or "MCU writing" as it's being variously called. The former I think erroneously attributes it to a generational problem (which might only be a correlation or time of the fad), and the latter is, in so many words, calling it "commercial" - something easy and palatable, less story, more fluff and snark. Except I don't think snark itself is the problem either, but sticks out with refrains such as "so that just happened!" which lampshade happenings of the genre. Sometimes that can even be cute.

I view it as quite a nuanced problem with manifold influences, everything from hack writing which copies other hack writing, to an attempt to self-criticise first in a protective insulation from critics and from anybody trying to take it seriously, to an inability to handle sincere sentiment - a timeless issue, but maybe exacerbated in the medium for sentimentals by burgeoning cringe culture and commercial crap -, to "don't think about it too hard, just enjoy it" culture even present amongst writers and critics, to what is probably the main thesis of my tag, a self-awareness of narrative, its function and forms, and an inability to handle this self-awareness maturely, and to respect narrative as a craft - whether that comes in the form of the belief that storytelling is reality and there should be no "storytelling form" or an embarrassment at the idea of narrative conventions and dialogue form altogether, and the seriousness of character, plot, and theme. ("Themes are for eighth-grade book reports"). These are all entangled.

Once you add in the fact that there is a prevailing belief - which I would cite as being incorrect and a condescending view of the general audience at large - that writing doesn't matter, and writers don't matter, and bad writers fail upwards, and audiences will take whatever is offered - spectacle matters more than substance - whatever gets the job done in the time offered is all that's really considered critical at a broad level. When it comes to film and television and video games, there are also plenty of cultural influences and perceptions influencing the fact that writing falls to the wayside. That this has also influenced literature is less excusable (and more specific issues with literature there to do with prose and form - "windowpane prose" - a disbelief in the one tool you have as a writer, your writing).

It's a big problem. It's been interesting to read the exhaustion with this problem and other attempts to articulate it and it's given me a bit to think about too. Undoubtedly I have probably left out influencing elements - I may have even really failed to be specific enough to make my point, but this is a hard thing to capture, really an ambient sort of trend. Probably, in a large part, this is a very particular fad that is a desired style, not accidental, and so should be analysed as a stylistic trend. Is it successful? I don't think so, no; even silly and light stories can take themselves seriously, and I think taking yourself seriously is how you don't go fucking crazy as a writer. It just doesn't portend well in the long run.

[meikuree]

fanfic author self-recs

thank you @chocochipbiscuit for tagging me - this was a delightful challenge! tagging @rose-gardens @mikbates @pretty-rage-machine @mariaaxescallop @leksaa90 @ostreatus @minoan-ophidian​ and anyone else who’d like to do this.

diving in, my five:

1) the sun coming out (Jiyeong/Kang Saebyeok) - Squid Game: wrote this for a lovely recip in an exchange, who liked/wanted post-canon fic. in practice I like exploring aftermaths & fix-its where people’s road(s) to happiness still have to be worked for and not every kink’s been smoothed out, and this fic is a prime example of that for me.

alternative tldr: “LOOK at the parallels between jiyeong and saebyeok. LOOK at them” fic complete with cooking and partial recovery. I’m deeply lucky my recip enabled my, uh, runaway domestic jiyeong/saebyeok aspirations and the latitude to write all that. <3

2) the slow mending (Pieck/Hange) - Shingeki no Kyojin: wrote this for a prescient friend -- my concept line was something like... political & historical differences patched through the good old reliable tactic of learning to read, understand, and trust your enemies. I’m still fond of this bit:

So Hange, conscious of historical precedence—what they have both usually done to each other in encounters like this, her titan’s gravestone teeth in Shiganshina and their aggression in Liberio—tries something new instead. They clasp her clean hand in theirs, and draw it close against their face. At the sensation of the contact-burn, her elevated shifter heat kissing their fingers, Hange very gently presses their lips to her hand.

3) to walk along the edge (Pieck/Annie) - Shingeki no Kyojin: this was a sophomore fic; some parts induce the facepalm emoji now, but I’m also surprised by how well certain parts hold up, and I think of this in some ways as a magnum opus.

despite the heavy subject matter and unhappy ending, I’ve been told this fic is comforting, and that humbles me. I sometimes find sad and bittersweet stories more comforting than staunchly happy ones myself; whether consciously or not, I think my writing here came from that same place.

4) blood to gold (Pieck/Hange) - Shingeki no Kyojin: looking back now this fic set up all my Classic Hits like, grief/mourning, hope amidst bleakness, thoughtful narrative voices, and so on. I wrote this shortly after reading the widely circulated essay Against the Logic of the Guillotine. I still like these lines:

Vengeance feels like a guillotine—an entity that wants justice to be served with a swift, purifying cut. Let history renew itself on a clean slate free of enemies.

5) the centre cannot hold (genfic; Hitch & Annie) - SNK: situational horror! missing scenes! stoic characters having said stoicism eroded! the slippage of time and memory; writing this was a blast.

[chosonore]

summary: gojo has a sweet tooth but the sweetest thing he craves is you.

a/n: aha apparently i'm on a roll with all the fluff? this was supposed to be 1k words of fluff but slandering gojo but i just didn't have the heart to lmaoo i'm all bark no bite. for miss ramsay, whom i've announced to that i would be writing this haha

“yo- hooo! honey, i’m home!” gojo’s sudden announcement of his return scared the shit out of you, making you drop the spoon you were holding. the metallic clang of the spoon on the counter mingled with gojo’s melodious laughter, filling the previously quiet apartment with life. he leaned over the counter, pressing a kiss to your cheek. gojo knew full well that you were easily scared, having scolded him on multiple occasions not to just appear in the apartment out of nowhere. still, he couldn’t help but doing it every now and then to see you jump out of your skin - you were just too adorable, especially the pout on your lips afterwards that he would always kiss away.

suspiciously, you eyed the bag gojo placed on the counter and gave him an even more suspicious look when he didn’t meet your eye. “you went and got mochi again, didn’t you?”

“i don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“satoooruuu,” you whined, jabbing your finger at his chest. “i told you not to eat so many sweets, it’ll ruin your teeth. and don’t eat them before dinner, you’ll just get a stomach ache. and complain about not being able to finish your portion.”

“i know, i know, but i couldn’t help it. just a little end of workday treat? no?” he made some kissy noises as he rounded the corner to wrap you into his arms, grinning when you tried to slither your way out of his grasp. “don’t you think your awesome, sweet and handsome boyfriend deserves some love for his good - no, excellent - work?”

“uh i think my awesome, sweet and handsome boyfriend should help me make dinner,” you retorted with a slightly annoyed voice. you couldn’t stay mad at him for too long, not when he was always so good to you despite his eccentric and loud personality that drowned out everything else. his presence filled up every corner of your life, so big and full of life that it was difficult to think of anything else. not that you minded, you loved him after all. but every now and then, it became a little overbearing. it was then that you realized why some of the other sorcerers were often annoyed by him. the walls around his heart and vulnerable self were high, clad in iron and spikes. nothing could shake him to the core, he was always prepared for everything, always on guard. after all, throughout heaven and earth, he alone was the honored one.

as your relationship progressed, your dynamic became like the tides of the sea. a calm force, a gentle push and pull that slowly eroded the walls around your hearts, allowing them to instead fill with each others’ warmth. with only you around, he was willing to open up and let you in. gradually, you learned more and more about him. about his past, his fears, his hopes. he trusted you with everything, trusted you more than anyone else in this world. and just like the tides, he allowed you to flood his senses and thoughts as soon as he was in the comfort of your home.

“fine, what can your humble servant do for you?” you rolled your eyes and handed him a handful of potatoes and instructed him to peel them and cut them into small wedges so you could roast them in the oven. gojo grumbled a little, not liking this task one bit but proceeded nonetheless. he took the infamous blindfold off, tossing it in the basket near the entrance. tousling his unruly hair to fix it, he then came back to resume his task. as he cut the potatoes, he was quietly humming to a familiar tune, one that you recognized as one of the songs you’d introduced to him a week ago. it made you smile, knowing that he memorized the little things about you, that made you so undeniably and unequivocally you.

you turned your back to him, busying yourself with the sauce that you were preparing. gojo might be really bad at cooking but you trusted him not to hurt himself or turn the potatoes into a complete disaster. it didn’t stay quiet for too long - a few minutes later, you could hear gojo giggling behind you. first quietly, then louder, a joyful laughter like that of a child. you turned to see what he was up to, only to see him hold a potato up.

“look, i cut a potato in the shape of a heart,” gojo was still giggling, barely able to contain the laughter. he was snorting, for some reason finding the potato so funny that he couldn’t stop. “i’m in love with the shape of you.” his own joke made him laugh even more, leaving you staring at him confused. but his laughter was contagious, making the corners of your lips lift just the slightest.

“are you saying i’m a potato? a heart shaped potato?”

“no, i would never!” gojo gasped, clutching his chest as he was trying to catch his breath. “i’m saying that you’re love-shaped. if love had a form, it would be you.”

“you’re not making any sense,” you snorted but couldn’t help but feel touched at his words. looking away from him, you tried to hide the tears that were gathering at the corners of your eyes. sometimes, you still couldn’t believe that you snagged someone like him. in weak moments, the overwhelming intensity of your feelings for him often made y ou question whether this was real, whether this wasn’t just a comfortable and happy dream that you would have to wake up from.

“are you crying?” gojo asked concerned, quickly padding over to you to engulf you in a hug. defiantly, you shook your head, not wanting him to worry about your silly outburst of emotion. he grabbed your chin, tilting it up so you would look at him. the sight of his cerulean eyes was something you could probably never get used to, blue like the bright sky on a sunny day and glimmering with mysteries that you sought to uncover. he reached up to wipe your tears away, peppering soft butterfly kisses across your face. “i didn’t mean to make you cry. was it because you thought i insinuated that you were a potato? you're not a potato at all. more of a peach, maybe.”

