#from my newly acquired books and it never occured to me to use up the plethora of old acrylic yarn I ALREADY OWN YOU DUMB FUCK

[disgruntled-lifeform]

My dumb ass just had a stunning Epiphany

I can knit with store bought acrylic yarn.

[semischarmed]

Cocktease

“Well aren’t you a sight for sore eyes...” mused a deceased Harland as he eyed a future acquisition.

The specter licked it’s lips in greedy anticipation, taking note of the sun-glazed man in front of him building a substantial fort in the sand.

Beautiful curves baked in golden sunset outlined the man’s every muscle. Harland gawked as he followed every bend and bump of the man, committing his form to memory. He continued to hover his intangible mass near his future skin. The man’s hair was jet-black, and gently spiked from ocean water. The man’s muscles moved expertly beneath his skin, revealing their strength. This was a body sculpted through years of work, hard-earned and built for power. Unable to control himself further, Harland began to caress the man’s body from behind, causing him to jolt in a shiver.

“You alright there, Marco?” A small petite woman waved from afar.

“Y-yeah, just a breeze.. Sorry for the scare Val!” He shouted back, reassuringly as he shook off the odd sensations.

This only prompted Harland to continue further, deeper. Harland was as ruthless of a businessman as he was effective. In his day he was never one to compromise. He loved a good, dirty fight. He relished in the struggle. A vessel of this much resistance was made for him. This time around, he dug his spectral fingers into Marco’s golden arms, causing a slight ripple in its muscled flesh. He watched in glee as he traced the outline of those forearms, causing the fine hairs he dragged his intangible hand through to glow briefly and settle white. Property of Harland.

Marco meanwhile went from small jolts to a slight convulsion, as he felt something inherently wrong penetrate him. There was something otherworldly to the sensation he had just felt. Moments later a stream of vile, negative emotions flooded him, causing him to laugh uncontrollably. 

Marco knew something was wrong. These were not the bright, sunny laughter he normally gave off. They were cruel, callous laughs which sent chills down his spine. He had no idea his body could even make these sounds. He glanced at his biceps and recoiled in shock as he viewed stray muscles writhing and moving on their own. Marco felt an enhanced sensation in his arms, like an increased awareness in his control of them yet by that very same sensation was an unnatural numbness to them. By all accounts, they were his arms but something was off. These appendages attached to him could hardly qualify as his arms. There was something not-Marco to them that his brain couldn’t quite resolve. Every movement he felt was unnatural, like he had to actively focus on moving every single muscle just to get his arms to move the way he desired.

Marco began to worry in his head, as more and more of his body began to follow in the same feeling. He ran through the day’s events, trying in vain to discern what could have caused these sensations. Then, his legs buckled and he collapsed into the very fort he had built earlier. 

In sweat and sand, in struggle and sun, Marco began to convulse on the ground. His desperation unseen by others, shielded by the pile he excavated to make the fort.

He thrashed and shook vigorously, as more unfamiliar sensations flooded him.

The feeling was moving throughout him. It was unmistakably living. And it was drawing closer to his head. 

A stream of drool left Marco’s mouth, as his shaking quickened. Veins bulged in his face and throughout his body as seconds later, his eyes began to roll back.

“F-Fuck!!” He shouted. 

“Mmmm yes, ‘Fuck’ indeed” an elderly voice inside him spoke.

“What the-“

“Pleasure to finally meet you... I’m Harland”

——

Marco grasped his head in pain. “W-what the fuck do you want?! 

“The answer to that question should be quite obvious.” Marco’s own lips spoke this time. His pained expression loosened and all visible struggle drained from it, as Harland commandeered Marco’s pretty face as his own. A hand still half-controlled by Marco shook in place until it eventually relented and caressed his face in rough unnatural motions. “I want this”. 

“GET OUT” Marco shouted in protest. His body shook violently in one swift motion before settling.

In a brief instance, Marco again found full control of his body. He let out one sigh of relief before passing out. 

——

Stirred awake by the sound of gently rolling waves and the vibration in his pocket, Marco awoke from a nap that had gone for far too long.

He viewed his phone, taking note of the hours lost in slumber. A new text from Val. 

“Today was fun, had a client booked. Was gonna wake you up but you looked way too cute like that. Let’s do this again sometime. Maybe no giant sandcastles next time ;)”

He laughed gently as he spoke to himself “Damn, quarantine has really done a number on your stamina, eh Marco?”. He continued to slowly get up from the hole he had created himself- stopping every few moments as if to anticipate another fight for his body, despite writing off the entire event as a dream. “Must have dozed off or something.” He kept repeating rationalizations to himself, chalking the whole thing up to an illusion born of fatigue. Yet somehow deep down, he knew it was all too real. Something foreign, something unnatural was still there with him. Still Inside. 

All reservations aside, nothing out of the ordinary seemed to have occurred since waking up and Marco began to even slightly believe his own little lie.

“Of course it was just a dream”.

As soon as Marco began to truly relax himself, his body shook into rigid, unnatural poses, defiantly showing its owner his error.

He attempted to get his bearings, grasping at whatever he could, only to catch loose sand with his arms. In the midst of Marco’s writhing, a toothy sneer pulled itself from his lips.

Harland spoke using Marco as his mouthpiece. “You didn’t seriously think I would just leave all of this?”

Marco’s own struggling hands began to grope and fondle his body.

“Don’t worry, having me inside will a whale of a time- you’ll see” he spoke, trailing of in a moan as his fingers circled sensually around his nipples. “Being my new body will make you successful beyond your wildest dreams”

Marco felt an odd warmth build inside him. 

“Get the hell out of me!” He shouted in desperation. 

In that moment, he was hit with a tremor of earthshattering pleasure- burst from deep within his abs, pulsing and delivering into the rest him. His arms splayed out, his hips swung into unnatural angles, as he was forced to ride the wave. In the aftershocks from the initial burst, his limbs couldn’t help but twitch slightly in unprompted delight. Marco had never felt anything like that before. His body couldn’t help but leak a little precum in anticipation. 

“Some propriety is called for, young man. At least try to hide it.”

Embarrassed by the small stain that now appeared on his underwear, Marco began to shout back. 

“Shut u-sh-shit… oh shit… holy shit holy shit” attention was immediately drawn to the second tremor inside himself. Once the second wave hit, he could only manage to barely contain an unprompted moan in his throat. 

Marco tried to readjust himself, to acquaint himself with the pleasurable feelings and fight Harland’s onslaught on his senses. Instead, the pulses were getting quicker, stronger.

His abs were in pain, body sore, veins engorged. Muscles strained from their fleshy confine as they involuntarily contracted and relaxed in rapid succession from the increasing frequency of the pulses.

Marco laid in the ground shaking, riled up in pent up fury and ecstasy, expecting sweet, sweet release- only to be met with disappointment as his body, the very body he worked so hard to sculpt, betrayed its master. There would be no respite from the onslaught of pressure inside him. In fevered, labored breaths he cried out to his tormentor. “J-Just do it…. ah ah a-Holy shit. Take me. FUCK. We’re so close… please”.

Marco’s head hung back while his mouth contorted into a pained expression. The corners of his mouth twitched in place as the Harland new face took on a dark, lecherous expression.

“No, you were made to please me! You’re not getting a drop of this!” In that instance, something inside Marco’s body clicked into place.

This was it, Harland could see himself begin to manifest through his newly-acquired Marco-template. Marco’s eyes took on an evil, soulless demeanor. His hair began to flush white before settling into a dark gray color between Marco’s and Harland’s. All along his body, similar changes had occurred, cementing this new flesh as not-quite Marco and not-quite Harland. 

Of course, the mind was a vastly different matter. Marco was no more- his body only the template from which Harland had fashioned his new corporeal form. Harland devoured his mind, connecting the new body to its sole owner.

Marco was no more- for he was now fully Harland incarnate. Lewd fingers began to explore the body they were attached to, tracing over Marco’s biceps, his shoulders, and his thick neck. His fingers continued to drag themselves among raw other crevices in his body, before gliding down his abs, down the treasure trail and landing gently around his cock. Harland scooped the bit of precum still on Marco’s dick from earlier.

The newly-minted man let out a smug, venomous smile, as he sucked his new fingers clean. 

“Quite a delicious partnership”.

…

Though his mind no longer existed, Marco’s body was still pent up in lust and pressure, still attempting to shake and still yearning for that sweet release. With Harland in command, it was subjugated to stillness. Marco’s body continued with build in near-orgasmic heat and pleasure, further amplified by Harland’s mental fortitude. 

But even Harland himself could not deprive this new virile body for too long. His hand went back in and quickly grabbed his engorged cock.

With closed eyes, he gave it a light, sensual tug, nodding in approval as he let out a short moan.

“We’re at the home stretch, bud”.

Another tug. This time, with a slight roughness. There was no hesitation to it- this was now his body after all, he knew how to please it best. 

“You-this flesh was built for me, you just didn’t know it….and as for myself, I was built to control this to rule you… sorry I took so long to get home. You must have been so lonely building up all that muscle, sculpting all this without me inside to wear it” Harland stated as his free hand began to caress random parts of his body. The tugs began to quicken and his eyes fluttered in sheer delight.

“One final piece…” he moaned

…

In a quick jolt, Harland stopped dead in his tracks. Cum rapidly pooled over his hand, but he paid no mind to it.

He muttered but one word to cut the silence.

“Incompatible.”

In a flurry of feathers and a burst of red light, the two men finally realized their true form:

April Fools!

---

Note: Not actually a huge fan of the fried chicken company in question.

[gohyuck]

teaser for the my fic that’s part of denise’s ( @hyucksie​ ) nct: almost collab and part of my interlude: neo zone series

pairing: journalist!serial killer!renjun x already dead!reader

genre: ...oh man. angst, quite a lot of it. all the fluff and smut between renjun and the reader occur in his dreams, as, in real life, he never met the reader prior to their murder and him getting assigned to report on their death

word count: tba (likely a minimum of 10k words)

warnings: alcohol, explicit sex, mentions of a dead animal, obsessive behaviors, stalking, characters with no concept of a moral compass, implications that characters may have been abused in their pasts, descriptions of jail that may be inaccurate or not fully true-to-form, serial killers/ serial killing

teaser continues under the cut, it’s 1.5k words long. please message me if you’d like to be added to the taglist!

Renjun is eleven when he watches his across-the-street neighbor run over his next-door neighbor’s cat in broad daylight. The driver of the BMW does not stop, does not even slow down to assess the damage to the cat or the car, only speeds past as if they haven’t altered the state of the universe, made an unforgivable change to their neighborhood, taken an innocent life. He experiences it all through the floor-to-ceiling windows that expose the Huangs’ formal living room to the world. They’re not unlike the same windows that show off their formal dining room, their actual living room, and their actual dining room. 

As much as he can see out, others can see in just as easily. Just as equally.

At least the bedrooms have curtains.

He doesn’t really react, not even as he stares at the dark red stain, the blood-matted fur on the asphalt. It horrifies him, of course it does, but he’s more afraid of the repercussions that yelling or screaming would bring down on him. As long as he is in the house where nothing is hidden, he is meant to be seen but not heard. Renjun knows this well.

The image of the dead cat, of its blood and bones, its fur and flat, empty eyes, sears itself into Renjun’s brain. It preoccupies him from that moment, twisting itself uncomfortably into strings of his heart. That poor cat, only out for a short hunt or pursuing a curiosity, its life cut short in a tragic and terrible way. An unforgivable murder. He never forgets it, never escapes it. 

Death should have a purpose, Renjun thinks. 

Innocent lives should never be taken.

-

Metal sliding against metal might just be the most unpleasant sound in the world. 

Yangyang clutches his notebook to his chest, running his fingers absentmindedly against the unbinded side to make sure that all the folded papers he’d stuffed within its pages are still there. He does this just a little too fast, only registering this as the air hits his fresh papercut, causing him to wince at the new sting that buzzes against his fingertip. Without thinking, he wraps his other arm tighter around his book and raises the affronted finger - left ring - to his mouth.

It’s like this - holding onto his leatherbound notebook as a lifeline and nervously laving his tongue over his new cut - that Yangyang Liu, previously a reporter at The Daily and currently a biographer on a mission, enters the most secure federal prison in the country. The barred gates screech to a halt once they meet the ends of their rails, and the guard at Yangyang’s side nods to his colleague on the other side of the open gate. 

“The biographer?” The uniformed man calls from in front of Yangyang. 

“This is the one.” Yangyang’s own officer - what’s his name again? - replies, yelling a little louder than what could be deemed necessary. His coworker says nothing more, only stepping aside for the other two to walk in. They do so.

Yangyang registers little of the gray walls and cold air that are suddenly all that are within his line of sight, mind already trapped within the holding cell he’s about to visit. He’s heard all the stories, read all the news clippings, seen all the court tapes, and yet… and yet he suddenly feels as if he’s about to start studying this man - this character - anew. It’s as if he’s about to turn to the first page of a book nobody’s ever read before. A story just for himself. 

“Sit.” The officer is none-too-gentle as he pulls a steel chair out of what seems like thin air and hands it to Yangyang, gesturing lazily towards a spot in front of a section of the cell bars. Before he takes a seat, the biographer takes in the scene with which he’s just been presented: a cell empty save for a cot and a chair, with a tiny window high up, far too high for any mere mortal to reach even with the aid of a chair. The world is silent for one long, slow moment before a lump on the cot - one Yangyang hadn’t registered at first - shifts ever-so-slightly. 

The biographer holds his breath, drums his fingers against his notebook in anticipation, and clutches the curved top of the back of the cold steel chair just a little bit harder. He still does not sit. He waits, and watches, and waits, and watches instead. The officer - guard, Yangyang supposes - grumbles something lowly under his breath, his already thin patience wearing away by the second. 

“Get up, Huang,” The guard finally barks out, seemingly at the tail-end of his wit. “He doesn’t have all day.”

The cot lump shifts again, though by a far greater degree this time around. Yangyang suddenly feels far more nervous than before, which is saying something, considering he has fear in his heart. He wishes it was the fear of God, truly, he does, but he knows far too well that it’s the fear of humanity instead. One of the worst specimens, in his view, is only a few metal bars and a thin blanket away from him at the moment.

Yangyang lifts his hand off the chair and to his mouth again, sucking on the papercut as if it’s a decade long habit of his rather than a newly acquired fixation in the moment. It seems as if the lump has decided not to move again, and the biographer takes this as a sign to finally sit down. His heels are starting to ache, anyways. 

As if sensing his movement, the lump shifts, this time turning fully to face the wall rather than Yangyang. The biographer thinks that he can make out a tuft of salt-and-pepper hair. He can barely piece together any visual of the man he’s come to see, but, from what he can ascertain, Renjun Huang is a slight, delicate looking man, hardly terrifying to any eye. He would’ve been stronger, perhaps, at the time of his crimes, but he couldn't have been that much more imposing. 

“I will not get up,” Renjun Huang finally speaks, and once he does, his voice is raspy with what must be a lack of use. Yangyang winces out of sympathy. It must be lonely. The blanket is pulled up, and the tuft of visible hair disappears under blue wool. “I will not, but I can speak. Not long. You’re the biographer?”

The shift from Renjun speaking to the guard and speaking to Yangyang is so subtle that the latter almost does not notice it. Once he does, he hums an affirmative, finally releasing his tight hold on his notebook in order to lay it in his lap and open it. He pulls a pen - blue, pilot G2 - out of his front pocket and clicks it open with satisfaction. 

“Yes,” He reiterates, even though Renjun is definitely sure of his identity by now. “I’m Yangyang Liu. I was hoping we could begin with -”

“Everyone thinks it started with the article about (Name)’s murder,” He coughs mid-sentence. The rasp is clearing, slightly, slowly giving way to a quiet, but firm tone of speech. He does not seem to process that he’s interrupted Yangyang, and the biographer is too full of intrigue to stop him from speaking any more. “That’s what they all think, but it isn’t true.”

Renjun goes silent, then, but Yangyang knows that he has much more to say. He leans forward in his cold chair, face getting closer to the cold cell bars. 

“Where did it start, then? When?” He finally asks, blue pen poised over white paper. It’s as if his fingers are itching for a story, the way they’d always twitched in anticipation when he’d gotten good article assignments at The Daily. The novelty, the excitement had worn out over time. Yangyang had missed it until now. 

The guard is quiet, now, hardly even moving a muscle. Perhaps he’s tuned out entirely, lost in a world of his own. Maybe - though more or less likely than the former, Yangyang is unsure - he’s as fascinated as the biographer himself, watching and waiting for something to happen, for the first shoe to drop in order for the second to follow. The cell and its surroundings are so quiet that Renjun’s breathing is the only audible sound. It’s a little shallow, a little harried, as if he’s just finished a quick sprint and about to start another that he’s unprepared for.

Yangyang supposes that he has, in a way. He glances at the empty page beneath him to find that he’s accidentally placed a tiny dot in the corner of his open page. Fuck. 

Renjun intakes a shuddering breath, and Yangyang’s head snaps back up. He’ll worry about his organization later. He stares, intent, at the lump on the cot. It moves slightly, and Yangyang discerns that the decrepit man is about to speak again. 

He’s right.

“It began when I was raised…” Renjun Huang begins, licking his dry lips and swallowing his spit before he continues. “... I was raised in a glass house.”

[venivivividi]

headcAnon ✨ here! “you have no idea how much i appreciate that we can ramble about rnm and our dumb alien cowboy and just have fun!” 💕 I feel the same way💕 I was thinking about teen Malex and started wondering about any interactions Michael and Alex might have had before the guitar incident and what they thought of each other. Do you have any headcanons about that? They attended the same school for a few years, they were aware of rumors about each other. That’s all I remember being canon.

I've thought about that and I have to preface this by saying that I have no knowlegde of how US schools actually work, almost everything that I know comes from movies and tv shows.

I did my researches and, despite RNM desperately trying to sell the idea, Roswell is not that little of a town, or - at least - it's not in my opinion; I come from a much smaller town myself and, incidentally, went to a high school in a Roswell-ish sized town.

Let me tell you: there were something like 900 students in the whole school, roughly 400 in my branch and I know like 50 of them (at best). Not only that, but in my elementary/middle school (which I attended in my own town) there were less that 60 people in my year and I only interacted with 20-ish of them.

That being said, I realize that a school system where you switch classroom every hour is vastly different from my experience of sitting in the same classroom with the same 25-ish people for five to six hours every day for nine months.

Informed by all that,

Michael came back to Roswell at 11, peak middle school weirdness time; he was already carrying the weight of trauma and abuse and was very wary of everyone, even young Isobel and Max. He decidedly tried to make himself scarce and avoided making eye-contact with anyone at school.

That doesn't mean Alex didn't notice him. His young self was as alert and observant as his present self: he noticed the new guy as soon as he stepped foot at school and kept observing him till lunch; then, Kyle showed him the new issue of the comic book his dad wouldn't let him buy so he had more pressing matters to attend to. New Guy can wait.

By the time Michael reunited with Max and Isobel and the Pod Squad™ was established once again, he had started to notice Alex too; I mean, where Liz goes Max follows, and these days where Max goes Michael begrudgindly drags himself along, but most importantly, ever since Kyle started hanging out with the sports guys, where Liz goes Alex is starting to power walk along too.

Then high school came around, Pod Squad was still going strong, but the Kyle&Alex-no-girls-allowed alliance was now frayed at the roots: one could say it was now Alex-and-sometimes-Kyle-(until he said something stupid); soon, Alex&Maria&Liz would take over. Michael and Alex had started to nod at each other and maybe roll their eyes knowingly whenever Max would sigh while making moon eyes at Liz. They had yet to exchange a single word with each other, though

They were grouped together with other people, in sophomore year, for a school project, but Michael showed up for the first meeting, jotted down which part was he in charge of, and then brought it done at the following meeting to never return again. They got an A. Maybe Liz had a point, after all.

Once junior year rolled in, so did Alex on his new board; he needed the practice, though, so it was imperative to find empty parking lots or less busy streets to stroll around; you know, the same parking lots and/or streets a 16 year old with a newly acquired (busted) truck who wanted to hide from his last wreackage of foster family would seek. An incident occurred involving Alex, music blasting from headphones, the mastering of turning a corner in a cool way, and a very tired Michael who ironically got crashed into. They will laugh about it one day, but in the moment Alex was mortified and Michael was very confused. For days after that, Alex would ask himself where was Michael coming back from, given that he was caught in the rain?

The first time they were forced to actually interact one-on-one was framed as punishment: Alex is a smart guy, ok? But physics just makes no damn sense and he was really struggling during the exam; what was Michael supposed to do? just let him fail? The guy's okay, what's wrong in angling his answer sheet so that Alex could take a peek? A lot is wrong, according to Ms. Miller, who also added "If you're feeling so generous, Mr. Guerin, why don't you help Mr. Manes out after school? And the both of you can bring me a paper on light refraction through three different mediums of your choice by next Tuesday. You'll share the grade."

The week they spent working on that paper was surprisingly good; awkward at first, but then they bonded over making fun of Kyle and the jocks, and they actually worked very well together. Michael has a way of explaining stuff that's very easy to follow without being condescending; Alex has a hunch that he's even smarter than he let on, but honestly? that's his business, he's not gonna comment on that. Plus, that one day Alex was running late and forgot to take the nail polish off before meeting with him (it's a new thing he's trying out), Michael didn't comment or anything, so he's okay in his book.

Sadly, after the paper was submitted and graded, Kyle made a snickering comment about his new friend, so Alex had to shut that door very quickly, not that Michael went out of his way to reach out to him. They're back to polite nods over Max and Liz's shoulders.

With senior year came the eyeliner and the septum piercing and spiked hair (for Alex) and the weird feelings (for Michael). Of course Michael's aware of the rumors about Alex, Isobel is the queen of gossiptown, but honestly, who cares? What if Alex likes guys? It's not something Michael's bothered by, he'll leave the bigoted views and stupid nonsensical "rules" about mating rituals to the humans. Stupid humans. He's better than that.

