#i think technically it’s like first cousins a hundred times removed or something

[blanketcat31]

i feel like (in my interpretation) aragorn and arwen aren’t really siblings by adoption, considering that he was more like elrond’s ward. this isn’t uncommon in old european traditions, and I think there’s a distinction between a parent-child relationship and just being in someone’s charge, as in this example.

what is FOR SURE weird is that Aragorn and Arwen are cousins. :D

shoutout to my boy elros, brother of elrond and founder of numenor

aragorn needs to be 10x weirder in all tolkien content. he’s too manly for elves. he’s too elvish for men. he roleplayed his crush’s grandpa, and then married her even though they were kinda siblings by adoption. he deals with his feelings by singing. he’s a horse girl. he was raised by elrond peredhel. he had the weight of the world placed on his shoulders when he was still an emo teen. everywhere he goes people think he’s lowkey a freak. let him own it.

[toaskello]

There's something inherently funny about the broader definition of the word "cousin" to me. Just that a cousin is someone in your family who isn't your parent, sibling, parent's sibling, child, nephew, or any "great" or "grand" you affix to any of those.

From Wikipedia:

More generally, in the kinship system used in the English-speaking world, a cousin is a type of relationship in which relatives are two or more generations away from their most recent common ancestor. For this definition degrees and removals are used to further specify the relationship.

Degree measures how distant the relationship is from the most recent common ancestor(s). If the cousins do not come from the same generation, removal is specified, as removal measures the difference in generations between the two cousins. When the removal is not specified, no removal is assumed

This can be carried to absurd extremes. For instance, you, dear reader, and I are cousins (barring of course that we're more closely related). We may not be first cousins, we may be hundreds, thousands of degrees apart, dozens of times removed. We likely can't trace our lineages back to a common ancestor.

But science can.

Introducing Mitochondrial Eve, the individual whose cells contained the mitochondria that is the common ancestor of all mitochondria currently in living humans. Mitochondrial DNA only passes matrilineally, so it doesn't recombine with the DNA of the other parent and as such is easier to trace back to a single ancestor using standard rates of mutation. There's a similar concept with Y-Chromosomal Adam (who was not partnered with Mitochondrial Eve, nor were they likely to have been alive at the same time or in the same place).

It's worth mentioning that neither of these individuals are necessarily the most recent common ancestor of all of humanity, but it's easier to see how we can determine their existence. At the very least, we know that you and I share these ancestors, and almost certainly have a closer one. So we're technically cousins.

Now I'd like to propose a question. Could a chimpanzee be considered our cousin?

Well, we can trace common ancestry. Chimpanzees are certainly more than one degree separated from us. If those are the only criteria, then they have to be, right? I don't think I've ever seen a definition of cousin that mentioned species...

So let's go a bit further. Your pet dog or cat is your cousin, as you're all descended from primitive boroeutherians. That bird outside is one of your cousins too, a fellow descendant of early amniotes. The fly that's buzzing around you, and the spider that's going to catch it. The plant that grew the vegetables you had for dinner last night. the bacteria in your gut. All life on earth shares ancestry. We're all one big family tree, with a lot of cousins.

[randomleafoflove]

Wuxian’s first lesson with Lan Qiren. They do not get along.

-

Wen Wuxian wondered which idiot got them the collective punishment of having to listen to Lan-xiansheng reading out the Lan sect’s three thousand rules to “make sure everyone knows if they are breaking rules.” To break the rules on the first day and to be caught! At least he couldn’t be blamed for this, he’d spent a very educational evening alone in his dorm.

The Lans didn’t think ignorance as sufficient enough reason for breaking their rules apparently. Shijie had given him a century old copy of the Lan rules found in the Wen library. At the time of scribing, the Lan sect had some 2100 rules which matched perfectly up to what Lan-xiansheng was still reading.

