#i simply must respect the committment!

[libraryleopard]

i'm reading i feed her to the beast and the beast is me and i respect that jamison shea really committed to the monster romance by making the love interest an actively poisonous, four-eyed bloody antlered guy who lives in the catacombs of paris

[blackjackkent]

The creche's infirmary feels several degrees cooler, somehow, than the surrounding structure. Perhaps it is the holes in the walls, the scars the githyanki invasion left in the monastery's flesh, or perhaps it is simply the imposing, alien-looking device that stands at the far end of the room, squatting like a giant bug waiting to strike.

Rakha stands at the edge of the plinth and studies it in silence for a little while. Just looking at it gives her an uncomfortable prickling sensation of up the back of her neck - remnants of instincts lost along with her memories.

This device is at least partly of illithid make. The pink-purple flesh interleaved between its wires and cabling and metal frame is most certainly the same as that which lined the nautiloid. She can smell the stench of it, that strange rotten-meat odor that is the first conscious sensation she has any memory of.

But the metal frame is githyanki. It is the same silvery metal lined with deep red gemstones which makes up Lae'zel's own armor.

"The githyanki have long studied ghaik and used what we’ve learned," Lae'zel said to Rakha some days ago, when they discussed the worms and the guardian's instructions to consume them. "The zaith'isk itself was devised from such knowledge." So this is not a surprise, not really.

And yet she cannot shake that feeling of unease at the base of her skull.

"Vertical incision from pineal eye to end of notochord. Intestinal coloration consistent with samples 231 to 259." The voice - soft, silky and cool - breaks across the silence and makes Rakha jump. There is a gith woman standing in the corner of the room, bent over some sort of scientific apparatus; she does not look up as she speaks.

"Do you have a question?" she continues with a casual, chilly disdain as Rakha turns to face her. "Or are you just going to stand there gawking?"

She is, Rakha can now see, studying a tadpole specimen which is hung suspended within the apparatus. Several layers of lenses bring the tiny creature into sharp focus, and Rakha feels her curiosity stir, pressing aside her disquiet (and the everpresent, instinctive desire to render the woman to her component parts, provided by the low growl of the beast at the back of her head).

Lae'zel, at her side, has noted nothing of the research, but is bristling with irritation at the ghustil's tone.

"I am a child of Gith," she snaps with all the dignity she is capable of. "Not discarded rat-flesh. Am I not due your respect?"

The ghustil turns and gives Lae'zel an appraising look up and down. "Perhaps. Perhaps not," she says with a faint shrug. "Let the istik with you speak, and I will decide what respect you are owed."

Rakha feels the curiosity drain back out of her, replaced by irritation and muted confusion. Yet another who treats Lae'zel's presence here as a joke, a bit of foolishness. How dare you?

Her jaw sets and she snaps the words out, equally cool. "I've got a tadpole needs removing. Can you help me?"

If not, you are no use to me... speak carefully...

The doctor does not speak further mockery - not yet, at least - but she does smile again, an expression that seems more sardonic than sympathetic. "You must be desperate, to seek my aid," she says. "Tell me - how long have you been infected?"

Rakha does not answer at once. She is busy considering these words, which are unexpected and do not parse easily.

You must be desperate to seek my aid.

Nothing about this situation adds up. She has been ignoring the warning signs because of her trust in Lae'zel... but they are starting to become inescapable.

Lae'zel spoke of this as the first line of defense, the immediate protocol. But the doctor's words speak of desperation. Coming here, in her eyes, is a last resort. Why?

"Longer than you'd expect ceremorphosis to take," she finally says non-committally, echoing the words she learned from Gale. "And with none of the symptoms."

The doctor's eyes narrow and her lips curl up at the corners, her smile strengthening and yet seeming to lose further warmth as it does so. She might as well be looking at another specimen for examination in her apparatus of lenses and dials. "Fascinating..." she murmurs, leaning closer to Rakha and examining her with sudden interest, close enough that Rakha can smell her, a strange antiseptic scent that does not match her surroundings. "So you're conscious of your infection but showing no signs of cerebral impairment. Either your tadpole is special... or you are..."

She trails off, straightens abruptly and makes a sharp gesture towards the alien contraption on the plinth. "Go to the zaith'isk. I will ensure you are cured," she says.

Rakha's jaw works. She does not like this woman. She does not like the way she is looking at them; she is sure it is the same expression that comes to her own face when the beast rises - hungry, single-minded, eager. She has given not the slightest look towards Lae'zel, nor acknowledged this as a matter of protocol as Lae'zel promised it is.

Something is wrong here.

"What will the zaith'isk do?" she asks sharply.

Perhaps the doctor registers her suspicion, because her smile takes on a distinct note of amusement - almost but not quite taunting, as if she knows as well as Rakha does that they are committed now, no matter how wrong this might seem. "It will relieve you of the specimen lodged in your cerebral cortex," she says calmly. "What else?" She laughs softly, an almost inaudible exhalation through her nose. "It will be worth it - I assure you."

Without waiting for Rakha's response, she turns and pushes past the group, walking towards the silent, waiting machine. "Even githyanki rarely experience the zaith'isk. You are very lucky... istik..."

[captaintiny]

to live is an act of courage

Agron has found his way to his home village, with Nasir and a handful of other rebels and refugees in tow. They are welcomed with open arms and much joy. He tries to adjust to his new life, but Agron continues to be shrouded in guilt and grief. His mother offers advice, and comfort. [ao3] a/n: I didn't mean to get fixated on a decade-old TV show with a half-dormant fandom, but here we are. enjoy.

“Agron?”

His mother’s voice behind him caused Agron to turn, and the others with him to fall into respectful silence.

“I would see you inside to help me prepare food for tonight’s meal.”

Agron felt heat creep up his face at her request. She knew as well as he did, as well as everyone did, that he could not aid her in this. Not with his hands. Such tasks were still beyond him. He wanted to refuse, but his tongue simply lay heavy in his mouth, resolute in its silence.

Nasir’s gentle touch encouraged Agron to stand, and he did so, though not without difficulty. His physical injuries had mostly healed, but the weight of misery upon his shoulders was as debilitating as any sword wound. They turned towards the house, but his mother held up a hand, and smiled softly.

“Gratitude, Nasir, but I would have time with my son alone, if you are willing to part from him.”

Agron expected a refusal, but his mother looked at Nasir pointedly with an expression he could not place, and whatever silent words passed between them were enough for Nasir to not beside him and relinquish his grip on Agron’s arm.

“As you wish, Ida,” he said, turning his attention back to the group they had been sat with, and gave Agron’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze as he went.

His mother held out her arm. “Come.”

Agron followed.

Inside the house, his mother guided him to sit at the small table and placed a small plate of vegetables in front of him, with a knife for peeling. He did not resist, but shame burned in his eyes and clogged his throat as his hands rested uselessly in front of him.

“The weather is turning cold quicker than I expected,” she said, switching to their home tongue, ignoring his obvious discomfort as she plucked herbs from hanging bunches and crushed large cloves of garlic. “Nasir seems to be coping well, despite being this far north of the golden sands of Syria.”

Agron did not speak. His mother seemed undeterred by this, and continued to make idle conversation for a time, humming intermittently to herself as she continued to ready meat and spices. When the stew was prepared, she hauled it to the fire and covered the pot with a lid.

"Speak your mind, sparrow," she said, not looking up from where she stoked the flames. "You have not strung more than five words together since you returned over a moon ago.”

Agron shrugged non-committally, not wanting to burden his mother with yet more of his failings.

"Agron…" she chided, standing up and crossing to him, resting her strong, weathered hands on his shoulders and kissing the top of his head. "I am your mother, do you think it goes unnoticed to me that you carry such heavy ?"

He sagged even further, screwing up his face in a desperate attempt not to cry. "Mother, please—"

His mother moved to crouch at his side, grabbing his chin between her thumb and finger and pulling his face round to meet her gaze. Her hazel eyes gazed back at him, more wizened and wrinkled than when he had been captured, but no less warm, or kind.

"Child. I know you. You would rather carry an impossible burden alone, than see others share in it. You have been this way since you could walk. But you must take care. Keeping it in here," she tapped his chest lightly with her free index finger, "can damage you beyond repair. The rot will eat you from the inside and then the ones you were determined to protect, are left to care for you all the same. You are my son, little sparrow. Speak your heart. Your grief will not poison me."

Agron was suddenly six years old again, hobbling back into the house with two skinned knees, bravely staving off tears until his mother cradled her in his arms and all pretence fell away.

It was much the same now, and he fell forward to bury his face in her shoulder. As her arms snaked around his waist, coaxing him from the chair to the floor, his wrapped around her neck, clinging to her as sobs began to wrack his exhausted and battered body. He wept for Crixus, for Mira and Naevia, for Gannicus and Oenomaeus, and all those who they had lost to Rome. He mourned Duro, properly, deeply, feeling grief instead of anger for the first time in months, perhaps even years.

Agron wasn't sure how long they remained there on the dusty floor, while she rocked and shushed him and he howled like a wounded animal, but it was long enough that the pot had begun to bubble as his tears subsided. His mother guided him to sit nearer the fire, draping a blanket around his shoulders. She remained close, tending to the flames.

"I'm sorry," he croaked eventually, voice hoarse from grief and under use.

"Whatever for?"

"Coming back here alone… I have brought you shame…"

"Nonsense," his mother replied firmly, stirring the stew, the smell of which was beginning to fill the small house.

"But—" Agron protested, guilt clawing at his chest, threatening to break free in the form of a scream.

"But nothing," his mother said, voice suddenly stern.

Agron worried his lip, eyes downcast, feeling like a scolded child.

"You think I and the others you call family believe it shameful that you return, when Duro does not?"

The guilt squeezed his heart harder, and he looked up at her with eyes full of unshed tears. "Mama, I swore to protect him!"

"And I have every faith that you kept that oath, sparrow. But do you truly believe I would rather have stories of how you valiantly followed him to his grave, than be able to hold you in my arms?" Tears streaked his mother's cheeks as she looked at him with eyes full of pain, and pity. "You believe that I would rather have two dead sons than have my grief for Duro's passing tempered by the blessing of your return?"

Agron had no reply. He buried his face in his hands, injuries momentarily forgotten, but the pressure sent pain coursing through them, and he hissed, then let out a strangled sob.

"I am not your son," he said through gritted teeth, staring resolutely at the floor. "Your son was a proud warrior. I am a shell. I am nothing. I am useless like this Mama!" Agron protested, rising to his feet. "I cannot wield a sword, nor a shield, I can barely raise a hoe or scythe. I cannot lash bundles of grain or even peel a simple vegetable!” He gestured helplessly to the table she had first sat him at. “I am a burden to anyone that would care for me, and I cannot give anything in return. I am nothing but a drain on your supplies and your hearts. I would be better as a memory—argh!"

His hand flew to the sharp pain at the top of his head, and realised his mother had thrown her wooden spoon at him.

"Enough! " She said, voice slightly raised, hands trembling.

Agron was too stunned by her outburst to reply.

"If Duro yet lived, and had it been him in your place, would you now consider him useless? Would you rather him dead? Would you consider that a kindness? Or would you dedicate every breath in your body to caring for him, and to praising whichever gods saw fit to grant him life? Would he be a burden? Will I yet become such, when I am old and frail and cannot lift the pot to the fire? Will you wish me dead then?"

"Of course not!"

"Then why, sparrow, are you so intent on believing the same of those that love you?"

Whatever retort Agron had prepared died in his throat. His mother took his silence as an opportunity to continue, though her tone softened.

“Nasir spoke to me, some days past. He told me of your time in Sinuessa, and how you were separated.”

Agron returned to sitting by the fire, pulling the blanket tighter around him. Being apart from Nasir was not a memory he enjoyed reliving. He remained silent, holding his mother’s gaze as an encouragement for her to continue.

“Before you left for Rome, do you remember what you asked of him? What you wished for him in your absence?”

It took a moment of thinking, but then the words came back to him. Painful as it was to recall the moment, the smallest of smiles tugged at his lips. “I asked that he lived. That he would find joy in the days to come.”

Agron’s mother sat beside him, put her arm around his shoulder and pulled him into her chest. “Little one, that is all we wish of you too.”

Fresh tears spilled from Agron’s eyes. “What can I possibly offer him, Mama? Being a warrior is all I have ever known. What am I without it? He deserves so much more than… this.” He gestured feebly to himself, but all this earned him was a chuckle from his mother.

“Still, you fail to understand, sparrow. You love Nasir, do you not?”

“With all my heart, mama.”

“And if - gods forbid - Nasir were to lose his legs to a wild boar tomorrow, and be lame for the remainder of his life, would your love for him fade? Or would it stand as strong as ever?”

“There is nothing on this earth, or in the heavens, that could lessen my affection for him.”

“I did not think so.” She lapsed into silence for a moment, lifting the hand around his shoulder to gently card her fingers through his hair. “I have no doubt that you made a fine gladiator, and an even finer commander when you were among the rebels. You have always shown great skill in the art of battle. It is why your father called you little bear when you were but as tall as my hip and used branches for weapons. But Nasir does not love you for the way you hold a sword, child. It was not the spilling of Roman blood upon sand that captured his heart, but your smile. Your eyes. The way you say a little prayer of thanks to the boar you kill for food when you think no one can hear you. He loves you because you are kind, and gentle. He loves you because of a thousand things. You have worth, my little sparrow, simply by virtue of being. Nasir loves you for who you are, not what you can do.”

Agron’s cheeks flushed. His mother tilted his face up so their eyes met, and it felt as if the tenderness he found there would sustain him until his dying breath.

“Do not think of this as an end, child. But as a beginning. You are alive, you are free. Perhaps you can regain strength in your hands enough to one day hold a sword, perhaps not. But what does it matter when those hands can still provide a loving embrace? Or wipe tears from sad eyes?”

Her thumbs moved to brush his from his cheeks as she spoke, and he smiled weakly in response.

“Gather the others for evening meal. Tonight we shall have wine and merriment, and I will see you be part of it.”

“Yes, mama,” Agron murmured, leaning in to kiss his mother’s hair. “Gratitude… for everything.”

She waved him off with a chuckle, but her eyes were still soft. “Shoo, little sparrow! Else my stew will burn. I’ll not have all that effort go to waste.”

Agron knew she wasn’t really talking about the food.

As Nasir reached the house, Agron pulled him aside for a moment, and before he could question, leaned in for a long, tender kiss.

When they broke apart, Nasir smiled against his lips. “You have not embraced me like that in some time, my heart.”

Agron felt a pang of guilt at his admission, but pushed it aside and instead rested his forehead against Nasir’s, closing his eyes and sighing deeply.

Nasir chuckled a little. “Whatever words were broken with your mother seem to have great effect.”

“It was less the words broken, and more the spoon thrown at stubborn head, which brought me to sense.” That earned Agron a laugh, and it was still the sweetest sound in the world. “I shall speak more of it when we are to bed, but know that her wisdom has yet moved me. I do not think it has healed all wounds I bear, but it has certainly revealed a path forward where there was none before.”

Tears spilled from behind Nasir’s eyes as he smiled, and held Agron close. “I have missed you so, my heart.”

“And I you,” Agron replied, lifting his hands to cradle Nasir’s face. "But come, I have been told there is to be much wine and song tonight, and I fear another attack from kitchen tools should I be absent too long.”

He linked his fingers through Nasir’s and lead him inside. They were met with cheers and laughter, and his mother handed them each a bowl of stew. When Agron brought the spoon to his lips, the meal tasted like home, gratitude, and love.

[bokettochild]

Fic request! Legend and Ravio being best buds and being there for each other? Or like just them getting along. Platonic cuddling? I love them both.

Slight self projection on this one, but oh well!

I really like writing the dynamic for these two! But i would like to clarify that I write it as being strictly platonic.

Yes, Ravio does kiss Legend on occasion. But Ravio is a toucher, and that's just how he loves! For him, that's normal, that's something you do to those you love, not just in couples :)

Legend isn't great about physical touch, mostly because he's unaccustomed to it. He loves it, he just doesn't know how to ask for it or receive it most of the time.

And with that cleared up, on to the fic!!!

Mr. Hero was acting weird again.

His family had come back to visit again, and while many of them were wrapped in bandages and sporting some rather nasty wound, Mr. Hero seemed to be relatively well off from the fight. He wasn’t untouched, this was Mr. Hero after all, but he wasn’t as poorly as some of the others, which is why it was so odd for Ravio to find him curled up on the couch in their living room when he’d thought that everyone had gone to visit the local village.

They’d talked about it over breakfast. They’d arrived yesterday and hadn’t had time to restock in a while. The worse injuries were a broken arm on Mr. Smithy’s part, and that in no way hampered them from being able to do a run to the village, and it seemed many of Mr. Hero’s family saw visiting towns and villages as something of a treat.

