#grant them with the dignity that has been stripped away from them

[goyurim]

Hello Moon, its been a while since we talked, hope you are doing well and receiving many blessings. The world is hell rn but nevertheless I hope the small hapinnesses you encounter give you hope 🩷

hey carola 💖 thank you for sending this in, you're so sweet 🥺 i've had this in my inbox for a while bc i truly didn't know how to respond to it... the world really is hell right now and every feeling of happiness i get is somehow always riddled with privilege and guilt... nonetheless i have no right to give up hope so thank you for the kind reminder 💖 i hope you're taking care of yourself and i'm sending you hugs and warmth to help you get through this cold winter 🫂🌻

[empyrindor-musing]

✦ The Mistress Satan ✦

She is as enchanting as the darkest of mooned skies, as alluring — and dare I utter such wretched words — as seductive as the honeyed poison dripping from the sultry tongue of the serpent.

For what feels like the longest of eternities I have lived through, my eye travels along the jagged contouring of her face as though doing so might imprint that wretched visage of hers upon my mind and hold it there forevermore, a secret treasure to be withdrawn on those rare occasions where I find myself alone with my own faltering mind. I am tempted by the lure of an image so foul that only the most perverse of eyes could ever possibly find delight in, lost in that veil of mystery and darkness she has woven so delicately around herself.

They call her The Harbinger of the Damned, The Mother of the Unholy, The Madame of the Dark, I have even heard stories which tell of her guarding the nine hells themselves as one who they have come to call Satan herself... She must be, I have told myself, for no angel in God's grace could ever possibly hold the power that I see locked behind those eyes, could ever posses such a soul, or perhaps even her lack thereof, which burns within her and singes any who dare believe themselves worthy of standing before her, much less beg her to hear their pitiful pleas for the boon she has been known to grant in exchange for the eternal damnation of their mortal souls.

She is beautiful in the way only the incarnation of evil could be, she is the underworld made charred and mangled flesh and yet the moment I set my eye upon her I find myself falling endlessly, my will to break away from the temptations she has placed before me, no, within me, beginning to shatter as easily as one could break the daintiest of porcelain figures. I feel her pull, the call of something wicked and dark nestled within her womb, but there is is something else I sense within her, within those lustful and cruelly inviting slitting eyes she adorns like jewels dangled before me.

Perhaps... Could it perhaps be love?

It must be, for I know not what else could possible drive a God such as I to it's knees. Here I lay, stripped of my pride, my dignity, the fundamental nature of my being all thrown aside and cast into the deepest of unescapable voids just to be near her, for a taste of the honey she has temptingly drizzled across her lips. I wish to drink from the forbidden nectar she has been known to partake of, to bathe in the blood she has spilled so devilishly in her mercilessness, to have her wrap me within the scorching embrace of the unholy and to never release me from it's terrible shackles.

Yes, it must be love, for what else could make my heart yearn so agonizingly and ache so torturously deep? I dare not think of the implications, the sinful nature of such a blasphemous and yet so divinely sweet coupling. Is a being so remorseless such as herself even capable of love? Is she truly even a woman, or is she merely the grotesque and monstrous facsimile of one, a being born of wretchedness taken the form of what mortals fancy beautiful if only to entrap them in the false promise of her affections?

I do not know, I care not to know. I do not bother to waste my precious seconds pondering over the matter, for I have opened my once blinded eye to the one truth of this world and have found it standing before me. Let her be the monster she so desires, let her have my soul, feed on my love. Whatever it is that she so woefully desires, she may have. I may rule this earth and command all those who believe themselves God's, but the underworld has a way of dragging you in, of wrapping it's gnarled, rotted claws around your soul and refusing to let go, and now that I have laid my eye upon it's alluring mistress, I no longer desire to abandon my shackles.

Was this your vile plan all along, Mistress Satan? Were you merely biding your time until I so desperately crawled into your webs of deceit, awaiting that sweet moment in which you could finally lay your claim over something so much more powerful than yourself, consume my aching flesh just as a starved arachnid would it's delightful and all too willing meal? Was I always fated to be yours, or have you perhaps chosen me at random, a lamb to the slaughter of your insatiable appetite out of my own foolishness and blindness to the danger in which I willingly placed myself in?

I do not know, I care not to know. Does it matter? No, I think not, for she has chosen me, and if it God she so desires, then it is God so she shall have. My Mistress Satan, wretched, foul thing you are, my soul shall be eternally yours just as was inscribed in the blood of your birth.

[abybweisse]

I wish I had a tenth of the weston principal's self-confidence, bullying and murder were happening in his school and he was chilling in Hawaii probably

Where is the headmaster?

Somehow... I doubt that story is even completely true. It's too convenient that the headmaster would happen to be on personal holiday while Arden and his pals bully their underclassmen as Vice Headmaster Agares allows it to happen and accepts bribes of alcohol... is still on holiday when the P4 kill the bullies (including Agares) and contact Stoker (who brings Undertaker into this)... and is still on holiday while our earl and Sebastian investigate and close the case. We are talking nearly two months here -- at least -- because the deaths occur sometime before Easter holiday... before the Campania even sets sail on April 17th (Stoker dies on that ship)... and our earl doesn't have the answer to Arden's and his pals' whereabouts until late night on June 4th.

In fact, I went back to the arc and found some timeline info:

So, Arden and his pals hadn't been seen by their families in nearly a year.

This must be early in the fall semester the year before. Otherwise, it would be too early to have these P4 still be the current P4. They must have killed Arden, his four pals, and Agares not too long after the school year began.

Looks like the headmaster was taking a full year away from the school to take a trip around the world.

I don't even recall anyone saying the headmaster returned to deal with the aftermath. Isn't it some school board that expels the P4, not the headmaster? Yeah, he's not even due back until autumn of 1889, months after the P4 have been expelled.

However, that still makes me very suspicious of Agares. He's human, but he's named after a demon for a reason, right? One of the things Grand Duke Agares can do is make runaways return, but he can also make those who "stand still" run. He can grant titles and dignities... but also has the ability to strip them away. Like I said, our Agares is human; he's easily killed and then turned into a bizarre doll. But I suspect he might have said something to the headmaster to convince him to leave... and leave the school in Agares' hands. Once the headmaster was out of the way, perhaps indefinitely, Agares could fully enjoy the perks of letting the school bullies do as they please.

[southeastasianists]

On 18 May 2021, the National Unity Government (NUG) of Myanmar announced they are now in the process of drafting a new federal union constitution, which as promised by the NUG, will “guarantee democracy, national equality and self-determination based on freedom, equality and justice.”

Later in June, the shadow government, formed by lawmakers and politicians ousted in the February coup, issued a ground-breaking statement suggesting that the Rohingya people would be “entitled to citizenship by laws that will accord with fundamental human rights norms and democratic federal principles,” and once the new constitution has been drafted, Myanmar’s citizenship laws, which have been blamed for reducing the Rohingya to statelessness, could be repealed.

This promise was made over seventy years ago, when Myanmar (formerly Burma) achieved independence from Britain, and the government of the Union of Burma enacted its first constitution in 1947.

Providing a general description in terms of the classification and definition of a Myanmar citizen, the 1947 constitution effectively allowed Rohingyas to qualify for citizenship, as Myanmar citizens were defined as persons who belong to an indigenous race, have at least one grandparent from an indigenous race, are children of citizens, or lived in British Burma prior to 1942.

Unfortunately, after the coup led by Ne Win in 1962, the 1947 constitution was suspended. Ne Win’s military government enacted a new constitution in 1974 which withdrew many provisions of the 1947 constitution, and a large number of Rohingya residents in Arakan were thereafter disqualified for citizenship.

Not much has changed since then. The current constitution, enacted in 2008, requires Rohingyas to qualify for citizenship by providing proof that their parents are citizens or that they are already citizens. This is difficult, since most Rohingya people do not hold valid documents to substantiate their claim for citizenship. Thus, the 2008 Constitution continues to refuse them the possibility of becoming legitimate citizens in Myanmar.

Supplementing constitutional changes, immigration and citizenship laws have played a key role in gradually depriving Rohingyas of their citizenship in Myanmar. Some examples of such laws include the Burma Immigration (Emergency Provisions) Act of 1947, the Union Citizenship Act of 1948, and the Burma Citizenship Law of 1982.

The Burma Immigration (Emergency Provisions) Act of 1947 was originally intended to be an emergency measure regulating the entry of foreigners into Myanmar prior to its independence. Any person suspected of contravening the Act can be arrested without warrant. Myanmar’s immigration authority has the sole power to judge if a person deemed to be “foreigner” had contravened the Act, whether such a “foreigner” should be deported, and how long the “foreigner” should be detained pending deportation. A “foreigner” can also be punished with imprisonment for several years. Given its broad coverage and sweeping powers, a large number of Rohingya people have been persecuted under the Act.

The Union Citizenship Act of 1948 (UCA) was enacted to clarify the issue of citizenship in the 1947 Constitution. Narrowing the scope, article 3(1) of the Act stipulates that “indigenous races of Burma,” for the purpose of the Constitution, refers to the seven racial groups of Arakanese, Burmese (Burman), Chin, Kachin, Karen, Kayah, Mon, Shan, or racial groups that have settled in Myanmar as their permanent home before 1823. Although the Act could be subject to more expansive interpretation, the Rohingya, as a separate ethnic group, were generally not recognised as an “indigenous race.”

In 1982, Myanmar’s government repealed the UCA and enacted the Burma Citizenship Law, which formally refuted the legality of citizenship of almost all Rohingyas. Access to “naturalized citizenship” applies only to those who have entered and resided in Myanmar before 1948 and their offspring born within Myanmar, provided that “conclusive evidence” is furnished. As many Rohingyas settled in Arakan generations ago, and few of them can provide proof of residence because of low literacy and lack of record keeping, they were effectively stripped of their citizenship after enactment of this Law.

Myanmar’s constitution and states laws may be the cause of the plight of Rohingya people. However, such legal developments are tied to two larger phenomena, which both contribute to the persistent exclusion and persecution suffered by the Rohingya.

The first is nativism rooted in Myanmar’s nationalism. This Buddhism-based nationalist ideology, developed during the colonial era by the ethnic majority Burmans to oppose British rule, became the primary means for Myanmar’s political and religious leaders to pursue national stability in post-independence Myanmar. As Myanmar national identity is closely connected with Buddhism, nationalistic sentiments drive many Myanmar people to fear the invasion of “foreign” cultures that threaten Myanmar’s Buddhist culture. Muslim Rohingyas, consequently, are seen by many as “illegal immigrants” posing significant threat to the Myanmar national identity.

With notable support from the population, the Myanmar government has, throughout the years, especially the military junta, has capitalised on the widespread, long-standing public resentment of the Rohingya to consolidate support. Together with local authorities, Buddhist nationalists in Rakhine have persecuted the Rohingyas by ousting them from their jobs, shutting down mosques, confiscating property, and imprisoning or exiling community leaders.

Importantly, they have also exerted great influence in the formulation of laws restricting interfaith marriage, religious conversion, and polygamy. While constitutional reforms and the immigration and citizenship laws laid the foundation for persecution, religiously discriminatory laws, known as the “race and religion protection laws,” systematised and further intensified the pervasive discrimination against the Rohingya people.

The second phenomena is the law and order obsession. From British colonial era to the present, different governments of Myanmar have continued to pursue a governance model prioritising regime stability and efficiency. Rule of law in Myanmar essentially exists in the thin, narrow, and procedural conception, deprived of values such as equality, fairness, and protection of individual rights as in substantive justice.

There might have been some elements of substantive rule of law in the earlier post-independence years, but most of them were swept away following decades of military rule. The maintenance of law and order, through suppressing dissent and delimiting fundamental rights, was in line with the juntas’ goal of containing ethnic conflict and promoting national unity. Even today, this obsession with law and order remains strong in Myanmar’s politics.

To achieve justice for the Rohingya, drafting a new constitution and repealing discriminatory state laws is a good start. The NUG needs to develop clear vision for a more equal and inclusive Myanmar. Reforms should be proposed to improve the Rohingya’s legal status and abolish practices that violate fundamental rights. Considering the strong sentiments of Myanmar’s nationalism, instead of recognising the Rohingya as indigenous race, it may be more feasible to recognize them as naturalised citizens, thus granting them the rights to freedom of movement, communal representation, and dignified living conditions.

However, to truly put an end to the persecution of Rohingyas and promote trust between ethnic groups, it is also necessary for the people of Myanmar to rethink their understanding of nationalism. It is only with a more inclusive form of nationalism adhering to the values of equality, tolerance, and diversity, that the discriminatory attitudes toward Rohingyas can change, and effective long-term measures can be implemented to secure justice and dignity for the Rohingya people.

[starryeyes2000]

That Night and Morning on Discovery: Chapter 7

Image credit: @ocfairygodmother

Chapter 6 | | Chapter 8 | Masterlist

Pairing: Christopher Pike x OC

Rating: Teen

Word Count: 1.6k

Summary: A week after the events on New Eden, Discovery's crew is granted much needed leave. Chris' wife joins him on Discovery for a little R&R of their own. But a Captain is never really off-duty and personal time is scarce.

ooooo

Farewell

Aalin clutched the fold where the ends of the towel met around her chest and summoned as much dignity as one could under the circumstances. “Commander Saru?”

Saru fidgeted nervously causing the bra dangling from his fingertips to swing back and forth like a pendulum. Possessing extraordinary olfactory sensitivity, he delicately sniffed several times before stating loudly, “You have been mating.”

“Excuse me?” She asked tentatively.

“When in the other’s presence, bonded human couples produce unique pheromones which concentrate during acts of procreation. The air in your quarters is saturated with their scent. Interestingly …” Saru answered as if giving a lecture to the command trainees.

As the scene unfolded, Chris, having realized he forgot to approve an urgent requisition, doubled back to his quarters. When he saw a growing cluster of crewmen milling outside the open door, he quickened his pace worried something was wrong.

“… they produce a different pheromone when parted. Each has an important function. The former triggers the male’s protective instinct for the female and her offspring; the latter marks the female as belonging to a mate and the male as …” Saru continued.

Now standing behind Saru, Chris cleared his throat. He nodded to Aalin and then inclined his head towards the group of people standing in the hallway.

Blushing she stepped out of the sightline while mouthing ‘sorry’ to Chris.

Saru continued, “… same sex couples also produce unique …”

“Commander.” Once Chris had Saru’s attention he added, “Shall we continue inside?” Then the Captain turned to the other crewmen. They suddenly found the floor, the ceiling, the walls, and their shoes endlessly fascinating. “Back to your posts,” Chris said softly. All of them, even those off shift, immediately reported for duty. He sighed. Instructing them not to talk about the incident would only spread the rumors faster.

Once inside Chris nudged the underwear that matched the bra, the ones that were little more than a few strips of lace, under a nearby chair with the toe of his boot.

Aalin reached out; Saru didn’t notice. When she said, “Umm, I kind of need you to let go,” he stared at her intently, as if he were an observer catching up with the events.

“Oh.” He quickly let go of the bra. “I …” He awkwardly moved his hands about his waist, unsure what to do with them. “That was … I am …”

“That was thoughtless of me, and I apologize for causing you discomfort.” Aalin responded with a warm smile before retreating.

Saru turned to face his commander. “I … I …”

Chris waved him off.

“Captain, we received a message, commander’s cipher, theta priority.” Saru held out the data card.

Careful to keep his expression neutral, Chris accepted the card and responded, “I see. Wait here.” He silently said “theta” to Aalin as he joined her in the sleeping area and opened the safe to retrieve the decryption equipment.

“The last theta message you received …” she hesitated, her face and body language radiating fear.

“Was immediately after the Battle of the Binary Stars,” Chris finished. He held out his hand and grasped hers as he deciphered and read the message. Some of his tension drained away. “We aren’t at war. Come with me.”

They returned to the front room and Chris handed the PADD to Saru. As he read the message, Discovery’s XO inhaled sharply. “It’s going to impact the entire planet. Is it possible to give them any measurable, meaningful help?”

“We will find a way,” Chris replied in his grounding tone of voice, the one that accentuated his conviction without frivolous promises. “Aalin, Ceres has experienced a disaster in several of their major population centers across the southern hemisphere and the nearest ships are a week away at maximum warp. Discovery has been ordered to jump there in twenty-four hours.”

“Captain, may I remind you this is highly classified information due to the planet’s strategic location,” Saru interrupted, choosing his words carefully, unsure of their reception.

“As you should, Commander. But it’s OK, previously the Lieutenant was assigned to the Federation Council, her clearance is higher than mine,” Pike assured his first officer. He turned to Aalin. “Ceres is a recent addition to the Federation. Can the Universal Translator handle their language?