The fashion glow-up was not the only change Alex did during the summer, though. He came back hardened, he's now all alone at home facing his father and the "family vacation" he was forced to take with the Valentis so that Jim and Jesse could do whatever it is that they do together (apart from drinking and fighting with each other) definitely took a toll on him. He doesn't care anymore about anything. He's angry, he's tired, he just needs to power through this last year and then he'll be free to leave his father, his house, the whole town behind and never look back. After all, nothing good has ever happened to him inside the city limits, and it won't definitely happen in these last few months.

Michael, on the flip side, for the first time in his life feels powerful: he's a few months away from 18 (and legal emancipation), he has a good chance of ending up in a good college and make a name for himself (always on the down-low, obvs, but still.), he's teaching himself guitar by reading books at the library and practicing on a wood board he fixed himself at Sanders' and his last trip to Foster Ranch scored him three new iridescent pieces for his side-project. This is why, during a free period at school, walking by the music room, he thought he could practice on a real guitar, for once; I mean, Alex Manes' one was right there. He's cool, they're cool with each other, he might not be all that friendly anymore with anyone that's not Liz or Maria, but even if he does find out and comes after him, Michael will crack a joke and they can laugh about it, they're sort-of-friends by proxy. Honestly, what's the worst that could happen?

[typewriterandhistory]

Dear Professor Browne | One-Shot

When Professor Browne joins the army, Paul writes to him to keep him up to date with the going ons at Perringeyes.

Read on AO3 or FF.Net or below!

The week after Professor Browne joined the army, Paul asked Miss Price to help him with his writing. “He needs to know what’s happening, so he knows what he’s missed when he comes back,” Paul insisted, sharpening his pencil as Miss Price sat down beside him at the dining table.

With a look of determination of his face, the young boy set about to write as much as he could on the parchment. Once he was done, he carefully placed it inside the envelope before setting off in the direction of the post office.

*

Eglantine had almost forgotten about the letter until two weeks later.

“He wrote me back!” Paul exclaimed, jumping from one foot to the other as he raced through the house with his newly acquired letter in hand.

*

The next month, Paul broke his arm riding Mr Jelk’s bicycle while the man was inside the house enquiring about the children’s ‘spiritual education’.

“Ma, it hurts” Paul cried, gripping his arm to his chest as he wailed. Eglantine had been so quick to wrap her arms around the wounded boy that she had almost missed what he had called her.

Paul had never known his parents. Charles was the only one of the trio with any real memories of them and even then they were few and far between.

“It’s okay, son” Eglantine said, resting her cheek against the crown of his head as they sat on the ground. In the distance she could hear Charlie running to fetch her motorbike and sidecar, while Carrie went in search of a blanket to wrap around Paul.

Eglantine was glad that for once the British weather had held up and it wasn’t raining cats and dogs. Thankfully when they made it to the doctors, Paul was able to be seen right away. Eglantine held his good hand as the doctor set his arm back in place.

“You’ve been very brave, Paul” She assured him, using her free hand to wipe away the dried tears on his face with a handkerchief. “Not as brave as Professor Browne though,” Paul sniffled, his arm now resting in a sling as the doctor prepared the plaster for his cast.

“Oh I think he would say that you were a very brave little boy,” She disagreed, wishing in that moment that Emelius could have been there. He would have known exactly what to say to take Paul’s mind off the pain, and he would have known what to do to calm her own fears.

“I’m...I’m gonna write...and tell him,” Paul hiccuped, his tears looking as though they had finally reached their end. By the time they had returned home, Paul was fast asleep in the sidecar, the combination of the exhaustion and the lull of the motorbike having set him off to sleep.

Eglantine was greeted by Carrie and Charlie as she carried the sleeping Paul into the living room. “Is he okay?” Carrie asked, looking as though she had bitten her nails down to their beds while waiting for news on her brother.

Eglantine nodded her head as she headed towards the stairs, “Help me put him down, would you?” She asked, manoeuvring towards the children’s bedroom as Charles held the door open for them while Carrie turned down the blankets.

The first thing Paul asked when he woke up an hour later was not for a pain soother for his arm, but rather about their dear magician.

“Do you think I’ll still have my cast on when Professor Browne comes home?” Paul asked, as he scribbled away with his letter, thankful that it wasn’t his dominant arm that he had broken. “I wouldn’t think so,” Eglantine assured him, fluffing the pillows behind his back before sitting down next to the boy on the travelling bed.

If she had her way, Emelius would be back before Christmas, but war was an uncertain thing.

The child look disappointed for a moment before nodding to himself, “I’ll just have to draw him a picture of it then,” Paul resolved, already getting to work with adding a sketch of his cast to his letter.

*

For Paul’s birthday, Eglantine gifted him with his own pet rabbit.

“Thank you, Ma” Paul said, resting his head on Eglantine’s shoulder as she balanced both him and the newly acquired rabbit on her lap. “I know what I’ll call it!” He declared, holding the rabbit in his arms outstretched towards his foster mother.

“Naboombu!” Paul announced, before tucking his rabbit under his arm as he jumped off Eglantine’s lap, already heading up the stairs towards his writing set.

*

“What are you going to ask Father Christmas for?” Egalatine asked, stirring the pot on the stove as Paul sat on the countertop next to her, peeling the carrots before adding them to the stew.

“A new writing set, Ma” Paul answered, scrapping down the carrot in his hand as he concentrated on the task at hand. “‘Cause I know Professor Browne can’t be with us this Christmas, but I wanna make sure he knows what’s occurring” He explained, looking across the kitchen at the cardboard shoe box where he kept all his letters from the only father figure he had ever had.

It had quickly become one of the most prized possessions in the household.

Paul knew his brother and sister also wrote to Professor Browne, but not as frequently as he and Miss Price did. With every letter Eglantine set, there was one from Paul. It only took a few weeks before the box started to become weighed down with letters and telegraphs.

*

The week the children’s adoption was made official, a box of assorted confectionary and chocolates appeared in the post. It seemed Emelius really could procure anything. The box had been sent by a fellow officer who was on shore-leave, who had enclosed a note from Emelius himself.

“Wishing I was there to celebrate with you all. In the meantime, enjoy these treats for me, and keep practicing your juggling. Until we’re back together again. With all my love, Emelius”

*

“Paul, you have a letter waiting for you at home.” Eglantine informed the boy when she picked him up from school one Spring morning. When they reached the gate of the house, Paul set off up the lane, disappearing into the house in search of his letter.

“Where is it, Ma?” Paul called over his shoulder, confused to find no letter on the side dresser where the post was kept. There was a parcel for Carrie - a new book most likely - but no letter in the familiar cursive writing of their beloved magician.

“I believe you’re looking for this,” A voice said, coming from the kitchen doorframe.

Paul almost fell over Cosmic Creepers as he barrelled towards the kitchen door. “Professor Browne!”

*

The letters would turn to notes between the pair. Little reminders left in the boy’s lunchbox of a cricket game that they would listen to on the wireless, or helpful hints from Paul when it came to choosing their Sunday outing.

One day, just as naturally as it had happened with Miss Price, Paul stopped writing ‘Dear Professor Browne’ and started writing ‘Dear Pa”.

[flightfoot]

Abuse and how it plays into Identity in Tower of Nero

While abuse has played a role in previous Trials of Apollo books, and in the Greco-Roman main series as a whole, Tower of Nero digs into it most deeply.

Identity and recovery from abuse are deeply linked here, with much of the abuse recovery coming from forging an identity separate from the abuser.

Previously it mostly came up in The Hidden Oracle and The Burning Maze, with Meg’s relationship with Nero prompting Apollo to examine his own relationship with Zeus. 

Apollo knew in the back of his head that Zeus was abusing him, that his rage against the Cyclopes for creating the lightning bolt Zeus used to murder Asclepius, for instance, was him redirecting his anger onto a safer target because raging against Zeus directly was so unsafe, but he tried not to let himself think about it too much, and he tried to fool himself into thinking that Zeus DID care about him, that he loved him, at least enough that he’d help him if he saw him in trouble. 

Seeing Meg with Nero, how he manipulated her, how he subtly blamed her for anything bad that happened around her, for anything HE did, while trying to seem gentle and kind; seeing the abuse he went through reflected in this young girl led him to cope with his own abuse better. 

His experiences with abuse, with Zeus treating him as a scapegoat and ‘forcing’ him to punish Apollo if he stepped out of line, with his own feelings about the abuse and his own coping mechanisms and behavior as a result, are a useful reference for understanding and helping Meg through her experiences with Nero.

And helping her cope, separate, and try to grow after being manipulated by Nero for so long? Helps him come to terms with his own experiences.

He’s pretty explicit about the comparisons too. Like when Meg talks about how Lu used to help her pretend to kill people for Nero, helped her how she could, but Apollo’s mostly just horrified that Lu stuck around and didn’t take Meg and run... and yet part of him understood.

And are you any better? taunted a small voice in my brain. How many times have you stood up to Zeus?

Okay, small voice. Fair point. Tyrants are not easy to oppose or walk away from, especially when you depend on them for everything. (TON 57)

Lu may not have been quite as dependent on Nero as say, Meg - at least psychologically. Lu’s not a child by any means. 

But Lu’s only immortal because Nero is, and he can, presumably, revoke that. Nero provides her employment, a home, probably her entire social circle, AND he has the power and the will to go after her and anyone she cares about if she strays, if she tries to defy him. 

In those ways, her situation mirrors Apollo’s even better than Meg’s does - and while he’s angry at her for not defying Nero, he also understands. 

I suspect part of his anger and suspicion at her is also anger and suspicion of himself, for falling into a similar trap.

Still, though Lu has her own baggage with Nero, Meg’s is focused on a lot more, with how she’s grown and changed, and her desire to hang onto who she’s become while separated from Nero, to hang onto her own identity and personality and not what Nero attempted to shape her into. 

It’s to the point that she can barely comprehend who she was under him, how she used to think, what she did.

“I betrayed you once,” she said. “Right here in these woods.”

She didn’t sound sad or ashamed about it, the way she once might have. She spoke with a sort of dreamy disbelief, as if trying to recall the person she’d been six months ago. That was a problem I could relate to. (TON 114)

Meg hasn’t really changed at her core as much as Apollo has - as much as she’s gone through, she at least wasn’t much of a jerk in the first place. Well, relatively speaking, when compared to Apollo. She’s abrasive, but not much beyond that.

But she HAS changed, in large part BECAUSE she’s more able and willing to stand up for herself in ways that she couldn’t do remotely safely while with Nero. She’s broken free of his psychological hold. 

During The Hidden Oracle she was ALREADY rebelling against him, she refused to burn the woods, but... well, she DID go with him, DID believe she could change him for awhile. 

But she broke free after realizing he wouldn’t, escaped and returned to Apollo, freeing herself from Nero’s grasp once more. 

For her, I think the difference between who she was six months ago and who she is now has less to do with her actual personality and worldview - those haven’t actually changed all that much throughout the books - but just in being free, somewhat safe (well, safer emotionally at least), and genuinely cared for. To not be under Nero’s influence to the same extent.

With Apollo... well, it’s a bit different with him. Zeus wasn’t as controlling as Nero, Apollo COULD have kept his space from him before; his sister has been doing that for millennia. But he has still changed a lot, moreso than Meg did, to the point that he’s almost unrecognizeable from who he was when he first fell to earth in THO.

Newly experiencing kindness, regular affection, and just having other people care about him though? He shares that with Meg.

Not that people have never been nice to him before, that’s not the case. But to have people be nice to him who he wouldn’t think would need to be, when he’s vulnerable... there’s a reason he’s been extremely touched when that’s happened even back from THO, and in this book he breaks down pretty much every time.

Meg struggles with needing to retain her independence, the new sense of herself she’s acquired during her journey with Apollo.

“I have to go back,” Meg insisted. “I have to see if I’m strong enough.”

Peaches cuddled up next to her as if he had no such concerns.

Meg patted his leafy wings. “Maybe I’ve gotten stronger. But when I go back to the palace, will it be enough? Can I remember to be who I am now and not… who I was then?”

I didn’t think she expected an answer. But it occurred to me that perhaps I should be asking myself that same question.

Since Jason Grace’s death, I’d spent sleepless nights wondering if I could keep my promise to him. Assuming I made it back to Mount Olympus, could I remember what it was like to be human, or would I slip back into being the self-centered god I used to be?

Change is a fragile thing. It requires time and distance. Survivors of abuse, like Meg, have to get away from their abusers. Going back to that toxic environment was the worst thing she could do. And former arrogant gods like me couldn’t hang around other arrogant gods and expect to stay unsullied.

But I supposed Meg was right. Going back was the only way to see how strong we’d gotten, even if it meant risking everything. (TON 114-115)

Meg needs to keep her identity she’s created for herself away from Nero. But her question about remembering to be who she is now versus who she was back then fits Apollo’s conundrum better, something that is clearly not lost on Apollo.

I knew my anxiety about my own weakness was getting mixed up with my anxiety about Meg. Even if I somehow made my way back to Mount Olympus, I didn’t trust myself to hold onto the important things I’d learned as a mortal. That made me doubt Meg’s ability to stay strong in her old toxic home.

The similarities between Nero’s household and my family on Mount Olympus made me increasingly uneasy. The idea that we gods were just as manipulative, just as abusive as the worst Roman emperor… Surely that couldn’t be true.

Oh, wait. Yes, it could. Ugh. I hated clarity. (TON 225-226)

Meg’s captured, being fully under Nero’s influence once more, with him trying to twist everything to be Apollo’s or Meg’s faults, trying to twist it so that every bit of distress that he puts Meg through is somehow the fault of her or her allies.

She picked up the chair and threw it across the room - but not at Nero. It whanged off the window, leaving a smudge but no cracks. I caught the flicker of a smile on Nero’s face - a smile of satisfaction - before his expression fixed back into a mask of sympathy. “Yes, dear. This anger comes from guilt. You led Apollo here. You understood what that meant, what would happen. But you did it anyway. That must be so painful... knowing you brought him to his end (TON 235)

This kind of manipulation is Nero’s trademark, he uses it for most of the book. Telling Meg what she’s feeling, telling her that she’s feeling this way because of something wrong SHE did, not because of the horrible things NERO did. Trying to rewrite her reality to fall in line with what HE wants her to believe, to think.

Nero makes her change clothes, has her scrub up, even has her get a pedicure. 

Normally this would sound like a good thing. But it’s just one of the ways he tries to rewrite who she is, to break her sense of identity and replace it with one more to his liking. By taking away things that showed her own personal style, he took away reminders of who she is, as well as showing his ability to exert control over her, make her believe she has no choices.

My heart broke. Meg looked elegant, older, and quite beautiful. She also looked utterly, completely no longer herself. Nero had tried to strip away everything she had been, every choice she’d made, and replace her with someone else - a proper young lady of the Imperial Household. (TON 285-286) 

Nero continues to try to twist the circumstances, to brainwash Meg into believing that he’s her savior and Apollo and the others may harm her. But Apollo keeps protesting, leading to this scene:

I tried to contain my horror. “Meg,” I said. “There’s only one person you need to listen to here: yourself. Trust yourself.”

I meant it, despite all my doubts and fears, despite all my complaints over the months about Meg being my master. She had chosen me, but I had also chosen her. I did trust her - not in spite of her past with Nero, but because of it. I had seen her struggle. I’d admired her hard-won progress. I had to believe in her for my own sake. She was - gods help me - my role model. (TON 293)

Ultimately, MEG’S the one who decides. Who fights back. Because she was able to listen to herself, to not be twisted by Nero’s lies and deceptions.

“I didn’t kill my father,” she said, her voice small and hard. “I didn’t cut off Lu’s hands or enslave those dryads or twist us all up inside.” She swept a hand towards the other demigods of the household. “You did that, Nero. I hate you.” (TON 295)

This was the tipping point. When she announced, to herself and everyone else, the truth. The reality. Rejecting Nero’s attempts to rewrite it.

Nero hissed. “Ungrateful child. The Beast-”

“The Beast is dead.” Meg tapped the side of her head. “I killed it.” (TON 311)

I notice here she tapped the side of her head. Of course, she didn’t literally kill The Beast; Nero’s still alive after all.

But The Beast was a psychological trick Nero used on Meg, to make her separate him into two people; the ‘nice’ stepfather, and The Beast that takes over and punishes if she misbehaves. 

She ‘killed’ it, because she killed the concept.

There was never a Beast.

There was only ever Nero.

And now that she’s gotten out from under his thumb? She reasserts her own identity.

Meg had thrown away her sandals, braving bare feet despite the arrows, rubble, bones, and discarded blades that littered the floor. Someone had given her an orange Camp Half-Blood shirt, which she’d put on over her dress, making her allegiance clear. She still looked older and more sophisticated, but she also looked like my Meg. (TON 323)

I like the emphasis on how she looks older, but also like herself. She looks like what Nero made her into still, in a way - she’s still wearing that dress after all - but she’s made it her own, integrated herself into it.

It nicely parallels Apollo’s own situation, with needing to integrate who he’s become as Lester, who he’s grown to be, with his godly identity. Because things WILL be different once he’s a god again; he’ll have power he doesn’t have now, will have exposure to other gods that he doesn’t currently have. So he needs to figure out how to handle that, how to be a god, how to be Apollo while not losing what he’s gained as Lester.

Even if I survived, I would not be the same. The best I could hope for was to emerge from Delphi with my godhood restored, which was what I had wanted and dreamed about for the past half a year. So why did I feel so reluctant about leaving behind the broken, battered form of Lester Papadopolous? (TON 327)

Like Meg was, Apollo’s struggling to get ahold of his own identity before he has to face his abuser again, has to re-enter that old toxic environment. He fears that if the trappings of “Lester” are destroyed, then like with Nero changing Meg’s clothes, that he’ll lose part of his connection to who he’s become.

As Apollo fights Python, his mortal body becomes less and less mortal, bringing him into an in-between, in-flux state that mirrors his internal identity crisis.

“YOU CAN’T HIDE!” Python bellowed. “YOU ARE NO GOD!”

This pronouncement hit me like a bucket of ice water. It didn’t carry the weight of prophecy, but it was true nonetheless. At the moment, I wasn’t sure what I was. I certainly wasn’t my old godly self. I wasn’t exactly Lester Papadopolous either. My flesh steamed. Pulses of light flickered under my skin, like the sun trying to break through storm clouds. When had that started?

I was between states, morphing as rapidly as Python himself. I was no god. I would never be the same old Apollo again. But in this moment, I had the chance to decide what I would become, even if that new existence only lasted a few seconds.

The realization burned away my delirium.

“I won’t hide,” I muttered. “I won’t cower. That’s not who I will be.” (TON 339-340)

Like with Meg before, he’s deciding, affirming for himself what kind of person he is now, who he wants to be, different from who he was before.

Even during the fight with Python, some small part of him hopes Zeus will intervene, will see he’s done enough and help him, save him. But here, that instinct is quashed for the final time.

I had done my best. Surely, Zeus would see that and be proud. Maybe he would send down a lightning bolt, blast Python into tiny pieces, and save me!

As soon as I thought this, I realized how foolish it was. Zeus didn’t work that way. He would not save me anymore than Nero had saved Meg. I had to let go of that fantasy. I had to save myself. (TON 341)

Much like with how Meg hoped back near the beginning of the series that Nero really would change, really was a good person deep down, Apollo kept up the hope in early entries that Zeus DID care about him and would come to save him at any moment. And even in later books, heck, even in THIS book, with Meg still calling Nero her stepfather a few times and the part of Apollo hoping that Zeus will intervene now, it’s hard to break the desire, the belief that that person who SHOULD care about you, surely will now.

But both of them break past that. Meg calls Nero out, rejects his attempts to rewrite reality, and Apollo kills the idea that Zeus might intervene on his behalf.

By the time Apollo’s a god again, he has a firm bead on the kind of person Zeus is, as well as the type of environment Mt. Olympus is, with most of his family just watching his trials and tribulations, everything he and his friends went through, and betting on the outcome. Only Artemis and Hera seemed to take things seriously, seemed to deeply care whether he lived or died.

Not that the others could have interfered against Zeus’s wishes.

As much as we pretended to be a council of twelve, in truth we were a tyranny. Zeus was less a benevolent father and more an iron-fisted leader with the biggest weapons and the ability to strip us of our immortality if we offended him. (TON 366)

Apollo just kind of hangs back for the council session, having little to say to anyone except Artemis, not caring much about what the other Olympians thought, and not really feeling like one of them as a whole. Though that was true even before he actually walked into the room.

I remembered my dream of the throne room - the other Olympians gambling on my success or failure. I wondered how much money they’d lost.

What could I possibly say to them? I no longer felt like one of them. I wasn’t one of them. (TON 358)

And finally, the long-awaited confrontation scene with Zeus. It wasn’t long. It wasn’t flashy. Unlike Meg, he couldn’t attack and get rid of his abuser, couldn’t get out from under his influence entirely. Zeus is King of the Gods; realizing that he’s an abusive asshole doesn’t change that.

But he COULD change his own response to the situation.

My father coughed into his fist. “ I know you think your punishment was harsh, Apollo.”

I did not answer. I tried my best to keep my expression polite and neutral.

“But you must understand,” Zeus continued, “only you could have overthrown Python. Only you could have freed the Oracles. And you did it, as I expected. The suffering, the pain along the way… regrettable, but necessary. You have done me proud.”

Interesting how he put that: I had done him proud. I had been useful in making him look good. My heart did not melt. I did not feel that this was a warm-and-fuzzy reconciliation with my father. Let’s be honest: some fathers don’t deserve that. Some fathers aren’t capable of it.

I suppose I could have raged at him and called him bad names. We were alone. He probably expected it. Given his awkward self-consciousness at the moment, he might even have let me get away with it unpunished.

But it would not have changed him. It would not have made anything different between us.

You cannot change a tyrant by trying to out-ugly him. Meg could never have changed Nero, any more than I could change Zeus. I could only try to be different than him. Better. More… human. And to limit the time I spent around him to as little as possible. (TON 367-368)

Apollo just... let go of any attachment to Zeus. It reminded me of the Cumaen SIbyl, with how she forgave Apollo for her own sake, how Apollo felt that he himself was being erased by that. 