“no, of course not,” vehemently, you shook your head. “uh i just thought what you said about me being love-shaped was really uh. nice of you.”

gojo grinned, wrapping his free arm around your waist to pull you flush against his body and pressed his warm lips against yours. “you know i love you, hm? my love-shaped human being,” he mumbled, pretending to bite your cheek. you laughed, swatting him gently and tried to push him away. “you’re so sweet, i could just eat you up.”

“shut up, satoru. we all know you prefer the mochis more.”

“huh, who said that?? out of all sweets, you’re my favourite.”

[gumnut-logic]

Mosaic Beach

It has taken me since Thursday morning (it is now Saturday night) to write this goes-nowhere-piece-of-fluff. I had a low level migraine Wednesday night and felt awful Thursday morning, so the first 850 odd words are me visualising being in a better place other than outside my daughter’s school. Then Scott had something to say and promptly ate my fic. But then at least he was thinking about Virgil.

Also, Gordon is evil.

As always, many thanks to @tsarinatorment​ @scribbles97​ and @janetm74​ for the read throughs and support. You guys are amazing to me :D

I hope you enjoy this totally lazy fic ::hugs you all::

-o-o-o-

It was a lazy day.

Virgil suspected John, who had been kicked off Five the day before, had Eos routing all but the most dire situations to local authorities whether Scott authorised it or not.

There were days where Virgil wondered if Scott was really in charge, since John had so much ultimate say.

But that thought was for another day. He was tired and it was likely going to be a day off - please let it be a day off - and he was going to find a corner of the Island to sit alone and scribble in his sketchbook.

He ended up on Mosaic Beach, a personal favourite on the edge of the caldera. Gordon had mentioned it the day before regarding the quality of flotsam available after the last storm and Virgil thought he would see what he could find.

It was overshadowed by an ancient pokey tree brilliant in red blossom and the sand here was a mass of black and white swirls as the coral detritus fought the eroded igneous rocks – the reason they had given it its name. Gordon was right - there was all sorts of things tossed up the sand and Virgil spent the first half hour wandering along the strip of sea wrack picking up shells and whatever caught his eye.

One of the shells appeared determined to return to the ocean and it was with a small smile that he picked up the tiny hermit crab and watched it curl up into its shell.

Holding it gently in his palm, he sought the shade of the giant tree and sat down on the sand in its shadow. Here the breeze was gentle, the sand cool and, leaning back against a rock, he set the little crab down on a smooth patch of sand, along with his small hoard of shells and let it scamper across the little landscape that resulted.

Sketchbook out, he spent the next few minutes sketching the crab madly as it moved about. It shifted angle at random and he found himself increasingly switching from real life to a character sketch. A little personality sprouted from the page that reflected the little crab’s determination.

Ever aware of the crab’s needs above his own, he sketched fast, took a few photos and then gathered the little creature in his hands once more. He trotted down to the rock pools at the edge of the beach and found a spot he felt the crab would be happy.

Crouching down, he watched it scamper into the water.

His lips curved into a smile.

Gordon would know what species it was, where it lived and how to best care for it. Virgil was pretty sure he knew what type it was. Mel was pedantic about crabs and had given them a list of ‘these are endangered, tell me if you see them, kill one and I will kill you’. Fortunately or unfortunately, it wasn’t a long list, so Virgil had memorised it. This little guy...he should be happy here.

The crab found some weed and promptly hid under it.

The rockpool drew Virgil’s eye a little longer before he finally stood up and let the breeze cool his face. A sigh at the sun’s warmth and he wandered back to the shadow of the pokey tree and sat down again.

The little crab stared up at him from his sketchbook, spritely and determined.

Kind of like Gordon really, despite the claws.

That prompted a smile at the thought of his fish brother’s reaction to being compared to a crab.

He would squawk, but he would love it.

Virgil returned to sketching the shells and bits of coral he had collected. Rearranging them, repositioning for lighting. He picked one up and stared at the colours created by a little mollusc. He was ever amazed at what Mother Nature was capable of. Simple geometrics and chemical formulae made one of the world’s strongest and most beautiful substances in nacre. Another broken shell showed the rainbow of colour that he knew his paintbrush would never quite be able to capture, much less the pencil and stick of carbon he had with him today. He was left with a little snapshot from his phone...which was never quite the same either...and what his memory could provide.

Perhaps it was nature’s way of ensuring it was always the most beautiful.

He shifted to scribbling down the beachscape after that. It wasn’t the first time he had drawn this beach, but as with all beaches, it was different every day as the tide sculpted it.

His fingers grew more and more lazy, his lines wandering through more emotion than reality as the day drifted on. At some point, he ate the sandwich he had packed, quite happy to not care what time of day it was and refusing to look at his watch.

Eventually the sketchbook was set aside and he let himself just stare out at the ocean lagoon, eyes tracking the movement of the distant waves and the laps of the ripples against the shore.

And nature’s rhythms lulled him to sleep.

-o-o-o-

“Hey, big bro, you might want to drop by Mosaic Beach before the tide comes in.” Gordon waltzed past the desk Scott was sitting at with a smirk on his face.

“What?” Scott’s brain was still stuck in working out what the hell Simmonds meant by the ‘urgent memo’ that had interrupted his afternoon off.

“The snoring is scaring away all the wildlife.” With that Gordon grabbed a book off the shelf on the far side of the room and backtracked out the way he had come in...without another word.

Scott was left staring where his brother had been.

But then Gordon was worth ignoring some times.

He turned back to his display and continued to try and work out why Simmonds had ordered sixty plastic flamingoes and then memo’d him about it in a panic.

It took him a good few minutes more before throwing it back at Simmonds’ supervisor in Japan with a ‘concerned’ note.

What did Tracy Industries need with sixty plastic flamingoes?

He shook his head and forced himself to stand up and not invest any more in any comms from the business. Today was hopefully his day off and he refused to fall into the trap of losing himself in all the things that required attention.

All the things.

He paused mid rise.

But no. No! Vacation day. He forced himself away from the desk and out onto the balcony.

It was a beautiful out here. The afternoon sun was blazing in a brilliant blue sky without a single cloud. The sea was murmuring far below. It was an artist’s dream.

He blinked as certain Gordon utterings connected neurons together.

A frown. “Gordon!”

No answer.

Another frown and he strode back inside, following the recent tracks of his fish brother down to the kitchen.

Scott found him reading at the table, a phone that was most definitely not his in one hand and the book in his other.

There were lots of photos of crabs.

“What are you doing?”

“Confirming the identification of a crab.”

“Why?”

“Virg found one down on Mosaic Beach and I wanna make sure it is what I think it was so I can report it to Mel.”

The dots that had been connecting earlier fused into a solid line with an arrow pointing directly at Gordon. “And where is Virgil?”

“Snoozing on the beach.”

“And why do you have his phone?”

“Because his drawings were excellent, but I needed a colour shot.”

“Gordon!”

His brother didn’t even look up. “What?” But then he blinked and frowned at Scott. “He’s fine. Well above the high tide line.” A glance down at the book again. “There, that’s it. Oooh, Mel is going to be so excited.”

Scott glared at Gordon for a whole second longer before storming over and snatching the phone out of his hands. Without another word, he strode out of the kitchen and took the path that would lead him down to the reported beach.

Younger brothers were hard work.

The little beach wasn’t the closest on the Island. Probably one of the reasons Virgil chose it to get away from pesky younger brothers. Trust Gordon to find him anyway.

He fingered Virgil’s phone in his hand as he walked. The green leather case was embossed with an elaborate dragon design.

Looking at it, all he could really feel was fondness.

He must be tired. Grandma was right. He needed a day off.

Easier said than done. It wasn’t like he could park himself on a beach and fall asleep.

He grunted as he stepped over some rocks to start the climb down to the little cove. The path was thin and wove amongst several pōhutukawa trees – or pokey trees as Alan called them, their dark green leaves adorned with puffs of red blossom. Birds darted between them squawking at each other. That combined with the surf in the distance and the breeze rattling palm trees, it wasn’t the quietest of places.

Nevertheless, he found his brother sprawled against a rock under the largest pokey tree at the edge of the beach, snoring his head off.

Definitely noisy.

Virgil was dressed in an old pair of work shorts and a t-shirt with a hole in it. Both sported spatters of paint and clearly showed how relaxed his brother was trying to be.

Beside him on a rock, carefully placed, no doubt by Gordon, the brat, was a sketchbook and a box of drawing tools. Virgil’s artist backpack lay folded up supporting his head - again likely Gordon.

Virgil snorted and curled up just a little more against the rock.

Gordon was a shit, but he was a kind one. Virgil slept like the dead and would likely need one of those waves off in the distance to wash over him if he was going to wake up before he wanted to.

Staring a moment longer, Scott sighed, gave up and sat down beside his brother. He dropped the phone onto the sketchbook and looked out at the beach.

Virgil continued to snore.

His biggest little brother had always snored. Scott had cornered him and got him tested for a variety of sleep issues, but he was fine. Just loud.

The terrible two used to make a point of pointing it out as much as possible. But that was before the hydrofoil accident.

Gordon didn’t know it, but due to his injuries, he now snored, too.

The ribbing about snoring in the Tracy household had dropped to a minimum since, Gordon the only unknowing ribber.

But Virgil remained the major noise maker and the brothers worshipped the soundproofing in the villa.

Regardless of the racket, Scott did find it strangely quiet out here. Sitting on the sand with nothing to do was oddly relaxing. Of course, he wasn’t really one to do nothing and Virgil’s sketchbook was right there. Gordon had obviously already stuck his nose into it and Scott was pretty sure Virgil wouldn’t mind if he took a peek.