“If Discovery is running version Alpha Gamma 5.2.8.9.” Aalin answered. Saru nodded. “But there is a complication,” she cautioned, “while Ceres does have a planet-wide standard language, there are dozens of intricate sub-languages, many of which are still favored in the southern hemisphere. The universal translator is about 80% effective for those.”

“Do you speak any of them?” Chris asked.

She shook her head. “I’ll make a list of resources who are fluent and in range.” As Aalin worked she watched her husband and his XO of only three weeks operate in flawless synchronization.

“I want Discovery ready to leave in twelve hours not twenty-four, too many people will die in that additional half-day,” Pike ordered.

Saru shook his head, “The supply ships won’t be here for at least sixteen hours …” He stopped and thought for a moment. “Unless we jump to them.”

“You read my mind.” Pike added, “I am requesting two additional supply ships, I want every inch of space, available and otherwise, packed floor to ceiling. Use anyone you need for unloading.” Aalin smiled to herself, certain the Kelpien hadn’t yet anticipated his Captain would join that work detail at some point.

“Yes sir.”

“Bryce, recall everyone from leave, one hour return. Get me Commander Una on Enterprise and Captain Ortez on Rigel,” Pike ordered.

“Dr. Pollard, we are now under disaster response protocol beta, prepare for onboarding of additional emergency medical resources and supplies. Convert the gyms and mess halls into treatment and triage centers,” Saru ordered.

“Owo, arrange a department head meeting in an hour, crew briefing in two,” Pike ordered.

“Airiam, we will be performing several rapid jumps over the next ten hours to take on supplies. I am sending a list. Contact the ships and coordinate with Commander Stamets. Hold please,” Saru said as Pike leaned in and added, “Add the Rigel shipyard to that list.”

“Number One, send ten rapid response teams from Enterprise, tell them to prepare for a six-week deployment,” Pike ordered.

“Commander Reno, disaster response protocol beta, prepare for onboarding of additional engineering resources and supplies. Anticipated environment is urban with expected urgent needs for debris removal and structural stabilizations,” Saru ordered.

“Ortez, I need ships. Agile enough to operate in dense urban areas, large enough to transport causalities, personnel, and supplies. And pilots to fly them,” Pike requested.

“Quartermaster, prepare for onboarding of additional personnel, you are authorized to reassign crew quarters,” Saru ordered.

“We need to speed up that promotion,” Pike said to Saru who nodded.

Soon a nervous officer entered and stood at attention, panic evident in his eyes. Another legacy from Lorca, Aalin thought. On Enterprise, and most ships, being called to the Captain’s quarters was considered an honor as it implied a high level of trust.

“At ease, Ensign.” Pike said softly.

“Yes sir,” the officer responded but was unable or unwilling to relax his posture.

Pike shook his head so slightly only Aalin noticed. He looked to Saru and then back to the young officer, “We planned this differently, but the situation …” Pike smiled, “… I …” he continued emphasizing the word, “need you now. Jason, effective immediately you are promoted to Transporter Chief with an elevation in rank from Ensign to full Lieutenant.”

“Chief? Lieutenant?” Jason questioned emphatically as he reminded himself to stand still. “Not lieutenant junior grade?” Brilliant, question the Captain, he chided himself.

“The Captain believes your change in rank is overdue and your performance merits the senior level,” Saru explained.

“Oh, I see … I mean … I didn’t mean to question …” Jason stammered before responding with more confidence, “Yes sir, thank you sir.”

“Your new assignment begins with an emergency.” Pike held Jason’s eyes for a moment, silently communicating his faith in the young officer, “It is a difficult situation I know you are ready for.”

“I won’t let you down.”

“This information is embargoed for two hours. We will be providing search and rescue services and other aid to Ceres where a volcanic eruption has set off a series of earthquakes and explosions. The transporters will be needed round the clock for an undetermined amount of time. When you are ready, report your plan and resource needs to the XO.”

Pike added, gesturing for Aalin to join them, “This is Lieutenant Pike. She is returning to Enterprise, please escort her to the transporter room.” He paused, “Give us the room for a moment.”

Once they were alone, Chris retrieved her overnight bag from the sleeping area. Having a task blunted his disappointment there would not be a second night together this trip. “I miss you already,” he said, standing in front of her.

She reached up and caressed his cheek. “And I you.”

They embraced. “I love you,” Aalin said.

“I cherish you,” Pike answered after he lightly kissed her forehead. “Send me a message as soon as you are settled at Starbase 5.”

“Yes. And don’t worry about the harassing messages, I will do everything Isak asks.”

He nodded. “I should … I need to get to the bridge.”

“I know. It’s OK.”

In the hallway, Jason asked, “Is that Captain Pike’s wife?”

“Yes. And clearly they wished to keep this visit private. We must respect that,” Saru cautioned.

“Of course sir.”

As the doors opened, Jason saw their hands part and their farewell smile to one another.

A/N: Jason is introduced in the story titled The Elephant in the Room. He was one of the many below decks crewmen that Lorca used as pawns or ignored if unneeded.

[psalloacappella]

Red (oneshot)

Title: Red  Pairing: SasuSaku legit i don’t write anything else  Word Count: 3400~ Rating: E, for like explicit, not for everyone. NSFW. Ya get it. Tags/What you’ll see: Sakura getting the office and oral she deserves 

Summary: An old dress, a new office — Uchiha Sasuke offers regards to both.

Ao3 | FFN |  ↓

(I have to preface when I post this that my top-tier amazing friend convinced me to do so and reminded me not to delete it this morning in the cold sober dawn lol. I consider this absolutely self-indulgent)

.

.

.

“Ah, Sakura?”

Jade eyes alight and ringed with red, her subordinate regrets interrupting what seems to be a bout of sickness or sadness; she’s been busy lately. They all are.

Spine bent in bass clef camber, in exhaustion, she straightens at his words into a ramrod illustration of diligence. Over scrolls and haphazard paperwork, empty mugs sitting in their own fossilized dregs, she snatches up a fountain pen to preserve her dignity and reputation. At her age she’s been handed enormous tasks that she only imagined in her wildest dreams, and most of those, in the past, were of love and marriage and not the nightmares and duties which replaced them.

Extreme stress manifests in mysterious and chaotic ways; she intuitively knows this, especially today, as she basks in the quiet glances, the way their eyes follow her long, long legs leading into ankles in heels that feel like cages. Her choice of a dress underneath her white coat today feels like a wanton beacon, but her battle reputation precedes her, legendary and terrifying; no one will dare blithely approach legs like those or earn the ire of her dangerous hands, so delicate until they’re crushing mountains and throats.

Electricity, a buzzing in the marrow of her bones; she taps the pen on the desk in a stilted rhythm.

She regards the young medic with a hazy gaze for a moment, then waves a hand. “Sorry, I’m just—”

He steps over the threshold; Sakura raises her chin, lips taut.

“No no, I’m sorry,” he insists. Under her bright eyes he feels the beginnings of idiocy and bumbling; his boss makes him tongue-tied, stupid. Younger than him, in a league of her own as she stands at shoulders with new legends; lethal, inured to all the stories about herself.  

He notices the ochre on her lips like an invitation.

“I wouldn’t come too close today,” she says. Grants him a demure smile, the type that doesn’t quite fool her friends but still works with fools like him. “I’m not feeling the best. It could be contagious, and that wouldn’t be helpful to our operations right now.”

“Yes, of course.” Agreeing, nodding fervently with the obedience of a particularly compliant breed of dog. “If I may — you work so much. Too young to be feeling so tired.”

A laugh, it bubbles — starts from her chest as a giggle and drips from her lips as honey. Makes her quake, mottled red seeping through the skin of her chest as a sieve, collarbones sharp.

She looks feverish; she looks like a dream.

In turn she struggles to keep the waver out of her voice, knowing she’s lit up as fulgent as rouge festival lanterns and there's no way to kill the current.

I’ll never live this down — have to get him out of here

The cough she musters up is weak and if this was Ino, or gods forbid, her teacher, they’d call it pathetic. For a young man trapped in her sphere of admiring attraction, it does nothing but induce sympathy. But her legs are shaking, the situation is dire, and she’s loath to have another round of torrid rumor on the flapping lips of civilians and staff.

“Ah!”

At her cry, she lets her temple fall into her hand and her subordinate rushes forward. Gasping, she raises her other one, trembling.

“No, please. That sounded worse than it was. Just a headache coming on. In fact,” she rasps, “if you can let Shizune know I’ll be taking the next hour to recoup? A nap, maybe that’ll help.”

“I don’t know if I can leave you like this.” His tentative step earns her sharp gaze again, pursed lips that start his mind wandering in a way that makes him blush. Physically shaking his head to clear it, he nods slowly, finally, backing out of the doorway.

The hollow sound of Sakura’s kneecap hitting the underside of the desk rings in the space. Her gullible underling starts forward again, but the foreboding slap of her hand on the desk stops him cold. Acute, like it’s one to the face.

Sakura brings her knees together, swift, crushing his damn near regal bone structure and the handsome high bridge of his nose between the muscle of her thighs. A warning.

She glances down at him, he’s slicked with sweat — the glimpse of his glittering black eye and swirling purple one bring her too close to a wave she can’t indulge; she’s still this unwanted visitor’s boss until he closes the fucking door.

“Just me being clumsy! Do as I’ve asked and let her know, and,” here her breath hitches, hand leaving the desk, fingers burying themselves in dark messy hair, “th-thank you for worrying. I appreciate it.”

She’ll pay for the smile she gives this man, a sparkle of hope, like he’ll ever earn his boss’s favor in that way, as if he’ll measure up in any lifetime to the man that has her heart, the man on his knees under her desk.

“Sure. I mean,” horrified at his own too-familiar tone, “of course, right away, ma’am. Miss. I—”

“Oh go now. ” It stutters out in jete musical meter, resembling pain — or other things. “Please.”

She doesn’t have to tell him to close the door, though she’s surprised he didn’t find another excuse to stay with her. Oh, he has it bad. But there’s no time to think —

Sinking into her chair, her hands grip the armrests with an intensity that forces music from them, cracking underneath her fingers. And now all the words of the last few minutes tumble from her lips, an unintelligible medley of curses and pleas cradling the half-formed shell of his name.

Without warning, she yanks him back by the hair and almost comes right there:  His eyes scalding her, the mess on his stupid and incredibly fuckable face, a talented and dangerous mouth settling into a smirk as he thumbs an errant bit of her off his lip.

“That was close. Ah, so are you.”

He says it with such smugness and vanity. Quivering in her office chair under nothing but his stare, still in the grips of the unrelenting buzz and hum he’s enticed, and he absolutely notices.

“One of these days, we’ll be caught!” Tries to sound stern even as he rolls his neck and shoulders with a pithy nonchalance. “Stop that. So arrogant, preening like that—”

“Me? That’s rich.” He lazily trails a finger from her swollen, hot clit to her opening, lingering and lush to force all the heat and sounds he’s craving — her fingernails dig into her thigh while the pallor of her skin and dress seep and marry, reflections of one another. “Why did you wear this, Sakura?” Nudges the fabric with his nose, and she mumbles something hazy under his resumed touch; lost in orbit, in a void, in a place unearthly.

He starts the routine again, pressing his mouth to the inside of her thigh. Frowns at the irritating strip of fabric that constitutes clothing; it’s been twisted and pushed aside anyway. Her skin burning against his face, a lean cord of muscle taut underneath her pale skin. Vaguely threatening, but she’s yet to crush him to death and he’s on the second round of bringing her there and back again, and close calls such as those seem to stoke something smoldering. Some days, it feels like the only thing worth pulling himself out of bed for.

He fucks like he fights:  Relentless, consuming. But that essential difference for the former is he never gives an inch; here, he pours it all in, something like an endless apology. Maybe she knows and that’s why she wears the red dress he won’t admit he prefers and paints her lips and runs the entirety of this village hospital system with grace and her own brand of gentle ascendancy — why he’s desperate for just the ragged edge of danger.

One of her legs shudders, the frenzied tap-tap-tap of her heel stammering against the floor in a cadence fit for instruments. “Sasuke-kun.”

Between the presses of his lips leading a hot, agonizing march back to her core, an arrogant noise in his throat escapes, rich and amused. “So this — is your new office?”

“Mmm,” she confirms, still clinging to the chair. The only support she has; the room’s spinning and every cell is vibrating, pink eyebrows knitted as she fights to remain upright and solid and somewhat human because the door’s not locked and she knows he knows, knows he doesn’t care and frankly neither, really, does she. Melting like basalt in unending, stifling heat.

Calloused fingers walk up the soft skin of her calf, catching and searing, sundering the delicate layer where they brush to release the pent-up steam underneath.

He’s fire; she is earth.

Always, all of him ablaze —  possessive in its own discipline but a thing begging for taming. He builds the pyre here, as he has been for the last hour or so, to focus himself, patiently coaxing it into something chaotic but fruitful. Lately all he’s felt is the joyless, sober embodiment of a tool to be used though perhaps this is the same, a compulsion by any other name.

But it can’t be, not with her looking like this. Striding down her hallways with purpose while bending the horrors and ills of the world to her indomitable will. Certainly this dress is no accident, as it never is, not with him coming off a mission full of blood and necessary evil.

Dragging the thin, sorry excuse for fabric down the burning skin of her leg, Sasuke’s tongue finds her clit with terrifying precision and rips a moan from her throat, pulling a jerk of her hips against his mouth. The shockwave shared, vibrating as wires intertwined, a forcible current.

Leans back, takes her in:  Her trembling, knuckles white from the fatal grip on the arms of the chair, knees sinking inward toward one another. The sight of this rich red dress against the stark, starched white of her coat blending with the mottled pinks and crimsons painting her cheeks and chest. Unraveling before him, extraordinary, even while this space belongs to her.

This, sometimes, feels like undeserved forgiveness.

Because she is always, always in living color.

Adjusts his own knees, shifts, a catch of air in his throat as he accommodates the hard length of his own caged cock. They’re no stranger to claiming desks and other surfaces as their own, but she has strings on him and there's authority in here now, where she holds men at the door with a flicker of her gentle jade eyes borne of the grueling process which created her.

Sliding the useless fabric into his pocket, raises his chin to her. Stares as she bites her lip and struggles for composure, though it’s difficult under the gaze of a man like this.

He waits, and the only sounds are ragged breathing from both.

“Please,” she whispers. Quivering, even at the ask. “Before someone comes back.”

“You worry so much,” he says. “Relax.”

“I’m sorry, I just—”

“What did I tell you,” he hisses, “about apologies?”

She blinks, startled, and her lips part. A sparkle, a brilliance emerging in her eyes as she clenches and unclenches her fingers. Still, they shake a bit, the anticipation and remnants of the rise and current before still lingering, lying in wait. Predatory. A wetness floods to her lips and she swallows it down, leveling her eyes to his glittering, savage gaze.

With a deep inhale, she spreads herself before him, knees apart. Blushing invisible, lost in the red that’s already dappled every inch of her, she exhales the rest of her timidity with an edged, sharp expression and hopes she’s being clear—

Sakura just barely glimpses the fierce red in his gaze before he answers with his tongue, deft, ardent, and divine.

Breaking the chair arms beneath her delicate hands again, scrabbling to stay on the beautiful planet before it turns her loose. Sinking, again, the boundaries of atoms dissolving — they are nowhere but bliss.

Like before, the careful building of a fire, the agonizing escalation:  He drops a kiss here, employs a firm tongue there, skirting the easy option in favor of the tease as he peels her back, layer by layer. Running it the length of her slit, heart skipping a bit at the dangerous quake of her thigh muscle; how long it's taken to differentiate between pleasure and impending crush. Again, the sensation of crawling into the den of something prized and feral. He feels it, her writhing and the pace and canter of her breathing and she’s liquid gold, fucking melting —

Her hips jerk, hard, when his tongue swirls around her clit, the cry coming from her jagged as broken glass and trembling like music, all things that make his own situation difficult to manage but he will, because these sounds entrench him firmly in reality. Alive. Knees screaming on the hardwood floor, unyielding as his cock cradled only by fabric and not as he wishes, by her hands or her red, red lips like the kind she’s wearing now.

Instead he slows her down again, pendulum swings between teasing and a furious rhythm that coaxes the full spectrum of human sounds from her beautiful throat. Rewarded for it with a whiny gasp as if breaking the surface of water, mingling with his own as he catches his breath. The end of it careens into words, something rough, he’s not even quite sure what he’s saying but he imagines, neither does she.

This—fucking dress—!

Nice, isn’t it?