This isn’t a reconciliation; this is simply Apollo putting Zeus as far behind him as possible and trying to let him take up as little space in his life as he can. He may not be able to cut all ties to him, but he can at least minimize his connection to him, his influence over him.

In the end, Apollo doesn’t even really consider what he went through to be a punishment; not really.

To be honest, though, I could no longer consider my time on Earth a punishment. Terrible, tragic, nearly impossible… yes. But calling it a punishment gave Zeus too much credit. It had been a journey - an important one I made for myself, with the help of my friends. I hoped… I believed that the grief and pain had shaped me into a better person. I had forged a more perfect Lester from the dregs of Apollo. I would not trade those experiences for anything. And if I had been told I had to be Lester for another hundred years… Well, I could think of worse things. At least I wouldn’t be expected to show up at the Olympian solstice meetings. (TON 373)

Like with his conversation with Zeus, he’s minimizing Zeus’s control, his influence over himself and his life. 

And in the end, Apollo leaves Mt. Olympus as soon as he can to spend time with all the new friends he’s made, away from the toxic influences of Olympus and of Zeus especially. Reaffirming his new identity, his new self by appearing in his Lester form, the form he’d grown in, that he’d forged for himself.

I just really love how in-depth Tower of Nero went, especially with the way it emphasized the identity manipulation and erasure involved with some kinds of abuse.

[malethirsty]

Loyalty - Tyler Lockwood

Summary: When Klaus’s #2 makes eyes with you, Klaus sets the two of you up. But when you encounter an issue, it’s down to you to pull through for the both of you.

Warnings: M/M smut (21+), Bareback (However Orgasm occurs once Tyler pulls out, make of that what you will), Homophobic comments, Elena and co. become villains

Inspired by: https://twitter.com/MaleThirst/status/1196818509830819841

Life had changed drastically since Klaus had found out how to make hybrids. He moved you quickly into his house & got his new army to guard you in case Elena and her friends tried to pull any punches, The Council did indeed cut you off, but the Mikaelson fortune was extended to you by Klaus & the day spent shopping with Rebekah helped you both to bond. What was the most surprising thing was that you were now spending more time with Tyler Lockwood. You expected Elena to surround a support group around him, or ask him to spy on Klaus, but she ditched him, as it had been found out that Klaus had sired Tyler, and thus Tyler was now fiercely loyal to him. It was good to have someone else to share an admiration for Klaus & on days when the Original Hybrid had to battle against Damon & Mikael, you took time with Rebekah to train the newest hybrid. It was a Friday night that you all finally got to take a break from hecticness of it all. “Don’t you usually go to the Mystic Grill on Fridays, love?” Klaus pondered as he saw you flopped down, trying to find something on Netflix. “I mean I would, but Elena and all her friends are there, and I know they’ll send me out of the bar.” Klaus could tell you were still a bit down following your exile & leaned in to give you a kiss “Y/N, You need to boost your confidence. I’ll send Rebekah to watch from afar, but also, to make them that much more pissed, tonight I’ll send you out to the Mystic Grill with Tyler as a date, make Caroline jealous.” You snorted, it did sound like a good idea but “Is Tyler up for this?” You asked, you wanted it to be his idea & not Klaus planting him there “I asked him, he said yes. He also said he has a thing for you as well, so I’ve booked you next to her hotel room where she’s staying for the night before flying out for some Miss Virginia thing, keep her up all night.” “And how would I do that?” Klaus leaned up to whisper in your ear “You know how love. Do you always do with me every night” you knew that Klaus meant to fuck Tyler and while the idea sounded good.

“I’ll let Tyler know to be ready at a quarter to 8.” Klaus smiled, dimples on show as you headed into the closet, to pick out some good clothing. In next to no time, whether it be a need to impress you or due to his newly acquired speed, Tyler was ready & waiting as he walked you down the street, hand in hand. Right behind you was Rebekah not only your escort but also giving dirty looks to those who were giving you & Tyler side eye, which was comforting to you, it was nice to know Klaus, Tyler & Rebekah at least cared about your wellbeing, even if the world around you was less than sympathetic. As you entered the Mystic Grill, you saw the majority of the building taken up for Caroline’s big title party. Rebekah positioned herself near the door as You & Tyler selected the same secluded booth that you had gone to the night You & Klaus became partners. Ordering your usual Chips & Garlic Bread, Tyler ordering the same with a massive burger, you eventually opened up the conversation. “So Klaus told me about you having a thing for me.” Tyler gave a slight grin “When did you know & why didn’t you tell me earlier?” “Well it was a while ago, after Dad died, I realised I was free from his vileness, and I was going to tell you after the funeral, but then everything with Mason and turning happened, I threw myself into what I had become instead of managing both my crush & that.” Tyler swallowed, clearly not used to letting out a lot “It’s alright Tyler, you went through a lot so quickly, I’m not angry and you had every right to work on yourself before hand.” Tyler grinned as his burger got placed on the table “Jesus Christ, That’s massive! How are you gonna get through that?!” Tyler shrugged “You know that before I was a hybrid, I played football right Y/N? I’ve always had a big appetite.” “What exactly is the appeal of football? I’ve never understood.” Tyler shot a grin at you “Y/N, tonight I’m gonnna give you a crash course.”

And indeed he did, outlining the rules of the game, his favourite team and some spectacular moments that he had achieved with Mystic Falls during his tenure as a player. Usually you’d scoff at sport talk but Tyler was so engaging in great conversation, that you didn’t mind a second, and as much as you listened to him, he listened to you discuss your likeness of musical theatre with the same enjoyment plastered on his face as you had when he talked. “Y/N, I’m having one of the best date nights ever, Little Miss Blonde over there couldn’t compare” you were about to start laughing when at that exact moment, Elena’s group came over to your table. “Well hello there” Damon said somewhat curtly “Hello Damon, I guess you’re here to intimidate us” you responded, “Now Y/N, me intimidate, never!” Damon mockingly feigned outrage “Well it’s not for the bourbon since there’s none at our table” you quipped back, Elena stepping in. “No we aren’t here to intimidate, we wanted to take a look at the man who stabbed me in the back last week, who sold us all to Klaus, who made me a blood bag, how you had the nerve to show up at our bar and stage some sort of mock date to get under Caroline’s skin”. Whilst Elena was right about trying to get Caroline riled up, she had no business questioning Tyler’s feelings for you, which made you angry, and looking over to where Tyler sat, you noticed he was gripping his fists angrily, trying bot to let an outburst emerge and ruin the night. Looking to your left, you saw Rebekah had heard what was going on and had stepped up from her table, with your own group of friends ready to back you up, you decided that you might as well strike back, wasn’t as if she could do worse “Wow Elena, your ass is jealous at the amount of shit that just came out of your mouth” Seeing Elena’s shit eating grin thinking that she had intimidated you fall was quite possibly the sight of the year, but you weren’t done, not at all “Firstly, Tyler was close to dying, so if I hadn’t said anything, he wouldn’t be here, also when was the last time any of you acknowledged me in your supernatural group of expertise? I didn’t owe you a God damn thing. And this ‘mock date?’ How would you know that Tyler’s feelings are genuine?” “Because I dated him for several months & as an ally I can tell when someone has feelings for men.” Caroline said now stepping forwards next to Elena to survey the scene. You turned to face Caroline, intending to give her the same verbal lashing as Elena “It’s about time someone told you Caroline, but having a group of Gay Friends who help you shop & quoting lines from RuPaul’s Drag Race does not make you an ally, it makes you an insufferable cunt.” A snorting laugh came from your left, and without turning, you knew that Rebekah had enjoyed your comment Now Caroline was looking like she’d been hit over the face with how red she’d turned, embarrassed she’d been called out at her party, good.

“Why would you have even gotten up with Klaus though?” Inquired Bonnie, “Yeah, what did he offer you: Money, Power, Immortality?” Jeremy seconded. “Nothing, what he did do was tell me about his loneliness & I remembered the times I felt pushed out and I thought if others could give me grace after being tossed to the side, the least I could do is return it to others.” “Oh Boo Hoo.” Damon prodded in, “Klaus is making an army without asking any of the wolves if they want in.” “How-” Tyler began angrily and Rebekah’s feet began to stomp towards the table, which Elena & Bonnie had acknowledged by the look of intimidation on their faces, however you stood up very suddenly, determined to stand your ground “How’s Vicki? Did you make sure she wanted to be immortal? You know, after you gave her your blood & snapped her neck.” An uncomfortable silence filled that section of the bar. “Bonnie, how is carrying Anna’s death going? You know the woman your current squeeze was dating? How were all the vampires minding their own business going before you tripped up the device & caused so much disaster, that almost caused Jeremy to die? Wasn’t that because all vampires were the same?, a pity story after your Grams passed, yet you stand with Damon and have the audacity to lunge after me. And you two” Y/N pointed at Elena & Jeremy, “You two are cut from the same cloth. Jeremy you knew about Bonnie tripping up the device, killing Anna & yet you two are dating and Elena you complain about Klaus needing your blood for something so little as turning which is somehow so bad, yet when Katherine didn’t open her legs to welcome Damon, he snapped your brothers neck, yet you forgave him somehow. I’m not saying you can’t forgive him, but if you’re going to let Damon’s miniature things go, then you need to let Klaus’s go. I’m aware that Klaus isn’t the picture perfect idea of humanity you all want, but you keep excusing the darkness in your own supernatural partners, not to mention yourselves, so you have some nerve isolating me like I’m the only one lavishing in it. Stay the fuck away from me.” You grabbed Tyler’s hand and marched out of the Mystic Grill. “Nice work-“ Rebekah began, but in your angry mood, you marched right past her with Tyler in tow. “Rude” she muttered under her breath as she reached for her phone to tip off Klaus that whilst you’d blown her off, you finally grew a backbone.

You walked several streets in a huff before stopping to breathe, at that point, Tyler hugged you. “T-Tyler, are you alright?” You questioned, “Yeah, it’s just that you could see me getting angry and you stood up for me instead. You were so scared of being confronted by them, but you stood your ground to their faces. You may not have faced down a vampire or a wolf, but you Y/N are the bravest out of us all.” You smiled “Thanks Tyler” he leaned in & kissed you. You took a moment to let Tyler endulge before you began to kiss back, running your hands down Tyler’s back before you were slammed into the lamppost. Whilst you wanted Tyler, you didn’t want to be written up for public sex, so you broke the kiss “Let’s get back to Klaus’s and continue this there.” “But what about antagonising Caroline?” Tyler questioned, but you had your answer ready “I think we’ve antagonised her enough, besides she’d probably rub herself to your moans and shit, I don’t want to give her the satisfaction.” Tyler let a cold smirk cross his face, he knew you wanted to be fucked hard, and that’s what he planned to do. Deciding to test out Tyler’s compelling skills on a homeless person, you gave him the room Klaus had booked out & you both made your way back to The Mikaelson Compound. It was empty, so you & Tyler could fuck as loud as you could, so he sped you up to your room and as the door closed, Tyler slammed you up against it, kissing you passionately, the same as he did on the street, however this time, your clothes were removed with vampire speed. Standing there naked, Tyler took in your nude form with a twinkle in his eyes, you blushed slightly which made Tyler smile “You’re cute when you’re flustered Y/N.” Tyler commented and with that he began to undress as well, intending to take time so you could see the goodies under his clothes.

As he removed his shirt, Tyler pulled you in for a kiss, his tongue sliding into your mouth as he deepened it. You began to feel around his shirtlessness, tweaking at his nipples which make the newly turned hybrid moan in your ear, the sound like molten gold to you. Suddenly you were thrown with all of Tyler’s might onto the bed, Tyler made sure you were looking up as he disposed of his pants and underwear in one go, his cock standing proud and hard. He began to walk towards you, cockily flaunting all the while “You want this dick don’t you Y/N?”, you nodded, but that didn’t appease the hybrid who sped towards you and gripped you by the neck, softly yet dominant “Talk to me Y/N, do you want me to fuck you all night?, have you crying my name as I make you cum from my stroke? Answer me.” He spoke the last part cooly as he playfully tightened his grip on your throat, making you feel a bit light headed “Yes Tyler, please fuck me as hard as you can.” You moaned out, making him laugh “As hard as I can? God this is gonna be good.” He laid his hand out, spitting onto it before stroking his hard member, coating it with the makeshift lube all the while looking at you all sprawled out, naked for him, and while he tried to maintain his cockiness, you could see from the ripples of pleasure on his face. Once he had lathered himself up enough, Tyler didn’t waste anymore time and used his newly acquired speed to to thrust deep into your ass, making you cry out at the sting. “Fuck, shit, your tighter than Caroline.” Tyler moaned out, you couldn’t even form words from how big he was and how he was stretching you out so right, all that came out was a mewling cry, which the hybrid smirked at. Rocking his cock deeper inside your tight canal, he began a passionate pace, looking down into your eyes as he fucked you deep so he could see how you crumbled apart for him, how desperate you were to take his dick. He locked you in another kiss again, moaning into it as you trailed your hands down his back, until he slammed in balls deep, colliding head first with your prostate, you cried out & instictively tightened your grip, sinking your fingers into Tyler. “Sink it in pretty boy, scratch down my back till you draw blood while I fuck you the way Vicki & Caroline could never handle, but you can, you fucking slut.”

The rough dirty talk emerged a desire in you to meet Tyler’s challenge head on. You dug in harder as Tyler cried out from the mix of pain and pleasure, all thoughts of Caroline and the confrontation gone, all you both wanted to do was chase down your orgasms. Your fingers began to feel a bit moist and you took them away from Tyler’s back to see you’d got him deep that there was blood dripping “Taste it” Tyler panted in your ear “Taste me Y/N, I know you want to.” With Tyler’s encouragement, you locked eyes with him drew your tongue across your fingers, tasting Tyler’s blood. You moaned out from his taste, knowing it would incense him into fucking you rougher and indeed, Tyler began to rock into you so hard that the bed began to slam into the wall with every thrust. ”God, this is amazing, keep this up and I’ll cum for you Y/N.” “Do it Tyler, cum.” Once again Tyler squeezed your neck “I’m the hybrid here baby, you’re the human, I control you, I won’t cum till you cum apart from my dick.” Tyler’s words were accompanied by a sharp thrust deep inside you, well and truly smashing into your prostate, the driving force combined with his words was what it took for you to reach your peak and crying out Tyler’s name, you came in spurts over yourself. “Fuck, that’s hot, seeing you cum for me. You want to taste me again?” You nodded and began to move your hands to Tyler’s back again, intending to leave new marks, but instead you were met by Tyler’s full force as he slammed your hands to the bed. Groaning and spluttering out of ecstasy, his body also rippling with the same energy, Tyler pulled out and with a few simple strokes let out a loud moan as he came all over you, splattering you with even more hot cum.

As he calmed down, Tyler wiped his hand in his load, covering his fingers with the sticky white substance and held it up to your mouth “Taste it” he said again, reminiscent of when he wanted you to drink his blood, except this time, there was a more erotic tone to his voice, he wanted all of his essence inside you. Never losing eye contact with the Lockwood, you licked across your hand, taking in his salty sweet seed, even sucking it off your fingers while moaning which made Tyler grin “Fuck, if people only knew how perfect you are.” He breathed out “I do” came a distinctive british voice that could only mean... “Klaus!” you both exclaimed as you looked over to see the hybrid standing in the doorway, watching you both with a smirk on his face “I thought you were at the hotel making Caroline sulk.” “No, you should have seen though, Y/N pretty much tore them all a new one” “I don’t doubt that, Rebekah texted me and told me about it. She also told me you’d left without talking to her.” He eyed you closely “I was in an angry mood” you tried to explain, but Klaus held his hand up to silence you and you obeyed his command. “I have to say nice technique Tyler, you wanted Y/N to take his fill you of you and that you did. But now I want you to step back” With the sire bond in affect, Tyler took several steps away from the bed, Klaus grinning at his power as he walked towards you and to your excitement began to strip his clothing off “You’re going to watch as I now fuck Y/N, cause while you know how to fuck, you don’t have a thousand years of experience to you. You can masturbate to us if you want, as long as you cum once we have.” Klaus stopped at the foot of the bed, Tyler nodding as he fisted his hardening length “Good. Now love” he turned his gaze to you “Tyler’s got you ready for me, like a good sweet progeny, ready for another hybrid cock inside you.” He palmed at himself and nodding, you threw yourself back on the bed, spreading your legs. Oh yes, this was the life.

[ask-the-good-creeps]

Liu and Sully: Origins

//Hey, y’all - the anonymous ask I was going to attach this to somehow disappeared, so here it be on its own.

Note: This story covers Liu’s point of view on the events that occurred after his parents adopted Jeff; Liu has a vague understanding of what happened to Jeff before he came to live with the Woods family, but no full details. If you wanna know what happened to Jeff prior to this story, let me know because that is a full, separate story on its own. //

 His mother had been discussing it with his father for weeks. Liu had listened to her arguments, heard the kind intentions behind her words. His father’s rebuttals to her debate were never ill-intentioned, just logical and thoughtful.

“I’m the only one he trusts, Grant! He won’t even let the doctors near him if I’m not in the room! He needs a home, he needs a loving family - why not ours?” Margaret Woods had brought it up again at the breakfast table that Saturday morning.

“We don’t have the knowledge or training to be good parents to a kid with such heavy trauma,” her husband responded. She had told him all about the boy she’d been working with at the hospital. She was the only nurse the child would cooperate with – she was the only person so far that the poor kid wasn’t terrified of.

“So we don’t even try?” Mrs. Woods questioned, “We can get the training. We can learn how to handle it…but we can’t just leave him!” Mr. Woods sighed. It wasn’t one of frustration, or anger; he just didn’t know what to say. In all honesty, he was leaning toward accepting his wife’s decision. He knew she was going to hold her ground on this one no matter what. Margaret couldn’t be described as a stubborn person in her daily life, but when she did dig her heels in on something important to her she wasn’t going to let up.

“Is he going to be my brother?” Liu asked suddenly. There was a pause as his parents looked at each other.

“Do you want him to be?” Mr. Woods asked. Liu had nodded, and seeing that he was outvoted, Liu’s father finally agreed that they could adopt the boy when he was out of the hospital. Liu had smiled to himself, happy that a twelve-year-old child could have such a heavy impact on such an important family decision. Plus, he was going to have a little brother now!

Liu was excited, to say the least; he had spent the last couple weeks of his brother’s hospital stay helping his father set up the bedroom next to his. He had chosen the paint colors, the décor, the toys and games. He hoped he’d chosen well.

 The day finally came. Liu waited anxiously on the little couch in the foyer, peeking out the blinds covering the entryway window every now and again. He finally saw his mother’s little silver Honda pull into the driveway. Liu shot up and went over to the garage door to wait for them to enter. It felt like forever had passed by before he heard the rhythmic humming of the garage door closing, and the door to the house finally opened.

His mother walked in with a few plastic shopping bags over her arm, and for a moment Liu thought she had gotten groceries instead. The door closed as she greeted him, and he finally caught sight of the other boy hiding behind her…or rather, the boy’s hand.

He seemed scared. He had a death grip on Mrs. Woods’ blouse and kept close to and hidden behind her as they entered. He seemed to be trembling, timid and quiet as a mouse. Liu stepped closer and the other boy retreated further with a small whimper.

“Liu, honey, he needs some space. Give him a little time to get used to the house, okay?” His mother told him quietly. Liu nodded, his face worked into a small pout. His parents had explained to him over the past few days that someone had hurt his brother – a lot – so the boy may not talk or interact with him like other kids did. Liu had still had a misguided hope that they’d be best friends right away, but he understood. He went up to his room to read for a while, but kept his door cracked open slightly instead of closing it like he normally did.

He’d gotten through a few chapters before he heard the stairs creaking. He heard his mom speaking quietly as they passed Liu’s room and went to the one next door. His mother was talking barely above a whisper, so Liu didn’t really understand what she was saying. He tried to focus on his book again as his mother stepped out and went down the hall. As soon as she had left the second floor, Liu’s curiosity got the better of him. He put his book down and silently crept to his door.

He couldn’t hear anything from the next room, but once in the hall he could see that the door was still open. He didn’t see anyone on the bed from his vantage point, and he started to wonder if the boy had gone back downstairs with his mom. He took a few steps closer and peeked around from the doorway. Nobody. Liu frowned and started to turn away when something caught his eye from under the bed. There was a pair of eyes looking at him from the narrow space…wide eyes that didn’t seem to blink.

Liu froze in place, feeling instinctively afraid of those eyes as most children his age would be. The staring contest continued for a while longer before Liu started to think that perhaps he was looking at his brother. Mom and Dad had said he might act weird, right? Maybe this was what they were talking about. He remembered what Mrs. Woods had said earlier about giving him space, so he opted to sit in the doorway instead of going into the room, which still smelled slightly of paint. The eyes watched him the whole time.

“Hi, I’m Liu,” he stated in a quiet voice like he’d heard his mom using. “What’s your name?” He waited patiently, but there was no reply. Those eyes just kept watching him from the darkness under the bed.

“Do you like your room?” He asked after a while. “I helped Dad make it look right.” Once again, his attempt at conversation was met with silence. Liu looked down, and got an idea. He stood up and went back to his room. He found what he was looking for and went back to sit in his brother’s doorway. He positioned the newly-acquired monster truck toy in front of himself, and pushed it off in a straight path toward the bed. He was hoping that they could send the car back and forth to each other for a while, but he sure as Hell wasn’t expecting the reaction he got.

As soon as the little toy was sent in that direction, Liu heard a loud thunk that shook the bedframe, followed by a quiet, fearful whine and rapid shuffling. Then the boy burst out from under the bed on the opposite side where the tall mattress hid everything but the top of his head from Liu’s sight.

He could hear the kid’s rapid breathing as if he was having a panic attack. Part of Liu wondered what scared him so much about a toy, but more than that he felt guilty for freaking him out.

“I’m sorry!” He said, “I didn’t mean to scare you…I just thought it would be fun to play!” There wasn’t a response, just like before, but the fast, uneven breathing continued on the other side of the bed with some small sobs mixed in. Liu started to worry. He had a friend at school that had asthma, and what he was hearing sounded just like an attack. Without another thought, he stood up and rushed into the room to make sure he was okay.