Would he?

Lifting the phone off the book, Scott carefully picked it up and nestled it in his lap...ever, ever so careful. Okay, so he had some respect and not a little fear of damaging Virgil’s artwork.

The pages were thick and stiff and likely designed to support wet media as much as dry. Most of the work in it was pencil, however, maybe some charcoal? The darks were so deep in some that they had to be.

But Scott was no artist and really only had eyes for the content.

The first page found him looking at himself. Virgil had obviously either captured Scott’s likeness on the sly or drawn from a photo or holoprojection. His drawing stared up at him in almost all three dimensions. The expression on his graphite face was thoughtful, almost wistful. He could see his rendered self was thinking or planning and totally distracted...which was likely why he had no clue his brother had captured this shot.

But the artistic strokes were strong and sure, simple in their complexity.

Scott blinked, moved that his brother was so talented and capable.

Though he really shouldn’t be surprised.

Turning the page, he discovered their grandmother.

He had to smile. The concentration on Grandma’s face was almost comical. A bowl and a recipe book sat in front of her and the very tip of her tongue stuck out of the side of her mouth as she frowned at whatever she was reading.

There was a touch of caricature in the drawing, a little exaggeration, but done with love and fondness, not mockingly. His grandmother was beautiful.

Scott swallowed and turned the page to find several detailed scribbles. They looked like pieces of machinery and the pages had notes written down the sides.

It was a spark moment. He knew Virgil well enough for that. One of those times when his thoughts all came together and saw him running naked out of the shower to grab whatever he could find and get it written down.

Several major equipment improvements had occurred exactly this way. It appeared that at some point, this sketchbook had been the nearest note book and had borne the brunt.

He stared at the diagrams, doing his best to work out exactly what they were. Sharp notation, numbers, that had to be the backend of a pod. It clicked. This was part of the pod assembly redesign from the previous year. Virgil had come to him with some major improvements, including a pod body redesign. What followed had been a massive overhaul of all the ‘birds’ assembly systems and a whole new set up, including colour changes according to which Thunderbird housed which pod. Virgil and Brains had been buzzing for weeks.

And it was possible it had all started here on this piece of paper. Now he could see the scribbled down inner workings of the assembly mechanism and the shape on the second page was a worked and reworked pod shell.

He glanced over at his brother who was still snoring peacefully. Virgil was amazing. Scott could not have been prouder of what his little brother had achieved. Yet Virgil never really boasted or bragged or even highlighted what he had done. He was just there. Always there, one step behind him ready to help.

He must be really tired because now he was getting emotional. There had been a few times in the last couple of years where he had come close to losing Virgil. He hadn’t, but there had been nightmares and many a night where he had spent reassuring himself that his biggest brother was still with him.

And yes, he could stand outside his brother’s bedroom door and listen to him snore.

It gave him comfort.

Gordon had caught him once.

That had been a heartbreaking moment.

Because his fish brother hadn’t said a thing, just reached up, squeezed his shoulder, dropped his forehead against Scott’s arm and just stood there for a solid moment. Another gentle squeeze and he left, not even looking up at Scott before he was gone.

It said more than any words.

Scott sighed and turned the page...only to come face to face with Gordon again. Though this time the joy in their fish brother’s eyes was lighting up the page. He was grinning at a shell and there was a speech bubble - ‘Virgil, come and see this!’

Scott had to smile. Gordon was notorious for sharing his beach discoveries. Virgil was usually the target because at least he knew a little bit about their little brother’s fascinations. Scott loved to see Gordon happy, but honestly, he couldn’t tell the difference between one shell or another. He tried. He honestly did, but Virgil had the patience of a saint and was much more engaging.

Scott loved to watch the two of them instead.

And yes, he saw Virgil sneak things into his pockets. Usually shells, but occasionally rocks and bits of coral. Those finds made their way back to Virgil’s studio and there was a whole corner devoted to marine still life.

Which was why it was no surprise when the next three pages of sketchbook turned out to be exactly that. A curly shell, a pile of cockle shells - Scott knew those at least - they were good for fishing. The third page had a plan for a reef painting. It had scribbled notes, much like the pod redesign pages, but this was based around a sketched layout. Scott frowned at it...it was vaguely familiar. He would have to ask Virgil about it when he woke.

The next two pages sported today’s efforts. The same beach he was sitting on emerged from the paper, along with some sketches of a crab. The first few were realistic, but the last one had the little hermit crab with an IR symbol on its side and one of Dad’s old uniform hats perched on top of its shell. It bore a sash that resembled Virgil’s despite the lack of green colour and one of its claws was bigger than the other in a very exo-suit-like way.

That had Scott grinning. This was no doubt the reason why Gordon had run for the crab book. Mel, in her position of Director of the Kermadec Expedition south of them on Raoul Island, was very particular about the endemic crabs on all the islands in the area.

He wondered what she would think of them inducting crabs into IR.

He wondered what she was doing today and if she might be available later for a nice evening together.

That thought was very distracting and had nothing to do with crab identification at all.

Virgil snorted, rolled over off his backpack and face first into the sand.

Scott startled, fully expecting a woken bear of a brother to surface from that.

But Virgil just kept snoring, now snorting sand as well.

He placed the sketchbook down, scrambled around his brother and gently shoved the folded backpack under his head again.

His fingertips brushed sand off Virgil’s face.

And he found himself sitting beside his brother again.

Why was he out here?

Because Gordon was evil and dangled the concept of Virgil drowning in the tide simply to aggravate him enough to do exactly what he did.

Gordon was a shit.

But a good one.

Another sigh and he lay back against the rocks and got comfortable, because, let’s face it, he wasn’t going back up to the villa without Virgil. His brother was safe, sure, but walking off and leaving him to the elements ran against his grain.

And Gordon knew it.

He would throttle, and possibly hug, his fish brother later.

Besides, it was nice out here, taking a moment to just be.

Virgil would approve.

Virgil would fake being asleep just to get him to do it.

Scott’s eyes darted to his now softly snoring brother, a sudden suspicion at the forefront of his thoughts. He would put it past either of Virgil or Gordon’s conniving ways to conspire to get him out here.

Virgil was drooling a wet patch onto his backpack.

Ugh.

Well, maybe not.

Perhaps he was just being paranoid.

Perhaps he just needed to relax.

Relax.

He closed his eyes and folded his hands in his lap. Kayo was good at meditation. So was Gordon. Virgil did some connecting with nature thing that seemed to work for him.

Exhibit A snorted as if in agreement.

He could try.

Out of all the sounds he could hear, only one really held his attention.

That same soft snoring. No waves or wind or birds squawking brought him any kind of comfort.

The sound of his brother breathing evenly beside him, safe and sound, was the most beautiful sound in the world.

What that said about him...well, he didn’t care right now. He was tired and worn out. Maybe Gordon was right. Maybe this is what he needed. He should care, should be annoyed, but the rhythm was lulling and, god, he was so tired.

So goddamned tired.

Virgil kept breathing and Scott followed him into sleep.

-o-o-o-

Hidden in the foliage of the grove of pokey trees behind his two brothers, Gordon just smiled.

-o-o-o-

[thetaoofzoe]

FIC: Strawberries In Bed 1/1

Title: Strawberries In Bed 

Pairing: Napoleon Solo x Wife Angela (OFC)

Challenge: 25 DAYS OF CAVILL by @emjayewrites

Summary: Napoleon absolutely loves spoiling his family on the Holidays. 

Word Count: 3000

Rating: Extreme Holiday fluff, oral sex (female receiving), some  intimate hand about the neck (female receiving), Napoleon is a boss and Angela loves it. Mature.

‘Bishop to knight 4,’ said Illya.

He looked up at his laptop camera, and smirked with satisfaction. The move was absolute perfection. There was no way he could lose now.

Sighing, Napoleon took a moment to recognise the move. Then, feeling resigned to losing yet again, he nudged Illya’s corresponding piece to the requested place on his own chess board. He studied how terribly boxed in he was and scowled. Illya was a genius chess player and Napoleon had learned a lot from him when they played on long, quiet missions. Unfortunately, their long quiet missions were long behind them, at least for a while and they had to resort to playing their games by correspondence.

How Illya could be more insufferable when they played their games through Skype, Napoleon just couldn’t understand.

If Illya was doing well, he would call for Gaby to come congratulate him and force Napoleon to watch her spindly-legged uncoordinated ‘Illya is beating Napoleon at chess. AGAIN!’ dance in the background.

‘Doesn’t look like you’re doing too well, Cowboy,’ Illya gloated and moved in close to the camera as if trying to peer through the screen and down at Napoleon’s board. ‘Make sure you move it to right square this time. Put camera down. I want to see.’

Rolling his eyes, Napoleon tilted his own laptop screen down and he could hear Illya laughing.

‘Good, Cowboy. Now, how to get out of this?’

Napoleon righted the laptop again and glowered at his friend’s very punchable face.

‘I’ll get out of it,’ he swore. ‘I just need a moment.’

Napoleon knew he wasn’t going to get out of it, but he wanted to make Illya believe that he had a trick up his sleeve. However, Illya didn’t buy it for a second.

‘Gaby!’ Illya called, turning to look over his shoulder and into the room behind him. ‘Napoleon will not get out of this. Get your dance ready.’

Not wanting to see the dreadful dance, yet again, Naopleon held up one finger, telling Illya to just wait one minute, when a piercing scream broke him out of his muse.

The smoke alarm!

Napoleon looked into Illya’s startled face. The noise must have have been loud enough to come across the computer’s microphone.

‘Convenient!’ Illya said. ‘When check is about to happen!’

‘Later!’ Napoleon snapped and shut the laptop.

There were more pressing matters to attend to now.