Wuxian started doodling on the paper he’s meant to be taking notes on. He drew quick caricatures of his classmates. He spied the boy in Nie colors hide a bird in his sleeve and try to share the secret with the huffy boy in Jiang purples. The Jin heir, whom Wuxian had had the dubious honor of meeting before (because he was shijie’s maternal cousin), was staring ahead with the glazed eyes of someone escaping reality. The only one paying attention was the beautiful Lan. He’d eavesdropped earlier on the Nie contingent and found out the boy was Lan Wangji, Lan-er-gongzi, and head of discipline.

Honestly, if xiansheng really wanted them to learn the rules, he wouldn’t be the one reading them aloud. If Wuxian was the one teaching, he’d have the students read one rule each in their turn, and then repeat the process, but in a different order so that the students would have to pay attention in case they were to read next. He’d also space it throughout the first tendays or so, because now none of the other sect disciples was going to remember a thing other than how bored they’d been.

Suddenly, xiansheng slammed a hand loudly on his desk, making several of Wuxian’s classmates jump. Wuxian himself was far too used to sudden noises to jump, but he deigned to give xiansheng his full attention now that he was demanding it.

“I see none of you feels the need to pay attention,” xiansheng complained. “Very well, let’s move onto something different. Wen Wuxian!”

How bold, Wuxian thought as he jumped up. “Here!” Is it because I’m the only Wen here, or because everyone else is gentry by birth?

“Let me ask you, are yao, demons, ghosts and monsters the same thing?”

“Not at all, xiansheng. Demons come from living humans, ghosts from dead humans, yao from living non-human beings and monsters from dead non-human beings,” Wuxian answered with a bright smile. And, because shijie had taught him to anticipate and answer the next question as well, he decided to add to his answer. “For example, if one were to torment a human long enough in a place filled with resentful energy, that human would eventually turn into a demon, but if the human, while still human, was removed from the vicinity of the resentful energy and then died of their torment, they’d very likely become a ghost. Or if you denied someone angry their burial rites. You’d get yao, if a living non-human being, like that tree in the courtyard over there, cultivated a consciousness. But if I took an axe and felled the tree, and the furniture carved from the tree trunk cultivated a consciousness, then that’d be a monster. Also, technically, advanced spirit animals are yao, but because they have cultivated in places with clean spiritual energy and have not internalized any resentful energy, they are benign rather than bloodthirsty, and even in death, rarely if ever become monsters.”

Xiansheng grit his teeth but took a deep breath and relaxed. "Let me ask you again," he started. "There is an executioner with parents, a wife, and children, but before he died, he executed more than one hundred people. He suddenly died in public and, to punish him for his deeds, he was left on the streets for seven days. With the repressed energy of resentment, he started to haunt and kill. What should be done?"

Wuxian grinned. The question was full of holes. He’d have fun filling them. “Well, first of all, the local sect should have provided him with identity concealing talismans for his government sanctioned job as an executioner. Secondly, he shouldn’t have been punished for doing his job, because if it wasn’t him, it would have been someone else. But, since the local sect has already failed in their job once and the public has once again created their own problem, they should try to liberate the poor sot by attempting to grant his last wish. If the wish is unobtainable or immoral, they should see if the spirit could be safely redirected to spend up his resentment and be liberated this way. If this is not possible, they should attempt suppression. If they can’t suppress the spirit, and only if that isn’t possible, should the spirit be exterminated, removing the possibility of reincarnation.”

Lan Qiren had been turning steadily redder as Wuxian spoke. “And where, exactly, would you redirect the spirit’s anger to make sure it didn’t hurt anyone in the process?” he asked through gritted teeth.

“I’ve found chopping wood to be very anger draining,” Wuxian quipped with a charming smile. “Get that aggression out with every swing.”

Not that Wuxian himself was prone to anger, but he’d seen Wen Ning go at it when Wen Chao’s comments got too far under his skin. After a good quarter shichen his gentle friend was back in control, and ready to prank the pants off Wen Chao.

[ladyartemesia]

The Challenge

◐ PART II of The Alpha ◐

◐ PART I ◐ SERIES MASTERLIST ◐

Pairing: Alpha Jimin x Omega Reader

Rating: (for this chapter) Mature (rating will go up)

Warnings: mentions of ritual combat, sexually suggestive language, ABO sexual dynamics, discussion of marking, mating, and claiming

Word Count: 1100

You fell to your knees, uttering the one word that would complete the ritual and seal both your fates.