They had been so eager over breakfast, talking over each other while Mr. Hero had rolled his eyes and pushed Tune- Wind back into his seat, scolding the champion for chewing with his mouth open and generally just correcting table manners and keeping people under control during the meal. Typical Mr. Hero, fussing over everything being right but pretending not to care, Ravio wouldn’t be surprised if the next time he sees them all they all eat like they’re in a castle, Mr. Hero’s just the kind of person to subtly train them all to behave lest they be faces with his flashing indigo gaze.

But he really would have thought, what with how everyone had chattered, that Mr. Hero would be with them all, leading them through the village and haggling with shopkeepers on the prices of potions and food. Yet here he sits, curled on their couch with that bulky quilt he likes so much thrown over his shoulders. Mr. Hero hasn’t bothered to fix his hair or tuck it under his cap, and it tumbles down his shoulders in a messy tangle as the Hylian stares unseeing at the far wall.

Ravio pauses in the entryway to the living room, his cup of cider still on one hand, and the book he’d been hoping to read in the other, heart torn over walking back into the kitchen and asking why Mr. Hero isn’t with his family. The slight shudder that runs across Mr. Hero's shoulders is all he needs as an answer and it’s without a second thought that the merchant strides across the room to settle on the couch beside his housemate, eyes bright and smile disarming as he looks over to Mr. Hero.

Dull violet meets his own green as Mr. Hero pauses and sighs, gaze shifting back down to the ground.

Oh. Oh, this is bad.

No snark, no dismissal, no ‘Ravio, I’m not in the mood’. Mr. Hero is at a stage where he is simply accepting things, and that’s never good!

“Why the long face?” He prods gently, settling himself on the couch as Mr. Hero moves slightly to accommodate him.

Okay, that’s even worse. Mr. Hero is being accommodating.

Oh Lolia, is he dying?

“Enervated.” Mr. Hero drawls, and Ravio is now officially freaking out. The big words have come out, the big words that he doesn’t know the definition of. His gaze trails back over to his book.

Most people don’t consider reading a thesaurus a past-time, and Ravio never would have considered it before moving in with Mr. Hero, but if he wants to understand the hero than he needs to know all the words that will crop up in his vocabulary anytime he is especially tired or bored.”

“E-enerv-”

“Tired.” Mr. Hero clarifies, shifting in place and drawing the blanket tighter around is shoulders.

Sharp green eyes watch his movements. It’s autumn and a slight chill has pervaded the air, but there really isn’t any need for the heavy blanket in this weather. Maybe a shawl or afghan of some sort, but the thickest and heaviest blanket in the entire house? That’s just plain overkill!

“Just tired?” He doesn’t even bother pretending to respect Mr. Hero’s space as he reaches out to rest his hand on his housemate’s forehead, gently shifting to touch the vet’s cheek. Rather than shake him off, Mr. Hero gently leans into the touch, eyes fluttering closed gently as a breath whistle from his lips. Ravio frowns as he pulls back.

Mr. Hero is warm, but not unhealthily so, and it can probably be blamed on the heavy quilt he’s got throw over his shoulders.

The merchant quirks a brow. “Are you cold?”

Mr. Hero’s face twitches oddly, eyes darting up to meet Ravio’s before drifting back down; blank and tired in a way they often are after a long day. But today has not been a long day, he reminds himself, and Mr. Hero must have been in here since finishing dishes with him this morning.

“Yes.” Mr. Hero murmurs softly, more at the folds of his blanket then at Ravio. “But not...outside?”

And that is... that is confusing.

“I don’t understand.” He half wishes for his hood and robe, but he’d only just finished cleaning and he hasn’t put them on again, so he plucks instead at the edge of his scarf, similar to what Mr. Captain Hero Sir does when he’s anxious.

Mr. Hero huffs a breath. “I wouldn’t expect you to. Glad you don’t.”

He doesn’t like the blankness of Mr. Hero's face or the heaviness of his words. “Can you explain it to me?”

If there’s one thing that brings light into his friend’s eyes, it’s teaching. Mr. Hero loves to share his knowledge, and Ravio has sat contentedly through a dozen lectures on bee-keeping and orchard work or weapons care and traveling precautions and any number of other things. All he ever needs is a cup of cider and a warm nook to bundle himself away while Mr. Hero talks. Goodness knows he chatters quite a bit himself; Mr. Hero deserves to have an audience on occasion too, and he always has such interesting things to say that Ravio never minds listening.

But Mr. Hero’s eyes don’t light up with that glint of passion and his fingers don’t tap with barely contained energy. Quite the opposite. He curls in closer around himself, eyes clouded as he breaths heavily. “It’s like there’s somethin’ ‘side you that’s cold an’ empty. Like you swallowed ice or somethin’ cold like an’ it won’t melt. You can be toasty warm on the outside and it ne’er goes away, it’s jist-” The pink-haired Hylian’s ears flick as his nose twitches with pent up irritation. “It’s like you’re empty and no matter how much you eat or sleep or keep busy, it ne’er goes away.”

Understanding dawns with a heavy heart and tears pricking in his eyes. “I think that's called loneliness, Mr. Hero.”

Mr. Hero’s eyes glisten as he turns away. “’m not lonely. There’s eight people on my tail on the day to day an’ I can’t lose ‘em even if I tried.”

The tight ball Mr. Hero is curled into could be defensive or self-comforting, and he can’t tell which, but Mr. Hero's grip on his blanket laden shoulders is too tight to be anything short of strained.

“Being with people doesn’t mean you aren’t lonely.” Ravio’s voice comes softer than he means it too.

Mr. Hero once complained that his own voice was trapped in the stage of squeaking and breaking, but Ravio’s could drop low ‘till it was nothing but a deep vibration. He’s teased Mr. Hero about it more than once, but he finds that it’s also effective at making the other boy calm. Mr. Hero loosens so now, eyes still blank as Ravio stares at them, hoping that they’ll turn to meet his gaze. “You can feel lonely in the middle of a full kingdom.”

He knows. He remembers hiding in his big room in the castle and wishing that it wasn’t so cold and empty and that someone would look at him and see something other than a cowardly advisor. He'd wanted someone to look at him and see a friend, or a brother or a loved one. He’d wanted to matter and be safe in the warmth that was a real home.

Mr. Hero gave him that. Mr. Hero’s house, with its big apple tree and buzzing bees, it’s pokey little kitchen and creaky staircase, the blasted rocker and the freaky masks on the wall, all of it makes this house a home that is so distinctly Mr. Hero's, yet somehow also his own.

He can see it in the knitting needles stashed in their basket by the couch. In the mugs that he’s left empty on bookshelves and table tops. He sees himself in the drawing of the curtains to let in sunlight, and the organization of the items on the shelves and the wall.

This is their home, something that is both of them, and it’s always felt warm and fulfilling to him.

He’d never realized that Mr. Hero might not feel the same...

It’s on impulse, and the fact that Mr. Hero doesn’t push him away speaks volumes, but Ravio scoots forwards and pulls the veteran hero over to rest against his chest, his arms wrapping tight around his friend as heavy breaths escape from them both.

“Is this better?” He whispers softly against the pink that curls beneath his chin and the fluttering breath of Mr. Hero.

There’s only a faint grunt from the hero in his arms, non-committal, but Mr. Hero isn’t complaining or pushing him away, so he doesn’t let him go either. Never mind that he’s almost pulled his friend on top of him, Mr. Hero needs a hug, and Lolia danggit! Ravio is going to give him the best one he’s capable of!

Mr. Hero’s breath evens out as he adjusts a few times, shifting but never pulling away, and Ravio takes that as a cue to make himself comfortable.

Short, pale fingers trail up to weave through curling pink locks that are still unbrushed from the night before. It’s silky under his touch, a testament to his friend’s alternate form, and he takes no small amount of pleasure in winding his fingers through it and gently tugging out the tangles. Mr. Hero only sighs under his ministrations.

“It’s okay to ask for hugs you know.” He teases softly, almost disappointed that he can’t see how his housemate blushes and stiffens, but Mr. Hero's ears give him away, red as they are, and a smile tugs across his face when he sees it. “I'm sure Mr. Chosen Hero would love to hug you, he seems like that kind of person. And Mr. Smithy always seems fond of that sort of thing. Why, even-”

“Shup.” Mr. Hero huffs, and Ravio grins as his eyes fall down to where his friend’s arms have wrapped around his waist, a messy head of pink lying against his chest and the full weight of hero and blanket pressing down on him.

He doesn’t respond, but he does go back to running his hands through Mr. Hero’s hair.

A tune comes to mind as he sits there, and he lets the melody drift through the room as he absently strokes Mr. Hero’s long pink hair, the book in his hands capturing his attention until soft squeaking snores begin to sound from the hero on his chest.

No one’s there to see the kiss he presses to the mess of petal pink, and when the others return from their trip, neither of the two bunnies is awake to say anything at all.

The heroes stop in the doorway, surprise and fondness taking over their faces at the sight of both of their hosts stretched out over the couch, Legend lying over the top of Ravio, one of the merchant’s hands still resting on Legend’s head while the other hangs down towards the floor, barely grasping the book he'd been reading (Wind makes a comment about reading a thesaurus being strange, but no one really questions it too much). Legend’s arms are still wrapped tight around Ravio’s waist, his cheek pressed against the merchant's chest as squeaking snores escape through parted lips.

They’ve never seen the veteran so peaceful, Time muses as he removed the book from Ravio’s hand and tucks the quilt tighter around the two, noting with surprise it’s weight. Neither hero nor merchant wake, although Ravio does shift in his sleep at the disturbance, but the two are out cold.

There’s the snap of a shutter and a faint coo as he looks up, single blue eye meeting Wild’s own, the champion smiling sheepishly from behind the slate, the image on the screen of him knelt beside the two boys, tucking them in on the couch. Time smiles at his cub. “I want a copy of that picture, you hear?”

“Yes sir.” The champion whispers in return.

[lick-me-lennon22]

George caring for a sick Dhani 💜

(thank you to @pmak2002 for this request!! it was supposed to be just a blurb but I did a little research beforehand and it ended up pretty much becoming a whole fic 😅 oops... either way, I hope you enjoy this one! 💕)

When Dhani wakes up for school on Monday morning, he immediately knows something his wrong. His throat is sore, his nose is runny, and his muscles ache like nothing he's felt before. He painstakingly drags himself out of bed, clutching the sheet around him, and heads straight to his parents' bedroom where he finds his mum Olivia still in bed. Dhani notices that the bathroom door is cracked open and cautiously steps inside to find his father, George, brushing his teeth. "Dad..?" he says quietly, voice hoarse. George startles, turning around to see Dhani in his unfortunate state and spits his mouthful of toothpaste into the sink, letting the water wash it down the drain before turning the tap off. "What is it, my boy? You sound bloody awful..," he gently presses the back of his hand to Dhani's forehead to assess his temperature. "You seem to be running quite the fever, son- let's get you to the doctor, all right? Just let me finish up in here and I'll be right out to take ye" George says. Dhani nods weakly, coughing into his elbow, and shuffles out of the room. George jumps into action- he swishes and spits some mouthwash, changes out of his sleepwear into a button-up and jeans, and sprints to the car, his son following close behind him and hopping into the passenger's seat.

 

"This is ridiculous.." George mutters under his breath as he walks his son out of the clinic and gets into the driver's seat of his car. They had been able to see the doctor almost instantly upon arriving; he had taken some swabs, run a few tests, and determined that Dhani had contracted the flu: "He probably picked it up from school," the doc had said. When George had requested a prescription of some kind to alleviate his son's symptoms, the doctor simply shook his head: "I'm afraid there isn't much we can do for him. The flu's been going around at many schools, I've seen a lot of children this past week with the same complaints. As it stands, all I can tell you is to give him some over-the-counter medicine, bring him some saltwater to gargle for that sore throat, and be sure he gets plenty of fluids and bedrest." George tried to argue, stating that there must be something he can do to cure Dhani of his illness sooner- but as the doc's hands were tied and George didn't want to subject his son to more stress, he took Dhani by the hand and led him out of the office, through the lobby, and back to the car. "Alright, my boy," George sighs- "seeing that the doctor was no help whatsoever, we're headed straight to the drugstore for anything that'll help you feel better. Sound good?"

"Yeah Dad, sounds good" Dhani croaks out and smiles weakly, glad just to spend some time with his father. Being a famous musician and all, George isnt able to spend as much time with his son as he'd like to, a lot of it consumed by work and media-related endeavors. Dhani admired his Dad more than anyone else in his life and though they rarely got the chance to hang out nowadays, they were practically best friends and had formed a close bond throughout his childhood. George was always a fun parent, bringing his son along to festivals and such ("Don't tell yer mum," he'd say with a grin), and sticking up for Dhani to authority figures and even other kids at his school- he was fiercely protective of his boy. However, he was also a gentle parent who allowed Dhani the chance to explore and express himself, and had fostered a mutual respect between the two of them since his son was but a toddler.

"I'm pulling you from school for the whole week" "But what if I'm- *cough*- all better before then?" "Just in case, Dhani- it's not like you really need them and their indoctrination, anyway.." George grumbles, never having been a fan of traditional schools or their teachings. Dhani however has always cared about his grades and paid close attention to the lessons he's been taught, in spite of what his father thinks. "...Okay, Dad" he says meekly, wanting to protest but unwilling to sacrifice more quality time with his famous father. George pulls into the parking lot of the nearest drugstore and marches in, intent on gathering all the supplies his sick boy could need: tissues, lozenges, cough syrup, pain medication, ice packs, and even more tissues- 'just in case.' He makes his way to the checkout, queuing up, paying for the items and hauling his bags back to the car. He drives Dhani home as quickly as possible, carrying him to bed and tucking him in before calling and cancelling any studio time, interviews, or collaborations he'd previously planned. There's only one committment he can't cancel- dinner with Paul tonight for the first time in ages. George sets his son up with all of the remedies he'd bought and tells his wife Olivia everything about the situation, including the "unhelpful and useless" doctor they had gone to see. She of course agrees to care for Dhani, sending her husband on his way to dinner with one of his long-time best friends.

 

The following day George rises just before noon, having stayed up late to pal around with Macca. He runs the few errands on his agenda, including grabbing his family some lunch, and pulls into his driveway back home where he spots the vehicle of none other than Richard Starkey parked outside. He makes his way to his son's room to discover that Uncle Ringo had come to visit the sick young lad (having found out from Paul that Dhani had come down with a bad case of the flu), joking and cheering him up to distract him from his poor state. The two close friends chat for some time in the living room before Ritchie departs, Olivia checking up on Dhani in the meantime. George thanks his wife and dismisses her from her nurse duties, taking on the responsibility himself. He tiptoes to his son's bedroom cautiously and enterd to see that he's been tucked in, the ice pack George had picked up from the store the previous day resting on his forehead, half-lidded eyes trained onto the telly. "Dhani..?" "Oh- *cough*- hey, Dad"

George approaches the bed and sits down carefully, holding a paper bag out to Dhani. "I brought you a burrito- your favorite," he grins down at his son, who takes the bag: "Really? *cough*- Thanks Dad, you're the best!" he says, hands emerging from the blankets to tear into the treat. George stays sat on the bed, determined to spend time with his sick boy and make sure he knows how loved he is. Glancing around the room at the piano and guitars he's bought and played with Dhani, then back to the young man, Ringo's words from earlier echo in his mind: "He's growing up into such a wonderful lad. He's just like you, ye know- good looks and all."

Olivia had always said they were very alike, but he'd usually dismissed the observation... until now. George couldn't help but realize that they were right- though he was but eleven years old Dhani was already becoming a very talented and creative musician, having learned much about music from his dad. He'd certainly taken after his Beatle father in that regard, and they were in fact very similar- not to mention their near identical looks. Sharing his Dad with the world had been difficult and a bit isolating for Dhani despite his many school mates. He admired and looked up to George from a very young age, always striving to be just like him. As Dhani grew up before George's eyes, he became more and more like his father by the day and George was immensely proud.