Napoleon opened the door of his den and stepped out to the smell of smoke in the air. Sniffing, trying to discern if it was house material burning or if it was food burning, he hurried down the hallway from the den, and into the broad tastefully decorated L-shaped living room. He glanced at the holiday pennants strung above the gas fire burning in the hearth and at the gaily decorated Christmas tree next to it. No fire there.

Turning the corner that led to the adjoining kitchen, he stopped short. From his vantage point he could see into the newly remodelled kitchen where his beautiful and capable wife stood looking helplessly at a spot on the floor beyond the long white marble topped island.

‘Angie, baby!’ Napoleon shouted above the roar of the exhaust fan and the bleating alarm. ‘What are you doing?’

The kitchen was a disaster and Angela gestured helplessly around her as if she couldn’t decide what fire needed to be put out first.

He extinguished the alarm, pulled open the sliding patio doors to let out the lingering smoke, and then went to attend to his wife.

Holding a bag of frozen peas against her palm, Angie stood over an overturned pan of burned sugar cookies on the floor.

‘I thought… I wasn’t expecting it to be so hot through the towel,’ she lamented and drew away the peas to examine the damage the edge of the cookie tin had done to her skin. ‘And then everything just went…’

She made another gesture around and Napoleon couldn’t fight down the sudden surge of adoration for her.

Tsking, Napoleon crouched to sweep the cookies onto the tray, which he then put on the counter.

‘Aw,’ he cooed, and she looked sharply at him, upon hearing the amusement in his voice.

‘It’s not funny,’ she warned him. ‘You’d better not laugh.’

Napoleon made a zipping and locking motion across his mouth, but didn’t suppress the smile that threatening to turn his night into a stint on the couch. He reached drew her close.

‘My poor baby.’

He cradled her hands between his and saw a glassy, angry red streak across her left palm. It didn’t look too bad, so he walked her to the sink and turned on the tap.

‘You’re still making fun of me,’ she groused, leaning her head against him as he held her hand beneath the cool flow.

‘Nonsense,’ he answered fondly and kissed her forehead.

Angie sighed and smiled as the throbbing pain in her hand finally subsided. She liked when Napoleon took control, whether it was of the situation or if it was of her directly. It made her feel loved and looked after. He was very good at taking control. And maybe, though she would not admit it to anyone but herself, it fostered a certain kind of helplessness in her, in order to facilitate Napoleon’s white knight tendencies.

Lifting her face, she nudged his cheek with the tip of her nose and she could see him smile. But, he stubbornly kept his attention on holding her hand beneath the water. She hummed softly and nudged him again.

‘Stop,’ he said firmly. ‘I’m concentrating.’

He wasn’t really concentrating. It was just one of the games they liked to play. Warm up the tiger before he pounces.

Angie reached into the water with her free hand and gathered her fingers into a line along the edge of her curled in thumb, threatening to flick the water from her dripping fingers and onto Napoleon.

That got his attention and with interest, one dark elegant brow flicked upwards.

‘This shirt costs nine hundred euros,’ he warned with a laugh. ‘Dry clean only.’

‘Then give me what I want,’ she replied easily, a teasing smile turning up the corners of her lush mouth.

Napoleon closed the taps and grabbing a tea towel, he gently and thoroughly dried her hands before leaning in to kiss her sweet lips. He backed her up against the edge of the counter and leaned his weight into her. Angie reached to slide her arms round his neck and made a small noise of protest when he grabbed her wrists and pressed her hands down on the countertop.

Trapped, she thought, and the warmth of pleasure suffused her skin.

Napoleon was an absolutely beautiful, high quality man. They’d met five years ago during a masked New Years Eve party and had kissed each other at the stroke of midnight before they had even exchanged names and they had been inseparable ever since.

But, they couldn’t make out like newlyweds in the kitchen when there was a holiday dinner party to prepare for.

She drew away just a little to catch his attention, to remind him that he had still had husbandly tasks to complete before the evening get-together, but he chased her, increasing the pressure of his kiss and slipping the tip of his tongue into her mouth. The heat and familiarity of that possession redirected her intentions and Angela’s thoughts scattered like rose petals on a soft spring wind.

Napoleon circled her waist and leaned back. It took a moment to register that he has moved at all and with a disappointed mewl, she opened her eyes. She looked up into his face, that face that promised that he would never hurt her, but that he would do everything he could to treat her like the queen she was.

The queen to his king.

‘C’mon baby. Up you go,’ he murmured lustily, crouching just a little to hoist her up onto the counter.

Angela reached for him, needy and wanting and slid her hands through his neat hair. Her fingers tightened and gripped him so that he had no choice but to look up at her. When their eyes met again, a silent agreement passed between them.

‘Be a good boy,’ she hissed and wetting his lips, he grinned.

‘Always, darling.’

Napoleon curled his fingers beneath the waist band of her velour tracksuit bottoms and as she lifted herself, he slowly worked then down along her strong, creamy thighs. Her hand tightened in his hair again when he leaned in to kiss her velvety inner thigh. He hummed quietly, relishing the sweetness of her skin, the silkiness of her, and the pulse of her heat that rapidly eroded his self control. He nudged her until she collapsed back on her elbows, and opened herself to his touch. Angela shifted and wriggled just enough, spreading her legs as far as the bottoms would allow. The thick elastic bit into her thighs but it was a punishment that she’d willingly withstand in order to quench the suffering craving she had for her man. She moaned quietly, carefully, still aware of the slow delicate breath that lingered in her chest. She was still aware of how she looked to him, alluring and picture perfect, teetering on the precipice of her awakening desire. She was so close to tipping over the edge.

And Angela kept the sound of pleasure that threatened to escape her lips, a wicked reaction to the slow deliberate stroke of Napoleon’s slippery, questing tongue along her slit.

She arched up high on her elbows and the trembling desire to be dominated by him drew the worst out of her, the part of her that would willingly degrade herself for him. Only him.

Napoleon dragged her to the edge of the counter and slid his hand up her belly, between her breasts to where he eased his fingers about her throat. Angela whined with anticipation of delicious pressure and pushed into his grip giving him permission to keep going. Those strong fingers remained cupped possessively but did not exert any additional force. Angela knew she would come apart at being denied, but she trusted him. She knew him. Napoleon was holding back. This was not the beast he could become, just a shadow of it for now, as there would be time enough for that later.

Napoleon knew exactly what he was doing and how to stoke the fire in her. He knew how to touch her and taste her and when he gently thrust one finger into her Angela cried out and swore indelicately.

The rumbling sensations of Naopleon’s smug laugh against her skin thrilled her and she clutched helplessly at his dark hair.

Napoleon turned his attention to her thigh again, that tender flesh, and bit her gently, but with full intention to leave a mark. Angela yelped, gasped and her orgasm took them both by surprise. Napoleon watched his wife shudder as she lost herself and he pushed in again to ensure that he would not miss a thing, not a taste not a drop. He lapped at her, sliding his tongue in deeper, his fingers spreading her wide open until she begged him to stop.

Too much, baby, too much please!

Napoleon did as she bade him and straightened, wiping up her wetness from his mouth and licking clean his fingers. Angela laughed breathlessly, reached for him and he helped her to sit up. She flopped bonelessly against him, and rested her head on his shoulder. She had no words to describe how light and content she felt in that moment, how lucky she felt to have him, so she remained silent and let him kiss her

Napoleon was about to say something but was interrupted by the front door chimes.

‘Probably the caterers,’ she said, finally getting herself in hand and pushing him aside.

With a smile, she hopped off of the counter.

‘I’m not finished with you yet,’ Napoleon promised, pointing a finger at her as he went to the door leaving her to clean up after them.

**

Angela and Napoleon were the consummate hosts and their annual Christmas party pulled friends and family and neighbours from all over for one night of excellent food and even better company.

Angela took pleasure in the perfect presentation of her house and pride that she had the means to accommodate those people who were dear to her. And because of that, the house was crowded, filled with awful Christmas music, sounds of laughter, joyous voices and a deep seated sense of love.

On her way through the kitchen for the fifth time to refill a platter of canapes, a loud voice stopped her.

‘Angie, darling!’ shouted a woman who grabbed her up and into a tight embrace.

A year or so ago, Angela had met Adiche and her husband Kofu on a trip to Florence. Napoleon had to travel to the city on business and ensured that his wife could accompany him and tour the country to her heart’s content. Adiche was an architectural graduate student who shared a 100 kilometre taxi trip from one city to another when the train system broke down, leaving she and Angela stranded in the middle of nowhere. On the journey they became fast friends.

‘Adiche!’ she cried hugging her tightly in return. ‘You… I didn’t see you come in. I’m so glad you could make it. You’re back from Dubai already?’

‘Yes! And Napoleon let us in,’ she assured her and held out the gift she’d brought. ‘I don’t know if you’re opening them now, or if they’re going under the tree.’

Angela smiled happily and took the heavy box.

‘Under the tree for now,’ she said. ‘And we’ll do the gifting in an hour or so.’

‘I’ll let you girls talk,’ interrupted Kofu who was standing at his wife’s shoulder. ‘But, where’s Leon keeping his special…’

With eyebrows raised, Kofu pinched his fingers together and made a drinking motion by his mouth.

‘You, sir,’ Angela laughed, shooing him away, ‘need to talk to Mr. Bad Influence himself. That’s his business.’

Grinning with anticipation, Kofu took the box from Angela and kissing his wife’s cheek he waded off through the crowd to find the good stuff.

‘That’s all he talked about on the way here,’ Adiche confided with a chuckle and pitched her voice deeper to imitate her husband. ‘Man, Leon’s got the best shite! Remember that bottle he sent to me for my birthday? Whooeee, I was sorry to see it go!’

The two women laughed and rubbing her hands together, Adiche returned to her normal voice.

‘I don’t ever want to hear about that magical bottle of booze any more! Now, what I want to know is if you’ve got the good shite.’