“Alpha.”

Then all hell broke loose. Noise and movement erupted on every side.

“Oh my goddess, Yoonji is gonna be so pissed she missed this!” Min Yoongi whooped loudly from across the circle.

Your forehead furrowed in confusion as chaos escalated around you. The blindfold was still in place as you were technically not permitted to remove it till the ceremony was officially dismissed.

What is happening? What’s wrong?

Suddenly the chief elder charged into the fray, waving his hands wildly like a spastic pixie.

“My brothers and sisters we must - er - strive to consider this unexpected turn of events as-“

“What have you done?!”

You recognized that voice - your mother - hissing frantically in your ear. She must have breached the circle to get to you.

A hand (probably your mother again) wrapped around your elbow, yanking you roughly to your feet and you yelped in pain-

“STOP!”

The person manhandling you froze immediately. Silence crashed down like a hammer.

“...Take your hands off my mate.”

The words were spoken softly this time, but there was no mistaking the weight of an alpha command. The grip on your arm fell away without hesitation.

Unease began to churn heavily in the pit of your stomach.

You didn’t recognize his voice.

You had no idea who your mate was.

Jimin could feel his heart pounding violently in his chest.

The first moments after your scent invaded his senses had been euphoric... but reality pierced his lust-addled haze when your mother began dragging you away from him. And when you cried out-

He reacted on instinct alone.

Jimin could count on one hand the number of times he used an alpha command, but seeing you in distress had pulled it from him effortlessly.

The weight of several hundred stares poured over him in the oppressive soundlessness that followed his outburst.

Then-

“Luna rex provocatione.”

The words cut confidently through the air - each syllable dripping with strength and authority - much like the man who spoke them.

Kim Namjoon had issued a formal challenge.

“Well... That was a flaming disaster.”

Jimin rolled his eyes.

“Thank you, Taehyung. Your grasp of the obvious remains unparalleled.”

The chief elder hauled Jimin and his family into the council chamber immediately after Namjoon’s challenge. Taehyung had simply followed along because he was nosy.

“So what happens now?” His hand ran absently through his hair as he addressed the pack’s interim leader. “What does the challenge mean?”

“You’d know if you hadn’t skipped Alpha Camp every year,” Taehyung interjected.

Jimin just barely resisted the urge to strangle him.

Alpha Camp was an annual training session that involved all the alphas holing up in a cave at the top of the mountain to have profound discussions about “the great burden of leadership” in between fighting each other for fun and eating poorly cooked meats.

Jimin shivered. He attended one time and immediately decided that he’d rather be tossed naked into a hornets nest than endure another second of Alpha Camp.

“Yes. Well. Tragically my grandmother in Seoul took ill-”

“Every year?”

“She’s quite fragile.”

“If that is all-” the chief elder interrupted with a pointed look at both of them, “the situation we find ourselves in is rare, but not unheard of. Still... it’s been nearly two hundred years...”

His eyes rested on Jimin with something that looked suspiciously like sympathy before continuing.

“Luna rex provocatione is quite specific. Namjoon intends to fight you for the right to mate our Luna.”

Jimin’s wolf snarled viciously.

“Over my dead body.”

“I think that’s the idea.”

Taehyung again - but this time Jimin was too alarmed to be irritated.

“It-It’s a fight to the death? I have to kill him?”

The chief elder looked incredibly uncomfortable.

“Technically... no. You do not have to kill him. You simply have to force a surrender. However...”

Everyone in the room leaned forward unconsciously.

“However?”

“In order for the Luna to accept a new mate, her old mate must die. You do not need to kill him ...but he does need to kill you.”

“Will someone please tell me what happened back there?”

“I was about to ask you the same question!”

The veins in your mother’s forehead were throbbing so fiercely they could be seen from space.

You sighed and aggressively massaged your temple in an effort to build patience. The seething matriarch of your family had never been a particularly bad mother - but she hadn’t been a particularly good one either.

