#being self employed is a blessing and a curse

[call-me-pup2]

Stayed up all night to work but heck do I finally feel focused! I've felt like I've just been scraping by doing the bare minimum for the past month so I don't want to throw away this opportunity to get really well caught up!

[hyvyinjie]

DESTINY.

TW! cursing, death.

angst! centric.

g. satoru x gn. reader.

DESTINY. that capricious force akin to the bittersweet conclusion of tragic fates, had long since wielded its cruel hand.

yet, amidst the delicate interplay of life and death, a singular anomaly emerged—satoru gojo—an irresistibly peculiar being adorned with gifted endowments bestowed by the very heavens themselves.

he, the self-proclaimed harbinger of destiny's blessings, carried within him a profound sense of purpose and significance.

alas, it is a lamentable truth that even the possession of such a grandiose title holds no power to rescue or shield those in need.

forlornly, we witness the bitter reality that the mere proclamation of a lofty designation cannot serve as a panacea to alleviate the trials and tribulations of others.

"don't even try closing your eyes."

young, naive and foolish. the honoured one beseeched, his countenance etched with an unmistakable worry—bereft of the customary shielding of sunglasses that customarily veiled sight of his otherworldly irises of azure.

his resplendent eyes—now bared—gleamed with a mesmerizing confluence of sentiments.

it was an unprecedented spectacle, witnessing him so palpably anxious and emotionally invested.

deep within, he harbored a profound remorse, cognizant of his inability to employ a reverse technique—that elusive skill—to aid you in this despair-induced juncture.

"shoko's on the way. she'll heal you."

"quit being so damn stubborn and listen to me."

he assured confidently, his typical arrogant utterances suffused with both conviction and hope.

yet, as he spoke—it appeared as though he inadequately grasped the gravity of your state or purposefully averted his gaze—fixating instead upon the illusory prospect of an inevitably fruitless convalescence.

no, you’re not dying.

he mindlessly repeated to himself—as if caught in an bewitching refrain that echoed ceaselessly within the chambers of his delusions.

the words—like a hypnotic melody—entwined themselves around his thoughts, weaving a tapestry of false reassurance.

in the grip of his illusions—he clung to this fragile mantra, desperately seeking solace in its rhythmic cadence.

yet, deep down, a flicker of awareness whispered of the truth obscured by his fervent repetitions.

reality—unyielding and immutable—loomed ever closer, despite his desperate attempts to stave it off with a haunting refrain.

with a blend of earnest gravity and feigned jocularity—despite the quivering timbre of his voice—he appended,

“don’t you dare die, or ill never let you live it down.”

his eyes bore into yours with an unwavering intensity that seemed to penetrate the tumult enfolding you—unveiling a vulnerability he seldom divulged to others.

in that gaze, the tenacity of his resolution and the profoundness of his connection to you became palpable—as if the burden of your well-being rested solely upon his shoulders.

“live it down, you say?..”

a desiccated chuckle escaped your lips as the wretch persisted. how imbecilic could this fool possibly become?

“satoru..”

not long after, your body convulsed with a fit of coughs triggered by the mere act of speaking, the fragility of your condition became starkly apparent.

yet, even still—it was unmistakable that he clung to denial, unabashedly rejecting the unassailable truth.

yes, you were dying—indeed, you were teetering on the precipice of demise.

there existed naught but remorse and lamentation.

"stop talking! for fucks sake, y/n—“

he inhaled a tremulous breath, as if seeking composure amidst a tempestuous tempest raging within his soul.

his eyelids clenched shut with an ardent fervor, as though he were frantically endeavoring to elude the clutches of reality in one final, desperate gambit.

“please—just..”

“just listen to me, and do as I say. please.”

with each uttered word, a sense of desolation burgeoned, casting a somber shade upon his countenance.

“y/n..”

yet, these words bore a weight surpassing mere despondency. every syllable dripped with a venomous essence, tainted by a profound self-abhorrence that seemed to turn inward.

it was as though his very voice had transformed into a conduit for self-loathing, a vessel through which frustration and disillusionment coursed.

he berated himself for completely contradicting his egoistical claims.

he despised—loathed himself.

he detested his own folly, castigating himself for what he perceived as a feeble inability to lend aid. the underlying contradiction between his self-aggrandizing proclamations and his actual capabilities stoked the fires of his self-directed animosity.

within the depths of his being, an infernal tempest raged, a battlefield of inner turmoil where he grappled with the demons of self-hate. the echoes of his own voice reverberated, seemingly magnifying the intensity of his internal strife, amplifying the magnitude of his self-loathing.

he loathed the hold you have on him, stirring up a storm of emotions within his being. the turmoil you evoked within him was a source of deep resentment.

but above all else, what he despised the most was the inexplicable extent to which he cared for you.

he despised the fact that, despite everything and anyone else, he couldn't help but like you, adore you, and ultimately choose to love you.

the intensity of his hatred stemmed from the realization that his heart had chosen a path that he had not intended to follow. he resented the vulnerability that loving you exposed within him, and the power you held over his emotions.

in the depths of his inner turmoil, he grappled with conflicting emotions. while he may have wished to resist and deny the depth of his feelings, the truth remained that his heart had made its choice, despite his best efforts to resist it.

this contradiction between his hatred for the circumstances and his genuine affection for you created a profound inner struggle, intensifying his frustrations and exacerbating the complexity of his emotions.

it frustrated him, angered him even, that his emotions had become entangled with your presence. the vulnerability that accompanied this caring, this attachment, felt like a weakness he resented.

in his innermost thoughts, he grappled with the paradox of his feelings. the profound disdain for the impact you had on him clashed with the undeniable truth that his heart held a deep and unexplainable affection for you.

it was a conflict that gnawed at his core, leaving him torn between his aversion and the undeniable pull of his care.

"oh?..what have we here...”

despite the gravity of your state, you conjured the wellsprings of fortitude to articulate phrases—effectively jolting him from his reverie, as he clung to your every word like a vital thread. each syllable echoed with a poignant cough, reverberating through the fragile contours of your agonizing form.

the inexorable verity loomed, an inescapable specter—your grievous wounds would inevitably claim your life, a harsh reality especially within the realm of sorcerers from which there was no evasion.

and so, in a hushed whisper, your voice tapering off amidst another bout of coughing, the violence of it serving as a stark reminder of your vulnerability. yet, deep within, you harbored a profound cognizance of the path that lay ahead.

"satoru gojo... of all people.”

you provocatively taunted, your words imbued with both resignation and a trace of sorrow.

in that very moment, you apprehended the cruel irony of their circumstances, the whimsical caprices of fate that had entangled their lives. the weight of your impending fate pressed upon you, and you couldn't help but ponder if it would elicit any emotions within him.

"--are you going to cry?”

with a subtle curl gracing the corner of his lips, he meticulously observed every movement, every flicker in your eyes, and every breath you took. he made a conscious effort to etch each detail into the recesses of his memory. It seemed as though you possessed an uncanny ability to perceive his emotions with remarkable clarity, despite his best efforts to conceal them.

however, as his expression shifted to one of solemnity, a faint trace of melancholy colored his features.

the question you posed had struck a deeply personal chord within him, one he never anticipated having to confront.

your words resonated within the sixteen-year old male, his unwavering gaze fixed upon yours. a sense of anguish mingled with the realization that you, y/n, had seen through him like an open book.

unable to suppress the tears that welled up in his eyes, he swiftly brushed them away, striving to maintain a composed facade.

"no, of course not.”

his response emerged, delivered with the expected composure and confidence. yet, a glimmer in his eyes betrayed the facade, hinting at an inner turmoil that consumed him.

the conflicting emotions etched upon his countenance, the raw sorrow intertwined with resolute determination, were familiar sights you had come to recognize during your time together.

at the very least, he had been stirred by the irony of the situation. but what lay beneath the surface?

his lips curved into a solemn smile, though his eyes conveyed a different tale altogether.

he couldn't help but smirk slightly in response to your teasing, his unwavering irises never once straying from your perfect ones. how dare you utter such words...

you managed to elicit a smile from him, causing his typically smug facade to momentarily contort into a faint frown, though his expression swiftly returned to its customary coolness.

the gravity of your condition had not escaped the impact it had on the sorcerer standing before you. however, it appeared that the full severity of the situation seemingly had yet to fully dawn upon his young fellow. and with mere moments remaining before your impending demise...

"me? cry—over you? what a joke.”

he retorted, pausing momentarily. his smirk faltered—as if on the precipice of speaking with a tone devoid of jest—as if the barriers he had erected had momentarily crumbled.

"do not flatter yourself. tears may suite me, but I don’t need that amplifying my perfection.”

regardless, his voice remained low and harsh, devoid of the usual playful edge and trademark amusement that characterized his interactions with you.

though the expression in his eyes remained unaltered, a certain stiffness was evident in his speech, as if he were still uncertain where else to direct his overwhelming thoughts and emotions.

as he continued to observe you, a solemnity settled over his previously neutral features. you could sense his burgeoning grief, his thoughts racing against the inexorable passage of time, yearning desperately for even the faintest glimpse of a solution.

his response was a feeble attempt to mask his emotions, his voice quivering, and his eyes still shimmering with unshed tears.

though his words denied it, his body language spoke volumes.

his pretty cerulean irises glistened with unshed tears, his heart pounding in his chest. he had anticipated her demise for far too long, believing he had grown accustomed to it, deeming it an inevitable outcome.

but now, as your final breaths escaped your lungs, the weight of your departure struck him with the force of a thousand bricks, reality seeping in for the first time. he had failed. his overwhelming pride and hubris had blinded him to the possibility of defeat. he had failed his long-time peer—his classmate, his friend.

the weight of failure bore heavily upon him, for he believed he had let down the one person who held the most profound place in his heart—the one he cherished above all others romantically, the soul he held dear.

the depth of his love for you only amplified the agony of his perceived failure. he blamed himself for not meeting the expectations he had set, for not being able to provide the happiness and fulfillment you deserved. the pain of falling short in your gaze was an unbearable burden he carried—leaving him haunted by the knowledge that he had failed the one person who truly held his heart.

"...yes, i am going to cry, you idiot."

contrary to his perception, it was not you who struggled to accept your fate, but rather, it was he who clung to seemingly everlasting denial.

while he grappled with the reality of the situation, you had long since come to terms with the inevitable outcome. you had made peace with the circumstances that destiny had dealt, finding solace in the acceptance of what lay ahead.

the dichotomy between your acceptance and his denial created a rift, deepening the emotional chasm between you.

despite your readiness to face the truth, he remained entrenched in a state of refusal, unable to confront the impending reality.

the exquisite interplay of sentiments, wherein the embrace of acceptance magnified the enigmatic dance between your emotional odysseys, illuminated the paradoxical tapestry of contradictory.

eager to traverse the expanse, he yearned to forge a bridge, yet were ensnared by the magnetic allure of diverging destinies—proximity rendered illusory, a poignant dance of nearness and seeming remoteness.

while your hearts may have harmonized in tempo, the dissonant discord into the fabric of your emotional realms served as a haunting refrain, a vivid reflection to the divergent trajectories of your conclusions.

if only the revered one possessed the authority to sculpt fate with a touch of influence, weaving threads of destiny like a master artisan shaping the sinuous hell of time.

[wiz-writes]

Codex #1 - Magic

I said I would post stuff about the world, so here it is - the first entry in the Aesemyr lore corner! If there's anything you'd like to know more about next, let me know :)

Magic has been a part of the world since its inception - ley-lines criss-crossing the lands, somewhere denser in quantity, somewhere almost non-existent. This shifting web of energy has been dubbed "the Flow" by those who are able to channel and utilise its power, the mages.

Mages are not very common and different parts of the world consider being born as one as either a blessing or a curse. In current-day Lyyra, mages are highly valued and often attain high positions in return for service to the kingdom. However, that wasn't always the case. Over a hundred years ago, magic was seen as an ill omen and thus, had been outlawed for centuries. Practitioners of magic were killed on sight or hunted down by families specialised in eliminating mages. Only with the discovery of Ruun and a change in leadership, have the anti-magic sentiments eventually been suppressed. Some of the mage-hunting families have prevailed until now, instead pursuing dangerous criminals and fugitives.

Mages can be divided into three groups. The first one is those who are able to sense the ley-lines and magic in general, however, that is the extent of their powers. Every mage is born like this, but if one's magic doesn't manifest in their youth, it never will. Despite their lack of the ability to channel, these people are still well-regarded and oftentimes find employ as researchers.