Gets you attention

But only from you, S-Sasuke-kun

And her hand lands on his head again, thin fingers yanking his hair and guiding him as he splays her open, lays her bare. His name never quite fully leaves her lips, dancing with fragments of alternating pleas and curses. Just for that, for something he’d never thought he’d ever hear in his life, he grimly knows he’d write a fucking sonnet just to hear her like this — and with his tongue, he does, or at least approximates. The tremors of her shift deeper now, approaching release; she’s so slick it feels vile, indulgence in sin. All of which is smeared on his lips, his face, tasting of tang and salt; how many times has he been told he’s selfish? Guilty. Greedy, too, as he pauses to breathe—

looking up at her, he has an idea but can’t possibly know the extent of this, how she’s absolutely wrung out and beyond this dimension, hell, this galaxy, every inch of her humming in tune with the universe and brimming with absolute, inescapable heat, muscles taut and and begging for climax. Though the soft edges of her green eyes that see through him and everything else, rolling back, mouth open and lips parted in mimeo of an oracle, sunken in the weight of divinity, might give him some clue.

Don’t stop, please—!

— he’s there, with his fingers buried and soaked and deep, playing that just-right rhythm with a thumb on her clit that’s been worked to the edge and back again over the span of her busy afternoon. Hairs part from his scalp without remorse; her nails scrabbling and fingers clinging as she prays and sighs and curses occasionally, quietly, into the limp back of her hand. As if she’s really still trying to maintain a semblance of professionalism in the throes of being launched into orbit.

So very close. He knows by the slightly erratic rhythm, the pulsating of muscles inside and out and around him, tight and he steals a quick breath to endure and ease his fingers out to redouble effort with his mouth because the way she’s sounding, that sharp icy note on the ragged edge of pleasure and pain, tends to be the signal, the tipping point. The tremor her free hand sends through the bones of the chair. Knees apart as far as she can manage and desperately meeting him at the hilt —

Steady through until the end.

Release comes as glass shattering, atoms splitting. Unintelligible words trapped in amber, in a moment, in desire. With a mouth full of fire, he rides it with her through every wave, persisting through her slow and ebbing tumble back down to earth. To him.

He leans back at last, groaning at the pain in his knees. Watches her tremble and twitch, wringing out the very last dregs of her orgasm, displacing everything coherent left in her head.

Seconds stretch into minutes, and he gets to his feet as she languishes in a pool of pleasure, steeping as scalding tea.

At some point her hand rises to her own lips, limp and wavering, to clean her own unabashed drippings with an expression of dizzy surprise. The white dissipates from her vision and she finds his eyes on her again, one still richly red in its sole mission of memorizing the glowing after.

“Oh.” That’s all she says, breathless.

Sasuke brings fingers across his own mouth, rolls his jaw side to side, and something about his expression of smug satisfaction resonates, strings of a plucked instrument, a pull again of desire that threatens to ruin the sanctity of this brand new office and the role that comes with it.

For a moment she leverages the chair to rise, then loses strength — she lowers herself back in it, arms still quaking.

She reaches for him, plucking at his shirt. Hair flyaway, askew from her frenzied fingers, still in his mission gear.

Yanking him down by the collar, she crashes her mouth against his, red and hot, the tang and taste of herself immiscible with his own. Whatever sound he makes, this growl or rumble or ache, splits them open.

What pulls them apart is the grating sound of their former sensei’s voice:  “I heard from a bird that someone in here was sick?”

Sasuke feels them in the room now and pulls away. Half-turns, finds himself leaning on her desk in a way that’s almost too casual, but necessary — his knees are shot through. Sakura smiles too widely, masking a secret; after all, both still feel the pinpricks of liquids drying in the new air.

“From your darling subordinate,” Kakashi twinkles, grinning underneath his mask.

“That one who follows you around like a puppy,” Naruto supplies, pouting.

Kakashi tilts his head toward him, both still lingering over the threshold. “Terrible, hm?”

Naruto misses the jibe and instead turns his wide ocean eyes on her new space. Whistles. “Man, Sakura-chan, this office is niiice. I’m jealous.”

“You’ll be in your new one soon enough,” she says, and there she is, her usual self. “I have faith. Anyway, this office comes with responsibility.”

“Well if anyone can do it, it’s you.”

“He was under the impression you were sick. Looking at you now, though,” and here Kakashi pauses in a manner all too deliberate, eyes sweeping over Sasuke’s cloak and belongings in a chair, and ends it with looking right at him, “you seem all right. Exhausted, I imagine.”

Her flush threatens to undo them both.

“He’s . . . sweet. To care.”

“He’s a fool,” Sasuke mutters.

“Perfect, you’re dressed nice,” Naruto crows. “How did you know we’d come make you celebrate? You didn’t eat, I bet you didn’t!” He eyes Sasuke up and down, at his unusually ruffled appearance, and clicks his tongue. “You didn’t even go home first, did you? Shitty boyfriend.”

The damage he committed on his recent mission pales in comparison to the crimes Sasuke wants to indulge now.

“Anyway, we’ll wait out here. After all,” Kakashi says, inclining his head, “this is your space now.”

Sakura exhales long and slow as they step out into the hallway. Covering her face with her hands, she groans. “No matter my job, I’ll never escape embarrassment, huh?”

Standing at last, she readjusts her clothes and kisses the underside of Sasuke’s chin. She reaches for his pocket and he moves easily out of her grasp.

“Sasuke-kun!”

“Pointless now. I’ll keep it.”

No matter what time, season, dimension, he regards all of her — the dress, the lips that held their color, the new flush simmering on her neck and chest — and craves, endeavors, to always love her red.

[janspar]

The First Engagement

My dear Cousin,

My dealings have been busy this last while. Let me tell you of the adventures I and the Nomad have had.

My first few forays as commander of the Nomad were distinguished by nothing more than the sheer joy of having a fine vessel and a crew of able hands under my command. Cutting the clouds in any craft makes one's heart soar, but the emotion I feel when it does so under my own instruction – ah, it is like no other!

Shepherding regular supply runs and trade convoys is safe work, no doubt, as there lurk few bandits and pirates in the Vikol province these days. Such work has occupied much of my time since my last letter. Nonetheless, it was a necessary period to get to know the hands and the officers, and to test their aptitude for navigation and gunnery. I have run exercises on the batteries every morning and evening – at some personal expense, as one cannot fire so much at length under the munitions allowance given to the ships. I must provide the extra ammunition from my own coffers. Fear not, cousin dear, my finances are still in fine condition – my officers' pay, some outstanding credit in my name, and some sure investments awaiting return will keep me flush.

But let me relay to you the most exciting engagement I have had so far! You may have heard how the Company is buying up the contracts for the recovery of bounties in many of the outlying towns and territories. A bold innovation, a fine example of the Temar spirit! In any case, my duties now extend to hunting miscreants and lowlifes of all sorts in the southern reach of the province. My first such assignment was completed just today, a thrilling engagement that I simply must relate.

Curious it was – the miscreants in question were a gang of free agents, themselves veterans of the securities and bounties trade hereabouts. Despite the new arrangements the Company has undertaken, this vessel, the Haggard, has persisted in its attempts to ply its trade in breach of the new laws and treaties. Naturally, we could not allow such competition to undermine our authority, but nonetheless it was curious – the thief-takers themselves reduced to common thieves

Based on intelligence of their position, we cruised along the Lestye valley. On the fourth day of our search, we spotted them low over the Eastern horizon, no doubt having seen our vessel and trying to slip away into the glare of the rising sun. We follow in dogged pursuit, our superior craft gaining on them easily. No strangers to such activities, they dropped behind a ridge and attempted to lose us in a tangle of forested canyons. Having lost sight of our prey, we rose and kept a circle of the area, watching for any sight of them trying to slip away, or any sign of encampment. I told the crew I'd award a month's wages and extra rations to the first hand to recover sight of them. Sure enough, after half a watch they were spotted in a gorge, attempting to conceal themselves by moving slowly in the shadows of the surrounding hills. We feigned ignorance of their position until they had approached a sharp corner in the gorge, where they would be forced to navigate slowly. And then we struck! Diving quickly, we iintended to board them and take both vessel and crew as prize. They opened with a well aimed but weak battery as we drew within range – dealing some damage to our own lower battery and killing two of the crew. We had no choice but to return fire, and here my gunnery practice paid off dear cousin! We crippled their upper battery directly, and on the second salvo sundered their dvint, forcing them to ground.

Landing nearby, and trusting the vessel to the command of my Mate, I personally led a detachment of marines and willing hands to their location. Their defense was half-hearted, a small crew shaken by their sudden grounding and unable to resist our superior numbers. We quickly overwhelmed them with minimal casualties on their part and no further deaths on ours.

The captain was a brave old buzzard, though fitting to her ship's name. An Abheski of fine local stock and heritage, she accepted our victory with admirable stoicism and dignity. Her log reveals a long history of thrilling engagements and adventures, lasting many years back. Had she signed up as a Company agent she could yet be working her trade, making money still and securing her future. A fine asset to the Company she could have been. But the fate that awaits her now is indentiture, or whatever else the Court-Mercantile might decide.

The Haggard was too damaged to make a worthy prize, though we salvaged its cargo and stripped it for parts and materials. Her fourteen remaining crew were bound and confined to the brig, and we shall return them to the Depot in quick order. Then I must simply await confirmation of the bounty, which, with charges of banditry, unlawful operation of arms, and much more to the Haggard's name, is sure to be considerable. The hands too have calculated their due and are eagerly awaiting the payout.

With such valour in my report, I shall be sure to be granted an independent cruise! Or perhaps even a full captaincy awaits!

I do hope all is well in Mirsvr. I will visit you as soon as I can, and we shall dine upon the proceeds of my daring!

Yours,

Yar te Yarllen, Lieutenant (Assigned Commander), Patrol Vessel Nomad, Temar Company

[xtruss]

Who Are the Taliban and What Is Their Goal?

— By Soo Kim | 8/19/21 | Newsweek

Fears over the future of Afghanistan following renewed Taliban rule has seen swarms of Afghans make desperate attempts to flee the country.

The militant group, who ruled Afghanistan in the late 1990s under a narrow interpretation of Islamic Sharia law, regained control of the country two weeks before the U.S. was scheduled to fully withdraw its troops, who have been there since 2001.

During a press conference on August 17, Zabihullah Mujahid, the Taliban's longtime spokesperson, vowed the country would forgive those who fought against them previously and would respect women's rights under the new era of Taliban rule.

A statement published on the official website of the Islamic Emirate of Afghanistan (IEA) on August 15, said: "The Islamic Emirate once again assures all its citizens that it will, as always, protect their life, property and honor and create a peaceful and secure environment for its beloved nation. In this regard, no one should worry about their life."

Here, we take a closer look at the history of the Taliban and its latest developments.

Who Are the Taliban?

In Pashto, the national language of Afghanistan, the word "Taliban" means "students."

The militant group was formed of Islamic guerilla fighters known as the mujahideen, who resisted the Soviet occupation between the years 1979-89. Founded by Mullah Mohammad Omar, an imam from Kandahar, in 1994, the group had the covert backing of the CIA and its Pakistani counterpart, the Inter-Services Intelligence directorate (ISI).

The Afghan mujahideen were joined by younger Pashtun tribesmen who studied in Pakistani madrassas (or seminaries). Pashtuns are the predominant ethnic group in much of the south and east of Afghanistan. They are also a major ethnic group in Pakistan's north and west.

The Taliban found a foothold in southern Afghanistan and consolidated their strength in the region.

The Council on Foreign Relations explains the group gained support at the start of the post-Soviet era with the promise of establishing stability following the years of conflict from 1992 to 1996 among rival mujahideen groups.

The Taliban provided a safe haven for al-Qaeda in the years leading up to the 11 September 2001 attacks in the U.S. The group provided a base in which al-Qaeda "could freely recruit, train, and deploy terrorists to other countries," the U.S. National Counterterrorism Center (NCTC) explains.

The Taliban maintained control of Afghanistan until October 2001 when a U.S.-led campaign against al-Qaeda ousted them from power.

Taliban fighters standing guard at an entrance gate outside the Interior Ministry in Kabul, Afghanistan on August 17. Javed Tanveer / AFP Via Getty Images

What Is the Goal of the Taliban?

Speaking to Newsweek, Dr. Thomas Barfield, the author of Afghanistan: A Cultural and Political History, said: "They [the Taliban] want to rule an Islamic State in Afghanistan using conservative rules, I do not believe that [they] have an ultimate goal beyond that."

The author, who is also a professor of anthropology and the director of the Institute for the Study of Muslim Societies and Civilizations at Boston University, told Newsweek "everyone's watching to see" if the new regime's promises will prove to be true, but "they are different and are taking public stances very different from the 1990s."

"In practical terms they cannot govern without the cooperation of the government employees and groups that provide services (medical, humanitarian, etc,). The Kabul they ruled in the 1990s was a ruined city with no functioning government or infrastructure with a few hundred thousand people.

"Now it is a city of five million that expects a government not only to provide security but delivers services. The Taliban have no means of doing this without reaching out to their former enemies," Barfield explained.

The Taliban Regime in Late 1990s

By 1994, the Taliban had moved through the south and captured several provinces after the Soviet-backed Afghan government fell in 1992. By September 1996, the group seized the Afghan capital of Kabul, killed the country's president and established the Islamic Emirate of Afghanistan.

The Taliban's first move after taking control in the late 1990s was to implement "a strict interpretation of Qur'anic instruction and jurisprudence," which in practice entailed "often merciless policies on the treatment of women, political opponents of any type, and religious minorities," the NCTC says.

According to a November 2001 report released by the Bureau of Democracy, Human Rights and Labor of the U.S. Department of State, the country under strict Taliban rule in the late 1990s had "one of the worst human rights records in the world."

The regime at the time "systematically repressed all sectors of the population and denied even the most basic individual rights" and its "war against women was particularly appalling," the state report says.

Another report carried out report by the Human Rights Watch (HRW) in June 2020 said the oppression at the time also entailed "cruel corporal punishments, including executions; and extreme suppression of freedom of religion, expression, and education."

Severe restrictions were placed on Afghan women's access to work, education and health care, as well as on their physical movements and dress code, which required them to be covered under a burqa, a garment that covers the body and face.

Women were only allowed to be out in public when accompanied by male relatives or risk beatings by the Taliban.

"Women were stripped of their dignity under the Taliban. They were made unable to support their families. Girls were deprived of basic health care and of any semblance of schooling. They were even deprived of their childhood under a regime that took away their songs, their dolls, and their stuffed animals—all banned by the Taliban.

"The Taliban perpetrated egregious acts of violence against women, including rape, abduction, and forced marriage. Some families resorted to sending their daughters to Pakistan or Iran to protect them," the 2001 report said.

Promises of Peace and Protection Under the New Taliban

The August 15 statement published at the website of the IEA claimed: "All those who have previously worked and helped the invaders, or are now standing in the ranks of the corrupt Administration of Kabul, the Islamic Emirate has opened its door for them and have announced for them amnesty. We once again invite them all to come and to serve the nation and the country.

"In areas which are under the control of the Islamic Emirate, people should lead a normal life, especially in the official arena, whether it is educational, healthy, social or cultural," the statement said.

The IEA stated on August 15: "No one should leave their area and country. They shall live a normal life; our nation and country need services, and Afghanistan is our joint home that we will build and serve together."

The Associated Press reported that under the latest Taliban rule women have been encouraged to return to work. A female news anchor interviewed a Taliban official in a television studio on August 16. Elsewhere, girls were allowed to return to school and handed Islamic headscarves at the door.

According to AP, at the August 17 press conference, Taliban spokesperson Mujahid promised the Taliban would honor women's rights within the norms of Islamic law, though he failed to rule out cutting off hands as feet as punishment, as was the method used during the group's first rule.

Mujahid stated on August 17 that the Taliban were granting amnesty for former soldiers as well as for contractors and translators who worked for international forces. He said the Taliban will not seek retribution against ex-soldiers and government officials, Reuters reported,

"Nobody will go to their doors to ask why they helped," Mujahid said at the August 17 news briefing.

According to Reuters, he also claimed that day that "nobody is going to harm you, nobody is going to knock on your doors," noting there was a "huge difference" between the Taliban now and that which ruled 20 years ago.

The AP reported the Taliban spokesperson also said that private media should "remain independent" but that journalists "should not work against national values," at the August 17 news briefing.

India's NDTV reported Mujahid said: "We have three suggestions: No broadcast should contradict Islamic values, they should be impartial, no one should broadcast anything that goes against our national interests," at the August 17 press conference.

Taliban spokesperson Zabihullah Mujahid (left) speaking during a press conference in Kabul, Afghanistan on August 17. Hoshang Hashimi/AFP Via Getty Images

Despite Mujahid's reassurances, fears remain in Kabul after prisons and armories emptied out during the insurgents' sweep across the country.

