#i apologize for the scant response

[givehimthemedicine]

time for my big lumax rantpost. I used to be way more of a shipper but upon reexamining some of my GA-era assumptions, I'm here to tell you why it sucks, and why I don't look forward to lumax endgame if it's the same lumax we've been getting.

lumax has fantastic potential, but needs lots of work to actually become the ship most of the fandom thinks it is.

I get the sense most on here consider lumax ST's darling perfect ship which is sullied by weak and/or racist writing. while I wouldn't argue at all that the writing does right by Lucas, I do think it's important to recognize lumax as an intentionally-written badly flawed relationship, NOT a poorly-written perfect relationship. (the writing for 5 has a lot to prove so we'll see)

lumax is obviously happening. no ending to Lucas's story makes sense other than him getting the girl. however, I don't like that from either character's standpoint.

from hers - Max is not a prize. and from his - Max is no prize.

Max is a pretty shitty girlfriend.

we've never seen her show Lucas any interest in learning anything about him. I can't remember a time she's complimented him, said anything nice about him, or done anything purely for his benefit. virtually all of their serious conversations have been about her, and the scant few that are sort of about him are inevitably just a lead-in to him offering support to her.

Lucas and Max's relationship - pre, during, and post dating - is 100% about what he can do for her. he's the one making 100% of the effort.

it seems like most of their interactions are him walking on eggshells trying to placate, reassure, or convince her, all for the reward of.... what. being allowed to continue existing near her? like yeah, she's a cool girl, but. that can't be it.

what good is getting the girl if the girl doesn't really offer anything?

. . .

through the seasons, semiquickly:

season 2

Lucas and Dustin both like Max, so they invite her trick or treating, offering to protect her from bullies and show her where the good candy is. in other words, the first Max / Lucas interaction is him offering something to benefit her. Max returns no appreciation or even response to the invite, yet still shows up to reap the benefits.

that pretty much sets the tone.

Max wants to be included, but that's a sensitive subject, so she puts on aloof airs to protect herself. it's an act, but nonetheless it's all Lucas receives.

the facade slips on multiple occasions though; Lucas is permitted to see her vulnerability, and we can see she's actually more desperate to make the connection than he is.

Dustin seeks Steve's manipulation tactics to use on Max, but Lucas wins her over by treating her like an equal and offering her genuine friendship.

he risks both his place in the party and his safety/life to include her, gives his undivided attention when she talks to him, asks questions that show his interest and concern, he reassures, uplifts and compliments her, and physically protects her.

in return, Max. uhh. well she does apologize for being a jerk, although she doesn't exactly stop, lmao. this is one of only two moments I can think of when Max reveals any regard for what Lucas thinks of her.

lumax is off-balance before it even starts, although s2 is when I think that dynamic is most permissible. since Max is a newcomer, Lucas has the advantage in many respects, and it makes sense for him to be the one extending a hand to her.

when Billy attacks Lucas for hanging out with Max, he could be gravely hurt if not for Steve taking the beating instead. Max joins in the momentary group hug but never says a word about this. (I suspect the writers mean for Max's bus apology to have proactively served as a veiled "sorry my stepbro is racist" but more felt needed in that moment.)

then they go to the dance and she kisses him and it's cute and everything is happy for ten whole seconds.

between 2 and 3

even though the summer of '85 is "the good days," this relationship is already careening downhill.

we learn that Max has dumped Lucas five times - such a regular occurrence that he takes it in stride and is well practiced at winning her back as a result.

unfortunately it's Lucas taking to heart the "happy wife happy life" policy from his dad that's set up lumax as something that seems to serve only Max. her awareness of the policy means she holds all the cards.

season 3

Max has secured her place in the party and the relationship, and now it's time for her to bring something to the table, but I honestly can't name one thing. it's still Lucas bending over backwards and Max sometimes being a bit of a jerk. (another act. we'll come back to this)

from the start of 3 we see an excessively secure Max and an obsequious Lucas. she doesn't show him any of the vulnerability that made her endearing in 2. they share fun moments, but we can infer that she doesn't treat him very well in ways that matter.

at one point she even plays mad just to watch him panic. you get the feeling this boy can never feel secure in his relationship. yeah she's just teasing, but do you think Lucas is allowed to tease too?

when El comes to Max for advice, she tells her that "boyfriends lie all the time" and this is before we see Lucas lie to her.

when Mike comes to Lucas for advice, he confidently schools him on how to get back in El's good graces by buying her a present - making clear he's been following his dad's advice all summer long and it's been working:

L: Dad? When Mom's mad at you, how do you make her not mad? C: First, I apologize. Then, I get your mother whatever she wants. L: Even when she's wrong? C: She's never wrong, son.

the mall confrontation is the first time we see Lucas really lie to Max, but even then, the girls don't actually have proof Nana isn't sick.

it's telling, actually, that Lucas's loyalty goes to Mike instead of Max in this moment. in s2 it was the other way around (Lucas pissed off the whole party by including her in the group and telling her the truth - a technically banishable offense). but now he's back to his s1 bros before hoes policy, and not only backs up but expands on Mike's lie. after dating almost a year, his loyalty to Max should be even stronger, but here we see the opposite. if Max had been at least as good a friend to him as Mike, I'm inclined to think he would at least have tried to be noncommittal here.

Max is so confident Lucas will have nothing on his mind but winning her back, as always - meanwhile who we actually see Lucas apologizing to is Will.

she may have had Lucas wrapped around her little finger all summer, but we're seeing that start to uncoil. if Lucas apologizes, it's offscreen.

when Billy tries to break out of the sauna to kill Max, Lucas slingshots him and body shields Max during the fight. next thing you know, Max is back to being cliquey with El in the bathroom (making fun of Mike even though he was the only one who did anything to save El's life?? girl you're being shitty to boyfriends that aren't even yours)

they seem to be a couple again by the end of 3, but the relationship is weakened...

between 3 and 4

..which sets the scene for how the two apparently drift when Max ends it once again. she's not playing this time - she uses the term "break up" instead of "dump" and Lucas has accepted that it's over.

depression makes it hard for Max to connect with him, but the way she treated him in 3 has likely also eaten away at his insistence on prioritizing her. if you push someone away over and over you can't be too surprised if they stay further away each time.

so Max withdraws socially and Lucas apparently doesn't go to his usual lengths to pursue her.

he's still making effort though! the "stalking" comment makes it clear he's been trying to approach her. we know he's been inviting her to his basketball games. him already knowing her favorite song as of 4x4 is more evidence of him taking an interest in her between seasons.

he clearly still cares a lot about Max, but good for him for pursuing his own hobbies and friendships as well.

season 4

Lucas finally asks Max to do something to support him for once (come to his game), but she shuts it down hard.

we know Max still cares about him, but that's just it - WE know. he doesn't. to his face, it's bristling rejection even while he literally begs for the chance to support her.

saving Max's life is a group effort, but Lucas knowing her favorite song is the key that saves her life, and it's only after that that she's friendly towards him again.

the only time I can recall Max expressing any concern for Lucas's wellbeing is when she asks if he's okay in 4x6 - and he only gets a few sentences to process Patrick's death before it's time for him to turn it into an apology to her. sigh.

Lucas is the only one of Max's friends to voice any objection to her suicide mission of a Vecna plan, and pitches for them to gamble a stranger's life instead. he once again risks his life to hang out in the Creel house with Max, personally taking on the huge responsibility of making sure she doesn't die.

Vol 2 Max finally shows Lucas some long-awaited appreciation ("you might have been there" and "I'm glad you're here") which is very nice to see.

I'm conflicted about the movie invite scene, but we'll talk about that later. textually: he asks her out, she accepts, it's totes adorbs.

unfortunately, Max being tranced out by the time Jason walks in means it's time for Lucas once again to get attacked by an older, stronger guy who's wrongly convinced he's a danger to her. (again not her fault, but kinda because of her)

everything goes sideways, Max gets Vecna'd, and Lucas holds her while she dies. we end on a bruised Lucas sitting loyally at Max's bedside, reading to her just in case she can hear it inside her coma.

Lucas hasn't been perfect but he has spent yet another season physically protecting and emotionally supporting Max at great personal expense, and with little appreciation and no support in return.

. . .

the movie doodle didn't fix lumax

Max has had an epiphany, but a change of behavior has scarcely begun. being nice isn't the same as making amends. they've resolved zero of the old issues, plus 4 (even if the plan had worked) has heaped a ton of new shit on both of them.

she's still a grieving, neglected, depressed and passively suicidal child of a triply-broken home. dating doesn't fix that. they already broke up once under the same conditions.

plus Max has new catastrophic emotional traumas, some of which which explicitly exacerbate those very issues. she has catastrophic injuries and disability to cope with (and this is a girl who withdraws under stress normally). with a shred of realism, she's waking up in less a mood for dating than ever.

Lucas has also taken on new traumas, between the basketball team stuff, getting beaten up and almost shot/strangled, and watching Max get Vecna'd and die. he already has a history of guilt about not being there for her enough, so he's going to have a lot more about failing her in that moment (definitely not his fault but he'll still feel bad) and will likely be even more focused on her.

to me, this all sounds like a recipe for the same old dynamic except worse than ever. if they get sleeping beauty'd directly back into lumax, it'll be a disservice to both characters.

. . .

now let's talk about why Max treats Lucas the way she does 🔬

she's not a conniving bitch, she's just a scared kid from a toxic home. that doesn't excuse her behavior but it does make it understandable.

Max CAN be a great friend. she's just not to Lucas.

Max absolutely showers El with the good qualities she'll barely show Lucas. in fact I could loosely say Max is to El what Lucas is to Max.

Max is suspicious and disparaging towards Lucas, even while trusting that he can be counted upon to grovel. meanwhile El never apologizes for intentionally hurting Max both physically and emotionally, yet the moment El acknowledges her (only because she wants help), Max is instantly forgiving, kind, gentle, caring, generous and supportive towards her.

she throws her loyalty behind a friend of 1 afternoon over her boyfriend of a year who's been the only person in Hawkins to show her any true kindness and emotional connection.

if Max was half the friend to Lucas that she is to El, she'd be a decent girlfriend. why isn't she?

we can name a few reasons why Max IS so nice to El, but why she ISN'T to Lucas is a separate question. kindness isn't zero-sum.

she told us why. boyfriends lie.

and it's ANY boyfriend, not just hers. Nana's sick? more like Mike's a lying piece of shit! Suzie from camp? fake! Dustin's obviously lying! the only one of the boys Max has never accused of lying is Will - the only one who's been single the whole time.

just. the state of being a boyfriend (or even just liking a girl is close enough), makes any boy automatically a liar.

Max believes "friend" and "boyfriend" are mutually exclusive

"Friends don't lie!" "Yeah, well, boyfriends lie all the time." <- it's all right there.

back in 2 when Lucas was her friend, she was more open and trusting. she gave him the benefit of the doubt that monsters were real and he knew a girl with magic powers. starting to date flipped the switch, and now she doesn't trust him about mundane stuff.

now they're not friends, they're boyfriend/girlfriend, and she expects to be treated in a whole different way, including all the baggage that comes with romantic relationships in her mind.

what baggage?

Max's childhood is full of examples of awful, manipulative men and abusive, broken relationships.

her dad: I'd only be speculating about why her parents' marriage failed, but in 2 Max misses California because her dad is still there, then by 4 acts like it's doubtful he can even be tracked down for delivery of what's basically her suicide letter. it's clear she desired a relationship with her dad but was abandoned. Neil: abusive asshole who rules the household with an iron fist. I'd be shocked if he hasn't abused Susan, and see little reason he wouldn't do it in front of Max (after all, we see him verbally and physically abuse his first wife in front of his son, in a bad fight over suspected lies/infidelity). in his grief over Billy, Neil and Susan have "bad fights" and he leaves the family. he's not missed, but it's still a second abandonment by a father figure. Billy: Max's peer example of guys in relationships: a sleazy, two-faced asshole who treats girls like trash and completely changes his persona to manipulate them for sex or whatever else he wants (Max appears to be all too aware of his sex life and is disgusted). abandonment issues with him too: a good relationship with a big brother would've meant the world to her, but he rejected and probably abused her for years; her letter at his grave reads "ever since you left" - same word she used for Neil.

Max desperately hopes Lucas is an exception to the rule, but these are the behaviors she would naturally fear from any guy she dates.

Max is especially terrified of being abandoned (and that she deserves it)

to be abandoned over and over can naturally leave a kid wondering if it's their fault, if this is the treatment they deserve.

Lucas is overall quite honest, and there's not an abusive bone in his body. the most realistic one of Max's fears to apply to him is that someday he'll leave her, too.

and that's the worst fear Vecna chooses to voice in Lucas's form: realizing he's been wrong about her, that she's fundamentally bad and he's glad she's going to be killed. a gutting abandonment from the guy she most wants to trust.

Vecna-Susan also tells Max that she deserves what's going to happen to her, that she's "broken everything" and that her letters can't make things right. because he's in full Vecna mode when he says it, I just took those as very general condemnations at first. but they hurt even worse when I remember they're still coming from "Susan" - revealing that Max feels she has broken her family.

she wanted Billy to die, and she figures Neil left because Billy died, so that's two of the abandonments being "her fault". if that's true, Max would also feel responsible for destroying her mom's life - having cost her her marriage, home, and financial security.

in her addictions Susans has, in an emotional sense, abandoned Max just like all her other family members - and Max fears she deserves it. how desperate she was for this hug... :(

anyway, back to lumax: let's reexamine those s3 dumpings

what exactly did Lucas even do? we never find out.

on first watch, I took "boyfriends lie" at face value and assumed Lucas got caught fibbing. but that doesn't fit so well.

he's maybe the party member most invested in "friends don't lie". honesty to his friends is a pillar of his character. again, he caused friction in 2 because he so strongly prioritized honesty to Max. to assume based on one line from an unreliable narrator that he randomly became a huge liar over the summer is unfair.

via their counseling of Mike and El, Lucas and Max tell us what's been going on with lumax

Max tells El:

He'll come crawling back to you in no time, begging for forgiveness. I guarantee him and Lucas are totally wallowing in self-pity and misery right now like "ohh, I hope they take us back!"

I think we all clocked that one: Max thinks that because El followed her technique, Mike will come crawling back - because Lucas has come crawling back to her several times now.

but I haven't seen much discussion about how the spying scene (which "he'll come crawling back" is paired with) shows Lucas assuring Mike that he's been dumped for an unfair and illogical reason because that's what Max has done to him several times now.

M: I just don't understand what I did to deserve this. L: Nothing. Nothing. That's my whole point. You are the victim here. Stop asking rational questions. M: I know, I know, you're right. Because women act on emotion and not logic. L: Precisely. It's a totally different species.

Max is pissed. but has she been irrational, acting on emotion and not logic, and dumping him for no apparent reason all summer? signs point to yes.

and I understand Lucas saying this. it's not pure misogyny out of nowhere; he's been told that his mother expects gifts and apologies even when wrong, Max acts that way too, and now so apparently does El. all of his examples concur that this is just how women in relationships are. (Charles Sinclair how many relationships will your advice destroy lmao)

both Max and Lucas are bringing preconceptions from home.

Max acts this way on purpose

I don't think she's dumped him over truly nothing (although that's how it looks to him). I'm thinking she blows real, minor missteps out of proportion.

any time Lucas does something slightly insensitive, it looks like the first red flag to her, and instead of communicating in a constructive way, she just throws up this "boys aint shit" force field and dumps him. of course she doesn't truly want to be rid of him, she's just sorta snapping the leash.

I think Max knows what she's doing. I think she wants to keep Lucas always on his back foot, because the relationship isn't as scary if she feels like she holds all the power.

she's always trying to cover up fear/sorrow with anger, because anger gives an illusion of control. and she's been conscious of that anger, and the fact that it's unfair to Lucas, since the beginning - that's what she apologized for on the bus. "I guess I'm angry too, and I'm sorry."

she was mature enough at 13 to see the error in her behavior, but still not mature enough by 15 to fix it. every season has just been a slightly different flavor of "leave before you get left".

so, that's my take on Max's relationship behavior. but again, explanations aren't excuses. Lucas deserves to be treated well, and that's not happening.

what needs to happen?

simply maturing more will help them both a lot. being 15 is a terrible condition in of itself.