The second group is the actual mages who can access the Flow and draw power from it. Depending on their training and talent, they can manipulate the energy that surrounds them to take on various forms; be it the elements, pure force or an uncanny influence over one's mind. They are equally respected as they are feared, and rightfully so. A mage can be a deadly weapon.

The last group of mages is quite rare and what sets them apart from the others is their ability to see and directly control the ley-lines. In Lyyra, these mages are called "Menders", because they also tend to Ruun stones located in a number of towns. Some Menders never fully grow as they are driven mad by what no one else can see.

Of course, being a mage has its own limits and drawbacks as well. Firstly, if one cannot manage the amount of energy they draw in, they can meet a very painful end. Magic is extremely volatile and can easily backfire on its user. Secondly, even the smallest flame requires a person's full focus. Great feats of magic need time and commitment, as one cannot run before one can walk. Lastly and most importantly, all power comes at a price, and magic is no different. Given its unstable nature, it progressively corrupts the body until one is nothing but a shadow of their former self. This is called "magical necrosis" and it is the main reason why few mages live past the age of fifty.

[albaitross]

AU / Persona & SMT — Excerpt:

Aliases: May ; Mae Flower

Real Name: Mei Li Circletti

Age: 21 (physically) ; ??? (reality)

Species: Nephilim (half-human, half-angel)

Connections: Puriel (mother) ; Cain/Abel (father) ; Eve (grandmother) ; Lilith (great grandmother) ; Lucifer/Helel (great grandparent)

.

Abilities: Astral-projection, dream-walking, divination, demon summoning, witchcraft & spellcraft, knife skills.

Weapon: Fans ; Knives

Element: Light/Bless ; Dark/Curse ; Psy ; Almighty

Alignment: Chaotic Neutral

.

Persona: - Kassandra (default) - Bai Long (alternative) - Lucifer (ultimate ; true default)

Arcana: - Justice / Judgement (in primary alignment) - Death / Devil / Tower / Aeon / Suit of Wands / Suit of Cups / Suit of Swords (in secondary alignment) - Justice / Judgement / Aeon / House of God (as a SL/Confidant)

Appearance:

A young woman with an equal mix of Western-Eastern features, though primarily leans to the latter in appearance and tongue. Has shoulder-length black hair and black eyes that may flicker to an inhuman red on certain occasions - be it an accidental slip of power, purposeful intimidation, or a complete removal of the minor glamour she puts on while mingling within human societies.

Usually dressed in loose, comfortable clothing typical of modern and urban human civilizations - and this can, genuinely, range between very casual but normal clothes or a literal pajama set. Comfy is king, truly, and so is the notion of being utterly strange and utterly underwhelming alike.

That said, this is merely the image she presents for humans. Should the veil be lifted, or her soul manifesting itself out of her body, she takes on a slightly different form - the grungy clothing replaced with an elegant black qipao, her hair growing out and decorated with golden accessories, and of course, the bright red eyes that can peer through falsehoods as much as it can curse the world with karmic mania.

Personality:

A person with a straightforward yet eccentric attitude, cheerful but not necessarily pleasant while accompanying her.

That said, considering her usual disheveled appearance, she can nonetheless come across as lackluster and boorish in spite of her oddness - especially with her general habit for ignoring polite norms and saying/doing whatever the hell she wants, be it something silly or poignant or a little too honest for polite company.

But that's an act more for humans and strangers, really. A veil to discourage any further peeking, though at the same time, she will drop more than enough hints that there's more to her than the thin veil - it only takes a honest inquiry and a bit of her self-evaluated trust for her to stop with the facades.

Beneath the mask—that, can be considered her true self (though, not the truest; human nature is just like that), where she discards the lazy, simplistic and quirky persona for someone far more perceptive and wizened to the workings of the universe, resulting in someone a little more serious, contemplative, and potentially very biased to resignation and bitterness - though, no less prone to tonal whiplash, as her strange phrasings only worsen with an addition of eloquent, metaphorical speech.

In the end, the only thing that doesn't change throughout is that, no matter what, she will be frank. Surely obtuse yes, but truthful.

A person so very familiar with wearing masks of her own - yet, always striving to show what lies behind it.

Background:

A woman employed within the media industry in some format, looking for truth and fiction, the mundane and the interesting alike. Even so, despite her zealous interest in random affairs, that doesn't particularly translate to journalistic or publishing fervor - quite the opposite really, as she only performs the bare minimum for her job and keeps all the stories for herself.

Whether this is out of some flipped ideal of sympathetic privacy or more selfish motives... well, it depends on the situation and her mood at the time of question. Sometimes it's one or the other, both or none.

Sometimes, it's because at the end of the day, this is all a passing engagement. Something to while the hours away, something to disguise herself with as she mingles and settles into whatever human world she's residing in for the time being.

And it usually will just be for the time being - for she's not as human as she appears, half her blood bearing a cursed holiness; her parentage is decidedly human, angelic, both and damned altogether, resulting in an existence that is loathed by a third of the universe, coveted by another third, while the rest of the cosmos ranges between blessedly unconcerned and annoyingly nosy about what she is and what she's up to.

Goodness, all she wants is some peace and quiet in a nice apartment, and maybe not be forced to move around every so often. Maybe, because after the centuries of being chased after by the forces of Law and Chaos for their never-ending arguments, she's not a very optimistic person anymore.

[somecrazybitch]

It's funny that the following is 100% true & happened in the 2020s.

When in university, I persued institutionalisation. I was unwell due to undiagnosed Adhd & Autism, as well as suffering from a slew of mental health issues & a confusing list of diagnoses that in theory ought to be paired with through treatment. I was in a sorry state & unable to properly care for myself let alone fulfill my duties as a student. I was characterised by an undulating tidal wave of high periods and low periods. In the high periods I headed social events, got involved in school positions, got employed in two separate organisations. In the low I would vanish apart from class, not eat, & cry as I ironed my shirts for the morning after getting home past 1 from the cursed promises "high mood me" had signed up for.

I was unable to secure the help I was looking for from the healthcare system. I find it odd humoures to think about retrospectively, knowing what I know now. The reason I was not provided help, is because if the stark, sharp, & ultimately artificial line drawn within the healthcare system between the physical & the mental.

Neurodivergany is often put in the category of physical illnesses within the NHS despite it having to do with the brain, so when someone is "institutionalised" due to high support needs from autism for example (if someone was incapable of feeding, or clothing themselves, or of paying their bills and calling for home repairs when needed without help) they might get a carer (& a social worker) perhaps they might be sent to a care home for ppl with complex needs.

When a person is suffering from mental illness, they look for harm to the self or others in a far more direct way normally, before they send you to the mad house.

Instead, I got my degree, year & chapters passed. (Getting stuck in central Europe with a lover due to a global plauge & disruption of the political union that allowed us to travel in the first place. Fleeing to the north of the country after graduation, being temporarily without a home & being taken in by an old woman who had lived in this new city for decades and ran multiple houses. She had my partner do work in the houses until we found a gas leak & when she refused to close the house down, we fled again in the night. We quickly managed to go back to renting and stayed in the city for the next 3 years.)

One of my dearest friends passed away days after I spoke to him. The funeral was to be family only, despite him having told me of his deep discontent in the family days before his death. I fell & festered miles & miles away, unable to say goodbye as he was put in to the ground. Once again I felt the damned knock of a bottomless low calling to me, & in madness I surrendered.

He had once been my lover, but had always remained my friend. I could not speak words to do justice to him, so I painted, I continued as my partner packed for our new home. I found myself in an empty room with a canvas & paint on the night we made our way across the city to our current dwellings. A car horn snapped me back & away we went.

After a year of unbearable solitude & insanity at the new house (which I cocooned myself within) I snapped. I called my love, my partner, & let him know I no longer wanted to live. He had been visiting someone far away and arranged to take a train back to meet me. After much ugliness & tragedy, we had a brilliant idea.

We would abandon all that ailled us on this godforsaken island, and fly away to Paris.

So we made our way to the airport, whilst furiously booking things, and found ourselves in Paris that same night.

I spent a month & and a half in Paris. We were truly blessed to have found one of the best most wonderful places in the world to be.

The house was ran by a marvelous matriarch. She was everything one should hope to become. Kind, open, honest, calm, happy. Her home had a large garden that she shared with tutles, two digs & 4 cats, as well as budgies that came and went freely. A small pond nestled under a willow, & benches at the back of the garden provided a delightful view of the wrought-iron chairs that hid below a canopy near the house. A stone round table provided a regularly used place for cheese plater, red wine, and cigarettes.

Occasionally, her breathtaking daughter would sit and smoke green with me .(I must admit I'm a bit in love with her, I think she was in her early 30s, she modelled for some time, studied, rebelled, and lived happily.)

Paris was a dream in every sense. When it came time to graciously relinquish my rooms back to my host, I moved even closer to the center. A frighteningly high up apartment in a vibrant neighbourhood. The hallway would send shivers down the spine of anyone, but the grimes of Berlin ravers, at the top of it was my sanctuary. A lovely flat with a handsome young parisian man who was the roomate of my host. The kitchen window let one see the skies of paris, as did the one in my bedroom, from which I watched the rooftop garden parties, the cats walking amongst the chimneys, and below the old man who owned the taloirs play with his grandson. I still can't believe it but I dined with an amazing girl from Brazil who was studying law. She inspired me so much and truly made me feel alive again. Her freind was a sweet and funny ballerina, I cherished their acquaintance whilst I was there.

Eventually I moved on from Paris, it is truly the best city in the world that I have ever known, sorry new york.

Now I sit, many chapters later. A warm faux fire by my feet, a green smoke in my smoke holder (fashioned to resemble a wand by my love) resting on a diamond shaped glass ashtray, with lana del rey playing as I read The Odessey. Back in my cold, wet, British city. A storm rages outside, they call her Isha. The problems that made me leave are all still real, my feud with the bigot next door was never resolved, my love is sick, and we haven't found a cure, a million other worries await my attention.

But I smile and feel calm. Now I have my castle of ice and snow in Sweden. I can't believe I'm going to be a homeowner this year, a deed in my name, 6 bedrooms, a beautiful kitchen, and most importantly; safety and privacy. In April I will go back and ses my first Swedish spring, and have the keys to my new home.

I feel now more than I have in years that everything may be possible again. I'm excited.

I feel at the back of my mind that we will have another war soon, and safety may be compromised, but I have so many plans, and the story must go on.

[altrxisme]

v: overwatch ; united we stand

SILVERTONGUE Informant / Adventurer

A former intelligence agent and ‘poster boy’ for Overwatch, Jackson O'Daly was known as one of the members of the group that attempted to bring the peacekeeping force back into the public’s good graces before it disbanded. It worked for a while until he refused to take scripted answers his superiors gave him, which resulted with him being framed. An anonymous third party vouched in his defense and succeeded. However, the masses now had second thoughts about his credibility.

After Overwatch disbanded he set out on his own, going dark for half a year before he returned as a self-employed informant. Known as Silvertongue by numerous associates, his experience in espionage, knowledge in tactics and combat medicine, and an eagle-eye aim have kept him alive over the past five years. Having a sister who moonlighted as a mercenary looking out for him helped out too.

Accepting the recall, an opportunity to create a better Overwatch and future, he gathers as much intel on organized crimes, Talon especially, for them to take care of and joins in missions as well.

FALCON Mercenary / Drag Racer

A well-known knife combat specialist, Falcon, or Johanne Fröst to those closest to her, is one of the most infamous street racers and mercenaries in Europe and the Americas. Her heavy preference for blades stem from her having witnessed her father being shot down during her induction into Blackwatch at a young age. From then on, she vowed to avenge him by taking out his killer with her own hands.

She chose to be a part of the main division once the suspension on the covert ops division was lifted, despite being practically raised by them, because she suspected that there were Talon influences among them. Unfortunately, the older agents believed that she jumped ship for selfish reasons while her new colleagues distrusted her after Blackwatch was put under investigation. The disbandment was a blessing and a curse for her.

While Falcon could’ve continued on her own, she chose to join the newly recalled Overwatch to help take down Talon once and for all and, more importantly, to look out for her brother of an informant.

Dossiers Extended Info Thread Ideas

[dev-the-dm]

Creature: Smoke-Cursed

"It was a horrific sight to see," the elderly man croaked, tears in his eyes, rubbing the back of his hand with crooked, wrinkled fingers. "They- They were reduced to naught but ashes, and yet - the act itself would not be their end, as they rose again, but this time many, and screaming, and howling in agony as if their very souls were ripped from their beings."