AP reported on August 18 that residents in the capital have claimed armed men have been going door-to-door in search of those who worked with the ousted government and security forces, but it was unknown whether the gunmen were Taliban or criminals posing as militants.

Mujahid claimed the Taliban only entered the capital in order to restore law and order after the police presence was diminished, and blamed the breakdown of security in the city on the former government.

An unnamed Taliban official told Reuters that the group's leaders will also show themselves publicly rather than live in secret, as they had done previously.

They said: "Slowly, gradually, the world will see all our leaders, there will be no shadow of secrecy."

In the wake of the Taliban's latest advance, one of the group's leaders and co-founders, Mullah Abdul Ghani Baradar, returned to the country after a 20-year exile.

U.S. national security adviser Jake Sullivan said both the U.S. and other countries are not expected to take the Taliban at their word when it comes to their vows to respect women's rights.

Sullivan explained at the White House briefing: "Like I've said all along, this is not about trust. This is about verify. And we'll see what the Taliban end up doing in the days and weeks ahead, and when I say we, I mean the entire international community."

Will the Taliban Invade Other Countries?

The IEA stated on August 15: "Once again, we assure all our neighbors that we will not create any problems for them, they should thereby have confidence."

This was reiterated by Taliban spokesperson Mujahid, who told reporters: "We don't want any internal or external enemies."

India's NDTV reported Mujahid said: "The Islamic emirate is pledging to all world countries that no threat will be posed to any country from Afghanistan."

"We want to establish a government that includes all sides," the Taliban spokesperson said on August 17, adding that they want an end to the war.

Boston University professor Barfield doesn't believe the Taliban will invade other countries.

He told Newsweek: "Even in the 1990s the Taliban were focused only on Afghanistan."

"Some of their foreign allies like al Qaeda or the Islamic Movement of Uzbekistan, the Pakistani Taliban do however seek to move beyond Afghanistan," Barfield explained.

Newsweek has contacted Taliban spokespersons Mujahid, Suhail Shaheen, Dr. Mohammad Naeem and Qari Yousaf Ahmadi for comment.

[warrioreowynofrohan]

I’ve been thinking more about the overlap in fandoms between The Silmarillion, The Untamed, and Les Misérables. (At least, The Untamed is definitely attracting a lot of Silm fans, and I’ve seen quite a lot of overlap between Silm and Les Mis fans; overlap between The Untamed and Les Mis may be less common, but there appears to be at least a bit).

One of the major commonalities is that all three works contain an abundance of attractive, shippable men with close relationships to each other fighting a tragic, doomed battle described in epic terms.

But I think there are also deeper commonalities in the themes of the three works, and particularly around the theme of mercy. Tolkien’s works are striking in that, while mercy is repeatedly offered (to Melkor, to the Fëanorians, to Saron, to Saruman, to Gollum, among others) and continually refused, but this does not invalidate the offering. To offer mercy and have it refused does not make you a dupe or a fool; it simply means that you did what was right and another person did what was wrong. Indeed, the offer of mercy is regarded as a moral necessity, and a deliberate response to the injustice of the world: many that die deserve life....therefore do not be quick to deal out death in judgement, even to those who doubtless deserve it.

Victor Hugo likewise regards mercy as a moral necessity; the granting of it to Valjean creates the framework for the entire story, and the lack of it is Javert’s fatal blind spot. And it also appears as a theme within The Untamed, in the lack of it shown to Wei Wuxian and the Wen remnants, and in the misuse of what is offered to Jin Guangyao and Xue Yang.

However, each of the works exhibits their themes around mercy in a different way. In Tolkien’s works, the tragedy lies in the refusal of mercy where it is offered. It is the central tragedy of the Fëanorians in The Silmarillion - they are offered mercy and the chance to change their actions time and time again (Celegorm and Curufin are spared by their victims twice in the Leithian alone), and in the end they always turn away from it, to their final destruction. It is likewise the tragedy of Saruman and of Gollum in The Lord of the Rings. And in some cases - with Celegorm and Curufin, and with Saruman - the characters twist themselves to the point of hating the mercy they are offered and pursuing revenge on those who show it to them. The theme of needing mercy and not recieving it is comparatively less emphasized, though we see it in at least one crucial point - Sam and Gollum on the steps of Cirith Ungol.

In Les Misérables, the emphases are reversed. The central tragedy is that of needing mercy and not recieving it. Valjean is not shown mercy when he steals the loaf of bread and spends nineteen years in prison. Fantine is not shown mercy when she has money, hair, teeth, dignity, and life stripped from her for the crime of having a child out of wedlock. M. Mabeuf is not shown mercy when he is forced to give up his books, the joy of his life, in order to have money to eat, and goes to his death out of despair. Valjean, at the end, is not shown mercy by Marius, who progressively drives him away from Cosette. And as the light bracketing this darkness, we have the mercy shown by Bishop Myriel to Valjean, and the mercy that Valjean shows in return to all those he encounters. The countervailing theme of mercy recieved and refused remains present at a crucial moment - the death of Javert - as well as in the persistent exploitation of mercy and generosity by the Thénardiers. Hugo, like Tolkien, holds that to avoid the greater evil of refusing mercy, we must accept that it will sometimes be shown to those who use it to do harm.

The Untamed has more of an even balance between these two themes - fitting, as it is (like Tolkien’s works) an epic fantasy about a fight against evil and (like Hugo’s works) a story of the injustices perpetrated against social outcasts. There is the story of Wei Wuxian and the Wen remnants, who are destroyed by society’s lack of mercy and its determination to judge and condemn. And there is the story of Xiao Xingchen and Xue Yang, where a good man is destroyed by his choice to show unconditional mercy to one who brutally abuses it and uses that very mercy to destroy him. As with the two above works, the theme seems to be that you will not always be able to know, for certain, if you are dealing with a Wei Wuxian or a Xue Yang (the parallels between the characters are very deliberate - they even look similar!), but that offering mercy where it is exploited is, if tragic, less morally blameable than refusing it where it is needed.

And wrapped up with this theme of mercy, there is the pattern of moral absolutism colliding headfirst with moral complexity: Lan Wangji with Wei Wuxian; Enjolras with Grantaire; Javert with Valjean[1]. (Also, to a lesser degree, the bishop with the conventionary, in the first chapter of Les Mis.) Frodo’s he deserves death...I do not feel any pity for Gollum transforming into sympathy and mercy, and Sam later making that same progression.

[1] THIS ONE IS NOT A SHIP, OK. Please, no.

[magnaflourious-nerdity]

But Through Darkened Glasses

(You Need Chaos in Your Soul)

" And when you gaze long into an abyss the abyss also gazes into you."

There was a prompt on some Halloween themed fandom challenge for October. Monday's was 'Black Cat' and for whatever reason. This is what happened. Bc im just going with that kind of thing lately I guess, I decided to spit it out here. I didn't beta this thoroughly enough I guarantee bc im lazy and also the fandom is like 20 people big, and generally full of forgiving, lovely, content starved ppl. The last point I am extrapolating from my own experiences of being in the fandom, haha.

_____

It's weird, he thinks, twining in and out of the fence post he's been following for the past few minutes, trying to get his bearings now that he's been saddled with twice his accustomed amount of limbs. It's weird that I'm not more freaked out about this. He pauses, grooms himself briefly and crosses the street under the lamp light. The bulb blows out halfway across. He doesn't even jump this time. Maybe it's a bonus of having nine lives, you don't worry so much about one or two practice runs. His ears twitch minutely as the wind shifts and brings a low, buzzing, sound sighing through the fronds of the willow at the edge of his yard. They're even more sensitive now that he's a cat- the ears that is -twitching at the slightest whisper of a sound in the night.

He doesn't even bother to slow his pace as he hops the fence and passes through his own back yard, simply fixing jade eyes on the window he knows to be Becky's, turning them away again with the knowledge that there's no way she'd be at home tonight. Not on a night where she's basically been given free reign to go full-tilt feral social-climber on every party in town. There's no gaining entrance into his lair in his current state (nor is he particularly keen to meet Rasputin face to face right now either) and his parents are out of the question. Can't guarantee his dad won't be too drunk this late on a Halloween to tie a bottle rocket to his newly acquired tail. Don't really care to see him if he's sober either. Or just in general

Instead, His attention remains fixed on the sound he'd heard in the distance before, as he cuts across lawns and ducks down the well trod neighborhood backalleys, avoiding any heards of desperate, last-minute, trick-or-treaters or gaggles of drunken party-goers he catches wind of.

He's at the point of shrugging off the weird sounds he's been hearing as the result of some sort of particularly lumbering rodent in the underbrush, turning his attention instead to the little flashes of lamp light glinting off of abandoned candy wrappers. Batting at one every now and then non-committaly. It wasn't as exciting as one might think, being a cat. Kind of a snooze even, as far as curses went.

Well, at least it had the wherewithal and the courtesy as a curse to take aesthetics into account.

He was definitely the kind of cat his father would have chased off the lawn with a bb gun, if it had showed up at their door looking for food. He examines the pitch-colored shroud of his newly acquired fur as best as he can, glad- in a removed sort of way -that at least he was a proper Halloween cat. Scruffy and mysterious, not one of those opulently fluffy, pearl-colored, fancy-feast models.

There was dignity in being a black cat on Halloween. There was style! There was pinache!

A whisper, a low hum beyond his perception.

There were secrets. There was power. All of it his for the taking now that the opportunity had been unwittingly granted.

He'd read a legend once- in one of his massive, dusty, volumes on the lore of shapeshifters, dating back to antiquity -that on Halloween, black cats were at the most transient state of their existances. They could- if they could find the right chinks in reality's armour, where the space between things overlapped and folded in on itself like challah -use the threads surrounding and connecting the worlds to perform any number of impossibilities. Assume other forms, be anywhere at once, sew prosperity or discord at a whim.

It was said that those creatures most in-tune with with the pathways could even travel between them all. All of the worlds bookended against and, at certain times like tonight, overlapping their own. Those most-adept cats could slip in and out of dimensions as easily as a shadow slips under doorway.

I mean, I guess now is as good a time as any to test that hypothesis, Merton mused, slit-pupils zeroing in on the slightest movement down the street from Tommy's house, which was naturally where his slinky, purposeful, wandering had taken him. There were no other thoughts to it really. After all. He and Tommy were each other's lifeboats, lashed together to weather whatever bullshit came their way, side-by-side.

At least where finding ourselves on the wrong side of dark magic is concerned. He amended to himself. There was no one else here so he wasn't sure why he even bothered really.

He hesitated silently under a street lamp. The crackling sound of the light flickering above him sounded grating to his sensitive ears. He could understand Tommy's super-hearing-based woes a lot better now at least. With his gaze shifting uneasily between the safety of Tommy's house- the safety of his company, and of his unconditional presence, and of his unwavering dedication to Merton's protection despite the workload that it was turning out to be- and back to the subtle, but suddenly noticeable undulations of the shadows at the farthest edge of the neighbor's hedgerows. An opportunity had manifested itself.

Almost neigh-imperceptably, something shifts in the air, pervading every cranny of the now darkened street.

A moment of choice for Merton. The unexplored possibilities mount in his head, weighed against the cons of breaching the utterly unknowable. He is bewitched, rooted to the spot. Eve on the precipice of the apple, by virtue of both temptation and fear.

He'd gone to more extreme means, on less intel, for far more ridiculous pursuits. This was just a short walk to the end of the street. But he hesitates nonetheless, his own mind overriding the detatched curiosity that grew into him- into his bones -the longer he was attached to this form. He feels the pull of the interstitial static of the spaces between space, it hums and pulses gently along to the music of the spheres. Soft, inviting, unknowable.

He thinks of slipping between the phases of reality. Could he regain his body on his own that way? Could he pick a better one? He pads gently forward, going only a few, cautious steps, questioning himself all the while and trying to brace his senses against the hypnotic call of whatever the netherspace was wordlessly offering to him. He is waiting to see when the time will be right. If it will be at all. What will come of it.

I can fix this on my own for once, right now. He tells himself . I can learn so much. About everything. I can fix so much if I can just...

The pull of the place between is Urgent. Heady. Disorienting, he finds. It beckons him more insistently with each passing moment, and every sound made in the darkness is a soft, sighing, call to action. To adventure. To satisfy all of his human spawned, feline fueled, curiosities alike.

But another sound, this one from inside Tommy's house- still nearly right next to him -severs the tie. It's Tommy's laugh, loud and sharp and as intimately familiar to him as a siren song of his own.

Tommy. His tail lifts up into the air of its own accord as he starts to correct course towards the tree in Tommy's back yard, one which frequent exposure to the Dawkin's household tells him leads to the- usually wide open -2nd floor window landing of his best friend's bedroom.

The whispering from behind him grows more urgent as he turns away from it. Easier to discern from the normal night-music of Pleasantville. It grows in pitch, insistent, like a vulture pecking at the stripped down bones of its roadside carrion.

Despite his growing unease, Merton still feels the gravity of the thin places of the world eying him up, clawing at him. He realizes, with detached horror, that if the last few minutes are anything to go by, in this form, he isn't even sure if he can resist it at all. Much less how long his moment of self possession can last.

Merton, as a cat, finds himself to be mostly a loose collection of animal instincts and a haphazard jigsaw of the the bits of the world that don't seem to want to fit right with himself; all of this sewed up into a body thats more suggestive of physical form than equitable to one. He doesn't know how to even begin to navigate the puzzle of resisting the undertow of the universe as it digs its fingers solidly into the newest and most vulnerable parts of his shared but singular conciousness. The shadows in the hedgerows, the ripples of what's underneath the idea of them, begin to pulsate. They flail. Or it flails, because he can't tell the collective from the distinct anymore, can only watch with awe as the patch of space and time it is currently occupying shimmers, and cracks, and grows, and reaches. Merton swears he can hear it SCREAMING in the back of his head. At the place where his thoughts dissolve into notions less definable by words, and transform instead into a swirling mass of impulses conducted by the now-shrill trans-dimensional, thrumming of the universe's insistent, staticky back beat.

He sees something solidifying in the ectoplasm of that open sore in the flesh of the world. Something besides the thrashing, churning, cult of tendrils reaching out from the places they can squeeze through in the cracks. The sight makes every single one of his hairs stand on end. Which is something, given he has a significant deal more of them now than he usually would. But there is no mistaking what he is seeing being melded together in the eye of that widening miasma. A hand claws its way past the meshing, roiling tentacles of that dark expanse. Pulling itself forward into the physical, out of the theoretical. A set of shoulders struggles past, dragging the other arm in to being along side it, pale and wan. There is a pause, one last still moment before, with repulsion thrumming through every part of him, he focuses on the well of dark magics still spewing forth parts of the creature. He sees the top of a head breech through the dimensional weak spot. The head turns in Merton's direction at his displeased hisses of fright. Merton locks up in immediate, gut-wrenching, horror when the creature gazes back at him, wearing his own face.

‐-----

I'll probably never continue this or even do anything at all w it,, but it was fun! In case you were wondering about the subtext between tommy and merton, yes. gay. Also whats dialague don't know her

[stfredsa]

DEADLY NIGHTSHADE —— not accepting 

@demottcm​ said :  ❛  don’t  say  it ,   don’t  fucking  say  it .  ❜ f-from kalix... 💀

so she doesn’t.

he still has a pull on her: so she doesn’t.

this is the part she hates. if she had any dignity left, her hatred would be aimed at him: it would serve as a magic wand to make him disappear out of her life, erase the notion of him entirely, grant her, at last, the shelter of long-lasting safety. seems her survival instinct has been faulty from the start, and though she should recognize in him the serpent tainting the make-believe eden she has planted for herself, he still looks in her eyes like the shiny apple instead, a taste so sweet it has her aching for it, still. and she hates this. hates him the most for the way she can’t hate him.

so she doesn’t say it, but the words cut on her tongue like razorblades. [ get out of here. get away from me. get out of each memory where you are close and i am one with you, get the warmth out of my bed, get your touch off my skin, get out, just get the fuck out of me. ] her hand holds the edge of the door, her teeth are digging so hard against the inside of her cheek she swears she can almost taste the bleeding. but that’ll get the taste of him out of her mouth - won’t it ?

it’s a second, it’s just a single second: it’s a look in his eyes that she knows, somehow, beyond these parts they’ve both been forced to play. strip the man naked of his lies, there’s a core she can still remember burning against her: so what is she to make of it ? her gaze falls off his, she bites harder in her mouth and wants to cry, again, but won’t.

the words hang heavy but she won’t say them.

i wanted to trust you. i wanted give you everything.