I don't see Lucas dumping Max's ass, but she should take her own advice before the relationship continues: explain herself and fix the garbage parts of her behavior.

before Max can be the girlfriend Lucas deserves, she needs a substantial period of physical and emotional healing.

she needs renewed connections with her friends and family, and a lot of general growth in the area of communication and processing her feelings.

in regards to Lucas, she needs to work on her trust issues, and learn to extend him the treatment warranted by his behavior, not the behavior she fears from others. she needs to learn that "friend" and "girlfriend" aren't mutually exclusive, that real friendship is the key to their relationship, and is a two-way street.

any Billy racism/assault acknowledgement would be better years late than never, especially if grieving Billy continues to be a focus in front of Lucas.

Lucas could also use a little work

the relentless positivity doesn't serve Max well. often it turns out to be empty reassurances which make her feel let down (so, a soft version of the lies she fears). she let him know in 4x4 that this hurts her, but he kept doing it for the rest of the season.

but the big one is that "happy wife happy life" doesn't serve him well, and rewarding unfair treatment perpetuates the problem. yes, the ability to compromise, swallow pride, and be the bigger person are healthy parts of a relationship, as well as the willingness to extend grace to your partner/friend when they're struggling. but it always being on one designated person is a recipe for dissatisfaction and resentment.

Lucas should voice to Max that he, too, has struggles and needs support. I'd like to see him pursue outside interests unapologetically.

no, this isn't an exhaustive list, and I don't expect to see everything fixed at once, or explicitly processed onscreen. but I sure hope we get some evidence of change, and that this has all been part of an arc.

for instance, I'd love for the final lumax reconciliation to be Max asking Lucas to take her back.

I kind of hope not to see them officially together until the very end. in fact I'd so much rather see ST end on a good Max / Lucas friendship with an implied romantic future than jump back to the status quo.

l don't want to see lumax until it's a new lumax, based on real, reciprocal friendship.

[dawnbreaker-mylove]

𝑨𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑩𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒌 𝒐𝒇 𝑫𝒂𝒘𝒏

Disclaimer: This is a fanfiction of the game Love and Deepspace. Some characters are from the game, and some are original characters. The rituals and traditions aren't from any specific religion. If there are any similarities to real people, it's purely coincidental.

Warnings: Human sacrifice. Not a lot is happening yet. Enjoy o(^o^)o

‘You are being offered to the gods!’

Your father had passed not long ago, leaving you with the responsibility of the crops before winter's cold breath overtakes the land. Since his passing, you’ve struggled to make ends meet, relying on your skills as a healer to bring in a meager income.

"Thank you, my dearest," the elderly woman you’ve been treating for weeks pressed your hand gently. She handed you a few copper coins, smiling in apology. "Please, take this. It’s all I have left." You smiled, though your heart ached for her. "This is more than enough." You placed half of the coins back into her hand. Her brows furrowed, but before she could protest, you shook your head. "You have your granddaughter to worry about. Keep it."

Her smile returned, and she kissed the back of your hand, a gesture of deep gratitude. "May the gods bless you, child."

You simply nodded, concealing the thoughts that crossed your mind. You hoped they would, but the weight of your troubles was heavy. "You should head back home now," you advised softly. "Your granddaughter will worry. Remember to take the medicine as I’ve instructed."

After she departed, a sigh of exhaustion escaped your lips. You walked back to your small workbench, surveying the scant collection of herbs you had left. Barely enough for even a small vial of cough syrup. With autumn approaching, the plants were dying, and you knew winter would bring with it a host of illnesses. Where would you find the resources to treat your patients?

Frustration bubbled within as you ran a hand through your hair, massaging your temples. Every solution you considered was met with even more problems.

"Why did you leave me, Father?" you chuckled bitterly, casting a glance at the bed where you had found his lifeless body. He had looked peaceful then, though his absence left a gaping wound in your heart. Swallowing the rising emotion, you stared at the ceiling, eyes glistening with unshed tears.

"I’ve never been a believer in the gods," you whispered, "but if you can hear me, I could use a miracle now. Anything."

At some point, weariness overtook you, and you didn’t realize you’d fallen asleep until sunlight filtered through the cracks in the bamboo walls of your home. You blinked groggily, stretching your stiff limbs. The parchment beneath your hand was ruined, smeared with ink and tears from the night before. After cleaning up your workspace, you headed out to tend to the fields. The cold had already stunted most of the crops, but you gathered what little remained—potatoes, cabbages, carrots. It wasn’t much, but enough for a simple stew. Perhaps you could spare a bit of coin for meat at the market, though you doubted you had enough left for such a luxury.

As you set the vegetables on the table and began to wash the potatoes at the water pump, a knock sounded at the door. You rarely received visitors, except the taxman that pesters you despite already paying. Frowning, you glanced through the wooden slats of the door, startled to find three men standing outside. Their long robes already gave you a clue to who they were and you weren't at all thrilled to see priests by your home.

You opened the door slightly, enough to see their faces but no more. "How may I help you?" you asked, forcing a polite smile.

The men exchanged glances, clearly nervous. "Good morning, Miss," one of them greeted with a bow. "We do not intrude, I hope?"

"I have no pressing matters," you replied, though inwardly you wished you did. "What is it you need?"

"We come with an offer," said another, his tone bright. "One that could change your life."

You chuckled softly, waving them off. "I have no interest in joining the priesthood if that’s your intent."

"Wait!" the first priest stepped forward, a hand raised. "It’s not that. Please hear us out." He hesitated, sensing your annoyance. "We knew your father, may his soul rest in the afterlife. He was a man of great devotion, and we wish to honor his memory."

"How so?" you asked, tilting your head slightly, curiosity piqued despite yourself.

"We offer you a place to live, a life at the temple," the third priest chimed in.

"You want me to leave the only home I’ve ever known?" You raised an eyebrow.

"Not just leave, Miss," the first priest smiled warmly now. "We ask that you join us as our healer. A position of great respect."

Your eyes narrowed, though you opened the door a little more, intrigued. "And... you will compensate me for this?"

"Indeed, six gold coins each week," the third priest spoke, cutting in with a broad grin.

Six gold coins? Your breath caught in your throat. That amount could feed a family for weeks. Could they truly offer that much? Your skepticism must have shown, but the men only smiled, bowing deeply.

"We understand if you need time to consider," one of them said. "We will await your answer."

As they turned and left, you slowly closed the door, your heart racing in your chest. Six gold coins each week. You could be free of all your burdens. No more scraping by, no more worrying about the next meal. It seemed almost too good to be true.

Your gaze fell upon a crumpled sheet of parchment—an old drawing your father had made of you as a child. You smiled wistfully, remembering how he would mix herbs and flowers to create colors for his art.

"You’d want this, wouldn’t you, Father?" you whispered, clutching the paper to your chest. "You wouldn’t want me to stay here forever.”

The next morning, you tread through the village paths, dust rising from the worn roads beneath your sandals. The air smells of smoke from the cooking fires, and the bustle of townsfolk fills the narrow streets. As you pass the market, a tug on your sleeve pulls you to a halt. You glance down to see a woman sitting on the ground, her face streaked with soot and her clothes tattered. In her arms, a frail infant whimpers softly, its face ashen.

"Please," she says, her voice trembling, "spare a coin for my child."

Your heart aches at the sight. You hesitate, but your purse is light, and your own needs are many. "I am sorry," you whisper, offering a brief nod before stepping past her. As you continue walking, her voice rises behind you, sharp with bitterness. "Selfish wretch!" she spits. "May the gods curse your soul!"

The sting of her words follows you, but you push forward, quickening your steps. You reach the familiar herb stall and the scent of dried roots and fresh leaves greets you. The stall keeper looks up as you approach, her weathered face breaking into a kind smile.

"Good morning," she says, wiping her hands on her apron. You return the smile, though weariness etched in your face. "Do you have any ephedra left?" you ask.

The stall keeper's face falls slightly, and she shakes her head. "I’m afraid the last bundle was sold just yesterday."

"What?!" Your voice rises despite yourself, the exhaustion of sleepless nights gnawing at your patience. "There must be some left."

She glances at you with sympathy but remains firm. "Ephedra has been scarce, especially with the colder seasons approaching. What little we have is costly... two silvers for a bundle."

Your jaw tightens. "Two silvers?!" You grip the small leather pouch at your waist, feeling the few coins inside. "That’s absurd!"

The stall keeper raises her hands, her voice softening. "It is not my doing, Miss. The land is unforgiving, and the costs rise with the hardships."

You close your eyes for a moment, frustration throbbing in your temples. You know it is not her fault, yet the weight of the past weeks presses heavily on your spirit. She watches you with a look of pity, sighing under her breath. After a moment, she glances around, making sure no one else is watching.

"Here," she whispers, slipping a small bundle of ephedra from beneath her counter. "Take this. You needn't pay today."

Your breath catches, and you stare at her in surprise. "But—"

She waves a hand, silencing your protest. "You’ve been a loyal customer for many years. Consider it a kindness, just this once."

Humbled, you lower your head in gratitude. "I am in your debt."

She smiles softly. "No debt, child. We all need help sometimes.”

You leave the stall, wandering through the village aimlessly. The dull hum of life surrounds you—merchants haggling over prices, children chasing each other through the streets, and the faint sound of temple bells ringing in the distance. The acolytes must be drawing the morning prayers to a close. As the bells echo through the air, you remember the priests from the day before and their generous offer.

The thought weighs on you. It was your pride that kept you from rushing to their gates yesterday, the last thread of dignity preventing you from accepting so easily. But today, hunger gnaws at your stomach, and your exhaustion hangs heavy. There is no room for pride now.

With a resigned sigh, you gather what remains of your resolve and begin the slow walk toward the temple.

When you reach the entrance, the temple courtyard is alive with movement. Monks in simple robes and priestesses with flowing garments move gracefully through the courtyard, their serene faces untouched by the weariness that clings to you. The elegance of the priestesses catches your eye, their poise and beauty a stark contrast to your own worn cloak. Instinctively, you brush the dust from your clothes, though you know it will do little to change your appearance.

As you stand there, feeling out of place, one of the priests approaches. His face brightens with recognition, and he offers you a deep bow.

"Ah, you’re here," he says, his voice calm and respectful. "Have you given thought to our humble offer, Miss healer?"

You return his bow with a slight nod, a faint smile tugging at the corners of your lips. "That is why I am here," you reply, a hint of sarcasm lingers in your words.

The priest does not seem to notice or, more likely, chooses to ignore it. "The temple is honored by your presence. Come, let us discuss the terms in greater detail."

As he motions for you to follow, you cast one last glance around the courtyard. For all its beauty, this place feels like the beginning of something unknown.

Your footsteps echoed softly along the stone corridor of the temple, the quietness unsettling despite the sunlight filtering through the windows. Acolytes passed by with serene smiles, their movements graceful, yet the stillness clung to the air, making your skin prickle.

At the far end of the hallway, a towering hanging scroll caught your eye. It portrayed a mighty dragon, its scales glistening like emeralds, its eyes a molten gold that seemed to burn with life. The more you looked, the more alive the creature seemed, as if its gaze was not just painted but truly watching, its eyes locked onto yours. It felt as though it were measuring you, silently judging your worth.

"Wait here," the priest said, his voice low, before disappearing into a nearby room. Left alone under the dragon's relentless stare, you shifted uncomfortably, rubbing your arm as unease crept over you.

Your thoughts drifted to the old stories, the ones you had heard growing up—the Four Great Dragons, gods that ruled over these vast lands. The god of light, the god of the underworld, the god of the sea, and the god of the mountains.

You had heard their names whispered in reverence and fear, their legends woven into every corner of life. Now, in the presence of the dragon’s piercing gaze, those stories felt more tangible than ever. There was something powerful in the ink and silk, as if the gods themselves could see you through the dragon’s eyes.

You swallowed the discomfort and took a steadying breath, standing in the stillness of the temple hall, waiting for the priest’s return, but never quite able to shake the feeling that you were not alone.

“You seem intrigued,” came a calm voice from behind. You startled, nearly losing your composure, having been too absorbed in the painting to notice anyone in the halls. Turning swiftly, you were met with a handsome face. He was tall, with an air of quiet authority. His eyes, a mix of green and gold, gleamed with intelligence and something you couldn't quite place.

“I suppose you recognize the god?” he asked, gesturing with a graceful hand toward the dragon on the scroll.

Heat crept up your neck as you glanced back at the painting, searching your memory for any scrap of knowledge. “I do not,” you admitted, feeling a bit stupid. “Do you?”

A soft chuckle escaped him, and he crossed his arms, his gaze lingering fondly on the painting. “The Master of Fate,” he began, his tone reverent. “The god of the mountains and prophecy. A patron of healers, guiding those who treat the body and spirit.”

You raised your eyebrows slightly, recalling faint stories your father used to tell in the evenings. “Ah, yes,” you nodded slowly. “This temple is dedicated to him, is it not?”

“Indeed,” he replied. “Centuries ago, when man struggled to survive in these lands, it was he who helped them prosper. He watches over this region still.”

You nodded again, though your thoughts were less on the history of the gods and more on the man before you. His presence was magnetic, and despite the grbandeur of the temple, your attention kept drifting back to him. “Are you a priest, then?” you inquired, though he did not wear the robes of one.

A knowing smile tugged at his lips. “Merely a traveler,” he replied.

“Where have you traveled from then?”

“The mountains of the northeast,” he answered smoothly, his gaze steady on yours. “And you? Are you a priestess?”

You shook your head with a soft laugh, shrugging slightly. “No, and I do not wish to be.”

His laughter followed, rich and warm, filling the quiet hallway. “I should have known,” he said, covering his mouth as if to temper the sound. “A priestess would have known her god at once.”

You smiled, your amusement matching his. “I thought my clothes gave it away.”

He tilted his head slightly, his fingers brushing ever so lightly against your shoulder. “Your beauty was distracting,” he murmured, his voice lower now, laced with sincerity. “I could think of nothing else.”

Your breath caught for a moment, the casualness of his words somehow disarming. The priest returns, grabbing both yours and the stranger's attention. You were disappointed that you had to leave, but you smiled at him nonetheless. “I'll see you around then,” you said to him, bowing.

The man bows back, his gaze locked in yours. “I look forward to it.”

The man leaves, your disappointment only growing as he walks farther. You turned back to the priest and stepped inside the room. Your eyes widened as a line of acolytes and priestesses stood waiting, each holding trays laden with silk, gold, and delicate jewelry. Their faces were serene, as though this display of opulence was an everyday affair. Confusion swept over you, and you glanced toward the priest who had led you here.

Before the question could form on your lips, he spoke softly, “It is tradition to present gifts to new members of the temple.”

"Ah," you nodded slowly, though the gesture felt strange. Gifts? For you? You had expected a modest welcome, perhaps a meal or a bed to rest, not such lavish offerings. Before you could fully process the scene, the acolytes stepped forward with quiet precision, deftly stripping you of your worn clothes without hesitation.

A wave of vulnerability washed over you as you instinctively crossed your arms, attempting to shield yourself from the sudden exposure. Your cheeks burned with embarrassment, but none of them seemed to notice—or perhaps they simply did not care. The silk garments were placed upon you with practiced grace, the cool fabric gliding over your skin, while necklaces, bracelets, and hair ornaments were draped and fastened.

“This is unnecessary,” you murmured, glancing toward the priest, your voice edged with discomfort. But he said nothing, his gaze steady as he watched the transformation unfold, as though it were something he had witnessed many times before.

When at last you were fully adorned, the weight of the jewelry resting heavily on your arms and neck, anxiety bubbled up inside you. The rich fabric felt foreign, the gold cold against your skin. You had not asked for this, nor had you expected it. Your heart raced, uncertain of what would come next. What did all this mean?

The acolytes and priestesses stepped back, their duty complete, leaving you standing in the center of the room, feeling more like a relic on display than a healer.

“Drink this,” the priest said, offering a porcelain tea cup with an air of calm authority. The liquid inside was familiar, yet its name escaped you. You furrowed your brow, eyeing him warily. “What is in it?”

“Ah, do you now doubt the goodwill of a holy man?” His tone was smooth, yet there was a slight edge, almost mocking. “If I had ill intentions, would I have brought you here so openly?”