His train of thought was broken suddenly when Dhani finished the burrito, crumpling the paper bag and tossing it into the bin. He landed the throw, earning a hearty laugh and a high five from his father. He closed his eyes and laid back, George stroking his hair gently, the two of them cherishing this moment of father-son love. "Are you gettin' sleepy, Dhani?" he asked tenderly- his son nodded in response, already drowsy despite the brightness of the late afternoon sun. "Tell you what- I'll play you a lullaby, that way you can rest easier and know that I'm here beside you." "Dad," Dhani chuckled, "aren't I a little too old for that?" he lied, secretly longing for the affectionate gesture. George grabbed his son's acoustic guitar from its stand and begin to tune it: "You're never too old for yer old man's love and attention, eh? Now you just relax, close your eyes, and rest." Dhani didn't protest any further, heeding his father's instructions with a soft smile on his face. With that, George began to play- he chose "Here Comes The Sun," fingers strumming the strings gently and with care, dedicating the sweet words to his beloved son. By the time he was finished Dhani was fast asleep- grin faltering as he drifted off, but still visible on his lips. George placed the guitar back on the stand gently, taking care not to wake the sleeping lad. He smiled to himself, tears welling in his eyes as he turned to admire his son's peaceful face. "I love you, my boy," he whispered, placing a gentle kiss on Dhani's forehead before tip-toeing out of the room and shutting the door cautiously. Back pressed against the wooden door, George let his eyelids fall shut and sighed: "Sweet dreams, Dhani." ♡

[nicknellie]

Anonymous requested: Alex is meant to meet up with Willie for a date, he doesn’t go because he’s having a bad anxiety day and doesn’t feel up to it. When he’s stood up Willie is worried so goes to the studio looking for him. He comes across Alex having an anxiety spiral, hands shaking, not breathing right. So Willie helps him. After he’s calmed down Alex explains why he couldn’t meet up with him, Willie tells him it’s ok to stay in sometimes if you need to we can have a sofa date. They watch films.

This fic is out a hell of a lot sooner than I had planned because I wrote most of it while I was trying to combat my own anxiety by projecting onto Alex, and I actually really liked it, so I managed to get it done quickly. Anyway, thank you for the prompt, it was absolutely lovely and a joy to write!!

Sidenote: For the 5 senses exercise, I changed the order to better fit the fic. If you try it yourself, it should be See 5, Touch 4, Hear 3, Smell 2, Taste 1!

TW: anxiety, anxiety spiral/attack right from the beginning

To Keep the Dark at Bay

It came gradually. It was one of those panics that would sneak up on him and he wouldn’t realise how worried he was until it was far too late. Alex had been excited, he was always excited when it came to dates with Willie, but at some indeterminable point that excitement had been swapped out for anxiety and now it was too late to backtrack.

It came quickly. All of a sudden he found himself punching the palm of his hand with one tightly clenched fist, pacing back and forth across the length of the studio, coughing up breaths that he held too long or not long enough. He’d only been alone for five minutes; he had been hanging out with Julie and she had gone back up to the house when he was supposed to leave to meet Willie, but the moment she had gone he had broken.

It came painfully. His hands were aching, his legs were numb, his chest heaved, and his scalp throbbed where he had been yanking at his hair. Alex hated how his body did this to him, made him distract himself through pain and pain only, made him ache and hurt outside to detract from the ache and hurt inside.

And no matter how much he tried, he couldn’t make it stop.

Because the problem was this: the moment Alex tried to focus on any singular negative thought, another popped up like its demonic offspring. Usually he would try and lay the situation out in his mind, plain and simple so that he could sort through each thing as it came, but that day it simply made things worse.

He tried to breathe. It burned.

He tried to count to relax his mind. He lost track.

He tried to stand still. He almost lost his balance.

Dates with Willie weren’t supposed to cause him stress; they never had in the past, not even their very first one. It wasn’t as if he had been having a bad day before hand – no, he had been having a wonderful day. He and Julie had spent hours making friendship bracelets for each other, the rest of the band, and Willie and Flynn. They had talked about their love lives and gushed about Luke and Willie respectively; they had told each other stories from before they met, Alex reliving his best tales from the nineties, Julie telling him about when she, Carrie, and Flynn had been friends; they had shared advice, shared secrets, shared laughs and tears and hugs, and Alex hadn’t had such a nice time in as long as he could remember.

So why, he thought bitterly, was this happening now?

He wasn’t supposed to be here – he was supposed to be outside the Orpheum, where he had agreed to meet Willie for their date. In fact, if his watch was right, then he was supposed to have been there twenty minutes ago, which meant he had been in the studio, unable to face leaving, for at least half an hour.

He never worried about his dates with Willie. That was part of his boyfriend’s magic; whenever he was around, Alex was compelled to relax, as if it didn’t make sense to do anything else at all. But the thought of leaving the studio, of poofing to the Orpheum, of moving too far or going anywhere at all, made him feel sick to the pit of the stomach he didn’t have.

Alex barely registered the flash of lilac light and the noise that ghosts made when they poofed. If there was anything going on around him then he simply wasn’t aware of it at all. All that was going through his mind were flashing thoughts of indescribable worry, so he didn’t even notice that someone was talking to him until they touched his arm.

He jumped back, out of the way; being touched felt like being suffocated. But he finally stopped his pacing, stopped watching his feet and looked up to see Willie looking at him, expression neutral.

Alex hadn’t had time to think about what Willie would have been going through while this was happening to him. While Alex had been in the studio, Willie would have been waiting outside the Orpheum for him, probably worried sick. These were dangerous times – although Caleb hadn’t been seen or heard from in weeks, he could still be around any corner. As far as anybody knew, time spent apart was time spent in danger. Willie would have had no idea where Alex was, for all he knew he could have been captured by Caleb at last.

The thought made Alex’s jaw lock. Not the idea of being captured by Caleb, but the thought of worrying Willie. Because if Willie was worried for Alex’s safety while Alex was perfectly fine then he might get angry at Alex for worrying him unnecessarily, and if he was angry at Alex then he might not want to see him again, and if that happened then Alex would lose him forever and that was the last thing he wanted.

He tried to breathe again but couldn’t, and Willie was still watching him with that careful expression, like he was trying not to scare him off.

By some miracle, Alex found his voice. It was raspy and blunt and it hurt to talk, but he managed to say, “I’m sorry.”

And he was pacing again, hands threaded through his hair, yanking at it like he was trying to rip it out.

“Alex,” came Willie’s voice, distant. “Alex, can you hear me?”

Alex nodded, watching the ground as he walked, unable to look up.

“Alex.” Willie’s voice again. Clearer. Louder. Perhaps he was stood closer. “I need you to stop walking. Sit down on the couch. I’m right here.”

He did as Willie said, collapsing down onto the worn leather cushions. His legs simultaneously thanked him and protested, partially glad to be resting, partially restless for movement. He compromised, bouncing a leg up and down.

There was too much in the studio. Usually Alex kind of liked the disorder and the bright colours – it felt homely and inviting – but that day there was too much going on. So he covered his face with his hands, propped his elbows up on his legs, and blocked everything into darkness.

“Can I touch you?” Willie asked gently. His voice was crystal clear now, Alex could hear the words as if they were spoken directly into his ear. But he shook his head – if anything touched him then he was sure he would break.

While he couldn’t feel Willie physically, he felt his presence, and in some strange connection to normality, he felt it calm him that little bit.

“Alright,” said Willie softly, “no touching. That isn’t a problem. Alex, you need to breathe.”

That’s what he had been trying to do for nearly forty minutes, but he couldn’t. It wasn’t because ghosts didn’t have lungs, because the motions and the feelings could still be replicated. It was because every time he inhaled and tried to hold it, it slipped away from him like soap. He couldn’t hold on, he couldn’t calm down, he couldn’t do it because it hurt.

So he shook his head wildly.

Willie wouldn’t take no for an answer. “Breathe with me, Alex. I know it’s difficult, but you need to do it or this whole thing will go on for much longer.”

Again, he tried. For Willie. He breathed in and Willie counted along with him, but the breath sputtered out from him in a choked, dry sob.

“Sorry,” he whispered, unable to make himself any louder.

“It’s alright, Alex,” Willie assured him. “We’ll just try again. Breathe in…”

They tried again. Alex failed again. So Willie started them over. They kept going, persevering until Alex could breathe with the efficiency of a lifer. Eventually, his chest felt lighter, like Willie had pulled up the anchor that was weighing it down and Alex could almost set sail again.

But his hands, still covering his eyes, were shaking.

He could hear Willie moving about the studio, clearly looking for something. The shuffle of objects moving about wasn’t as unpleasant as it might have been ten minutes earlier.

After a minute or so, he sensed Willie come back, crouching down in front of him.

“You don’t have to open your eyes just yet,” he began, “but I want you to hold your hands out for me.”

Alex wasn’t sure he could. It felt as if his arms were stuck stiff, and if he forced himself to move his hands away from his eyes then… well, he wasn’t sure what would happen. But he couldn’t do it. So he sat still, not moving a muscle, shaking hands pressed to his face.

Willie asked again, “Can I touch you?”

How was Alex supposed to know? Maybe he was a little calmer, but he still felt detached and drawn and a hundred other emotions he couldn’t have named if he tried. He gave Willie a non-committal shrug.

Willie’s cold hand brushed Alex’s bare forearm. For a moment, he tensed, uncomfortable with the light touch, but as Willie wrapped his fingers around Alex’s arm a little tighter, he relaxed. Where the touch would have stung before, now it felt grounding. Rigid and secure, reliable.

He let Willie pull his left hand away from his face, and then his right, very slowly. He kept his eyes clamped shut, but left his hands outstretched. He felt Willie place something in his palm and turned it over in his fingers – he felt that it was one of Reggie’s many fidget toys, something Julie had suggested he get and that he had barely left alone since then. This must have been one of his spares.

Alex felt it all over, settling for fiddling with a tiny joystick on it, moving his thumb in repetitive circular motions. Willie’s hand came to rest on his arm again, cold and callused, grounding.

“Keep doing that,” Willie said. “Good. We’re going to try something, alright? I want you to tell me five things you can hear right now.”

Taking a deep breath, Alex listened, and rattled off a slow but steady list to Willie. “Wind. Birds. Cars. Ray’s lawnmower. Your breathing.”

“Great,” Willie said. “Now four things you can feel. Things that are touching you, or just any sort of sensation.”

“The fidget toy. My bracelets. My hat is too tight on my head. Your hand on my arm.”

Alex felt his muscles begin to relax just that little bit, and he could hear Willie’s smile when he spoke. “Amazing. You’re doing so well. Now I want you to tell me three things that you can smell.”

Ordinarily, Alex wouldn’t have noticed any particular smell in the studio, but he made himself focus and connect and said with a little more confidence, “Freshly mowed grass. Wood, lots of wood. You, your natural scent.”

He might have been embarrassed about ending with that another time, but he couldn’t find it in himself to feel that way right then.

“Perfect. Here’s a trickier one – two things you can taste.”

Scrunching his nose in concentration, Alex paid attention to himself. “Blood. I think I was biting my tongue. And salt. That’s probably the tears.”

Willie squeezed his forearm, a gentle reassurance. “Good job. This is the last one, but it’s going to be the hardest one because I need you to open your eyes. Alex?”

He did. Seeing everything felt almost blinding, but he kept his eyes open.

Ever so quietly, Willie gave him one last instruction. “What’s one thing you can see?”

“You,” Alex replied.

Willie beamed. “Are you feeling any better?”

In response, Alex threw his arms around Willie’s neck, throwing them both off balance and sending them flailing to the floor. Alex scrambled off of Willie, apologising profusely for landing atop him in a rather inelegant manner, but Willie just laughed it off. He took Alex’s hand, pulled them both up, and sat them back on the couch.

“So,” Willie said, almost conversationally, “what was that about?”

Alex gave a noise that was some strange mix of a laugh, a sob, and a sigh. “I really don’t know. I was just thinking about leaving to go and meet you, but I couldn’t make myself leave, and I don’t even know why. Then I got more worried because I was going to ruin our date because I was keeping you waiting and that just made it all even more difficult and– and I’m going to stop before I get lost again.”

Willie’s expression was unreadable again. He was looking at Alex almost like he was a puzzle he was close to cracking but couldn’t find the final clue for. If anyone else had looked at him that way, Alex might have felt insulted, but when Willie did it he felt important and cared for. He felt loved.

But Willie still hadn’t said anything so Alex broke the silence with, “I’m sorry I ruined today.”

Shaking his head, Willie returned, “You don’t need to apologise. I saw you just then, man, you weren’t in any fit state to go anywhere. You know, not every date has to be a date.”

Alex quirked an eyebrow, asking a silent question.

Smiling like he was proud of himself for coming up with the idea, Willie elaborated, “I’m serious, dude. We can go on dates without going on dates. If one of us doesn’t feel up to going somewhere, we can just chill here – I mean, we have an eternity, it’s not like we’re in any rush. I’m just saying, we don’t always have to do things to be together; it’s the together part that matters. And if I’m honest, sitting here for the rest of the day, watching movies with you sounds way better than anything I could have planned.”

A small smile crept its way onto Alex’s face. Sometimes he didn’t understand how he’d been lucky enough to have Willie skateboard his way into his afterlife. The fact that anyone could be so understanding, so reliable, so perceptive and resourceful was unbelievable to him, but there Willie was in all his glory, beaming at him with the brightness of the sun.

Alex put Reggie’s fidget toy down and took Willie’s hand, threading their fingers together. He smiled at Willie, gentle, tired.

“Are you sure?” he checked. “It’s really okay?”

“Of course it is,” Willie replied, covering their clasped hands with his other. “Hotdog, if you don’t want to do something then I will never force you into it.”

“I’d never do that to you either,” Alex said sombrely. Sometimes he worried that he – well, that both of them – lost sight of the fact that they were both in this relationship. Sure, Alex tended to worry more often and more severely, but Willie wasn’t without his issues, and Alex wanted to ensure that he never felt uncomfortable. He wanted to make sure that he was as present for Willie as Willie was for him.

Willie grinned. “I know. Right – shall we get on with our stay-at-home date?”

“Yes,” Alex returned, smiling as he got up to locate the old TV the Molinas kept in the studio, the one he and all his friends had spent countless nights in front of, watching reruns of classic gameshows, or having movie marathons.

He and Willie set it up together, pressed play on the DVD player, and snuggled beneath a blanket that Willie had dragged off the back of the sofa. Alex folded himself to Willie, resting his head on his chest as the opening credits of Mamma Mia started rolling, listening for a heartbeat though he knew there would be none.

And at last he felt relaxed.

[downwiththeficness]

The Five Trials of Marissa Polznik-Adaptation

Summary: Marissa Polznik lived what she considered a simple life. She’d been on almost every continent, had seen almost everything the world had to offer—or so she thought. Having agreed to become consort to their king, Marissa must use every ounce of skill and experience to escape this new world of vampires, blood, and death.

Word Count: 4,200

Warnings: Canon compliant blood, gore, violence.

A/N: The protagonist in this fic is on the spectrum of psychopathy, and acts in accordance with that. There are sections that might be triggering for readers. As such, this fic is rated M for canon typical violence and mature themes.

Disclaimer: I do not consent to this work being copied or posted to other sites or blogs.

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Being a consort was kind of boring. Marissa had taken that first introduction pretty well, all things considered. She’d walked around with Drake, listened to the other vampires as they preened for one another, all the while hold her head high and looking every single one of them in the eye. Asher, included.

He, like everyone else in the room, was dressed to the nines. With Danica on his arm, he swaggered through the crowd, drawing more than one sneer from his peers. During the course of the evening, Marissa had figured out that they were brother and sister. She’d also discovered that Danica had ambitions for higher power, which she should have expected. Marissa did not miss the way she insinuated herself into conversations with Drake, the way she touched him when they spoke. She also did not miss the way the others loathed her for it.

There was dissension in the ranks.

The most delicious gossip of the evening was the ‘Daywalker’. Not a single person in the room hadn’t heard of him, wasn’t quietly worried about the threat he presented. Marissa finally, finally, got confirmation that sunlight did, in fact, kill vampires (Drake notwithstanding), but this guy seemed to be immune. Half-blood. An abomination in the race. Many a fang flashed when they spoke of him, lips curled in obvious disgust.

She already liked him.

What was even more interesting was how...disaffected Drake was about it. He seemed genuinely amused the his people were struggling so much with just one enemy, that the Daywalker had cleared out hundreds of them from the city. Marissa could almost believe he respected the Daywalker more than he did his own people.

Danica spent some time relaying the waking of their leader with smug pride, her intent clear. Drake was supposed to kill the Daywalker and return the world back to the way it was before the half blood had come on the scene. Marissa had her doubts about whether or not Drake would fulfill that dearly held wish. He certainly wasn’t forthcoming with making any promises about it, seemed to admire the Daywalker’s gall.

She watched the way his eyes sparkled as he watched his children discuss their most virulent enemy, a sharp change from the boredom he’d exhibited throughout the rest of the night. Drake rarely displayed such interest and excitement when speaking on any other subject.

Walking in the dress he’d had made for her was difficult. It was heavy and she had to pick up the hem if she wanted to walk more than a few feet. After making whatever introductions Drake felt necessary, she parked herself near the exit and simply watched. Nate eased up next to her, offering a glass of champagne. Marissa took it and gestured towards the crowd, asking his opinion. He was the only other human in the room at the moment, and Marissa found that she actually wanted to get his perspective.