‘Come on girl,’ said Angie, taking her by the arm and leading her to the adjacent dining room where most of the women were camped out and having after dinner drinks and dessert. ‘I got you.’

As the evening waned and once everyone had their fill and all gifts were exchanged, Napoleon pulled Angela up with him so that they could both stand by the twinkling tree and make a joint toast to their friends and family. Afterwards, it was all new year wishes and hugs and kisses of farewell and soon after the caterers left, it was just the two of them once more. Finishing the last of her wine, Angela yawned and stretched feeling infinitely exhausted, but deeply content as she warmed herself by the fire. She had long ago kicked off her shoes and the white tiles before the hearth were warm and soothing against her tired soles.

Napoleon shrugged out of his dinner jacket and tossed it onto the back of one of the living room chairs. He walked to where she stood and pulled her into his arms.

‘I love you,’ Napoleon whispered, resting his lips against the back of her neck.

Angela sighed and leaned against him.

‘I love you,’ she answered, turning around to drape her arms over his shoulders.

Angela smiled up at her tired looking husband and stroked her thumbs across his cheeks.

‘Now,’ she murmured, rising up on her toes to kiss his lips. ‘What does Santa want for Christmas?’

Napoleon’s grin turned into a boyish laugh and he slipped his hands down from about her waist to cup her bottom. She felt so good in his arms that he didn’t know if his answer could illustrate the depths of his love and admiration for her.

‘I’ve already got what I want,’ he replied and kissed her again.

‘Then you don’t want what I’ve left for you under the tree?’ she teased and glanced back to the single unwrapped box that sat under the tree.

Napoleon followed her gaze and then looked back at her. He then bent a little and swept her off of her feet. With an amused chuckle, Angela settled easily went in his arms.

‘Later,’ he said, his blue eyes warm with mischief and carried her up to their bedroom. ‘I told you that I wasn’t finished with you. I want to make good on my promise.’

-the end

Merry Christmas and tagging some of my girls. I wish you a wonderful holiday and new year

[rwbyvein]

Firen Lhain: Chapter 805: King:  Part I / III

Winter finished her report to General Ironwood, whom was visibly afraid. "Can't they see I'm doing this for the good of Atlas?!" he asked.

"I'm afraid not, James." Oscar / Ozpin stated. "The hearts and minds of the people has never been your strong suit."

"But I'm!.." Ironwood shouted.

"That is not what they see." Oscar / Ozpin stated. "All they see is a tin despot, shuttering an entire contient.

"You know that's not why I!.."

"I know, Specialist Schnee knows, along with her sister, and... family..." Oscar / Ozpin stated, "but what about the people. What do they know?"

"It can't exactly tell them what's going on." Ironwood said to him.

"Of course not, but what can you tell them?" Oscar / Ozpin asked.

"That members of the military are not following my orders?" Ironwood asked, and Oscar / Ozpin shook his head. He then looked to Winter.

"Your loyalty is commendable, but right now what he needs is the truth." Oscar / Ozpin said to her. She briefly glanced at him before looking straight while standing at attention. "Tell me, Specialist Schnee, what would the people do if they saw General Ironwood purging his military?" She developed a determined look. "Not what they should believe, but what would they believe?" he asked.

"If they already did not trust him," Winter nervously voiced, "they would look at it like a... tyrant... removing the disloyal."

"Precisely." Oscar / Ozpin stated.

"So, what can I do?" a nearly panicked Ironwood asked.

"Well, right now the conspirators are trying to exaggerate your overreach of power." Oscar / Ozpin stated, "They are using your chain of command to twart you." Ironwood looked at him questioningly. "Then simply don't use it."

"What?" Ironwood asked.

"Simple, James, you speak directly to the people of Remnant. They need to understand why the borders were closed, and even more importantly, that they are open."

"We can't tell them about..." Ironwood tried to say.

"You tell that that the borders were closed because of the Fall of Beacon, and the fear the same would happen to Haven. Lying has never been your strong suit, James, but as both a politician and a conspirator to save Remnant, you might want to learn to do so at least passably well.."

"You want me to lie?" a nervous and offended Ironwood asked.

"I want you to tell the truth, but selectively so." Oscar / Opzin stated, and Ironwood still looked nervous. "You are a General, declassify parts of it, and tell people that. But most importantly, tell them that the borders are open."

"And Lieutenant-General Hartman?" Ironwood asked.

Oscar / Ozpin relaxed and spun his cane, turning towards the window. He then looked back at Ironwood. "Oh?, find her some prestigious promotion that completely neutralizes her." He then looked out the window, and heard Ironwood voice his uncertainty. "Right now she is adjustant to General's seat on the Atlas Council. She needs something she can do on her own."

"She betrays me, and you want to give him more power?" Ironwood asked.

"More and less." Oscar / Ozpin stated, "Right now her power comes from your office. If you gave her her own command?.."

"You want me to reward her for committing treason?" an irate Ironwood asked.

"Anything she does at the moment falls onto your head." Oscar / Ozpin stated, "If she had her own command, she would be accountable for her own actions."

"Even if we did that, we'd have to give her a corps." Ironwood stated. "We couldn't give her Atlas command, and if we gave her one of the further corps, we would risk civil war."

"Civil war is a risk everyone faces when they build an army." Ozpin stated. "There's a reason why I choose to rely on Choice."

"Without Creation, Choice meaningless." Ironwood firmly stated.

"Without Destruction and Creation, Choice is powerless." Oscar / Ozpin replied. "Without Choice, Creation and Destruction are meaningless. Without Knowledge, a proper choice cannot be made." He then sighed, "Unfortunately, for the common man, choice is simply the way they feel. And how do they feel about you, James, who has kept them in the dark?"

"I don't need to be loved..." Ironwood voiced.

"Unfortunately, you do." Oscar / Ozpin stated. "The people of Atlas are ready to revolt against you. I'm sure you must have felt it."

"WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO?!" Ironwood asked.

"Have your great army provide them tangible benefits." Oscar / Ozpin stated.

"But, if we spread out the army, we make them vulnerable to attack?!" Ironwood asked.

"No." Oscar / Ozpin stated, "You trade one form of attack for another. Your solders made a choice, did they not?"

"You're saying I should let them die?!" Ironwood replied, "How could you?.."

"Who would your soldiers rather face, an army pointing their weapons at them, or corrosion from within? Grimm are a far more tangible foe than an eroding faith in the system they are fighting for. It is commendable to think of the lives of your soldiers. It is foolhardy to only think of the lives of your soldiers."

Ironwood was lost in thought for a few moments. "Then what do I do about Lieutenant-General Hartman? If she is the one undermining my orders, wouldn't she see this promotion for what it is?"

"Give her a lavish ceremony." Oscar / Ozpin stated, "I know you consider such things a waste, but you think soldiers will only do as they are told. They have choice, whether you want it or not. The only thing you can do is recognize the choice, and give it a bit of a push when needed."

"Choice is not exactly my strong suit." Ironwood voiced.

"Well, good thing you have me." Oscar / Ozpin said with a bright smile. "And to think that young Oscar will soon rise to become headmaster at Beacon Academy at such a young age? Truly marvelous."

"So?" Ironwood asked him, "You want to go back to the way things were before?"

"If it is at all possible, yes." Oscar / Ozpin stated.

* * *

Jaune and RWBY were in their suite's bathroom when they heard noise from all of their scrolls. "Ruby, if you could?" Weiss asked. Ruby Petal Burst out of the room, leaving a cloud of moisture to fall to the ground, and quickly Petal Burst back. "General Ironwood?!" Ruby asked.

"This is General James Ironwood." he stated, "You are hearing this because the Cross-Continental-Transmit System has been fully restored. I would like to take a moment to thank Glynda Goodwitch and her team for restoring the tower lost at Beacon academy. Without her abilities, this likely would have taken years to restore. I would also like to thank our team of engineers for working around the clock to restore service as quickly as possible. I have a couple of announcements. First, considering the crises in Beacon and Haven academies are finally over, will be fully be reopening the borders. We won't expect this to work overnight, so we will be setting up a council in Argus to expedite entry permits until the borders are fully opened again. Second, Lieutenant-General Janice Hartman has for far too long lived under my shadow, and it was time for her to have her own command. She will be given command of the First Atlasian Roboticized Brigade Group. Atlas has long tried to ensure the safety of our soldiers, and the First Atlasian Roboticized Brigade Group will be an attempt to use Knights as the primary combatants, rather then in a support capacity. She will be given the majority of current Paladins, and will be one of the first to test the next generation of Atlasian Great Knights. I want to thank everyone for their patience during trying times, and a reminder that the Atlasian Military will provide assistance to our friends in the other kingdoms. This has been General James Ironwood, and thank you for your time and patience."

"Well, that's a thing." Yang said as she dried herself off.

"He's obviously responding to the propaganda they were trying to use against him." Blake added as she picked up a towel. She paused to give those behind her a good look at her posterior.

"I never expected the General to be so flexible." Weiss quipped.

* * *

Taiyang jumped up and walked towards the cell. Neo turned to look at him, while he just held out his hand. Neo glared and turned her back to him. "You can get your scroll back when you decide to become less stabby." Taiyang said to her. She turned around to glare at him. "Considering you just tried to kill all of my kids-in-law, and their friends..."

"And their enemy." Raven added.

"And their enemy." Taiyang stated, "They have shown you an extreme amount of patience. Do you know what they could have done to you?"

"Do you really think they have it in them?" Raven asked.

"They could have turned your over to General Ironwood." Taiayng simply stated. "Jaune felt you could be reformed, and at least made to stab less people. Is turning over your scroll without a fight really that much to ask?"

Neo turned to glare at him.