Your eyes narrowed, catching the subtle hint of condescension in his voice. Without a word, you took the cup, never breaking your gaze from his. The room seemed to hold its breath as you brought the cup to your lips, the silence thick between you. The liquid slid down your throat, bitter and foul, forcing you to swallow hard to keep it down. The taste lingered, making your stomach churn.

Almost immediately, a wave of heat surged through your body, and your vision began to blur. You staggered, feeling the strength drain from your limbs. “Shit...” you muttered, the world tilting dangerously around you. Your body collapsed to the ground, the cold stone floor meeting you as darkness began to creep in from the edges of your sight.

The last thing you saw were their figures—silent, watchful—standing over you as your vision slipped away into blackness.

Your eyelids fluttered open, and the icy grip of the night air sent a shiver through your body. The thin silk draped over you was no match for the sharp bite of the wind. You blinked against the harsh glow of nearby flames, your eyes adjusting to the flickering light of the hearth behind you. It took a moment for your senses to return, and when they did, you realized you were surrounded—priests, monks, acolytes, and priestesses all stood in solemn silence, their eyes fixed upon you.

Your breath quickened as you tried to sit up, but your wrists were bound tightly. Panic surged in your chest. “What is the meaning of this?!” you demanded, your voice cutting through the rhythmic chants that filled the courtyard. You gritted your teeth, struggling against the ropes that held you to no avail. The priest from earlier stepped forward, a shadow in the firelight, his expression unreadable as he helped you sit.

“Greetings, Miss healer,” he said, his voice disturbingly calm.

“You!” you spat, your contempt for him now bare and unrestrained. “You tricked me!”

The man only shrugged, a hint of indifference in his movement. “I merely obey the will of those above me.” The chants grew louder, their sound sending a chill down your spine. The air grew heavier, the weight of something unseen pressing down on you.

“Whose orders?” you snapped, though deep down, the answer already stirred uneasily within you.

He doesn't reply. Instead, he made a subtle gesture, and an acolyte stepped forward, carrying a tray. On it lay a silver dagger, gleaming ominously in the firelight, the blade catching and reflecting the flicker of flames. The sight of it sent your pulse racing, the air around you thick with foreboding. “Rejoice, Miss healer,” the priest said with a fervent gleam in his eyes as he thrust the hilt of the dagger into your hands, compelling you to grip it tightly. “You are to be offered to the gods.”

He turned away, his voice rising above the chants that enveloped the courtyard like a thick fog. “Tonight,” his voice reverberating against the stone walls, “we shall bear witness to a miracle! Tonight, the god of the mountains will descend once more, gracing us with his divine presence!”

With a swift motion, he raised your arms, positioning the dagger’s tip against your throat. A cruel smile curled upon his lips as he pressed the blade into your skin, the sharp edge biting deep enough to draw blood. Warm droplets trickled down your chest, and you gasped, your heart racing. It was then that a deep rumble echoed in the distance—thunder, or perhaps something else?

Before you could fully grasp the moment, everything spiraled into chaos. You felt a sudden, fierce grip wrap around your torso, lifting you from the ground. The flames of the hearth shrank away, growing distant with each passing heartbeat. The air grew thin, and dizziness washed over you, making it difficult to breathe. The chants swelled around you, now a cacophony of voices rising to the heavens, while you hung suspended in the grip of the unknown, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribcage.

Chapter 2

[pokemon-ash-aus]

Not if someone has asked you this, if so, I apologize in advance… I have seen many interactions and related questions about how King and the twins get along but what I wonder is…Did Delia, King and his siblings (Sorry, I don't remember their names QwQ) ever talk about what happened the day Delia Did escape from the laboratory without them? If so, how was the talk, bittersweet, uncomfortable? I ask this because I think I remember you had not mentioned if they ever talked about that, apart from the fact that it generates genuine interest in how this conversation between them would develop. Btw, love your comics and your shitpost ❤️❤️

Thank you!

As for the quesiton, i dont think i ever got into it really... But the only one that tries to fogure anything out is King.

By the point Spot and Berry are there, they don't really have a point to question it anymore. It doesnt register. Yes, it's a bad memory but it's not one that they try to solve.

King on the other hand gets aggressive. He tries not to think on the past to avoid feeling remorse and guilt. But when Delia is right *there* to answer his questioms, he outright demands an answer.

And then he learns that his anger- his justifications- were for nothing.

Because Delia *has* her reasons and the worst part for King is that they make sense.

"I remember other scientists telling me that they would get attached to their little experiments." Delia hums, eyes vacant. "I never felt that, i didn't understand. Even when Indigo, Ash and Peach were created, i didnt feel that. I felt "Sad" that these babies were being used.... I didn't- i just couldnt stand to the side anymore."

"What about me? What about my sisters? Why didn't you see us as children? As babies? Why did you love them more than us!?"

"I never had the time. When you three were born, you were all born healthy and fine. You were with us for only a few scant months and then you were gone. But the Mewtwos weren't. They were dying by the truckload and i could do nothing but stand to the side because i wasnt allowed to help. I made sure that you three were healthy. But i couldnt do that for the mewtwos."

"You felt responsible for their lack of care?".

"After i thought i lost you three? Absolutely."

[letters-from-dekarios]

(GAAAAHH I was so excited when I saw your response on my feed. You write Gale so well, I am so flattered to hear my little writings were entertaining <33 I have returned right away because I am whipped for this nerdy wizard. Thank you for indulging me. <33)

{Around a month after Gale had sent his letter, he finds himself letting out a breath of anticipation he hadn't known he'd been holding in when he catches the familiar name on the newly arrived letter.}

⚝─⭒⭑⭒─⚝

Warm Greetings, Gale Dekarios

Would you believe me if I told you I could hear your voice in my head as I read your letter? I've been rereading it quite a bit.

You will be relieved to hear that the pigeon that delivered your words is very much alive and well, she's a lovely little creature named Biscuit - I'm sure you could guess why.

I'm glad to hear from you. Very much so. As often as I repeated that I wasn't awaiting a reply from you, hope still flickered away like the candles in the corner of my room after a prolonged reading session.

Thank you so much for taking the time to respond to each of my writings, even that drunken slip-up that should've stayed in the confines of my desk. It means a lot to me.

Be sure to extend my dearest of wishes to Tara as well. I always loved to hear about what kind of shenanigans she'd been up to whenever we talked - or for whatever reason she scolded you every other time. I'd be curious to know how much she remembers of me. I'm prone to leaving rather scant impressions.

I assure you that you have nothing to apologize for. Secluding yourself from the world to safe them the spectacle of your own deterioration is a notion I am all too familiar with, which you might have figured by now.

In similar fashion I apologize for not replying to you right away either. The last few weeks have been rather cruel to me. Not to worry - better days will come. They always do.

I'm so sorry to hear what you have been through at that time. Being shunned by the very goddess that had guided you for so long in your life, and a subsequent year of isolation would take a toll on anyone, even the strongest of minds as I've known you to be. Which only makes it that much more gratifying to hear that you are doing well and are planning on keeping it that way. I'm very glad. I'd love to meet the new Gale Dekarios one day, should the opportunity arise. You've always been someone I had looked up to in the trials of perseverance, Gale.

As for myself - I suppose all I can say without dampening the mood too much is that I've been better. I realize that our interactions died down without as much as a word from me. For that I am very sorry. At the time, what was happening to me was all still quite new and I wasn't coping well. It felt like my world was crashing down on me and I didn't have a clue as to why. By now I have found my footing again. There are bad days, sometimes even weeks, but I always know a good day will follow just as the sun rises each and every morning to greet us.

I feel the need to explain myself at least a little bit, even if you might immediately tell me I don't owe you anything at all. (Yes, I know that, don't worry.)

The tamest way to describe it is that I have been afflicted with a case of chronic fatigue, not to mention the mental burden that would follow. Each task takes great might to complete and the worst days are spent in bed, usually. But treatment is a stable crutch of mine to rely on, the small community of friends I have been graced with being the other to complete my pair. I am faring well for the most part.

Though this unfortunately means that meeting each other face to face would be quite a challenge. Assuming you would have the time to visit Secomber or I the strength to traverse to Waterdeep. Perhaps we could meet in the middle - you are quite the inspiration for me to take on a few challenges myself.

My pupils are most forgiving, thankfully, and when I find myself too weak to be tutoring, (depending on the severity of the flare-up) I will take the time to work more on my other profession, which is analyzing and translating old scriptures for our modern, curious minds. I've always had a knack for those old, dusty tomes.

And I've never given up on magic either, though wielding it is only a venture I dare to take on when I've had plenty of sleep and a promising day ahead of me. It remains a treasured passion nonetheless.

Never you mind, as I said, my circles are quite caught up on the happenings along the Coast and you were always a topic I was looking quite forward for. Your success was occasionally a source of envy, but most of the time it only sparked more reverence in me for your dedication to your craft.

I would be most content to keep our correspondence a frequent occurrence if you could spare me the time. I'm not exactly sure what someone like you does nowadays after saving all of Faerun. Though I hope you haven't stopped writing. Your little poems and philosophical musing were a small delight in the usually stressful life at the Academy.

I wonder what your life entails now, as a hero and as a better man. How are Tara and your mother? Any recent ambitions you are itching to achieve? Made new friends, enemies or partner(s)? I fall into thought so easily. Concentration spells were always the trickiest ones to maintain.

Here I am, rambling on as well. I'll be sure to request a heftier pigeon to carry the bulk of my words. Once again, I was very pleased to hear from you. To learn that you are doing well. I'm glad to know I've been, and am, of importance to you. I'm glad to have the privilege of calling you a friend of mine, still.

I don't believe someone as bright and supportive as you could ever not be cared for. Be sure to remember it.

~ Dearest regards, Theo Rivershade

{though the pages were thoroughly filled out, the half-elf still found a way to cramp a small notation in the corner of it.}

"Having everything, yet nothing at all."

You truly know how to hit the nail on the head, dear friend. As much as life had turned upside down for me, that quote tumbled right along.

Now I'd describe it as having nothing, yet everything all at once. In a positive way, of course. I am at times basically impotent, and yet every corner allows me to meander through my troubles still. I am blessed with luck. I'll try to send some of it over to you for good measure.

⚝─⭒⭑⭒─⚝

(hugs !! <33)

Dearest Theo,

I would be as much of a fool as any if I did not admit I could hear your voice as clear as day upon reading all your letters. That is something one cannot simply forget about another.

Pay no mind to the tales of my past! My rambling on about former issues serves me no greatness. I share the story only to not lead your mind to wander. You deserve to know as much as any good friend, though lost to the perils of unanswered communication, why I had been dormant. It is not a past I look upon with great pleasure, but with an understanding of how it shaped me into who I am today. It is often said the perils of a man will mould him into fine pottery. While I’m sure I am still in the moulding stage, at least I am no longer a block of unused clay.

Enough of me, I have already spoken too much of myself. You might begin to think I’ve got an ego.

If we were sat having tea, I would tell you just the same that an explanation is not at all owed. You still know me well enough to note that. Though, I do appreciate your openness. It’s never easy to share those parts of yourself, I understand that from personal experience.

Despite your ailment, it sounds as though you are doing well for yourself. You can’t imagine how glad that makes me feel. I was often worried about you, where you had gone, what you had become, but it seems those worries were unwarranted. Though it pains me to hear of your fatigue, and how it afflicts you, it is comforting to hear despite that, you are pushing ever forward. You always had a knack for making it through difficulties with an optimistic outlook. While you claim I was your source of inspiration, I can only attune my eagerness towards your attitude you had with life. While I was a spry student, your optimism led me ever forward. In a way, I looked up to you, too.

Believe me, friend, my success was not easily earned! I’m still not quite sure if I would have preferred endless isolation or a Mindflayer tadpole with the chance of transformation, for all it’s worth. Neither affliction would be worth the penny toll it took on me had I not had the company I did. Without those around me, I fear I may have lost myself to myself.

Ah, here I go, taking the conversation and directing it towards me! I shall speak no more of my greatness, the lips of Gale Dekarios are sealed! Metaphorically, of course, you know I can’t help but chatter. I will, however, answer your other questions with as much humility as one can bring to the table.

Tara, bless the Tressym’s soul, is doing well! Though I scared her quite a bit with my sudden disappearance, then re-appearance with a tadpole within my mind, she has since calmed and returned to her ever-overbearing nature. Her purpose has shifted quite a bit now that we need not worry of the orb’s sudden explosion, and she has taken a liking to cozying up by the fire once more.

My mother, on the other hand, is also doing well. You’ll be happy to know she was waiting to scold me for my arrogance, though she quickly followed it up with her warm embrace once her son got past being humbled. If we get the chance to meet soon, I will bring some of her baked goods with me. She has been spoiling me rotten since I returned, I don’t know how much more I can consume on my own!

As far as achievements or plans for the future, I aim to resume my professorship in a few weeks at Blackstaff Academy. From there, we shall see where the tides of life take me. Hopefully not on another Nautiloid, I can only handle that trip once. I will be working in the illusory department, isn’t that exciting?

Friends, enemies, partners… where to begin? In my journey, I did meet a fair number of companions I can now safely call my friends. Though we had rocky starts, I am content with where my relationships stand with each of them. Imagine, two humans (one with a pact with a Devil, the other with a ticking magical time bomb embedded in his chest), a half-elf (originally sworn to Shar and now finding out the secrets of her past), an elf (with a vampiric plague of his own), a githyanki (just now coming to the realization her people do not have her best interests at heart), and a tiefling (once sworn and sold to Zariel from the now-deceased Archduke himself), all stacked in a single wagon… I kid, of course. Our journey was entirely on foot (I’m still recovering from that, mind you.). While we made quite the sightly group of adventurers, I have each of them to thank for our success. Enemies… well, I am sure we made plenty of those when it came to the hard-hitting decisions we made. Eviscerating a goblin camp, defying Gods and Goddesses, breaking Devil’s pacts and destroying their homes… the list could go on, I’m sure, but it was all for a good cause.

As far as partners go, while there were a few flitting moments of romance after victory, I have come out of our battle the same way I had gone in, as single a man as ever. I’m sure you’d joke and claim that, no, in fact, I’m married to my work, but even that does not fill my heart the way a significant other does. Every now and then I look, here and there, but it’s hard to find someone with whom I can connect with on such a level. It often makes me think of our relationship back when we were younger, in a way. I wouldn’t have wanted that with anyone else, no, as it was… sui generis; of its own kind. Inimitable. Bespoke. I hope the picture is painted clearly enough.

I cannot simply gain a romantic relationship without a foundation, first. I don’t believe that’s how this mind of mine likes to work. Either way, the answer in short is no, I do not have a romantic partner. But there is no need to be sad about it! I’m sure I’ll find that foundation somewhere. Perhaps it is closer than I think.

You’ve done well in tricking me into speaking more of myself, dear Theo. I swore I would not, and now here I am. I may have to bring this scroll to you myself.

I can spare as much time as you’d like to continue our correspondence. It is not something I am willing to take for granted now that my perspective of the world has changed so drastically. Faerún help us all when my idiotic ramblings are historical evidence of all my trials and are being taught as an example to the next generation. I’m not sure what I’ll do then.

You will be happy to know that I have resumed writing my poetry. My journey has given me much to think of and write about. I hope you’ve continued doing the same, especially with your annotations in literature. I always enjoyed seeing those in our studies.

I shall not burden you with traversing the unruly terrain on the way to this city. Even if only halfway, I can consider myself a gentleman in allowing you to stay put while I come to you. Besides, travel sigils are a man’s best friend nowadays! It’d do me well to come and visit you, anyway, do not take the strain in trying to make the journey. If you do, I won’t like the stern talking-to I’ll have to give you for not caring for yourself when I could have saved you the trouble.

My hand grows tired with my continued writing. I must save my words to continue this conversation, but I do swear we shall keep in touch. How is your family? What have you been up to besides tutoring and transcribing? Have you taken up any hobbies lately?

I hope to hear from you soon, Theo. I will wait eagerly for your reply, only to bore my quill to death with my own excitement as I write back to you once more.

Take care of yourself in the meantime. I will corroborate with my calendar as to when I’ll be able to come and visit you in person and include that within my next letter.