“ it’s late ”, comes out instead. her tone flat, emotionless: her gaze avoids him, ‘cause he still has a pull on her and she doesn’t want to know he can still reel her back in within the span of a breath. “ go home, kal. it’s just —— it’s over. go home. ”

[canttelliotte-blog]

Incredibly long, overly detailed post I spent too much time on.

Tl:dr AITA for telling someone they were coming off as an ungrateful, privileged asshole who didn't seem to recognize or truly appreciate what they have? I blew up after a series of encounters, they seemed oblivious to their lifestyle and support and how truly different life could have turned out without it. I called them out after weeks of trying to be empathetic but couldn't take how helpless they were acting when I would kill for the kind the support they were complaining about and taking for granted.  

I should use a throwaway because I know this person will probably see this but I don't have the energy. I'll try to keep this short (actually super long sorry) I feel like I already know I was sort of harsh and out of line. This whole thing has just been sticking with me and I feel really messed up about it.  

Alright, so context, back story. I had a breakdown in February and tried to kill myself. By some miracle, I got a bed at one of the best mental hospitals on this side of the east coast. After a long history of chronic mental illness, being on disability for years with medicare, getting an opportunity like this was amazing. I had been on waiting lists for months before my attempt, but fate, acuity, and availability all lined up. A true miracle. Unless you have a family with money or amazing health insurance, getting a bed is just extremely difficult at this particular facility.  

The reason being, they provide real treatment. Comprehensive, attentive, life-saving treatment. They actually provide real care with empathy, actual therapy, psychiatry, and groups, with educated staff, real food to eat, world-renowned providers, and treatment teams that listen and work with you to come up with effective long-term solutions/aftercare plans that set you up for long term success.  

Out of pocket, this place is unfathomably expensive. The more exclusive programs on-campus are for the ultra-elite/ ultra-wealthy, taking celebrities like Selena Gomez. The institution itself is known for its education and research. It is not funded by the state like almost everywhere else. Most state-run facilities are atrocious. a disgusting holding cell, where you're stripped of your clothes, dignity, and rights, fed prison food, overmedicated, physically and chemically restrained, only to be thrown back on the street in 3-5 days with no aftercare, med refills, or plan. Been there, done that, many times, not the point. The point was, I got some really helpful expensive ass treatment by the luck of the draw.  

While I was there, I met someone lovely. We instantly connected and expressed interest in one another. They seemed really cool, we talked at length about income inequality and how unfair it was that this kind of treatment wasn't the norm or easily accessible and how unfair that was. They seemed passionate and bright and we got along great. They were set to discharge only a few days after I got there, so we exchanged info before they left. We talked a bunch while I was still there (my discharge was a couple of weeks later) and decided to go on a few dates after I got out.  

A few days after I got out, I unintendedly overdosed, confused about my meds, and was incoherent by the time I got to the ER. I was restrained and chemically sedated. I was confused and fought so was deemed severely acute, and got sent to a state-run facility similar to what I described above. It was all very traumatic and I shut down once I got home. I was lucky I made it out semi-okay, that they let me out at all.  

I wasn't replying to anyone's messages but the person I had met kept reaching out wanting to hear from me and make sure I was okay. I was embarrassed but it was really sweet and soon we starting talking a lot again and really connecting.  

As I got to know them, I definitely thought they were very cool, we seemed to have a lot in common, they made me laugh and we got along really well. I was really digging them and saw us potentially becoming a thing.  After talking for some time, we decided to anxiously have our first date. It went okay but something was off.  

I didn't really pick up on it at first but the more we talked, the more privileged they offhandedly revealed they were. I know it's judge-y and lame, but that kind of put me off. I've been poor my whole life and struggled hard for everything, it's a whole different world living in poverty, so it made me a bit uncomfortable.  I still live in poverty, on disability, with food stamps, and can barely hold it together enough to have a part-time job, but I have no choice. It's rough. I've been homeless, lived in institutions, went through foster care, and have no familial support. I have one of the most serious debilitating mental illnesses. It's been very very hard.  

I am biased but I haven't met anyone well off who gets it. Some people don't realize how hard things can be when you've really had nothing, and had to work hard for everything. Even simple things are taken for granted, not understood, or there are miscommunications or assumptions made due to the lack of understanding. That's just my personal experience, it's hard trying to explain things and it's invalidating sometimes, it can be hard to relate or connect due to the lack of understanding.  

Honestly, though, it took me by surprise. We had both talked passionately about the struggles of being on disability, the importance of income inequality, how unfair the system is set up, the barriers against the poor receiving adequate mental health treatment. They explained how they advocated for social justice and regularly went to protests. I felt dumb because I did meet them at higher-end facility, but I assumed they ended up there by dumb luck as I did with how they presented and initially came across.  

They made it seem like we were in the same boat, poor af, chronically mentally ill, and 4 ever struggling. It was just a surprise because that was very much was not the case.  

They moved up here from Florida, (where admittedly their life was much harder and different), but since moving, they were being supported by their aunt and uncle, who were very, very well off. They had a very expensive private practice psychiatrist, multiple treatment providers, and an apartment in a very well-off area, that their aunt owned, so they paid no rent.  Their car/insurance/phone everything was paid for.  

They seemed to have money to burn, dancing around being well taken care of and not really having to worry. They were on disability though receiving payments and food stamps in addition, not reporting the assistance from their family. When I lightly inquired, they said their grandmother mostly controlled their finances and they didn't deal with bills etc. They spent freely, getting take out almost every night, etc. enjoying all the pleasure of life without a second thought.  

I was uncomfortable with this like I said, but they did seem cool and understanding, we did get along and I wanted to give them a chance. I put my biased experience aside and tried to give it a go.  

First example that really blew me away was their dog. They had several animals, including a cat and two dogs. Even for someone working, three animals is a huge expense. I only have one cat and while she's my world, it gets hard sometimes. The vet is expensive, litter, food, treats, it adds up. And she's only one animal!!! I provide for her and take care of her, but a $350 vet bill still packs a punch. Of course, I pay it, she's my baby, but it might mean only eating sandwiches for a few weeks. I love her, so I sacrifice, she is worth it in every way, but animals are expensive and a lot of work/responsibility.  

When this person and I first started seriously talking, they mentioned the dog they were closest to was very sick with a rare condition. I don't know the full details, but I guess it took a while for the vet to figure out what was wrong, he was on a lot of medications, needed loads of tests and scans. There were weeks of extensive treatments/ blood transfusions, all in a long, painful, and strenuous attempt to save him. They tried for a long time in the hopes he would get better.  

He, unfortunately, passed away a few weeks after we started talking. It was devastating to them and I tried my best to be supportive and help them grieve. They were understandably at a huge loss. Their mental health tanked. Their dog meant the world to them, I understand that completely. Pets are family.    

A few weeks after he passed. They were talking a little about the course of treatment and how hard it had been and what a long, painful road it was. They kind of casually remarked that his treatment cost over $20,000.  

I honestly thought I had misheard. I had to ask twice because I thought they meant $2,000. No. $20,000. $20,000.Holy shit.    

I just...$20,000 is what I make in a year. A year. Dogs are family, I totally, totally get that. People will do anything to save their loved ones. A pet is like an uninsured child, even with pet insurance, it can be expensive. I get that. If you have that kind of money, you pay it, without a thought, no problem.  

I just... wow. I still couldn't even wrap my mind around it. My cat is my world but it breaks my heart to say, if anything happened to her like that, it would kill me, but I would be forced to put her down. I just couldn't believe, $20,000. And they said it like, no big deal, of course, like anyone would/could afford that, it was obvious, a no-brainer. I just...wow.  

Next, kicker. I  came over to hang out one night and watch movies. I had never been to their apartment before. They claimed it had been super messy and they made a big deal about how they had cleaned for me. Sweet, but unnecessary, I get mental illness is tough. It was two bedrooms, all to themselves, decent space and light, but definitely scattered and cluttered. They had a huge king-sized bed, a bidet in the bathroom, and a super nice living room set up. Big comfy couch, loads of nice blankets, and honestly the biggest tv I had ever seen. They joking bragged about having all the streaming options. No kidding. Hulu, Disney plus, Netflix, Amazon, HBO, Paramount, and at least half a dozen more I hadn't even heard of. It just seemed crazy and excessive paying for that many streaming services every month.  But to each their own I guess.

We were both huge fans of anime, and they sort of decided to venture to studio ghibli. They asked if I had seen a particular favorite of theirs. I hadn't. They searched and it was only available to rent. $17. I nearly had a heart attack. I was like no way, we could definitely find it streaming for free somewhere if we look, or watch something else, shortage of options. They were like no it's no biggie that's what I want to watch and clicked rent. Like no problem *sweats intensely* Anytime I spend money, I have a heart attack and second guess it, it takes me like 10 minutes to click buy and my heart always drops when I do. I overthink, whether I really need/deserve it/whether there's a cheaper option, or if it's truly necessary. I know that's a poverty thing. It's just like we could have easily found it somewhere for free with a little effort!  

We go to order food, we both have celiac so finding takeout is a chore. They knew the area better so I was trusting them. They were very adamant about ordering expensive sushi. It was $36 for just one of the things they wanted. Not including delivery or tips or fees or anything else, which included appetizers and drinks, the whole nine. I wasn't feeling sushi. They were like fine, we'll order from two separate places then. Double the delivery fee, not something I ever do, it would be cheaper finding a place together, I could get something small and affordable but they wouldn't budge. I didn't really have money to order a big thing on my own, I wanted something small, but I felt pressured. I figured anything I got would be cheaper than having to split a big sushi order I didn't want. I was like okay fine.  

They kind of seemed annoyed that I didn't just give in and get sushi. They were a little short with me, didn't give me many options of other places, and were weirdly controlling, not letting me look at their phone to find something. I kind of gave up and said like just a burger is fine. I figured it would be cheap and filling, probably $20 max. I didn't take into consideration that they live in an extremely expensive area. It ended up being almost $30, plus tip. For a burger. I almost wanted to cry. I would have picked somewhere else cheaper given the option. They didn't even tell me the price until after they ordered it. I was like oh how much like $15 and they were so casual like oh no, $30 with tip. When it arrived, it was cold and disgusting, really inedible. I picked at the fries, which gave me a stomach ache as they were not gluten-free friendly and had been cross-contaminated in the fryer. I assumed they picked a place that they knew was safe.  

When I wasn't eating, they asked if it was bad. I said yeah and they were like oh well just order something else. Like no, I can't afford anything else, it doesn't work like that. I was like no it's fine I'm not really that hungry. I wanted to say, I trusted you, and you kinda fucked me. I guess they picked that place because there was a gluten-free brownie sundae (prepackaged and not cross-contaminated) on the menu that they really wanted. Obviously more important.  

My stomach ached all night. They ate their food happily. No big deal to them, $30 wasted on food I didn't really want, that I couldn't end up eating and got me sick. If it were them, they would have just ordered something else. No big deal to them. It was more important they got their brownie sundae and expensive sushi than making sure I was able to get something edible. Didn't matter that was half my grocery money for the week. Bologna sandwiches it'll have to be then. Awesome.  

We spent the night talking, I didn't let on to how sick I was or that I was upset about not being able to choose food. They picked all the movies. I wanted to go home, but it just got later and later, one more movie I just *needed* to see. I asked them several times as the clock was ticking if it was getting too late to drive me home. No, no they were fine. Let's just watch another one. Then casually, they went to their room and brought out their night meds, threw 'em back, and settled into the couch. I started to panic. I asked again, you're taking me home, right? I guess they decided they weren't. I was miles away from home, no public transit running or close by. They were like oh I'm so tired, it got so late. Just order a car. I pulled up uber, $25. That would definitely overdraft my account.  

Thankfully, after they saw me sweating and looking panicked, they were like, oh, I feel so bad, I'll order the uber for you. (If they hadn’t, I would have had to explain like, getting home on my own wasn't the plan nor was staying the night. If they thought I would be cool with just staying, they should have said something, if they wanted me to stay, it should have been a discussion, not a surprise.)  

I just felt really disrespected. I was simultaneously hungry and sick from dinner, broke and unprepared to stay over with no prior discussion. I didn't have meds, my cat didn't have food out, I was blindsided and essentially stranded/put in an awkward position. They didn't consider that it might be stressful or beyond my limitations to get home. Being able to just roll with punches isn't financially feasible for everyone. It just felt like they were self-centered and inconsiderate. The whole night was what they wanted, what they wanted to eat, where they wanted to order from, what they wanted to watch, changing plans to what was convenient for them without any regard toward how it might impact me. Just inconsiderate and self-centered behavior.  

We did keep talking though, I just sort of chalked it up to miscommunication and sort of beat myself up for not speaking up. It was weird though, kept just casually mentioning shit that was so privileged and complaining about shit that made them sound so ungrateful. I don't think they realized how it came across, just completely oblivious to their access to resources and not appreciating their position or supports.  

They started talking about starting ketamine treatments to combat their ongoing depression. They had received them in the past and went on about how life-changing and helpful it was, and that everyone should try it. Now, being on disability (and even with most insurances) the treatments are not covered. The clinics that administer them are all out of pocket, bougie as fuck, and extremely expensive.  

They talked about having several rounds in the past like it was nothing. It's easily $250-400 a pop and they were going 1-2x a week for a long time. They kept talking about all their options like what a painstaking burden. Should they start with lozenges and work up to IV clinic or ask for patches, and start that way. They wanted to work up to twice a week again but their family was giving pushback. They wanted me to agree with them, saying it was so unfair and lame and unreasonable/closeminded of their family for not immediately agreeing. The same family that would be footing the bill.  No, not unfair or unreasonable at all. You sound privileged as fuck.  

I was super bothered they were endlessly going on about it and complaining about pushback and asking me to agree with them. My treatment-resistant depression hasn't responded to anything, I've been on every waiting list for MDMA-assisted treatment whenever they pop up but never been selected due to demand and availability. Even ECT is too expensive and not covered. I'd kill for an opportunity like that! And it wasn't even like their family was saying no, they were discussing it in family therapy and seriously considering it.  

They talked about it so nonchalantly and kept going on and on about how amazing it was. Like great, tell me all about something else I'll never be able to afford. I'm sure Paris is great, and backpacking across Europe is awesome, like please do tell me more.  

I finally mentioned like okay that sounds great, will never able to afford it, glad it's so helpful They told me that I could just buy it off the street. That's what they used to do occasionally. It's only a couple hundred dollars and you get way more. Like oh okay. Let me just not pay a third of my rent in the hopes that this jam band kids ketamine isn't fentanyl or some shit and maybe have a shot at not wanting to kill myself for a week, you know on the off chance it works. Sounds great, super safe, much more affordable. And like as ridiculous as it was to offer that as an alternative, that still wouldn't be something I could afford! They just came off so clueless and privileged and oblivious.

What really got me was how they eventually talked about their family. They did weekly family therapy with their aunt and uncle and occasionally their dad since moving up here. They stayed with their aunt and uncle (lived down the street) more often than not so they weren't alone. This was encouraged/appreciated/welcomed. They did activities together regularly to help with depression and loneliness/ managing symptoms. They had their grandma and brother, whom they saw often and cherished greatly. They portrayed the relationships as really solid and important. I thought wow, truly wholesome and wonderful.  They seemed so loved, close, connected, cared for, and supported. Across the board, they had support.  

But then tables would turn. They complained often their family was too close, too conservative, and not understanding. They didn't want them so involved in their life, their treatment, decision-making, and recovery process. They resented the support, complained they weren't a kid and were capable/in sound mind to make decisions/have control of their life. I tried to listen and be understanding but I didn't get it. They came off almost like a spoiled, ungrateful teenager.  

You're getting help, love, and support all around, everyone wants to support you and see you do well and will give whatever that takes. Like legitimately whatever ?!?  You don't have to work, pay for anything, and it is made sure you don't have to struggle for anything. Anything you need, you've got.  

I get the concept that having family so close/involved could be crippling or invasive or just downright unproductive. But it was such a slap in the face they would complain to me of all people about having that kind of support.  

Family/support is such a foreign concept to me personally. Like I said, I grew up in foster care. I've never had family involved, healthy relationships, or any sort of support like that. The concept of calling your aunt when you're sad and she offers kind words, support, and tells you to come over to do something fun? Like, can't relate. I could only take so much of them complaining about being taken care of.  

Living with extreme mental illness, not being able to work for periods of time, living solely on disability paychecks and food stamps is damn is impossible to survive, especially where we live. Without the help they were being given, they wouldn't be able to survive. The cost of living is out of control, you can't even rent a room with a single disability payment. I know, I'm doing it. It takes everything for me to keep a part-time job, barely making enough to make ends meet. But if I don't. I'm homeless again. No matter what, no matter how bad symptoms get. And I have one of the hardest, most debilitating mental illnesses. I don't have any other choice.  