"Or, you could look at it this way?" Raven asked, and Neo gave her a distrutful gaze. "We could always take it from you, and likely destroy what little you have left to do so." Neo gave her a look as if she didn't believe it. "Oh?" Raven asked, "You think I won't?" She gave Neo a deathly glare, and in reply Neo reluctanctly handed over her scroll.

* * *

Oscar's aunt looked at her scroll, for the first time in months gaining hope.

[eleutheramina]

Michiru & Shirou Thoughts

Binge-watched BNA last night. 

Overall, I enjoyed it. It was cute and fun to watch. Most of all, I really appreciated the development of Michiru and Shirou’s relationship, and I wanted to write a bit a lot (channeling the former English major in me) because I’m sad there isn’t more content about them, and clearly, the relationship is integral both the narrative and each character's growth. Contains spoilers for BNA. 

I want to talk about their relationship in general, but I first want to address what I have perceived as the conventional interpretations of their relationship on the interwebz.  

Shipping? Romance? 

On one hand, I totally understand many people not seeing them romantically - there's not much explicit evidence for it in the show--no random blushing, no side characters teasing them about their feelings, no kisses or anything close. Indeed, I think anything like that in the show would feel uncharacteristic of both Michiru and Shirou as we know them, especially since they don’t really grow closer until 3/4 of the way through the series. And I also understand that Shirou not only looks older than Michiru, but also is technically a thousand years old and immortal regardless of how childish he may sometimes act, so for many people that’s not acceptable or appealing.  

Certain scenes could be construed as having romantic undertones (rather than simply just showing they care for each other, which is pretty incontrovertible)--I’m thinking mostly when Shirou jumps off a building to rescue her in episode 3. While I think this can be also be explained as conveying his general heroism and concern for beastmen, rather than being romantic, I think the inclusion of it in the story and the heightened drama surrounding it adds to an element of romance (I’m reminded of Guts and Casca’s fall in Berserk). Similar things could be said about their confrontation in episode 11.  

I also think it's not beyond the realm of possibility (i.e. fanfiction) for there to be romantic development between them down the line, especially with Michiru staying in Animacity, and I personally do ship them because of my personal tastes (the aloof guy with the cheerful girl trope is v appealing to me) and because I love the development of their understanding of one another (which I elaborate on below).  

Daddy Shirou?  

At the same time, I'm somewhat bewildered by the popular reading of their relationship as one between a father and daughter. I get that it could seem that way from the promotional material, and also that it's cute and maybe mostly a meme (in which case, sorry for taking it seriously), but I honestly think there's not much support in the show for that kind of dynamic in their interactions beyond superficial things, like Shirou being older that Michiru, often protecting her, and giving her food (which happens on-screen, like, once).  

Not only that, I think this label feels unnatural because it undermines Michiru's roles in their relationship and makes her seem like someone Shirou needs to care for. Instead, I'd argue that so often (and more and more as the series goes on), Michiru serves as more of an equal to Shirou, and their relationship is one of mutual trust and respect. 

This doesn't mean that there aren't obvious power imbalances in their relationship--again, Shirou being older and being a super powerful immortal god, him having close ties to the mayor and literally serving as Michiru's social worker at one point, as well as him generally being more savvy about beastmen and Animacity. Significantly, Michiru also just perceives Shirou as older--in episode 3, she refers to him as an "adult," and in episode 10 she calls him a “stubborn geezer,” suggesting that she recognizes his older age. In contrast, Michiru is apparently 18 and still has high school student vibes, and at the beginning of the series, she clearly is ignorant and naive about many aspects of beastmen life and Animacity.  

Despite these things, I think Michiru has power in their relationship because she erodes the dogmatic assumptions that Shirou has about humans and beastmen. This happens as early as episode 2, when Shirou is adamant that it's impossible for Michiru to be a human because "Humans are humans. Beastmen are beastmen." (Indeed, Michiru turns out to be right about most of what she says to him in that scene--her condition is termed as a “disease” later in the series, and there is someone else like her--namely, Nazuna.)  

Not only does Michiru have power in their relationship because of this, but Shirou also recognizes Michiru's independence and agency. In episode 4, when he learns that she has left Animacity, he says she can "do what she wants." When the mayor tells him to get retrieve Nina and Michiru, he ruffles his hair, clearly annoyed, suggesting he doesn't see her as his responsibility (beyond, of course, his general concern for beastman wellbeing). He even doesn't go to the party himself to get the girls, but rather asks Michiru to return Nina--and act of trust that Marie even comments on. They also clearly have no qualms about roasting each other, as evidenced at their interchange of insults at the end of the episode. Here, if anything, their relationship resembles bickering siblings more than a father and daughter.  

Additionally, we see Michiru growing to be able to hold her own with Shirou in the action sequences. Indeed, Michiru begins to be able to actually help Shirou with the enemies they face as her knowledge of her beastman capacities, rather than just needing to be rescued. I’d say we first see this in episode 7, when Michiru sprouts wings that allow her to save the falling Shirou and also help him catch up with the airborne Pinga. Then we see Michiru stepping up to help Shirou take down the rampaging Yaba in episode 8. Not only does she play an integral role in subduing him--it’s her wings that allow him to be transported to a remote place (where Shirou can then go Ginrou-mode), but it’s also here that we see Shirou and Michiru’s partnership really start to kick off. I find their teamwork pretty endearing, as they grow to trust one another--Michiru challenges Shirou’s independence and forces him to rely on her, and Shirou actually allows her to help and gives her directions. This doesn’t mean that Michiru unquestioningly accepts Shirou’s orders (for example, she pushes back when he tells her to drop them in the warehouse), but it’s clear that even when she doesn’t always agree with him, she’s willing to trust him.  

Indeed, rather than their relationship being one of great power difference, I think they actually grow to have a pretty balanced amount of power in their interactions with one another (as much power as is possible given the aforementioned situational differences between them). Just as Michiru challenges Shirou’s conception of humans and the rigidity of the division between the two races, Michiru also recognizes her own lack of understanding about Shirou and of beastmen. More than that, he makes her aware of her own prejudices about him (just as he challenges his prejudices).  

Really, I’d say episode 9 is probably the strongest case for their relationship being something like a father-daughter relationship, but I think the dynamic is ultimately subverted. Shirou comes in with food for Michiru to lift her spirits (classic Asian parenting) while telling her not to go near certain places. Probably the most paternal we’ve seen him. Yet her response to the food she gets is not one of simple gratitude or even ingratitude toward a caregiver, but one that shows she is learning more about him and is willing to tease him (“I was thinking how a thousand year old person is so different.”) And also, because Michiru is her own person, she defies the restrictions he lays out--not out of rebellion against him, but out of her own friendship with Nazuna. Evidently, even when Shirou tries to guide Michiru in a father-like way, she responds in a way that subverts that dynamic.  

Mutual Respect & Understanding (aka in which I gush about them)  

Instead of a father-daughter relationship, Shirou and Michiru grow to have a relationship founded on respect for one another and a burgeoning understanding of each other’s differences. They care for and encourage one another and help each other grow, and I think that’s awesome regardless of whether or not you have hope for a romance between them.  

I love how Michiru, whom Nazuna accuses of rushing into things based on her assumptions and an egocentric sense of justice, humbly recognizes not just her lack of knowledge about Shirou after learning his divine identity, but also the lack of effort she put into trying to know him. Not only that, but in episode 12, she is able to recognize Shirou as one who is “so sad and miserable, but still thinking about others,” rather than the offputting scary crying wolfman she met in the first episode. She knows that there are fundamental differences between her as a human and him as a beastman (in contrast to Nazuna, who says in episode 11 that “Humans and beastmen aren’t all that different”), but she is nonetheless able to understand him. She literally transforms into a wolf in order to track him down, using the acute sense of smell that is his trademark.  

I love how she grows to understand why he turned into Ginrou during the festival. I love how, when she confronts him in episode 11, she starts with an apology for not understanding his feelings about the vaccine, when she should be the one to understand him most. I think basic but important things like these, like apologizing for not paying more attention to how someone else is feeling, is one of the reasons why I really appreciate Michiru as a character.  

Likewise, Shirou learns to humble himself and trust someone else, as well as better understands a human. I love how he eventually just accepts that Michiru will want to help him when he goes off to fight. I love how he apologizes himself when Michiru confronts him in episode 11, and how he explains his intentions to her without holding anything back. I love how he thanks her for saving him from the Nirvasyl syndrome, how he chooses not to kill Alan when reminded of how Michiru does not like killing, how he encouragingly says that she can return to her human form soon (even if that means her leaving Animacity, which it’s implied would sadden him). Even his overlooking of baseball gambling, even if somewhat questionable, is sweet if you read it as him doing it because he knows Michiru enjoys it.

[hyrule-kingdom-updates]

“Astor!” Zelda yelled at the hooded figure. She saw his head flinch.

“Listen, I want...” She paused to assess her words. “We can help each other, alright? We don’t have to be enemies in this, no matter what anyone else may say. So—”

The man suddenly dashed towards her, and Mallory attempted to hold her shard in front of her body. But the figure was too fast.

He unsheathed a brilliant, shining rapier, concealed by his cloak on his waist. He shoved her against one of the houses, and held the tip against her neck, pinning his forearm to her chest.

His hood fell down, revealing dark skin, black dreadlocks fading at the ends to a basil green, and a sea green eye, the left one covered by a leather patch.

Zelda looked him up and down, as she squirmed a bit against his arm. “You’re not Astor...”

“Not quite” The boy replied. Boy? Young man? His exact age was hard to tell. He looked older than her at least, maybe Purah’s age.

“My...apologies, I’m—” Mallory was cut off by the rapier moving closer to her neck.