Still...

She was your mother.

“Aunt Isa,” cousin Seokjin soothed diplomatically from the corner, “perhaps we should all just take a deep breath and consider the situation.” His gaze met yours supportively. “After all... our Luna completed the ritual correctly. She followed the scent of her mate and acknowledged him-“

“Who?” you cut in impatiently, “Who did I acknowledge?”

The corner of Seokjin’s lips twitched a bit in the ghost of a smile.

“Park Jimin.”

Your jaw literally dropped.

No wonder everyone had lost their collective minds.

“But... but Park Jimin hates me. He never speaks to me! He won’t even look at me.” You paled. “What if he rejects me-”

Jin snorted.

“Oh I wouldn’t worry too much about that. No one who saw the two of you today-” he cleared his throat significantly, “I mean he seemed pretty into it.”

Bile and doubt burned bitterly at the back of your throat.

“... That could just be pheromones. I’m telling you Jin, he’s never bothered with me like the others. I barely know what he looks like.”

That wasn’t true.

Park Jimin was a living, breathing work of art with plump pink lips and a backside most women would commit murder for.

You knew exactly what he looked like... what he smelled like...

Heat twisted deliciously in your gut.

And he’s mine.

“It doesn’t matter anyways,” your mother’s voice interrupted unpleasantly, “because Namjoon is going to kill him.”

“How are you going to force a surrender?” Taehyung asked quietly. “Have you ever tried to compel another alpha?”

Jimin shook his head. It was common for alphas to unleash alpha commands on one another to sort out which of the two was more dominant, but he had never cared one way or the other.

“Has anyone ever successfully compelled Namjoon?”

He already knew the answer, yet he found himself asking anyway.

Taehyung gulped.

“Never.”

If you are already in the taglist, then I will automatically tag you for the next part! If you would like to be added to the taglist, please let me know.

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[idiopath-fic-smile]

hey hi I've been trying to write something, anything, and what came out is like 3k of an extremely stupid supervillain/superhero story that I’d been kicking around in some form like over ten years ago. it doesn’t map onto any kind of an AU so I guess it’s original fiction? enjoy?

Cityton Chronicles, part 1

The problem with carrying out an evil scheme, thought Edmund, was the scheme part.

Anyone could nurse a sinister thought or two; it wasn't that hard to shake one's fist at the sky and murmur, “You'll pay for this. With God as my witness, oh, you will pay” and then maybe cackle a little. That much was child's play. (Literal child's play; he had witnessed more than a few dire pronouncements from his classmates at Hawthorne Grimmsbury's Academy for Ominous Boys, especially when recess was threatened.)

Actually going through with a plan was a whole different story. There were logistics to manage. There were people to manipulate, details to babysit, hypotheticals to anticipate. The nitty-gritty, as it were.

Edmund was not destined for the nitty-gritty.

Although, wasn't that what useless people always said? “I'm more of a big-picture person.” Maybe he was useless. Maybe that was the issue. Maybe Edmund Malarkey, heir to Malarkey Industries, was simply not cut out for masterminding.

Case in point, he had a terrible feeling he was about to make a complete hash of the Ritual.

The parameters were clear enough: full moon—check. Chalk for pentagrams—check. One hundred lit candles—check. (Some were scented; the store hadn't had enough plain tapers in stock, but the text of the Ritual had been written well before the notion of pumpkin spice was a cozy twinkle in some godless marketer's eye, and so Edmund figured this would probably not disqualify him.) Thirteen hooded figures, all in black...

This was where things got dicey.

The first sign of the trouble to come was when Carl showed up in navy fucking blue.

Edmund pinched at the bridge of his nose and sighed loudly, breath crystalline in the late November air. The invitations had been so specific.

“It looked pretty dark online,” Carl offered as the wind whipped at them atop the roof of the Cityton Natural History Museum.

“Pretty dark? Pretty dark? Did it look like the blackest black?” said Edmund. “Did it look like Anish Kapur's most haunting nightmare? Did it look like a raven's wing in shadow at the stroke of midnight, Carl?” Carl stuck out his chin. “It's almost black.”