Eyes scanning the room, he gave a non-committal reply, deftly shifting the discussion to her new home.  Drake assured her that all of the utilities, the internet, and the rent were paid for, which left Marissa staring at walls that were equally as blank as her room at the compound had been. Mullishly, she resisted bringing into the small house anything that might make it more personal. She wanted to be constantly reminded that this wasn’t hers, that she was here under a certain amount of duress, and that her plan of escape had to be meticulously crafted.

She walked to the local library almost daily, abstaining from using the comfortable four door compact in the driveway. There was a high probability that she was being tracked through the smartphone Drake had given her and the GPS in the car. Keen eyes had also caught a not-so-subtle familiar loitering on the corner of her block. They stopped there two or three times a day, casually smoking a cigarette. Marissa debated walking up to to them, bumming a smoke, and then threatening their life. She also debated drawing them away from the corner and using Drake’s knife to puncture a lung.

No matter the scenario, no matter how gruesome she allowed her fantasies to go, it just...wasn’t appealing. She had a captive audience—the familiar had to be there, ordered to monitor her whereabouts. There would be no challenge in hunting them down. They probably couldn’t even fight back if she did decide to attack.

And, Marissa was itching for a fight. Since completing the orientation with Ollie, she hadn’t ever gone so long without either taking or dishing out a punch. It worried her that she might be losing her edge, and what that might mean for her continued survival.

At the library, she checked out books that stayed on her kitchen counter and talked with the librarian about superficial matters. Almost everything she did outside the house, including these trips, was a cover for gaining information and laying down the groundwork for her plan.

Marissa’s real reason for going was the free internet, which she learned wasn’t tracked or monitored by the library—fuck the government, according to the librarian. Using their computers, she accessed her most remote accounts and sent herself a money order so that she could have liquid cash on hand. She also accessed an email address that she knew would ping a specific notification, sending a nondescript email with the word ‘test’.

While she waited for something to happen, Marissa discovered shitty reality TV. Recently, she’d taken up with The Bachelor, loved ranking which one she’d take out and how she’d do it from episode to episode. She’d started from the beginning, was only on the second season and had to temper the urge to binge every available show just to feed her need for stimulation.

The results of that email showed up at her door on a sunny Thursday afternoon between the familiar’s daily shifts. Marissa was opening a small package (they arrived occasionally) with a few amenities inside. Drake had either discerned her coffee addiction through feeding or had overheard her complaining about it to Nate the night of her introduction. In any case, he’d sent a small bag of high end beans to her. She didn’t have a grinder, but her lack of literally anything else to do meant she had time to pulverize the beans into dust. It might even scratch the itch she’d been feeling lately.

A knock sounded at the front door, which left her staring at it in suspicion. All her visits so far had been nocturnal, and there was no reason for that to change. Scissors in hand, she crept carefully to the window and peered through the glass. Noting the face of her visitor, she sighed with relief.

“I’m used to long bouts of silence,” Ollie said as he stepped inside. “I’m even used to strange and alarming circumstances. But, this,” he waved his hand around, “this...domestication doesn’t suit you.”

Marissa was smiling when she replied, “You’re fucking right.”

Ollie unwound the scarf from his neck, draping it over the back of the couch, “So what happened?”

Since clicking ‘send’, Marissa had attempted to figure out how she was going to explain what was going on. She’d waffled for days about how much she should reveal and whether or not telling him anything at all was a risk to his life. Now, as she looked her mentor in the eyes, she could see lines that had never been there before, gray hair that dotted his hairline. Ollie was still strong, but he was moving past his prime, easing into a life that was often denied the people in their profession.

Ollie noted her hesitance, crossed his arms, and gave her a familiar stubborn look, “I think you better tell me everything.”

Marissa was an accomplished liar, but Ollie had taught her those skills long before she was any good. And so, it was no surprise that when she was finished talking, he narrowed his gaze at her and continued to wait. She matched his look, mouth firmly shut.

“Alright,” he breathed in mock resignation, “I guess I’ll go, then.”

Marissa felt her stomach drop as he pushed his hands into his knees and rose, his head shaking all the way. She warred with herself as she stood. She’d sent that email to get some help, and now that possibility was slipping through her fingers in a matter of seconds.

“I’ve said all I can,” she said, noting the uncertainty in her voice.

Ollie paused, mid-turn, “You're hiding the most important part. I trained you. I know what you’re capable of. You could be four time zones away, if this involved anyone in our circle.”

Marissa acknowledged that truth with a dip of her head, “You’re right.”

“So,” Ollie said, with urgency, “What’s different about this situation?”

She touched her forehead, as if the act would will away the growing ache in her temples, “You’re not going to believe me.”

“Give me the courtesy of trying.”

She hated how she sounded as she talked, hated how she kept asking for patience and saying, ‘I know how it sounds’ when Ollie’s expression grew doubtful. But, she kept going, walking through the last two weeks of her life as if she were talking about someone else. At the end, she wrapped her arms around her middle and waited for Ollie to react.

“How long have these delusions been going on?”

She barked out a humorless laugh, “Really, I wish they were hallucinations. It would be so much better if it wasn’t real.”

Ollie was looking at her skeptically, his head angled away, “I know a guy down South. He can get you some meds, off market.”

“I’m not crazy!” she yelled, startling them both, “If I were, I would have cracked years ago, during that trip to Cuba.”

Marissa caught the hurt in Ollie’s eyes as she brought up the incident. They got some bad intel and were caught by their mark. Marissa had been taken hostage for four days. Tied up, beaten bloody, and knowing she was near her end, she could barely duck when the sniper took out her guard. Ollie, himself, put a bullet in the target’s head. It took contracting with the company’s therapist to get the trauma symptoms under control. It was also the end of her employment with said company. She couldn’t rely on their dossier any longer, could only take a job if she did the background work, herself.

“Alright,” Ollie said plaintively, hands coming up in front of him in a soothing gesture, “Let’s take this one step at a time. You say they’ve got a stranglehold on all the major institutions. Did you get any info on weaknesses? People we can work on for more intel?”

Marissa shrugged weakly, “Looks like the group based in the city is divided into two camps—those that support Drake coming back into power and those that don’t really care, as long as they can continue their way of life.”

“That’s not much to go on,” Ollie commented lightly.

“I know,” she replied, already thinking about all that she had seen.

There was a reason why she didn’t do a lot of jobs that required espionage. Marissa didn’t have the patience to sit down and try to turn people against one another—she just wanted to pull the trigger, get her check and go on about her day.

“Danica,” she said, finally, “She’s the most controversial one in the group.”

“Why?”

“She’s kind of a bitch, but not, like, in a productive way. She does it because she can.”

Ollie moved to sit, “And people hate her for it.”

Really, who could blame them?

“Yeah,” Marissa answered as she followed him back to the couch, “There are definitely people who want to take her down. And then…”

“And then,” Ollie prompted, when she trailed off.

“And then,” Marissa continued, wondering if she should bring it up, “There’s the Daywalker.”

His face relaxed into sardonic disbelief, “The what?”

“Its this guy,” she said, her voice coming out tired, “They’re all afraid of him—well, everyone but Drake.”

“And?”

“He’s like some kind of super charged vampire killer,” she sighed deeply, “I don’t have the skill to manipulate the others into turning on Danica. It might be better to plan an attack from the outside. Use him.”

Ollie thought on that for a long moment, “I’ll track him down.”

“Thank you.”

Eyes cutting to her, he countered, “You can thank me by surviving.”

Giving him a curt nod, Marissa followed him to the door. Ollie gave her a once over, “I’ll be in touch.”

It wasn’t until she’d thrown herself onto the couch that she noticed he’d left his scarf hanging over the back. She tugged it to her, noting the odd weight. Digging in the seam, Marissa pulled out a tiny burner phone. There was only one number in the contacts. She smiled and tucked into the pocket of her jeans.

As dusk began to fall, she received a second visitor. Under the porch light, Nate waited nervously, case in hand. Marissa invited him in, smiling a little as he held the case in front of him protectively, his eyes darting here and there.

“Drake hasn’t come yet?”

“Obviously,” she drawled, “You want something to drink? I have water and beer.”

“No,” Nate answered with a shake of his head, “No. He was supposed to be here at eight.”

Marissa looked at the clock, noting that it was five past the hour, “I guess he’s running late. King’s are busy, you know?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, “I know.”

She peered at him, wondering why he was still so damn anxious around her when they’d been doing in this exact situation many times over. It didn’t matter enough for her to ask, but the thought did nag at her as she watched him shuffle over to the couch and sit delicately on the edge.

“Any new gossip?” Marissa asked, to pass the time.

Nate almost smiled, but checked himself, “Just the usual. More Daywalker killings. He shut down one of our harvesting plants not too long ago.”

“Oh really?”

“Yeah,” he replied, “But don’t worry. Danica says that she found out where he’s hiding out.”

“Oh really?” she repeated, this time in genuine interest.

Nate nodded, his mouth opening to continue, only to be interrupted by a knock at the door.

“That must be Drake,” Marissa said in mock seriousness.

It was, in fact, Drake. He looked out of place on her doorstep, his feet bare, his body relaxed, his eyes keen. She swept her arm in a slow arc, ushering him inside. Drake moved as he usually did—slow, determined. He barely acknowledged Nate, who was already unpacking his kit.

“I need you to come with me tonight,” he directed, not a request.

Behind Drake’s back, Marissa gave Nate an amused look, “Oh really?”

Nate quickly ducked his head down and got back to work, but Marissa couldn’t wipe the smile off her face. It held steady as Drake ambled over to her kitchen and opened a cupboard. Easy as can be, he took down a glass and let the door fall closed.

“Yes,” he said as he made his way back to the living room, “There’s a gathering to discuss the plan to take on the Daywalker. I’d like you to be there.”

Dropping onto the cushion next to Nate, Marissa watched Drake approach, “Why?”

“Because,” he answered as he took his spot on the other side, “I’d like your opinion on how likely the plan is to succeed.”

Nate’s shoulders hunched as he knelt on the floor in front of them. Wordlessly, he took Marissa’s arm and began the process of prepping the line.

“You think it won’t,” she asserted, wincing a little as the needle slid home.

Drake shrugged casually, “I think it will accomplish what they want it to accomplish.”

“Which is?”

“To get his attention.”

“Ah.”

Crimson flowed from her and into the glass, filling it three quarters of the way before Nate cut the line and handed it to Drake.

“So,” Marissa prompted, her tone leading, “What do you want my opinion for?”

Drake drank deep, “Because he’s going to come right to us, and I want to know how many people he will kill before he gets to me.”

She thought about that for a minute, calculated his utter disregard for the lives of the people he was leading, “Why not lead him...elsewhere?”

He drained the glass, throat moving, “No. I’ve let this go long enough. Its time to end him so that I can get on with business.”

Marissa hadn’t seen him interested in one iota of business, as it was presented to him. He didn’t care about their assets, wasn’t inclined to offer advice on personnel, or the management of familiars. It was off-putting to see him attempt to take any initiative in that vein.

“If you say so.”

He cast her a look that said he was tiring of her go-to answer. She met his gaze with lifted brows, daring him to act on it.

Drake set the glass down, “Go get your coat. There’s no time for you to change.”

Giving him a mock salute, Marissa rose from the couch and went to her bedroom. From her spartan closet, she pulled the heavy coat he’d had made for her. Surreptitiously checking the door, she lifted onto her toes and felt around on the top shelf for the phone she’d hidden between several thick sweaters.

Waking it, she checked for messages, seeing just one from Ollie: Found him. She smiled and put the phone back where she’d hidden it. Swinging the coat over her shoulders, Marissa returned to the living room. Nate had already packed up and was waiting by the door.

“Ready when you are,” she announced, knowing that neither of them was really waiting for her.

“Nate, we’ll take your car.”

Startled Nate stammered an ‘of course’ before booking it out of the house. After a moment, Marissa heard the engine turn over.

Drake stared after him, “If he wasn’t so good with keeping me fed, I’d have killed him already.”

Marissa followed his line of sight, her mouth pursing, “I almost beat you to it a few weeks ago.”

He laughed, touching her arm to get her moving forward, “That fight isn’t worthy of you.”

“And its worthy of you?”

Drake closed the front door firmly behind them, “I’d be doing it to feed. There’s a difference—don’t say ‘if you say so’.”

Marissa closed her mouth, the words dying on her tongue. Lifting both hands, she surrendered the inclination and led the way to Nate’s car. The ride back to the compound was unremarkable, aside from Nate clutching the wheel as if his life depended on it—which, she guessed that it sort of did.

The vampires were already gathered in the throne room, voices whispering so softly that the sound was more or less a low drone. It hushed when Drake entered, Marissa in tow. Nate waited by the door, his attention taken by another vampire’s demands.

Drake took his place on the throne, hand waving to a smaller chair not far away. Marissa hadn’t been allowed on the dais yet, and she couldn’t help the hesitation as she sat. Looking out to the crowd, she clocked some jealous faces, some angry ones, and some indifferent. A single body moved forward.

Danica was decked in feathers the shone blue, her eyes painted in deep black shadow. Ruby lips made an attempt at a smile, “We have the location you asked for.”

“Finally, you’ve succeeded at something,” Drake drawled.

Hiding her flinch, the vampire continued, “We await your orders. Shall we send a team?”

The fingers of one hand rubbing against one another, Drake considered the question, “No. I’ll go, myself. You want me to bring back a hostage, yes?”

“A specific hostage, if possible.”

“Hannibal King.”

“Yes,” Danica confirmed. Then added, “Please.”

Again, Drake considered it, his eyes wandering over the group. Marissa wondered what he saw as he looked at them. It couldn’t be good.

“Alright. It will be done.”

Danica’s delight was unchecked, “Wonderful! Now, some finer details.”

Marissa listened as she talked, noted that the plan was remarkably simple. She had to admit that simple plans were usually better. The more complicated the job, the more room for error. It irked her that she had to give Danica this one compliment, no matter the fact that it was given entirely in her own mind.

Drake listened for a while, then cut Danica off, his hand rising from the arm of the throne, “I’ve heard enough. It will be done.”

Hesitating, Danica made the mistake of starting to speak again. Drake leaned forward with an audible, terrifying sound that made the hairs on Marissa’s arms stand on end. To her credit, Danica stood her ground, she began again, trying to get Drake to hear her further. All the frustration inside Marissa snapped.

“I think he said ‘enough’,” she called out, her annoyance palpable.

Spiteful eyes turned to her, “I think I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

“You’re right,” Marissa retorted, “Although I can’t see how you would have been able to get in a word around all the smoke you’re blowing.”

The chuckle from the throne to her left was not helping the searing hatred Marissa could feel wafting from Danica.

“What does a human know about destroying an enemy?”

“More than you, I’d wager.”

Danica lunged, hissing. Instinct had Marissa up and out of the chair, her feet braced to pivot one way or another. Pride made her keep her hands down and at her sides, a performance of confidence. Carefully, she reached into her pocket, thumb pushing at the sheath of the knife, just in case.

Approaching, Danica began what probably would be one hell of a rant, “You haven’t lived long enough to know what it means to bathe in the blood of your foe. You can’t even comprehend razing cities to the ground and standing among the dead you’ve slain.”

She could. Sort of.

“Pretty sure you haven’t, either.”

Danica did not strike Marissa as a fighter. She might be skilled in political machinations, might be good at getting her way, but she wasn’t a knock down, drag out, kick you in the face, scrapper. That’s where Marissa had her beat.

Coming closer, Danica lashed out, her nails catching Marissa’s cheek. She could feel the blood beading up and rolling down her skin even before the pain hit. Taking a deep breath, Marissa leveled a look at Danica that had once made a grown man cry. Then, in what she hoped was enough speed so as to catch the vampire off guard, she used the knife to return the favor.

She’d gotten the hit in, but before she could even begin to gloat, Marissa could hear the roar of the others. The crowded the dais, though none stepped onto the wide bottom stair.

Danica smiled, “I demand requital!”

Behind her, Drake sighed deeply. Marissa felt more than saw him stand, her eyes focused on Danica.

“We have other matters at hand,” he placated, though there was irritation in his tone.

“No,” Danica said sharply, “I demand it.”

Marissa took a chance and looked back at Drake. His expression was both tired and resigned. She knew that she’d stepped in the shit pretty deep by cutting the vampire. Still, Marissa stood by the decision.

“Name your champion,” Drake said on a long exhale.

Smirking, Danica called out a name. From the crowd came jeers and an ‘oooh’ that would rival any fifth grade class. Marissa shifted her weight and waited for someone to tell her what the fuck was happening.

The crowd shifted, and a figure sauntered forward. Marissa felt her jaw tighten as an absolute shit house of a man made his way to the dais. Danica crossed her arms, hip cocked, as she watched Marissa’s reaction.