Followers of the Regth-Koth. For the distant, evil entity Regth-Koth, its followers are nothing but ants crawling for its own attention, and it feels no love and no affection towards anything but itself. A group of cultists that, in their dedication and thoughtless worship, mistakes the attention of Regth-Koth for a blessing from their master, may find that some things were not meant to be understood by mortal minds. Regth-Koth hates self-obsession within the ranks of its followers, and although it likes to see them crawl over each other to reach its own aberrant heights, it reduces those who have proven themselves to be too self-servient to a cloud of agony and pain, and creates a smoke-cursed.

Perpetual damnation. Smoke-cursed can also be created through the intervention of other divine or semi-divine creatures, although their appearance is low and the punished act must be severe. Smoke-cursed are perpetually caught in their own pain and suffering, an amalgamation of many souls damned in the same place, merging and twisting together in a ghost-like, otherworldly entity. A smoke-cursed has no motivation or intentions, but is so engrossed in its own agony and suffering that it only wishes to relieve itself by forcing that pain on others. It has no physical touch, but the sounds emitted by a smoke-cursed are maddening enough to make the bravest warriors flee. Smoke-cursed haunt their original homes, whether that be the lairs they once worshiped their dark masters in, or whatever battlefield that caused their combined, instant deaths.

Aberrant nature. A smoke-cursed doesn't require air, food, water or sleep.

Friends and companions. Smoke-cursed are sometimes employed by the very cults that become them, if a cult worshiper manages to avoid the destruction of their master. For dark cults that follow aberrant entities from beyond the veil, and whose cult followers are prone to narcissism or self-worship, it is not uncommon to see more than one smoke-cursed contained in an air-tight room, only to be set free when the lair is invaded or the cult needs a sacrifice.

[distracteddegenerate]

I'm sorry if this annoying but can I please get a little fanfic with the inumaki forget idea ? Sorry if this werd English isn't my first languag

Not annoying at all anon, In fact I really like this idea of yours. (Also your English is pretty good so don’t worry!) Hope you like the fic!

CHARACTERS: Inumaki Toge x Female Reader

WARNINGS: Smut, Dark Content, Noncon, Yandere, Manipulation, Mind Control/ Brain Washing, Cunnilingus

Minors Do Not Interact! 

1.5k words

It was comforting, the fluff of ashen white hair that lay on your shoulder, the morning light seeping in from behind the slat blinds cascading a bright shimmer over the expanse of the snowy tufts. The individual strands were dusting your skin feather-light, tickling against you in the sway of every meager intake and exhalation of breath escaping Toge’s mouth.

You had known Toge for years now, and although you couldn’t truly remember how you even came to know him in the first place, he had effortlessly situated himself in the spot of one of your nearest and dearest. You found that his earnest silence brought you solace, words that he could not convey through sentence instead being understood through the knowing glances and expressions you had come to share with one another, the fluency of this mutual language only strengthening with the passage of time.

Now was one of those blissful moments of comfortable, knowing quiet. domestically lounging around your apartment during a day off, lazily giggling at some meme compilation in unison while leaning against one another on the settee. You couldn’t think of a better way to spend your time, this cozy sphere of amenity that you had constructed with Toge an apt repose from the outside world.

Whilst you were lost reflecting on your rosy blessings, you were suddenly brought back to reality when you felt the weight of toge’s head lift from your shoulder, turning to meet the familiar gaze of inquisitive violet eyes peering at you from behind off-white tresses.

“Are you okay, Toge?”

“Mustard Leaf.”

The response, that usually implied he was doing fine in the small dictionary of onigiri vocabulary he had come to employ.. Didn't feel genuine, to say the least. His irises were blown wide, registering your countenance as though he was trying to gleen some hidden information from your inquiring squint, when Toge began to lean further over you. You turned the front of your body to look at him directly, though you were steadily inclining your spine backwards in your perplexion at Toge’s unusual advancement.

He soon had draped his entire upper body over yours, hands reaching around your frame to press into the sofa to support himself as his face drew dangerously close to yours.

“Toge?” A heat was rising in your upper body. Sure, you and Toge were incredibly close friends.. But this was a little too much for your liking. You pressed your palms against the jut of his shoulders and pushed slightly, though with no true force. Blushing, you faced away from him, trying to announce your discomfort at his invasive approach. “T-toge.. This is a bit too-”

“Don’t move.”

And sure enough, compelled by some otherworldly force to entertain the command, you had stopped moving in your tracks. It didn’t take long for you to figure Toge had used his technique. Like a deer trapped in the headlights of an oncoming car, your body froze statuesque while conflicting eyes beamed alive, frantically searching for the reasoning behind the cruel fate that was racing towards you.

An uneasy feeling settled in the pit of your stomach at the sight of his lips pulled tight, his usually bright irises murky with shadows of deception. Something awful was afoot. His deadpan look in conjunction with the preceding events told you this was no prank, swiftly realising that your trust in him had been irredeemably breached to the point of fear at what was coming next. Your body twitched as you strained under the spell that had been cast on you, helpless to the plummeting feeling of the safe structure of friendship you had built with Toge coming crumbling down around you.

Your fears were proven genuine when Toge’s hand began reaching forward, coming to rest on the curve of your hip. You tried to communicate with your eyes, begging for him to stop and to just think about what he was doing, but he paid no heed to it. In fact it seemed like he was ignoring your glare, focused on the task that lay at his palms. He began deftly inching your bottoms down over your pelvis, panties and all coming to a halt over your thighs, just above your kneecaps.

It was then that he shot you a glance of what seemed like sorrowfulness, as if he was fully aware he was enacting something cruel but thought it necessary. Perhaps like how a farmer would look at lame animal before putting it to rest. 

Still, you were broken away from the horrid thoughts and back into a harsher reality when Toge had begun ripping the aforementioned cloth even further down your legs until they reached your calves. Shoving his hands between your thighs, the pads of his fingers pressed forcefully against the flesh and separated the limbs till they spread wide. You were completely exposed, the open air cutting a chill against your privates.

He traced his fingertips over your slit, with whatever wet, however slight gathered up in it’s trailing wake. He looked you in your eyes when he brought the digits to your clit, as if looking for a reaction when he began grinding his forefingers against the sensitive nub. Unable to do so much as flinch away from the offensive touch, you mentally grit your teeth as you felt that aching bundle of nerves scream against the assault. It felt painful, at first. You were so unprepared for the sudden encroachment on your most sensitive parts, It made you want to recoil in on yourself completely, though there was nought you could do in protest.

Toge began occasionally lowering his fingers to reach directly into your core, drawing out the little slick you were producing to mercifully rub it over your clit. The lubrication meant his ministrations were less painfully direct, his motions transforming into a light flutter that felt traitorously gratifying, an unwarranted heat beginning to pool in your stomach. Your body was disobediently reacting to his touches with craving, and it made you want to hide away forever but unfortunately you were rendered completely unable to escape the explicit display you were being forced to partake in. 

You felt his warm breath exhale humid air over your cunt, when you noticed from your frozen position that you couldn’t see Toge’s face any more, only the top of his alpine locks as he lowered himself further over your pulsing heat.

You knew what was coming, but you still inwardly lurched with shock at the swiping of that lithe muscle over your aching bundle. The feeling made you throb with hypersensitivity, the combination of the attention that area had received earlier now with the sudden sensation of Toge’s wet mouth lapping at you desperately causing your entire pussy to twitch around his tongue in a chase for release.

Dragging and dipping his emblazoned tongue over and between your sopping folds, he came to plant his mouth directly over your clit. He sucked over it with such vigor his cheeks completely hollowed, rolling your nub between his lips whilst deft fingers aided in your pleasure as he continued to pump them in and out of the sticky apex of your crotch. 

He worked at you for some time, steady in the intensity of his applications. It wasn’t long before the sensations grew too much, pussy clenching around his fingers as you reached a climax, flood gates swinging open as you gushed helplessly over his face.

He stayed where he was for a second, before rising. When his pale face came into view, you took in the sight of your own slick washing trails down his chin, the purple tattoos it overlay on his cheek glistening prismatic in the light the sun cast over it. He looked wild, salivating at the maw, sparkling amethysts settling an intense gaze into your own eyes which were vacantly still trying to work through the thralls of your orgasm.

Yet, fear sparked them alert with dread when you saw his mouth drop open to speak once again.

“Forget.”

Even in that split second of recognition you had before your memories had been erased for (unbeknownst to you,) the umpteenth time, it was enough for an intensely visceral stream of consciousness to flood your thoughts. You realised intuitively Toge was never really the person you thought he was, and you wondered how many times you had been used like this. How much had happened, how much had you been subject to by his cursed technique. Just how much was real in that domestic setting that you had been experiencing before it all came crashing down like this.

***

If only you knew just how much of your true self had slipped away. With your hands wrapped around his cock once more, The sunset and rise beginning to melt away at the edges into a haze of warm gradients was just a pretty sight to you, the concept of time becoming irrelevant to you as you settled into your life as an ignorant hostage.

Extra Notes:

Yeah so this kinda became a fucked up version of 50 first dates.. although now that I think about it I guess 50 first dates is pretty fucked up? Also god writing a character who hardly speaks is so hard in fic format;; I guess enjoy the challenge though

[characternerdocs]

3 and 5 (unusual and/or prying character q's, for emery)

Unusual and/or Prying Character Questions ||| @chickypoodoodloos

3. What is something your muse won’t admit to themself, or hasn’t yet realized about themself?

Emery don't want to admit that she can be weak and vulnerable. She does know that, but she doesn't want to face that.

She doesn't like to ask for help, cause the last time she did, she got employed by Beeyel which was a can full of curse labeled as a blessing.

Not being in control of a situation scares Emery, she need to have a level of power all the time so she keep herself from feeling helpless. She had to keep a strong front all the time, nobody can see her with her guard down.

5. What kind of first impression does your muse give off to people just meeting them? How does this change as people get to know them better?

On first impression Emery comes off as a sassy, overly sexual bitch. She jaded and has a sharp tongue, and has not mercy with said tongue when it comes to reading somebody to filth. She also comes off as easy and very promiscuous, which is true, but is more of her hunting technique. But... something is also not. Not many person last long enough to get to know her well, whether that's because Emery has purposely tried to drive them away, cause she doesn't like people getting close, or because Em main befriend people to make them a meal or a "friend with benefits" which is heavy on the benefits and very very low on the friendship.

If a person can befriend Emery, they'll find that their first impression is right! She's sassy and sexy, but that's all to cover up her vulnerability, loneliness, and her extreme self-loathing. If you get close to her, you'll find she a very loyal friend and she will go on the attack for you and protect you tooth and claw, literally. Even if you don't approve of it, she will literally tear anyone apart for you... if they're that sorta of threat... or if she's hungry. Two birds, one stone, ya know? If the individual messing with Em's friend just need to be taken down a peg or two, she'll just give them a brutal critic that would murder anybody's social standing.

Thanks for the ask, Chicky!

[mybeautifulchristianjourney]

Devotional Hours Within the Bible

by J.R. Miller

Pilate Sentencing Jesus (John 19:1-16)

Pilate's portrait is hung up in the gallery of the world's great criminals. His is one of the names which never will be forgotten. The incident of the scourging is one of the darkest blots in the story of that terrible Friday. Pilate claimed that he could find no fault in Jesus, and that He should be released - yet, hoping that it would satisfy the Jews, he ordered Him to be scourged. The scourging must be considered as a part of Christ's sufferings as the world's Redeemer. The shame and indignity of being tied like a slave to a whipping post and then beaten until He seemed dead, we never can realize, for, thanks to the softening influence of the religion of Christ, such treatment even of the worst criminals is now unknown in civilized lands. There is, however, a word in Isaiah which gives a fresh meaning to this part of Christ's suffering. "With His stripes we are healed" (Isaiah 53:5), says the prophet. The peace we enjoy is ours, because the rod of chastisement fell upon Him - because He was smitten. Our soul's diseases are healed, their wounds made whole, because the body of Jesus was gashed and lacerated by the horrible scourge!

After the cruel scourging came the crowning with thorns and the mockery of Jesus as a King. "The soldiers twisted together a crown of thorns and put it on his head." We ought to look with great love and reverence at the picture - Jesus the Son of God, our Savior, standing there in the midst of heathen soldiers, mocked and insulted by them. We know how truly He is a King, and what a glorious King He is.

When the crusaders had captured the Holy City, Palestine became an independent kingdom. Godfrey, of Bouillon, was made king of Jerusalem, and it was proposed that he be crowned with a golden crown. But Godfrey's noble answer was, "I will not wear a crown of gold in the city where my Savior wore a crown of thorns."

It is a sweet thought, too, that because Jesus wore a crown of thorns in the day of His shame - His redeemed ones shall wear crowns of glory in the life to come.