Wishing you all the best,

𝑮𝒂𝒍𝒆 𝑫𝒆𝒌𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒐𝒔

P.S. I need as much luck as one can get nowadays. I fear whatever luck I did have has now come to pass, wearing off for the time being. I’m glad you can find solace in my confusion. You were always the best interpreter of my foolish philosophies. I may need to employ you for the school year if my students have difficulty understanding me. Would you be interested in a profession as a translator? Only kidding, of course.

[after flipping the last page over, theo would find the back half scribbled with words crossed out and overlapping. it was clear gale had attempted to scribe several poems that were now unreadable, though a section stood out from all the rest, in gale’s neatest handwriting. the sonnet read as follows;

In darkness deep, my heart did ache and bleed./Each day a battle, each night a groan./With courage each trial was faced, though I plead,/No solace found in sorrow's heavy moan.

I searched for light to guide me through the night,/But shadows chased away each fleeting hope./A beacon shining in the dimmest plight,/Brought back the courage I needed to cope.

In the midst of victory, a voice did call,/A friend long-lost but never really gone./Letters quick to write in a hasty scrawl,/I inscribed to bring ease of mind upon.

With joy does reading your letters overflow,/ I thank you for all your love, dearest Theo.]

text reads: gale dekarios

i will admit i did use multiple sources to write that sonnet (my google search is filled with ‘what rhymes with [insert word]) but it was 100% worth it. theo is so [gremlin noises]. i LOVE him. i love this letter. this is so cute i’m going to go cry now. ~kore

[flecks-of-stardust]

this is still bothering me, so i’m going to talk a little bit about something that cropped up in Act 5 of Wandersong. if you saw my liveblog, you can probably guess what.

bit of a warning for, ah, discussion of war, particularly the World Wars, under the cut, as well as discussion of racism in fantasy.

it’s always tricky territory when you’re writing about war, because of how many factors that can go into a war. it’s not inherently bad to write about war, it just gets. complicated when you start drawing on real world aspects, especially when you do not have the specific context yourself.

i was not happy about the war between Rulle and Chaandesh to begin with, but frankly, as a whole the worldbuilding of Act 5 does not sit right with me. i’m going to keep this as brief as i can because i am not the Most knowledgeable on what i’m talking about here, but i did live this. i grew up with this history, and it’s disappointing, to say the least, to see them so carelessly handled in this game (that i otherwise adore).

one of the first things i noticed is that the major city in Rulle, which you spend a significant amount of time in, is called Xiatian. that’s pretty obviously ripped from mandarin; 夏天, xia4 tian1, means ‘summer’ in mandarin. it’s probably to keep with the theme of Rulle being more of the land of sun, and Chaandesh being the land of moon. what i don’t understand is why they chose to name the city that when seemingly nothing else in Rulle or Chaandesh has a similar theme. so there’s just one random city that happens to have a very obviously mandarin name.

it just makes me very wary in general to see stuff like this, because it often is a sort of... orientalism, so to speak? not sure if that’s the right term. specifically, what i’m referring to is the racist depiction of (usually east-) asia that amalgamates the different cultures in the area into one mess. in wandersong, there’s also people who have names that are also obviously mandarin based, like Ping, but aren’t real names people would have in mandarin. ‘Ping’ is nothing. that’s not a name. a nickname, maybe, but look at that man, do you think he walks around with a nickname? and there’s also the architecture style, which. oh my god, this is so common, but the architecture is japanese. even if not, because admittedly the two can be similar, it’s still basically the most stereotypical (east) asian thing you can find out there, and it speaks to lazy worldbuilding.

i don’t trust this sort of worldbuilding. most of the time it just feels like they wanted to build an area that felt ‘foreign’ or ‘exotic’, and then looked around for the quickest way to achieve this, which is so often based on non-white cultures. my culture isn’t ‘exotic’, white people just don’t bother to learn about other cultures. i don’t see why someone would choose to base aspects of a fantasy kingdom off of real countries but only take the bare bones and get everything else wrong, unless they were lazy and didn’t properly do research. frankly, i would have loved to see a fully chinese inspired area in wandersong, but Xiatian just isn’t that.

the reason i even bothered typing this up though is specifically because of the (possibly scant) japanese influence in Xiatian. if you’ve paid any attention to your history classes, you will know japan participated in the world wars, and they were fighting alongside germany in world war two. there is so, so much history of the violence japan enacted against so many countries in asia that just isn’t discussed, because people like to think of japan as the ideal technological utopia that can do no wrong. even today, japan refuses to take responsibility and adequately apologize for its war crimes.

[image description: a screenshot from Wandersong, taken from Skurry’s vod of the game. Kiwi and Miriam are crossing a red bridge, depicted in a markedly East Asian style. In the background is the sun, a dull red, with rays of orange coming out from it in stripes. end image description]

this specific screen... worries me. i’m aware that it’s almost certainly just the game’s art style, which is very shape based, with simple colors often used to provide contrast. but given the japanese influences, as well as the fact that Rulle and Chaandesh are at war, it made me think of this:

[image description: the Rising Sun flag. It has a red circle set slightly off center, with rays of red and white radiating out from it. end image description]

the Rising Sun flag has extensive war history, and it was the flag that was flown when japan participated in world war two. to this day, this flag is associated with japanese military violence and imperialism in china, korea, and other countries in asia. even now, it’s flown by the japanese navy. as much as japan may want to deny it, this flag has military ties.

which is why it’s alarming to me that an area with japanese influences that is at war has iconography that reminded me of this flag. i highly doubt this was intentional, but it truly speaks to the lack of care put into the worldbuilding in this act of the game. if they’d even put slightly more effort into refining the worldbuilding, maybe changed some aspects around, made the area feel less japanese, etc, i probably wouldn’t have noticed. they should have put more thought into building this area, and frankly, the choice to make the area east asia inspired adds literally nothing to the game. i’d rather they kept doing pure fantasy.

this is unfortunately not surprising to me, as i’ve seen so many other games do something similar, though i do have to admit that wandersong is the first game to stumble into something that so painfully represents military propaganda for some people. just the general lack of commitment to researching what you’re borrowing aspects from is very common in games that have some elements of fantasy. it’s exhausting. so much of what’s considered ‘exotic’ in media is really just watered down and blenderized aspects of non-white cultures, and people just don’t acknowledge it.

and, like. look. i still love wandersong. i think the message it conveys is really important. i know the devs really put their soul into making this game. but they could have spared some of that to make their story less racist. i’m tired of seeing white people do less than the bare minimum when engaging with non-white cultures, and even then sometimes, just stomp all over culture altogether. you can all do better.

[cbk1000]

garglyswoof Wait what what's happening with current job? You just recently moved to it I thought ? I'm out of the jenn loop

You thought right; I got promoted about nine months ago to an analyst position, and do you know what I’ve spent 98% of my time doing? Basic data entry. I keep getting more and more heaped on me (often with very little notice) because I’m a super fast typist and very accurate, so I’m basically their dumpster for all the menial data entry that keeps falling behind. And I keep getting my old work yeeted back at me, which I had kind of expected to be able to move away from in a new role. I brought this up with my boss not too long ago about how I didn’t mind helping out or doing this work, but I didn’t want to do it all day every day and that I was very frustrated because I didn’t take an analyst role so I could do basic data entry and the same work I was responsible for in my old role, which I left specifically because I was bored and had outgrown it. 99% of the work I’m doing is not even within the scope of my duties, and it is NOT what the job was advertised to me as. Otherwise I wouldn’t have taken it. Rest under a cut because I’m long-winded when I rant. lmao

And my boss told me I was their ‘go-to girl,’ but that I was right and it wasn’t fair for all that to fall to me and that I should have some variety and be able to work on other projects, and that everyone was expected to pull their weight and so my coworkers could trade off with me or rotate weeks or something so that I wasn’t stuck with it all.

Then last Thursday, my boss messaged me and asked if I thought I ‘had the capacity to take on <more of the same old shit>’, and I straight up said I didn’t know that I could take it on without having to drop pretty much everything except the work that had already been established as something I didn’t want to/shouldn’t get stuck doing all the time. She said, ‘Yeah, makes sense; let me know what I can do to help support this work.’ Which I took as probably meaning that I was going to get stuck with it, but never at any point did anyone actually say, ‘This is your responsibility now.’ Then yesterday at our morning meeting, my boss asked if I had got to it yet. (Keep in mind that not only was I never told for sure that I would have to take on that work, it was never established WHEN. The person who ordinarily does it is leaving the role, which is why my manager asked if I could take it on, but I had no clue when their current position was ending.) I was a bit pissed but didn’t want to say, ‘No, I haven’t fucking done it since no one ever actually told me it was my responsibility or when I would have to take it over’, so I just said I hadn’t had time. And then I checked and there were over 400 charges pending, so my boss told me we (meaning me) would have to prioritize that and I’d have to drop all other work I was in the middle of, and if I was having trouble keeping up, they could see about people catching up my other work. You know, the scant bit of other things I have to do that actually give me some variety in my day. 

So I was LIVID and just said, ‘Fine’ in my Very Not Happy voice and got to it...but because the communication in this place is ass, the lady who I may be/possibly/who the fuck knows taking over for messaged me shortly after I started entering charges and said it looked like we were both working in the program, and wanted to know which patients I had entered so we didn’t duplicate anything. I apologized and told her I had no idea she would be working in there and had just been told that morning that it was my job to do it. So between the two of us we spent all day cleaning it up, and now I’m behind on everything else. It would have taken me a couple of days of doing nothing else to catch it up myself even with as fast as I work, and it’s not a one and done deal, of course.

I’m extremely pissed at the way that was handled, because there’s no reason someone else on my team couldn’t be assigned that task or at least help out with it, and that idea was never even floated. Plus, we’re in the middle of restructuring after our acquisition, but we’ve been in limbo for MONTHS waiting to hear what’s going to be done with us, if our job titles will change, if we’ll go to different managers, etc., and we still have heard fuck all about when we can even expect to get an answer there. Eventually my duties will change no matter what when we implement our new electronic medical record program, but that’s not till 2024, and in the meantime, how long am I expected to wait to do something that’s not so boring it makes me want to jump off the roof of my house? Also, I’m sick to death of constantly getting feedback from managers about how smart I am and then being given tasks a monkey could do.

So anyway, hopefully something will change, but in the meantime I’m keeping my eye out for other positions. The one I applied for today is pretty much the same role as what I’m currently doing, but with an organization that hopefully will give me something more to do than ‘copy these codes into this program and drool on yourself.’

Tl;dr Hide it as well as you can if you can type 100+ wpm, because every shit job will be pushed off on you because your productivity is triple the average person.

[transgamerthoughts]

"Heard, Chef."

If you know a millenial who has social media, you may have heard about The Bear. Hell, I'm sure many of you have watched it. The harrowing story of Carmen Berzatto's attempt to save his deceased brother's restaurant has met with astoundingly positive critical response.

Season Two focuses on Carmy and Sydney's attempt to turn The Original Beef sandwhich shop into a Michelin star worthy restaurant. In working towards that goal, many characters find joy in honing their craft while others unhealthily lose themselves in the work.

There's plenty of stories to tell but I wanna focus on the personal journey of resident asshole "cousin" Ritchie. I wanna talk about forks, bleeding for your work, and the ways we sometimes close ourselves off from others.

Ritchie Jerimovich (played by Ebon Moss-Bachrach) is a fucking asshole. Close friends with Carmy's deceased brother Michael, he's constantly positioned himself as the one motherfucker on the planet who knows how to run the restaurant. In Season One, he continually fights against any changes to the menu or the sloppy way the Original Beef was run. He's called "cousin" but he's not even Carmy's cousin by blood; he has wedged himself into the Berzatto family's life. And as season two drives closer and closer toward the restaurant's rebranding and grand opening, Ritchie has continued to push back on others.

Ritchie, again, is a fucking asshole. He swears and yells at others, he tosses out slurs liberally. In season one, he nearly kills a drunk patron in a fist fight during a bachelor party the restaurant is hosting. His mistakes mount up and it is only through chance moments of luck and fleeting self-reflection does he start to change.

The change is not complete at the start of season two. It comes with a scant few episodes left.

In the episode "Forks," Carmy sends him to stage in the high-class and award winning restaurant helped earn Three Michelin stars. As Ritchie works, mostly forced to fold forks into napkins, he reckons with the restaurant's high standard but eventually finds comfort in the work. He is learning to serve others, to be aware of people's needs, and how to listen to those around him. It transforms into into someone more open and receptive. He cleans up, wearing the restaurant's required suit for when he is observing the work in the dining room. He muses that it feels like armor.

Ritchie returns to The Bear ahead of opening and continues to wear a suit. Many people remark about the change but most note that it suits him. And in the lead up to a family and friends night soft-launch, he apologizes to others and helps them rise to high standards.

Meanwhile, Carmy descends into self-loathing even as other's require his attention. Sydney needs him to focus as a partner, the staff need him to teach them and lead. But Carmy can't step up. He can't even decide if Claire, the old flame he's reconnected with, is his girlfriend.

Even as he works to open his dream restaurant, he is in pain. He tortures himself with worry, rarely gives himself time away from things even if his ability to coordinate and communicate with Sydney deteriorates . He forms a confusing armor around himself and doesn't respond to the needs of those around him. He is bleeding for his work.

Ritchie doesn't bleed. Ritchie has discovered something else.

I remember, vaguely, a meeting we had at Kotaku around 2018. It's funny to say I remember because the context of the meeting is lost; my actual memory is terrible but I always remember embarrassments. I said that "you gotta bleed for you work." It was an offhand comment in response to how many reviews some folks, including myself, were taking on. I was a fast worker, so I took on a excessive amount of assignments.

There was a palpable discomfort in the room when I said what I did.

I was embarrassed and I always remember embarrassment.

The pace of journalism is one part dopamine and another part full on dry heaving. I had given myself in to the former because I love writing. It is my oxygen. It's part of why I'm writing this. I can't stop myself. back then i didn't notice how much dry-heaving I was doing to myself. how much I was physically destroying myself.

You can love too much and capitalism too keen to take advantage of that. This is known but it worth saying anyway. I ground myself into powder as a journalist. That's not bragging. It's a warning. i can happen to you and it can happen with any job. but you should not bleed for your work. You can bleed for others—workers should certainly bleed for each other if it means securing better treatment—but you can't bleed for the work.

To his credit, some time later, Stephen Totilo took me aside and said I should take vacation. Which I had never done because, well, news does not stop and there is always another game. I was bleeding and even my boss could see that I was running out of blood. Yes, there was incentive to asking me to take a break; there was risk I would produce poor work. So go take a vacation, right? That way you can return and be a Better Employee.

I could be cynical and see his half-order as a boss managing a worker so they could be more efficient but I choose to belief, against all realities of late-capitalist life, that it was it was a person looking out for a person. Contrary to the idea that age instills distrust I have found that it impresses the need to have faith in those around you.

I have faith.

I took staycation in New York visiting as many highly regarded pizzarias as I could. I arrived two hours early and waited in the snow so I could get a table at Lucali. In spite of taking time to love all the amazing cuisine New York offered and in spite of my own love of home cooking, I would go on to lose over thirty pounds while working at Kotaku. Maybe I didn't learn the right lesson; maybe the forces of capital are that strong. Either way: I make myself bleed again and it's only with the benefit of hindsight that I see how fucked I was. I had a problem.

sometimes, I still do. sometimes it comes back to me and I work on everything I can kinda of like why I'm writing right now and I do it because I have these moments where I can't stop and then I crash for months. sometimes I still make myself bleed.

Near the end of "Forks," Ritchie walks into the kitchen to find head chef/owner Terry (played by Olivia Colman!) peeling mushrooms for a lamb dish. There is no particular culinary purpose; it will not change the taste of the mushrooms. She is there early in the morning and peeling mushrooms because "it's a fun little detail" that lets diners know someone spent time with their dish. Strictly speaking, it is extra work but there's a difference between this gesture and (for example) the way I burnt myself out. It's generosity. It's truly done for others. It is service given willingly and while it does benefit the restaurant it's mostly done because she feels like it and finds comfort in giving a portion of herself to others.

You shouldn't ever bleed for the job. If there is any blood, let it be a donation. In spite of what faith I have, the universe has not seen fit to reveal any truth to us when it comes to the mechanisms that keep it spinning. The reflex is to find absurdity in our ignorance and in our fundamental smallness. Purpose cannot exist in any extant manner because the universe is indifferent to our works. Perhaps this is true and if so it stands to reason that all we have is each other and the having is a fleeting thing.