The guy was, thankfully, human. But, he was the kind of dude who valued brute strength over a cut physique. Barrel chested and bursting with muscle, he’d be a tough kill.

“This is my champion.”

Drake took him in, then gave a short nod, “We’ll reconvene in a week. You’ll get your requital.”

His hand snapped out and grabbed Marissa’s arm, hauling her off the dais and down the hall towards the elevator. He didn’t say a word until the doors were closed.

“You’re an idiot.”

She shrugged.

“I can’t stop the requital. Not if I want to maintain order.”

Another shrug.

“Do you even know what’s going to happen?”

“A fight?” she guessed.

“Yes,” he confirmed, walking out of the carriage when the doors opened. “A fight. To the death.”

Marissa followed him, her hands pushing into the pockets of her jacket, “Wouldn’t be my first one. At least he’s human.”

Looking back at her, Drake slowed his pace, “This isn’t a joke. You’re either going to live or die in the match.”

She nodded, “Okay, I understand.”

“There will be no weapons. Just fists.”

“Got it.”

Drake paused, his eyes narrowing, “Do you want to fight him?”

Marissa lifted a shoulder, “It’d break up the monotony a little bit.”

He stared, “You’re insane.”

“Yeah, probably.”

More staring. He blinked, “Let me get you something for that cut.”

[warrioreowynofrohan]

The Four Loves - Eros

Lewis very specifically distinguishes eros (romantic love, being ‘in love’) from sexual desire (which he calls Venus). (This is, by the way, very helpful for my understanding the concepts of asexuality and aromanticism and the distinctions between them.)

Lewis starts off the chapter with noting that he doesn’t think there’s anything wrong with people marrying without eros and in fact that’s been the nature of most marriages through history. (So we can conclud he’d be okay with ‘friends-with-benefits’ provided that it was committed, monogamous friends-with-benefits. In fact, he initially married Joy Davidman - in a civil ceremony, not a religious one - so she could retain her UK residency, when they were close friends but not yet in love, though given his convictions they probably didn’t sleep together at that time.) Nor is there anything inherently ‘right’ about eros, and it is certainly capable of leading to wrong and hurtful actions.

Lewis describes eros in this way (his entire discussion of the subject is from the male perspective):

Very often what comes first is simply a delighted pre-occupation with the Beloved - a general, unspecified pre-occupation with her in her totality. A man in this state really hasn’t leisure to think of sex. He is too busy thinking of a person. The fact that she is a woman is far less important than the fact that she is herself. He is full of desire, but the desire may not be sexually toned. If you asked him what he wanted, the true reply would often be, “To go on thinking of her.”...In some mysterious but quite indisputable fashion, the love desires the Beloved herself, not the pleasure she can give.

...The reader will notice that Eros thus womderfully transforms what is par excellence a Need-pleasure into the most Appreciative of all pleasures. It is the nature of a Need-pleasure to show us the object solely in relation to our need, even our momentary need [e.g., a glass of water when we are thirsty]. But in Eros, a Need, at its most intense, sees the object most intensely as a thing admirable in herself, important far beyond her relation to the lover’s need.

Without Eros sexual desire, like every other desire, is a fact about ourselves. Within Eros it is rather about the Beloved. It becomes almost a mode of perception, a mode of expression. It feels objective; sonething outside us, in the real world. That is why Eros, thoigh the king of pleasures, always (at his height) has the air of regarding pleasure as a by-product. Anyway, whose pleasure? For one of the first things Eros does is to obliterate the distinction between giving and receiving.

I’ve quoted the passage at length because I am trying to get a clearer understanding of the ideas here; it is less easily understood, to me, than the other forms (and not something I’ve personally experienced). But the last line draws me to something from George MacDonald’s writings that I’ve often applied to my understanding of romantic love and how it differs from others. Friendship, or philia, is the enjoyment of someone’s company because you share the same interests. Eros is the enjoyment of the Beloved’s interests because they are the Beloved’s. MacDonald expresses this in his short story “The Day Boy and the Night Girl”, about a boy who is raised to only ever see the day and never experience night or darkness, and a girl who is raised in darkness and never sees the day. They meet, they fall in love, and it concludes with:

Hardly had one [year of their marriage] passed, before Nycteris had come to love the day best, because it was the clothing and crown of Photogen...and Photogen had come to love the night best, because it was the mother and home of Nycteris.

In the story of Aldarion and Erendis in Unfinished Tales, their marriage falls apart because they don’t have this: each of them values their own pursuits, preferences, and desires more than they value being with the other (though I think Aldarion is far more to blame, as she makes many, many allowances for him, and he makes very few for her). Likewise with the Ents and Ent-wives, who both prefer being in the lands that they love over being together.

In contrast to that, Lewis says that the goal of eros is not happiness, but valuing togetherness over being happy:

Eros does not aim at happiness. To Eros all calculations are irrelevant. Even when it comes clear beyond all evasion that marriage with the Beloved cannot possibly lead to happiness - when it cannot even profess to offer any other life than that of tending an incurable invalid, of hopeless poverty, of exile, or of disgrace - Eros never hesitates to say, “Better this than parting. Better to be miserable with her than happy without her. Let our hearts break provided they break together.” If the voice within it does not say this, it is not the voice of Eros.

It is in this respect that Eros can give us a greater understanding of our relationship to God:

This love is really and truly like Love Himself. In it there is real nearness to God (by Resemblance [in its willingness to give up everything for the Beloved]). Eros, honoured so far as love of God and charity to our fellows will allow, may [also] become for us a means of Approach. His total committment is a paradigm or example, built into our natures, of the love we ought to exercise towards God and Man. It is as if Christ said to us through Eros, “Thus - just like this - with this prodigality - not counting the cost - you are to love me and the least of my brethren.”

...In one high bound [eros] has overleaped the massive wall of our selfhood; it has made appetite itself altruistic, tossed personal happiness aside as a triviality and planted the interests of another at the centre of our being. Spontaneously and without effort we have fulfilled the law (towards one person) by loving our neighbour as ourselves. It is an image, a foretaste, of what we must become to all if Love Himself rules in us without a rival. It is even (well used) a preparation for that.

Yet, as noted above, this is not to say that eros is intrinsically good. In fact, Lewis considers it one of the more perilous forms of love, precisely because it is so overpowering that it can lead lovers to think that everything they do for the cause of love is right or justifiable. If amor vincit omnia refers to eros, then Lewis disagrees with the assertion (and so do I). The rejection of it is one of the things I love about Jane Eyre, where in the scene after Jane finds out that Rochester has a living (and insane) wife, and Jan and Rochester are still as deeply in eros as they have ever been, she chooses to leave because staying and living as his mistress would be wrong, defying both his passions and her own. Lewis describes the destructiveness of unrestrained eros, “ready for every sacrifice except renunciation,” and with the particular danger that “temptations speak with the voice of duties” - to go against romantic love feels wrong even when it is right. This doesn’t just refer to love-affairs. We see it in Les Mis when Marius determines to detach Cosette from Valjean (whom he regards as a criminal and danger, and whose wealth he suspects is ill-gotten) for love of her, and Cosette is wrapped up in love for Marius enough to forget Valjean.

And despite the overwhelming demands that eros makes, it is “notoriously the most mortal of all our lives; the world rings with complaints of his fickleness.” People promise very sincerely to be in love forever, and the feeling fades shortly. Lewis notes that “Between the best possible lovers this condition is intermittent” - which is not the case for affection or for friendship. Between those intermittent times, a committment that goes beyond momentary feeling, along with affection, and (ideally) philia between partners must be able to sustain the relationship. (Lewis, probably thinking of his relationship with Joy, asks anyone who is fortunate enough to have true philia with their spouse, in addition to eros, and who had to choose between the two loves, which they would choose; I think the implication is clear that he would choose philia, which was the intial foundation of their relationship.) Which is to say that, if we mean eros (rather than nonsexual physical affection) when we say ‘romance’, almost all people are aromantic most of the time.

[adragonhoardingstories]

Of Blood and Bonds - Chapter 3

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Tag list for this is closed! On that note, this book will contain swearing, mentions of rape and torture. I will try not be explicit but that's really relative. Read at your own risk. There will be warning before if I make a explicit scene so that you can skip it. Anyways, I hope you enjoy and don't hunt me down for this.

_________________________________

"Wait! Where's Damian?" 

~

Damian didn't know what to think of all this. It wasn't like he hadn't considered that one day his father would adopted someone else but he hadn't expected this - the fact that he had an actual blood sibling. 

When he had snuck in on the tour earlier, some people had protested him being there, said that a child would only cause problem. 

Before any of his brothers could intervene, Marinette did, said that she was taking his responsibility as long as he wasn't going to be in trouble for being there. Her expression though respectful was basically asking for a challenge. 

No one denied her. 

Damian decided he liked her and by the end of the tour he would reluctantly admit that maybe he wanted to be friends with her and get to know her better. 

She was smart as whip, genuine, could kick ass according to Todd, didn't treat him as a child and not that he would ever admit it but being near her made him feel... lighter...there wasn't a better to describe it. 

Now he wondered whether she had done what she had only because she had known who he was. 

He banished that thought away. Even if she had, it wasn't necessarily a bad thing, she clearly wanted nothing to do with father so maybe...she had wanted to get to know him? 

That would be a first. 

It's not that he wasn't thankful for the makeshift family that he had acquired but this was different. Her and his situations were a lot similar what with them not living with their father for the most of their lives until then. 

Also, he knew that as much as they might have made it a long way in their relationship compared to how it was when they had just met, the truth would always be that they had had a bad start and he didn't think that they would ever be able to fully forgive him for the things he had done. 

Even Richard Grayson, admittedly the person he was closest with in the family didn't care for him as he did for their other brothers. 

If he did, he wouldn't have left him alone. 

Damian just wished - hoped that this time he would be able to do things right, that he would get a chance to have someone he could fully trust and that would trust him back like his siblings did with each other. 

But he had to do this right. 

He started by researching her and a voice that sounded annoyingly like Jon told him that this was not a good way to gain her trust but in the end, he was still a bat and that's how bats showed they cared.

((In the end, he hadn't needed to worry because she hinted that she knew and that it didn't bother her. By the end of the night, he had admitted to searching her up and she had been understanding. He had been so relieved, it felt like weight lifted off his chest.))

His blood was boiling as he researched her. He also felt sick. Who had dared harm his sister? They would pay, he would make sure of that. 

But then he started thinking about how strong she was for you going through what had seemed like hell and coming out still smiling like and angel. 

There were many things about her case that seemed off to him but there were more important things to worry about them. He made a mental note to investigate them further, especially akumas. 

It seemed like that night no one was going to go for patrol. That made his job of sneaking out easier. 

While Timothy went to fetch the others, he changed into black jeans, a black shirt, wore a black hoodie on top and hid weapons on him. 

He waited until Timothy started explaining what they had found to sneak out. He already knew everything he needed to afterall, including his sister's current address. 

It would be too late to stop him once they realized he was gone. Damian needed to see Marinette and no one would stop him. 

~

"Damian." Marinette leaned out of the window, staring in the darkness. "Either come in or go away. In any case, stop lurking or I'll get jumpy and you'll get hurt." 

She moved back and closed the window, not putting the lock so that he could come in if he wanted and went back to stress baking. 

She had known as soon as he had arrived. After...the incident she had become way more attuned to her surroundings which was why she was more than aware of the eyes that had been on her for the last ten minutes as well as who was observing her. 

She prayed to all the gods she knew that she wasn't wrong and that it was Damian. Not that she wouldn't be able to handle her otherwise. 

The Incident was also what had landed her in her current location. She had gained some friends and a lot of sympathizers after what had happened which was how she was able to convince the school board to let her live away from the class. It was more than simple actually, the people in her class had not been subtle about their beliefs that she had orchestrated the whole kidnapping thing. She simply had to state that she did not feel safe in such an environment.

The fact that she had a mansion in Gotham under her name only helped. 

She had gained this place in inheritance from Master Fu, it had been imbued with Wyazz's protective magic and she could feel the remenants of the other kwamis magic. It was the safest place in Gotham, similar to his Paris penthouse, somewhere not even...he...or another Miraculous user could get to her if she didn't wish them to. As Guardian, the magic shifted and obeyed her. 

It was like a blanket of security. 

Marinette heard the window open and shut and she smiled. "It's a bit late." She said. "Does B know you're out?" 

"He must have noticed by now." Damian looked awkward, like he himself wasn't sure what he was doing there and his eyes were shifting. Someone else might have assumed it was curiosity but Marinette knew when someone was mapping a place out, marking the possible escape routes. 

She didn't mention it. 

"Either way, Father knows that I am more than capable of taking care of myself."

She didn't question it, the way he held himself showed her enough to know that it wasn't just arrogance or childish endeavours speaking. 

"You can sit down." She said after while when he didn't move. "I'd sit with you but if I stop this preparation, everything will be ruined and I don't want this to go to waste."

"It's alright." The reply was instantaneous. He hesitated before continuing. "May I ask why you are still awake, as you said, it is quite late."

"I can't sleep much." She decided that she was going to be as frank as possible with her little brother. "I was already an insomniac but now I get nightmares too." She had no doubt that they had researched her and at least knew the basics of what had happened to her. 

They fell silent again and it felt comfortable enough that Marinette didn't feel the need to make small talk. Also, Damian had come there to see her so he probably had things he wanted to talk to her about and just needed the time to sort out his thoughts.

Apparently, she was right. 

"You knew didn't you?" He asked. 

She made a non-committal sound. "About what?"

"Who I-we were when you saw us on the tour?"

She hummed. "I knew there was a high chance I would bump into one of the Waynes in Wayne Tower yes, and well I know all of your names and even if there aren't pictures of you online, it's pretty obvious."

"Because I look like father?" He sounded almost bitter. 

She turned around and leant against the counter to finally meet his eyes. "No, because you look like me."

It was true. They almost looked like twins. They shared their father's looks, Asian traits and had the same skin tone ((sue me I'm making Marinette have brown skin like she should have according to me and not be white)). Damian only reached to her shoulder but if someone looked at them closely, they would see that there were more similarities than differences. 

He seemed surprised but pleased with her response though he tried to hide it. Marinette turned back to her macaroons and placed them in the oven.((I DON'T KNOW HOW TO MAKE MACAROONS SO INNACCURATE))

"Why did you never ask father to meet us?" 

"I did. At first, he was adamant that Gotham was too dangerous but then he kept adopting kids and well I started thinking that, well he hadn't planned me. He was nice enough to stay in my life but that didn't mean that he wanted me in his so I stopped asking and well turned out I was right because he stepped out of my life a few years after."

She thought he wasn't going to say anything to that but his answer surprised her. "I understand." He seemed reluctant to admit it but she could hear the sincerity in his voice, in the way he seemed so vulnerable at that moment. "Not knowing whether you're wanted or not."

"Well," She slid in the seat facing him. "I know that I have a lot of time to catch up on but if you'd allow me, I want to be your life and I want you in mine."

He smiled then, slowly and unsurely. Marinette had a feeling that he didn't do that very often and it warmed her heart that he did for her. "I think that I would like that a lot too."

Marinette basked in the moment for a while longer before she stood up. 

"Well, you wanna help me bake, little brother." 

"I've never baked before." He lowered his eyes in shame. Marinette felt something like anger and protectiveness swell up in her chest. Why would he need to feel ashamed of something like that? 

She kept her tone light and tried not to betray any of her emotions. 

"There's a first time for everything, right? Come on, I'll teach you it'll be fun." 

She smiled encouragingly and he shrugged, walking to her side. She nudged him with her shoulder. "Also, do you wanna spend the night here? It can be like a sleepover?" 

She gave him her best puppy eyes and he relented. "Fine."

"Yay." She fist-bumped the air. "Shoot Alfred a text and tell him you won't be home or he'll worry." She instructed and watched patiently as he took his phone out a write a quick text. Not out. Safe. Won't be back tonight. She read over his shoulder. It was sent to Grayson. 

She wondered how often he was out that such a simple text would be enough. 

She didn't voice her question out loud. 

Instead, she beckoned hims over and started explaining. 

~

The next morning when Damian strolled in the manor, was greeted by his brothers, father and Alfred waiting for him. 

"Damian." His father sounded disappointed at him. Nothing new then.

"You cannot just leave without saying anything like that."

"I texted." He didn't have the patience to deal with his father right now. He was already taxing on a normal day but after yesterday…"And you know well that I can take care of myself."

"That doesn't mean you can do this."

Damian was so done with this conversation.

"And it doesn't mean that you can take out your anger at your failures on me." His father froze. He felt like he had crossed a line but he was beyond caring. His sister was more than amazing and she hadn't deserved to be hurt like this. And her suffering may have been prevented or at the very least reduced had it not been for the man in front of him and his love for secrets.  