Their aunt would pay for them to go to school or learn a trade or anything they wanted. They have a world-renowned private practice doctor that prescribes them literally anything they could want or need to help and they have a great bond/ working relationship. I have a psych who can barely remember my name and sees me for 5-15 minutes maybe once or twice a month. I was asking for medications recently to get through a hard time, nothing serious, but my state-assigned psych does not prescribe benzos. Period. Neither does my PCP. It's state rehab or psych facility for me or bust. Another thing they take for granted. They almost bragged to me about immediately getting two heavy-duty benzos and another maintenance medication,  just by saying their panic attacks were slighting increasing. Meanwhile. I was at risk for DT's after relapsing and begging for basic Librium to maybe not die and was denied.  

The real reality of being on disability is the bare minimum or bad treatment. My psychologist is thankfully amazing but it took 10 years and hitting absolute rock bottom and being homeless to find her. She's a diamond in the rough but only works with the sickest of the sick. I would be in a state institution right now if it weren't for her and I avoided it by the skin of my teeth.  

So here's where I'm probably the asshole. After weeks, I broke. We were texting as usual and they started to sort of mope and complain. They were venting about having a hard time again and how symptoms were bad and there was just nothing they could do and it was so hard. They started going on about how helpless they were and how there was no opportunity to get better and everything was just super hard and impossible for them and how rough they had it. Their family was checking in on them too much and they were annoyed at them for being concerned and that they had no options and no chance and everything was just so hard and impossible.  

I understand, that's depression. I'm pretty empathetic and understanding and have been up to this point but it just felt like the rich person complaining to the homeless guy sleeping on the street, how awful it was they forgot their umbrella that day, and how unfortunate it was to be getting wet. I just wanted to scream. If you're anxious take your benzos, take your other meds! Call your aunt. Text your on call therapist. Call your fancy psych who answers night and day. Utilize any of the resources you have and all the support you are given!    

I was just tired of it. Things in my life have been super difficult, especially lately, and I have to figure it out alone. The voices were getting loud again which lead to a bad relapse that went off the rails, which I had to pull out of completely unassisted. I am in between jobs, my housing isn't stable, my bank accounts are low, my mental health is chronic and very severe, my treatment team was threatening to section me if I didn't reel it in. Things were bad. But I deal with it, alone.    

I know it was wrong of me, but I couldn't take it. They have everything to help themselves!!! They could go to a fancy hospital, they could ask all their supports for help! They would receive the best care. All the medicines, the best treatment. Anything.  

I basically kind of spelled it out for them. You have privilege, you have support, you have money, resources, a great treatment team, family, everything... please for the love of God, USE IT! You wouldn't have to worry about losing your job going into treatment, you wouldn't lose your housing. You wouldn't have to worry about falling behind on bills. You'd be fine.  

How can you not see or appreciate all you have and or see how oblivious and privileged you come across and how hurtful that is? You're complaining to the wrong person.

I went on a bit too long. I was definitely coming from a place of hurt, mental illness, and jealousy. I wasn't trying to make them feel bad, I just wanted them to understand. That kind of support would make all the difference for so many that are struggling. They are sitting with gallons of water around them, complaining to be inconsolably parched and that don't know what to do, all while sort of offhandedly bragging about how much water they have and how they can easily get more. I've been carefully conserving a 16 oz Poland spring bottle, rationing for weeks not knowing if/when I will be able to refill. They aren't alone, expected to make it on just disability. They weren't recognizing their position, how they were coming across, how hurtful that was. I didn't get anyone to catch me, love me, support me. This is the real reality of living with extreme mental illness on disability looks like without that opportunity or support. This is hard fucking work. We are not the same. You got lucky. Now do something with it.

They ended up calling me a dick, saying I didn't understand, that I was being cruel and mean for no reason. We haven't talked since. I do feel bad, I just couldn't take it anymore.  

So if you made it this far, lay it on me, AITA?      

[sariasprincy-writes]

Chapter 2: Into the City

Not the Only One

Chapter One - Outta this Town

The long awaited chapter 2. Now that this story is becoming a small ficlet, I have renamed it to “Not the Only One”. Enjoy!

Chapter Two Into the City MadaSaku/TobiSaku

This was not supposed to be happening.

That single thought had rolled through Sakura’s mind many times in recent weeks, but never as strongly as in this moment.

From her place on the witness stand, she couldn’t hide from any eyes. Not the judge. Not the jury. Not the lawyers. Not Tobirama.

Not Madara.

He had always been a hard man to read. Even after nine years of marriage, there had still been moments when it was impossible to tell what was passing behind those black eyes. Like a statue sculpted from ice, Madara sat unmoving. The coldness he regarded her with was nothing she didn’t expect. Having disappeared on him nearly a year ago she hadn’t anticipated a warm welcome back. Even less so when her return had been prompted by a court subpoena.

“Answer the question, Miss Haruno,” the judge demanded.

Sakura didn’t blink. Her maiden name having become so familiar to her as the months passed since the divorce papers had been signed and mailed. Her identity returning to her.

“Miss Haruno, would you like me to repeat the question?” the prosecutor asked.

Even without looking at him, Sakura could feel Tobirama’s eyes on her. They had spoken a few times since that fateful day a year ago, but not about the reason she was here in court today. This had completely blindsided her.

“No, I heard you,” Sakura said, not quite coldly. But there was a bite of something in her tone. “You asked if I had even been aware of Madara embezzling funds from the Uchiha-Senju Corporate while married. My answer is no. Madara and I never discussed business when we were together.”

Calm and professional, Sakura answered the prosecutor’s questions. Her gaze never wavered from him as she spoke. Each question he asked attempted to chip away at her a little more. Break her down, destroy her testimony and her character. The demeaning questions, the lack of respect shown to her was obvious, even if he poised his questions in a seemingly innocent way.

“Let’s discuss your marriage, Miss Haruno,” he continued.

Sakura felt her spine stiffen defensively. “What about my marriage?”

“Was it happy? Were you happy?” he asked, his expression turning vaguely sympathetic.

She saw through his false sense of pity. “I fail to see what purpose that question serves,” she said, her gaze briefly flickering to the Judge.

The older man behind the high bench beside her looked ready to intervene, but the prosecutor stepped forward. “I promise my questioning has a reason, your Honor.”

The Judge looked doubtfully but he nodded nevertheless, silently granting his permission.

The prosecutor returned to her. “Miss Haruno?”

Sakura held his gaze for a long moment, weighing how much she could still conceal. How much of her dignity the courts would allow her to leave with. Her red lips twisted into an ironic smirk as she realized they intended to strip her down bare. Her eyes briefly dropped to her lap.

When she raised her gaze again, the look was gone. “Are you married, Mr…?”

“Tanaka,” the prosecutor provided. Then he smiled, “And yes, I am.”

“And is your wife happy?”

“She is. Very much so.”

Sakura simply eyed him. The prosecutor was in his late forties. He was dressed well in an expensive suit and a pair of shoes that gleamed in the bright courtroom lights. He obviously had a successful career with a hard-earned reputation. Tobirama and Hashirama wouldn’t have hired him otherwise.

“Are you certain?” Sakura asked, her voice soft, almost as if she were speaking to a lover. Still, it rang out clearly for everyone to hear. “You must spend plenty of late nights at the office. What time do you get home? Nine or ten? Maybe later? That gives her plenty of time to pay the bills, order the groceries, make dinner. Touch up her make-up after she realizes just how cold and lonely such a big house is. It only takes two hours for the swelling of her eyes to go down. After so much practice, a fake smile becomes her normal smile eventually.”

The following silence was echoing. The prosecutor eyed her for a long moment and she wondered if something she had said struck a nerve.

Then he swallowed and his expression cleared. “You left Mr. Uchiha quite suddenly, Miss Haruno. Why was that?”

That familiar feeling of betrayal rose within her as she recalled the night she realized Madara was having an affair. It burned within her, tearing open the old wound, but she kept her cool façade. Every eye rested on her. Their pressure almost physical as they all waited to hear what she would say.

None, however, was as penetrating as Madara. His stare was piercing. Like a physical weight, he held her in place.

Sakura purposely avoided his gaze. Some part of her still stung that he hadn’t come after her after she had left. She had sent the divorce papers and he had simply signed them. As if she had been nothing to him for last decade. That almost hurt more than the fact he had found another woman’s company more pleasurable than her own.

Still, Sakura held her strong guise. There wasn’t any question the lawyers could ask her that could make her feel small or insecure. She had felt plenty of that in the last year on her own. And she had worked hard enough to rebuild herself from nothing to fall back on those self-doubts.

“Because he was having an affair,” Sakura eventually answered, her voice threatening to waver.

Mr. Tanaka was either unmoved or unconcerned. “Not because Madara had asked you to move a large sum of money for him?”

“No,” she shook her head.

The questions turned less personal after that. The prosecutor wrapped up his questioning before the defense took their turn.

By the time the courts had let out nearly five hours later with the jury coming back with a guilty verdict against Madara on all counts, Sakura was exhausted. She had sat stone-faced through it all. Unmoving, she watched from the public benches behind the defense’s desk as Madara was escorted out of the courtroom. He was far too wealthy and held far too much power to be removed in handcuffs.

Still, Sakura’s heart felt like it was breaking all over again. For though they were divorced, Madara had been an important person to her for a big portion of her life. Someone she had planned on spending her life with, someone she had once thought would father her children. But that future no longer existed and that knowledge left a hollow ache in her heart.

“Sakura,” a voice called softly. She glanced at Shikamaru, her lawyer and longtime friend, as he squeezed her arm gently. “Are you ready?”

Pursing her lips, Sakura swallowed hard to keep her emotions from showing. She glanced back towards the courtroom doors as another attendee exited, allowing the loud chatter and flashes of photography from the press to slip through. The idea of having to push through another gauntlet of reporters made her stomach roll.

Automatically her gaze fell back to Madara, only he was already gone. She was alone. Just as she had been for these long months since leaving.

Inhaling a steady breath, she nodded. “Yeah.”

With Shikamaru at her side, Sakura pressed through the courtroom doors. Immediately, the press was on her, shoving microphones in her face and flashing her photograph. She kept her head held high, her mouth firmly pressed shut as she marched through the throngs until they reached the back of the courthouse where the reporters weren’t allowed.

Once the heavy doors had closed behind them, Shikamaru told her, “There will be a sentencing trial in a few weeks. The jury will decide Madara’s punishment then. You’re not required to be present, but if you want to go, let me know and I’ll accompany you.”

Sakura nodded numbly, her mind still reeling from everything that had happened that day. She didn’t know yet if she wanted to be there for that. To watch if Madara would not only lose everything he had worked for – and stolen – but potentially his freedom as well. It was all overwhelming.

However, before Sakura could begin to process everything, she heard the clack of expensive shoes echo on the tiles behind them. “Sakura,” someone called.

Both Sakura and Shikamaru glanced over their shoulders to find none other than Tobirama hurrying towards them. Hashirama and their lawyer, the asshole prosecutor, were a small distance behind him, their eyes tracking Tobirama’s movements as he descended the few steps that led to the courtyard and the private parking lot just beyond.

Upon sight of him, heartbreak and resentment swelled within her. She didn’t know if it was justified and frankly, it didn’t matter to her right now. He was one of the ones responsible for all of this. For Madara potentially going to prison, for tarnishing her name and leaving her feeling as if she had just run from home and her husband all over again. It left her with a strange conflict of emotions.

Without pause, Sakura continued on, pretending as if she hadn’t seen or heard him.

Tobirama’s pace increased. “Sakura, please wait.”

She was angry and hurt and upset, but even still, she found her pace slowing. If only because Tobirama had been the one to help her out nearly a year ago.

Beside her, Shikamaru’s hand slipped her to elbow. “I have to advise against you speaking to him,” he murmured in her ear.

She pursed her lips together before her gaze flickered up to meet his. “I know. Just give me two minutes.”

A frown crossed his face but he nodded minutely before he stepped away to a respectable distance. Sakura watched him go before she turned to meet Tobirama, her expression guarded and her shoulders stiff.

He stopped before her. He looked impeccable in a three-piece designer suit with gold cufflinks and a navy blue, silk tie. His white hair was pushed back away from his face, and though the trial had been in the headlines of the news for the last month, she couldn’t spot one line of stress on his handsome face.

“I’m sorry,” Tobirama said after he had caught up to her. “I didn’t want to drag you into this. This trial wasn’t supposed to involve you.”

“But I was involved,” Sakura retorted coolly. “My name has been dragged through the mud on every front page of every newspaper. My reputation has been shredded, my morals questioned and my career threatened.”

He shook his head. “I tried to talk my lawyer out of calling you to the stand. I never wanted any of this for you.”

Sakura laughed without humor. “But it still happened, didn’t it? After I left Madara, I had to work for everything. I built myself up and just when I thought I could move on, I get subpoenaed. The media has called me everything from a gold digger to a manipulative whore. I’ve been accused of marrying Madara for his money, using my body to steal tens of thousands from the corporation and then divorcing him once I got all the cash I needed. So tell me, what exactly did you think would happen to me when I get dragged into all of this?”

Tobirama didn’t immediately respond but the guilt was clearly visible in his face. It was enough that it looked like it physically pained him to hear everything she had gone through, but she didn’t feel any sympathy for him. In the end, she had suffered more than anyone. Even Madara hadn’t been slandered to nearly the same extent as her.

“I am so sorry, Sakura,” Tobirama murmured. He reached out towards her. “Please, tell me what I can do.”

As if he was poising to strike, Sakura flash-stepped back out of his reach, a threat and a warning apparent in her expression. “You can leave me alone,” she said, her words dripping with venom.

She didn’t miss the pained look in his expression before she turned her back and crossed the courtyard. Shikamaru followed behind, only briefly tossing a glance back at Tobirama before they headed towards their cars.

And as Sakura walked away, she pretended not to notice the pair of eyes that tracked her every movement until she was in her car and on the road, making her way back out of the city that had only ever chewed her up and spat her out.

tbc…

[carbuncle101]

The embodiment of passion Chapter #1

In the end all he could mutter is a simple “oh”, after getting stabbed in the back and chest. His expression had been purely uttered in surprise and relief. Despite the two girls not  knowing that last part, he hopes it stays that way forever. He couldn’t place this burden upon her, not after all the things he had done, even if none has been really his fault.

He gets ripped violently away from his thoughts, as the pain abruptly intensifies once Yang and Blake tore the blades from his body and blood began to gush freely from his wounds. He immediately knows what he must do, he had been hoping this fight would end with his death since the beginning, there was no other possible outcome for him, this one considering his options is the best for him. 

Adam Taurus slowly and struggling to not collapse face down into the dirt, walks until he reaches the edge of the cliff, a raging river roars below the place where Yang had tossed Wilt moments before he got stabbed. He falls to his knees unable to take another step and looks up into the sky barely able to focus his fading sight. He regrets all his sins. 

Betraying the Belladonna family, the White Fang, murdering Sienna, cutting Yang’s arm, the attack on Beacon, and how much he had harmed Blake which he will never forgive himself for. He loves her so much, but that damn witch had used him as a weapon against his will and made him hurt her in the worst possible ways. He hates himself for being so weak and not being able to break free.

Not wanting to waste any more time nor to risk it by Blake and Yang having a change of heart and come running to tend his wounds, he allows himself to fall forward and into the river that looks like a bottomless abyss in which he deserves to fall and be swallowed for all eternity. 

As he falls, he ends up looking upwards for a moment and his unfocused eye could make the shape of his precious Blake getting farther and more indistinguishable, a sudden hit on his back against the rocks blasts the little air he could get into his lungs, one of them is badly punctured and filling fast with blood. 

And then he meets the cruelly cold raging waters, immediately the currents pull him all over the place, sometimes smacking him hard against large rocks or pieces of wood that cut his frigid skin. 

He could feel his body wanting to fight this and make it to the surface to survive, but he resists knowing it’s the pull of that witch, to make him go to her side once more. To make him into a weapon once more and use him to eliminate all those that dared to oppose her. 

Not wanting to suffer that same fate he breathes in letting water fill his current minimal lung capacity, but gods it burns his insides so bad, he barely can resist the urge to scream. He just wishes that his agony ends quickly but knows he doesn’t deserve even that. 

However it seems that life might  grant him that wissh, the last thing he sees is a large shadow making his way towards him and the only thing he can think of is a Grimm coming to have him for lunch.

Adam doesn’t realize that someone takes him out of the waters and fights the current to take him into the shore. 