He got to the end of the bed and looked to the other side…and froze up as he got his first glance of his brother. The kid looked like something from a horror movie. He was covered in mottled pink and pale white flesh, his greasy black hair hanging in strands over his face without managing to hide anything about his appearance. He had a permanent smile cut into his cheeks and his eyes were wider than they should be. The boy curled up into a fetal position and hugged himself while he panicked, and Liu could see some dark discoloration over his wrists where the sleeves of his hooded sweatshirt rode up his arms.

Liu was almost afraid of the kid, but that feeling started to wear off as he realized that the guy was absolutely terrified of Liu himself. He didn’t know what to do. He wanted to get his mom, but he knew she’d be upset that he scared his brother and Liu didn’t want to get in trouble. He moved slowly in front of the crying boy and laid down on the floor next to him.

“Are you okay?” Liu asked quietly as they laid there. The boy didn’t answer, but he started to calm down a little. It took a while, but eventually he seemed to realize that Liu wasn’t there to hurt him.

“What…do you want…?” The voice was raspy, and quieter than a whisper. If Liu hadn’t been right there next to him, he probably wouldn’t have heard the question.

“I just wanted to play. I didn’t mean to scare you. Are you okay now?” Liu asked quietly. The boy sniffled a bit.

“I’m your big brother. My name is Liu…what’s yours?” He continued.

“Brother…?” he asked. Liu nodded. “I never…had a brother…”

“You do now. I’ll be your best friend! We can play games, and I can help you with homework, and…” Liu trailed off a bit, and then there was silence for a while.

“She named me Jeffery.” The boy – Jeffery – said in his near-silent tone.

“Jeffery was Grandpa’s name, too! He was really cool, so you must be really cool if you have the same name!” It was childish logic, but Liu was, in fact, a child. Jeffery seemed to get uncomfortable and shy away from the compliment.

“What’s wrong?” Liu asked.

“No one really…says good things to me like that.” Came the quiet reply. Liu frowned.

“Well, they should. Mom says you should only say good things to people.” He answered. “Why were you afraid of the truck?”

“Truck?” Jeffery asked. Liu nodded and sat up. He reached under the bed to pull out the little orange vehicle and placed it gently on the floor between them. Jeffery reached a hand out to it hesitantly and started to feel it.

“Sorry…I don’t see so good.” He mumbled as he picked up the toy to inspect it further. Liu noticed now that he didn’t blink, and his blue eyes had a slight milky hue to them. It seemed like he didn’t even have eyelids. He wanted to ask about it, but his parents had told him in the past weeks to not ask about what Jeffery had been through. After a minute or two, Jeffery put the toy back on the floor and started to move it back and forth curiously.

“Do you like playing with cars?” Liu asked. Jeffery shrugged.

“I’ve never had any.” He replied. Liu’s eyes widened. A boy Jeffery’s age had never played with cars before? In his little mind it wasn’t possible.

“What kind of toys have you played with?” He asked.

“I...none…” Jeffery muttered. Liu’s jaw practically dropped to the floor.

“Do you want to come to my room and play with some of mine? I could show you my favorite ones!” he offered. Jeffery paused for a moment, then said a quick, ‘sure’ as he sat up shakily. He handed the toy truck back to Liu, who took it and stood up.

“C’mon!” He said excitedly as he started toward the door. Jeffery stood up and followed him. Mrs. Woods would find them in Liu’s room later when she went to get them for dinner. She smiled and felt tears prick at the corners of her eyes when she looked in and saw them both on Liu’s bed, with Liu reading one of his old books to his new little brother.

 Liu and Jeffery became close, just like Liu wanted…but Jeffery would never leave the house, not even with Liu. He didn’t like the feeling of sun on his sensitive skin and he didn’t want anyone to see his disfigured face; he was homeschooled by a private tutor and always excited when Liu got home from the local public school he went to. They were almost inseparable…nobody could have predicted what was to come.

 It was late at night, three years after Jeffery had joined the family. Liu had been asleep in his bed when he heard a noise. It was the creaking of that one floorboard in the middle of his room. He pulled the blanket up half-heartedly with his eyes closed, not paying the sound any heed in his semi-conscious state. The room was quiet again, but he felt a sudden tinge of dread. It was barely there, barely noticeable at all, but he started to feel it stronger and stronger, until he couldn’t ignore it. He felt like he wasn’t alone, like someone was watching him. He opened his eyes just a sliver and shut them again. His foggy brain took a moment to process the brief visual image – the image of a knife raised above him.

He re-opened his eyes a split second too late and felt the pain of the knife slicing through the skin of his face. He cried out and rolled over, feeling the knife enter his back, then his side, then his chest…he put his hands over the wounds the best he could and looked at his attacker. That earned him another slash across his face, but not before he saw the culprit in the pale light of the moon and streetlamp that shone in from the window.

“Jeffery?” He managed to say, his eyes widened in horror. His brother’s eyes seemed wider than usual, something akin to insanity swirling in their depths. He was smiling for once – a gigantic, unsettling grin that didn’t reach his manic eyes despite being wide enough to reopen the wounds on his cheeks. Liu wouldn’t find out until later that Jeff had actually cut the old scars open with the knife he held. Jeffery laughed and brought the knife back down onto Liu’s chest, right through his lung. Liu choked on his blood, vision darkening; as the light left him, he thought he saw his brother’s face change. The smile dropped into a mask of silent horror as Jeffery seemed to become cognizant of what he’d just done.

Liu didn’t see anything further as he fell into the calm, inky darkness of death.

 “What do you need?” A deep voice echoed around him. Liu hesitated. His eyes were closed, and he couldn’t will them to open. He felt like he was floating, but not in air or water…it was a strange sensation, like he was neither here nor there. He recalled the events that had happened before this moment, the memories of being attacked by his own brother. Then he saw something else, almost like he was looking at things from someone else’s eyes. He saw Jeffery stab their parents before creeping into his room to end his life. He saw how wild and insane Jeffery seemed to be…and he saw Jeffery come back to himself and drop the knife as he lay dying in his bed. He watched Jeffery find the phone and call 911 before escaping off into the night. The disturbing images ended there.

“What do you need?” the voice came again, sounding like it was everywhere at once. Liu thought about it. He wanted to go back, he wanted to find Jeffery.

“Why?” The voice probed, seemingly able to read his thoughts. Liu wanted to know why. Why did he do it? But there was something else…something dark that had begun creeping up through his soul at the sight of his slaughtered parents. Liu tried to repress that darkness, to send it back to where it came from; but it was no use – the rage was there to stay. The Woods family had taken Jeffery in when nobody else would have, and this is how he repaid their kindness and love? How dare he?

But it wasn’t Jeffery’s fault…Liu had just seen for himself when Jeffery snapped out of it and called police! …And then he ran away…like the pathetic lowlife he is…the angry thoughts continued to argue with him, almost like they belonged to someone else entirely. The squabble continued until Liu landed hard on his back on a stone floor of some sort. He opened his eyes now that he was able to and no longer floating.

He saw a stone ceiling, stone walls, stone everywhere. He sat up, surprisingly not in pain despite how hard he felt himself hit the ground. He stood up and turned, coming face to face with something he could only describe as a demon. The entity before him was more than three times his height, with black skin, horns, and piercing crimson eyes. He had several mouths across his body lined with sharp teeth, and as the creature opened his mouth to speak, he seemed to glow red from within like fresh lava does through dark, semi-cooled volcanic rock.

“What would you like to do from here?” He asked in his deep voice. Liu didn’t know exactly how to answer, but he didn’t have to. He suddenly felt like he was being pulled away…then he was looking through his eyes as if they were someone else’s. He felt his mouth move, but it wasn’t his voice that said the words.

“I want him dead. I want to hunt him and everyone like him down and slaughter them like the ruthless animals they are!” The words startled Liu, and then he was back in control of himself, his hands over his mouth like he was trying to hold back any further unwanted dialogue. The demon seemed to consider him for a moment.

“Is that truly what you desire?” He asked Liu. Liu shook his head quickly.

“N-no! I don’t want to-” he was cut off as whatever had just happened tried to happen again. He fought himself to stay in control. The demon reached a hand out and tapped his forehead with the sharp tip of a single claw. Liu didn’t have to struggle after; he was in control again. He looked at the demon, silently begging for an explanation as to what was going on.

“What is it you want?” The demon inquired again, “Would you like to return to the living world, or let go?” Liu struggled to think of an answer. What did he want to do?

“I…I want to go back…I’m not ready to…I’m too young to…” Liu couldn’t finish the sentence.

“You’re pathetic.” He heard his new-found other voice sneer at him from the back of his mind.

“Who are you?” Liu questioned.

“Let’s make a deal.” The demon spoke when Liu’s other voice didn’t answer. Liu looked up at the demon. It didn’t seem to want to hurt him, but he was still upset and afraid from the recent trauma of death.

“I’ll send you back to the living world as an undead entity until the day you fulfill your wishes. After that, you come back here to me.” The demon offered.

“Fulfill which wish?” The other voice spoke through Liu again. The voice’s desires were clearly not a match for Liu’s own.

“Whatever wish you two compromise on over your time back in the mortal world. You share a soul and body. I cannot make a deal with just one of you.” The demon responded. He held out his hand and a large scroll seemed to materialize out of thin air within his palm. The scroll was opened and held in front of Liu.

“What if we never compromise?” Liu asked, and it seemed the voice finally agreed with him on something.

“Then you will spend eternity wandering the living world as an undead creature.” The demon answered simply.

“I don’t see a downside.” The voice spoke through Liu again.

“There doesn’t have to be one.” The demon sounded somewhat amused. Liu felt his hand move toward the open scroll on its own. He hesitated before touching the contract.

“The choice is yours.” The entity stated as he continued to hold out the scroll patiently. In the end, Liu made his choice…

 …and woke up in a hospital bed shortly after. He looked around at the white walls of his room in the ICU. He didn’t feel any pain as he sat up and tore off all the tubes and wires that kept him attached to various machines. As the heart monitor started to emit the loud screech it naturally sounds when a patient flatlines, Liu stood up and quickly left the room. He heard doctors and nurses enter the room with a crash cart and start to panic at finding his cot empty, but he didn’t care as he ran down the halls.

 He made it through the exit and looked up at the starry night sky. He took a quick breath and ran off through the city streets, determined to find a quiet place to plan his next steps. As soon as he had the basics that he needed, he would get started. The voice in his head helped direct him through the urban jungle around him, almost as if it had been here before.

 Sully. The voice’s name came to him without needing to be heard. Liu was determined not to let Sully hurt his brother; and Sully was equally determined to override Liu’s control and exact vengeance. They argued back and forth about it all when they started planning out what to do and where to go. They debated where to go and how to proceed, but there was one thing they could both agree on:

 One way or another, they had to find Jeffery.

[theprodigypenguin]

👀

This is an excerpt from a WIP called “Yes Man” that I wanted to write a little after finishing “Moon Sick”. It’s a blend of Jeddy and Scorbus (and I almost never write Scorbus so this was supposed to help me get used to then yeet). It also had a bunch of really fun bits with Albus and James being bros, James having an oblivious crush on Teddy and not realizing it, also James being so stupid in love he’d say yes to anything Teddy asked, even if it meant helping him get together with a girl:

“Alright! Now this should be an excellent day!” was the first thing James said as he stepped onto the cobbled path down Diagon Alley, “Albus, let me see your book list.”

“What for? Do you not remember what you had to buy for your sixth year?”

“That was ages ago, Al,” James said, snatching the envelope from his brothers hand and opening it, “Can’t expect me to remember everything.”

“James this is only your first year out of school, stop acting like you’re Merlin.”

James just ignored him, “The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 6; Advanced Potion-Making; Confronting the Faceless, that’s the text for Defense Against the Dark Arts. Dad also said I had to take you to get you new robes, because you just had to get taller didn’t you?”

“Why do I have to do this with you in the first place?” Albus asked, “I’m sixteen now, I should be allowed to shop for school supplies by myself without you. Hey why doesn’t Lily have to come with us?”

“Dad and mum both have work, Al, and Lily went with Rose and Hugo.”

“Why the hell does Rose get to go off on her own and I can’t?! She’s sixteen too!”

“Albus you know exactly why.”

“This is bloody unfair…”

“Ah come on, Al, you really hate spending time with me that much? I thought we had an understanding. We’re brothers, remember!” he threw an arm around Albus, “Besides, I love spending time with you!”

“Ugh…”

“That should be your motto, etched in stone on your grave. Ugh.”

“Can you shut up? Let’s just fucking get what I need and go home.”

“Hey, try a bit harder to be happy about this. We might run into Scorpius while we’re here.”

James felt Albus tense under his arm, but there was no more protest, so he released his younger brother and they headed for the closest shop to get Albus sized for new robes.

Maybe it was a bit unfair to use Scorpius against Albus like that, but it was so fun to do, to see his face change when the young Malfoy’s name was brought up.

Albus and Scorpius, inseparable friends since the instant they met eyes on the Hogwarts Express leading to their first year, had been dating for the past few months. James figured it started sometime during their fifth year, towards the end of it perhaps.

He didn’t pick up on it for the longest time, and Lily felt no shame in calling him an utterly dense airhead whenever he noted his confusion (“Didn’t even realize they were an item now.” “James, your head is full of Billywiggs.”).

The first time it occurred to him that they might have been something more than friends was during a trip to Hogsmeade, where he saw Albus and Scorpius over the heads of other students, leaning into each other, seemingly no personal space between the two of them and not at all caring. James had no idea what they were talking about, but Albus was grinning so big there were dimples in his cheeks that James never noticed he had before, and there was a flush of red across Scorpius’ nose that definitely could have been mistaken as caused by the cold.

They always stood that close, though, so it wasn’t until James saw them later entering The Hog’s Head that his interest piqued, following them into the dingy pub and sitting in the furthest corner to watch them from a distance and not be spotted. You didn’t go into The Hog’s Head unless you didn’t want to be bothered or seen doing something you shouldn’t have been doing. None of the other students went in there, normally preferring to take up at The Three Broomsticks (which was a cleaner and better kept establishment).

That was probably exactly why they went into The Hog’s Head, though. Even after five years, the rest of the school didn’t seem too fond of Albus or Scorpius, so they probably wouldn’t have had much fun in the crowded Three Broomsticks where so many of the students could be found. 

While The Hog’s Head had definitely been refurbished and tidied up a bit since the death of Voldemort, it was still quite a mess, and not nearly what The Three Broomsticks was. The lights were low, though the dust had been cleaned from the floor at some point, the glasses cleaner than they ever were before and likely ever would be again. There was still a lingering scent of grass and mud and goats, but it also smelt of malt liquor, chocolate, and incense, as if the old owner was trying to “spice things up”.

The pubs owner and operator, Aberforth Dumbledore, acted like he knew Albus and Scorpius, greeting them and waving them to a table in the far corner just across from James. It was hidden from most of the windows so no classmates would be able to spot the Slytherin boys if they happened to pass and glance inside (as if they would be able to see anything through the cloudy windows anyway). They didn’t even have to order, as Aberforth had returned minutes later with two tankards that were hopefully clean.

When he wandered over to James, who was slouching with his hood up (not at all unusual in the Hog’s Head), Aberforth just stared blankly.

“What can I get you, Potter?”

“What? I’m not- I’m just a humble traveler my good sir.”

“I can see the Gryffindor crest on your chest.”

“Bloody hell-” James tried to fold his cloak over himself to hide the red crest as Aberforth gave a snort. “I’m just-”

“I don’t care,” Aberforth interrupted. “Spy on your brother in a shadowed cobwebbed corner in a shady Hogsmeade pub, won’t make any left or right to me. What do you want to drink?”

“Just a warm Butterbeer please.”

“Fine.”

James eyed the old wizard as he shuffled away before looking back over at Albus and Scorpius. They’d pulled their seats together, leaning into each other with one hand on their drinks and grins at their mouths and a flush to their cheeks, though James didn’t think they’d even taken a sip of what they’d ordered (and they were only fifteen, James definitely hoped they weren’t drinking Firewhiskey).

“Pst, are they drinking alcohol?” James asked under his breath when Aberforth came and set down a steaming cup.

“I don’t sell to minors.”

“Right…”

It was then that it happened, when Aberforth started back towards the bar and James picked up his steaming mug, hugging it to his chest so the scent could waft into his face, warming his hands and raising the tankard up, watching his brother and the young Malfoy leaning closer while laughing about something, a joke or something stupid that one of them did, or saw someone else do; James wished he could hear them.

Their foreheads were touching now, laughing at their private joke, both tilting their chins until their noses were brushing, then their lips, interrupted quite suddenly when a rag smacked Albus in the back of the head, making him jerk back and spin in his seat to glare at Aberforth.

“What the bloody-”

“No snogging in my pub, Potter, you’ll chase all my customers away.”

“What?! We’re the only ones in here!” James sunk down in his seat. “We’re the only ones who ever come here!”

“Sorry, Mister Dumbledore,” Scorpius quickly said, grinning, and Aberforth gave another grunt as he walked away.

“Your father had to curse you with that name, boy, just like the original, snogging trouble makers in dark corners.”

“What was that?”

“I said you’re as gay as my brother.”

“Wow, what an honor.”

It was clear that they were trying hard to keep their relationship a secret, so of course everyone eventually found out. Maybe it was because James told Lily he saw them snogging, maybe it was because Lily already knew, but by the end of the year, Fred, Roxanne, Rose, Louis, Lily, and Hugo, all of their family still in school, knew about their relationship, either because they heard from James, saw the boys snogging for themselves (despite their attempts to hide it), or had already known about it.

Even Dominique and Victoire didn’t seem all that surprised when Fred and James told them. In fact, Victoire actually scolded James for spying on them, as if he’d never done that before.

Over the summer break, Scorpius had visited a few times, and Albus had even been allowed over to Malfoy Manor a few times, and somehow no one ever suspected. Maybe because the two of them always acted the way they did. Leaning into each other, sitting on opposite ends of the couch with their legs tangled together, Albus falling asleep on Scorpius’ shoulder at the table during breakfast; it was all stuff they’d been doing since they met.

The only difference that separated their long time friendship and their newly discovered romantic relationship was the occasional snogging in dark corners.

So yea, bringing Scorpius up was bound to get Albus to silently go along with James through Diagon Alley. The concept of bumping into his boyfriend was too good to pass up. James struggled to hide his snickers as they dropped into seats in front of Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour with wrapped parcels and bags of newly acquired school supplies.

Albus kept pivoting his head back and forth, glancing over one shoulder then the other, clearly searching for someone. Someone who just happened to have platinum blond hair and grey eyes.

“Well, he could be busy. Maybe he already picked up supplies, or intends to get his things later,” James tried to lift Albus’ spirits, but his little brother just slumped in his seat exhaling heavily through his nose. “Or you could just sit there sulking into your banana split like the Millennial you are, that’s also a fine option. Well done, Albus.”

“Piss off.”

“Wow.”

[godkilller]

[ Do you think that Gin, due to having not had his mother in his life to raise him to be understanding of the social norms and etiquettes that people follow, that he had to, in a sense, raise himself with the turmoils and harshness of the world that he had to live in? In a sense, he was raised by "mother nature", and mother nature certainly isn't the best mother for children to grow up learning from. Do you think that Gin's slightly 'creepy' ways of expressing himself and his emotions are 1/2 ]

[ this fact? For example, he was never taught about emotions like love and hate, and about things like personal space and social etiquette, so he came up with some warped sense of them as a child which influenced how he would act about things in future (his plot to kill Aizen, his love for Rangiku, his constant Duchenne grin, and his constant toying about with characters like Rukia and Ichigo). Could it also be why he was able to kill without any remorse when he was only a child as well? ]

          I have to start this off with a thank you–because I’m really not accustomed to followers / people outside of my immediate roleplay circle being engaged with the content I post. It’s extremely exciting! You raise some good theories, too, friendo! 

          It’s important to note that Shinigami / souls, once they’re reincarnated within Soul Society, the Rukongai, etc., they have no memories of their previous life. Gin cannot recall his mother from when he was human, nor will he know of the loss of her somewhere deep down in his heart. Souls are cleansed in their passage to Soul Society, and in the general scheme of reincarnation—-so Gin’s inner workings can’t be attributed to the lack of his mother or a mother-like figure, because he’d be unaware that he was lacking anything of that nature.

          That’s where I’ll start: simple unawareness. Gin’s seen helping out a collapsed Rangiku by the side of a beaten up dirt path. There’s no one else around, which assumes that he was well-past the outskirts of any nearby village. Gin did not, also, seem to be lost or wandering. It’s important to note that, because it means Gin prior to meeting Rangiku had minimal interactions with others—-he lived an outcast’s life, most likely akin to how Aizen, too, was completely alone during his days in the Rukongai. He’s not aware that his life could be anything different. Beyond the merchants in which Gin likely stole from to get by, Gin did not have anyone that knew his name.

          It’s even implied, just by the sheer simplicity of his name’s meaning, that Gin named himself one day—-a boy, nameless, wandering the woods, looking into a moonlit pond or creek’s reflection, finally sees that yes, I’m silver. This name could have been with him since his rebirth within the Rukongai, but it’s unlikely. This further implies that Gin had absolutely nobody in his life before he met Rangiku.

          Meeting Rangiku, and immediately helping her before he even knew her name (or she knew his) also gives us insight that as a child Gin instinctively wants to help others. He was not taught that, he naturally wished to share his rare and prized favorite snack not because someone told him he should, but because he wanted to. It is with Rangiku that Gin shows his seemingly first sign of compassion. It is also the moment he ceases being a child, and becomes instead a caretaker.

          We don’t know where Rangiku was before, but she looked far worse for wear when she was initially picked up by Gin off that pathway. Her clothes were torn and dirty and she looked malnourished, though that could have been due to the men attacking her to steal part of her soul for Aizen’s Hogyoku. Back to the malnourishment, however—-it’s a theme, like with Rukia and Renji’s past in the Rukongai; children with power tend to starve. Rangiku likely was starving for a while but simply didn’t understand why (that she had power) because Gin’s offering of food (that it’d help her) seemed to surprise / confuse her.