Knowing this, service takes on a fresh significance although this is perhaps not the more revelatory things to notice. Service is the means by which we insist against all odds that we are here. It is one of the most beautiful ways we reach out and touch someone and say "yes, we are here and we need not be here alone." And service can never be mistaken for work.

Ritchie puts on this suit and dons his armor so that he doesn't bleed for the work. His fellow worker Garret explains that before he worked at Terry's place, he had a drinking problem but he sobers up and learned "acts of service" and it gave him purpose.

he says there's a reason hospitality and hospital share the same root word.

One time I passed out on the new york subways because I couldn't breath. there were times throughout the day that stood up and nearly passed out. my doctor thought I was anemic.

sometimes work becomes like armor. you pour yourself into it because you think it's the only way you can reach people. sometimes, I still believe that. maybe the words are all I have

We all certainly have armor although it's sometimes hard to identify what it is. There's two kinds of armor though and I think one is probably better than the other. There is the armor we put on to protect us from others. There is the armor that we put on the protect us from ourselves.

The first is borne out of suspicion; the second comes with experience. The first is easy to forge and hard to take off. The second is more difficult to build but slips off and on easily as needed. For one and a half seasons, Ritchie has warded other off with bards and rudeness. He's lacked empathy, discarded it entirely. But when we watch him talk with his coworkers in this episode, it's clear that empathy can come easily for him if he allows it. He's a natural with people and it comes into focus the moment he starts shedding the old armor.

I have a propensity to overshare in my work and in my thoughts about other's work. I firmly believe we should be able to be honest with people perhaps to the point of being radically honest but I find it can be difficult to know where lines are. I often wonder if there are ways in which my own honesty has driven people away. if it's simply become angry bluntness.

it is hard to know if it has become an armor I've donned for that very purpose without knowing it. Maybe I pushed folks away because I somehow thought I didn't deserve their friendship. I'm not sure. what i know is that i certainly feel lonely and hardly feel comfortable in any group. i'm suspicious of every and unable to tell what is sarcastic or not.

I fear all I've done is wedge myself into different families.

Watching Ritchie shed his abrasiveness shook me more than anything else this season and this is a string of episode with perhaps the most nightmarish Christmas ever shown in anything I've watched. Ritchie's shortcomings are obvious and loud; his transformation is nothing short of astounding and a testament to The Bear's writers.

It has also left me wondering about my own shortcomings or if I might be able to perceive and understand other people's armor. so I can better empathize with them and their needs. so I can understand how I could better serve them. What are the moments where they are wearing their own armor? What are the moments where my own ill-forge set has driven people away? Hard to know!

Season Two ends with Carmy locked in the walk-in freezer during The Bear's friends and family night. it's the teams first night running the restaurant; this is their first shot to see if they can really work together. to see if everyone fits into place and is not wedged.

Throughout many episodes, Carmy's been reminded to call someone to fix the walk-in's door handle. He's failed to listen and failed to reach out. It might be self-sabotage but it is also a reminder of happens when we bleed for our work. We pour ourselves into something until we are locked away. we fail to act as we should. Carmy simmers in his thoughts while he is locked in the freezer. Eventually, he wonders if he's allowed to be happy and if he's allowed to allow Claire to love him. He wonders if she's just a distraction.

He craves the work, he wants to bleed.

And in the end, as Claire listens through the door, his words drive her away. His relationship crumbles. The work has killed one of the only good things he has taken a chance on. Trapped behind a literal wall and locked in a prison caused of his own neglect, he's not even able to help everyone in the kitchen. He's not there to lead and not there to share in their victory as the night end and they deliver outstanding service. Ritchie is there.

The episode ends in an argument between the two. It starts because Ritchie, empathetically, wants to know what Carmy said to hurt Claire. But Carmy can't open up and continues to lash out. As they yelled, Ritchie declares that he love Carmen. Even as he argues and they swear viciously at each other, he hasn't put on his old armor. And if Carmen could open the door, maybe he'd find someone there who would listen to him and be radically honest.

One of Carmy's biggest regrets is that he wasn't able to work. There is a dash of empathy there—he knows he has failed the staff—but there's still, the audience might fear, a need to hide in the work and bleed. Perhaps he'll discover the difference between work and service. Perhaps he'll end up peeling mushrooms in order to share a human touch with guests.

But for now? The door is stuck.

[hungryteeth]

hangdog humanity

"...i hear my mother’s voice. she’s praying for me. though i have proven to be forsaken by his lack of presence for me — for her sake, for her well-intentioned heart, that if he listens to anyone, he listens to her."

tw: dark.

chewing my cheeks. pulling up scabs on my scalp. feeling where my curse bores into each hand-wrought mutilation on my skin.

i hear my mother’s voice. she’s praying for me. though i have proven to be forsaken by his lack of presence for me — for her sake, for her well-intentioned heart, that if he listens to anyone, he listens to her.

if anything divine appears, it’s a contemptuous movement. dislodging my brain at the occipital bone. in layman’s terms, decapitation.

born as the representation of the lovers, i carry someone else within me. talking ghosts, whispers in my ears. scolding me, “you cannot have us both”. they hate each other. they fight all the time. screaming in the other room, hearing the audible kissed-fist connecting to the other’s cheek.

i try to call for help but my rapid shallow gasps numb my hands and lock my jaw.

throwing itself against the walls of my head is no savior but a killer-god. it works in my wounds, not like salt in a ritual, but as a flavor in the sacrificial feast. the lamb that i am, last seen with blood spilling through a toothy grin.

the threads i spin in my web in the avoided corner of the highest part of the ceiling. despite where i am, i am no closer to heaven, than the average woman with her scarlet letter bore on her chest. born naked, innocent, and unaware. only to be condemned to be burned alive in a bag.

all of you pull at my threads when i descend from my web. shouldering the curse of this existence, so that others may glue themselves to my ruin.

forget alchemy, even the gods in motions have doubts and they take out their hangdog humanity on me.

small, meek, and weak. when i return to my corner, i ask, “how do others pray?” bone, tooth, battered knees. formerly afraid, now it is october and i must wear the webs i’ve woven.

these lacerations are hard to catch, often scurrying, hiding under the couch to continue to hurt. falsifying the “innocuous” organic nature of sepsis being for the “greater good”. the aforementioned being the death mask worn in my regularly-scheduled programmed executions.

the outlying terrain of the exiled who foam at the mouth, out-of-touch, between promise and apology. the affection that i am afforded pricks at my skin like the euthanasia needle. viscera calcified, solidified.

if i spoke these poems aloud to all of you that i have fed generously, greedily, gluttonizing, with my undying love — it would reach you as quick as my kerosene-doused head could set alight. of course, your responses would not reach me in time, before i was burned to the fated ash.

these private things, these hidden closets of screams. the shape of my hunger must be horrifying to look at. since each time it is faced, desertion is the guaranteed, routine response.

my presence is unavoidable, devout belief in self-sacrifice. self-destruction. preferring death over eating too much of what i love, having to subsist. stripped, bare-boned, and hunted, unprotected by lack of purpose if i devour all of it.

to the raven awaiting me, as i grew close, just two-feet away — when we stared at each other for those ten seconds, sharing your prophetic gaze. dispossessed, burning your occupancy into my triple-chambered heart. lover, sinner, and the holy-spirit.

anguish pillowed and bedroomed as if customary. serving tear-gas, tears, and tea at the splintered dinner table.

the ritual slaughter is never pure. mangled by the same rabid dogs i was born into the same pack with. it didn’t hurt, since i had already died. no one noticed.

when it finally comes, betrayal began as a small intimacy, teeth against teeth. the scant pathway into the dark, pacing back-and-forth, contemplating the meaning of my unconscious-assured and troublingly-confident stride to oblivion. before stepping the second foot into the nihility — paralyzed like the doe in the headlights that i am, all because i swear i almost heard you call my name.

[jonathanvik]

Krisis - Chapter 2

“Tsk.” Police Chief Rolf scowled as his secretary brought him the daily report, chalky smoke filled his office from his cigar as he scanned the reports. He suppressed a yawn, quickly skimming through each paper to get home early. If anything important happened, he’d learn about it in the morning.

“Another Demon protest.” Rolf smothered his cigar against the report, annoyed he’d have to deal with that nonsense again. 

If they were so unhappy about their pay, why didn’t they move to Vanderfall? There, they’d probably treat that trash better. If the Demons lived in his country, they lived by UOP rules. They should be proud to be citizens of the UOP, regardless of their living conditions. Some hell gas should suffice to clear that rabble. The agony caused by the nerve agent would make anyone think twice about continuing their worthless cause.

“Sir! Apologies for the interruption, but there’s an emergency!” His view screen said, flickering on. Sitting inside its frame was a cartoon green-haired girl in a police captain’s outfit with flashing police sirens acting as hair buns.

“Phú. I left my monitor off for a reason. This better be good.” While he could have easily gone through his reports with the AI’s assistance, Rolf preferred the tactile nature of paper. The higher-ups had forced the damnable AI upon his department, believing it would be an enjoyable mascot for children.

But his desk rattled as he abruptly stood up when he caught the AI’s stark expression. “It’s your nephew, Joven. He’s in the hospital. He’s suffered severe brain trauma. The prognosis isn’t good.”

Rolf was already charging from his office to the parking garage. People scattered at the sight of their irate police chief. Above him, a flying monitor followed him, Phú’s hover engines struggling to keep pace.

“He was attacked?” Rolf demanded, mind racing as the AI explained the scant details. “And this Rocke Ralss brat is responsible?”

“Correct. We’re taking testimony from both witnesses.”

“Keep them here. Once I return from the hospital, I want to hear their testimony myself.”

“Sure thing, Cap!” Phú said, giving him a thumbs up. “We’ll squeeze them for everything they got!”

“Rawr!” A roar echoed around the main lobby, officers were struggling to subdue a suspect. The brute was massive and violent, resembling more a wild beast than a human. Even with five officers on him, they couldn’t contain him.

“One moment,” Rolf said, forestalling Phú with a hand.

“Gah!” The suspect howled as Rolf delivered a powerful kick to the face. Stunned, he was helpless as Rolf grabbed him by the skull with both hands and drove his knee into his chin. With a thud, the man collapsed unconscious.

“Thanks, Chief.” Sergeant Halkken said, giving him a thumbs up for the assist.

“Throw that scum into a cell, Jan. Perhaps he’ll calm down after a day or two without food or water.”

---

“By Solv, I...” Rocke shook his head, hoping to wake from this terrible dream. This couldn’t be happening. His stolen car increased speed, zipping between two trucks. Metal squealed as he clipped a truck’s side, leaving an ugly gash in the car’s rear end.

“I appreciate the assist, young man. How about slowing down before you kill us?” the prophet said wryly. “The Sovereign might have saved my life, but I’d rather not risk it again, if you catch my drift.”

“R-right.” Rocke tried to gather his racing thoughts. Had he just killed Joven? No, impossible. It’d only been an ugly head wound. He’d be fine, surely.

“Dear Solv! I’m in a stolen car fleeing from a crime scene!” The full impact of his situation struck him like a brick to the skull, hands trembling with pent-up emotion. He’d just ruined his life, hadn’t he? Rocke doubted his family would think highly of him throwing away everything for some bum. His uncle would be furious about his debacle, maybe even refusing to help him legally through this mess. And Rocke’s dad? He’d rather not dwell on that.

“It’s okay, son.” The prophet said, giving his shoulder a tight squeeze. “We can get through this. The first point, I would imagine, is ditching this stolen car.”

“You’re right.” Nowadays, cars have trackers for just such a situation. It wouldn’t take long for this vehicle’s theft to be reported. After taking a deep breath, Rocke guided Joven’s car to a back alley behind a warehouse. At this late hour, nobody was around. With a hiss, the vehicle parked behind a  bin brimming with trash bags.

An idea struck his dulled mind, and his fingers danced across the flying car’s controls. While people usually drove their cars manually, they had an autodrive function. He programmed a course that would drive the vehicle halfway across the city.

“Okay, now what?” A million scenarios passed through Rocke’s head as his feet landed in the dark alley, almost pitch black from the lack of moonlight. Behind him the car started up on its journey.

Should he turn himself over to the police and plead for their mercy? But Rocke trembled, terrified by the prospect of going to prison. How could this happen? The UOP promised its citizens perfect peace and prosperity. People like him never committed crimes!

“I have a friend who lives nearby. Let’s stop by there to rest. After your day, you’ll need it. Besides, I doubt good decisions are made in a foul-smelling alley.” The soothsayer wrinkled his nose at the alley’s smell of indeterminate bodily fluids. 

 Rocke watched as Joven’s car sped away to parts unknown. “Okay, lead on.” Some sleep sounded nice. It might sober him up for better decision-making tomorrow.

“Matthias Daliven.” The prophet said, extending his hand. “I haven’t properly thanked you for saving my life.”

“Rocke Ralss.” While a wiry fellow, the soothsayer’s grip was firm, a sharp contrast to Rocke’s more feeble one. Despite his father’s emphasis, Rocke had never attained an imposing grip.

After a slight smile, the prophet led Rocke into a district of Vladus he’d never visited. It shocked him how grimy it was. Didn’t the automatic robotic cleaners come down here? He even noticed some streetlights weren’t working. With palpable unease, Rocke followed Matthias to parts unknown.

“Matthias, is that you?” A woman said. She waved as they entered the shantytown, a makeshift village within his grand city. The lady was an Ottomon, her tribal markings stretching across her middle-aged face in a sharp, zigzag fashion.

To call these huts homes would be generous. They appeared more like tin boxes of thin metal than a house. It shocked Rocke that anyone could live in them. Did they even keep you warm at night? North UOP had harsh winters with meters of snow every year.

“Evening, Maple.” The prophet replied, limping over.

“By Sovereign, what happened to you?! You’re all black and blue! Did someone hurt you? Angry about your prophecies, no doubt.” Maple said, fretting over the older man. “And who’s your friend? A higher district folk, from the looks of him.”

“Rocke,” he said bashfully under the woman’s scrutiny. Her penetrating gaze reminded him of his grandmother. That woman’s stubbornness could force a building to move if she wanted.

“He saved me from a bunch of hooligans,” Matthias said, giving Rocke’s back a friendly pat. “The Sovereign sent him to save my sorry keister.”

“That’s very brave of him.” The woman’s smile was grateful and full of admiration. It made Rocke somewhat self-conscious, but the glow from her respect felt nice. “Come in. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thanks, Maple. You’re a dear.” Matthias said, limping into the woman’s shack.

“Sure thing.” The metal hut was even smaller on the inside, barely larger than Rocke’s bedroom. Yet, its owner maintained it with obvious love, making do with whatever was available. The air didn’t smell as bad as he’d expected. Instead, the fragrance was of cooked vegetables. An old metal stove sat in a corner, and above it were stacks of shelves with different utensils and spices. Two beds sat in a corner, not giving the occupants much room for privacy.

“No use staring, lad. We might be poor, but we manage.” The older woman said. “But make yourself at home. I’ll get you something to eat. You’ve suffered quite the ordeal.”

“Sorry,” Rocke said, blushing. He found a stool next to a fold-up table and sat.

“You’re too kind.” The prophet said, groaning as he pushed himself onto the stool.

“Mom? Are you talking to someone?” A young woman said from outside. “Has Matthias come to visit?”

Rocke gasped as a familiar face slipped into the shack, recognizing the distinctive tattoo markings anywhere. What an impossible coincidence.

“Didn’t you give me a few copper coins a couple of hours ago?” The beggar’s eyes became suspicious. “Why are you here?”

“None of that, Kallane. He’s our guest. Please make him feel at home.” Her mother said.

“He got me out of a nasty scrape,” Matthias said, providing the backstory.

“What happened to you?” Kallane said, alarmed. She examined the prophet, making sure his injuries weren’t serious.

“Don’t fret. I’ll be fine.” The prophet said.

“The fool has been prophesying again.” Maple poured a thick broth into wooden bowls and placed them on the table. His mouth watered, despite being a simple affair made from vegetables, mostly celery from his guess. “Like those uptown fools will even listen to him.”