“I accept your apology, Your Majesty. Mistakes happen. Would be unchivalrous to hold such little things against you. We all make mistakes and should be free to learn from them.” His studied her up and down. “But I can’t but feel concerned by the fact that the newly self made Queen wishes to side with a dangerous, dark magical seer. If you would be so kind as to drop that piece of pottery in your hand to answer a question or two, that would be wonderful.”

Zelda glared at him, but followed and dropped sharp beside her. “It’s not like that.”

She paused, expecting him to cut in with some retort. But he just looked at her, patient and waiting for her explanation. He raised his eyebrows.

“Oh! Of course. How rude of me. You’ve complied, so you’re not a threat. No need for all this.” He unpinned her from the wall, and twirled his rapier with practiced showmanship, and sheathed it once more by his waist. The scabbard was a polished silver color, laced with luminescent greens and thin blue lines. A stark contrast to his dirtied tan tunic and dark pants and boots. As his deep purple cloak fluttered with the motions of the blade, Zelda caught a glimpse several large, ovular objects stacked on his tattered leather belt. But the cloak settled back on his back before she could identify them.

The boy put an arm behind his back, and fluttered his other arm in a circle as he gestured for Zelda to continue. “Please, go on, Your Majesty. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to leave a bad impression upon a humble subject such as I.”

Mallory was unsure of how to handle this situation. She could probably run, but she didn’t trust how abnormally fast the boy was, and he certainly was skilled with that rapier. He seemed genuinely polite, but it was still...odd, given the circumstances.

“I...don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“Something we have in common!”

“But if I don’t hurt these people, other people might get hurt, or worse.”

“Ah...yes, that does seem to be a common dilemma for royalty...”

“And Astor is...He’s pretty much the last person I have who knows—” She shook her head. “And even my own allies are accusing ME of being no better than them! Me! It’s preposterous, all of this, isn’t it?!”

He tilted his head to the side and just stared at her, raising an eyebrow. He considered her words for a moment, before shrugging. “I’m afraid I cannot quite understand your circumstances, Queen Mallory.”

She clicked her tongue and crossed her arms. “That’s right, nobody does. Nobody truly understands what pain I’ve been through my whole life, and now that I’ve actually started to care about myself, I’m being made the villain for it.” She rapper her fingers on her arm. “I mean, it’s really only Impa so far, but she’s the most blunt and hard headed out of everyone! Perhaps the others think little of me too! I bet they’re just waiting for the opportunity to tell me how much I suck, just waiting for my next slip up. I’m the only one in this kingdom with her head on straight and Mr. Astor—”

“I will say, in my humble opinion, killing the Prophet of Doom and his accomplices would be generally beneficial for the public. The populous that you now directly oversee, that is.”

Zelda snapped her head towards him, only to find him grinning a toothy grin with brandished confidence. She scoffed, starting to march off.

“Sorry again,” she muttered.

“Well now hold on, Your Majesty, I only wanted—”

A sudden burst of air blew into the alley way, and Zelda hugged the wall and closed her eyes. The boy beside her gripping the pommel of his blade, while blocking both of their faces by holding up the end his purple cloak, dirt and dust sweeping up past their heads.

The winds died as quick as it came. Zelda blinked away dust and moved out from behind his cloak, peering up past the alleyway.

On the roof of the house by the waterfalls was Lady Jou battling a half maliced Revali. She watched him strike an arrow of malice into her stomach, and the impact sent her crumpling towards the ground.

As Revali flew alone above the rooftop, another figure suddenly descended from the towering waterfall, an astrolabe floating in his palm. She couldn’t tell what was happening from this distance, but she watched him say something to Revali, before he flew down somewhere below.

Astor followed after him.

“Oh gods—!” She started running.

“It was pleasant talking with you, Your Majesty!” The boy behind her called out. “I wish you the best of luck! I do not envy the position of the rich and royal one bit!”

As she left, the boy hummed to himself as he continued scouring the empty houses.

“What an interesting character, she is...”

Zelda could feel the adrenaline pumping through her blood. She charged through the courtyard in front of the wooden steps, to find Hylian soldiers running about. They must have been Jou’s escort.

One of the soldiers turn and caught Zelda’s eye.

“Look!” He shouted. “It’s the princess! Grab her!”

As Mallory ran, the other soldiers suddenly became aware of her presence and started chasing after her. She dove under the arms of one guard, and sped past two others who comically ran into each other. However, their numbers continued to surround her.

She felt an sharp pain on her scalp and yelped as someone pulled her ponytail.

“I got her!” A soldier yelled, trying to wrangle her arms back. “I got the kid! Let’s—GAHHHH!”

The grip around her ponytail suddenly loosened, and Mallory toppled to her knees on the ground. She scrambled away as she spotted another soldier going to grab her. But suddenly, he was thrust through a window with a shot of malice.

Mallory snapped her head towards the attack’s source, and locked eyes with him.

Astor lowered himself to the ground.

He wasn’t looking at her, instead his eyes were narrowed with a quiet anger. He was staring somewhere beyond Zelda as he lifted his arm up.

A geyser of malice suddenly erupted beside Mallory, and she looked to find a soldier has crept beside her, sword raised as he attempted to stab at the loose flap of her blouse to pin her. His momentum would never strike the ground as he was thrown upwards by the geyser, screaming all the way, before collapsing into a pile of wooden crates.

“Princess.” Astor said, simply. “Your escorts are doing their jobs wonderfully, it seems.”

The Queen stared him, unsure whether to respond with gratitude or anger.

As the geyser behind he dwindled away, Zelda felt some specks fly onto her wrist. She held up her hand to her face as she observed it. It glistened like onyx, bits of magenta speckled in it like stars.

Mipha had described the feeling of malice to be toxically sweet, like a sugar rush that gave you an eroding stomachache. Revali has agreed with Mipha’s description, but had added on that it was less a feeling of sweet sugar, and more like a warm fire, slowly caressing your body and building in temperature until it boiled you.

But to her, the malice’s sensation...

It felt no different than what she had already been feeling.

“Don’t play with that.” Astor suddenly snapped. “You know better than to meddle with the same substance that—”

“Yes! I do know better, thank you very much!” Mallory stood on her feet. “Don’t play with malice. Says the one with the damn mobile toy!” She angrily gestured to the astrolabe floating above his palm.

The seer frowned. “This is a complex device crafted by Calamity Ganon.”

“Well tell his concept designer to make something that looks a bit more evil, rather than a play thing I could see hanging above my crib.” She tapped her foot angrily and she tried to think of where to steer the conversation.

But there was just silence as they observed each other.

Mallory sighed. “We don’t have to be—”

“I want to make something very clear, Princess.” Astor cut in. “You and I know that I am not going to kill you...”

He narrowed his eyes. “But that doesn’t mean I won’t harm your friends. If you, or anyone else, stands in my way, I will not hesitate.”

The way he was staring at her, Zelda got the strange sensation that he was trying to convince someone else beyond her.

“I won’t pretend I’m being selfless about this. This is mostly for my sake, I will admit.” He adjusted his sleeves as his astrolabe pulsed with a new soft glow.

“But if you don’t like my methods, you’re going to have to stop me by force, Zelda. That’s the only way you’re going to stop me.”

A blur of black and blue shot above in the sky above Astor. He looked up, and started to float once more. He looked at Mallory, before heading after Revali.

“A part of me hope you do.”

Zelda clenched her hands into fists.

Idiot. Damn stupid, stubborn idiots. Everyone...

A drop of malice on her wrist fell to the grass.

[rpmemesbyarat]

RP Meme from "Chapter One: Caliah (Lore)" in the Bastet breedbook from "Werewolf: The Apocalypse"

Once there was a cat who dreamed he was a man.

Like the morning mist, she appeared from nowhere, or so it seemed.

The winds have spoken of your dilemma and I have come to show you the way home.

Why do you call me brother?

We are family.

We have different parents but share the same blood.

You need to meet your people

You are my sister

I have no other family. Don’t leave me!

We all have family

What are the dreams of a cat?

Let us welcome each other and speak of hidden things.

If they come in peace, we welcome them.

I’m just a mutt.

Listen up and listen close, ‘cause this isn’t stuff you’ll hear from any old place.

I’ve got friends with friends, if y’know what I mean, and this is good stuff.

They don’t get along, y’know.

A good lorespeaker tells different stories every time, and she makes ‘em as cool as possible.

Sound like anyone we know? Nah! Couldn’t be!

So how do you trade secrets, anyway? After all, isn’t a secret shared a secret lost?

If you don’t play the game, you don’t learn a thing.

Each element of the message becomes a metaphor, and the message becomes a story.

Florid? Hell yeah! But ya gotta admit it’s more graceful — and exposes a hell of a lot less — than blurting out the truth.

You might say, “I heard a story about so-and-so” but you’d never say “I did so-and-so.” If your audience has a clue, they’ll catch on.

Everything’s told in metaphors.

A good obtuse metaphor makes you look imaginative if someone gets it, really stupid otherwise.

Everything is larger than life. People don’t just cry, they “explode in showers like the sea.” Folks don’t just get mad, they “turn into coals that burn through the floor.”

If what you’re saying is important, bigger is better.

Simple? Not if you don’t get the lingo.

A wounded cat can surrender without disgrace.

Not enough to go around.

Hey, don’t let on you know what I told you, huh?

It was a time before life, a longing when the dream of birth was yet to be.

This marked the end of peace and the beginning of struggle.

Such promises are soon broken.

Why does even the skin of my daughter flee from my hands?

Why must I always be alone?

Master, what would you have of us?

Nothing exists for him but annihilation.

Go across the world

Let that which is pure stand whole, but erode that which is impure from within.

He tells many tales, but all of them are lies. He is rage made manifest, and he coils within us all.

There was no want, no war, no anguish, and all living things gave of themselves to help others exist.

Until some cataclysm happened, everything lived in peace and plenty.