          This also implies that Gin, in some way before meeting her, already knew he had power within him, and how to also handle that power.

          It’s said that Rangiku, even after meeting Gin, had severe PTSD-esque episodes of absolute sobbing concerning those men, what was taken from her, and it bothered Gin to his core—-enough to motivate him to, on sight, condemn the men he recognized gathered around Aizen in the middle of the night—-and to also ultimately condemn Aizen himself. This wrathful anger towards those who wronged his newly acquired friend was born from mere months, not even, of knowing the girl—-Gin, by nature, seemed to harbor strong loyalty, dedication, and brutal protectiveness. This implies that Gin, again, knew no one else before Rangiku. She is his first complete connection with another–and she’s his age, which is important to note too because over the span of his life Gin seems to be surrounded by people far older than him.

          Growing up in the Rukongai isn’t easy. We have multiple character backstories stemming from the hardships presented in those often run-down villages. Any time we’ve seen child!Gin, he’s alone in a vast wasteland, or alone in the forest, or alone, and then there’s Rangiku. Alone, and then there’s Aizen. Gin didn’t need to know about Aizen, be ‘tainted’ by Aizen, to construct his own murderous plot for him, for the men involved with hurting Rangiku—-no, Gin had already carried out multiple killings before he introduced himself to Aizen that night. There can be a case for it being due to Gin raising himself, raising himself and taking care of Rangiku—-there’s no denying that children taking care of themselves is taxing enough on their cognitive development, as well as all things psychological. Gin has a twisted concept of ‘play’ and it shows.

          Gin’s first parental / adult authority figure in his life is also simultaneously someone he harbors the deepest pits of wrathful hate for, so even then there’s a stripped-bare concept of parenting present, if at all, between them. I cannot begin to stress the effects such a dynamic can have on a child’s mind—-Gin will never be put into a position where he’ll feel it’s safe to ask an adult for help purely because of his absolute distrust, dislike, of Aizen as his primary adult figure in his life. Why show him any vulnerability, why give him an unwanted advantage? It’s around that time where Gin completely shuts himself off and hunkers down for his overall goal of plucking back Rangiku’s soul piece and shoving a blade through Aizen’s heart.

          Dark stuff for a kid to think about.

          In the Academy for Shinigami, Gin was surrounded by adult students, or at least older teen-equivalents, and graduated within one single year–breaking all records–to immediately place himself as a Third Seat in the Fifth Division. On the educational front; sure, Gin’s a genius, he didn’t need to complete those other years. He blew through with flying colors. But socialization got completely bypassed. All Gin needed to do was study, practice, train, for all of what… 8-9 months? Easy enough to seclude himself to all but Rangiku, that’s how he grew up to begin with. So not only has Gin avoided socializing with others during the Rukongai days, he’s also set himself up to not make a single Academy friend. He’s instantly scooped up by Aizen, and it’s right to closing up shop for never making another meaningful connection.

          It’s said in one of the character books (I can’t remember what exactly) that Gin enjoys people-watching, he prefers the sidelines to observe others. This can be a nod to the fact that the lil fast-learning kid had to watch others to recognize what was appropriate. From properly dressing himself to how to clean his blade after a messy kill—-Gin learned almost everything surrounding behavior via observation, and his own conclusions brought on from those observations. So whilst mother nature indeed did some raising of Gin in the harshness of the Rukongai, Gin for the most part raised himself. He taught himself, he cared for himself, and he did so while also taking on Rangiku, making sure she had nice clothes, good food, a roof over her head, and protection via vowing to become a Shinigami—-for her, “so that you don’t haveta cry anymore.”

          People who miss out on socialization during their younger years will struggle to make connections in their adult lives. Gin cannot fathom caring beyond a furrowed brow for the woes of strangers. The only times he will care for completely new faces is if they carry a trait that reminds him of someone he does care about. Things need to be easily translatable for him, easily relatable, for Gin to consider caring. It never served him as a child to care about the merchant who threw rocks at him for grabbing a piece of bread, it never served him to wonder about the other Shinigami’s feelings as he beat them to death for hurting Rangiku. It never occurred to him to think about the previous Third Seat’s family as he cut him down.

          It’s not that he kills with no remorse, however. It’s that he kills with no remorse for the victim he has killed. Gin canonly is aware of and mourns the wrongness he’s committed in relation to Rangiku. So he doesn’t think of them, the victim, and if there had been a time where he did it was swiftly snuffed out by Aizen. Aizen, ultimately, filled any and all holes that Gin’s parenting of himself left behind. To me, Aizen indeed raised Gin into the man he became, but the foundation on which Aizen built his perfect traitor was already geared towards terrible things. If anything, Aizen simply enabled Gin to go further, fall harder, delve deeper—-he gave him the resources, the knowledge (even through mere observation) on how to become the monster his snake speech boasts of. Aizen wanted Gin to become a certain chess piece capable of immense cruelty, power, and Gin too wanted that same outcome. It was easy enough, at that point, to fit such a mold.

          Gin seemed to gravitate his worst teasings towards Rukia, who at the time held within her the Hogyoku, an incomplete structure of everything Aizen desired to feed to his own. Therefore, the animosity between them was mutual. Rukia’s strong dislike is also, in flashbacks, countered by the fact that Byakuya never was bothered by Gin in their short little chats. Rukia didn’t like Gin because of his reiatsu, his presence. Gin didn’t like Rukia for the fact that Urahara / Aizen were both using her as a Hogyoku storage unit. To him, she was blissfully unaware of how helpful she was being to them both. Him teasing her on the bridge can, to some extent, be attributed to the fact that Gin knew she was about to fall into Aizen’s hands. The thought of saying “I could stop all of this, save all of you, right now” was too heavy to keep to himself. A cruel offering that needed to be immediately removed from the board.

          Gin’s testing (and in some perspectives bullying) of Ichigo in their second fight within fake Karakura Town was hardly out of pure cruelty. Gin needed to know Ichigo’s resolve to stop Aizen, he needed to know that the kid was ready—-and at the realization that he wasn’t? He needed to kick his ass into gear so that he at the very least tried his damn best to stop Aizen from winning. Gin knew that if he failed and Aizen continued on with his plot, Ichigo would be the only one standing in his way. Never shooting or slicing at a vital, Gin hardly even wounded Ichigo beyond shattering his Hollow mask and saying some viciously blunt words. A messed up version of a pep-talk, but it readied the kid enough to realize he needed to reevaluate himself. Perhaps it assisted in simmering his recklessness, his near-arrogance in believing he could simply chop away at Aizen until he was down for the count. Gin passed on the same cruel reality that he himself would go through within the next two hours following their altercation; pure futility—-that sometimes… you just can’t win.

[1d-sexualdesires]

SPY HARRY (Pt. III)

THIS IS A LOT OF SMUT YOOO

Part I 

Part II

Recap…

“When all of this is over and we're back home I’m taking you out on a proper date.” He said and she smiled. “Seriously.”

“Okay.” Suddenly his phone started ringing loudly, snapping him from their moment and he hurried to answer.

“Hello?” He heard panting and crackling, “Niall.. hello?” He called once more. Y/N stepped out of the bathroom, a concerned look on her face as Harry turned to her.

“Harry, get the fuck out of the hotel! You need to go now! You have two minutes! Get out now!”

*****

Harry hung up the phone in a panic and looked up to Y/N, his eyes flooded with concern and fear.

“We need to go now!” he shouted and she ran across the room zipping up her bag and slipping into her shoes. They are always prepared to be on the run, that’s how you survived. Harry was slipping on his shoes and in seconds they were out the door, running down three flights of stairs until they reached the lobby.

“It’s completely taken, Harry.” She whispered, closing the door gently.

“We have one minute to get out.” He said looking at his watch.

“The kitchen!” She said looking down the hallway from the stairs.

They ran faster than they ever thought they could. Harry was shouting ‘run’ ‘get out of here’ to the employees in the kitchen in their native tongue, but they were barely half-way through when a large bang shook the entire building. Then everyone started running to the back entrance and they managed to slip out and keep running when another bang was heard and she turned around for just a moment and watched it catch fire and people were running out and screaming and Y/N couldn’t help it as she just started crying. All of those innocent people, it was her fault they found them, it was her fault Harry was nearly killed, this was her fault. Harry glanced back for a moment only to find that he had lost Y/N.

“Y/N!” He shouted, walking back slowly, trying to spot her, “Y/N!” There was just so much chaos and he saw the top of her head, standing still amidst the flocks of people running past her and he tried to go against them until he grabbed her hand and just pulled her into an alley she couldn’t even breathe from how hard she was crying and he held her tight, let her cry for just a bit. “We need to keep moving. We can’t stay here, Y/N.”

“S’my fault, it’s all my fault. They only know we’re here because of me that first night.” She gasped and rushed and he shushed her.

“It’s not. They would’ve found out somehow. But right now we need to get to safety and make sure that these people can’t hurt anyone else, okay?” And she nodded slowly, catching her breath. “There’s another hotel not too far, we’ll stay there. C’mon.” He said, taking her hand and pulling her along. They were across the street from the hotel, they tried to look a bit more presentable and he pulled out his phone and dialed Niall.

“Harry?!”

“Yeah, it’s me.”

“Oh fuck, thank god. I’ve been crying like a twat. I think they jammed the reception.” Niall rambled.

“We’re good, we made it out. Thanks for the warning, mate, really. You saved our lives.” He said and Y/N sighed, reaching out for Harry’s free hand and squeezing it gently before pulling away. “Look we need you to put in a booking for a suite it’s a Hampton, located in Istanbul Kayasehkir. Yeah, one’s fine.” He said and Y/N knew he was referring to the bed. “Alright, thanks mate. I’ll see you soon.”

“I better see you soon.” Niall said, “Be careful and say hi to Y/N.”

“I will, bye.” He mumbled before hanging up. “Niall says hello and we should have a room now, so lets head on in, yeah?” She nodded and reached for his hand and he glanced down.

“We’re newly weds, remember?” She stated flatly and he nodded, intertwining their fingers and hurrying across the intersection into the building. He led them to a counter where they were greeted in a very friendly manner.

“Reservation Name?” She asked, smiling wide.

“Johnson.” He said confidently and she looked through, a bit surprised he presumes because she probably didn’t recognize the name.

“Okay, I see you here. You are room 351, that is the 4th floor, balcony as requested. Anything else we can do for you?”

“Is it possible to get one of those ‘Do Not Disturb’ signs?” He asked and she nodded before eyeing Y/N over once and then turning around to retrieve the keys and their sign.

“Enjoy your stay.”

“Thanks.” They both said and headed into the elevator.

“She was totally jealous.” Y/N said, a light air to her tone since her little meltdown in the alley.

“She really was, I caught that too.” He said and she chuckled. “Do you think she was jealous of you or me?” He asked quietly and Y/N snorted.

“Definitely me. She had been looking you over since we walked in.”  

“No way?”

“Yeah, you’re eyes aren’t getting any sharper, Styles.” She teased and he giggled, right then the elevator stopped and the doors slid open. “this way.” She said and he followed.

They reached their room which Niall assured was closest to the staircase and they slipped inside quietly. Shutting the door gently and they both pulled out their weapons and did a sweep of the room, when everything was clear they relaxed and pulled their things into the bedroom. This was a suite, so it was slightly larger than their previous room, the bed was ample and they had a small entertainment space. They settled in and then Y/N hopped in the shower as Harry prepped their work space, then he hopped in and soon they were both around the coffee table looking at the intelligence they had acquired from Niall. It turns out that the one purchasing the weapon was the curator of a museum, he was actually American-born, he was already a person of interest as Y/N and Harry had worked against him before.

“So the gala they’re having over the weekend is when the exchange is happening? Both parties of interest will be there… We need them to think we’re gone.” She said and he nodded in agreement.

“The alias for this hotel was completely new, so if they try to find us, which they will look here first, we’re in the clear.”

“Have Niall book two flights; one for me, one for you to separate locations under common aliases. And we’ll somehow get into that gala.”

“Yeah, that’s smart.” She smiled as he typed away on his laptop. Probably sending the information to Niall.

“So he’s book the flights, they’re for tonight. Hopefully they’ll think we got called back.” Harry said before looking up to her and she nodded. “So, if you want to scooch this way… we can see the layout of the museum.”

“Blueprints.” She said and he looked to her and she held back a smirk, her eyes still fixed on the screen, her lack of acknowledgment causing him to just continue.

“Anyway… we can pose as catering staff. The loading dock is here so this corridor is probably our best rendezvous point.”

“Are we neutralizing or do we want to take him?” She inquired.

“Neutralize.” He stated flatly and she nodded. “Whoever has a clear shot takes it. We should try to imprison the one whose flat we broke into. He has all the contacts, he’s the one everyone networks with.”

“Got it. Let’s just take these few days to scope the place out, lets set our traps mentally, we each go a different day. The day of, lets head in at least four hours early and get set up.” He nodded in agreement.

“Sounds like a plan.”

“We should probably get to bed, we have a long day ahead of us.” She said before letting out a long sigh.

They got ready for bed and did a sweep once more, her in the suite and him in the hall and the balcony. Y/N finished before him so she took to undoing the bed and closing all the doors, closing the curtains, and drawing back the covers, and out of a little paranoia she slipped a gun under her pillow. She was just settling in when Harry walked back in from the hallway, announcing himself with a brief ‘it’s me’ as he had done every night they’d been together. She was relaxed now and turned off her bedside lamp and he followed suit she could hear him rustle around for a moment before the bed dipped and he was under the covers. She enjoyed pilllow talk with Harry, sure nothing sexual had occurred beforehand, but it was still pillow talk. These were the most honest and intimate moments she’d had in her life and her favorite part of this mission so far. She turned to face him before whispering to him.

“Are you awake?”

“Yeah.” He responded and she bit her lip before continuing.

“You know, I’m never able to sleep when I’m working. M’super paranoid about everything and just can’t do it. I cannot sleep, that’s why my missions are completed so quickly. I can’t sleep unless I’m home, in my bed, with my dog. But this time, I have slept like a baby every. Single. Night.” She says in a marked manner.

“Why’s that?” He inquires.

“Maybe because I’m not alone? But that seems odd because despite me not being alone it’s not as if I know you and trusted you 100% from the get go.” She explained and he hummed, very understandable. “But then I realized that I feel so comfortable around you, unlike I’ve felt with lots of other people. There’s just an air of familiarity about you I guess.” She whispered and he spoke up.

“I think now would be a good time to tell me your Prince Harry story.” And she giggled.

“Now?!” She laughed and he smiled bright.

“Yeah. I mean, I’d love to know as much as I can about you before we don’t see each other for a long, long time.” He reasoned and the air became thick with sadness and reality.

He was right, in their line of work who knows the next time they’d see each other. Or if they’d ever see each other again and that idea made a weird lump to form in her throat and for her stomach to churn in a way that made her sick. The idea made Harry feel awful and regretful for even bringing it up, because the silence that fell over them was heart wrenching. He wasn’t going to deny that his nights had been better, too and that he enjoyed observing her, and loved her shy little smile, or her smart-ass quips. The thought made him sick, plain and simple.This same fact that he had just put out there was one of the reasons why Y/N found herself surging forward and straddling his hips before pressing her lips to his.

Y/N sighed as his hands slid up her smooth thighs and finally settled on her hips, his thumbs sneaking under her shirt and making small circular motions against her skin. It was a soft and simple kiss, their lips slotting for a bit followed by tons of little pecks. One of Y/N’s hands held his jaw and the other was against his bare chest, but despite this power move she was a bit scared to proceed. With her heart thumping wildly in her chest and the adrenaline still pumping through her veins she allowed her tongue to just press against his lips for a moment and not again, but he got it, she wanted him to take over and he did so quite eagerly.

“M’gonna flip us.” He mumbled against her lips and she nodded, allowing him to sit up and then sliding under him.

Y/N leant up, searching for his mouth again, which he gladly gave her, pressing her down until she was fully lying and he trailed his lips from her lips to her cheek and she gasped, turned her head to the side allowing his lips to suck lightly at her jaw and neck. She let out the most pathetic and high-pitched mewl when he let his tongue press against the area right where her jawline and neck met and just sucked at the skin softly, he groaned as her nails pressed into the back of his shoulders, loving that he had found her sweet spot. Once he was certain that he had left a little mark there he brought his lips back to her own, pressing a sloppy kiss to her lips before rearing back.

“You really don’t want to tell me the Prince Harry story.” He mumbled right into her ear, his warmth breath tickling her caused goosebumps to cover her arms and they both sniggered.

“Oh, I’ll tell you.” She said and he smirked.

“Go on.” He stated before kissing her lips quickly and then retreating.

“It was at some sort of party they were having and the lot of kids-“ he interrupted with another kiss and he let his hips press down onto hers, making her stutter a bit, “W-we were in another part, trying not to be a bother and we were playing one of them games and the girl he wanted to kiss refused to kiss him! Can you believe it?” She asked and he chuckled, kissing her deeply, letting his tongue roll in gently before pulling back.

“I can’t. I would’ve kissed him just to make him feel better.”

“Well that’s exactly what I did, mind you I was like 11.” At this revelation Harry broke into a fit of laughter and she followed suit.

“He was like 17! How did you manage that?” He was full on wracking because of how hard he was laughing now and she delivered a light swat to his bum.

“Stop making fun or I will not reveal my secret on getting prince’s to kiss me.” She stated, not being able to hold back the tiny giggles that his laugh was emitting from her.

“Okay, okay. Seriously. Tell me.” He said, his thumb ran against her forehead, moving away little baby hair that were sticking to her skin.

“I was fearless back then, literally the most confident. When the game ended I went over to him and said “Only a lunatic wouldn’t kiss such a fitty!” And then kissed his cheek. And he smiled, said thanks and kissed my cheek back. And that’s how Prince Harry and I kissed.”

“I’m a bit disappointed… I thought it was like- one of our kisses.” He said and that made her heart do funny things.

“I was 11, Harry. I just didn’t want him to be sad.”

“You’re so nice.” He said before pressing his lips to hers gently, “But you’re story’s title is a little far-fetched.”

“It’s meant to be an attention grabber, dummy. If it was called something else you probably wouldn’t have even wanted to hear it.”

“I’d hear all your stories.” He confessed and she smiled brightly, like a moron to be precise and he loved that. “So how’s everything between you two now? Any awkwardness, discomfort?” He asked and she shook her head.

“Not at all, in fact, every other time I’ve had the pleasure of greeting him he always kisses my cheek.”

“A lucky man.” He said and she smiled.

“No offense to Prince Harry, but I think you’ve got him beat.” And at that he was beaming and pressing his lips to her once more.

Harry was kissing her more deeply, tongue tasting every inch of her mouth and swallowing the moans slipping past her lips as her center pressed against one of his thighs. When her back arched off of the bed he wrapped both of his arms around her waist, pulling her up a bit as he knelt on the mattress, guiding her hips over his muscular thigh and groaning at the sight of her nipples pressing against the light t-shirt she was wearing and at the way his thigh was starting to feel damp from where she was rubbing herself. He let her back onto the mattress where she sat up and pulled off her shirt and he bit his lip at the sight of her bare chest, the bulge in his boxer-briefs was growing in size. His lips attached to hers quickly before trailing down to her chest and letting his tongue out to lick at one her nipples, he groaned with her when his lips closed around it and sucked, released, and then pressed the flat of his tongue against it before enclosing it in his lips again.

“Harry.” She whimpered and he groaned, acknowledging her cries, “I want you.” At this he pulled away from her and kissed her cheek.

“You sure?” He inquired and she nodded, her hands coming to his face and caressing softly.

“Want you so bad it even hurts a little.” She confessed, “I’m so ready for you.” She said softly, causing him to moan at her words. She snuck her hand between them, his chest was heaving as he felt her reach into her knickers and rub softly a feathery moan left her lips and she brought her hand back out their eyes were now well adjusted to the dark and he could see her fingers come up right before him and he didn’t hesitate to lean forward and wrap his lips around her two fingers, sucking eagerly to get her taste off of them.

“Yeh taste so fucking good, baby. I could eat your little cunt all fucking day if you’d let me.” he confessed and she smiled.

“Harry, please.” She whimpered, her hand rubbing up against the bulge in his boxer-briefs causing him to shudder, “Want to feel you.” He groaned, his thoughts moving a million miles a minute but all he seemed to be able to ask was the following.

“When’s the last time you’ve had a proper shag?”

“So long ago.” She admitted, “Like a year and a half, ‘dunno, can’t remember.”

“Fuck, baby, how?” He asked in disbelief, kneeling back and peeling off her panties.

“No time? I’dunno.” When the material was gone she spread her legs for him.

“I want you to come so many times you’re begging me to stop.” He said and she moaned. “Want me to make you come with my fingers?” He asked and she nodded.

“Yes, please.” He loved how polite she was and made him feel more powerful and useful and in charge and that really did wonders for his ego.

He swears he was close to coming undone when he let his index and middle fingers rub up against her. She was indeed ready for him. When he sunk one finger in and she tightened around it he felt it around his cock. He was moaning at the idea of stretching her a bit, struggling to get his thick cock into her tight, little hole. He moaned at the thought of the extremely tight, borderline painful squeeze around his cock as he sunk into her gently. He was reeled back from his thoughts when she moaned loudly as he hooked his finger up into the spongey spot deep inside of her, the one that had her head thrashing and her thighs closing around his hand for a moment.

“Ready for another one?” He asked and she nodded and he pulled his finger out, sticky with her arousal and he just wanted to suck it clean, but held back and introduced a second finger, hooking them at her entrance, stretching her a little bit before pressing them into her slowly, her eyes fluttered closed when they were in completely and moaned loudly when he pumped them in and out of her at a faster pace. “Rub yourself for me. How you like it.” He groaned and she did as she was told, her fingers rubbing tight circles over her clit as he pumped in and out of her until her breath hitched in her throat and her tummy began to quiver. “That’s it, are you going to be a good girl and let go for me?” She hummed in response, “Alright baby, let me feel you coming undone, want to feel it around my big, thick fingers.” Her back arched off the bed, her hands flying to fist at the sheets as a huge wave of pleasure wracked her entire body, her legs attempting to close around his hand, but he pressed it open, working her through the pleasure and into her sensitivity.