He turned to his brother and dropped a bag in front of them. "Marinette sent macaroons for you three and Alfred." He knew it was petty but that did not stop him from emphasising on the last four words.

Both Alfred and Bruce startled.  

"Wait Demon Spawn, you were with Marinette?" 

"Obviously." He rolled his eyes and turned to walk to his room. But then he stopped and looked at them. "I'll be heading out again shortly."

"Wait Little D," Richard jumped to his feet. "Come on, explain this to us."

He sighed but really his brothers weren't at fault here. "I went over to Marinette's last night, we talked, we baked," he gestured at the macaroons. "She asked me to sleep over. Now if you'll excuse, I need to change and head out again."

He didn't wait for a response and walked away, however his father's voice stopped him right in his tracks. 

"Damian, I will not tolerate you being disrespectful to me. You're grounded."

The boy turned on his heels, a shark like expression in his face. "Oh? You're forbidding me from meeting my sister now father?" Bruce flinched almost unnoticeably.

 "She asked me to show her around Gotham since she has a free day." He elaborated. 

"Fine." It was rare to see his father looking so defeated. "But you're benched from patrol."

Damian was himself surprised at how much he didn't care. He had expected it. Marinette was more important right now. 

He smiled. "Of course." This time when he walked away, no one stopped him. 

~

"He didn't even protest to being benched." Tim remarked.

Damian's behavior was...he would say worrying but something told him that whatever was happening was for the best and he had learnt to trust his instincts a long time ago

"I've never heard him talk to Bruce like that before." Jason added. 

"You're both missing the most important thing." Dick said. "He mentioned that they baked - meaning he and Marinette baked macaroons together."

As one, all three of them turned to look at the innocent looking package. 

"The brat's got the right idea though." Jason said. "We need to talk to the little lady too."

[thunderjolt]

panzer paladin

hoo boy, a lot of thoughts on this one! and because i pretty much no-lifed it they're all fresh.

panzer paladin is an action platformer where you control a mech called grit. (sometimes leaving it and controlling just the pilot). it's very much in the mega man/castlevania mold, borrowing a lot from each. you can almost think of it as mega man's physics and structure with castlevania's combat (with elements from both classic and sotn). but, of course, it has its own twist - its weapon system. weapons are obtained either by defeating enemies, breaking walls castlevania-style, or defeating bosses. weapons have a few main traits (and one best saved for later) - their strength, their durability, their type (basically sword/club/spear), and their spell. the durability system is pretty much directly lifted from breath of the wild; weapons break after too much use, and the hit the weapon breaks on will deal extra damage. additionally, you can throw a weapon, instantly breaking it and dealing double damage, while giving you a ranged option. however, additionally, you can break a weapon manually to use its spell. spells range from buffs, to direct attacks, to healing. this forces you to make some interesting decisions - do i want double damage or a buff? is it worth destroying this weapon that has full durability to get a heal when i need it?

the weapon system is used frequently to force the player to make decisions like this, and while some are no-brainers, the consistency with which this game forces these hard decisions is still pretty commendable. there are two mechanics that just don't work for me - checkpoints and spirit burden. to activate a checkpoint, you need to place a weapon in it. this could be an interesting decision, but ultimately weapons are too plentiful and checkpoints too rare too be worth it. most levels only have a middle checkpoint and a pre-boss checkpoint, and levels are very long (around 7-10 minutes usually) so it's pretty much never worth it to ignore the checkpoint, especially considering you get no extra reward for it (other than not losing a weapon, i guess.) spirit burden, meanwhile, is that last weapon trait i mentioned up there. it's basically a weight value. it punishes you for having too many weapons on you. the problem is, the only thing that changes with spirit burden that's too high is that you're forced to fight a miniboss in each level. the problem is, said miniboss is the intro stage boss, and he never gets any harder. he also regularly drops strong weapons. plus, you're rewarded for holding onto weapons by being able to trash weapons in exchange for permanent health upgrades in between levels. this system is basically like if, in mega man 7, you were punished for collecting screws and using boss weapons, but the only thing that happens is you have to fight that mohawk robot from the intro stage. it just doesn't really work. but ultimately, these aren't frustrations - just some minor failures.

mech combat plays out very similar to symphony of the night. it's primarily close-range, with the only long-range tools at your disposal being thrown weapons and certain offensive spells. you have a shield, which passively blocks attacks and projectiles, but functions somewhat like blocking in a fighting game - the attack has to be at your shield height to block it. this allows for some fairly engaging enemy encounters where you have to keep up with their high-low mixups. of course, like symphony of the night, you have a backdash as well. however, it's used to much greater effect here, and many encounters are designed around you using it. you can also backdash in the air - this not only gives you relative parity between air and ground combat, it can also be used as a platforming tool. while i often dislike airdashes in platformers, this one works because it forces you to turn around and give up your aerial drift in exchanged for something that travels a fixed distance. the other platforming tool in your arsenal is your aerial upward attack. it's not quite a full double jump, but it's not quite a stall, either. it's just a "boost." i'd liken it somewhat to the upward boost in mischief makers, just without halting your air movement.

the level design is fairly good. it contains a lot of well-crafted combat scenarios. this game is a lot more action than platformer, however, and platforming is a significantly more mixed bag. while there are some very solid sequences, your mech simply isn't as agile as mega man is. you're slower, your jump is lower even with the boost, and you're much bigger. you also have a much less flexible attack for dispatching enemies. the level design doesn't always take this into account though, and designs scenarios that feel like they were made with a completely different platforming character in mind, and can be frustrating.

in addition to mech platforming, some sections have you platforming as the pilot, flame. flame is similar in size and constitution to jason outside of the sophia in blaster master, though faster, with a much better attack (functionally a less committal belmont whip swing, even with the little hitbox behind you) and, mercifully, no fall damage. flame's sections are fairly short, and usually end with you restoring some of your mech's health. however, they almost all include sections where you platform (or more accurately whip swing, in the style of super castlevania iv) over bottomless pits, something you rarely do the rest of the time. this is a problem thanks to this game's biggest issue - how punishing it is.

i am personally not of the opinion that punishing = bad. in fact, quite the opposite; i tend to dislike games that have little to no stakes. but punishment is a tool that must be wielded elegantly, and this game wields it like a toddler with a plastic sword. it's not an especially difficult game - i'd consider it a similar difficulty to the original mega man x - but the combination of a lives system, the limited checkpoints, the lengths of each level, and flame's frailty make dying especially brutal, far moreso than in the games that inspired it. let me explain that last point because i didn't find a good place to earlier - flame and grit have separate health bars. when grit breaks down, you are forced to play as flame until you get to a healing station. healing stations are as scarce as checkpoints, and with how frail flame is, and how limited her moveset is, getting to one if it's any more than two screens away is a herculean task. you might as well kill yourself, often. and because there are no health pickups for grit, and weapons with healing spells can be very limited depending on the stage, losing him isn't a terribly uncommon sight. the health pickups for blaze, meanwhile, are exceedingly rare, and usually behind challenge rooms filled with instant death platforming. the amount of punishment this game dishes out is so much that i actively don't want to play it on hard - i don't know if i'd be able to handle it without destroying my switch.

while a major one, the punishment is the largest caveat by far - in every other respect, this game is excellent, at least in my opinion. if you truly despise getting sent back a long way, you might want to stay away, but for anyone else, this is absolutely worth a purchase, in my opinion.

[500wordtheology]

Theism, Atheism, Agnosticism: The Importance of Solid Terminology

If you have not yet, please read Part 1 here before continuing.

    We have established that in their most basic forms the theological terms Theist, Atheist, and Agnostic relate to the question “Does God exist?” with the perspectives yes, no, and I don’t know, respectively.

    By utilizing these definitions we create a language set that covers each of the possible answers to that question. A positive answer (yes), a negative answer (no), and a neutral or non committal answer (I don’t know). If one identifies themselves as a theist, then, we need not ask them “Do you believe God exists?” The answer is in the term theist. FROM THERE (and this is vitally important, hence the caps) we can proceed to ask specifics of their beliefs, or even their very understanding of God. That’s fine, because the term has done its job, providing us with a shortcut to move past the initial question and response.

    Problems arise if and when someone absconds with one of these terms and attempts to significantly alter it, particularly when they leave the previous definition unaccounted for. This, unfortunately, is what has occurred in modern times with the word “Atheist.”

    Rather than use the historical definition which has been maintained for thousands of years, some modern individuals desire to identify as Atheists while holding the actual position of Agnostic. (There are a number of reasons for this, but for the sake of brevity we will leave them for another post. The important thing to note is that it has taken place.)

    This flat-out harms communication. Rather than having the shortcut of terminology that allows us to skip the early, shallow questions and move towards deep discussion we must instead clarify what should need no clarification. Instead of progressing, everything must grind to a halt in order to check “By atheist, do you really mean agnostic?” And, unfortunately, many of the people who do this will still answer that they do not mean agnostic even though further discussion will reveal that is exactly what they mean.

    The term Atheist should mean Atheist. That is why this word-shortcut exists. It should be the “No” response to the question “Does God exist?” as it has for most of recorded human history. This claim of “should” has reason: for good communication. By altering it to no longer mean “no” we destroy a vital piece of language and cause both confusion and loss of clarity. It is not an evolution of language, either, but a devolution. What is gained by doing so is not worth the trade, in spite of it perhaps feeling that way in an emotional state of mind. Language, however, does not exist to appease our feelings, but rather to communicate with one another. We should not sacrifice academic terminology for the sake of comfort.*

    This, I know, is unpopular. However it is both prudent and wise. There is no argument for the alteration of these three terms beyond “It’s how I feel like I want it to be.” That is not a solid reason to make a change that leaves one of the three answers unaccounted for by merging two of the categories.

    If you desire so badly to be labeled as an Atheist, be an Atheist. Answer the question “No, I do not believe God exists.” Own your decision. If you believe God exists, take responsibility for that as well and use the term Theist. And if you simply do not know/believe one way or the other, by all means utilize the proper term of “Agnostic” because that is why the term exists. If we do this, we will use language properly and can all begin from the same page to work toward productive and deeper discussions.

    In the next post on this subject we break things down even further, however it was and is essential that we clarify these three terms first. By doing so we build a firm foundation to work from, and have no confusion about what they do and do not represent - no matter how we might feel about it being so.

*Quick note: This does not mean we should not alter our word-choice to be kind. We should definitely do that, particularly as Christians. We are commanded to be kind, patient, respectful, and graceful. We fail at that far too often. In any case, I hope you can understand the difference between choosing kind words during any given conversation and fundamentally altering actual definitions to the detriment of language itself, which was my point.

[minaa-munch]

Konoha was home to as many geniuses as it was clans; from the shrewd pupil-less gaze that would discount no detail to the age-old warrior clan that was rumored to foster holy fire in its blood. When it came to militaristic strength and man power, the village was probably second to only Kumo - seldom a platoon could match their prodigal finesse in warfare.

Nara Shikaku was a different sort of genius though; one shrewd enough to notice underlying strains from the get-go. He was sharp and clever, with a silver tongue to match if he ever bothered indulging his superiors. 

In fact, he could probably count the number of times he had miscalculated on one hand. Fallacies were for those who were inept at seeing the variables. 

Ah, but that didn’t make it any less…cumbersome.

“So…potential Hokage candidate, eh?” 

“Aa”

“And here I thought you were pulling my leg.” He grinned, fingers flipping one of the many cards that lay face down between them. His companion arched an eyebrow at the kanji, before returning the card in his hand to a pile on the right with a sigh.

“Your turn.”

Cue a non-committal hum as he picked up a card, eyes never leaving his opponent’s deceptively serene expression. Uta-Garuta wasn’t a game that required one to be privy to their partner’s thoughts; in fact, most would argue that it was a game that involved nothing but sheer, dumb luck. 

Naturally, those that did weren’t shinobi. They weren’t known for depending on something as fickle. Stretching languidly as well as he could in their small booth, Shikaku placed an elbow on his knee, choosing to rest his cheek against a closed fist, card dangling listlessly between gloved digits. 

“You and I both know you don’t like losing to me in this one, so fess up already, blondie.” He began, a smirk playing around his features, “Why the sudden need for a social call?”

“Yare ne, must you question everything?” Blondie replied, blue hues lingering on the painted cards before meeting his gaze. They stayed like that for a moment, until Shikaku raised one skeptical eyebrow and Minato’s facade cracked, revealing a sheepish grin. 

“You know how it is…I’ll need your support if I hope to become Hokage one day.” The Namikaze was oddly nonchalant about it, enough for Shikaku to want to smack him upside the head - for someone who was aiming for the highest seat of their government, Minato was a downright patsy when it came to trusting people. 

…Or friends. Regardless, he was playing on a different field now. The least he could do was try to be sneaky about it. Unimpressed, black hues flickered back to the card in his hand. 

“As the willow weeps Water flows, fallen blossoms–”

Cue a timely flick of painted kanji amidst a triumphant grin. Shikaku straightened, a soft exhale leaving him as he did, “The Nara are the least of your worries when it comes to the council vote.” He said with a barely stifled yawn, as fingers discarded the card in exchange for a steaming cup of sencha tea. Minato took this as his cue to consider the painted ink, tan fingers curled around his chin in thought. 

“Iie, its just nice to have a friendly face around you can trust…” Trailing off, he chanced a glance at the Nara, card already in hand. “Why do you always withdraw your name when the clan council sends in recommendations?”

Pause. A girl knocked politely against the wooden frame of their booth, before offering a tray laden with a dish of rice crackers and a fresh pot of tea. Minato took it from her with a word of thanks, before gingerly placing it on the low table near their arrangement of cards. 

Dark hues caught the rising steam from the white ceramic before he shrugged, “You know me, I’d rather spend my time collecting deer antlers.” As the future head of his clan, he knew just how important he was to the village. The council couldn’t pass a vote without the approval of the Ino-Shika-Chou triad, and they would never vote against each other.

Its just…he didn’t foresee Minato having the same problem - clanless as he was, there was something about him that had people nodding in agreement most - if not all - the time. He had the potential to be a good leader. In fact, having served in the same platoon as the Namikaze, Shikaku had no doubts with regards to his skill as a commander. 

The blond would have everyone wrapped around his fingers before they (or even he, himself) were even aware of it.

“Leave it to me.” Trembling digits slipped a soldier pill before the Nara could protest. He staggered to his feet, dirty blond hair matted with blood and dirt, fringes stuck to the sides of his face in mud-encrusted trails. Frigid blue hues steeled themselves against Shikaku’s narrowed ones, “You’re the only one who can organize a tactful retreat. I’ll buy you some time.”

“I’m not going to abandon a comrade!” His words fell on deaf ears, as the blond slipped a handful of his special, three-pronged kunai from his weapons pouch and disappeared with the slightest cackle of electricity. Shikaku stared at the empty spot next to him before cursing under his breath and turning back to where the rest of the platoon was staring at him; each shinobi probably as filthy and bruised as he was. 

“You heard him” He said, his voice loud and clear, as if daring them to challenge him. Shikaku fished out a kunai before gesturing them towards him with one hand, the other already busy drawing in the mud. 

One by one, despair was replaced with hope. Grim as they were, even the older shinobi could not challenge the logic in his words, or the strength of his tact; especially when they were outnumbered and out of luck. 

But they had a strategy. Exchanging nods, they begun their tactical retreat amidst wind and sheets of rain, now with increased vigor. Shikaku stared at his muddy drawings for a brief moment before the rain wiped it away. 

They would make it. Willing himself to stand, the Nara heir stepped to join his superiors, before two huddled forms caught his eye. Two chunin, perhaps not older than he was, were crouched behind the muddy wall, utterly entranced by the view of the battlefield. 

“What are you waiting for, an invite?” He practically growled, making them jump. One of them met his gaze with a shake of his head, before pointing yonder. 

Curious, he too peeked from behind their makeshift mud wall; at the figure darting between arcs of lightning and flashing steel. It was flawless; not a second wasted, not a movement gone without drawing blood.

Like fireworks. 

No, it was his ability to act as a politician that Shikaku could find faults with. Minato was smart, a downright prodigy when it came to battle strategy and all things shinobi, but… 

Martyrs never made good politicians. 

Politicians simply happened to be a lot more cunning, and downright dirty. Their collective, wrinkly skin came first, not the village - never the village. He respected the Sandaime, he really did, but as a strategist, he was privy to the underhandedness the man let slip under his nose.

Shikaku knew it well, and had learned to steer clear of that particular alley; lest he be swallowed by the potential of what his command over the shadows could really do.

Sigh. “Hai hai, I’ll support you.” The Nara leaned back, arms crossed behind his head as dark hues surveyed the blond, “But you better not die on me, ne?”