In one sense this mock coronation of Jesus was very significant. Was He really ever more a King than when He was enduring His cross? All through John's gospel we have seen that Jesus spoke of His going to His cross - as His being glorified. His cross really was His throne. It was on the cross that He fought the great battle and won the great victory of redemption. The cross was the ladder that led up to His throne. His crown of thorns, too, was fitter for Him than a crown of gold would have been, for He was the King of sorrow ; He reached His glory - by His sufferings; He saved His people - by dying for them. He is adored and worshiped now as the King who has lifted men up by His own sorrows and blood to eternal life and blessedness.

Pilate showed pitiful weakness at every step in his dealing with Jesus. He knew there was no sin in Him, and yet he brought Him out to the people and surrendered Him to them. "Behold the Man!" Our eyes should be fixed upon Jesus as He stands there in the presence of the multitude. On His head - is the crown of thorns, and around His torn and bleeding body - is a purple robe, mock emblems of royalty. Behold the Man! Behold the Man enduring shame and contempt, set forth as a spectacle of mockery, that He might be presented at last in glory, and honored before angels and the Father. Behold the Man, reviled - yet reviling not again; hated - but still loving on; cruelly wronged - but speaking no resentful word. Behold the Man, the God-Man, wearing humanity, the Son of God humbling Himself and becoming obedient unto shame and death - that He might save our souls! Behold the Man, holy, sinless, undefiled, separate from sinners - yet bearing upon His own head as the Lamb of God, the sin of the world.

The only righteous thing for a just judge to do when he finds his prisoner innocent - is to set him free. Pilate brought Jesus out to the people - but said plainly, "I find no fault in Him." Nobody could. Nobody ever did. The rulers tried zealously enough to find something that they use as a pretext - but they found nothing. They tried false witnesses - but even these could not agree in their witnessing. Now the keen Roman judge inquires into His character, into His life, into His motives - but finds nothing against Him. No other man has lived in whom no fault could be found. The holiest men have sinned. But Jesus was absolutely sinless. Why then did He suffer as a sinner? We know well the answer. They were our sins that they laid upon Him. "Christ has redeemed us from the curse of the law, being made a curse for us" (Galatians 3:13). Christ also has suffered once for sins, "the just for the unjust, that he might bring us to God." "Who His own self bore our sins in His own body on the tree."

We never should forget this. In these days perhaps there is a tendency to forget the sacrifice of Christ, in thinking of His salvation. Between us in our curse and our blessing - stands the cross of our Savior. He was wounded for our transgressions and bruised for our iniquities. Let us praise the grace that took our sins, that we may stand whiter than snow before the throne of judgment!

The silences of Jesus are always as significant as His words. He was silent to Pilate. He understood Pilate's weak insincerity. Pilate had had opportunity enough to do the right thing for Jesus - but he had thrown away His opportunity. Now Jesus would answer no more of His questions. One lesson we must get from this silence - is that if we reject Christ's offer of mercy and grace over and over, the time may come, will come, when Christ will be silent to us. And of all calamities that can possibly ever come to any soul - none could be so great as that Christ should be silent to its prayers. "Then shall they call upon me - but I will not answer; they shall seek me early - but they shall not find me" (Proverbs 1:28).

Another lesson we may learn from Christ's example, is that there come times in all our lives, when silence is better than speech. Often to words of reviling or to insult - silence is the only true Christian answer. To many of the assaults of skeptics on our religion and on our Lord - it is better that we remain silent than that we speak. There is a time to speak boldly and without fear in the presence of Christ's enemies - Christ did speak several times in reply to Pilate - but there are also times when we should keep silence, attempting no answer.

Pilate tried to compel Jesus to answer him. "Don't you realize I have power either to free you or to crucify you?" The answer of Jesus is very clear. "You would have no power over me - if it were not given to you from above." No man's power belongs to himself, to do with as he pleases; it is given him from God, the Source of all power. This is true of the authority of parents and teachers, and of the power possessed by civil magistrates. Men are eager to obtain positions of power, and they do not always realize the responsibility which is attached to such positions. Power belongs to God, and must be used for God, or its misuse will bring its sore penalty. It is a talent which is given to us to be accounted for, and no treason is worse than malfeasance in the employing of power. This is true all the way from the power of the child on the playground or in the home, up to the power of the president of the nation or of the king on His throne. "You would have no power over me - if it were not given to you from above."

There is another sweet thought suggested by the words "against me" in this sentence. Christ in this world was under the protection of His Father, and no one on earth could lift a finger against Him but by the Father's divine permission. What was true of Him, the Son of God, is true of each one of the sons of God in all their earthly life. Each believer, the humblest, the weakest, is kept in this world as the apple of God's eye. No one can lift a finger to touch one of God's little ones, except by divine permission. This shows how secure we are, amid all the world's dangers and enmities, while we trust ourselves, like little children, in our Father's keeping.

When Pilate ceased His weak efforts to have Jesus released, saying to the rulers, "Behold Your King!" they cried out, "Away with him, crucify him!" Thus they finally rejected their Messiah. We read at the beginning of John's gospel that "He came unto His own - and His own received him not" (1:11 ). The whole story of His life was an illustration of this rejection of Him. Wherever He went they received Him not. Here and there a home opened its doors to Him, and now and then there was a devout heart that made hospitality for Him - but these receptions were so few that they could easily be counted. Crowds of the common people thronged after Him, and many heard Him gladly - but very few became His true disciples. Even on Palm Sunday, five days before He died, there was a vast multitude to cry, "Hosanna!" and wave palm branches; but soon the palms lay withered in the streets, and on Friday only cries of "Crucify him!" were heard in the air. "He came unto His own - and His own received Him not."

It is the saddest event in all history, this coming of the Son of God to this earth, bearing in His hands all divine and heavenly blessings - but finding only shut doors and shut hearts, being compelled to take away His gifts because men would not receive them. We read this old story and wonder how His own people could have treated Him so; yet how is it with us? Do we treat Him any better? We do not cry, "Crucify him!" but we shut the doors of our hearts in His face and keep Him out. We reject and refuse His gifts which He comes all the way from heaven to bring to us. We may not with angry voice exclaim, "Away with him!" but in our hearts many of us do keep Him away.

The struggle had ceased, and "Pilate delivered him therefore unto them to be crucified." He first tried every way to avoid the issue; then he temporized, hoping in some way to evade the responsibility. At least he yielded, and his name goes down through history pilloried forever, as the man who delivered Jesus to be crucified, knowing and confessing that He was free from any crime. He was known in the world by no other act. Surely it is an unenviable notoriety. It had been a thousand times better for him if he had never been horn, or if he had remained forever in quiet obscurity, instead of going to that high place of power in the land, in which he had to meet and deal with this most monentous question of history.

We read in one of the Gospels that Pilate took water in the presence of the people and washed his hands, thus by symbol declaring that he was not responsible for the sentencing of Jesus to die. But the water did not wash away one particle of the stain of the guilt of that terrible sin! Pilate had the misfortune to be the only man in all the province who could send Jesus to the cross. Upon him, therefore, the final responsibility rested, no matter the pressure that was brought to bear upon him by the enemies of Jesus.

Just so, the fact that others urge us to sin - does not take away our guilt for that sin. No being in the universe can compel us to do wrong; if, then, we do wrong - the sin is our own. True, Jesus said there was one other whose guilt was even greater than Pilate's - that was the high priest. His sin was not only that he himself was determined to do wrong - but that he dragged others with him. We remember that the rulers replied to Pilate's act of washing his hands, "His blood be on us and on our children!" (Matthew 27:25). No one who has read the story of the next forty years can doubt that this self-imprecation was fulfilled. Forty years later, thousands of the people were scourged and crucified. The crime of the rulers was successful - but what came of the success in the end? Let us learn that sin brings always terrible woe, and that the worst of all sin - is sin against the Lord Jesus Christ.

[jess-rewatches-prodigalson]

Exit Strategy (S2, E10)

My time-stamped thoughts for this episode are below. As always I reference Malcolm’s mental health. A lot. So if that’s going to be a trigger for you, don’t keep reading.

SPOILERS AHEAD:

0:40 - Oh it’s Capshaw’s dream. Well. That’s upsetting. 

1:10 - .....she was performing surgery on herself?!!? WTF?

1:37 - The fact that Jessica broke into her adult child’s home to steal Martin memorabilia is hilarious to me. Also deeply upsetting. Because - dysfunctional. 

1:40 - “In my loft? Where I live?” hahahahahahaha sassy!Malcolm for the win! Also - there is something so so cute about the way Tom delivers this line. <3 It’s precious. 

1:46 - “I don’t always wake up screaming.” ....so historically we know this is true. Malcolm didn’t wake up screaming at the beginning of 1x15 when Eve was in his loft....but still... Malcolm’s mental health has been in tatters. I find it highly unlikely that he wouldn’t be waking up screaming. Especially since he was hallucinating last episode!!!!

1:55 - The Never. Ever. Room?!?!?! I’m shook. I’m amused. I’m horrified. I can’t believe that Jessica would let Malcolm keep that stuff in his loft. Why isn’t it locked up in a storage container or something? Jessica let Malcolm - the boy that Martin traumatized - sleep in the same building as all of Martin’s belongings?!?! Nah. Jessica is so overbearing .... I just don’t buy it. 

2:21 - “I am ignoring the Surgeon altogether.” Awww look at how proud Malcolm is to tell Jessica about his serial killer cleanse. He’s like, “I finally have news that will make Mom happy!!” <3 <3 Precious. 

2:36 - “He’s been calling. Non-stop.” annnnnnnd there’s are sad profiler. He’s putting on a good act for Jessica but he’s still clearly in a lot of emotional pain. 

3:15 - Really? The writers have Jessica riding the Brightwell train now? For real? I’m here for it but it feels kind of fast? Forced? Out of left field? I mean Jessica’s totally the type of mom who meddles in her kid’s love life (remember Eve?) but in the middle of the whole Ainsley-Endicott fiasco? Jessica should be more concerned about Malcolm’s mental state and less concerned with his relationship status. 

3:17 - Did Malcolm really just admit (sort of abstractly, but still) that he’s interested in Dani romantically? Doesn’t he realize that Jessica will try to interfere?!? He’s basically given her his blessing!!! 

3:25 - awwwww....the pic of baby!Malcolm and baby!Ainsley is so cute. <3

3:40 - UGH. I want to know more about that key and what it unlocks so badly!!!

3:46 - “Oh great. Detective Mom.” <3 I love it when he calls Jessica “Mom” instead of “Mother”. <3

4:36 - ......Mr.David and Martin have such an interesting dynamic. Martin listens to Mr. David without showing any signs of anger, resentment, or his usual psychopathic manipulation. Mr. David controls Martin much the way a parent controls their well-behaved child. I just find it so fascinating that Martin treats Mr. David with respect. That’s not Martin’s usual reaction when things don’t go his way.

5:00 - I’m so happy we keep getting more screen time with Hector. <3 This dude’s great. 

6:05 - soooo the fact that Jessica stabbed Daryl in the neck is probably going to inhibit Daryl’s ability to speak right? Making Daryl a useless source of information regarding the breakout?

6:24 - I love everything about this scene with Gil’s new car. I love that Malcolm’s “wow, the Coronet’s looking good.” is said with this little smile. As though Malcolm doesn’t really care about the car, but he knows mentioning it will make Gil happy. I love Gil’s rant about “No more Whitly’s around my car.” and Gil’s glare when JT asks about Tarmel’s around the car. I love Dani’s “boys and toys” line. UGh. It was just the little dose of found family that I craved. <3 BUT I do have one small complaint/concern. Gil. He said, “No more Whitly’s around my car.” Whitly’s. Why did he refer to Malcolm as a Whitly? 

6:54 - “Some major Japan-y vibes.”.....I’m sorry the word you’re looking for is “Japanese”?!?! Anyone else get super distracted by this line?!? 

7:56 - “Old people” HA. OMG. I love this so much. <3 <3

9:11 - As someone with severe social and general anxiety that has at times bordered on a form agoraphobia - Dani’s dismissive tone when she says “he’s afraid to leave the house.” hurts. Especially since it feels really out of character for Dani. She doesn’t usually dismiss people so quickly. Maybe there’s a story there? She had an agoraphobic family member? 

10:14 - “NYPD. Adjacent.” Why isn’t Malcolm a member of the NYPD yet? He trained with the FBI. He’s clearly capable of being employed as a detective for the NYPD. Is it because he doesn’t want to carry a gun? Is it because Gil doesn’t want Malcolm to carry a gun? Is it bureaucracy (probably)?

10:44 - Malcolm explaining why the antique pistol won’t fire is adorable. 