“Someone needs to warn them,” Matthias said, pulling his spoon to his mouth. “The Sovereign tells me they must be warned before judgment. They need time to repent.”

“Brave, silly Matthias.” The older Ottomon woman shook her head.

“And are you a repenter?” Kallane asked, eyeing Rocke with interest.

“Naw, I don’t believe any of that,” Rocke replied, trying the soup. It was excellent and flavorful, much to his surprise and delight. It helped remove any lingering effects of the drinks he’d had earlier.

“Yet you helped me,” the prophet said, raising an eyebrow. “Against your own friends, no less.” This caught their hosts’ attention, increasing their curiosity about what had happened.

Rocke’s hands covered his face, the futility of his situation crashing down on him. “I’m a wanted man now.”

“It was the Sovereign’s will. He put you there to help me,” Matthias said, his words kind.

“Thanks for ruining my life, Sovereign,” Rocke replied, not hiding his bitterness.

“This life is temporary. What we do for the hereafter matters more. The Sovereign will judge us for our transgressions. Being a good person isn’t enough. Unless we confess our sins, they hang over us like a noose.”

“Sure,” Rocke said noncommittally. He’d heard this speech countless times from his grandmother, too. She was the only person in his family that ever believed in the Sovereign. The controversy had gotten her kicked out of the family.

“Now Matthias, let’s not scare away our guest,” Maple said, scolding her friend.

“Tsk. Seems no one wants to hear the truth,” the prophet said, his tone going sullen. “It’s like I’m talking to myself. 40 days isn’t enough time!”

Why bother then? Rocke wanted to ask, but decided against it. It wasn’t his job to tell people what they should do.

“Well, I’m proud of you. Someone needs to speak out! The Uupies need to understand there are consequences for what they’ve done. Making us live in squalor while they live in palaces!” Kallane spat on the dirt floor, her tone venomous. “When judgment comes, they’ll get everything they deserve!”

While disapproving of her tone, the prophet patted Kallane’s hand. “I’m proud of how much you care about your people, Kallane, but don’t allow your anger to poison you. The Uupies are human too. I was once one of those snooty uptowners.”

The prophet was an uptowner? What poor luck drove him to become a prophet of a dead religion? Despite himself, it sparked Rocke’s curiosity. 

“Tsk. You’re different. You’ve always had a heart.” They’d clearly had this argument hundreds of times. Rocke shifted uneasily in his seat. He’d never realized how badly the Demons despised his people.

“Dessert?” Maple asked too loudly, trying to break into the awkward mood.

“That sounds lovely,” Matthias replied.

“Sure.” His host gave them each a sweet cake. Despite its simple flavor, and small size, Rocke enjoyed it. When Maple left with her daughter to do the dishes out of a basin, it left Rocke mostly alone with the person he’d lost everything to save.

“Are you okay?” the prophet asked, catching Rocke’s forlorn mood.

“What should I do now? I have no future.” While his uncle had money, he doubted he’d spend a copper to defend his disgraced nephew. Joven’s family had even more powerful connections. His father was a powerful local politician who aimed to become Vladus’ mayor. 

If Joven survived, Rocke would suffer only a short jail sentence. If the big man died, Rocke’s uncle wouldn’t dare fight that to save his own political skin. He’d consider it wiser to toss away his nephew like useless chaff. Like his father always said, it’s a dog-eat-dog world. 

“The Sovereign will provide,” Matthias replied cryptically.

“Sure. Thanks for the meal, but I should go,” Rocke stood up.

“No, stay the night,” Maple replied.

“You’ve been too nice. If I stay, you’d only get in trouble.” Where he’d go, Rocke hadn’t a clue. He couldn’t bear these good people getting hurt because of him.

“No, you’re staying. It’s dangerous at night in these parts, especially for Uupies.” Maple’s tone was emphatic.

“Yeah, everyone here knows Matthias is a friend and holy man, but a rich Uupie like you would get sliced to bits in seconds.” Kallane’s frosty glare sent a shiver down his spine.

“Okay.” Rocke’s tongue caught in his throat.

“We have a spare mat you can use,” Maple said kindly. She offered the same to Matthias too, and he accepted the offer with a grateful nod.

Rocke grimaced, disliking sharing a cramped room with three people. But it wasn’t like he had much choice. He’d lost any claim to comfort when he’d attacked Joven. He hoped by tomorrow, things would improve.

---

“Explain again what happened?” Rolf said, getting into the witness’s face. The young man was a scrawny thing that flinched under his piercing gaze.

“Like I told you. My friend Rocke went crazy and just attacked Joven. It’s nuts. There wasn’t any reason he did it!” Sweat trickled down Marshion Parra’s face.

“He messed up, you mean?”

“Sorry?”

“Last night, Joven was at the bridge for a purpose — discarding trash.”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“The prophet, kid. That’s the reason my nephew was near the bridge late at night. It was to dispose of a nuisance who's been disturbing public peace.”

“We’re just talking about that?” Parra said, surprised. “Openly?”

“Yes.” The boy flinched at the tone of Rolf’s voice. His men wouldn’t dare betray him. Besides, no one would care if that traitor died. “Answer the damn question. Where is the prophet?”

“Rocke stole him away. Took Joven’s car.”

“Better.” The picture of the scene became clearer. Joven asked his friends to join in the fun. But this Rocke kid wasn’t as keen about it. The situation escalated, and Rocke struck Joven with a baseball bat to defend the prophet. Panic struck, and he fled with the injured soothsayer in the nearest car.

“Phú, my nephew’s car has a tracker. Locate it.” 

“Got it!” The AI said, her monitor flashing before switching off. 

If the kid was stupid, he’d keep running with the stolen vehicle. It shouldn’t be hard to trump up some charges for the prophet so he’g get locked away in some cold prison somewhere. Death during a fake escape attempt was another promising idea. Still, it was nothing compared to when they caught…

“Sir,” Halkken said, bursting into the interrogation room.

“What? I’m busy.” But the sergeant’s face told Rolf everything.

“It’s your nephew. He didn’t make it. The brain damage was too severe. He passed ten minutes ago. I just learned about it.” Halkken said in obvious dismay. A lump caught in Rolf’s throat. Despite the grim prognosis, his nephew had still been alive when he’d left the hospital. His sister’s wailing still tormented him, guilt stabbing into his heart like a knife. It’d been his fault the boy had gotten hurt. 

After a brief silence, Parra uttered something stupid. “I’m sorry for what happened. He was a good friend.” The brat howled as a fist impacted his nose.

“You little brat. Don’t you dare speak of my Joven!” Rolf channeled all his rage into his words, an avenging angel. “He had a bright future. He was going to be police chief one day, but you allowed him to die. You allowed that Ralss kid to hurt my boy!” 

“I...” Parra trembled, words failing him.

“I’ll leave you be,” Halkken said, motioning to leave.

“No.” Rolf regained his temper. Although he'd enjoyed venting his fury on this pathetic whelp, he wasn’t Rolf's true target. “Throw him out of here, and none too gently.”

“Understood,” Halkken said, nodding.

“Phú!”

“Yes, sir?” The AI said as the room’s monitor reactivated. “I overheard what happened, Chief! My deepest condolences!” 

“Shut up. We’ve got work to do!” 

“What’s the plan?” PhúLAX, or Phú or short, asked, her voice chipper as always. “Are we going to hunt that murderous scum down and make him pay?”

“I like the sound of that.” Halkken said, amused. Rolf’s heart soured with pride at his officers’ sense of justice. 

“You read my mind.” A devilish smile spread across his features. “Put a city-wide APB on this Ralss kid. Shoot on sight with stun weapons, highest level.” The weapon was powerful enough to make an elephant twitch in erratic spasms. The agony would be pure misery. “But I’ll handle the rest myself.” 

“Of course, chief.” Phú gave a salute. “Your blood. You deserve to avenge him.”

“Damn right.” Rolf left the pathetic Parra whimpering on the floor. He had a job to do. He’d burn down half of Vladus if need be. No place could protect Joven’s murderer from him.

[devoutpriest]

wildmoored:

A wry smile turned up the corners of Godric’s lips, and for a moment he hesitated, for his disagreements were many, and most of those were not the kind to share with strangers. To explain those reasons would be to expose his magic, and he had no wish for that debacle at present. He was a wizard, friends with Helga, and had a wand from Ollivander's. “Forgive me, friend, but those are personal, and deeply rooted within my family. To follow the Christian god was to be dishonest to mine own heart and mind. And I’ve long believed that to acknowledge a lack of faith is better and truer than to promote false faith. I had little initial belief to even leave by the time I first came to Uppsala. Any good memories I have of the years when I called myself a Christian had little to do with the religion, and more to do with my family while my brothers and my father still lived.” Athelstan mentioned the statues and so Godric looked up at them, grand and impressive, certainly sights to inspire - and yet his response to his countryman was a simple “No.” He elaborated. "I never saw the statues until a few years ago – my first time here was maybe two years after the family I met had last come to the temple. I’ve work and other obligations that take me far from here – to the golden pyramids in Cairo and beyond even there. And I’ve spent most of my life going from one place to another. But still I carry the gods with me. I do not believe them stuck inside something carved by the hands of men - they are everywhere, and so too their strength does not leave me, even under the southern sun… when perhaps I need it the most.“ Godric nodded along with Athelstan’s story, HMMing or saying ’RIGHT’ in the appropriate spots. "I’ve heard a great many things about Earl Ragnar, though I’ve yet to meet him." He hears him speak quietly about Ragnarok, nigh whisper, understanding this man was confused about viking customs. Was he not met well with his curiosity in Kattegat? "The world passes by very differently here, compared to back home, doesn’t it? Our people were not always Christians - we used to believe in gods just like the Norsemen. To come here feels like returning to my roots - do you ever have this thought?”

Athelstan notices the smile on the man’s lips. It looked illuminated by the candles, and scant natural light forcibly dispersing into the temple.

He nods, accepting the man’s apology in stride, as blood was splattered on his face, as the priest spattered in all journeyers here. The priest had paused upon seeing him, sensing something different about him. Then he splashed onto his face, trickling into his goatee, hair on his chin. It was strange having more hair once more, as he had been used to tonsure during monastic time. He had cut his skull with a knife to shave, feeling lonely of God abandoning him, the monks abandoning him and mocking him in the darkness. Offence was not taken in any way, even if the man had not apologized for denying him.

“Of course, and I do not wish to intrude in any way. Yet, were you ever afraid what people may think of you, when acknowledging such? I am sorry to hear of your brothers and father’s demise, and I hope that they are at peace in Heaven.”

This man seemed so much more assured of where he stood in his faith than Athelstan.

“How was your experience in visiting the Cairo pyramids? Did you find them beautiful to behold?" He remembered painting sandy dunes in the desert, a light brown cathedral with a glass dome. "I have started to feel the gods’ presence as well. I have found that Thor is in the thunder, is the slayer of frost and fire–although I do admit that I may have felt his presence later than you. ”

Upon hearing the man’s question directed towards him, Athelstan pauses once again before answering. He thinks to the cross hidden onto his wrist and the crumbling Bible of St. John buried in a hidden compartment, things he could not bear to get rid of just yet.

“Ragnar is here now if you wish to meet him, although at this very moment, I think he may be busy. I have never been to Uppsala until now, but I do find myself interested by it. I recognize all these gods that I’ve learnt in Kattegat.”

[inca-oc]

Try Again

Keeva's world seems to be in a constant state of falling apart and it's become too much. Lan tries his best to get her through, unwilling to watch her become an echo of himself.

Apprehension had been as constant a companion to Keeva as her own eidolon when she’d initially made her way to the upper floors of the Avalon. An excruciatingly awkward encounter with Fiona had only put her further on edge after the unexpected appearance and battle with Móirín, and coupled with her witnessing Fiona’s brush with death, and adding even further to that with Keeva’s frantic effort to save Lancelot from a similar fate during that battle… It was so much. Too much. She could scarcely keep her thoughts from toppling over themselves in how dizzyingly overwhelmed she was. At the very least, she’d wanted to do something useful in her effort to escape her guilty conscience, and ensuring Tiarnán was actually okay seemed like the most reasonable option given everything that had just happened. So here she sat, begrudgingly holding a cup of tea she was too embarrassed to refuse while stuck in a place she hardly wanted to be in.

And then, as if fate found her circumstances to be funny and wanted to send her on one final push towards utter ruin, her eyes fixate on Tiarnán and Móirín’s joined hands, sending all of her thoughts crashing down around her as every façade she’d haphazardly thrown up shattered in a single instant. Her attention turns to their faces, seemingly unbothered, then their words, the final blow that cuts as sharp as a knife right through her soul.

It was love. It was always love.

This isn’t fucking fair.

She can feel herself wanting to crumble on the spot, further adding to the guilt that had made a fine home within her soul. Shouldn’t she be happy that Tiarnan can hold his beloved’s hand? That their love for one another is enough to overcome any discomfort they might face? Shouldn’t she be supportive, rather than filled with bitterness? Envy?

Had all of her love been devoured by hate?

Her world becomes a blur, her thoughts racing as everything around her seems to slow to a crawl. Nothing felt right, a cacophony of color and sound that meant nothing to her. She needed to get out. Get out, run as far away as she could.

I can’t do this anymore.

She’s only vaguely aware that she’s speaking, but she can’t hear anything over the sickening buzz of her own guilty thoughts, so intense it’s blinding. A tiny part of her hopes there was an apology thrown into whatever she said, that she didn’t accidentally break one of Tiarnán’s teacups, but the rest of her is too upset to care, and then more upset that she doesn’t care.

I’m sorry.

Every footstep is like a jolt of thunderous noise in her mind as she sprints away from Tiarnán’s room, but even that is not enough to drown out her thoughts.

I’m so sorry.

In one moment, Keeva had been sitting at Lancelot’s side, relatively fine considering the circumstances if not understandably anxious, and in the next she’s suddenly on her feet and shouting something he can scarcely understand in a near frantic state. By the time Lancelot realizes what’s going on she’s already gone, but the eidolon is quickly on his feet and out the door after her, leaving no time for even a scant apology.

She’d already made it a significant distance down the hall by this point, but he quickly gains on her. "Keeva?” Lan tries to get her attention, speaking first out loud, then through their mental link. ‘Keeva, talk to me.’

She speaks, not in response to his worried call, but rather with a quiet hiss of words he cannot quite hear and a sudden jerk of her hand, an action he instantly recognizes as her casting a spell. In the next moment he can feel their link go muted, her constant presence more distant in blatant evidence of what she had cast.

"Keeva!" he exclaims, quickening his pace to close what little distance remained between them. As he reaches for her arm, his gloved hand closes around nothing but empty air where Keeva stood not a second before, the distinct sound of a pop ringing in his ears. She’s gone, leaving him standing alone in the hallway.

With him now unfettered from her, she could theoretically be anywhere within Hadreon, and all at once he feels panic seize him. Lancelot was well aware of just how emotionally fragile she was right now. If she decided to do something stupid, he wouldn’t be able to protect her.

He needed to find her.

‘Keeva, please. Please,’ The eidolon mentally pleads, trying to choke back his anxiety long enough to keep from adding to her own overload of emotions. ‘Keeva. Keeva, where are you?’ His attempts to reach her through their link are met with a brief jolt of guilt, of sadness that is quickly stifled, and then silence. Despite the absence of words, her message was clear: leave me alone.

Lancelot slams the side of his fist into the wall, uttering every curse in every language he knew. He’d encouraged her to come here, and like everything else lately, of course something had to go catastrophically wrong.

“I’m so fucking stupid.”

It was going to do him little good to stand there and curse. After overcoming the worst of his initial panic and frustration, the next few minutes are spent frantically running through the Avalon as fast as his legs will allow, looking everywhere that Keeva could be on the ship. He figures that it would be most likely for her to stay where she was most familiar, so after checking the usual spots — the kitchen, the shrine, and then their house — he then spends the next hour looking all through the forest layer in the faintest hope that she might be somewhere within. If not, if not… In the least of things, he would possibly feel a pull from their link once the unfettering ends if he was close enough, or be killed outright if she were even farther than that, but in any case he would have confirmation of her whereabouts at that point.