Light hues colored a liquid gold in the lamp light as they met his, in an expression the Nara knew all too well. They had spent some time together on the battlefield, after all. 

“I don’t intend to.” They both exchanged a companionable grin at that, before Minato returned to reciting the kanji in his hand and Shikaku reached for a card between them. 

If he believed in kami then, he would have cursed it; for the Nara made the stupid mistake of believing in him.

Martyrs never made good politicians, and things never went according to plan. 

Needless to say, at the Yondaime’s funeral four years later, Shikaku vowed to never make the same mistake again. 

[beingjustlittlered]

KNY Demon Slayer AU

Tokito Muichirou × Reader

Reader POV. A dedication, to my せんぱいとむいちろうくん。

REMINISCENT- Part 1 : Muichirou AU

I was stuck. Being forced to stay like a sitting hen, with a few others of my unit, while the rest of them were dying in the demon maze. Nothing irked me more.

I'd been trying every possible argument but all of them were silenced by a non-committal grunt from Tengen-san. "Official orders," they said. But Oyakata-sama was no more which meant the orders didn't stand anymore. I was close to having my ears boxed when I yelled that opinion out loud.

But didn't. We were ALL imagining different loopholes in our head. Jumpy and eager, desperate to be allowed into the battlefield and avenge the deaths so far. But no one moved. Oyakata-sama's words were final.

"Please be safe. No matter what, just. Stay alive. Keep one breath aside for me. That will do." I muttered the prayer over and over, until finally dawn broke. It was followed by an awful, inhumane cry. All heads turned in the direction of the demon maze.

Tengen-San and Rengoku-san rose from their perch, hands on their respective swords. There were sounds of crashing, upon which two figures popped through the top of the maze, into the sky, the way stray corn ears would over spitfire.

Then the building began to fall apart and the screaming ensued.

It was chaos. The pillars, or what was left of them, were barking orders and trying to maintain composure. It was not safe to stay in the village anymore. I pushed myself through the throngs of people, eyes searching.

Shinazugawa limped past, clothes soaked in blood, something worse than emptiness in his eyes. In his hands he cradled two guns with more care than he could have ever been expected.

I stifled a sob with my fist. _Genya._ I rushed on.

Please. Please, my mind echoed. I tended to whatever injuries I was called upon, teeth gritted with impatience. But duty always came first.

_Why were there so many bodies?!_ I wanted to scream. So many people. But where were YOU?

"EVA-CHAN!"

"Tanjiro!" Kamisama, onegai! I could see the checkered pattern of Tanjiro's tunic now. He was hunched over. MOVE, I wanted to shout. Please, move.

He did. I came to stand next to him, looking down at the person he had been tending to.

"Mui-kun," for all the screaming I had wanted to do, my voice appeared to have died before I could.

"Eva-chan, you'll look after him, won't you? I need to go find Nezuko!"

I managed a nod, not taking my eyes away from the long haired boy lying unmoving before me.

"Tanjiro! Daijobu-ka?"

"Hai! Daijobu-desu!"

With that, he was off. Swallowed by the crowd.

I kneeled next to the Mist Hashira. Hashira. Who would believe this boy was a Hashira. Angry tears welled up in my eyes, and I took both his hands in mine.

"I'll save you, Mui. I'm here. I'll protect you now." Perhaps it was wishful thinking, but I felt a little squeeze of response.

A week. A mere seven days were all that Muichirou spent under my care. One day he was still unconscious, the next he was gone. That morning I came to find his bed and house empty. Panicked, I asked Iguro-san whose dwelling was the closest, about his whereabouts.

That was how I knew, he'd gone on a solo mission. Anger surged through me first. I vented it all out in the sparring ring. Then I was left alone in my house, with only the tears for company.

His wounds had only begun to heal. There was no telling what would happen to him. No source of communication. His karas was dead and he had told nobody about the location he was at.

Crying wouldn't help. Sleep was useless. I went back to the sparring ring.

Two days later, Muichirou arrived at my doorstep in the middle of the night.

"Pack lightly. We're going to the swordsmith's new village. Tomorrow. At dawn." And he left.

As informed, Muichirou was waiting under a sparse undergrowth next to my minka the next morning. When I reached where he was, he crouched infront of me, so I faced his back.

"Get on. And wear the blindfold." I followed through, silently. Silencing my roaring thoughts, for the time being.

It probably took a day, maybe less. But we didnt make any stops. Muichirou didnt suggest, so I didnt complain. The relocated base was closer to the swordsmiths' new village. I knew we had reached only because Muichirou had stopped. He crouched again, and tapped a hand on my calf signalling me to get off.

Tugging the blindfold off, I allowed my stiff joints to slowly relax to touch the ground. I stretched a little to rid the rest of it, hoping they still had a hot spring in this new village.

"We cannot stay," Mui said as if reading my mind. He reached into the satchel he was carrying over his chest, and tossed a piece of dried meat to me.

"Eat and follow." My patience was wavering, but I willed it to hold. We entered into a thick part of the forest and began walking. I was sure I'd crossed the same tree atleast three times after we had walked for about an hour. I was just about to point it out, unable to ignore it any further, when Muichirou spoke up.

"Close your eyes."

"What?"

He simply looked at me.

"Muichirou-kun, why won't you tell me where we're going? You said, the swordsmiths' village but we're well past it now."

He still just looked. Why do I even bother? I trusted him. With as much as my life. I closed my eyes.

"Hold out your hand.' Frowning, I did as told.

Soft cotton slipped into it, and I grasped it in reflex.

"It's the sleeve of my yukata. Keep your hold to it. Don't let go no matter what."

I nodded once and we began to walk again. I expected myself to trip in places, or atleast get swatted in the face by a tree branch. But I survived without injuries. I knew we'd arrived somewhere, when a heavy scent engulfed me. Distinctive to only kind of flower I knew in all my years as a herbalist. But there was also something peculiar within in. Like a smell within a smell. Another scent that was attempting to dominate the original smell.

"You smell it. What is it?"

"Spider lilies…but.."

"Take off the blind fold."

I hesitated. After seeing all the blood over the past week, I was reluctant to face the colour once more. Especially in such proportions considering the strength of the smell. But I took off the blindfold.

There was no red. Not a single speck of that ugly colour. Instead, I stood in the middle of a midnight sky coloured field.

"Blue. Blue Spider lilies." I couldn't believe my eyes.

"It's real."

"But how? Kibutsuji. He's looking for these. They shouldn't be real. They must be destroyed." But even as I said it, my mind warred with my mouth. No. This divine creation was meant to studied and employed.

"They must be protected. And they are. Only I and Oyakata-sama know of this. Knew. Now you do as well."

"Why, Muichirou-kun? Why show me?"

"Tamayo san is dead. You're the most talented herbalist in the community. And, I trust you." All this time, he'd been facing the flower field, eyes far away. But he turned to face me then.

"I trust you, Eva. More than most."

I knew the tears were showing in my eyes, but I willed myself to nod.

"Take a few with you. Keep them well hidden." He held out his satchel and I followed his introductions. Once I was done, I returned his satchel.

"Time to go." He looked at me pointedly.

But I wasn't ready. I had so much to say to him. To ask him. To simply exist by him. And these few minutes were all I got in so long.

I abruptly bowed, wanting to sound strong but not wanting to show him my tears.

"Muichirou-kun! Thankyou for surviving! And thankyou for coming back safely! I promise," my breath caught in a sob and I swallowed hard.

"I promise, to protect you as well as this secret. With my life." I straightened, willing the tears to stay put for a little while more.

He didn't speak a word. Simply staring, eyes roaming all over my face.

"Close your eyes, Eva." I did so immediately, thankful, for I couldn't stop the tears anymore. I held out a hand for his sleeve.

I was waiting for the comforting feel of the cotton, when I got embraced by it entirely. My breath came out in a whoosh as I got pressed against Muichirou-kun, his breath hot against the side of my neck.

"Mui.."

"Keep your eyes closed." I nodded and held him tighter.

I felt him pull away, but my hands were unwilling to unclench my grasp on him. He sighed and before I knew it, my lips were brushed ever so lightly by his own. The kiss was just like him. Hardly there, but leaving a lingering presence no matter how faint.

He gently moved away. I bit my lip, to keep in both a smile and a relieved sob, and held out my hand once again. And this time I was rewarded with the warm touch of his own hand instead of the yukata sleeve.

[passionandpurposeblog-blog]

Sexuality: No More to say and so over it

A few months after my long term girlfriend and I split up, I ended up in bed with Phillip, A nice guy that I’d known for some time. During the post-sex talk, he turns and asks “So does that mean you’re straight now?” 

“LMFAO” 

‘You’ve got a nice cock and I had a great orgasm, …..but you haven’t awoken anything in me that wasn’t already there. You cannot ‘make’ me straight and no one forced me to fuck you’ 

Infact, No one else would sexually awaken anything in me. Not the next guy after Phil, or the guy after that guy, or the girl after the guy after Phil. The list goes on and the list started waaaay back into my early teens. I've always been open, I was experimenting with drugs and people at a young age, I had a threesome with a guy and a girl when I was just 18. When I look back, I must admit that was very young for such an experience, but I just went with the flow. I don’t regret it, but I wish I had done it at a later age to really make the most of it and have the emotional maturity that you need to go with it. 

I’ve been listening to an interview with Kate Pierson (B52’s) and she has recently married her long term partner, a woman that she has dated for 15 years. She said that she had always dated men, and was even married before and that this lady came along and bang she was in love, just like that. Kate Pierson is now 71, So this is her 55-year-old self experiencing a major transition and shift in her life. Whilst trawling through the B52s back catalog online I read so many comments from random fans. ‘She's a lesbian’ ‘I never knew’ ‘But she was married to so and so’ and this is exactly the snooze fest that I am writing about today. Yawn...... If she spent 40 years with different men and now met a woman, perhaps shes just er just bisexual? And more importantly, shouldn’t we be interested in the music and her voice? As much as I love her, when all is said and done I don’t really want to think about the bedroom antics of a 71-year-old yknow.  

What is it with the labels?  

It’s like no one is comfortable until they know exactly which box you belong in, and if you stray from that box then their tiny minds scramble and system overload occurs. ‘ANNOUNCE YOURSELF AT ONCE’ ‘What are you?’ and ‘Don’t you dare have options or change, it doesn’t fit with the label I’ve prescribed you’.  

Before we label Kate a lesbian, how about we mention that she’s a brilliant talented vocalist with over 40 years in the band? Or is that how we are defining her now ‘The lesbian’?. *Insert laughing emoji here* 

“Bisexuals always get dumped on,” says Cynthia Nixon from Sex in the City...The Media has too labeled her a lesbian when much like Kate Pierson, she was in fact with men and entered into this new world later on in her life. It’s like now we must erase her whole previous life and deny that any man has ever come close to her! How dare she now turnaround and say she's’ attracted to men! How fucking dare she, she’s lesbian property now and she has no voice! She never said she was anything, You did!   

I thought, ‘I get it! I get You, I just get it’. She’s attracted to people, they may be male or they may be female yet shes being kettled to a place she never asked to be. It really is that simple. Should her current relationship end, nothing stops her going back to men, dating another woman or even staying single. Your past partners do not mean that your future self is set in stone. It’s not difficult to understand really is it?  

But! And there is a But!  

Say Cinthia and her gf/wife did break up and she dated a man. She won’t find it that easy, because of what I call, the whole ‘lesbian fragility’ - Gay women who pride themselves on being with women and only women and god fucking forbid should you show any interest in a guy. Well, You are now damaged goods my girl. A sell-out, banished!....exiled from the pride....like the Lioness in last weeks BBC Planet Earth. How can you and the gay community ever really watch the L Word again together or listen to Ani Difranco in the same way? ‘It’s just not the same’ they’ll whine.  

I’m being serious. There is a reverse discrimination within the gay community! I’ve seen it first hand. I’ve seen a few women in same sex relationships end, then go for a guy and their ‘friends’ no longer feel the same way about them, there’s no time to hang out anymore and she is “too busy with her straight friends”.  

Awwwww did someone emasculate you? 

I’ve never really enjoyed the company of gay women if I'm honest. I always found their friendships forged on sharing of sexual preference rather than common interest, views or hobbies. I usually think their haircuts are shit and they present me with this feeling where they are unsure if they want to fuck me or fight me. Very awkward, not to mention its a very childish and incestuous scene.  

I have seen this so many times with women, either in a same sex or opposite and then switch later on down the line which is what I mean about experience and just understanding those around you. I think a lot of women are on the bi spectrum. Not all, no, but a lot are, and sexuality is fluid.  About three months ago my cock hungry straight friend told me she’d met some woman online and is now having the best sex of her life! Great, wonderful, Whoppie.  So how do I label her? …....‘Err Mary’......... I label her Mary. I can’t really call her cock hungry right now, so I’ll just label her ‘Hungry Mary’. 

One of my oldest friends is gay – full blown lesbian, never been with a guy but totally cool with every bi girl that has. She and I sit on a different part of the spectrum, but she gets it and like myself she gives those around her that mutual respect and safe space to be who they are. If she turned around tomorrow and said she’s dating a guy, I wouldn’t be shocked, not because she has ever indicated that she likes guys, but simply because people change.  

I know three guys that have also experimented with other guys, would identify as straight and two of the three have long term girlfriends and kids. I just think at the time they took the ‘any holes a goal’ attitude and like my younger self, just went with the flow. 

As we age and grow the fuck up, this should be more accepted and we should just allow people to do who and what they want without the questions, especially the silly questions. It’s really mind numbingly boring, not to mention so nosey!? Jeez, get your own life in order. Despite my ramblings, I'm actually a pretty private person.  I just don’t discuss my private life or anyone I’m dating, I have so many transient non-committal interactions with people that I just don’t feel I need to. 

 I’ve been chatting to some people for ages, and I still wouldn’t discuss parts of my life with them. I keep my circle so small, and If we don’t click like that, we don’t click like that. It’s cool, because there is far more to me and far more to you than who we have in our beds right? I cant imagine meeting someone and asking them, “so what are ya?” CRINGE. I’d die. I’ve got some friends that I’ve spoken to for years, we’ve had really great conversations and it’s never occurred to me to stop and ask ‘do you have a partner? Are you gay?’  

The small circle of friends that I have know me, they get me and that’s my safe space.  

I do find some of the questions and statements really annoying, and if I’m honest just plain weird. I have an irritating male friend in that likes to continually remind me that I’m attracted to women, and of course, there is no way that I can be attracted to men, because I’m not attracted to him..... *eye roll* Dick! It’s like me saying to someone, ‘but you said you like mixed raced girls, so why don’t you like me’ it’s really really weird and it makes me feel uncomfortable. Its uncomfortable because he cannot address or acknowledge his own fascination with bisexuality and cannot stop mentioning it every time he sees me? He makes out he is cool and open-minded, yet I seem to be the topic of convo or butt of his jokes. Address your homophobia or your weird unrequited sexualisation of me whatever the issue is. Seek help mate, Your issue not mine. 

I cannot recall being asked what two women do in bed, but I have heard of it being asked to other people. It’s hilarious. I honestly believe that if you are over 25 and cannot work that out then you have a really dull imagination and I’d bet you are not very experienced. Not necessarily in bedding two women at once, but just in experiencing people; hearing their stories, watching porn, understanding their anatomy and physiology. OR You are being a menace and condescending..... I’ve never seen two men at it live, but I’m pretty sure I know how it goes down ;-)  

Sometime ago I spent a fair amount of time at a bdsm sex dungeon helping out an old friend. Id mostly film her sessions, and now and then Id help out by giving some guys the odd little kick in the nuts etc. Boy, I could write a whole new blog on that experience LOL! I saw some things!  

Meeting all the different types of people that came in the dungeon really opened my eyes to the world of sex and sexuality and just what turns people on. You really cannot judge what people are into, and you’d never know. It’s funny, the ‘geezers’ that make the gay jokes about bumming are often the same ones that ask the women to wear strap ons ;-). People have their quirks and their kinks, they just hide it well BELIEVE me. 

I’ve seen a lot and I’m very open and not much phases me, but because I’m not phased, or excited by the gossip or the fascination of it all I'm over it. …....over the labels, the questions, the presumptions, opinions and the basic inability to let people do what they want in peace. So because of this I decided a long time ago that I’m actually over my sexuality and stopped speaking about it  back in my twenties. 

Yawn.  

No one owns me and no one dictates.

I’m not anything, I’m just me in that particular point of time. No path is set and I answer to no one except who’s in my bed. 