10:57 - This dude hasn’t left the house since March of 1997. Martin was arrested in 1998. Is this supposed to have some sort of double meaning? Like maybe Malcolm discovered that Martin was killing people in 1997 but the chloroform confused him for a while and he didn’t call the cops until 98′? Is this supposed to be a metaphor for the fact that Malcolm hasn’t been truly alive since 1997? He’s just been in survival mode - he hasn’t been living.

11:22 - “I’m not too good around people.” This dude is Malcolm. Malcolm lives in a state of constant fear and anxiety. Malcolm isn’t so good with relationships or casual human interactions. 

11:30 - It makes perfect sense to me that Dani is the detective that Malcolm brings in to talk to Gerald. Forget the Brightwell agenda. Gerald is a scared old man. JT and Gil are authoritative men (they’re teddy bears but they can also be scary). Dani is a woman. Women are typically seen as less of a threat. Though Dani could totally kick just about anyone’s ass. But it makes sense to me that a scared witness would feel more comfortable around the smaller female detective than the large male ones. 

12:03 - Ugh. I feel so bad for Gerald. The dude is clearly experiencing some sensory overload on top of his anxiety. :( 

12:15 - hahahaha the absolute best part of this little Brightwell moment is Gerald’s reaction. This old man just connected the dots and you can see it ALL over his face.  ....but also, it’s a really cute moment. <3

12:38 - “Too late if you ask me.” Is it just me or does Gerald seem protective of Rosalie here? Almost paternal? 

13:03 - “You still think like a grand master” Is this supposed to be an illusion to the way that Malcolm thinks about cases? He thinks like the killer in order to solve the case?

13:13 - WHY DOES MALCOLM KNOW SO MUCH ABOUT A CHESS LEGEND FROM THE 70s and 80s?!? Did baby!Malcolm have a chess phase? I want details.

13:22 - I love Gerald. He’s such a cute little old man. He’s scared but you can tell that he has a good heart and that he’s extremely smart. Look at how impressed he is with Malcolm. <3 He’s a lot like Malcolm. 

13:27 -”Memory was always my gift.” Memory is Gerald’s gift but it’s been Malcolm’s curse.

15:04 - Malcolm is so close to snapping. Look at this poor boy. He’s at the end of his rope. :( 

15:14 - “Looks like you got some sleep.” Awwww proud!Gil <3 

15:40 - “Agoraphobia often comes from trauma.” Yep. Malcolm identifies with Gerald. I wonder if Malcolm ever went through a period of agoraphobia? Maybe as a teen? 

15:48 - .....is this foreshadowing? When the truth about Endicott comes out is Malcolm going to be deemed an ‘unreliable witness’? Or maybe that’s how Ainsley is going to try and pin the murder on Malcolm?

15:58 - annnnnd we finally got a good shot of concerned!Gil. There’s no way that Gil isn’t reading between the lines here. He knows Malcolm identifies with Gerald and he knows Malcolm is having issues with his mental health, identity, and self-worth. SOMEONE CONFRONT HIM. WHERE IS THE MALCOLM INTERVENTION?!!?

16:20 - “Are you alright? Don’t answer that.”.....because Martin doesn’t actually care about Malcolm’s mental or physical health. Martin is a narcissist who has a story to tell. 

16:27 - “No. Me first.” I’m. So. Proud. Of. Malcolm. <3 <3 

16:56 - “That felt good.” :) Awwww... <3 I’m proud of Malcolm for this but Martin is totally going to hold it against him in later episodes. It’s going to fuel some sort of anger. Just wait for it. 

17:05 - Again. Mr. David acts like Martin’s dad. If Martin were 8 years old. 

17:40 - Chrisitan Brole is a treasure. His acting is incredible. Friar Pete is creepy, likeable, funny, and terrifying. Honestly. Give him an Emmy. 

20:00 - “*sigh* kid.” This breaks my heart. You can see Gil’s doubt and concern all over his face. He’s doubting Malcolm’s ability to make an accurate profile of Gerald because he knows how much Malcolm identifies and sympathizes with Gerald. He’s concerned about Malcolm because....I mean have you seen him lately? The boy is spiralling and it hurts to watch. But Gil is scared for Malcolm right now. Gil is now worried that the cases aren’t enough to distract Malcolm. That Malcolm can’t work on cases anymore. That Malcolm’s mental health has compromised his ability to work effectively. 

20:50 - “We’re friends. Partners” Listen to the longing in Malcolm’s voice when he says “partners”. He wants to be romantic partners with Dani - not just work partners. It’s obvious. This boy is an open book when it comes to how he feels about Dani. 

21:08 - “And she never will.” there is something about the way Tom delivers this line. How he sort of trips over the words. I can’t tell if it’s intentional or not but it works. It somehow makes it more raw and emotional. Malcolm wants so so badly to tell Dani how he feels but he’s convinced that he’s a monster. That she deserves someone more stable than him. Someone with less trauma. Malcolm is convinced that he’s not safe for anyone to love. Malcolm is convinced he’s going to snap and become Martin. 

21:17 - “Sounds lonely.” I love the way Malcolm immediately dismisses this as ‘tactical empathy’. Malcolm has accepted that he will be alone forever. He’s convinced himself he deserves it. I’m willing to bet that Malcolm rarely (if ever) actually feels lonely. Between coping mechanisms, hallucinations, and trauma - I doubt his mind is ever quiet enough for him to notice loneliness. 

21:27 - “You’ve spent your life mastering a game. I’ve spent mine mastering how people think.” .....ok but chess is basically about predicting your opponents moves and then Gerald graduated to people watching soooooo they’re really not that different. 

22:06 - I love this. I love how Malcolm turns on Gerald only for Gerald to emphatically explain how he lives through that window. Because - isn’t Malcolm the same? How many people have accused Malcolm of being a murderer when really he’s just a man who only feels alive when he’s solving murders and putting away killers?

22:50 - Rosalie helped Gerald much like Dani helps Malcolm. But Gerald couldn’t help Rosalie because he was trapped in his trauma. .....sooooo what’s going to happen to Dani? Or is this just supposed to be a reference to the fact that Dani can’t trust Malcolm because he’s keeping Endicott a secret and she knows something is up?

22:51 - ummmmm 60bpm??!?!? That’s a borderline athletic resting heart rate for a man in his 50s. There’s no way Martin’s in that great of shape. He’s trapped in his cell most of the day. 

24:28 - oooookkkkkayyyy so maybe Capshaw isn’t as smart as I thought she was. Martin is playing her like a fiddle. Although that dream sequence from the intro did make it seem like she was only interested in Martin because she craved medical power and respect. 

25:22 - Martin didn’t call Jessica his wife to screw with Capshaw. He genuinely still thinks of Jessica as his wife.....this is not good for the future. This tracks with the dreams Martin’s had throughout this season of going back home to his family. 

25:44 - Oh yeah. Jessica knows that woman is into Martin. 

26:41 - “Isn’t it obvious? It’s the key to my heart.” LMAO holy shit. 

26:56 - “I can tell when you’re lying.” “Not historically.”......Martin has a point. 

28:27 - This counts as my “someone confronts Malcolm about his mental health” bingo square for the episode right? 

28:35 - Look at Gil. He knows Malcolm is lying through his teeth and he’s so so tired of it. He looks so sad and annoyed. Gil loves Malcolm so much and he’s clearly concerned about Malcolm but I honestly think Gil just feels helpless right now. Malcolm is spiralling and Gil can’t help because Malcolm won’t open up. 

29:15 - “When she didn’t give up Clayton he killed her. Brave girl.”.....does this mean there’s going to be an attempt on someone’s life this season? Maybe Martin tries to kill Ainsley because she’s going to pin Endicott’s murder on Malcolm? Or Malcolm tries to kill Ainsley because she doesn’t give up Martin’s location? Or Ainsley/Martin try to kill Malcolm because he tries to come clean about everything?

29:26 - “If anyone can get through to this guy it’s you.” THANK YOU. Malcolm really needed that assurance. This dude is so full of negative emotions, self doubt, and pain. Every moment he feels supported, believed in, or loved is immensely treasured. 

30:26 - Oh Capshaw. You dumb dumb dumb woman. Look at Martin’s face. Capshaw has freed a monster. That’s Martin’s “I’m a raging serial killer” expression. 

30:29 - Holy shit. Look at how quickly Martin put the “I’m a harmless doctor” mask. In the span of about 1 second he went from killer to angel. Michael Sheen is incredible. 

31:04 - “You don’t have to be trapped in here.” It breaks my heart to hear Malcolm encourage Gerald to break free from his trauma when Malcolm is still a prisoner to his own. 

31:10 - “This is your next move” “No. It’s not”. THIS. This sums up anxiety disorders. Everyone tells you to ‘move on’ or ‘take a deep breath’. They all tell you that ‘everything will be fine’. They ask you ‘what’s the worst thing that could happen.” The problem: most people with anxiety disorders know the majority of their fears (or at least the severity of them) is irrational. Most people with anxiety disorders have tried therapy, drugs, coping mechanisms, breathing techniques, ect. Anxiety doesn’t go away because you want it to. Telling someone to move on - just makes it worse. Especially someone who has lived with severe anxiety so long that it feels like a crucial part of their personality. I’ve had a severe anxiety disorder for as long as I can remember - I don’t want to heal. I don’t know who I’d be without severe anxiety. I’m scared to find out. 

32:10 - “Family comes first”........soooo is Martin escaping to groom Ainsley for the family business (murder)? For Malcolm (to save him from Ainsley)? To protect Malcolm from a new Surgeon related skeleton (akin to Endicott)? WHY? 

32:33 - ahhhh Papa!Gil. I’ve missed you. 

33:25 - I have this headcannon that baby!Malcolm had pet rats at some point (he’d had snakes so I feel like rats would be in his wheelhouse). One day while Malcolm was at school the rats escaped from their cage and scared the crap out of Jessica. Jessica demands that the rats be removed from the home. That’s it. That’s the scene that plays in my head. 

33:39 -.....Jessica is wearing a ring on her left ring finger. Why? 

34:03 - “Jess it’s good to hear from you but -” They’re dating again now. Right? <3 

34:06 - “What?!” Fear and confusion. That’s the look on Gil’s face. We love to see it. 

 34:25 - “Martin is escaping.” Look at Gil’s face. He’s terrified. He’s staying calm and acting like he’s in control but this dude is terrified that the people he loves most in the world (Jessica and Malcolm) are in serious and immediate danger. 

34:50 - .....last I checked Malcolm was claustrophobic with specific closet-related trauma......

35:40 - “There’s only one play for a pawn.”.....does this mean Malcolm considers himself a pawn in Martin’s game? Disposable. Limited options. Replaceable. Of little worth? :( 

35:57 - “What would you know about it Judas.” Huh. Pete is pissed at Martin. Is it because Pete views Martin’s nasty relationship with Capshaw as a betrayal akin to Judas’ betrayal of Jesus?

36:36 - Jessica using her heels as a weapon is honestly such a mood. hahaha

36:54 - Poor Jessica. The moment she realizes that she’s trapped with a killer who not only hates Martin but also has an hallucinatory friend is haunting. This woman goes from terrified to petrified. But look at her poker face. She’s brave. She tries to talk her way out of it. She tries to think her way out of it. She’s like Malcolm.

37:42 - Jessica firmly telling Daryl not to take another step right before she stabs him in the neck with a high heel is everything. Listen to her terrified screaming. She can’t believe she just stabbed the man (even if it was self-defence). This woman did the impossible while scared to death. She is a badass. She’s my hero. I love her. 

38:12 - “All she had to do was tell me where my brother was. Except they were in love”.....does this mean Ainsley or Martin is going to try and kill Dani?

39:32 - “Don’t you think that’s what Rosalie would’ve wanted for you? This time make the right choice.” Wow. Malcolm is really metaphorically berating himself. What I heard was “Don’t you think Dani would want you to live without fear and guilt? This time - tell her your secret. Come clean. You’ll feel better.”

40:12 - ....so did Dani steal Gil’s keys or did he give them to her? Can we see how mad Gil is about this? Please? .....also the not-so-subtle “Dani is going to be a part of the Whitly family because she hurt Gil’s car” is not lost on me. I’m just more interested in Gil’s reaction to Dani hurting his baby. 

40:21 - “I see why you like her.” hahaha Gerald is all of us. Whether or not you ship Brightwell, you can’t deny that Dani is a badass and a good friend to Malcolm. That’s reason enough for Malcolm to like her - not necessarily in a romantic way. 

40:30 - Where the hell did Daryl go? If Jessica was trapped where did the man with a high heel in his neck go?!!?! 