Whether she would be willing to resummon him is a different story, however, and although she was nearly always willing to comply with his requests, she may not be so inclined if she’s feeling bad enough. The situation with Fiona comes to mind immediately; even when she was stabbed, she would not let him out and forced him to remain in her soul, unable to do anything. He couldn’t protect her if he was trapped in her mind. No, he had to find her before time was up. He had to help her.

It was a vow he had taken as an eidolon, but one he honored as her friend. To protect her, always. He would not fail her again.

Running through the plants and trees was proving to slow him down far too much for his liking, so he eventually makes the switch to flight. Time seems to fly alongside him all too quickly, however, and he can feel that panic returning, building upon itself more and more with every passing second. Any mental prodding he attempts is met with continued silence from Keeva, but he tries regardless. If nothing else, it lets her know that he’s thinking of her. At least, he hopes it’s what she takes from that.

Somehow, despite all the terror screaming inside him, there is a sudden thought that occurs to him amongst the noise; he recalls a faint memory of a trek they’d embarked on one day when she’d expressed interest in exploring the forest layer, and then Keeva’s quiet voice. She’d pointed out to him a specific group of flowers and vines, commenting that the arrangement of them, they’d reminded her so distinctly of the plants she’d had growing on her home in Tír na nÓg, and how much she missed those flowers sometimes. It had been a brief exchange, one he hadn’t given too much thought to at the time, but given how much she’d expressed feeling homesick lately… Perhaps she would be there. He hopes his hunch is right. It’s the only idea he has left.

Please be there, Keeva.

It doesn’t take much longer for him to arrive at that spot once he gets his bearings, retracing the journey to the best of his recollection. As he lands amidst the overgrown flowers, his eyes quickly scan his surroundings but to his dismay, she doesn’t appear to be there after all. Fuck.

Fuck.

Maybe she was still somewhere on the ship, but there was always the possibility that he was completely wrong about that too. What if he was wrong? Was she really somewhere else in Hadreon? Where could she be? What if she was in danger somewhere and he couldn’t do anything?

His thoughts suddenly come to a screeching halt as he happens to catch the subtlest trace of movement from the corner of his eye, and all at once his attention is caught on the last bit of hope he has. He turns fully to catch a better look and finally, finally he spots her; blended in amongst the foliage lay Keeva’s still form, her the slightest quivering of her wings the only observable movement. Laying there she looks as though she could be a flower herself.

In that moment, the sight of her was sweeter than any flower he’d ever seen.

The relief that washes over him in that instant is so intense he would cry if he had the capability to do so. It takes every ounce of willpower in his body to not scoop her up in a crushing hug right then and there, but startling her was not going to do her any favors. Instead, he slowly approaches, stops to move the plants, to make an open space in the plants, then lays on the ground facing her. An eye opens as he settles in place, sees him, then closes again as she curls even tighter into herself as if to make herself invisible within the blanket of flowers. He makes no attempt to speak, and neither does she.

There aren’t words he can say that would give her the comfort she deserves, so he waits.

Eventually their link is restored in full as the spell that unfettered him fades away, and although she was still shielding her thoughts and feelings from him, it isn’t much longer after that when she steals another glance as though checking if he were still there. He offers a blink, and the faintest trace of a smile.

“Are you ready to talk?” he asks, finally ending the stretch of silence between them.

The hesitation in her is obvious, but does not last long. “There’s nothing to talk about,” she counters flatly, what little expression he could see betraying how gloomy she still was despite her empty tone. “Why don’t you check on someone else? I’m fine.”

His eyes narrow the slightest bit, then close as he feigns a sigh. “Well, you see, I would,” he says, waving a hand almost dismissively, “except you’re the only person left for me to check on.”

“Don’t lie to me,” she mumbles, turning her back to him.

He frowns, dropping the carefree façade that was clearly more irritating to her than helpful right now. “Keeva,” he urges as he pushes himself upright, staring steadily at her tiny form, “you are the only person on this ship who needs me to check on them. That is a fact.”

“What about Iris?” she counters sharply, glancing at him from over her shoulder. “Or Alex, or–”

“What about you, Keeva?” He gazes at her with obvious concern. “When are you going to let someone care about you for a change? Your friends are worried about you. I’m worried about you.”

She grimaces, letting her head drop back down so he could no longer see her face. He waits in silence, and just when he’s about to speak, she finally replies, “I’m fine, Lan. I’m fine.”

“If you were actually fine,” he chides, “I wouldn’t have felt the need to search half the Avalon to find you.”

Her wings twitch, and in the next moment she’s turned back to face him, pushing herself up to sit upright. “You didn’t have to do that, Lan.”

“Well, you weren’t exactly telling me where you were! I was terrified for you, Keeva.” Lancelot runs his hand through his bangs, gripping at his head so tight some of the hair comes undone from his ponytail. He tries to keep his emotions tamped down, but frustration bubbles to the surface despite his best efforts. “What was I supposed to do? Sit on my ass and pray to every single pretender that you were safe? You teleported away! I count my fucking blessings that you were still on the ship instead of the middle of Hadreon somewhere!” He stops, noticing a strange look of fear that flashed across her face. “What?” he questions flatly, an uncomfortable knot forming in his chest. She doesn’t immediately respond, averting her eyes, and he presses with sudden urgency, “Keeva, please answer me.”

She falters, but complies with his request for an answer. “I…. I did. Leave the ship.”

His entire body tenses, and any self control he had slips as he shouts, “What? Keeva, you what?” He instantly regrets his loss of composure as she winces away from him. You fucking idiot, she’s not the one you’re angry at. Do better. “Keeva,” he tries again after a brief silence, voice dropping to a pained whisper. “Keeva, what if you’d gotten hurt? Would you have called me to you? Where did you even go?”

Her fingers dig into her arms so hard they meet her mannequin, her face scrunched up so much her eyes are slivers of green. She can’t bring herself to meet his gaze, her words coming so haltingly she has to stop, try to recompose herself, but even still her voice is frail as she forces herself to reply, “I-I went… I went to, um, Ellara. Near where we… we came here. Hadreon.”

“Keeva,” he starts, but she swiftly interrupts.

“I just… I just wanted to go. Home. I wanted to go home! But I… I couldn’t do it. I thought about it. A lot. Almost did, but I… I couldn’t. You kept… talking to me, and I felt more guilty about it, and I… I-I just… I came back to the ship. Here.”

Every word is like a vice that chokes him more and more. “Home?” he repeats, to which she nods. Her homesickness was even worse than he’d known, but to go that close to the loyalist sidhe, to potential danger that he knows she’s well aware of… “You– We can’t go back there, Keeva. You know we can’t.”

That seems to set something off within her, and all of a sudden the restrained emotions within her explode all at once. “And I can’t do this anymore, Lan!” she screams, burying her face in her knees. “Everything was better back home! Everything! I was helpful there! I was happy there!”

“They… Surely they must know you’re a rebel now, Keeva. They might kill you if you try,” he tries to explain, but the moment the words leave his mouth, he feels nothing but the still building frustration and distress from his summoner.

“Like what you already said you would do to me?” she snaps, lifting her head to stare pointedly into his eyes. “What does it matter if they kill me, Lancelot? I’m never going to be able to help anyone like I am now! Not since I’ve changed into this!” She gestures angrily to herself. “At least I’d still have a chance at being what I’m meant to be if I was reborn now! You said it yourself, it’d be better if I do it before it’s too late for me!”

A stab of guilt makes him feel suddenly sick. Why did he ever tell her that? What the fuck had he been thinking? "Keeva, not every word I say should hold weight, especially if you’re only going to take them and place them upon your shoulders like it’s your burden to carry,” he says, but Keeva appears unswayed by his words.

“If I can’t hold you to your word, how can I trust anything you say?” she shouts.

His gaze is firm, but his voice strained as he answers, “I know what you’re asking for, and I won’t do that, Keeva. I refuse.”

That flame that had been ignited within her wavers like a candle in the wind, and he can clearly see the conviction that had been fueling her fading fast with his refusal. “If… If I commanded you?” She suddenly cuts her hand through the air as one would with a sword, leaning forward with the movement. Her eyes are more frantic but steadily staring into his own with expectation. “You… Would you do it then? Lan?”

His sword hand tightens into a fist, and he makes a concerted effort to move it even further from the weapon on his hip. “No.”

She looks at him helplessly, shoulders slumping. “I… I want to go home, Lancelot. Please.”

His voice is sharp but pleading, consumed by a pain he can’t bear any longer, “Stop it, Keeva! I can’t lose you too!” He suddenly reaches for her hand, gripping it so tightly he’s trembling from the effort. “I can’t. I can’t do it, Keeva! I was a fucking fool to even suggest I could before, but I can’t lose you. I can’t.”

Finally, this seems to be enough to break through her adamant desire as she can’t bring herself to demand more from him, instead staring with wide, scared eyes. Realization at how far she’d pushed Lancelot.

"You're doing the exact things you discouraged me from doing, Keeva,” he continues, earning a pained wince from the summer sidhe as her head drops to stare at the ground. “It isn't right! It wasn’t right when I would do it, and it’s not any more correct when you do it! Would you not be worried for me if I were doing exactly what you are currently? I know you would be, because you have been!” He pauses for a single moment, but does not wait for her to respond. “I care about you, Keeva, and I’m not going to help you make the exact same mistakes I’ve made. You're never going to move forward if you continue following the footsteps left behind me."

What little fire that had remained within the summer sidhe dies completely, and within the broken pieces that made up Keeva in this moment, he could see slivers of himself staring back at him. The isolation, pushing anyone away no matter how much they wish to help because he’s not worth the effort anyway. The spiraling self-loathing. The disregard of his own well-being for the slightest taste of helping someone, of redemption. All of it a reflection of what his influence had imprinted on her.

His hands had once been gentle, many lifetimes ago. Perhaps he had fooled himself into believing they might still be yet, but a hand wielding a sword was always bound to cause harm. He had sworn to protect Keeva and instead he had pushed her blindly into the very danger he meant to save her from.

His eyes soften with shame, and for a brief instant, he finds himself unable to meet her gaze. “This is all my fault.”

Immediately she’s put on the defensive, unwilling to relinquish her burden of guilt to him. “No, no you… You didn’t do anything wrong, Lan, it’s my own fault–”

“No, Keeva,” he interrupts, frustration of his own clear in his tone. Keeva quickly goes silent, and Lan continues, “This is my fault. I put that idea in your mind when you never once would have considered it before, all because I–” His voice falters, his eyes betraying just how pained he is as he continues, “I was… afraid. Afraid of losing you in the same way I lost another I cared about. It was wrong. I was wrong, and all it did was make the very thing I feared all the more likely.”

“But… But I–”

His voice softens as he gently takes her hand in his own, eyes filled with a sincerity he reserved for save few in this life, or any life he’d ever lived. “I’m sorry, Keeva. I’m so sorry.”

Her shoulders stiffen, eyes flitting from side to side as though looking for something. An excuse, an argument, anything to dispute him, but there was nothing to be found. She opens her mouth as if to speak, but stops herself, and for a moment Lancelot is certain she might retreat completely in the absence of a defense. To his surprise, however, the uncertainty gives way to the most pained look he’s ever seen in Keeva’s eyes before she throws her arms around him in an agonized wail. Her form is unstable under his hands, somewhere between wispy and melting, almost as though her entire soul had become tears that barely held themselves together under the weight of her sadness. He would wait as she crumbled to pieces, ready to help her put them back together again no matter how long it may take.

It takes a long time before she begins to come down from the height of her anguish, but eventually she falls silent, face buried in his shirt as her form slowly stabilizes into something slightly more solid. He gives her a slight squeeze as she puts her hand over his, weakly returning the gesture.

“I know I cannot take it back as much as I wish I could,” he says quietly, “but I will do all I can to do better by you in the future. I promise.”

“You’ve been better.” Although her voice is faint, there’s a certainty in her words. “Already. You have been, Lan.”

His embrace tightens around her, face buried in her hair. “Then if someone like me can do better, believe me when I say that you can too.”

He feels her wings twitch against his arms, and she whispers, “What if I can’t?”

“Then I take your hand, help you to your feet, and we try again. Just as you’ve done for me. Just as you do for your friends.”

There’s a brief shudder of uncertainty he feels from her, but despite this, he also feels her nod.

“Try again,” she repeats softly. “I’ll… I’ll try.”

[valentinabloodfallen]

Into The Abyss

"Why me?" 

A question I have asked myself numerous times. Whether it was my own doing, an outside influence, or even a curse I wouldn't know. Each day is more of a struggle than the last. Facing Trials and tribulations the burdens of this world bind me to despair. What is the point of going on? What is the reason for being? Why live a life that is filled with this monumental pain? Slowly day by day the darkness inside consumes my soul. The light is fading. I am falling.

The descent requires no effort. Let it come. Let it be. Give me what I deserve. Surely I must deserve it. Shrouded in shadows, I yearn for an escape. Heart and soul weighing me down. I drift away.  Perhaps God will give me the mercy of this being my last sleep.

I slowly awake though this time is different than usual. Something is not right. Something is amiss I cannot explain. I look around to survey my surroundings. To find only darkness. No trace of scant light to be found. Not a sound to be heard. Yet my heart echos each passing thump chills my blood. Though I cannot see I can feel myself bound. Unable to move I shift to and fro met with only the sound of metallic scraping.

I begin to panic My mind plagued by anxious thoughts of how I came to be in this situation. Fear coursing through my veins. Dread weighing down on my chest. Despair constricting my breath.

Abandon all hope you who enter here.

With a faint click Brilliant radiance illuminates from above. It's was God. It has to be. That is the only reasonable explanation. God has come to save me. The beauty of the light was awe-inspiring.

"So I have died" i mumble. A smile and sense of relief washes over me. My wish has finally came true. I am finally free from despair, free from the pain.

"I apologize for the misunderstanding. You are not going to die. Death is a mercy of the deserving " A voice gently speaks out from the darkness. A calm almost sympathetic  tone that does not reflect what has been said.

Thunderous footsteps approach with purpose. The momentary hope ripped away. Fear. That is all that remains. Like prey being hunted I try to make an escape. I cannot move an inch. Is it the fear? is it the panic? No remembering before I look down and see my naked body bloodied bound and bruised. Feet shacked in wrought iron chains. Blood and rust mix in blackish brown sludge. Hands bound behind me in what I can only assume to be the same chains on my legs. The footsteps have reached me. A black silhouette displaces the light. An imposing figure it was. Towering above me it didn't move. It's gaze fixed on me.

"Who are you, what do you want" my voice a trembling guttural squeal.

There was no response. Pleading with the figure in every way imaginable. Begging for release, for answers, for something. My chest heavy as if there way a pallet of bricks placed atop it. Tears well up and continue to fall. Sweat leaking out of every pore. I cannot breath I cannot think my head is filled with static as my blood is ice cold.

"Do not be afraid little one" with that the silence breaks. An outstretched hand caresses my face. Like a parent trying to console a child. The hand devoid of any source of heat. With that small exchange the figure steps back reaching out to the darkness, dragging a cart into view. Filled with various tools. It raises each item to showcase them to me before placing them in a neat orderly fashion. Pliers. Box cutters. Garden sheers. A saw. The final tool is a hammer.

Standing there contemplating the figure picks up the sheers with delicacy inspecting the tool giving it a few snips and a nod. Slowly it approaches me. Snip. Snip. Snip.

All sense of escape evaporates. All hope has been snuffed out. Naked and bound how would I fight. Can I fight?  Why is this happening? Why wasn't anyone coming to save me? What did I do to deserve this.

"Why me?"