“Yes, and bananas and humans share about sixty percent of their DNA, we're almost cousins,” Edmund told him, dangerously quiet, “but fortunately for you, I'm not going to peel you and eat you in a fruit salad, you buffoonish optimist.”

Edmund should never have relied upon his father's former henchpeople. They were loyal to his father; they looked upon him with bemused tolerance. He should've just gone ahead and recruited all of the necessary twelve people from Craigslist. He'd held off due to a suspicion that anyone he found on the internet would assume the Ritual was fundamentally a weird sex thing, but at least a bunch of kinksters would have probably taken the rules seriously.

He sighed. “Carl, there's a bodega down on the corner. Go buy two black trash bags and make yourself a garbage-robe.” Carl frowned. “Is there time?”

Edmund checked his phone. Eleven fifty-three. “Hurry. And save the receipt.”

Another gust of wind kicked up. Edmund shivered. He'd been smart enough to request a fabric swatch ahead of time from the Etsy store where he'd custom-ordered his own set of hooded black robes. He hadn't stopped to consider how warm—or not—a single layer of said fabric would feel well into autumn, completely unshielded by the elements. Theoretically, he could've crammed a coat under the robes, like a child wearing a Halloween costume in an unseasonably cold October, but no, he hadn't wanted to look bulky.

He checked the candles again, for want of anything better to do.

“Boss,” said a hesitant voice behind him.

“What is it, Stephanie,” said Edmund.

Stephanie had clearly repurposed her teenager's old Hermione costume as her robes, but she had bothered to remove the Hogwarts branding, which was something, at least. Beyond the fact that Edmund didn't feel like giving a repellent transphobe any extra attention, there might have been copyright issues.

“Is that thing about bananas really true?”

“Yeah,” said Edmund. He had read it many years ago, in a book titled 2002 MORE WACKY FACTS TO BLOW YOUR MIND AND AMAZE YOUR FRIENDS, which didn't seem especially pertinent. He did a quick headcount. Even without Carl, they only numbered eleven. “Where's Donna?”

“You should call her,” said Stephanie. “Donna never answers her texts.”

Edmund had been halfway through tapping out a text. Ugh, Boomers. Calling was for emergencies only; everyone knew that. Unfortunately, this qualified. He gritted his teeth and dialed.

Donna answered on the fourth ring. “What?” She sounded groggy.

“Did you,” said Edmund, still through gritted teeth, “forget what night the Ritual was?”

“Oh shit,” mumbled Donna. “Are you sure? I thought it was at noon tomorrow. Carl told me twelve o'clock.”

“At night,” said Edmund. “Twelve o'clock at night, this is a dark incantation to a primordial god, it does not overlap with daytime television.”

Just then, Edmund's phone beeped with another call. “Can you hold, Donna,” he hissed.

“Hey boss,” said Carl, “the bodega only has white or green trash bags, what's my next step?”

“HOLD,” Edmund shouted, switching calls again. “Donna, can you grab an extremely dark-colored robe and be here immediately?”

“Like a bathrobe?” said Donna, sounding lost.

Of course Carl had not bothered to relay the dress code. Of course he hadn't even managed to hand her the painstakingly crafted invitation. Edmund had used the nicest card stock available to him, not that it mattered.

“Uh, boss?” Leroy called over the roar of the wind. Edmund flexed his stiffening fingers.

“One second, Donna,” said Edmund.

“How much longer is this gonna be?” said Leroy. “Because I was gonna catch the late show tonight—”

“Watch it on YouTube the next day like a normal person!” Edmund snapped. “Donna—”

“I can be there by 12:40,” said Donna through the tinny phone speaker. “There's some errands I wanna run first.”

“It's the middle of the night, what errands!” said Edmund. “Donna, hold—” He switched back to Carl. “Listen, are you sure there aren't any black trash bags?”

“White or green only,” Carl affirmed. “Some of them are scented, do you think that would make a difference?”

“Boss,” said Frank from the other side of the roof, “we lost the chalk?”