Keep your own truth

[raptorginger]

Chemistry & Conservation: Chapter 8 - Forgeries, or Our Lies Become the Stories We Tell

Rey avoided the Chemistry Office for the next few weeks.  Although she told herself she wasn’t avoiding it.  After all, she had a lot of work to do on the collection donated by Magister Hugo Snoke, one of the few remaining members of the ancient noble House of Plagueis.  Although nobility didn’t matter so much these days, Magister Snoke was a major donor to the University.  Rey didn’t care too much for Snoke’s politics and meddling in the University affairs, but the Special Collections department wanted to put on a exhibit about the history of House Plagueis using the materials and much of it needed cleaning and stabilization before that could happen.  Despite her personal misgivings- Snoke’s interfering didn’t affect her too much after all- Rey threw herself into the job, working long hours and worrying her friends and Mrs. Lao.  

Finn and Poe had come over to her brownstone one weekend bearing blueberry muffins and the artisanal coffee Rey loved from Intelligentsia, trying to coax her into talking about what was wrong, but Rey refused to talk about anything other than work.  They both had left in exasperation, grumbling on the way out.  Rose sent her numerous texts, trying to pry information out of her, but Rey only offered non-committal and evasive answers.  Mrs. Lao simply tutted and tisked and tried to make sure Rey ate and slept enough.

The week before the semester was to begin, Rey was hunched over her desk in the Lab, examining what was probably one of the most important items in the collection.  It was the charter granting the House of Plagueis the rights of a noble house, dated 984.  Many such noble houses had these charters, issued by old kings before The Fall of 1189.  Several were fakes, actually forged centuries after The Fall in the eighteenth century by enterprising merchant families with new money wanting to claim a connection to ancient bloodlines.  Many documents had been destroyed during the violent event, and the legitimacy of such charters was hard to prove outside careful examination by scholars and carbon dating.  Several so called noble families had suffered mild social embarrassment when it came out that they were not in fact descended from an ancient bloodline predating The Fall, but rather from a merchant family.  Centuries had passed since then, so no one took it very seriously, but it was often a source for gentle teasing amongst the upper classes nowadays.

No one doubted the legitimacy of House Plagueis.  Controversial and feared in the past, the House nevertheless commanded respect and admiration from society’s upper crust.  Their numbers had dwindled to only a few remaining descendents, Magister Hugo Snoke among them.  

Rey was wondering where to start with the charter when she heard the intern, Kayleah Connix talking to someone.  Rey paid it no mind and grabbed some vinyl eraser shavings to start cleaning a corner of the vellum document when she saw Kayleah come up beside her.

“What is it, Connix?” Rey asked distracted.  She was usually friendly with Connix, but she really didn’t want to be bothered right now.

“Umm, there’s someone to see you,” Kayleah replied quietly.

Rey looked up.  “Why are you whispering?” she asked jokingly, voice matching Kayleah’s whisper.

“I don’t know.  The guy makes me nervous,” Kayleah replied, still whispering.

Rey raised an eyebrow.  “Why did you let some creep in the lab?”

Kayleah’s eyes widened.  “Oh he’s not a creep! He’s just really tall.  And...intense.”

Rey’s stomach could have auditioned for Cirque du Soleil at Kayleah’s comment.  

“Will you talk to him?” Kayleah asked, her head tilted.  Rey’s face must have gone pale.

Rey could only manage a nod.  Kayleah turned and called the visitor over, then left for her desk.  Part of Rey really wished Connix had stayed.  She did not want to see him.  She couldn’t lie to herself annymore; she’d been avoiding him, not that she’d tell him that.  She turned her attention to the document in front of her, hands in her lap.  She focused on differentiating the letters in front her.  Dum in dei nomine…

“Rey.”       

She closed her eyes.  His voice shot straight through her, down to her core.  She took a deep breath.

“Ren, I don’t want to talk about this,” she said angrily, finally looking at him.  Big mistake.  His eyes were filled with a gentle warmth that made her insides feel all twisty.  “Plus, I’m busy.”

Ren didn’t look upset, rather he looked mildly concerned.  Gently, he said, “I know.  I came to apologize.  I wanted to earlier, but you haven’t been around the office for awhile.”  He gave a one shouldered shrug, “I figured I’d try you here.”

Rey leaned back, crossing her arms protectively in front of her, looking at him, waiting for him to speak his peace.

Ren sighed, “You made it clear what you wanted, and I should have respected that.  I’m hoping we can be friends, or at least people that speak to each other once and awhile.  I don’t want to lose you, Rey.  I’m sorry.”

Rey uncrossed her arms, hands returning to rest in her lap.  “Thank you,” she said softly. Her gaze dropping.  “I’d like to be friends too.”

“Does that mean you’ll stop avoiding me then?” Ren asked teasingly.

Her eyes shot back up to him.  “I wasn’t avoiding you.  I’ve been busy here,” she replied defensively.

“Doing what?” Ren asked, playing along, looking interestedly at the document in front of her.

“Working on the collection Magister Snoke donated.  Spec wants to exhibit it, and it needs work.”

“What is this?” Ren pointed to the charter on her desk.

“That is the original charter granting House Plagueis the rights of a noble house in 984,” she replied, somewhat proudly.

“Seriously?!”

“Yup.  I’m surface cleaning a couple spots, then I’ll work on stabilizing the seal.”  A large red wax seal hung from the end of the document.  The ribbon attaching it was in rough shape.

“Can I watch?”

“If you stay out of my way and keep quiet.”

Ren crossed his heart.  “I swear.”

“Fine, you can stay.”  Rey turned back to the document, gently rubbing the eraser shavings over a spot of dirt in the corner.

Ren pulled up an empty chair, folding his large form into it, leaning forward to get a better look.  “What are you doing right now?” he asked quietly.

“Doing a minor surface cleaning using vinyl eraser shavings,” Rey replied, brushing away the soiled shavings with a soft brush.

“What’s that?” Ren asked, pointing.

“What’s what?” Rey replied, looking at him quizzically.

“That.  By the third line.  It looks like scratches.”

Rey looked closely, bringing her overhead light closer and angling it.  There were indeed a few faint scratches by the third line.

“Hmm.  Probably from when whoever scribed this cleaned the vellum.  Vellum was pricey, and oftentimes scribes would use a piece that already had writing on it that wasn’t considered important or worth keeping.  They’d wash the writing off, then scrape it clean.”

“Really?  Is there anyway to know what was there before?”

“Probably not in this case.  Sometimes UV light or other special lighting can be used, but this looks like a pretty thorough job.”

Rey stopped suddenly.  Something in the third line was bothering her.  Early Medieval script was difficult to read.  Punctuation and spacing didn’t exist, and that leant itself to some fairly consistent lettering.  There was a flaw in the middle on the line of text.  An extra line beside a letter that didn’t belong there.  She grabbed her magnifying glass and looked closely at the spot.  She was right, a mistake had been made.  That wasn’t uncommon, but this particular mistake changed the meaning of the word.  She frowned.

“What is it,” Ren asked.

“I’m not sure.  There’s a mistake in the third line.  Like the scribe wrote the wrong letter, tried to fix it, then wrote over it.  I see that a lot, but this letter changes the meaning of the word.  That’s not something you see often.”

“What’s the word mean?”

“One way means ‘Grant.’ The other means ‘Rescind.’”

“How can you even tell what it’s supposed to be?  Everything’s squished together.”

Rey laughed, looking over at him.  “I studied Paleography and Codicology as part of my Medieval Studies master’s program.  You get used to it.”

“Let me get this straight, you have a doctorate and a master’s?  How old are you?”

Rey laughed again.  “Twenty-six.  And I have two master’s”

At Ren’s expression, Rey held up a hand.  “Long story.  Short version, I tested out, got to start college early under a special program.”

Rey sat back, studying the document again.  This was by no means her area of expertise, but the letter change made her uneasy.  The rest of the document looked normal for what it was.  Rey looked closely at the seal.  It wasn’t in the best shape, but she’d seen worse.  It was the royal seal of King Raholf, a relatively well known king who had been killed by a small group of his nobles.  They had destroyed a great deal of material related to him, seals, cartularies, artifacts, trying to erase him, but it hadn’t worked.  The people had loved King Raholf and took revenge on the nobles.  They had tried to claim they were acting under orders, but the people wouldn’t have it.

Something wasn’t right.  She grabbed her magnifying glass again.  King Raholf’s seal always portrayed the king seated on a throne, scepter in one hand, orb in the other, with a canine rampant beside him.  Many scholars considered the canine an odd choice, but Rey always found it charming.  Other kings always had a boar or a stag or some other fearsome impressive creature, but Raholf had chosen a dog.  There was a canine, but it didn’t look right to Rey.  It was too big and the face was deformed.  Originally she had attributed it to age and wear, but under the magnifying glass, she saw something that made her doubt.  She gasped.

“What is it now?” Ren asked, pressing forward.

Rey sat back, stunned.  “Ren, I...I think this seal has been tampered with.  There’s evidence of tool marks.  Like someone melted the wax and reshaped it to look like the canine rampant on King Raholf’s seal.”

Rey looked at Ren, her eyes wide.  “Ren, I think this is a forgery.”

Ren whistled low.  He was no history scholar, but he knew the reputation of House Plagueis.  “Rey, do you know what you’re saying?”

Rey looked dumbstruck.  “Connix!” she called.

Kayleah came over, looking curiously at Ren, wondering why he was still there.  “Yeah?”

“Get Doctor Skywalker on the phone,” Rey said urgently.  “He needs to see this.”

Kayleah’s eyes widened.  She knew Doctor Luke Skywalker’s specialty was medieval forgeries.  “Seriously?”

“Way seriously,” Rey replied.

Kayleah ran to their boss’ office.

Rey looked to Ren.  He had an odd look on his face, like he’d eaten something sour.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, confused.

“You wouldn’t be referring to Luke Skywalker, would you?”  he asked, his voice dangerously low.

“Yeah, he knows more about forgeries than anyone else on campus.  I can’t take samples of the vellum, ink, and wax for chemical dating until my boss gets back from vacation and gives me permission.  Besides, he can tell me if I’m wasting my time or not,” Rey replied.  “What’s it to you?”

“He’s my uncle.  We umm...haven’t seen each other in awhile.”

Rey reacted with surprise.  Luke was a gruff elderly professor, but he had always treated her with respect. She imagined having him as an uncle probably wasn’t easy though.

“Long story,” Ren said, using her line from earlier to avoid a deeper explanation.

Rey frowned, but let it pass.  Kayleah poked her head out of the office, saying “Doctor Skywalker said he’d be down tomorrow.  He’s on the Council today.”

Rey sighed but nodded.  “Okay.”

“Hey, you should go eat something.  It’s past lunchtime and all you’ve had today was coffee,” Kayleah admonished.

“What are you, my landlady?” Rey asked grouchily.

“No, but she did text me to remind you to eat.”  

Rey grumbled and groused as she got up.  She regretted giving Mrs. Lao Connix’s number.  It was supposed to be for emergencies only.  Her back was stiff, and she rubbed it, trying to ease her tense muscles.  

“You need your back cracked?” Ren asked.

Rey turned and found him standing behind her.  “Umm…” was all she could get out.

“Here.  Stand still and cross your arms over your chest.”

Rey blushed but did as he said.  He came up fully behind her, placing one foot beside each of hers.  Bending to get his arms across her, he grabbed her elbows and lifted her up off the floor, holding her to him as he straightened to his full height.  As he raised her, Rey felt what she was pretty sure every single one of her vertebrae crack back into place.  A hiss escaped from between her teeth as he set her down.

“Better?”  Ren asked, smiling.  

“Actually, yeah,” Rey said surprised.  “Thanks.”

“Well, I better go.  You need to eat,” Ren said, shuffling his feet.  

“Yeah,” Rey said awkwardly.  Her mind went blank.  Did friends get lunch together?  She was fairly certain they did.

Kayleah called out, “Rey you didn’t bring lunch today!  You’ll have to go grab something!  Hey, Stranger, make sure Rey gets something to eat or her landlady will kill me.”

Ren coughed into his hand, stifling a laugh as Rey turned and glared at Kayleah.  Kayleah returned her glare with a sweet smile and a wink.

“Come on,” Ren said, laughing, reaching for Rey’s elbow.  “We better feed you so Miss Connix doesn’t end up dead.”

Rey looked over her shoulder at Kayleah, mouthing the words I am going to kill you.

Kayleah smirked and mouthed back What?  He digs you.  You’re welcome.

Rey rolled her eyes and walked out with Ren into the bright sunshine.

[divinationcentral]

Love Reading.

This one is for my single-pringles out there. :) Nothing wrong with looking forward to a connection~ Here’s some advice for it anyway.

Three of Pentacles - warmth. in order to become meaningful, a relationship must be able to offer warmth and protection. You must give in order to be able to receive. 

The Four of Swords - masturbating. Excitement allows you to overcome a lack of affection. However, if this should continue, you will have to seek forgiveness and not punish yourself excessively for your errors. 

The Page of Pentacles - Arousal. Transgression leads to excitement, but neither one nor the other can last without some moderation. 

HM. So...I think it’s very obvious in this reading that it’s regarding a physical or sexual relationship you may have with someone. While sex fulfills a desire we have within ourselves, probably to be physically intimate with someone (but also for the pleasure of itself alone) -and trust me, I’m sure this topic is uncomfortable to someone who isn’t all that mature, like, sex is part of life unless you’re asexual in which case you don’t view it the way everyone else does, still I doubt it would be all that repulsive to you because it’s just a truth, unless someone personally crosses YOUR boundaries- 

we have to understand that if we are looking for pleasure, there are many ways to obtain this sort of thing in life. 

Good dessert. Doing activities that stimulate pleasure, like going hiking and connecting with nature physically. Going to the beach, feeling the sand and the sun and it’s warmth. Remember that life is right there in front of you to live...it just boosts your confidence. 

You will be approached by many to either continue to have sexual relations with them (as we call it: hookups), or just a casual fling on a night out. Or something non-committal like this...This kind of stuff, I can’t judge it. Mostly because I’ve been a part of this lifestyle, too. But coming from me: 

If you are okay with these kinds of things, I recommend that you view them specifically for the pleasure of the thing. 

It’s not my advice to say: hey, go have fun, it’ll be fun. It’s all fun - if this is not something you want. 

Take a good hard look at yourself and your life. 

What do you want in a committed partnership? Does it look anything like that night out I just described? (I’m sure many would have the very picturesque idea of what I’m talking about). 

You can distract yourself with many pleasures in life, but today’s advice is reminding you that it’s important not to ignore your inner most needs and desires. The things that are real. The things that you deserve to achieve. 

I’m not talking anything that’s not consensual, because if it is against your will in any way - please do not put yourself in the presence of someone who will abuse you. People like this do not respect boundaries, they do not care to be considerate, and they never will - hence why they CONTINUE to break down your boundaries and cross them. 

Absolutely borders on illegal for some situations. 

If someone comes towards you again to start a relationship, please make sure it’s for all the right reasons. Does their vision match yours? What do they want out of life? With you? 

Relationships are tricky. A lot of us who have emotional issues or have experienced very traumatic upbringings won’t always understand when someone isn’t respecting you. 

Respect yourself. How do you feel when someone talks to you? Where can you challenge yourself to be more open with others? Not just partners, but with friends, and even neighbors or coworkers. 

The better you understand yourself and your worth as a person, you will attract to you the person who wants to build a future with you. 

It’s not tradition - I’m not saying it has to be (you don’t have to get married, you don’t have to have children, you don’t have to be a man & a woman) - what is perfect to you? What is a good, stable commitment? 

That’s what you should want for you. That’s who should be coming towards you at present. 

Additional: 

Don’t drown yourself in the fantasy of what could have been or how it should be/should have been. 

You are here and now, in this present moment, and there is a lot to gain. 

Don’t get trapped by an illusion you created to continue catering to wishes that aren’t even yours. Both in love and in romance. 

People do lie, and they can manipulate you. 

Find yourself. Who you are and what you wanted - and find it elsewhere. What could have been has been and gone, and it did not deliver, did it? 

Go somewhere else. Agape love is more than enough, it will fill you with gratitude, awareness and happiness. Joy that is unrivaled by your many experiences with or without a desired connection. 

You will find your match. 

Rest assured. 

It may not be today. 

It may not be tomorrow. 

But it starts now, with you, ahead of the game. 

A person you admire will take the time to get to know you. Have faith, have desire. You are allowed to feel for another individual. 

Build something together, let this person cherish you. Let this person teach you that you are an absolute splendor. 

By letting them take their time in getting to know you, you learn how to cope with distance, fear, and any challenges that may present themselves to you. 

But this person - they are tasked with the ability to make you feel safe. When you feel secure in a connection, you simply will feel love and joy. 

Your best qualities come out into the open to greet you - to greet the world...

You will feel it. You will not be afraid of what’s going to happen next, because you will know. 

That. is a stable commitment. That is a stable relationship with someone you say you love.