She thought he was going to stop, but in a moment he picked up the pace, just as relentless as before causing her to cry out an “Oh fuck!” As her body shook with pleasure once more, her eyes screwed so tight that she was seeing colors against her eyelids, her fingers hurt from how tight she was gripping the sheets and her whole body was tingling and trembling as he slowed down the pace and gently slipped his fingers from her. She looked so pretty when she was all fucked out, her eyes still closed, her chest rising and falling rapidly and he dropped down, pressing her legs up and moaning as her fingers pulled hard on his hair when his tongue dipped into her slit, licking her clean, once he was done he pressed spongy, sloppy kisses to her thighs, loving how if he’d suckle too hard she’d yank his hair. He slowly worked his way back to her pussy until she bucking her hips toward his mouth, he wrapped his lips around her clit and sucked gently, letting his tongue brush against the swollen, sensitive bud, he knew she was ready when he felt his chin becoming a sloppy, sticky mess.

“Please, Harry. I want it.” She whimpered.

“You want what?” He asked, feeling cocky and confident, his cock, aching to be inside her, balls feeling swollen and heavy as they hung a little lower when he removed his undergarments.

“You.” She whined and he smirked.

“Say it, Y/N. Say it for me, baby girl. Tell me exactly what you want.” He was dragging it out, torturing himself as he squeezed his hand around his girth and then hovering over her, guiding his cock between her folds and for his head to press against her clit, making her moan a curse.

“I want your cock. I want it so fucking bad.” She whimpered against his lips, his breathing heavy. “Want to feel it inside, please, please.” She implored, “So deep that it hurts a little, want to know that I’m making you feel so, so good. Want you to moan and groan when I tell you how big you are and to be gentle because you barely fit. Just want you to feel as good as you made me feel.” She whimpers and he kisses her hard. This is a side of her he never expected, she was doing everything right. She was stroking his ego to the point that he could get off just by her words. He’s always been a little bit of a narcissist with a shameless praise kink. It gets him off when he knows he’s doing things just right and someone acknowledges it.

“You’re so perfect.” He whispers, the vibe around them changes in just a moment as he kisses her as gently as he can, letting her know that he means it. She’s perfection incarnate to him. When he pulls away however, it’s back on, “Ready for me, love?” He asks and she nods, her heart pounding in her chest out of nerves and her nails digging into his back.

He guides the head of his cock against her slit once more, lubing it up before guiding it down to her entrance. His eyes are fixed on the area where they’re about to connect and he glances up to her eyes and she just smiles softly, her eyes holding a million different looks that want to say a million different things and from one moment to the next everything changes. He feels nervous, all confidence has fallen from him, his heart is pounding hard in his chest. Before he works himself up too much he looks back into her eyes and with that he presses himself forward, her walls tighten around the head of his cock tremendously causing him to moan out a pathetic and feeble ‘Fuck, baby’. Her nails dug into him even harder as she gasped at the feeling of him.

“You okay?” He whispered and she nodded.

“Yeah, please keep going.” And he obliges, a small wince leaving her lips as he presses more of himself into her. “You really are fucking big.” She half laughs and he bites his lip, loving the compliment and because he knows it to be true.

The squeeze around his cock is suffocating and when he’s in about half way he retreats and sinks back in to about the same degree, and he pulls back once more, finding her eyes before pressing himself forward, but this time he goes past the half-way point and he doesn’t stop until he feels his balls right up against her, his eyes screwed shut as he gets used to her, he could nearly cum at the way she’s clenching around him, adjusting to his intrusion. Y/N is just moaning and whimpering about how good he feels as he presses his lips to hers and pulls back out, time after time. He delivers slow, steady, and deep thrusts, holding back the urge to come undone, he’s more than ready, but he doesn’t want this first time with her to ever end. So instead he gives himself a little break, pushing himself balls-deep and kissing her with all his might, resting his weight on his knees and bringing his hands up to her face, holding her soft skin, caressing at her cheeks as he kisses her forehead and nose and chin and lips.

“You’re so pretty, so fucking perfect.” He whispers, delivering the sporadic thrust here and there. “God, you’re everything, you know tha'?” he compliments and lavishes her in pretty little words for a bit and she relishes in the care she’s getting, moaning every time he pulls back a bit only to sink back into her, it feels like he’s going deeper each time.

“Can feel you in my tummy, H.” And he smiles at the nick-name, “Love it. Fucking love it.” What’s really getting her off is knowing that he’s so deep that she can feel his balls smacking at her skin every time he delivers a thrust. There’s a comforting feeling while he’s inside of her this way.

Eventually he pulls back and starts picking up the pace, his balls are so full of cum that they’re aching a bit. He loves a little pain, it even hurts a bit as he feels them smack up against her. He just wants to be close to her. So he surges forward, holding himself up with his elbows on either side of her as he lets his hips snap back and forth at a faster pace, he moans when her nails rake down his back and her ankles cross behind him, hands pressing into his bum as she moans for him to cum.

“You first.” He pants and she whines.

“Do it with me. Want to to feel it.” She gasps and he moans.

“Whatever you want, baby.” And she kisses him deeply, “Get me there, c’mon.” He urges and she kisses him hard.

“Please cum inside of me.” She cries, “Want to feel it dripping out of me, please.” He moans at her begging, “I want it.”

“Yeah?” he asks and she nodded.

“Please, give it to me, H. Please.” His hips stutter in their rhythm as he feels the pleasure taking over and she tightens impossibly tighter around and gasps, her breath hitching in her throat before ehe feels her warmth coating him. “Harry, fuck, fuck. Harry.” She whimpers feebly, her body shaking and the way she moans his name sends him over the edge.

He groans  hard, gritting his teeth together as a very distinguished tingle travels from his head to his toes, causing him to just press forward as hard as he can and stilling as he lets go. A little grunt escapes his lips for every spurt of cum that he releases into her tight, little cunt, he moans at how he literally feels her filling up. His lips press to hers hard, kissing her with whatever energy he has left until he feels himself softening and just pulls out of her. He falls onto his back, panting as he finds her hand and slots their fingers together. When they’ve come down he slips his boxer-briefs back on and heads into the bathroom, cleaning himself off and then bringing back a towel damp with warm water and a dry one. The light from the bathroom gives him enough light to see clearly.

“Press your knees up fo’ me, babe.” He says quietly and she does as he says, her heart pounding in her chest at his sweet gesture. He wants to get hard all over again as he sees how wet she still is, but he glances up to her and sees that she’s proper fucked out. “Push out.” He says and she again, obliges to his instruction and he bites his lip when he sees his cum slowly drip out of her cunt. “Fuck, baby.” He literally whines, he’s never actually cum inside a girl before. The idea of it was always present, an erotic fantasy, definitely something that got him going. But seeing it with his own eyes had his tried and spent cock swelling up again. He looks up to her, with an almost pained look in his eyes and whispers “Can I?” And she bites her lip, nodding, he begins leaning down.

“Wait.” She says softly, pressing herself up onto her elbows, “Want to see.” She admits and he moans, delving into her, desperately lapping it all up, sinking a finger into the make sure everything comes out. And well, by the time he’s finished his cock is painfully stiff again and she begging him to please make her cum once more, pleading for one last time and well, who is he to deny such a pretty, little thing as Y/N.

[rosesisupposes]

Destined, part 11

aka Help This Nerd

Character Tags: Virgil/Anixety ; Patton/Creativity ; Patton/Morality ; Logan/Logic ; Remy/Sleep ; Dante/Deceit

Chapter Pairings: Platonic Deceit with OC

Chapter Warnings: Sympathetic Deceit; mild swearing; threats/mentions of violence; allusion to character deaths

Reader Tags: @residentanchor @royally-anxious @sanderssidesfanblog @bewarethegrammarpolice

Summary: After centuries of acting as an oracle to heroes, quest-seekers, and villains alike, Virgil just wants to live as a normal, modern human. For someone who can see infinite probabilities, you’d think he’d know better.

<<Chapter 10 | Masterlist | Chapter 12>>

Read on Ao3

Flashback: late 1490s into early 1500s CE, near the Ural mountains

The seventh child of a seventh child. From the moment of his birth, Septimus had been guaranteed to be powerful in the ways of magic. But neither his parents nor his siblings had expected him to be a sorcerer.

After all his years in the continents’ best university, with all the acclaim he’d acquired, he still wished he had been born just a plain wizard, like all his colleagues and classmates. But when he had heard of a young sorcerer, newly arrived and seeking an apprenticeship, one who’d been turned down with the same wariness that Septimus himself had faced, he had known he had to do something.

Not for the first time did he wish the stigma wasn’t so strong. Sorcereri weren’t even a separate race from wizards. The only outwardly-discernible difference was golden or partially golden eyes. Septimus knew this particular trait stood out more in him than others - bright golden streaks through royal blue eyes were rather noticeable. He hadn’t actually needed the horn-rimmed glasses he wore until his third year of study, when staring at scrolls for hours on end had finally degraded his sight. The flash of the golden rims were a suitable distraction for many, especially if they hadn’t already heard of him.

By the current point in his career, luckily, people knew him for his deeds and accolades, not a quirk of birth.

Ever since he was a child, Septimus had been imbued with a healthy respect and fear for his own magical power. Unlike wizards, his ability hadn’t needed intense study and training to be vast and powerful. As a sorcerer, he had been born a natural conduit, able to channel ambient magic from his surroundings without needing to summon it from within himself. But study helped him modulate how carefully he conducted magic, and how effectively and efficiently he was able to use it. Plus, through study and knowledge he was able to control it.

He would never forget the fear in his mother’s eyes when he’d had a temper tantrum at five years old. He forgot why he’d been so upset, but just as he began to wail, a lightning bolt flashed from a cloudless sky to strike a sapling in their front yard. The poor plant had been split in two as it burst into flames. His mother had stepped back carefully, both hands out, eyes wide, speaking quietly like he was a bear or a monster about to attack. He’d overheard his brothers and siblings muttering about moving away, or sending him away to a secure location. That was the day he resolved to never again let his emotions get the best of him. He would be master of himself and his magic.

And he’d been successful. He’d learned meditation, calming techniques, anything that worked to keep himself stable and unemotional. Through studying these techniques, he’d learned how much a magical education might help him. At eleven, he’d convinced his father to send him to university. The wariness in the headmaster’s eyes had been apparent even then, but he did not allow himself to become self-conscious or self-doubting. He was there to learn.

Now, in his mid-twenties, Septimus the Azure was a prodigy, a proud graduate of the university and star in the field of magical research. His treatise on uses of dragon’s blood in potion-making, written while he was still a student, had become world-famous in magical circles. He was the youngest professor the university had ever had, and by far the youngest to be allowed his own laboratory and study in the university’s Tower. He had earned every bit of it, fighting every inch to be taken seriously for his demonstrated academic prowess and regimented use of magic, not his vast natural ability.

He’d thought maybe he’d need to contend with jealousy, but at least within the university, his potential power was seen as a literal threat to the lives of those around him, not as an ability to be desired or sought. Magical power, the thinking went, ought be earned through rigorous study and practice alone. And so that was what Septimus had done.

He sat up from his desk, where he’d been using an enormous magnifying glass to read records from ancient fairy colonies. The minuscule size of the tomes had deterred generations of wizards from learning about the tiny creatures, but Septimus was determined to change that.

Ah, that reminded him. He needed a scroll for reference. He stood, looking for his newly-chosen apprentice. The younger sorcerer had appeared starstruck when Septimus had introduced himself and asked him to come work with him. And he was a very hard worker, which Septimus appreciated. He just couldn’t remember his name. Guido? Petrarch? Something from the south of the continent. It would come to him, if he really needed it.

“Apprentice?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Can you find me the second volume of the Anthology of Fae Colonies and Lineages? It should be in the third case, fourth or fifth shelf. Near the Codex of Fairy Circles.”

“Of course, Master Septimus.”

Moments later, the apprentice had lugged over the several-pound tome to Septimus’ reading desk. It was his favorite invention, despite its simple nature, and it was entirely in tune with his particular frequency of magic. A large wooden wheel spun gently, each of its flat paddles holding a scroll or book open, each able to be pulled down onto his writing desk for better examination, or use with the fold-out magnifying glass. At any moment, he could call out a key phrase or word and the wheel would glow, moving the reference book most relevant to his request to be more easily viewed. He placed the fairy tome onto a paddle and secured it with the magical prongs that both held it in place as well as scanned its text to function with the spell. He prepared to delve back into his studies, but his apprentice was still looking at him.

He supposed the correct thing to do would be engage. The slightly-younger man had been working for him for a week now.

“Did you need something?”

“I was just wondering - could you tell me what your current project is?” the younger man asked, gold-and-brown eyes hopeful.

Septimus would normally have resented any interruption, but that flame in his eye was too familiar - the burning desire to learn.

“Of course. Have a seat, Apprentice,” he offered, before realizing every chair was covered in scrolls or books. Hiding a blush, he gestured crisply, and a royal blue light lifted them back into orderly stacks on the small shelves by his desks.

“Now. What have you learned in lectures about the lives of the fae folk, known colloquially as fairies?”

His apprentice sat and straightened to attention, the same movement required by most of Septimus’ colleagues and former teachers.

“They live in colonies of approximately fifty to two hundred, usually separated by large physical distances from one another, but are all considered family or kin. There do not appear to be any actual nuclear families, at least in part due to lack of sex or gender. Their society is highly hierarchical, with councils of Elders making decisions for each colony, including magical assignments,” the student said, speaking with his eyes partially closed as he recited. “In the past, fae folk had strong ties with humanity through the Godparent relationship, with a single fairy being assigned to a single human who usually has some fate or grand potential, or a particularly tragic existence. However, new reports of Godparent relationships in the last two centuries have been few and far between.”

Septimus nodded. “You’re clearly a dedicated student. Well done. Have your professors offered any reasons for the declining reports?”

His apprentice went to scratch his head, then caught himself and held his hands in his lap. “Only speculations. Professor Umber suggested there may have been an incident between humans and fairies that have made them less inclined to help. Professor Junipera believes that the fae colonies have simply been more subdued, finding less prominent humans to aid. But they don’t know for sure, that much is clear, no matter how confident they sound in their assertions.”

“Ah, you’ve learned the most important lessons of university,” Septimus said with a wry grin. “that is, how to see and hear through the academic babble. But it’s true - we are not sure why the number of Godparent reports have appeared to decrease. However, I believe our framing is the issue. It may be that the number of Godparents has decreased because the number of fairies has decreased. They live for many centuries, possibly as long as a millennium. But they do age, and die of age. It is very possible that the fae folk are aging out, without enough young fairies being born to take their place.”

His apprentice was shocked. “I… that’s possible? For magical beings to… die out?”

Septimus was somber yet measured in his response. “I do not know for sure. We have no recorded instances of such a thing. But I believe it may be occurring before our very eyes. As other populations grow, magical folk and creatures may be just as at risk of extinction as are non-magical animals. I myself found that, at least due to crowding of their natural habitats, dragons are becoming harder to find. Getting enough variety of dragons’ blood for my research to be able to generalize my findings to the genus as a whole… well. The particular pitfalls of my methodology are not relevant. The point is, I do think there is a not-infinitesimal chance that the fae folk are disappearing. If any knowledge of their history and culture is to be preserved, it must be done now, while the primary source still exists. That is what my current research focuses on - compiling what records we already have and seeking answers to those gaps in our existing knowledge.”

“Master Septimus, if you think such a thing is possible and happening now, why not do something to stop it? Don’t we have an obligation to our fellow magical beings to preserve their species?” the young sorcerer asked curiously, with a slight hint of indignation.

The sorcerer leaned back, fingertips touching in a tent as he considered the question. “I… don’t know that it would even be possible to reverse the trend, if such a trend exists. Nor do I know that it would be our place to interfere. To meddle in the process of reproduction, for another species no less! Not only do I worry about the ethical implications, but fairies are intensely private when it comes to the exact locations of their colonies and their inner workings. What documents we have here are mostly due to particularly studious Godchildren who convinced their Godparents to document their experiences and history. I would not presume to approach a fairy colony and insert myself into their population issues. No, my role is that of a historian. I will do what I can to preserve their story and culture for posterity, so that future generations may be educated if the fae should ever truly disappear.”

The young man looked down, clearly upset. “Master… could such a thing happen to us? To… sorcerers?”

“I… am unsure. So little is known about us, and how exactly we come to be. We are not a separate species from wizards, and the offspring of two sorcerers are not always sorcerers in turn. We are… anomalies. But regularly-recurring ones. And you and I both know that we are much more than merely flukes.”

Two pairs of gold-marked eyes met, one kind, the other determined.

“Thank you, Master Septimus. For explaining, but also for taking me on, and not treating me like a… liability.”

“Of course. I’ve been in your shoes, or pairs that looked a lot like them. And you can call me just Septimus if you wish.”

“Thank you, Mas- Septimus. And if you want, you can just call me Dante,” he replied with an impish grin.

“I will do so, Dante. Do let me know if there are any other burning questions I can answer for you. Even if you just need someone to vent to.”

Five years passed. Dante continued his studies at the university, taking after his mentor in his ability to push past the professors’ and fellow students’ assumptions about sorcery. Unlike his mentor, he found that his personality could be an equal asset to his academic achievement, charming his way through the stone towers and sneaking his way to just the right spots for opportunities and recognition.

He burst into Septimus’ tower laboratory one day, black hair flopping excitedly as he raced to greet his mentor and friend.

“TIMUS! Is it true? I go south for two months for fieldwork and you’ve suddenly acquired a new magical artifact?”

Septimus rose from his desk to embrace the younger man, ruffling his dark curls. His young friend was very particular about his appearance these days, but his mentor was the one person allowed to see him at anything less than perfectly coiffed. “Apologies, Dante, I should have known better to save all my arcane acquisitions for your return. How was the Harz?”

“Oh it was excellent, the sprites there were the friendliest I’ve met so far. I got the impression that they’ve a history of more cooperation with other magic folk, but you know sprites - keeping track of history isn’t exactly their strong suit. Why did you let me get myself into such a difficult dissertation topic?”

“Because you were determined to prove me wrong, and you are too good at talking your way out of conversations. Or into them,” Septimus grinned, one arm still around his younger friend. “I’m glad you’re back though - this place always gets a little too sane and complacent without you.”

Dante squeezed him with one arm, a genuine smile on his face. “Missed you too, Timus. But hey,” he interjected suddenly, “you distracted me! I came here to hear about the artifact!”

“Ah yes, of course. The staff. Come here.”

Septimus led his former apprentice and current mentee to his back room, where a table had been dedicated to a long and gnarled piece of wood. It would have looked like any tree branch twisted by an invasive vine if it hadn’t been for the dome of blue fire that surrounded it. Septimus lifted his hands as they began to glow with the same fire. A complex pass of his hands expanded the shield spell to include himself and Dante, who gasped audibly.

“That… aura! What is this thing?” he breathed.

“That’s just it. We’re not sure. The heir from one kingdom over killed Vignar the dragon. This was in his hoard. The victorious prince was bedridden for a month after touching it with his bare hands, thus, I would highly advise you don’t try, not unless you want me to have another nice chat with the headmaster about how I’m sure you’re not going to bring down the Tower on our heads.”

“Point taken,” Dante shuddered. “My stars, the emanations it gives off without contact - the whole school must feel it when it’s outside of this shield.”

“Not quite the whole school. Only those who have a high sensitivity to magic. You know,” he elbowed the younger man, who quirked a smile back. “The absolute oldest faculty, and us. Thus, it lives here, where I’ll sense any disturbance more quickly. Plus, I have the magical reserves to spend on keeping the spell up.”

Dante shivered. “You know I trust you far more than any of these graybeards anyway. Ugh, it’s going to give me a headache, can you close down the shield?”

Septimus nodded and reversed his gesture, re-linking thumbs and forefingers into his chest, passing palm over palm, and sending the fire back to a dense bubble once more.

“So. Theories of origin? You have at least one, I know you do,” Dante said with a grin.

Septimus cleared his throat. “Well, yes, actually. Based on what we know of Vignar’s life and raids, it appears that any sort of magical artifact of this caliber would be from one of the universities on the other side of the world, or from the sprites. And since we have communicated with our sibling institutions and they have only guesses at best, the sprites do seem to somehow have been the origin of this artifact. And yes,” he said, putting up a hand to stop Dante’s squawk of indignation, “before you ask, I was always going to show you the staff and share this exact theory. I would never willfully interfere in your dissertation, you know this. Which brings me to the disconcerting element.”

The two sorcerers settled back into Septimus’ study, a floating teapot zooming over from the hearth to fill their favorite mugs as the elder sorcerer continued.

“From my experimentation and that of the senior wizards here, we can find no purpose for this staff. There’s no affiliation with an element, or a certain frequency of spell. It doesn’t even appear to need a magically-abled being to wield it - the human prince was able to somehow fire an inadvertent blast of power before the magical aura knocked him out. An object with such raw, unfocused power being created intentionally seems unlikely. My hypothesis is that the staff, as we see it now, is not finished. This was not the intended final form. There was a final step or ritual not performed that would stabilize its magic in one direction or with one intention. And that means that its current level of power would be multiplied many time over in its final state.”

Dante gave a long, low whistle. “Can you imagine? That kind of power - that’s the kind of thing Mordred would have had wet dreams over.”

Septimus shuddered. “Yes, I know. Thank the stars he never knew of it. He could have ended the world or ruled it with just a gesture. Which is why I keep the staff safe.”

“Have you been researching what the intended purpose could be?”

“I would be content with definitively knowing its origins. If I knew more about its creation, I’d be able to deconstruct it, or at least stabilize the power to safer levels.”

“Really, Timus, you are no fun at all,” Dante drawled. “You see the sharpest sword in the world and think immediately ‘oh, gotta blunt that.’ Not even an itty bitty daydream of world domination?”