“Hold on, Carl,” said Edmund. “What?”

“It was here a second ago!” “Did you secure the chalk against the wind?”

“What?” said Frank.

“The chalk, it's cylindrical!” Edmund managed to shout. “Did you do anything so it wouldn't just roll straight off the roof?”

Somewhere above the din of wind came the sound of a half dozen pieces of sidewalk chalk landing on the street five stories below and shattering.

Edmund buried his (cold) face in his (frozen) hands.

“Uh boss,” said Stephanie. “It's 12:01.”

Edmund sighed. The primordial god K'h'gg'ragel might have allowed for some creative interpretations on Ritual-adjacent matters, but everyone knew K'h'gg'ragel was a stickler for punctuality.

“Alright,” said Edmund, pitching his voice to carry. “Pack it in, we'll try again next full moon.”

“Phew,” said Leroy, who was wearing a thick downy jacket over his robes, and a hat with earflaps, and mittens. “It's cold out.”

“I FOUND A BLUE ONE!” Carl shouted from the speaker. “IS THAT ANY BETTER?”

Edmund turned his phone off.

Lighting and strategically placing one hundred candles had been something of an undertaking. Blowing them all out alone and stuffing them back into a series of duffel bags was somehow worse. Edmund was about half-done when he heard a distinct whirring buzz. He looked up.

It was Dragonfly. Of course it was Dragonfly, heading right for him.

Great. Edmund's first-ever showdown was going to be a one-on-one against a superhero armed with a jetpack, one hell of a punch, and electrified darts. Edmund was going to get flattened, and all before he even got the chance to point out that the darts and for that matter the punching didn't fit with the overall insect theme. 

“Hey man,” said Dragonfly, dropping effortlessly down to the roof of the museum. “I saw the lights from the sky, thought I'd investigate.”

They weren't fighting yet. Why weren't they fighting? Edmund's whole body fizzed with adrenaline. Also, cold. Either way, he was shaking a little, and bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“And what, strike another heroic blow against the terror that is a bunch of sweater-themed Yankee Candles?” said Edmund.

Dragonfly shrugged. His costume included a bottle-green moto jacket and gloves. It looked warm, in a way that made Edmund feel even colder. “Sweater candles? What, like burning wool?” he said.

Privately, Edmund had wondered about that too. This, he decided obscurely, was another strike against Dragonfly.

“Maybe burning wool smells phenomenal,” said Edmund instead, rocking forward. “There's no way you could possibly know, unless you're here to tell me you've lit a sheep on fire, which seems well outside your whole—” he waved his hands vaguely “—moral compass.”

“Word travels fast,” said Dragonfly gravely. “I am foursquare against sheep-burning. Always have been.”

Edmund squared his shoulders. “So, are we doing this, or what?”

From behind his signature oversized goggles, Dragonfly's brow seemed to furrow slightly. “Doing what?”

“Fighting,” said Edmund. He had to grind his teeth together to keep them from chattering.

“Ah,” said Dragonfly after a pause. “Oh. Um. Okay. Here's the thing?” He steepled his fingers. “You seem unarmed. You're not hurting anyone. You're also not committing any crimes.” Edmund opened his mouth to protest, and Dragonfly continued, “Or, okay, you're trespassing on the museum, I guess, technically, but it's not like you're even trying to sneak into an exhibit without paying.”

“I am here,” said Edmund firmly, “to perform a terrible and arcane Ritual which will summon—”

“Yeah?” said Dragonfly. “Where's your followers? Where's your summoning chalk? It's well past midnight and the only sign of any occult activity I can see is the candles, but for all I know, you were just up here trying to have a little me-time, which, like, on some level I get, you know?”

“So,” said Edmund blankly, “what now?” He had given up on trying to tense his jaw. His upper and lower teeth clacked rhythmically against each other.

“I give you a stern verbal warning about what's probably a minor fire hazard and recommend that you enjoy the museum from the inside, during business hours, with a ticket,” said Dragonfly. “I hear they have a great exhibit on prehistoric mammals. In the meantime, get somewhere warm, okay? Your lips are turning blue.” “Fuck off,” Edmund more or less managed to say through his shivers.