40:33 - “It’s okay. It’s okay. You’re okay.” <3 <3 The whump whore in me is in love. Forget Gillica. I’ll listen to Gil comforting a traumatized member of the team or Jessica any time, any day. <3 

40:50 - I have so many questions about this escape. Are the guys sticking together? If not - do they know where the other guys plan to go/do? Where will they be getting the post-escape change of clothes (you know the ones that aren’t property of Claremont)? 

40:55 - I’ll be honest, I’m shocked. They’ve been teasing Martin’s escape all season but I really thought he wasn’t going to escape until the finale. Now I’m so excited for the finale. If it’s not a Martin-Ainsley-Malcolm showdown or a Gil-Martin showdown I’m going to be sad. 

41:13. - Martin and Gerald both just took their first breath of fresh air as ‘free’ men after 23-24 years. The symmetry of this episode’s two main plot lines is more obvious than usual. 

41:44 - Look at Gerald being Malcolm’s wingman. hahaha it’s so cute. He’s self-appointed himself as Malcolm’s grandpa and I’m here for it. 

41:51 - REALLY MALCOLM?!!? YOU CHOOSE TO LISTEN TO A VOICEMAIL FROM THE SURGEON NOW?!?! #MORON

42:29 - Martin’s entire message for Malcolm is haunting. Even now, he’s trying to manipulate Malcolm. “I’m not the man I used to be”. I’ll promise you right now - Martin will be killing at least one person in the next 3 episodes. He’s addicted to killing. End of story. 

“I’m doing this for you” ....Is Martin going after Ainsley? I’m genuinely concerned that Martin thinks Ainsley is going to try and kill Malcolm or pin the Endicott murder on Malcolm. I think Martin caught wind of it and is planning on ‘taking care of the problem’ (Ainsley). 

42:35 - Look at Dani. She’s terrified. For Malcolm. For Gil. For New York. For herself. She knows how bad this is and she’s scared. 

42:44 - “You fath-. The Surgeon.” THIS. Dani realized that Malcolm doesn’t need to be reminded that his father is a serial killer. Dani realized that family is more than blood. The Surgeon escaped. Malcolm is in danger. But Malcolm’s father didn’t escape. Malcolm’s father has been dead since 1997/1998 when Malcolm found out he was a serial killer. 

42:55 - Malcolm. :( Look at our baby. :( He’s done. Absolute horror and terror. He looks like he’s going into shock. I honestly thought (*cough* hoped *cough*) he was going to pass out. THIS is what’s going to remove Malcolm as a suspect for ‘aiding/knowing that Martin was planning on escaping’. Same with Jessica. Ainsley doesn’t have a terror driven alibi though. At least - not that we’ve seen. 

AHHHHHHHH this was such an intense episode. I can’t wait for Tuesday. <3

If Malcolm doesn’t have a full on mental breakdown soon I’m going to have a stress-induced breakdown for him. Seriously. 

 Thanks for hanging out. 

[anjuschiffer]

Spellbound

More self indulged writing :D

My first LWA (Little Witch Academia)x Maribat fic... Enjoy!

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Tag: @theatreandcomicfreak @damianette-is-life

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AO3

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An F.

Marinette screamed into her pillow as she kicked her legs in frustration. 

Another F to add to her long list of exam grades. Another F despite the countless nights Marinette stayed up to study and practice the little magic she knew.

Sure, she wasn’t blessed with the talent of Kagami nor that of Chloe’s, but that didn’t mean Marinette deserved to fail.

She bleed, sweated and cried to earn her spot at this school, her first choice school despite her parents wanting her to stay in their hometown and help at the bakery. 

But she didn’t want to be a baker. 

She wanted to be a witch. Just like Chariot. 

So, she made it her goal. 

She fought against her parents’ wishes to achieve her dream, of following it.

She earned her place at Luna Nova, the most prestigious wizard school in all of Europe. 

And yet… why was the universe so against her being here?

Despite getting in with one of the highest scores, Marinette now had the lowest ones in her grade and she honestly didn’t know why. 

“One more F and I’ll get expelled.” Marinette muttered out loud, laying on her back, staring at the underside of the bed above hers -  Alya’s bed. “One more mistake and I’ll be proven myself wrong.”

If she failed, it would give her parents a reason to tie her down to their bakery. She would’ve proven them right. That she wasn’t up for the Magic life, even though she claimed she was. 

Marinette felt the lump in her throat, her vision blurring as that thought echoed within her mind.

“No! I can’t give up!” Marinette told herself, getting up a bit too quickly, bumping her bed as she got up, Tikki humming at her in concern. 

“I’ll be fine Tikki.” Marinette told the red faerie hovering beside her. “I just need more practice.” 

Grabbing her textbook, her wand and some emergency energy, Marinette stuffed them into her bag, slinging in over her attire. 

“I promise to be careful and be back before dawn. Wouldn’t like the professors catching me again.” Marinette petted the faerie, opening the window of her dorm room to go off to her favorite spot on campus to practice. 

She can’t give up yet. 

It was still too soon to call quits. 

Her fate hasn’t been sealed. Not yet. 

-

“Where is Marinette?” Rose asked Alya, scanning the room. Before panic could settle into Rose, Juleka gave her girlfriend’s hand a squeeze, receiving one back.

“Sulking over her test grade.” Alya replied, not once looking away from the lens she finished adjusting on her newest camera model. “Do you think all of the Wayne boys will be here?”

“Seeing as tonight’s party is for them, I would believe so.” Alix answered, not believing that Alya really left Mari on her own. If previous events taught them anything, Mari should never be left alone. Never. 

One time, they found her stuck in a glass jar. It was a miniaturization spell gone wrong. 

“Can’t wait to finally use these new lenses I got for my birthday! And to get a scoop on the Waynes!” Alya squealed, her friends shaking their heads, although they had to agree.

It wasn’t everyday that your school received the news that Bruce Wayne and his family was to visit your school

Especially wizarding ones like Luna Nova. 

But while the girls couldn’t contain their excitement to see their school’s greatest sponsor face-to-face, the girls also had a feeling they were going to miss something even more important that night.

-

Damian huffed, dragging his hand down his face, not believing that he actually got separated from the rest of the family as they made their way inside of Luna Nova. 

He had just gotten here and he was already lost. 

And it was all because he was the smallest of the boys, meaning he was the easiest to push around. One push led to another, Jason pushing Damian into the nearest bush, causing Damian to get lost.

As he wandered through the school grounds, eventually wandering into what seemed to be ruins next to a forest, he couldn’t help but hear what seemed to be spells being called out, Damian’s curiosity now peaking.

He never knew what exactly fascinated him about magic, but whenever he ever got the chance to be near it, he absorbed it. So when his father told them about his visit to Luna Nova, Damian eagerly asked to join him.

Of course, this outburst caused his other siblings to become intrigued and join as well, much to Damian’s annoyance.

As he got closer to the voice, a girl in all black attire (save for the maroon skirt) came to view, Damian captivated by her stance. She was still, the breeze accepting her as she stood there, silent like the night. 

The girl took a deep breath before raising her wand, Damian watching the tip glow a dim green. 

As she exhaled, she shouted, “Metamorphie Faciesse!” Damian watched as the spell hit the thing between them -a falling leaf- turn into a rock, hitting the ground with a soft thud. 

He watched as she opened her eyes, confident bluebell eyes turning to joy when she saw her success.

“I got that down, but I still have to nail the full body one.” He heard her say, wondering if she was here to practice her spells. “Metamorphie Faciesse!” She shouted once more, a cloud appearing before vanishing around the girl, Damian staring at her wide eyed.

Rabbit ears were on her head. 

Were they actual...rabbit ears?

Or were they just attachments?

Unable to restrain himself, Damian didn’t catch his mistake until a piercing yelp rang through the silent night.

-

Just Marinette was about to scold herself for not doing the spell correctly, a sharp pain coursed through her body, causing her to cry in pain.

“Who said it was okay to touch them, nonetheless squeeze them! They’re my ears, whether you want to believe it or not and because they are, they’re very...” Marinette scolded, turning to see a boy standing before her. “...sensitive.” She finished, wondering what a boy was doing on school grounds. 

If she recalled, Luna Nova was always an All Girls school, meaning there shouldn’t be any boys, unless…

“My apologies, Miss…?” The boy asked, Marinette noticing that his eyes never stop staring at her ears. Covering them, Marinette decided to respond.

“Dupain-Cheng.” Marinette softly said. “Marinette Dupain-Cheng. And you are?” She asked with a tilt of her head, wondering why the boy looked taken aback when she asked for his name.

Well...this was a first for Damian. A person who didn’t know who he was? Interesting.

“Damian. Damian Wayne.” Damian answered, bowing a bit. 

Damian… Wayne… no way…

“You’re Mr.Wayne’s son?! Devilish Damian?!” Marinette screamed, covering her mouth as she felt rise to her ears. “I’m sorry! It’s just that! It’s the name the girls in the school call you. You know, because despite being cold, cool and being a bit of a devil, they think you’re very attractive. Not that I don’t also think that… Oh god! What-” Marinette rambled, wishing she could successfully cast the spell so that she can hide away from Damian.

Meanwhile, Damian found her honesty quite charming, wondering if she’d still be honest with him now that she knew who he was.

“Miss Dupain-Cheng.”

“Yes?”

“Would you mind showing me how that spell works?” Damian reached over for her ears, Marinette taking a step back. “Sorry. I should’ve asked-”

“Do you not know magic?” Marinette asked, her heart aching when she saw his face fall.

“While Mother wished for me to learn magic as soon as I turned three, those dreams were crushed when she found out I am not able to contain any energy from the Sorcerer's Stone.” Damian frowned, Marinette wanting to slap herself for asking something so sensitive. “And because I know no magic, Father has taken upon himself to not let me near it.”

Damian held the urge to curse, knowing fully that his father wouldn’t have done said decision if Damian had been his adopted son and not biological. 

“So you've never been able to cast a spell?”

“No.”

“What if I say that you can?” Marinette said with a smirk, Damian keen on wanting to know more. When Marinette saw his eyes sparkle, she felt her heart jump. With a smile, she continued. “All you have to do is follow me.”

Marinette guided Damian further into the forest, glad to have brought some extra energy capsules. 

-

“Damian!” Dick yelled, wondering where his brother went, a full hour having passed since the family last saw him. 

It took having to introduce themselves to realizing that Damian had gone missing, employing a hunt for the young Wayne. 

So here he was, searching for the brat, knowing that if he didn’t find him first, Tim will. And if Tim found him...Dick knew that it wouldn’t end well.

Just as Dick was about to call Damian again, he spotted him in the distance, letting out a sigh of relief when he saw him. However, just as Dick started to jog up towards him, he heard a spell get cast. 

“Murowa!” 

Dick watched as a spell approached Damian, fighting off the urge to freeze in place. He had to get to Damian and counter the spell before-

“Ein Ein Sof.” Damian spoke, lifting up what resembled a wand. “Ein Sof Ohr.” A dim green light began to glow. “Luna Lana!” 

Dick watched as the attack spell dispersed, coming to halt when he saw Damian without a scorch on his attire, his suit still intact.

“Damian! You did it!” A girl screamed, Dick flabbergasted when she ran up to Damian and hugged him, the girl jumping around him as Damian smiled at the wand in his hand. “You casted your first spell!”

“I had an amazing teacher after all.” Damian softly said, Dick watching the girl softly come to a stop, a blush across her face. Dick smiled when he watched the girl play with her- are those rabbit ears?

“Metamorphie Faciesse.” Dick whispered, watching as the girl quickly took out her wand when she felt her ears return to normal. Wait… did she think-

“Foraen Mugrowna! Turuto Tarumare!” The girl yelled, putting herself in front of Damian, determination filling her eyes.

“Wait! I’m-” But it was too late. 

Vines crept around Dick’s body, quickly apprehending him, making him fall to the ground, his face meeting the dirt and sharp rocks beneath him. 

As the dirt cleared up from his vision, Dick saw Damian come to view, though  he was standing behind the midnight haired girl who glared at him, her wand at his forehead.

“Grayson?”

“You know him?” The girl asked, not letting her eye off him.

“Brother of mine. Adopted.” Damian filled in, Dick frowning.

“Mon Dieu! He’s a Wayne!” Dick was then promptly helped up, the spirits the girl had summoned now healing him. He watched as she frantically started to patch him up. “I am so sorry.”

“I should be apologizing.” Dick started, looking over at Damian who sported a grin. “I shouldn’t have-”

“Holy shit. It really was Demon Spawn.” A new voice said, Damian scowling when he saw Jason, not noticing that Marinette had the same reaction. 