That someone is a man that stands over seven feet tall, with mismatched eyes due to heterochromia, the top of his iris is green while the bottom is blue, the right side of his hair is black and the left side white. He has wolf ears atop his head that are a contrast to his hair being the contrary color on that side, despite that he isn’t a faunus, he possesses other characteristics that no faunus would have. Two wolf tails that followed the pattern of his hair, and long sharp with claws instead of normal nails. But what is more bizarre about him is his teeth. Two rows of them each row contains a double set of fangs, sixteen in total. His face and arms contain several scars of different sizes.

Carefully he carries Adam into the shore and sets him down, Wilt is nearby, impaled on the sandy shore. He had spotted the sword going down river and stopped his journey to retrieve it, he waited for a while to see what else the water would carry, when he spotted Adam. Deducing that Adam is the owner of such a rare sword seeing the color of his clothing and a quick inspecting of Blush, he could see that the rifle served as a sheath for the sword. A sword possessing such reddish colored metal isn’t a common sight.

A quick assessment of the body in front of him gave him a list of several of the issues that would prove a challenge. He knew that his heart wasn't beating without checking for a pulse, his acute hearing detected no sound, nor the sound that lungs made when the inhaled and exhaled air, what’s more the man’s chest looked somewhat inflated… he had purposely breathed in water…. 

This makes him wonder why he wanted to die so badly. He looks down at Adam, who doesn’t look to be older than 25-26, of course it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that he had a rough life, the huge SDC branding over his left eye is a testament to that. He knows who the faunus in front of him is, the famed terrorist called Adam Taurus, the faunus had a reputation that had been heard through Remnant. 

A moral dilemma presents itself, either try to save the life of the one that seemed to want to die, one that had caused so many deaths and misery or simply let him pass on and bury him somewhere where he wouldn’t be disturbed. The more he looked at Adam’s face, the more he was leaning to not let him to die, he wasn’t sure why, but something told him that to let him die would be simply wrong. And he trusted his instincts.

He tackles the most important matter at hand taking the other’s jacket off using the zipper at the front, pulling it down it reveals very pale skin underneath that’s freezing to the touch and several scars but most importantly the two stab wounds that had slowed down bleeding due to the cold water. 

With a sharp claw he reaches the side of his chest that contains the lung that had been punctured and slides it between the man’s ribs with the precision of a surgeon, not soon after a gush of blood and water gets expelled, the pressure contained in the lung easing away. 

Focussing next on the other lung filled with water and giving CPR to  Adam. It takes him a couple of minutes and attempts, but he manages to bring him back to life. Thought slowly and weak, but the beating of his heart is there and that’s what matters.

Second matter to address is the proper care and dressing of the wounds, to not allow infection to develop and allow them to recover. He digs through his medical supplies looking for bandages, disinfectant and some thread and a needle. He also starts a fire and begins to boil some water as he accommodates Adam to lie on his side, to apply pressure on both his chest and back to control the bleeding. 

Once the water is boiling intensely, he lets it cool down a bit before he begins cleaning the wounds, careful to not cause the bleeding to go out of control. After that he applies a disinfectant that is used for deep injuries before he begins sewing the wounds, this earned him a moan of pain from Adam, but he doesn’t wake up. 

He continues to work as fast and carefully as he can, he is no doctor, but he has plenty of knowledge on how to treat injuries, many times having to be his own doctor. When he is done with the last stitch, he applies another ointment over the stitched injuries.

Satisfied with his work, he strips Adam of his remaining clothes and quickly covers him with a blanket over his more sensitive parts, the man wasn’t conscious or anything but nonetheless he deserves to keep some dignity. 

He keeps looking for wounds and broken bones, his left leg had been twisted luckily no broken bones there, he treats the cuts that he finds on his legs finding more old scars there. Going back to Adam’s torso he sees the many whip marks that adorn his back not unlike his own back, a crisscross of mismatched etched lines. He shakes his head to not let his thoughts wander into more dark places he doesn’t want to be right now and focus back into his work. 

He feels Adam’s chest again finding broken ribs, but there is nothing he could do there, at least none of them is puncturing any of organs, that would have been a pretty difficult situation. 

And that’s when a barely perceptive detail manages to catch his eye, the work had been done with such care and precision that any normal person would have passed it as something completely normal. What gave it more away is that from that area from his body no blood was coming from the deep cuts and now that he looked more carefully and paying more attention to detail, he could see it. The part where his right shoulder joint connected to his arm, just a bit below it, the skin is a slightly different color and that’s when he knows that Adam’s right arm is not a normal arm. 

Leaving the arm alone he checks once more that every wound had been properly taken care off, before he wraps Adam in some blankets to keep him warm, gently he allows his tails to rest over him providing more warmth as he places Adam’s torn clothing near the fire to dry, he grabs Blush (a rifle) and Wilt (a Chokuto) to inspect the weapons better for any damage. He takes the chance to rest for a bit, he needs a break before hitting the road again and making sure that Adam gets stable enough to start making his way back home. 

His thoughts in the meantime take him to think of the torture and the agony the man besides him had gone through. His actions and ways make more sense knowing that he had seen the evidence embedded in his body and made his thoughts wander to his own terrible past experiences and the course of his life, his past, his present and the future. He can finally understand why he felt this urge to save the life of the terrorist… looking at him felt like he had been looking at a mirror, making something stir deep inside him.

///// Author notes:

Rwby characters belongs to

Rooster Teeth.

. The story can also be read on fanfiction.net

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13529742/1/The-embodiment-of-passion

*****SPOILERS BELOW FROM THE SHOW*****

My favorite character in RWBY was Adam Taurus, I am not a fan of how his character development ended. Everyone has their opinion and I respect that. Here is my opinion, from a competent leader and mentor figure, he was suddenly turned into an abusive/ obsessive/jealous ex boyfriend and an and incompetent leader. I feel that his potential was wasted tremendously, he could had been used in several ways:

1. He could have had more fights with team rwby, specially Yang and Blake serving as some kind of experience booster for them and then forward in the show they manage to defeat him killing him, being captured or he could have had a redemption like Illia got. If he got a redemption he could later make up for all the crimes he committed turned his life around for good helping others or die as a hero fighting the other bad guys.

2. Explain how he got his brand on his eye and also have some interactions with Weiss and or Winter.

3. I would have loved to see him and Sienna fight for the leadership of the White Fang not simply her getting stabbed and dying.

Before saying it’s not possible to have been handled differently, remember in Volume 3 Ep 7, when his lieutenant offered to pursue Blake on Adam’s behalf, Adam said to him to forget Blake. Also remember in Volume 2 Episode 10 Blake calls Adam her mentor not a lover. All that changed after Monty died and in Volume 3 when Adam begins calling her love. And don’t forget his character short was published in Volume 6.  

Leaving that aside I would like to know what do you think about this first chapter, I have several ideas and might do multiple AU since there are too many for just one

[zmediaoutlet]

whatever we were before

finally posting my masquerade fill! The anon asked for a Dragon Age/SPN crossover, in which Dean is Hawke. I screeched lightly under my breath when I saw it, and delivered. (I hope!)

title: whatever we were before pairing: Sam/Dean rating: E

summary: After the expedition into the Deep Roads, Dean's a rich man. He bought back the ancestral family manor, and he's safe. He's not okay, though, because for all they gained on the expedition--he lost so much more.

(read on AO3)

Kirkwall’s never quiet at night. Dean’s gotten used to it, although it’s a far cry from the farm back home in Ferelden. There, the most he was likely to hear at night was a fox trying to get into the chickens, or Dad coming home soused from the inn, sleeping in the mudroom because he couldn’t work out the lock Dean had built to keep the Templars out. Here, surrounded by people, it feels—he used to think it was crowded, but now it just feels like life, being lived. People always working, the city humming along with each part always moving. He still remembers lying awake at his uncle’s house in Lowtown, that horrible week after they’d first arrived, staring at the ceiling in the narrow room and unable to shut it out—the city, a throbbing entity. He’s glad he can sleep, now. Makes things easier to bear.

His legs have stopped aching, too, after this many months walking up and down the Great Stairs. Isabela says they’ve done great work for his physique; Dean’s just glad his arse and thighs will agree to support him after the long climb from the docks to Hightown. This morning Aveline had guilted him into doing an errand for her, something the city guard should’ve taken care of, but really it didn’t take that much guilting—she and he both knew that he’d be able to do it faster, better, and cleaner, and anyway it was good to get out, into the fresh air. He's moneyed now, and maybe a lordling of a sort, if the Free Marches would only admit that their merchant-princes were no different from the nobility of the south, but still. He’d grown up using his muscles and his mind, and it felt right to be out on the cliffs, salt-spray in his face and his armor settled comfortably on his shoulders, his sword ready at his hip. So. They’d gone out, and he’d—killed. Quite a few. Slavers, they were, and he didn’t feel bad about killing them but the battle had been messy, and he’d had to wash the blood off in the sea, the salt gritting into the crevices of his mail and stiffening the leather. He’s glad he didn’t bring Fenris; there would’ve been so much more blood.

His legs don’t ache, but it feels like every other part does, when he gets to the top of the stairs. The guards at Hightown’s gates nod to him, deferent like they weren’t three years ago, and he doesn’t respond. Pricks, the lot of them, granting respect only for fine clothes and finer real estate. He wishes he’d gotten back hours ago, when he might've blended in to the general throng, but he’s made it a habit to walk his friends home, to make sure they're safe. He saw Merrill back to her little house, and Isabela and Varric back to their inn, and stayed there for a pint or two, celebrating a successful job.

A job—ha. Still how he thinks of it, after all that time of scrambling in Lowtown, trying to put food on the family’s table. He walks the now-familiar streets, slate stones laid down on the neat boulevards the merchants control, and he misses—sort of—yes, he misses the rolled-cobbles and grit of the old neighborhoods, and the wild-grown weeds among the stones by the Hanged Man. Used to the city, but missing the city. He can hear a sarcastic voice in his ear, saying, Dean, that doesn't make any sense, but he ignores it. He’s tired. No energy for misery, not now.

Winchester Manor still has lamps lit in the entry when he comes to the square. Despite everything, his shoulders relax a little, seeing it. He unlocks the door and it’s warm inside, smells of bread baking, and in the time it takes for him to set his sword and shield on their rack in the armory off the entry, Bodahn appears, and pops his head around the corner to say, "Ah, Master Winchester. Good hunting, I trust?"

Dean smiles, and it’s only partly an effort. "Good enough, Bodahn. Send a runner to the palace, to let Aveline know I’ll see her tomorrow afternoon, all right?"

"Very good, sir," Bodahn says, agreeable as always, but then looks at him critically. "I’ll have dinner sent up to your chambers, yes? Sandal will have gotten a bath ready."

Even after years, he’s still not used to servants, but— "Yes," he says, and the relief that washes through him is probably ridiculous, but. "Yes, thank you."

The parlor’s warm enough, but dark, the only light coming from the banked fire. Other than Bodahn and Sandal, the house is always empty. He stands and looks at the great tapestry, the family crest tracing the family down to their father’s name. The embroidery stops there. He licks his lips, looking at the faded silk, and turns away, and trudges up the broad stairs, aware that his boots are tracking the dust and dirt of the lower city on the thick carpets. Sandal will clean it up.

The master room is so big. Bigger than his uncle’s whole house, he thinks. He’s paced it; he’s pretty sure. The fire in here is roaring, and the lamps are lit by the bedside and on the desk, and his armor stand is waiting for him to strip, piece by piece. The chest plate, and the pauldrons, and his gauntlets, and the mail, and the boots, and the leather weskit, and when he’s left in his shirt he shivers, all over, though the room’s more than warm enough. In the corner, by the pushed-aside screen, the bath sits steaming by some magic Sandal’s very proud of and that Dean doesn’t at all understand, but he’s grateful when he sinks down into it. It’s big enough that he can fit his shoulders against one edge and keep his feet below the water on the other, a luxury he’d never imagined as a child and which, still, by every measure, is the greatest advantage of his life as he lives it now. Some kind of fragrant oil scenting the steam—elfroot maybe, or the arbor blessing Bodahn was bragging about acquiring a few weeks ago. Makes the water slip like silk against his skin while the soothing heat works its way past muscle to the bone. Makes it easy not to think, to relax. Finally.

"You look so spoiled," he hears, and he surges up—because—

"Sam," he breathes. He's so sure he’s dreaming, that a desire demon has worked its way into his mind and is showing him some helplessly sought-after vision, that he digs his nails deep enough into his own thigh that he’ll bruise—but Sam’s still standing there, in the doorway. Sam.

"It’s me," Sam says, and—yes. Of course it is. Sam, with dirt on his cheek, and a healed-over scrape under that, and his hair grown long and falling into his eyes. Sam, wearing the uniform of the Wardens just like the last time Dean saw him, studded leather over his chest and the blue-and-white tabard still belted around his narrow waist. Sam, leaning his staff into the corner—a new one, blackened oak and a stone Dean doesn’t recognize—and Sam, walking across the room with his boots thudding into the carpet—and Sam, crouching by the bath, and touching Dean’s cheek, and Dean surging halfway out of the bath and sloshing water everywhere and kissing him, kissing him, because—Sam, here. Here, when Dean had thought—

"It’s me," Sam says again, "Dean, I’m here," and Dean says, "I can see you’re fuckin’ here, Sammy, I—Sam—" and Sam laughs and says, "I know, sorry, I—" and kisses him again, hand cupping the back of Dean's skull and Dean’s hands tight in Sam’s hair and hurting his nails against the leather of Sam’s brigandine because—three years, it’s been three goddamn years and no letters, no word, and Dean hadn’t known—hadn’t had anything beyond hope—that Sam was alive and well at the fortress at Weisshaupt and that he hadn’t met his end by the claws of some darkspawn or a warg or—by all gods, by all faith, Sam.

It’s a while—Dean on his knees in the bath, and Sam kneeling in the puddle he’d made, and their hands locked into each other, and Dean breathing Sam and his smell of the road and rancid sweat and campfires and old blood, and Sam’s forehead against Dean’s and his hair tickling, and the taste of his mouth—his mouth—it’s a while, before Dean’s brain unfogs enough to realize that he’s just holding Sam, and they’re only breathing with their mouths barely touching, and Sam’s stomach is growling. Loud, in fact, and Sam’s nose wrinkles. "Sorry," he says, and Dean says, "You idiot," soft as soft, and struggles up to standing with the water streaming down from his body, and Sam looks up at him for a moment with his eyes dark and almost unfamiliar.

Dean hesitates, water up to his calves, naked. Aware of new scars, ones Sam hasn’t seen—his body, not the one Sam left. Sam stands, then, and Dean blinks. "You’re tall," he says, stupid-sounding even to his own ears, and Sam smiles at him all smug. He was tall already, at twenty—not at all fair, not at all, that he’s gained even more inches, and Dean steps out of the bath and shoves at Sam’s broad chest and fetches his dressing gown off the screen where Sandal always leaves it and tries to muster some kind of dignity as he wraps it around himself.

His dinner’s waiting on the sideboard outside his room, as always—Bodahn overly respectful of his privacy, as always—but it’s good, now, not to have to see anyone else, not to have another person interrupt. He turns with the tray and Sam’s unfastening his brigandine, slinging it untidily on the ground and wrestling his tabard over his chest so he’s left in his weskit and linen shirt and trousers, his boots still carrying gods know how many miles of mud, and he sniffs and says, "Is that stew?" all hopeful, and oh, oh, it’s Dean’s little brother, home.

He still eats like a teenager. Dean pours wine for both of them, watches Sam tear into the bread and meat like he’s starving. "Don’t they feed you at Weisshaupt?" Dean says, rhetorical, and Sam rolls his eyes and takes his goblet and gulps the wine down, gasping. "Oh, that’s—fantastic," he says, and takes a slower draught, eyes closed, and Dean watches him with his heart surging so high he’s surprised Sam can’t see the throb of it, in his throat and wrists and gut. Sam’s got days of not shaving thickening his stubble almost to a beard, and he tucks his hair behind his ears but it keeps falling forward, unruly. Without the Warden uniform he’s big, broad. Muscles thick in his shoulders, his arms, like they weren’t when he was a boy and he’d complain about having to help Dean on the farm, about training with a short sword, whining that he had magic and I’ll just throw a fireball at the darkspawn, Dean, and back then Dean could still cuff him over the head and drag him into Dean’s armpit and say yeah, but I’m in charge, and you're not allowed to throw a fireball at me, so—

Feels like a lifetime ago. Sam scrapes the last piece of bread around his bowl, sopping up the rich gravy, and then slumps back in his chair, sighing. "Long time since I’ve had food like this," he says, and Dean wants to ask—has so many questions. When was it, he wants to know, and where have you been, and are you okay—are you okay, the only question that matters, and he can’t face asking it right now with Sam sated and warm and here, here, and Sam’s eyes slit open and he looks at Dean, then, steady.

"What," Dean says, when it’s been too long without talking.