[pansexualkiba]

...okay, so i'm just going to delete this post. that's what you wish, isn't it. not to have a constructive dialogue, but to berate me into deleting what you take as a bad faith post that was mainly just me, as i've admitted, misremembering several things in a vent post and conflating it all into me thinking that, yes, confirming things outside of the main show isn't good representation for people who may be unaware that said extended material isn't very accessible.

there's one more thing, though, before i move on from this rather annoying thing. "plethora". the show knows who its main characters are, yes. the show knows where the characters are, yes. it does not have a plethora of lgbt characters. my count remains nine characters. that is less characters than the amount named in the emerald forest episodes. there have been several magnitudes more characters since then. if you wish to continue to angrily go "um, actually", and rant and rave on someone who has admitted they were wrong already, go ahead, but please do not misconstrue things i've said. ilia had a crush. adults get crushes. a "crush" is not implying juvenile feelings about anything. to imply so is, in itself, juvenile, and removes how people actually experience attraction. "ilia had a crush" is not diminishing that she fell in love with blake. it's a statement of fact. she had feelings. she had a crush.

jaune was, in fact, given a startling amount of time on-screen early on. he is the only non-team rwby character who ends up in the ever after (until it turns out neo was there the whole time, but i digress), and is in the opening for the whole volume. he kills penny (at her request). pyrrha dies for his story arc. jaune arc is a main character. you cannot just pick and choose who is a main character for your argument to work. coco and scarlet were not in the show for seven volumes, counting the first volume where they would have no reason to show up at all. by all rights, velvet has more screentime than her team leader. so, counting the main characters - rwby, ornj, and arguably qrow, that's... 2/8 or 2/9 main characters who are confirmed lgbt. if we include salem and cinder, the main antagonists, that's 2/10 or 2/11. i'm not counting emerald or neo, in this count, because that would just inflate those numbers even further.

i'm being critical of the show. i still enjoy rwby. i just have several things to point out of it that personally bug me. i was fully willing to just tag this as rwde if someone pointed it out. the fact of the matter is, you've dragged this out to a point i grew angry and tired just thinking about it, you began insulting me when i tried to clarify on points i thought you perhaps misunderstood, and yet you claim i'm the aggressor here when i made a post on my own blog about a distressing pattern i had noticed in the shows, frankly, scant lgbt representation. it would have been remarkably easy to have a scene where qrow realizes he's fallen for clover. it would have been remarkably easy to have weiss get flustered around ruby as she reconciles her mental image of ruby with the person she's becoming. it would have been amazingly easy to make ruby get a crush - my apologies, get feelings for penny. it would have been very easy to get canonical ace representation by having ren just not be interested in nora or anyone. if weiss had a little framed photo of pyrrha. if emerald actually had a confirmed crush on cinder. if sky lark was dancing with, i don't know, brawnz ni in the background of the prom episode.

if you had just told me that the post does belong in rwde without feeling the need to correct me in such a condescending tone, and then doubling down on it when i decided to accept that i was wrong and try to point out where i thought you were reading too negatively into my wording, i would not be typing out this response.

i think you're too defensive, is my point. please, for your own sake, ask yourself if this sort of behavior is actually conducive to a good atmosphere of discussion. i didn't think this was a rwde post because, it is my understanding, rwde is for explicitly anti-rwby content. a simple reply would have been enough for me to re-tag it.

anyways, goodnight. the original post will now be deleted.

okay i'm doing a recap of all of rwby's lgbt characters and of them:

blake and yang are together, but in that weird way where blake was interested when yang wasn't and vice-versa, and then they got together in canon. and then roosterteeth shuttered and was bought by viz. so we'll see how long that lasts.

Ilia, who has a crush on blake but got over it and was a villain for most of her screentime.

jaune's sister Saphron married a woman named Terra Cotta. as a reference to how Sappho of Lesbos would paint terracotta lekythoi. and then we never see her again after her one (1) episode.

may marigold, a minor character, has a throwaway line about being a trans woman and we never see her again (only trans character in rwby btw)

coco was confirmed in a book to be a lesbian. she is in no relationship, is no longer in the show, and is named after Coco fucking Chanel.

scarlet david, a side character who does not reappear in the show, is confirmed in a different book to be gay and has entered a relationship with nolan porfirio, an even less-relevant character. they are both twinks.

for fun trivia: three of team NDGO (nebula, gwen, and dew) - who are a team of canon fancharacters who appear minorly in the show - are confirmed by their creators to be asexual, but not by the showrunners. all four members of NDGO are then written to be bullies in the book where they reappear (same book where the twinks get together).

not counting the animals as nonbinary (because animals don't experience gender the same way humans do), that leaves us with:

1 bisexual (blake, because a lot of people forget her awful relationship with sun and try to forget that weird retcon with adam)

1 pansexual (yang, and i'm not sure if there's a meaningful difference in this)

4 lesbians (saphron and her wife, ilia, and coco. note that terra is essentially an accessory to her wife and all three are minor characters)

2 gay men (scarlet and nolan, who are minor characters and get together in side material)

1 trans character (may, who has a minor role and vanishes after confirming she's the only transgender character in the whole show)

this isn't meant to be, like, a rwde post btw. genuinely this is me compiling information. if the tone gets a little snippy, well. i guess i'm tired of gay men only being one body type and all the gay women being incredibly minor characters who show up and have no plot relevance. congrats to bumbleby tho, i think.

[strywoven-moved]

@reno2ndgun​ asked : “  Talk to me.  ” Was all Reno said as he sat shoulder to shoulder with his twin. Axel had seemed out of it for about a week now and once Reno had a moment away from missions he was right at the other's side, voice quiet.

PROMPTED . 

          Something was certainly AMISS ; vigil fire stoked seems to be wheezing , gasping and h e a v i n g on fumes ( some ends , however , are intentional— some ends , we understand , tend to be self-made ).  And whatever it was , it had a tremendous v i c e on him.

          Digits flex idly , the too-familiar BURN working its way through his palm and coursing through his fingertips . . . Axel closes his fist , quieting it down ‘fore it goes further.  Footsteps approach , and his twin’s voice sounds from somewhere f a r off ( was he even here anymore ? ).  Words go unheeded at first , gaze distant – distracted – DISTRAUGHT ; green depths narrowed on some imperceptible horizon.  Drawing a breath and leaning back in his chair , the redhead turns to acknowledge Reno.  A n y t h i n g , he knows , they could very well tell each other anything , that was the perk of being FAMILY .  But what was he supposed to say ?  Axel raises a hand and gives a dismissive wave , “‘S nothin’ ,” Lies come easily , they were second-nature.  Huffing a sigh , he shakes his head.  “Jus’ been tired , that’s all.”  A meager honesty , at least.  “Really , you don’t hav’ta’ worry ‘bout it.”  

[galkyrie]

"Roses of May" for the fake fic title game

Jaytim flavor 👁👄👁

I know you did something with a flower hoping for something hanahaki flavored, so here you go! Jason woke up coughing up roses- small little buds that looked just like the ones climbing along the trellises of Alf's garden in the spring.

The night before, Tim and Jason shared a break during their respective patrols and a hastily-bought dinner from an all night Mexican place. He'd said something- he couldn't even remember what, just that it was mean and about B- and Tim had laughed so hard he'd almost fallen off the roof.

He should've figured some stupid shit like this would happen, when he'd made Tim actually snort horchata through his nose and not managed to find it a little bit gross. The sneezing fit that had followed as cinnamon, in Tim's words, wreaked havoc on his nasal cavity, had only made him laugh.

He stared down at the flowers, and could only muster surprise at the fact that that was what had finally done him in- when there were countless other moments he could point to that would be much better to look back on as the culprit.

Moments like that day when Tim had invited him for breakfast, informed him he didn't give a damn about Bruce's approval when it came to Jason, and forgave him for the shit he'd put him through but hadn't yet worked up the nerve to apologize for all in one conversation.

He could've fallen in love with that surprised, sincere little grin on his face when, months later, he did work up the courage to officially apologize for his past actions.

Or- the time Tim had been the one who found him after Scarecrow had managed to dose him, had held Jason's hand to his chest to feel his heartbeat until Bruce had managed to synthesize an antidote, talked him through both the onslaught of flashbacks from being murdered by that fucking clown to helplessly watching himself go through the motions of trying to pay that forward on Tim.

He could've fallen in love with him when he woke up from that haze and remembered Tim carefully having him touch his throat to demonstrate its complete lack of blood- the long-healed over scar barely a whisper against his fingertips. Letting him feel his even, unafraid heartbeat and breaths, offering him a mantra that he was okay.

But no. He fell in love when he made the man laugh so hard he almost died twice over it- when Tim leaned into him with a grip on his arm to prevent himself from falling through the whole ordeal.

When Tim had looked at him after he finally regained his composure and playfully said, "you haven't gotten that close to killing me in a while", like it truly was water under the bridge.

It- sucked, now that he had all these moments with Tim in the scant few months they'd been on good terms- to know he was gonna have to lose them. He blinked down at the flowers again, thumb tracing over the delicate petals before dropping them in the trash by his bed.

He grabbed his phone, flicking through the various contacts until finding his quarry. "Hey, B."

"Jason, what's the matter?" Bruce knew something was wrong, if he was calling him- but Bruce knew their whole history- had been the target of most of the anger for which Tim had served as collateral. He'd understand how much better it'd be if he got this taken care of before Tim even got the slightest idea.

He knew that Tim deserved better than to even be burdened by the idea, that he'd just try to make himself the cure for Jason's sake.

"Uh, so it's kinda an awkward problem- anyone in the Justice League know how to cure hanahaki or should I go to Leslie?" Distantly, he heard a cup shatter on a cold cave floor and the screech of bats in response.

[sapphicquill]

Critickle Role: context clues

(ao3 link!)

Rating: teen

Characters: Caleb Widogast, Essek Thelyss

Wordcount: 1388

“Caleb, please stop fidgeting around so much.”

Essek’s voice sounds much louder than it normally does in the peaceful quiet of their bedroom. They’d only been cuddled up together for a handful of minutes, but the quaint calm they always slip into while reading is powerfully silent, so any sort of disruption is pretty obvious and hard to ignore. To Caleb’s credit, he hadn’t even been aware he was being twitchy in the first place. 

“Ah, tut mir leid, I did not mean to be a bother.” 

Essek shoots him a sympathetic look before running a soothing hand through Caleb’s hair, carding his fingers gently across the human’s scalp. 

“You’ve been fidgety all day, chathtiu, is everything alright?”

The pleasant little shivers quivering through him make it a little difficult for Caleb to focus, but he makes a valiant effort and rallies. 

“Mm, of course, liebling, I’m fine, I am just a little, ah, restless, I suppose.” 

Essek makes a soft noise before withdrawing his hand and returning his attention to the book in his lap. Caleb manages to keep the instinctive whine that bubbles up at the sudden loss of touch tamped down before doing the same. The tome, while small, was ridiculously dense, but he had promised Beauregard that he’d get it read and jot down some notes as a simplified summary as quickly as he could. It’s dreadfully boring, some sort of ethnography of a mostly-extinct culture from Tal’Dorei, and Caleb couldn’t deny the monk would go half out of her mind trying to stay focused on such material. Lucky for her that this sort of shite had been par for the course when he was younger. 

Only a few more minutes pass before Essek pulls Caleb back to the present. 

“Caleb, my dear, I’m starting to get worried.” 

Before he can ask what Essek’s going on about, cool fingers close around the wrist of his free hand. It had been resting on the bed between the two of them, what could possibly be worrying about—

Something about the sudden touch against his skin brings him even more into the present moment, and it’s only then that Caleb realizes he’d been absentmindedly tracing somatics in the air just a scant few centimeters above the blankets.

“You don’t normally move around this much unless you’re particularly anxious or upset,” Essek murmurs. Caleb lets his eyes come to meet the drow’s, and the sweet concern he finds in his partner’s gaze sends a warm rush of affection through his whole body. 

“I’m as confused as you are,” Caleb replies once he’s sure he can get words out without choking on pure emotion. Essek’s right, this is more absentminded, frantic movement then he’s used to while completely relaxed. Nothing is particularly pressing in their lives right now. Essek had helped him finish marking his intermediate transmutation students’ essays that afternoon; they had Jester, Fjord, and Kingsley coming to visit the following week—nothing out of the ordinary. 

So absorbed in his own thinking, it takes a few moments for Caleb to realize that Essek is watching him carefully, that slight furrow in between his eyebrows the obvious tell that he’s observing Caleb like one of their dunamentic experiments. 

His wrist is still held gently, though firmly, by cool indigo fingers. 

“Ah, I will strive to be still, sweetling, I apologize—”

“Oh,” Essek cuts the human off, understanding painting his expression in a way that just serves to confuse Caleb further. 

“Was?”

In lieu of a proper response, Essek closes the book he’d been reading—some recently-released lurid smut Jester had insisted the two of them talk about the next time they were together—and sends it floating over to the desk with a practiced movement of his fingers. Then, without another word, the drow flops overtop Caleb, straddling him at his middle and pinning both of Caleb’s wrists to the pillows with both hands.

“You’re in, what do Jester and Kingsley call it? A ‘mood’?” 

Keen mind still reeling from the sudden presence of Essek on top of him, Caleb blinks up at the other wizard a few times before he processes what he’d just heard. In a split second, nervous energy cascades down his spine, butterflies exploding in the pit of his stomach, and every place Essek is pressed to him feels electric. 

Evidently, the moment of realization is plain on his face, because Essek lets out a low laugh and smiles, tiny fangs peaking out past his bottom lip. 

“How is it you never figure it out unless someone points it out to you?” 

Warmth surges to Caleb’s face at his lover’s words and he’s sure he’s flushed redder than his own hair. Essek’s not wrong. Despite a perfect memory and years of learning that he’s more than allowed to enjoy getting regularly wrecked by the various members of the Mighty Nein, somehow he’s still unable to recognize when he’s actively craving getting tickled until someone else figures it out for him. 

Once someone does, however, it’s impossible to ignore.

Without waiting for a proper response, Essek murmurs a few arcane words and lifts his hands from Caleb’s wrists. Caleb doesn’t even bother trying to move his arms—this has happened so many times over the years that he knows he’s still properly pinned down until an hour passes or someone casts dispel magic. 

Or if someone recasts the spell in an hour. That’s usually the outcome in these particular scenarios. 

Sitting up straight, Essek lets his hands trail lightly across the now-exposed skin on the underside of Caleb’s forearms. Sparks ignite across his nerves like lightning as perfectly-manicured nails skim down the thin skin, and Caleb is trembling by the time they reach the underside of his biceps. They pause just above the hollow of his underarm and the concentrated, stationary teasing is enough to make a stream of frantic giggles pour from Caleb’s lips. 

“I’ll admit, I should have figured it out hours ago,” Essek says almost conversationally, as if he had already cracked through Caleb’s resolve in less than a minute. Caleb loses the inevitable fight against closing his eyes at Essek’s words. 

“Ah, well, no use dwelling on that,” the drow continues, ever-so-slowly shifting his light tickling lower and lower, “Now that we’ve got it sorted, let’s give you what you need, hmm?” 

Then there’s ten fingers skittering rapidly in Caleb’s armpits and the dam breaks, giggles turning to real, full-body laughter as he instinctively writhes against the magical hold keeping his arms up. Even with eyes closed, it’s easy to picture Essek’s expression perfectly, that little overjoyed smile he always gets when Caleb is laid out and choking out laughter beneath his hands. 

The onslaught of tickling creeps even lower and Caleb whines between bubbling laughter and half-incoherent Zemnian as skillfully dexterous fingers draw rapid shapes in the space just above his topmost rib. It’s getting increasingly harder to focus on forming coherent thoughts, and that small epiphany is enough to make the swooping waves of pleasure and joy coursing through Caleb double in their intensity. 

“Light above, you really are desperate for this, aren’t you?”

The curl of his accent makes it feel like Essek’s words are made of pure arcane energy, Caleb’s laughter adopting the slight tinge of desperation that makes everything feel more intense, more consuming, more insanely ticklish, Scheiße—

Essek laughs warmly, the affection of it making Caleb’s heart jump even with the tortuous fingers tracing rune after rune on his ridiculously sensitive skin. The sound gets a little nearer, and Caleb lets his eyes blink open enough to see his boyfriend leaning down before Essek captures his lips in a deep, sweet kiss. 

“Don’t think I’ll ever forget how much you enjoy being talked to while you’re being driven out of your mind with tickling,” the other wizard murmurs into Caleb’s ear. “As much as I adore kissing the laughter right out of your mouth, I’d never deny you something I know you so love.”

The world slips back into blessed black as Caleb’s eyes fall closed once again. His last truly complete thought before letting himself freefall into the warmth and joy of Essek’s evil, wonderful tickling is that he’ll need to get his dunamancer to recast the binding spell in just about forty-nine minutes.

---

Translations: -tut mir leid: "I'm sorry" -chathtiu: "firefly" (Undercommon) -liebling: "love" -was: "what" -scheiße: "shit"