“Todd.” Damian gritted, his scowl worsening when he saw that Tim was right behind him.

“We’ve been looking all over the place for you brat!”

“And whose fault do you-”

“And who are you?” Jason asked, Damian realizing that he was now beside Marinette. He was about to go and pull him away, but chose not to. After all, she just proved that she can defend herself. 

“Marinette Dupain-Cheng.” Marinette spoke sternly, her glare never lifting. 

“Well Marinette, thank you for-”

“Foraen Mugrowna!” Marinette yelled, grabbing Damian’s hand as yells and curses filled the cool night air.

Damian looked back, watching as large vines wrapped themselves around his siblings, feeling a smile make its way onto his face.

Turning back, he watched as a grin was on Marinette’s face, the moonlight highlighting her pale features.

“Are you free this weekend?” Damian asked, making sure to still watch his footing as they kept running, listening as the voice of his angered siblings grew louder.

“I’m free, why?”

“I want to thank you for tonight. Maybe grab some-”

“I’d be happy to join you.” Marinette said, returning her focus on the path ahead, guiding Damian back onto the campus grounds. “Saturday at 10? By the school entrance?” She asked, letting go of his hand. 

”Sounds like a date then.” Damian promised, smirking as Marinette’s face turned bright pink. “I’ll see you Saturday then, Miss Marinette.”

[bosses-stay-flawless]

In honor of my ancestors, my descendants & myself...❤🖤💚

"From Africa to Cuba to Virginia: A story in Black, White, Brown & Red."

African history didn't begin with slavery, nor does it end with the diaporsa. For many families, including mine, many cultures, races, and generations of people across the world were impacted by the Mid-Atlantic Slave Trade.

"A Story in Black, White, Brown, and Red" was the title of my mother's dissertation in college. At the earliest age I was taught my family's diverse history. I' m grateful for that but I'm also grateful for the many discoveries I found on my own through taking various DNA- Ancestory tests on the market. The journey of self knowledge has been a rewarding one and not limited to the information, I post here.

The first time I actively acknowledged Juneteenth was in June of 2010, I was invited to an event, I had never even heard of it, nor did I know what it represented. In some way, I always incorporate, ways to acknowledge it since then.

My family's history began prior to slavery, it is a journey, similar to many others. I will share it from the middle, as it is a part of my history the bridges the pre-slavery aspect to my post slavery heritage.

The results above are from a generic test I took last year with CRI Genetics. As the Recent Ancestory Analysis summary describes, most of what is known about my most recent genetic makeup was already known by me, yet so was the Taino/ Cuban part. What was not known was the exact African mix.

DNA testing helped me uncover so much, in terms of genetics, yet once again the basics were always known and passed down. My aunt kept journals and albums of pictures, stories, dates and monumental pieces. So why the genetic test? I wanted to find the Africa in me that always beat loudly like a drum.

In honor of my ancestors, that endured much, in honor of my ancestors whose sum of life is more than curses, they are blessings & lessons mixed in as well.

Like Carlota, represented some of my ancestors began their lives in Africa, and were not slaves. Going back past the 5 most recent generations, my ancestory is empowering, and beautiful, and African.

Carlota Lucumí,  (died November 1844) was an African-born enslaved Cuban woman of Yoruba origin.[1]Carlota, alongside fellow enslaved Lucumí Ferminia, was known as one of the leaders of the slave rebellion at the Triunvirato plantation in Matanzas, Cuba during the Year of the Lash in 1843-1844.[1] Together with Ferminia Lucumí, Carlota led the slave uprising of the sugar mill "Triunvirato" in the province of Matanzas, Cuba on November 5, 1843.[2][3][4] Her memory has also been utilized throughout history by the Cuban government in connection to 20th century political goals, most notably Operation Carlota, or Cuba's intervention in Angola in 1975.[5] Little is actually known about the life of Carlota due to the difficulty and availability of sources in archives (Finch 88). Scholars of Afro-Cuban history have grappled with the dearth of reliable sources that document slaves' lives, and the ability of written documents to accurately encompass the reality of slave life.[6][7] Slave testimonies obtained under investigations after rebellions provide most of the information surrounding Carlota and her contemporaries, making it difficult to construct a complete understanding of her involvement in the 1843 slave rebellion, much less a detailed biography.[8] She is considered significant by scholars due to her role as a woman in an otherwise male-dominated sphere of slave revolt, as well as the way her memory has been employed in the public sphere in Cuba. Carlota and the uprising at Triunvirato plantation are honored as part of the UNESCO Slave Route Project through a sculpture at the Triunvirato plantation, which has since been turned into a memorial and museum.[9]

I sat in tears with the ancestors last night, remembering, being an empath is not limited to the here and now it transcends death at times. Why tears? I was shown a vision of a 10 year old girl, without clothes, in heavy chains, shivering and naked. Was she afraid? Very, taken and crammed aboard a ship, she had no way of knowing where she and the many others were going, as the days went by she saw many die, many beaten, many more jump ship. She felt like she was starving, not just for food, warmth, light, but for the familiar, and for her family, where are her family now, are they dead, taken, searching? She doesn't know. The days seem endless, the rocking motion of the boat makes her sick, more death, yet the weaker she becomes because of lack of proper nutrition, she hears the drums, the drums from her home, the ancestral drums...BEATING. Soft at first, then loud, almost asleep she realizes that the fierce, pounding, never ceasing sound is the beating of her own heart. The Tell Tale Heart (ode to Poe), she was grateful that her journey didn't end on that ship, nor did the hardship but even so she vowed to live another day, and LIVE she did.

My Ancestory DNA test expresses results in a different way. Same results.

[dear-mrs-otome]

Quand on Parle du Loup - Ikevamp (Jean, AU)

Fandom: Ikemen Vampire Pairing: Jean x female MC Warnings: ANGST. Blood, slight gore, horror, character death Summary: When a small village in 18th century France is stalked by a beast, at what price is peace bought? (~4k words, angst, historical/horror AU) Author’s Note: Hey everyone, this was my piece for the @ikevampzine​ - the theme of the zine was ‘mythology’ and so I opted to play around with the idea of the historical folklore surrounding the story of the Beast of Gévaudan. (If you have never heard of it, go google it! It’s a fascinating little interlude in history!) I was nervous because angst isn’t my usual playground but I had a lot of fun with this. I was also blessed enough to collaborate with @beni-draw-ikemen-please​ for some amazing art to go alongside it as well, and I thank her for being such a fantastic inspiration! Please see her full piece in all its glory at the end of this story!!

It slunk between the tables and conversations, stalked on silent paws the wisps of woodsmoke that curled from the blackened fireplace, and growled in the echo of every unsettled laugh that bounced back from the oaken rafters overhead.

Not here, not in the sense that mattered, but omnipresent. On everyone’s lips and hearts and minds.

La Bête

The Beast.

“I heard it took another shepherd last week, ‘round La Besseyre-Saint-Mary,” a snaggle-toothed man said quietly to his benchmate as she walked past, laden down by a heavy tray of food and drink. “Saints preserve us.” He crossed himself, and then spat on the tacky floor as if for good measure. 

“Saints indeed. The Lord knows we need all the help we can get,” his companion agreed with a rueful twist of his lips. “I thought it was gone for sure, after the marquis’ men caught that big ‘un and showed it off. It went quiet for awhile…but the past couple of months haven’t been so quiet, have they? They must have had the wrong wolf.”

“Did you ever notice though…” The first man broke off, casting his eye about suspiciously, before leaning towards his companion conspiratorially, his voice dropping low enough that she struggled to listen in. “Things really only seem bad around the full moon? Unnatural, I tell you. They say it’s just a wolf, but I’m not so sure.”

Shaking her head at their superstition, she breezed past, angling for the darkness of a corner sequestered far from the light and liveliness of the fireplace. The table she finally stopped at was occupied by only one man - unusual at this busy hour, but no matter how many times she’d seen him come in he always sat alone. Perhaps it was the heavy air he gave off, the way his thoughts seemed walled away behind the tooled leather of an eyepatch. Or perhaps it was the gleaming sword strapped to his hip, and the fine cut of clothing above it. Far finer than any rough homespun worn around these parts.

Everyone else had given him a wide berth since he’d rolled into town some six months back in the employ of the Marquis d’Apcher - as some sort of sellsword, they all had assumed. That hadn’t stopped him from coming to the tavern regularly though, despite their disdain, a pattern that screamed of perpetual bachelorhood.

“Monsieur Jean.” She set his usual beer and bowl of stew down in front of him, along with her usual smile.

He offered her his usual reserved reply. “Please. Just Jean is fine.”

“Very well…’Just Jean’.” It was a ridiculous joke, the same exchange they had nearly every evening, and yet she continued to toss it at him because it never failed to bring a spark of something to his dark eyes. Like summer lightning folded deep within bruised thunderheads. A secret swift flash that brought her inordinate pride.

At a nearby table, voices raised again, cursing the evil that stalked their town, and she caught a wince tightening the lines of Jean’s mouth.

“They’re talking about it again. I mean, what else do they ever talk about?” She shifted her weight and leaned a hip against the scarred tabletop so that she could bend enough to keep their conversation close. “Said someone disappeared the next village over. But you’ll find it,” she told him. She was certain that hunting the beast that terrorized their land was the only thing that would bring a man like him to a sleepy village like this - and was certain he was as frustrated as the rest of them with the lack of progress.

“Perhaps.” His soft murmur of agreement barely carried over the din, and she wondered if she had only imagined the thread of melancholy stitched within it.

Unthinking, she laid her hand over his to squeeze it reassuringly, and then froze when she realized what she had done. Waiting for him to pull his own back and brick himself once more behind the bulwark of silence he always sheltered behind. There was a faint flex, the dance of tension in his fingers…but to her utter surprise he didn’t move. He didn’t turn his hand over to receive her gesture - but he didn’t reject it either. 

She looked up from their layered fingers to find his gaze, for once, fixed squarely on hers, and it was dizzying to be the unwavering subject of that midnight intensity.

“Tomorrow is the Sabbath,” he began, almost hesitantly. “After church, are you free?” There was an awkward beat where she wondered what his intentions were exactly in asking, before he seemed to sense her confusion and hastened to fill the loaded silence, slipping his hand from beneath hers to wrap them both around his mug. “I noticed you often walk alone. It’s not safe, least of all now. I thought...perhaps…I could show you a few ways to keep yourself safer.”

“You’d be willing to do that?” She blinked, taken aback by his unexpected offer. 

His gaze shifted back to the ale between his hands, the barest ripple of a shrug moving across his frame. “It was just a thought. You are free to refuse.”

“I’m not saying no,” she hurried to answer. “That’d be very kind of you. To be honest, it is terrifying. But I also wish there was something I could do too, if I came across the beast. I know it’s ridiculous to think that one tavern wench could-”

“I’ve seen stranger things.” His interjection cut her self-depreciation off, and when she searched his face there was no mockery there. Only an earnest, fervent sort of frankness that humbled her. “It takes only a single grain of sand to tip a scale. One soldier to win a war.”

She had to duck her head then, to keep him from seeing the pleased smile that plucked at her lips. “All right, then I accept. Thank you.”

------

The sun had climbed high by the time church let out, pressing down on her shoulders like the weight of a hot heavy hand. Against the golden backdrop of an autumn field, Jean stood dark like a drop of ink, as cool and composed as ever where he leaned against the low stone wall.

“You came again.”

She had to wonder at the way he sounded almost surprised. This was the third week they had met like this now, after his first offer nearly a month ago.  “Of course I came. There’s too much going on for me to just...not.” 

He made a small noncommittal sound and then crossed towards her, his long legs eating up the distance. “Do you remember where we left off last time?” he asked, immediately all business. In his hand was the spear that had rested beside him and he offered it to her, haft first, the keen edge of its spade-tipped head winking coolly in the hot sun. 

She nodded and took it hesitantly, adjusting her grip on the grain of the handle until it felt comfortable in her hand. “I think so.” The spear is the weapon of the humble, he had told her on that first day. It is the great equalizer.

There was a stack of hay nearby and she turned to it, setting her jaw as she ran over their past lessons in her mind, Jean’s calm voice echoing in her recollections.

Set your feet.

Keep your weight toward your toes.

Bend your knees, hands shoulder-width apart. 

She drew a breath that carried the sweet smell of drying grass with it and lashed out with the tip, slicing a few of the nearest blades neatly off.  

“Your balance is good. You’ve been practicing. But -” He stepped behind her, arms braced alongside hers for support, hands resting atop her own until they were cradling the spear in their shared grip. “Always keep your lead arm steady.”