Dragonfly spread his hands, placating. “Fair enough.” He began to walk away. At the edge of the roof, he hesitated. “Uh, do you have a way down?”

“Obviously,” said Edmund.

“Yeah,” said Dragonfly. “Uh, okay.” They regarded each other. “What is it?” said Dragonfly after a few seconds.

Edmund froze. Or well, he was already half-frozen. Edmund stopped moving, was the point.

Apparently interpreting Edmund's silence as helplessness, Dragonfly offered dubiously, “I could carry you down?”

“How,” said Edmund, flat. It was the wrong thing to say, in that it wasn't 'No,' or 'Fuck off' again, something sensible like that, but damn it, he was freezing, and if he gave up the way he'd gotten everyone onto the roof, then this whole fucking evening was going to be a wash. He had tried so hard. It wasn't fair.

Dragonfly took a step closer. “Fireman or bridal?”

Edmund tried and failed to parse this three separate times in his cold-fuzzed brain. “Is that a meme?” he settled on finally.

“Do you,” said Dragonfly, “have a preference on how I carry you.”

“We haven't even established that you're going to,” Edmund said. Clackity clackity clack went his traitorous teeth.

Dragonfly sighed. “I can't leave you up here,” he said. “One, if I let you keep hanging out on the roof of the history museum, then technically I'm kinda aiding and abetting your whole trespassing situation. Two, it is really fucking chilly up here, and if you freeze to death, then that's on me. Which is also not, like, great for my conscience.”

“So I don't have a choice,” Edmund spat.

“You totally have a choice,” said Dragonfly. He tilted his head to the side. “Hell, you could do me a solid and just exit using whatever secret method you entered with, but I have a feeling mum's the word on that particular angle.”

This Dragonfly character was smarter than he looked. Of course, he was a grown man who fought crime dressed as a giant insect. The bar was not particularly high.

“Mum's the word?” Edmund echoed. “What are you, ninety?”

“I'm an old fucking soul, dude,” said Dragonfly. “Point being, you don't trust me not to watch you leave the roof. Which is hurtful, frankly. I'm not sure I trust you not to stay up here out of pure stubbornness. If I give you a quick boost down, then it's problem solved and we can both go about our nights. Crime-fighting for me, and for you hopefully a pile of blankets and whatever warm food rich people eat. Mashed potatoes? With...caviar?”

This clearly did not merit a response. Dragonfly knew who Edmund was, apparently. Most people did.

“What if you drop me?” said Edmund.

Dragonfly laughed. He had a nice laugh. It was yet another point against him, somehow. “Don't you think that might go against my whole—” he gestured with both hands “moral compass?”

Edmund recognized his own words being used against him. On the other hand, the thought of a hot meal and, moreover, central heating beckoned.

���I don't care,” Edmund said at last.

“What?” said Dragonfly.

“Bridal or fireman's carry,” said Edmund. “I don't care.”

Dragonfly nodded sagely. “Let's get this over with, then,” he said. “Hey, d’you want help with your candles?”

Did he? He didn't want to want help with his candles, but that was another question. On the other hand, if Edmund accepted Dragonfly's aid, it would shave off valuable minutes of this excruciating headache. The backs of Edmund's knees were cold. It was absurd.

“Fine,” said Edmund.

“Huh,” said Dragonfly several minutes later. “This one's rain-scented, and this one's Ocean Spray, and yet they smell nothing alike.”

Dragonfly had without fail commented on every single scented candle in the bunch. Edmund looked up from his umpteenth taper candle, momentarily distracted from the knifelike chill.

“Rain and ocean are two completely different things,” said Edmund. “The surrounding environment, the vibe, the salt content.”

“The vibe, I grant you,” said Dragonfly. “But salt, really? Have you ever smelled salt before?”

“The ocean has a smell,” Edmund insisted. His family had summered on the coast every year before—well. Before last year. He mostly remembered the sea as having a whiff of fish about it, which didn't sound promising for a candle, but it was the principle of the thing.