Sam smiles, brief. "What," he echoes, and seems right then—older than Dean, decades older—but he just leans forward and hooks his hand into the hollow of Dean’s bare knee, squeezes. Dean’s skin shivers in shock, all over, and Sam smiles deeper then, dimples carving into his cheeks. "I want—" Sam says, and shakes his head, and laughs under his breath. "Too much."

Dean takes a deep breath. "You reek," he says, and Sam huffs and looks down, as though Dean were saying it like a complaint.

"Yeah," Sam says, and pushes back from the table and strips bare. Bare, right there, in their ancestral home, until he stands naked with his feet on the carpet, linens and leathers piled stinking next to him, and he raises his eyebrows at Dean like a challenge and then walks back across to the bath and steps in, sinks down. Still hot, through that enchantment, and Dean watches dry-mouthed as the steam rises, as Sam slips his hands along his skin. He has scars, too. He’d never had much interest in healing magic. Welted-white lines on his arms, and an ugly twisting thing on his chest. The bite-mark, from the darkspawn, which sent him to the Wardens in the first place.

He rinses off the scented soap, splashes his face with the fragrant water, scrubs his scalp. The hair on his chest and in his armpits and at his groin has blackened with wet, and he runs a hand over his head, pushing the wet hair back from his face and looking at Dean while he does it, and Dean says, finally, "Sammy, you’re killing me," in a voice he doesn’t recognize. Sam smiles at him and gets up out of the bath in a surge of dripping water and meets Dean in the middle of the room and kisses him again, leaning down this time with his hands cupped around Dean’s ears, all the long wet of him soaking into Dean’s dressing gown but it’s—it’s okay, it’s better than okay.

The bed’s so big. So much bigger than any they ever had, when they were kids. Sam leans over him still dripping, his hair hanging down around Dean’s face and his shoulders blocking out the firelight. He pushes a hand into Dean’s gown, pets down his chest—his stomach—and Dean doesn’t know why it’s a shock when Sam grabs up his dick but it is, it is, and Dean grips Sam’s shoulders and shudders, bites his lip. "Yeah," Sam says, soft, sweet like he used to be, sometimes. When they were kids in the wheat fields, and hiding in the summer from chores Dean should’ve been making them do, and Sam asked soft for a kiss and Dean didn’t, couldn’t, say no. Sam noses against his cheek, smelling like herbs, and he says, "I missed you," gripping Dean hard and knowing. Different, to how it was, and in the grip Dean feels whoever Sam’s been with in the time between, and shoves his hips up, groaning. Sam kisses below his ear and says, "Dean, I—missed you, so much," and Dean makes a strangled noise he’ll be embarrassed by later and pushes Sam over, because new height and muscle or not, Dean’s the big brother here, and he ends up with Sam under him, tanned and young and beautiful, and staring at him like—like Dean doesn’t know, but he leans down and kisses him because he has to, he has to, because if he doesn’t he’ll say crazy things, things he doesn’t know if he’s ready to hear, much less for Sam to hear—

Sam groans, grips at his arms, pushes his hips up. Oh—oh, Sammy’s dick, and that hasn’t changed, big and urgent and pressing against Dean’s thigh. Sam unties his dressing gown, somewhere in the shadows between them, and grips at Dean’s ass, tugging him in tight. Ah—and that, that is like being a teenager again, Sam grasping and desperate. He pushes his dick against Sam’s tight belly, makes a noise. "Sam," he says, stupid, and Sam grips his hips and tilts and his dick slides up between the cheeks of Dean’s ass, solid, bulling.

"Oh," Sam breathes, against his mouth, and drops his head back to the pillow, wet hair spread out around his face. He blinks at Dean, while he pumps his hips—sawing back and forth, damp and threatening, while Dean breathes open-mouthed and stares down at him. His dick throbs, trapped against Sam’s belly. "Have you—" Sam says, and bites his lower lip, and shakes his head. "How long? Can we—"

How long. Dean remembers that morning in exact, perfect detail. Varric had said to meet in the square at noon and so that left hours, hours, and he’d woken at dawn and washed himself, red-faced and hoping his uncle would have the usual hangover that kept him abed well past the two o’clock hour. Then he’d come to Sam in the tiny mud-spattered room they shared and woken him with a finger to his lips and they’d—all morning, while the city churned just outside the thin walls, and the appointed hour crawled closer. He’d fucked Sam, and Sam hadn’t come and had pushed him over onto his belly after he was done and fucked him right back, just as Dean had known he would, and he’d kissed all over Dean’s shoulders and covered his back and said, take me, and Dean had known Sam meant into the Deep Roads, and Dean had said no, Sammy, shaking, wanting—it’s too dangerous, come on, and Sam had pushed into him and trapped Dean’s wrists against the blanket covering their awful straw-tick pallet and said against his ear, I’m coming, like it was already decided, and Dean had shuddered and come again, and he’d shown up at the square with Anders at his left shoulder and Sam at his right, smug, and Varric had shrugged and said, don’t slow us down, short stuff, to Sam, and the night before Sam got bitten by a darkspawn Sam had looked at him from his bedroll inches away in the camp and smiled, happy—unaccountably happy, like Sam almost never was.

Sam swallows, in the face of Dean’s silence. "Really," he says, but not like he’s asking. He grips at Dean’s ass, pulling the cheeks apart, dragging him in so his dick smears wet all over Sam’s stomach, and then lifts up on one elbow and kisses Dean—soft, soft, lips pulling slow and easy, like a winter morning with only snow outside and no responsibility to anyone but this.

No one could ever be what Sam was, to Dean. He’s screwed around with Isabela, a few times, deep in their cups at the Hanged Man and nothing waiting for either of them, but it meant nothing—she slapped his ass when he was done and said well done, soldier, and he laughed, and left her there and didn’t think about it outside of that room. Once, with Fenris, when they were so piss-drunk on wine he didn’t even remember what had happened, other than an impression of lyrium-brightness, and a mouth on his throat. Not something they’ve spoken of since. He doesn’t know what Sam’s done, at Weisshaupt or on the roads between here and there, and he doesn’t care because what matters is that Sam’s in his bed. Whether Sam will be here in the morning, whether he’s deserted or if there’s some other quest waiting, some new hardship that’ll sweep them both away—he can't think about that, right now. Not when he has this in front of him.

"Do it," he mumbles, his mouth pressed against Sam’s shoulder, and feels Sam shudder, all against him. He wants it—wants the hurt, like that first time when Sam was sixteen and they’d hidden in the woods behind the Chantry, fumbling—he’s a warrior, he knows from pain, and having Sam is the kind that’s worth it.

Sam shakes his head, though—shakes his head, and smears his mouth against Dean’s throat, lips dragging, says—"I want—" and flips them, surge of muscle, and descends to get his lips on Dean’s dick, going down so fast that he chokes, and Dean’s legs seize and draw up but Sam’s shoulders are wide enough to keep them apart and he’s left arching, shocked, body seizing. Oh—this, this—nights in their room at home, learning each other while Dad was gone, Sam daring to make spark-lights above their heads, the magic just enough to see the way Sam’s cheekbone stood out above the hollowed dark of his cheek—and now, the firelight setting Sam’s hair to auburn where it’s half-dried and standing out messy around his head, and the steady practiced working of his tongue, and the gliding silk of his cheek when he lets Dean’s cockhead push against it. Dean’s balls clutch up, too fast. Sam knows, somehow—pulls back, gasping, spit connecting him to Dean’s dick in a sloppy string that he licks up only after a second hanging there—and he looks at Dean up the stretch of his torso, pink burnt into his cheeks and patchy on his chest, want in his eyes. Want, and nothing else, and Dean thumbs over the wet dark of his lips and holds his jaw, and Sam leans in still watching him and suckles at the head, sparky jolting pressure crushing up in Dean’s gut and balls and in his fingertips, his toes curling, and Sam closes his eyes and goes down, his hand on Dean’s stomach like a ton weight, his hair brushing Dean’s belly, his mouth warm, and Dean—

It’s only after, that Dean works up the courage. When Sam’s spilled over his stomach and Dean’s cleaned them both up, haphazard, with the skirt of his dressing gown. With wine still in the bottle, while they pass it back and forth between them, and the fire gilding amber light over Sam’s shoulders. He meets Dean’s eyes and they both laugh, for what reason Dean doesn’t know but it feels good, right. Sam’s mouth is curled still at the corners, and Dean rolls close and drags his thumb along Sam’s ribs, where they used to stand out against the hungry pit of his belly, and says, before he can chicken out, "Gonna stay, Sammy?"

He doesn’t know if he’s ready to hear the answer, but he needs to hear it. Sooner, rather than later, so he’ll know if he can rest now, or if he needs to plan for a sleepless night of taking in every single ounce of Sam that he can—every story, every kiss. Every ounce of blood it’ll take to last more years, without him. If he even can.

Sam sighs, and settles his hand on Dean’s hip. "I ran," he says, very quietly. Dean looks at him and Sam’s watching his face. "We went on patrol, into the Anderfels, and I slipped my commander and stole a horse and rode. East, as far as I could go before the horse went lame, and then I kept going." Sam shrugs, with one shoulder. "There’s a lot of east, between the Anderfels and the Free Marches. But I didn’t stop."

Dean breathes, shaky, imagining. The world opening up, when it's been so long of his compacted, empty nothing. Okay. Hiding Sam from the Wardens—and his neighbors—and what they’ll do. How they'll live—will they have to run? He doesn't know, and realizes after so long of grinding to get to this place, he doesn't care. The house doesn't matter, the city doesn't matter. Nothing has mattered, without Sam.

Sam’s still watching him, eyes dark, and Dean reaches out and tucks his hair back from his forehead, pushing it behind his ear. "You’ll have to tell me about Orlais sometime," he says, and Sam smiles at him.

"Bunch of cheese-eaters," he says, leaning in close like it’s a secret, and Dean laughs, soft and tired and feeling, for the first time in three years, like he’s whole.

[bffhreprise]

Entry 360

 There were endless requests for my attention pouring through my mind, and they all seemed so pointless.  The handle on my tea cup broke in my hand, and I snarled as I allowed the cup to fall and smash into the table, obliterating the remains with a fist immediately after.  The table shattered and splinters of wood shot out in every direction.  Anwen started creating a spell to protect herself, far too slowly.  I saved her, the shock allowing me to reign back my temper… somewhat.

 “I’m sorry, Beloved.” I told her.  “I’m so sorry… It’s ti-time.”  The words left my mouth in a snarl as I fought another attack from the dragon within.  Dragons demanded flight.  As a Slayer, my duty was to reign in my nature so that I could attend to the well-being of the world.  Sadly, none of us could manage for too long with that blasted song pounding through our heads.  When the Dragon Mother left this world, she had left an extremely powerful spell calling all of us to her.  Being born into a human form, the Slayer family wasn’t forced to answer the call immediately, but resisting became harder and harder as the years went by.

 My wife stared at me with tears streaming down her cheeks.  “Adelmar, I-I can’t handle him… not without you.  He won’t listen to me.” she told me, obviously speaking of our son.

 “He’ll do his duty!” I told her, barely able to keep from screaming the words.  I longed to embrace her one more time, but I ran, fearing I’d crush her in a fit.  This time was different and much more violent than the others.  The rage was pounding through me with each beat of my heart.  I knew where to go.

 Fleeing the island gave me a moment of relief.  I always had enjoyed flying, and the dragon within me approved.  Not too far away from my home there was another island kept safe from the eyes of man through spells that had been carved into the bedrock by my ancestors.  Here another dragon would be born, completely alone in this world.  

 Suddenly, I became aware of others nearby, James and my cousin were near.  “NO!  GET AWAY FROM HERE!” I screamed, not wanting to harm them when the change took me.

 “Don’t worry, my friend.” replied James with a calm smile.  “You can’t hurt us.”

 Rage at his impudence shot through me, and I failed to fight it.  Almost of its own accord, my body flew at him with a fist aimed at his head.  My eyes couldn’t even follow his hands when he grabbed me, easily throwing me to the ground.  I almost attacked him with magic, but managed to gain control before unleashing the spells.  Spells would never harm James, but I felt ashamed that I almost had tried.

 “I'm sorry.” I told him, barely in control.  “James, you should take my cousin and run.  I… argh…”  The rage surged again.  “can't stop… the change.”

 James smiled again, saying, “Don't worry.  I've wrestled dragons before.”

 “Mother will be happy to see you.  She might get rather upset that Dani isn't with us this time, but I didn't want my daughter to see you like this,” my cousin insisted happily.

 Visions came to me from her.  I could see an enormous world with dragons soaring through the skies.  I could smell them, sense their minds, and… my aunt.  She was there!  With… All fight went out of me as I gazed upon the Dragon Mother.  She was the most enormous, beautiful thing I had ever seen.

 I was aware of James releasing me, but I didn’t care what he was doing.  All that mattered was reaching the Mother.  The song was louder in my thoughts than ever before, and I obeyed, intuitively knowing where I must go.  My head jerked to the side when I could suddenly feel the Dragon Mother close to me, at least much closer than she had been.  A rippling portal was in the air, opening to where the visions had shown me.  I leaped instantly, tucking my wings close to my body.  Part of my mind marveled at my speed and the ease with which I controlled my new form.

 “Welcome, Adelmar, to your home.” stated the Dragon Mother in a booming voice before lowering her enormous head to nuzzle me.  She could easily have eaten me in one bite, so great was her size.  She then lifted her head and addressed other dragons whom I hadn’t noticed, saying, “The rest of you be warned: I have granted Adelina permission to coddle this child for his first month.  Play nicely.”

 A moment of rage had risen in me at being addressed as a child, but a glance at the giant dragon above me had quelled it.  She was ancient and eternal, an unmatched force that could squash me as an insignificant toy.  She was beautiful.

 Two dragons came soaring directly at me, so I turned to face them.  I knew one of them.  :Adelina is that really you?: I questioned telepathically.

 “Yes, nephew.” she replied.  “Allow me to introduce Arthur.  He has volunteered to assist with your reeducation.”

 :Reeducation?  What do you mean?: I asked suspiciously.  Something about her tone wasn’t pleasant.

 “Your family history is chock-full of lies, so they mean to give some clarification on your family's role on things.” provided James.  

 I snarled, planning to correct his place among dragons, but a giant claw grabbed me and squeezed me, making me whimper pathetically.

 The Dragon Mother’s voice came to my mind.  :Touch my guest, and I’ll allow him to tear you apart if he wishes.  You have no standing here, little one.:

 The words shocked me and a feeling of great respect for James came with them from the Dragon Mother.  :Alma, how have you been coming here?  Why didn't you warn me!?: I asked, my voice sounding too much like a plea.

 “Sorry, but I didn't come here until my honeymoon, during which many years passed for me.” she replied with a gentle smile.

 More visions came from my cousin into my mind.  I saw a tiny, pink girl… her daughter, Dani.  As I watched, the girl grew from the scared little humanoid to the young woman I had seen in visions.  There was a sense in the visions of time, more time passing than the visions would account for.

“I am much older than you now, cousin.  James is even older yet.” stated Alma with a smile.  She was being truthful, I could feel it.

 “And don't you dare get grumpy at them.  I make them keep secrets.  You should be used to it, given how you ran things.” insisted Death, appearing as a little girl next to me.

 In a moment of anger, I swiped at her, but my claw was blocked by a small fraction of a much, much larger claw.  She had saved my life.

 “Child, don't die on your first day here.  No one will bat an eye if she skins you and makes a chair from your corpse.” cautioned the Dragon Mother, imparting the words into my mind even as she spoke.

 “Flee in terror, sure, but no eye batting.” teased the other dragon by my aunt.  He was shoved back as the Dragon Mother playfully nudged him, but he righted himself quickly.

 Then she flew off, covering what had to be over a mile with a single flap of her wings.  Her magic had shielded us from the air without me even catching the spells.

 The playful dragon turned out to be Arthur Pendragon himself, a distant grandfather to Alma and me.  Days passed as he and Adelina informed me of how my family had gone astray from our true course over the years.  I didn’t take the lessons well, especially with Death poking fun at me constantly.  Luckily, I managed to control my temper, which was said to be a byproduct of the change as much as a natural course from the stripping of my dignity.  On Earth, I had thought myself the king of kings.  Here, I was an ignorant infant to these much, much larger dragons.

 Through the torturous days of being rebuked, I found myself marveling at James.  At his wedding, I realized that he was even stronger than I had thought.  Watching him easily wrestle with dragons and impress even them with magic, I realized that I had no true measure of his strength or power.  He was an enigma that I hoped I might unravel eventually.  According to Adelina, I had all my life now to do as I pleased.  There were no great responsibilities burdening me anymore.