He guided her again into a careful stroke to illustrate, and she was reminded that this was a man who had made a life of war. In the muted strength of his grip, in the tensile musculature of the frame that bracketed her own, was the testament to a body flayed by battle into something pure of purpose. 

Beneath their combined hands, the fluid arc of her swing trimmed another few inches from the hay bales effortlessly.

His tiny grunt of exertion brushed over the sweat-clung curls at the nape of her neck, warm and cool at the same time, and she was abruptly aware of how close they were. The slightest turn of her head brought his face into view, scarcely more than a murmur away from her own, and she froze.

His skin was flawless, almost porcelain in its perfection save for whatever flaw lay behind that eyepatch. His features classic and refined. When she had first seen Jean, in the low light of the tavern, she had mistaken him for a woman - a mistake only corrected when she had heard his mild baritone. 

Yet even under the unflinching midday sun, he was still something undefinable. Beauty freed from the restriction of labels. As transcendent and timeless as the faces of the angels she saw in church every Sunday, carved of marble and of stained glass, perched on windows and above the pews watching over the parishioners. Divine and touched by God.

Her heart forgot how to keep its own time as the dark lashes on his good eye swept up, and the night sky of his gaze warmed ever so slightly as it met hers, like the slow break of dawn.

They both stalled, and the hand curled above the flare of her hip suddenly seemed to burn her through so many layers of cloth as the thought occurred to her that all she had to do was lean and she would finally know what those elegant lips felt like against her own.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked to distract herself from the temptation, her half breathless words giving voice to the question that had plagued her the past few weeks. “Why teach me all this?”

He dropped her hand and took a swift, safe step back, raking unsteady fingers through his long hair. For long moments she thought he wouldn’t answer at all, before he finally spoke. “Have you heard of the loup-garou?”

“A man, that becomes a wolf.” It would have been impossible not to, given the wild stories that passed through the lips of drunken men. “Surely you’re not saying...” She began on a laugh, but it withered away to nothing when his face remained impassive.

“The loup-garou is a scourge. A wolf but not, a man but not. Smarter, stronger, faster than any beast framed by the hand of God. It is the devil’s work.” Jean practically spat the words as he prowled a deliberate step forward, and she had to fight the urge to take an answering one back. His eye fixed on hers, hard and dark and cutting as a flake of obsidian. “A wretched cursed thing, damned to crave flesh. They say -” He broke off, almost as if wrestling with something, before finishing his thought. “They say it kills those it loves first.”

She licked dry lips, and tried to find her voice. “How do you stop it?”

He gestured toward the weapon in her hands with a rueful lilt to his words. “A sharp blade, and a lot of luck.”

“I don’t believe in monsters.” She shook her head vehemently, as if she could wish the idea away if she only denied it hard enough. Wish away all those dark grumblings that swirled around the tavern each night. “A wolf is a wolf is a wolf. God would not be so cruel as to damn a soul like that.”

A smile crossed his face then, quick and fleeting and full of something so akin to despair that it seemed more a grimace to her. “Humor me then, mademoiselle. Believe it or don’t, as you see fit.” He pressed the spear into her lax hands, until she was forced to grip it tighter. Cold and ominous, like a length of ice in her curled fingers. “But let us both agree that God helps those who help themselves.” 

------

The moon hung high when she left the tavern late the following night. Round and pendulous, it stared at her from between the trees as she waved a goodbye to the tavernkeep and tugged on the leather gloves she’d had tucked in a pocket. 

Shadows crawled across the dirt track that led toward her house on the fringe of the small village, in time with the swaying of the trees overhead, and the breeze they danced on waltzed with the ends of her hair as well, loosened by the evening’s toils. As she turned to pick up the stave leaning beside the back door, a far-off owl let out a melancholy trill.

It was all very tranquil, and she felt more than a bit foolish as she walked, armed to the teeth with weapons she scarcely knew how to use and jumping at every sound. 

Then, in the distance - a sound that raked cold claws down her spine.

The cresting ululation of a wolf’s howl.

Even without Jean’s fanciful tales, the sound sank a quarrel of panic into the base part of her brain, the one still firmly rooted in a time where mankind was decidedly prey and not predator. She tightened her grip on the haft she held so that she wouldn’t notice her own trembling fingers, and pressed on.

Then it came again, from the next rise nearer. Echoing down the gully and wood, as if funneled straight to her. 

As if whatever dreadful throat had borne that sound were coming straight toward her.

Her footfalls turned over faster, racing the occasional scudding cloud overhead as fear prodded her on, her heart squeezing out beat after frenzied beat from within the confines of her throat. The leather of her gloves grew slick inside with sweat from her palm, and she switched her grip on the spear to her other hand, flexing away the clammy dampness as best she could. 

Almost home, almost home...she clung to the little litany, as the howling drew closer and underbrush crackled off in the distance.

She saw the eyes first.

Flickering between the bushes like flames, the faint dry-bone rasp of dead brush accompanying it as it paced her effortlessly. A time or two it disappeared and she was left running alone, her heart pounding so hard it scarcely felt as if it had unclenched enough to take another beat - only for those ghastly twin fires to reignite, moments later, on the other side. Back and forth, back and forth, until a sudden realization had the prickles of a cold sweat break out on her back.

Mother of God...it was toying with her. As if it were some great cat rather than a wolf, amusing itself with her attempts to escape. Feeding off her fear as if it were an amuse bouche. The delectable prequel to a feast.

This, more than anything, convinced her that Jean had been right. This…this beast...was no creature of God. 

This was something born of hell. Nature marred by the devil’s own fingerprints.

Maybe that was the realization that finally turned her spine to steel. Jean had been right about the wolf - and that meant perhaps he had been right about her. He knew she could handle herself.

A single grain of sand.

Her feet scuffed lightly on the dirt of the path as she skidded to an abrupt halt, the sound of her own ragged breath the only thing filling her ears. Whatever the creature was, wherever the creature was, it seemed to be content to simply watch. And wait.

"Show yourself." She hated the tiny tremor that wove itself into her voice. Hated more the ridiculous inexplicable feeling that the creature might somehow understand her. 

It came, after a breath held so long her lungs began to ache. Parting the underbrush like a leviathan breaching the sea, black as sin with brimstone eyes. A mouthful of bristling fangs and a growl that scraped painfully deep on the ears, like the slow crumble of a mountain. It paced forward until the watery light shone on it fully, and she couldn’t have stifled the gasp that left her if she tried at the sheer size of it.

Against the inside of her ribs, her heart bruised itself painfully, and the fingers that clutched at her stave gripped it ever tighter, fighting against the terror that numbed them. The first few syllables of a Hail Mary tumbled from her lips, unbidden, to spill between them.

The beast paced the liminal wash of moonlight restlessly, dappled by shadow. A step toward her and then a turn back, pausing on occasion to sway its great shaggy head. The faintest of whines escaped the cage of its teeth, its ears pinned back flat to its skull as it met her eyes and stood, nearly motionless, fine tremors quaking its back as if shaking away the irritation of invisible flies.

She held that monstrous gaze, and it felt like walking into an open flame. Scorching and breathless as if the gates of hell swept themselves open to usher her in.

“What do you want?” she asked. It remained motionless, and the repetition tore itself from her throat, her voice breaking lest her nerve did. “What do you want?!” 

It didn’t answer, of course. The only thing her voice did was to snap whatever indecisive spell it had seemed to linger under. 

In a blink, the wolf leapt, and time seemed to perch on a glassine pedestal. So many things whirling at once until the moment shattered into countless shards, past and present and future all splintered and shuffled, like a broken mirror at her feet. Offering tiny refractions without answers.

The dark shape of the beast, blotting out the moon.

A howl, mournful and defiant, raking ragged claws across her concentration to shred it.

A slavering maw gaping open like the summation of all her misdeeds, snarling and ready to swallow her whole.

Then. 

A hand over her own, firm and steadying.

The sweet hot waft of hay in the sun, and a voice like clover honey in her ear, saying -

Set your feet. Set your feet.

Set your feet.

She did, and the rest of the motion flowed unquestioningly, earned over so many late-summer afternoons. The hard wood biting into her ribcage, nearly knocking the wind out of her as she took the brunt of the beast’s pounce squarely on the point. A strange sort of resistance that shivered up the shaft she held, until it punched through on a sucking, wet-clay sound, grating nauseatingly against bone as it went. Crimson bloomed and ran down the wood onto her arms, dripping from the beast and her own elbow, red-black as the secret heart of an unfurling rose. Splashing and scattering about like crushed petals to pit the dusty ground beneath her feet.

Teeth snapped shut inches from her face, pink and frothed with blood. And above it all, the tip of the spear gleaming proud and defiant, coated in gore and fur where it sprouted from the back of the beast.

With her hands slick, she couldn’t keep her grip against the weight of the wolf, and she and the spear crashed to the ground. She rolled over onto her knees in a rush and found the wolf lying nearby, panting as it strained and thrashed, great claws gouging furrows in the dirt as it fought - for freedom from the weapon that pierced it, perhaps. For purchase, as it still strained towards her. For life, as it railed against the slow dim of that feral light in its eyes.

She watched, transfixed, as its great bulk seemed to fold in on itself. Fangs blunting, claws shrinking, limbs stretching and fur receding until in the road, gasping against a spreading backdrop of scarlet, lay the truth she knew she’d been running from this whole time.

“Thank God. Oh...thank God.” The words left Jean on a broken sigh, soft as the brush of an angel’s pinfeathers.

She crawled to his side, heedless of the pebble strewn dirt that bit savagely into her palms and knees. “Jean, I -”

She what? There were a hundred ways to end that sentence and not a single one managed to rise out of the maelstrom of emotions that gripped her, twisting hot and tight in her chest, surging to beat at the back of her eyes. Her hands fluttered insecurely above him, unsure of where to land or what to do, before she lifted his head onto her lap and brushed sweat-matted strands from his face. 

There were stars in his eyes, she saw, as his gaze struggled to find hers. Not just a reflection of those wheeling overhead, but tiny flecks of pallor in the twilight of them that she had never noticed before - constellations trapped within his unfocused stare. 

“Forgive me.” His voice was the barest tattered thread of sound, and even that small effort set him coughing, blood bubbling around the shaft still impaled in his chest like the ghastliest of blooms. “Forgive me for saying this but...I am so glad it was you. I knew it would be.”

His hand shook and tried to reach for her, falling weakly back against his stomach until she snatched it up and clenched it tight within her grasp. Heedless of the heartsblood that coated it like a glove, far warmer than the chilled flesh beneath.  “How did you know that?”

A full smile graced his lips, the first she had ever seen, achingly beautiful despite the agonized clench of his teeth. “I knew exactly who his prey would be.”

The slick fingers tangled between her own tightened, squeezing meaningfully, though the gasp that tore through him belied how much even that small motion cost - and the pain that lanced her heart at the implication of his words made it feel almost as if it were she that had been run through. 

He shivered, though the night wasn’t cold, and the pulse at his wrist fluttered faster against her fingertips. Erratic, like the shake of a fledgling's wings before flight. “If God is merciful..” His clear eyes slowly clouded. “M-may He grant we meet again.”

Before she could answer, he sighed one more breath - and then stilled.

“No. No, no, no…” But there was no denying the truth, no matter how bitterly it sat on her tongue. Mixing harsh with the salt of the tears that ran down her cheeks. She held a dead man, in wretched mimicry of a lover’s embrace, and wept a pieta over the clay that had bound him to this nightmare - the unblinking moon above the only other witness to just what price his freedom.

[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.

[madamhatter]

As a child that was limited severely in having autonomy and other normalcies in her life, all she has for herself is her private thoughts and emotions. Privacy is extremely important for her. She already keeps many at arm’s distance and fabricates the ‘Sophie’ that they interact and know. 

To her, it is the true thing and only thing she has for herself. Given self-deprecation and warped understanding of herself however, it is both a blessing and curse. The situation of her mind is one of constant conflict. It is reservations about current conditions and past actions, stinging and breathing wounds of life-long realizations and fabrications.

All the ugliness and unfinished being that is truly Sophie, one that has been reworked and broken apart, can stay caged within. Oft a comforting thought for her, but it raises bile in her throat when alone with her mind.

But, privacy is of the upmost importance to her because it keeps that away from eyes. It allows her to continue constructing and employing herself underneath a versatile façade. She is, after all, a representation of stability. And she intends on keeping it that way.

Hence, if anyone were to allude to knowing more about her (be it in passing reference or flat out stating things she has never shared), she may get hostile. However, it takes a bit for her aversion to show (and any aggression/defensiveness). It’ll take her a bit to process it and there’s the fact she can keep calm-headed in most situations. And, it depends on what is said.