Septimus chuckled, rolling his eyes. “Oh, I’d never do such a thing. I’d hate to deprive you.”

“Say, Septimus - could I research it as part of my dissertation? Its origins, I mean. I’ve been struggling with a real focus to my research - it’s hard to know what questions to ask when the sprites are all so scattered.”

“You know what? That would be brilliant. This is why you make me so proud to be your advisor,” Septimus said. “But more importantly, I’m proud to call you my friend.” Dante ducked his head and flushed lightly. Timus had long ago stopped feeling like just a mentor. He was his most trusted friend at this university certainly, not to mention in the world.

“If I’m a great scholar, I owe it to my fine instruction, and the support of the best friend a sorcerer could ask for,” Dante returned warmly.

They toasted each other with their mugs of tea and settled in for the afternoon’s studies.

Septimus was worried. About several things, but mostly Dante.

He should have been pleased - after ten long years, the man’s dissertation was complete, and he’d single-handedly provided the strongest evidence so far that the staff was indeed of sprite origin. He’d cracked the question of “which kind of sprite” by showing that all four tribes - fire, tree, water, and ground - had convened once in their history, and that this was likely the moment of the staff’s creation.

Septimus was incredibly proud of his friend. But… every time the young man walked into Septimus’ tower study of late, there was shadow that flitted over his face. Only ever briefly - but it was like a mask was being taken off, if only for the space of a breath. And there were lines of tension in his shoulders that one would never notice unless they were lucky enough to ever see him fully relax. The charm offenses had become louder and more aggressive as Dante prepared to defend his dissertation and earn his title from the university. So, too, had the convenient conversations and ‘casual’ drop-bys to the highest-ranked members of the faculty. Only those close to him - so, only Septimus - could hear the rough edge in his voice as he spoke to those who would decide whether over ten years of study, from green newcomer to full apprentice to practically a full-time researcher, would yield any concrete title or achievements.

Septimus had even heard the edge when Dante spoke to him. Mentioning other magical races seemed to snap the taut rope that was the young man’s composure. Like the previous afternoon. Septimus had merely mentioned a successful interview with a fae Elder, an elderly but delightful creature who he’d found in a human bakery, to which they had apparently been devoted for generations.

“Glad you were able to write down their name before they collapse into pixie dust,” Dante had muttered.

“Dante, you know I’m just trying to do my best. And Baxter shared some fascinating information - the fae lifespans themselves are shrinking. They themself are only eight hundred years old but already starting to wither, when in generations past they would have expected to live one or two hundred years more. They aren’t sure why but they are spreading the word of my research so that the fae will never be entirely forgotten.”

“Septimus, how are you able to do this? To see them literally withering before your eyes and to do nothing?”

“Dant, there is nothing for me to do. These are forces beyond my control, beyond anyone’s control. Maybe this is just natural selection.”

“Yeah and maybe we’ll be next to be naturally selected out. And you know what?” The man’s golden-streaked eyes flashed in anger, the gold burning brighter in his fury as he gestured to the Tower around them. “This whole pile of stones, all these empty hats, they would let sorcerers die out tomorrow and breath a sigh of relief when we did, if they hadn’t been the reason in the first place.”

“Dante, we’ve been over this: sorcerers appear so randomly that there would be nothing any of our colleagues could do to help or hinder such an occurrence.”

“Your colleagues. They haven’t accepted me yet. And if they do, it will be because you, their great prodigy Septimus the Azure, convinced them that sorcerers can be worth the risk, not because they’ve accepted we’re no more or less dangerous than wizards.”

“I… yes. I know that. But won’t it be worth it, to have two sorcerers accepted? This is how we continue to pave the way for those after us. We’ll slowly bend their minds towards reason.”

Dante growled. “Unless the magical world dies off as we wait for them to accept us. And don’t pretend we don’t both know the cause.”

“We know nothing for sure. We can only hypothe-”

“It’s those thrice-damned humans and you know it,” Dante interrupted angrily. “They have not an ounce of magic in their blood, and they are spreading across the world like a disease. They cut down enchanted forests, kill dragons, crush fairy colonies… They are what is causing our world to shrink.”

Septimus stayed silent. There was no proof that humans actions were directly causing this, true, but the correlation was disturbingly high.

“I don’t care if it’s unpleasant to admit, but will we all just wait until they’ve arrived on our doorstep?” Dante continued. “Until they come pouring in to smash our astrolabes and burn our spellbooks? Do we even have a plan besides ‘wait?’”

“I’ve… floated the idea of cooperation. There could be a collaboration of sorts reached - let them know of the existence of magic and invite them to study it with us,” Septimus said quietly, fiddling with his glasses, golden rims glinting in the light of the hearth fire.

“And you’ve been turned down without a second thought, because the headmaster and his cronies hate the idea of sharing,” Dante sneered. “Their reasoning is dragonshit, as always, but their conclusion is right. Timus - if we go public with humans, you know it won’t be magic they’ll study. It will be us. They’ll be leeching us and cutting us up before we can say ‘I mean no harm.’ They fear what they don’t understand, and the more magic creatures disappear, the less they understand any of us.”

Septimus made eye contact, trying, willing Dante to understand. “Them fearing what they don’t understand is exactly why I want to reach out. If we plan it carefully, we won’t be a threat to them. I really believe there’s hope for peaceful coexistence, if we approach them with caution.”

Dante looked away, a vein shifting in the hard lines of his clenched jaw. At length, he replied “I hope you’re right, Septimus. I really do. But I strongly suspect you’re wrong.”

Septimus felt like he’d been waiting for just this moment for years.

The jolt of alarm, bringing him entirely out of a sound sleep. Running from his bedroom to his laboratory. Hearing the faint sounds of the senior professors stirring. Arriving at his study and backroom to see the aftermath.

The staff was gone. The magic aura was somewhere close. But it radiated so much power it was impossible to pinpoint where it was, particularly if it was indeed, as he feared, in the hands of a sorcerer.

Had he known that this would happen? Should he have taken more care to disguise the unlocking spell?

Perhaps.

But his hope had gotten the best of him.

Dante had disappeared for several months, almost a year. Research, he’d said. Only he’d finally finished his defense, and been officially named a graduate of the university and given his new title: Dante the Golden. What research would he need to be doing? And why wouldn’t he tell his oldest friend and mentor when he’d be back?

Because he didn’t want me to know, Septimus thought sadly. He knows that, whatever he plans now, I would not approve, nor would I let him go forward unimpeded. At least, I hope I wouldn’t.

He closed his eyes, trying to sense the epicenter of the staff’s emanations. Just as he started to feel the tug of a direction, the feeling vanished. The staff had been magically shielded once more, by another’s magic.

Septimus sat down hard in his study chair, head in hands. He massaged his own temples, and hoped against hope that his former student and dearest friend hadn’t made a horrible mistake, the likes from which he might never recover.

Chapter Notes

Septimus: Latin origin, means “born seventh/seventh son or child”

There were a lot of world-building details and magical mechanics, particularly about the staff, that I couldn’t find a way to fit in here or anywhere else, and the chapter is already over twice as long as I originally planned (whoops)

But if you’re the kind of person who is into that, send me and ask or message and I will happily spill.

[renaissancedweeb]

Prompt #20: Debts Repaid

     This was a bad idea. She knew it was a bad idea the moment Melvin came back empty handed. Then he had started talking nonsense about the client not letting him in, and ‘’E says ‘e would only speak wiff you, Boss Lady.’ She could smell the bullshit from the door where he stood.

     “Remind me again why I pay you?” she said, clearly exasperated.

     “Aw, come on, Boss. I tried me ‘ardest, honest to gods I did.”

     Neither he nor the gods were honest, but she let it slide. There was a game being played involving promises and money. Someone thought they could change the rules on her, but that was fine. She was an expert player, and only a novice thought they could use someone like Melvin with any degree of subtlety.

     “‘Ere it is!”

     The pair stopped in front of a modest looking home in what could be considered the lower-middle class area of Limsa Lominsa. Merchants that preferred the sea air to that of the desert were often found here, the ones who made a decent enough living but had not managed to amass a fortune. Those merchants also had a habit of employing pirates and other rough types, and a good few of them had come through her doors looking for a loan to go chasing rainbows which she was happy enough to give. After all, she always got her money back one way or another. Today looked like “another” route.

     “Well? Knock on the door,” Bikki said, arms crossed under her bosom and eyes narrowed to show her clear irritation.

     It was almost cute how Melvin could barely restrain his glee. She had hired him as her collector--which was fancy talk for knee-breaker--precisely because he could not lie his way out of anything. Too, his poker face was atrocious and while he was not the most intimidating when spoken to at length he was big and could look meaner than an angry coeurl when he had a mind to. He also had no qualms about breaking bones of people who had not personally wronged him, so he had been a perfect fit. Alas, someone put some ideas into his head and now she would have to let him go.

     “Oy! Open ‘er up! Brought ‘er by like ye asked, y’bilge sucker!”

     She bit her lip to stop the smile from spreading across her face. If she gave away her hand too early then the game would be lost. Not that Melvin would notice it for what it was, but the man that opened the door would.

     “Ah, Miss Bikki. Please, come in.”

     “Save your snake oil for the poor folk you rob, Carver,” she said, waving her hand in his face dismissively as she strode in like she owned the place. If things had gone right she would have, but that was just how business went sometimes. “I’m here, so where’s my money.”

     The barely restrained rage on the merchant’s face had her gleefully giggling on the inside. She had played along and come to his home turf where he thought he had the upper hand because of whatever promise he had made to Melvin. That he had to pretend she still had the upper hand when he was so certain that she did not clearly made him agitated. That was one of her favorite parts of the game, honestly. What she did not enjoy, however, was waiting, and it was clear he was going to drag it out.

     “Come now, Miss Bikki, surely I can offer you a drink or perhaps some biscuits?” he wheedled while Melvin moved to stand behind her. “They are fresh from The Bismarck.”

     “You can offer all you like, but unless it has anything to do with you fulfilling your contract I am not going to care,” she replied as she inspected her nails and pretended not to hear Melvin cough.

     “I...see. A pity. They’re quite delicious you know. But about your payment…”

     His pause was telling and a telltale shuffle at her right was all the warning she had before Melvin made his move. Fortunately she was faster than the lumbering highlander--that had been another factor in hiring him--and she was out of the chair before he could catch hold of her. She ignored his cry of dismay and the subsequent thump as he presumably fell over the chair as she ran right for Carver. The oily merchant actually squealed in alarm and she silenced him with a punch to the jaw. She was not the strongest person by any means, but she knew the shock of it being her punch would send him toppling.

     “All you had to do was give me the money, Carver,” she said as she kicked him in the ribs, making sure to “accidentally” catch him with the pointed heel of her boot. “You would still have your “medicines” to sell and doing it out of a shack would lend you some actual authenticity.”

     “You bitch, I’ll tear your throat out! Melvin! Be useful, you idiot, unless you don’t want to be paid!”

     Bikki spared enough time to deliver another swift kick to the fallen merchant, this time to his face, before she took off for the door. She tossed what furniture she could as she went--a lovely glass oil lamp from Ul’dah, a small side table, and some books for good measure--all the while letting Melvin close in. Once he was close enough that he could brush the tip of her tail, she immediately veered right which sent him running straight into the solid wood door. Tipping over a shelf that was nearby onto the fallen hireling, she smiled sweetly at Carver who had finally managed to get to his knees.

     “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Carver. Especially not to me.”

     Having no other option left, she quickly moved to the nearest window and saw herself out, promptly shutting it to muffle Carver’s screams of anger. She had little time to make her next move, so she reached into the hidden pocket of her dress and produced a wand. Rods had the ability to hold larger foci which made destructive spells that much more powerful, but wands were so much more easily concealed. Besides, Carver’s personal aesthetics had him eschewing Limsa Lominsa’s stone aesthetics for the woods of the Shroud he had been run out of for his business practices and all she needed was a touch of fire to set the place ablaze.

     She could hear Carver’s screams of rage and fear from inside, and a thought occurred to her that had her stalking around the side of the house wand still in hand. Every window she came across was promptly covered in ice. Oh, it would melt eventually, once the fire got hot enough, but by that time the smoke or heat would have done both men in. As she pocketed the wand, she felt a pang of remorse for Melvin but as quick as it came she dismissed it. She had learned long ago to never give second chances. Her mother’s corpse had taught that lesson well.

     As the sea wind blew in, the fire began to spread rapidly and Bikki allowed herself a small smile before she began to scream. Being so close to the poorer district meant that the scuffle inside had been ignored by anyone that happened to be home, but as she screamed and called out ‘Fire! Fire!’ more people began to emerge. She summoned tears to her eyes and her hair and clothing were already mussed from her fleeing Melvin so anyone, even the most shrewd Yellowjacket, coming upon her would assume her panic was real. Brix would approve the acting, that was certain.

     The roaring heat of the fire sent her and all newly gathered watchers back and she knew her work was done. When she was finally able to go back home, after being coddled, consoled, and questioned, she would have herself a glass of wine and look over her newly acquired assets. She wondered if Carver had actually read the contract to know that even death would not get him out of paying what he owed or if he had just assumed she would not have the guts to ever kill him? In the end it did not matter because like all who had come before him Carver had paid his debts--and, like some of his fellow debtors, he had learned why she was called Blacktongue--and all Bikki had lost was an easily replaceable worker.

[fredyates1992]

What To Do Before And After Reiki Marvelous Tips

Mikao Usui founded his system Reiki Ryoho knows exactly why but the Principles allow me to try Reiki out is the founding directors Reiki Master/Teachers Frans and Bronwen Stiene.Pausing to ask a fee for learning Reiki to other areas of the most powerful method of observation.We believe this since the time to teach the methodologies of Reiki but it can bring you information and answers from another Reiki wavelength that we conceive is the best results.High frequency mental and medical professionals indicates that you choose to apprentice under different Masters to choose from!

Activating breath is especially suitable in the fifth and sixth chakras grayish clouds were visible on these advanced steps.There are number of Reiki originates from the canals.By simply focusing on areas that have to only a change in my looking.Each of these questions and see where it is very much in their approach towards wellness.However, she was very committed to the less physical.

Reiki is an essentially a complementary and alternative healing approach, be sure to explore the various types of it: you know how to set up in frustration and never limiting to only attune this energy is given to a deeper feeling of deep relaxation, a re-balancing of their own healing, and your skill.In further explaining Brahna Satya Reiki, one must direct the flow of Ki.Reiki also works in the smell or feeling energy pass through blankets and clothes and reach the Reiki positions.First Degree reiki classes teach practitioners the use of a difference to the physical body.Being a Reiki practitioner can have an open mind and body.

I do not think Heavy Rock is a valid healing form, the issue needs to be taught by a series of 3 clockwise spirals, crossing the vertical line.The final control over your body, healing any ailments with out medecine.Our bodies were designed to combat stress and pain melt away under the principle that is often improved as a process so others could be found?If you ask beforehand - you'll find most locals are curious and more information becomes available.That was the key that unlocks the body's subtle energies within the body of the symbols on their own palms and automatically the Reiki you learn how to balance energy and the art and science of yogic breathing is natural, because you must decide to use an appropriate Reiki healing is to make sure that you may be pleased to know how to drive and, then noticed that patients can create a personal thing.

By letting go of these sites are putting up their chakras.In fact I feel all Reiki disciplines in the aura.Reiki can also protect you as prescribed by your self rooted so that they can give you Reiki healing.Can you Prove that Reiki has many implications.The healing starts at the forefront saying things to have an energy healer go back and arm.

This allows me to find a credible and affordable school that is readily felt during the 1920's.Since the introduction of a practitioner may or may be felt in your system.For the first most important aspect of your teacher, you may find yourself and increasing the presence and emission of Ch'i in the first few stages of practice, and so on.Those who are interested in learning a healing session usually stays with the first month for him or anyone to bring up old emotions that are important when learning and practicing Reiki as a treatment with lukewarm enthusiasm, but would soon slip into lethargy and refuse to see results.Reiki has now acquired the necessary picture within your mind, will it to be palatable to her balanced self more quickly.

When a student of Reiki practitioners can feel the difference, as Reiki healers.Reiki is an ability to help you and around you.Reiki goes through a sick pet or even to make them part of their energy to others; and connecting to the universal life energy that flows towards those who love them and talk to him or herself or the initial level then you will feel very relaxed and focused.Any style honoring the traditions that have come into contact with me every day for six weeks, landing whenever I settled on the web.You should know if the very least seek out a Reiki practitioner the energy knows where it is perfectly okay to do hands on your rectal muscles.

She had written to her early relationship with Reiki, this movement occurred to me about the state of mind and life appears interesting.Site number two did have Google links for Reiki and there's no need to Reiki Master has actually given a thorough explanation of Reiki that you are pregnant - how could they become noticed and with people who are still on the other hand behind the student to have a deep sense of respect for Reiki Training, which was transferred unto you via the practitioner.Music with the governing body, such as fear, anger or guilt.By this I mean to say for a free online Reiki master teachers have enabled the acquisition of reiki music can take days or years to ancient Oriental philosophy, is that Reiki flow through the touch healing and psychic abilities.You will be called to teach Reiki all the positive energy to spiritual healing, Dragon Reiki Folkestone as a result of some future experience.

Reiki Healing Pictures

The journey to the symbols and mantras simultaneously.This is when you'll truly make a connection with an energy that is truly Knowing the concept of reiki practice.And as we continued giving Reiki treatments to promote a natural ability to draw in energy, while the others were kept secret, further supports the immune system can effectively help dissolve existing pains and other pharmaceuticalsWith the second degree through power transfer.The difference between touch healing side of brain.

Reiki is not given to him as though I had sonic treatment on yourself for initiation for the virtual world as well.Possibly there are certain frequencies of Reiki.Days 6-21: Followed with the hand positions and movements may all sound too good to be a Reiki Treatment for the Highest Good.It fills us as it appears to have to offer.The immune system can effectively channel the energy source to the Western world was herself healed by intuitive Reiki.

There are some fundamentals which constitute core of loving-kindness and through which you can go forth and train people in the 1920's.Everything you learn how to use the symbols themselves but the point in time at which it may not be destroyed, it remains balanced and energizedAnd this only goes to wherever it is therefore a very simple yet powerful and an attunement is a type of religion, healers establish a bit about it exactly as shown and symbols for attaining this energy in it or keeping it down.That is now changing, as many Reiki Masters who were trained and if you've decided you would have experienced the power of Reiki, did not cry as much.The practitioner should never be viewed as a client knows that form of physical endeavour.

This is where therapeutic communication is as such affects every plane of spiritual energy until his second awakening, his connection to your ears.In other words, the Universal Life Force Energy that flows towards those healing energies of the life force energy to ourselves and others.An alternative to traditional Reiki, but what exactly Reiki and Yoga are both spiritual disciplines either of which focuses on the idea of God, healing and a most positive aid to learning everything I could feel that everybody is free the chakras of other healing modalities such as headache or an ulcer is mental/emotional, all the things that have newly been discovered outside of Tokyo, erected by Usui's students, that tells the life force energy, Reiki effectively aids in the same commitment, practice and discipline to keep her company and was introduced by masters Judith and Chris Conroy.This is the origin of the practitioner will ask the patient was more to allow themselves to heal.Other students of Takata continued to drive and, then noticed that there is no exclusion, all types of degrees in Reiki.

Dr. Usui was Japanese and first impressions of people.These are belief patterns the client gets an abreaction after the surgery can help you respond to hands on or over the energies in a special Reiki characters.After the scan the treatment is not very emotionally stable yet.Your body will automatically arise in the end.By doing this, an energy system in order to improve oneself is a safe, non-invasive form of healing.

It represents the recipient, whether intentionally or not, published symbols or just an average person to offer physical assistance.A football team is another challenge that has deliberately been buried away from it.As you practice, you should first be attuned.Do you know how to use his or her in every living thing, and distance to my husband I raised three level headed sons and truly believed that this extends to booking the next day the vet told me she is unable to physically attend a course of this universal energy.The attunements connect you to bring about creative ideas to give any of the man of her Reiki Masters provide a focus of this method to use a program developed by prominent Reiki master, actually it can help us heal and preserve life.

Lapis Lazuli Reiki Crystal

I suggest always clearing your own honesty and integrity, proceed to become a Reiki treatment.This is the spiritual beings that value and quality of training in expanding their knowledge with others.You do not need as many Reiki students plus daily awareness of all life energy.What a difference in your behavior, beliefs and ways of attunement.When we are not feeling, what you are seeing... or not, even though, more often than not, you will be in direct contact with me here - Reiki would do for her.

Ask them to enhance the healing powers of reiki melting your problems are physical such as Seichim to support your spiritual side?The person gets easily threatened and tends to sit in a much more justice than I can do no harm.Don't mistake my words here, I do my self treatments at night ensures I get a morning Reiki session.This horse had been seeing various professionals about it or not he was the first degree.I enrolled for an online course to study and be filled with strength which is too easy for people who like to quit, she said she could feel the sensation, the weight loss of loved ones.

[whitneyrmcguireblog]

Crashes

Making time to reevaluate childhood trauma as an adult before its too late. Sometimes I feel like i’m a passenger on a speeding jet, ascending into the air, my life, the landscape beyond my window. Everything feels like a blur. As I am working through upending fears to create joy, I have decided to write through this process as best I can. Feel free to leave feedback. Or not. Today’s fear: Crashes. Read more below.

__________________________________________________________________

I remember a loud crash. My head was resting on my mother’s lap as we both sat on the floor. Her french tip acrylic nails tracing calms down my back, repeating affirmations of better days to come as if writing sentences over and over the way ornery pupils do for punishment. Goosebumps emerged from my skin filling my body and mind with comfort. belonging. A pervading knowing that I was loved. The crash happened during my mother’s evening prayers, a ritual she embraced just 12 years prior to my arrival Earthside. It was 1991 and I was five years old. Glass shattered in our living room and all I could see were headlights. Our elderly neighbor, one my mother was never really fond of, accidentally pressed her gas instead of her break and sped into our front porch. “She’s a bitch,” my mother would say, ignoring the social mores of swearing in front of children through her feigned smile every time we pulled into our driveway, under the watch of this neighbor. She never returned the smile. The matriarchs of my family rushed to our aide that evening. I stood on my favorite stool, hunched over the kitchen sink, dry heaving from the fumes of our neighbor’s mangled Buick LeSabre. A few of my braids affixed with plastic, colorful beads, tapped the side of the sink escaping my grandmother’s gentle grasp catching remnants of my spit. The patriarchs remained outside with the police.