Life has ever been a struggle, my brothers and sisters. Life has always meant that some may die for others’ pleasure.

That pleasure may be as necessary as hunger or as frivolous as sport, but it has always been fatal and always will be.

Only through struggle can we progress.

Only through sacrifice can we succeed.

We were born from conflict and we grow through adversity. Our ancestors are predators, great cats and human hunters who rose above their surroundings and mastered them.

We know our place in the Great Order, and it is not passive.

Like the moon, our world waxes and wanes.

Each era glows brightly, then fades into night before rising again as some new age.

As creatures of light, dark and twilight all, we are not moved much by the vagaries of fortune.

Each tribe has its creation story, and they differ in many ways.

I have my own ideas.

We are a breed eternally apart, and we are rare.

Water runs silent, yet crushes with the power of an elephant.

Its depths hold secrets that only the brave can find.

The first of our kind were nearly the last.

Those it caught were devoured.

Let this be your legacy

My tears, shed for you, will boil in your veins.

All people will fear you, and all animals, too.

Begone and tend the flocks that need killing.

I banish you from sight!

They still live on in us, and we carry their curse to this day.

As the humans prospered, they grew quickly out of hand.

It was a bloody, useless time, and we fractured as a people.

Secrets became the only thing to bind us.

It’s hard to forgive these raging bastards.

Very territorial, and I know how that feels.

There are enough horrors in the night already.

Corruption has a million voices; sometimes they drown out the song of the moon and lead us over cliffs.

That song wails from nightclubs, boom boxes and televisions every day.

Stop up your ears, my friend and listen to the wind.

Those secrets led the wolves to our door — literally.

Gods damn the dogs for that!

Their misbegotten crusade killed hundreds of our Kind and Kin.

She mated with serpents, wolves and great cats in an effort to become like them, but gave birth to monsters instead.

Some legends portray her as one of our kind, but we know this isn’t so.

If the tales I’ve heard are any measure, they have no pity for us at all.

We are where we are born.

I think our unique insights show us that humanity is a mixed blessing — especially where the earth and the wild are concerned.

Men are the cleverest monkeys, no doubt, but they don’t have much sense of self-preservation.

Our forebears fought to let humanity prosper.

We have an amazing world at our fingertips, but it’s filled with poisons and lies.

Honor seems to be a fading dream in lands where the rich starve their people and the poor kill each other.

We hold magic within ourselves, within our hearts and minds and spirits. To dishonor ourselves is to disperse that magic and scatter our souls.

It’s acceptable to lie to other creatures; they’re not of our blood and not bound by our laws.

We will flee to survive a fight, but will not run when others depend on our strength.

We must make restitution to those we deceive, in deeds, trade or money.

We may be exiled or branded.

Our weapons are many — secrets, claws, teeth and allies — and we will not hesitate to employ them for our world’s

survival.

Our people have walked too close to extinction for us to take such matters lightly.

We will not ally ourselves with shadow powers or drink corrupted wisdom.

We do not fail our Earth and mother. That path leads to death.

We are the keepers of secrets, and our fates depend on silence.

Each of us bears the hidden doom of our own people, and we know the cost of betraying that trust.

We also know that we have what others want — or what they think they want — and it amuses us to make them squirm.

Our knowledge is our concern.

We will not share it unless we wish to.

We will hide ourselves from outsiders; they will think they know us, but we will delude them.

We will wrap our lore in riddles and tales; let the clever ones puzzle out their meaning.

We will act as if we know even more than we do, for it keeps outsiders guessing.

Let them wonder at our insight; they value us more highly when they do.

We will cover our tracks with misdirection, pretend to be other than what we are, fill the air with idle rumors and hide messages in code.

There is no forgiveness for this crime.

Well, let’s just say I know what I’ve seen. And I’ve seen a lot.

His eyes were so filled with pain that I decided to help out.

I’d swear he was grinning as the semi ran him down.

That felt good.

Guess they’ve gotta live here, too.

I say they’re not as smart as they might think.

Maybe I’m the one who’s being fooled.

I could tell you stories all night, all week, all month and more.

As the temples rose and the hordes crossed through, our parents sat on the sidelines of history and observed the passing of kings.

The cultures we witnessed shaped our own ways.

Cities rose, each with secrets too tempting to ignore.

For a long time — 4,000 years — there was all the room in the world for us, and no lack of secrets to keep us entertained.

We should have seen the signs in the Classical Age, when armies swept across the land in the names of gods, kings and conquerors.

We should have met en masse when trade and crusades brought East and West together.

I will not belabor the point. We know what happened.

Explorers, slavers and great white hunters bounded into the wilderness and cast a chain around our kind.

Suddenly, we went from having all space to having little.

I can’t say I don’t share the sentiment just a bit.

We didn’t stop until a greater evil forced us to align, but that’s another story.

It’s a wonder anyone survived.

We studied their secrets, but could learn nothing from them.

We have no one to blame but ourselves.

For all our vaunted sight, we’re blind. For all our gathered lore, we’re stupid.

The world is falling apart.

I don’t know whether to believe it or not, but we are living in interesting times!

We must pool our secrets, combine our efforts, and bring the world’s secrets to light.

We must act on what we discover and disperse what we learn.

Do I lose my cool?

The modern age is the greatest puzzle we could want endless streams of secrets, enigmas, wonders and dazzles, wrapped up in an explosive package that could blow us all to hell.

Anywhere, at any time, the whole ride could fly off the rails.

Those who ignore the warning feed the vultures the next morning.

I’ll simply say the tigers are not where you’d expect.

People have begun to open their eyes, but they still need your counsel to see the cliff’s edge before falling off

Those stories are true — violently true — and they add up to an appalling picture if you string them all together.

They get an idea, work on it a bit, and try to rule the world. Typical. We’ve seen their kind before.

Look around you if you doubt it.

Surely the secrets you’ve uncovered have given you the idea that maybe, just maybe, something’s going on, something bigger than another plunder, another invasion, another city that falls to ruin in a century.

Discover what you can, but bury your tracks well.

We’re strangers to each other for most of our lives, and we like it that way — a few careful gatherings are all we

can stand.

The moon is our patron, but the shadows are our father too, and they call to us at our weaker moments.

Most of us dance on the edge, though, and that’s where we like to be!

Despite our pains, we’re spirited and wild, inquisitive yet careful, sensual yet refined.

Our beauty is our greatest pride, and our wits are second to none.

We know what we are.

To hell with them all!

Still, we cannot let pride blind us to the facts.

The morning it foretells is up to us.

We must come together, yet retain our pride.

We are the keepers of secrets.

Perhaps it’s time those secrets were revealed.

[dmsden]

Agents of Chaos - Working towards anarchy in your game

Hullo, Gentle Readers. This week’s Question from a Denizen comes from fairandcruel (great name for a DM) who asks, “Hi! In my current campaign there are occult organisations working to somewhat secretly disrupt society, and my next campaign will be centered around an Archfey making a covert attempt at conquering the world. So, the question is for your input on what kind of schemes an underground organisation (aiming for anarchy) might run, and how it all might seem to the party and the general population? Thanks!”

f&c also asked me to tag a specific tag, because their players follow the blog. Hopefully they’re filtering that tag! If not, f&c, I tried!

Well, let’s see. Pure anarchy is actually very hard to achieve. Living creatures tend to develop a hierarchy, even in the absence of some kind of normal leadership. True, it could be the strong dominating the weak, such as Chaotic Evil critters like demons engage in, but it’ll be some sort of stratification.

Putting aside the difficulties in creating actual anarchy, I’ll assume that what your groups are trying to achieve is an overthrow of the current leadership and norms. The most obvious way to remove a government is simply to remove it. In my current campaign, a group of high-level bad guys literally teleported into the throne room. The Death Knight with them let loose a Hellfire Orb, which was more than powerful enough to wipe out the royal couple and most of the guards. They then seized the Prince they wanted to sacrifice, and the high level cleric used Word of Recall to take them away. In a D&D world, such things must be literally possible. The only defense is that such incredibly powerful people are rare. In my campaign world, there aren’t likely to be more than a half-dozen people capable of doing what this group did. Obviously, that’s not counting the PCs themselves, who, at level 18, are incredibly dangerous people themselves.

Assuming you want something a bit more subtle, the two best ways to remove a government is to replace it with one that you want or to manipulate others to remove it for you. Both present advantages and pitfalls.

If you can make a bargain with a doppelganger, a changeling, or some other creature capable of shapeshifting into the form of another person, you can potentially remove a government figure without anyone being aware that the change has happened. Perhaps the queen gets replaced by a shapechanged night hag, who uses her influence to slowly corrupt and ruin the kingdom she rules. The problem is that, unless you are the shapechanged person, they have their own agenda, and you can’t be sure they won’t betray you.

Alternately, you can try to get a rightful ruler to marry someone you trust, or even corrupt an existing member of the royal family. Once you’ve established a place of power, you can use your influence to erode the law and order part of the kingdom, eventually casting it into chaos. Again, though, unless you’re the person in question, it’s hard to know whether or not you can trust the person you’re relying on.

Spreading chaos is a great way to slowly undermine the people’s trust in the ruling body. One fireball a day, launched at crowded public spaces, is likely to sow incredible chaos and fear. A 5th level wizard could bring a city to its knees, especially if they cast invisibility right afterwards and made their escape. Any sort of acts like these will eventually make a people distrust their ruler’s ability to protect them. And when that begins to happen, the grumbling starts, followed by the distrust and action. How long before the king has a mob with torches and pitchforks at his gates?

I hope this has given you some ideas, f&c. The resources you grant to your secret anarchist societies should largely dictate the actions they take, but I hope this has least given you some ideas to springboard from. Let us know how it goes!

And remember, if you have a question for the Den, please ask. I love fielding your questions and brainstorming for you.