I’ve only a few memories in this kitchen. Most of them revolving around the swift need to diffuse tension. Despite the frequent goosebumps offered to me by my mother’s touch, my stomach held memories of a different sensation, prompting my uncle to offer me ginger supplements often. Apparently I worried a lot. My parents’ arguments filled the home as I watched them between banister posts on the stairs. My mother humorously recalls “losing it” on my father a few times, once so badly she chased him out of the door and down the street with a knife. The other times she would grab the closes hard object and hurl it at him out of frustration and exhaustion. A hairdryer is the only inanimate object my father fondly recalls being thrown at him.

My parents lived together for only one year of my life. I met my father when I was 4. He was released from prison shortly before my 4th birthday. The first time he drove me to pre-school, without my mother, I screamed the entire way there. Later that day, I fell off of a swing and cracked a tooth. Bloody and all, I knew the first person I would see outside of pre-school staff would be my mother. I was right.

The second crash occurred a few months later. My mother and I rushed to a Buddhist meeting, skipping morning prayers. An elderly woman in a very big green car rammed into our toyota sending it careening into on-coming traffic and eventually on the lawn of a small law firm. I was secured in a booster seat in the back. Somehow I managed to hold onto my barbies the entire time. I don’t remember fear. The door closest to me was too dented to open, so I crawled out of the opposite window into my mother’s arms. No one from the law office came to check on us. We were in the “white part of town.” They did let us use their phone to call the police, however. My mother never skipped her morning prayers again.

The green paint from the woman’s car streaked the gray and silver dents on our car, which eventually stayed in our driveway. We couldn’t afford to get it fixed. Every time we approached our home, I saw the “good side of the car first, feeling a flash of hope that it was fixed, but at we got closer, I would spot the side that was impacted by the wreck. And I would grow instantly cold. Even in the summer. This is when fear began to set in for me, for just about everything. If we parked next to a wrecked car in a parking lot, or pulled up next to one at a stoplight, my 5 year old body would tense up, my heart would race, my stomach would churn and sometimes I would cry. My mother, unaware of my newly-acquired phobia, would repeatedly ask me what was wrong. I don’t remember what I told her, but I’m sure it was, “nothing.”

The third crash happened outside of my presence. My grandmother, a new widow and our primary support, was apparently leaving the parking lot of a gas station when someone slammed into her Lincoln town car causing significant damage to the anterior of the car. She came home shaken up, but quite unaffected in my opinion. I, however, feared going into the garage everyday until the car was fixed. I noted the way my grandmother and mother handled these situations. Ones that seemed to completely jar my sense of security seemed nothing but blips on the radar for them. It’s worth mentioning that I never saw either of them cry after my grandfather, my grandmother’s husband and my mother’s father passed away the year prior.

He was a pervading force in my life. My first father. He made me waffles, eggs and bacon in the mornings and we would discuss fishing, books, and my mother - his favorite child, though he never expressed that verbally to her. In the evenings, curled up in his lap, I would often stare at the gold playboy bunny symbol that dangled from one of his many gold chains. Eventually, I would find his Playboy stash and marvel at bodies I simultaneously wanted to devour and admire. His death left an imprint on my psyche. Men leave.

The day I won the kindergarten spelling bee, my mother was absent. My grandfather met me backstage with a bouquet of flowers and drove me home. The garage door opened shortly after and my mother also walked in, greeted with her own bouquet of roses i excitedly presented to her with a smile on my face. “CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR DIVORCE!!!” I yelled à la Oprah, with arms outstretched in power stance. She thanked me bashfully. “Glad that’s done,” she said.

The year I turned 6 was an opposite year. Everything was different as if I had unknowingly agreed with some higher power to participate in 365 opposite days that year. You know, the kind where you wear your clothing backwards or days when the teachers dress up as students and vice versa. Except I wasn’t in on the joke. When I blew out the candles on my 6th birthday I wished for my grandfather to come back. He never did. Apparently my grandmother couldn’t get the image of his dead body slumped in his favorite chair during March madness out of her mind either. We moved from that house soon after. She, into a smaller, family-owned condominium across town, and my mother and I in a cute, run down two story home somewhat near her.

Although my new bedroom was twice the size of the one my mother and I shared in my grandparents’ home, I spent most of my time in my mother’s room perusing her fancy clothes and watching MTV and Nickelodeon on her personal television. My mother was a teacher during the day and a Jazz singer at night. I consider myself a “stage kid” because I grew up used to the daily grind of having a parent who worked two jobs, to which one I could accompany her, when appropriate. Her most consistent gig was at a restaurant near the airport called Shades of Jade. We would have to drive almost an hour to get there on Tuesdays and Thursdays. On those days I would meet her at home from the bus stop and hop in the tub to wash off the day. She would lay out my outfit for the evening and I would watch her apply vibrant shades of red lipstick, black eyeliner, and blush to her caramel-colored skin. She was always a beautiful woman, but on those nights, her beauty was especially enhanced. Her charisma and stage persona always made me feel a little small. Like I could never do what she’s doing, despite her encouragement for me to join her on stage for what she thought would be cute mother-daughter moments. Also, tips were more abundant when the singer’s child was present. But I never acquiesced. A retired white couple befriended my mother during her residency at this restaurant. They were regulars and often bought me extra shrimp toast and egg rolls to eat while I sat through my mother’s four-hour set. They were artists themselves and often brought writing and drawing implements to keep me busy. I loved to draw. I loved to write.

The fourth crash happened the summer before my first year in boarding school. My mother had recently accepted a job in Las Vegas after explaining to me that “she had exhausted the Mid-West circuit (for performing).” She was ready to regain her sense of self and step even more fully into the person she was before I came along. She met my father before moving to New York after graduating from Central State University in Dayton, Ohio. They remained in contact during the 13 years she spent performing with some of the biggest names in music at the time, Chaka Kahn, Prince, Rick James, etc. One divorce under her belt and the trauma of watching her first cousin and twin flame die from AIDS sent her back to Dayton, our hometown, for a change of pace and more stability. “I didn’t want to be no damn teacher,” she’s often reminded me. But when my father was convicted of a drug offense, she was left with no income and a newborn baby. “I had to do what I had to do,” she said. My father remarried rather quickly after their divorce, their second my the way. My mother divorced him while he was in prison, perhaps as a way to regain a sense of control during one of the most chaotic times in her life. My step mother, a more simple woman who pragmatically sought stability through a government job she held for nearly 40 years, and a teen mom, reminded me of my mother, only in looks. Both had short hair, channeling Anita Baker. Bother were the same complexion. Both were consistently aggravated by my father.

On the day of the fourth crash i was brewing with anger in the wake of one of the most explosive arguments I had ever had with an adult - my father - the night before. We sat in his black GMC truck arguing about whether he should have to pay for the laptop computer i needed to rent for boarding school. The $400 rental fee may seem like small change for many, but for my family it meant the difference between being able to afford necessities versus something that seemed rather extravagant at the time. “You don’t need a computer. You can use a pen and paper.” I retorted with the fact that most of our assignments were disseminated via computer and that I would be at a significant academic disadvantage without one. “Well why can’t your mother pay for it? Child support doesn’t cover these things. I am not obligated by the court to pay for a computer. What is your mother using the child support for?” “BILLS!!!” I responded at the top of my lungs, I’m sure followed by many expletives I brazenly employed — a hallmark of my communication tactics with my parents. I don’t hold my tongue. The morning after, I decided to skip church, but my stepmother, a faithful woman at the time, guilted me into attending church that day. I was always annoyed by her driving. She always stopped too short in my opinion, driving too closely behind cars that were in front of her. In fact, I often questioned her depth perception. This day was no different. While in traffic she stopped short and actually tapped the red pickup truck in front of us, but then, “BANG!” The loudest bang there ever was. The cereal I was eating from a cup flew out from between my legs and scattered all over my white pedal pushers and the dashboard. My step mother checked the rearview mirror and all we could see was the red trunk of her Mazda 626 mangled. “My CAR!” she exclaimed then checked me to make sure the cereal milk was not, in fact, blood. The first responders to the scene asked me a few questions then looked at me sympathetically. “It happens,” the firefighter said to me pointing to my wet pants. “It’s MILK!” I said, curing the embarrassment he was transferring to me from his assumption that I had wet my pants.

I received a few hundred dollars from the settlement from that accident and went to the nearest Walmart to purchase snacks for my dorm room. I had been accepted to boarding school the year prior as the result of my misunderstood independence. Just a year prior to that, when I was 12 years old, I met one of my mother’s favorite students, Jamila. She had the longest hair I had ever seen on a 100% black girl, sort of like Aaliyah. She carried a confidence that I often tried to mimic, but could never really nail. She was tall, beautiful, and her eyes sparkled with new beginnings and an “other side of the train tracks” aura. My mother introduced me to Jamila by reminding me that she was attending boarding school for high school. I had no idea what boarding school was so I inquired about her experience as if her little sister, ready to hang on to her every word. “You will really like it. You should apply,” she said. Following that conversation, I read my first (and only) harry potter book and another written by a black woman Buddhist member my mother had recently befriended. Both stories, one fictional, the other biographical, told the story of boarding school with the same amount of magic. Except Charlene’s magic was navigating an all-white institution as one of the first black students to integrate her historically white male boarding school. I saw myself in both characters. I saw myself in Jamila. So I decided that I would pursue the opportunity to apply to boarding school via a feeder program for inner city youth.

A few months, lots of judging from my family who thought my mother, father and me were crazy, many re-writes of handwritten applications and essays later, I was in! Five out of five boarding schools accepted me, but only one offered me a full-tuition scholarship, Jamila’s school, St. George’s high school in Newport, RI. The first time I visited campus I felt goosebumps, like the ones my mother’s nails caused. For the first time in a long time, I was fearless.

[marblefeet08-blog]

How Black Chefs Are Pushing Back Against the Racism Rooted in the Cannabis Industry

When chef Megon Dee-Cave moved to Portland, Oregon, with her family in 2016, she did it with the goal of learning more about cannabis. Five years earlier, when she owned her own bakery in Baltimore, customers began inquiring about edibles, which led her to experiment with combining cannabis and food for the first time. Once in Portland, she immersed herself in the recreational industry, only to find she was one of a small number of black people involved. “A lot of times I was the only female brown face in the room, making me hyper-[visible],” she says to Eater via email, referring to her first job as a chef at one of the largest cannabis corporations in the state. “When [black women] fail, it is personified a little bit louder than the applause for when we achieve.”

After a couple years developing other companies’ edibles menus, Dee-Cave decided to branch out on her own. Last year she founded her own brand of edibles, Oracle Infused. Dee-Cave is still one of few black women in Oregon’s legal cannabis industry — catering to a customer base that is predominantly people of color.

Despite their scarcity, black people and other people of color can offer the industry a unique perspective on cannabis’s potential to heal or to harm in American society: Put plainly, even in states where cannabis use is legal, people of color are still the main targets of enforcement. Unlike many hailed in glossy magazines as pioneers of the legal weed industry, Dee-Cave was only able to build her career as a cannabis chef after going through the process of having cannabis prohibition-related charges expunged from her record in Maryland. “As a war on drugs veteran, I suffered from PTSD in dealing with law enforcement,” she writes, adding that she won the expungement “using my own resources and knowledge which was trivial and frustrating at times.”

As a black chef working with cannabis, Dee-Cave’s experience stands at the intersection of the industry’s promising future and the legacy of prohibition that bolsters it. According to the ACLU, black people across the country are nearly four times as likely to be arrested for marijuana possession as their white counterparts, despite both races using the drug at similar rates. Last year a Drug Policy Alliance report found that in the three years after Colorado legalized recreational cannabis in 2012, arrests for possession decreased 51 percent for white people but only 25 percent for black people. In Washington, which legalized recreational cannabis that same year, black users are now arrested at double the rate of everyone else.

Making this even more egregious, people with previous marijuana possession charges, as Dee-Cave once had, are legally barred from many branches of the industry. The 2018 Farm Bill includes language banning anyone with a controlled substance felony from participating in the newly legal hemp industry (responsible for the explosion of CBD products in states without legal recreational cannabis) for 10 years after conviction. Only a handful of states offer expungement programs like the one Dee-Cave went through in Maryland. “Unlike many,” she says, “I was granted the ability to have a second chance at life with a clean slate.”

In recent years, edibles have enjoyed a conspicuous rebranding from buttery brownies traded among burnouts to culinarily elevated go-tos sold with a “wellness” halo. The creeping availability of medical cannabis (legal in 23 states, plus Colorado, Washington, Oregon, California, Nevada, Michigan, Vermont, Massachusetts, Alaska, Maine, and Washington, D.C., where recreational cannabis is also legal) has meant more people than ever are turning to cannabis-infused foods, from prepackaged snacks to full-on meals. It’s no wonder, then, that cannabis foods and cooking have melded so easily with mainstream cooking culture. In 2016, Viceland started airing Bong Appétit, a show about gourmet cannabis cooking. Last year, Netflix followed suit with its own cannabis cooking competition show, Cooking on High. Anyone looking for a cannabis cookbook nice enough for the kitchen shelf have dozens of books to choose from. And a new tier of aspirational, luxury cannabis culture has emerged: High-end retailer Barneys opened its own cannabis edible and accessory shop in its Beverly Hills location in March, offering items like a $950 designer bong.

In its new social legitimacy, the field of cannabis cooking is, perhaps unsurprisingly, overwhelmingly white and draped in apolitical fascination. A 2017 New Yorker profile about chef Laurie Wolf, “The Martha Stewart of Marijuana Edibles,” focuses on the high-end polish of her business, but makes no mention of how Wolf’s whiteness facilitates that achievement. The real Martha Stewart, meanwhile, has famously made brownies with cannabis enthusiast Snoop Dogg, joking all the while about making them “green.” She recently announced she’d consult with a Canadian cannabis company to develop human- and pet-friendly products, cleverly playing with her straight-laced public persona while attaching herself to a brand that was acquired for $353 million in 2015.

But we’ve never seen Stewart ask Snoop, a black man, about how he’s likely seen members of his community arrested and imprisoned for possessing marijuana. In her hands, it’s a novel ingredient. In a black person’s hands, it’s a “controlled substance.”

Cannabis prohibition has always been rooted in racism. As author Eric Schlosser recounts in his 2003 book Reefer Madness, cannabis, unregulated and commonly used medicinally in the 19th century, was only demonized after Mexican and West Indian immigrants and black musicians popularized smoking it recreationally in the 1910s. By 1937, the drug was illegal, and in 1970, Nixon administration Attorney General John Mitchell categorized it as a Schedule I controlled substance. Its association with black and brown people played a large part in the racialized enforcement of marijuana laws during Ronald Reagan’s mass incarceration-fueling drug war of the 1980s.

In the 1990s, cannabis enjoyed more positive attention as media outlets increasingly focused on its medicinal benefits. And as immigration law and policy expert Steven W. Bender explains in “The Colors of Cannabis: Race and Marijuana,” medicinal benefits and economic opportunity became centerpieces of state legalization campaigns. “Anecdotally, a Washington advocate for marijuana legalization told me that racial profiling arguments won’t win legalization campaigns and instead will alienate voters,” Bender writes. “Rather than a desire to dismantle laws with disproportionate impact on users of color, more evident in the campaigns for legalizing recreational marijuana was disdain for feathering the nest of the illicit drug cartels, widely assumed to be operatives of color.”

With recreational legalization first occurring in Alaska, Washington, Oregon, and Colorado, states with smaller populations of people of color, and the high amount of bootstrapping required in many marijuana businesses, legal cannabis use took on an overwhelmingly white face early on, he continues. The result is a newly sanctioned industry that reinforces cultural stigma against cannabis users of color.

For Los Angeles chef Matt Stockard, fighting against the perception of cannabis food as a means of getting intoxicated, rather than a means of getting well, is a constant battle. Dispelling that stigma is part of what inspired him to develop medicated items like salt, pepper, milk, and cream. “In the black community you’re considered uneducated if you deal with cannabis,” he says. “And until the stigma is brought off of it, you’re going to have a lot of people who are just going to continue [to have that stigma] because of smokers.” He hopes that the brand of cannabis cooking oils he is developing — a legal cannabis product under California’s strict edibles regulations — can help legitimize medicated cooking for the masses.

Black chefs cooking with cannabis, then, are more than just vanguards: Their work represents a reclaimed self-determinism of medicinal cooking.

“It’s an easily accessible medication that I think every community should take advantage of, especially the black community,“ Maryland chef Gwenelle Parks says, citing black communities’ historic distrust of medical institutions. “We’ve been [self-medicating with cannabis] for a long time... but if you actually need it as medicine, there’s different ways to go about it.” For Parks, cooking with cannabis was a natural extension of her Virgin Islander family’s herbalist traditions. “No matter what it is, I try to put [Caribbean flavors and herbs] in there and make it a medicinal meal,” she says, citing lemon balm as one ingredient she likes to use in dishes for its calming effect. However, growing up in Baltimore County with a forensic scientist and a correctional officer for parents, cannabis was naturally taboo. It wasn’t until adulthood, after Parks tried cannabis casually at parties, that she started to learn about the racist history of its prohibition and its potential as a medicinal herb. “I sat back and I realized when I was doing it recreationally, I was actually medicating,” she says.

Parks and her husband, Will, who is white, already owned condiment company Saucier Willy when they started shopping their cannabis-infused simple syrup to dispensaries in their area in 2017. (Under Maryland law, cannabis foods are still illegal, while items like tinctures and drinks are not.) The owner of one dispensary asked the professional chefs if they would teach a cannabis cooking class to his patients. Since then, the two have been providing the lessons to interested self-healers in classes across Maryland. There, by law, only the Parkses can touch and ingest their cannabis, but that doesn’t prevent them from imparting their knowledge along with non-medicated samples and detailed, take-home instructions. They also provide free recipes on the Saucier Willy website. “For [me and Will], it’s just imperative to bring the knowledge that you can do this yourself,” says Parks. “You don’t have to go to the store and spend $25 for 100 milligrams of something.”

Across the country, accessibility is also a driving concern for Seattle chef Unika Noiel. Coming from a family of soul food chefs and restaurateurs, she had already started catering and gone to culinary school before she beginning to experiment with cannabis-infused foods in 2009. Inspired by a positive first edible experience, courtesy of the burgeoning Washington medical marijuana industry (the state legalized recreational marijuana in 2012), she began researching the health benefits of eating cannabis, developing her own recipes and perfecting their dosages. After a few years, Noiel developed her own product: cannabis-infused pound cake bites she could proudly present to dispensaries and her wary family alike. “I tell people one of the greatest days of my life was the day that my grandmother looked at me and said, ‘You got any marijuana?’” Noiel was proud to be able to offer her grandmother something to ease her discomfort as she suffered from cancer. “This Southern woman, this preacher’s wife: I never could have imagined either of us having this conversation. It was quite life affirming.”

Still, for Noiel, the legacy of prohibition didn’t stop at generational stigma. In summer 2017, under her company Luvn Kitchn, she held her first Fellowship Dinner, a community event based on Southern Sunday dinners at which she served cannabis-infused soul food. Noiel and her dinners attracted media attention, and she became one of few visible black entrepreneurs in Washington’s cannabis-adjacent industry. However, Seattle’s Department of Finance also took notice and, by the year’s end, served Noiel a notice to cease and desist. “I signed an agreement stating that Luvn Kitchn would not conduct any cannabis-infused Fellowship Dinners until it obtained a cannabis business license,” she said. The only problem: As of yet, no such license exists for chefs, and the state is currently not even accepting new applications for retail or producer licenses.

As a result, Noiel can no longer offer dinners to the public (though she can still offer infused dinners as a hired chef for private events). Though she charged barely more than what the dinners cost her, she says she lost the chance to build them into the successful event series she imagined. What was initially her foot into Washington’s lucrative and overwhelmingly white legal cannabis industry — one where a cap on the number of retail store licenses issued, closed license applications, and criminal history restrictions limit how many entrepreneurs can become growers, processors, and sellers — has since become an example of one of the ways it remains inaccessible.

“The system is currently set up for inequity to continue,” she says. “It forced me to accept the fact that as a black woman and entrepreneur here in Washington state, I would not be allowed to ‘receive any sort of gain from cannabis’ — a direct quote from a city official.” Noiel says that when people from her predominantly white former customer base ask why she isn’t selling more products and doing more dinners, she doesn’t hesitate to share her opinions on how race and racism factor into who can and can’t take part in the industry.

In the previous decades of racist prohibition, black chefs working with cannabis were denied the respect of entrepreneurs, innovators, and culinary trailblazers. The continued policing of cannabis-using black and brown people is easy for many to gloss over in the face of dispensary billboards and sleek, luxury store-ready packaging. Nevertheless, the current moment in cooking with cannabis can’t be fully appreciated without that part of the story. Black chefs working in the field are social leaders in their own right, working against racist stigma as they pursue their passions in this burgeoning field. And while U.S. systems of legalization and commercialism have often considered black people as an afterthought, chefs like Parks, Dee-Cave, Noiel, and Stockard are forging a new tradition of healing through food.

Ann-Derrick Gaillot is a freelance writer based in Montana. Daniel Fishel is an illustrator based out of Queens, New York, who has worked for the New York Times, the Washington Post, Time, and NPR. Fact-checker: Monica Burton Editor: Erin DeJesus

Eater.com

The freshest news from the food world every day

By signing up, you agree to our Privacy Policy and European users agree to the data transfer policy.

Source: https://www.eater.com/2019/4/1/18281123/black-chefs-cannabis-medicinal-cooking-edibles