Dragonfly shrugged. “You've got me there,” he said. “Never been.” Cityton was only about an hour's drive from the beach. Edmund wasn't sure he knew anyone who had never visited at least once, for a long weekend at least. Of course, it wasn't like Edmund knew Dragonfly. He didn't even know what Dragonfly's eyes looked like.

Edmund blew out another few tapers.

“This one's just called Singing Carols,” Dragonfly announced. “Guess what it smells like, I dare you.”

And so on.

In the end, Dragonfly carried Edmund off the roof of the Natural History Museum scooped under the armpits, the way you might hold a cat if you were engaging in some light cat-related horseplay. The mechanical dragonfly wings were well-made, Edmund could admit that much; Dragonfly didn't seem to have any issue bearing Edmund's weight or the combined weight of the candles, and their feet gently touched the ground after only a few seconds. It was already slightly warmer—or at least slightly less freezing—on street-level.

Dragonfly let go and stepped back immediately. This close, Edmund could see that his lips were pretty badly chapped. It made sense that someone who donated all their time to—again—flitting around town trying to right every minuscule so-called wrong while dressed like a bug wouldn't be experienced enough with self-care to be acquainted with a good lip balm, but the thought made Edmund weirdly a little sad.

His sense of deeply ingrained politeness warred against the equally powerful urge to be a real bastard about the whole thing. In the end, politeness won out, by the very skin of its mannerly little teeth.

“Thank you for not dropping me to my almost certain death,” Edmund gritted out with extreme reluctance. He stared over Dragonfly's shoulder as he said it.

Nevertheless, for some awful reason, for just that moment, it felt a little like the end of a date.

“Right,” said Dragonfly. “Right. Well then. Happy trails.” He seemed to consider this. “Or you know, if doing crimes is what makes you happy, then for the sake of Cityton, let's say, mediocre trails. Do you wanna borrow my gloves?”

“Why,” said Edmund flatly.

Even though the goggles completely obscured much of the upper half of Dragonfly's face, Edmund had the distinct sense that a disbelieving stare was being leveled at him.

“For your hands? You know, the traditional office of gloves?”

As the scion of Malarkey Industries, Edmund was long accustomed to being hated for who he was. Hated, feared, not-too-secretly envied. And lately: mocked, dismissed, his family name transmuted into a juicy, low-hanging punchline for lazy late night writers.

He wasn't sure he'd ever been pitied before. It did not sit well.

“I'll warm my hands on the fires of hell while I plot your demise, you miserable fool,” growled Edmund.

“Yikes,” said Dragonfly easily. “Well, I'm off.” And with that, he took to the sky.

Edmund curled his fingers into the sleeves of his stupid, summer-weight summoner's robes and started back towards what remained of his home.

[secret-engima]

@hamelin-born

*kicks down door* Okay so I’m so sorry you’ve had a bad week, and since I am physically incapable of coming over and giving you a hug, I shall give you bby Dionysus being adorable with his (dead)relatives and Deleantur getting shipped by the local Galahdian bear woman instead!

...

     The man shrugged and played with the edge of his cloak, “You may call me Herodotus. Or,” he added when he saw Dionysus’s face screw up at the long name —so many of his dream relatives had such long names that were hard—, “you can just call me Wander.”

     “Wander?”

     The soft smile grew bigger, mischievous, “It’s a nickname. I’ve never really been the kind of person to stay in one place for very long. Will that suit, Little Traveller?”

     Dionysus mouthed the word, then nodded, “Wander.” He looked around them in curiosity, at the glowing flowers and living magic lights and trees bigger than buildings, “Where are we?”

     “One of my memories,” Wander answered as he leaned back against the tree trunk, “my … safe place I suppose. Though I have had many over the years, this one was my first, so I suppose it is my favorite.”

     “But where?” He’d never seen anything like this outside of storybooks. He wanted to go see it for himself when he woke up next.

     Wander shook his head and looked amused, “I’m sorry, Little Traveler, but this is not a place you can find on Eos.” Dionysus stared at him with big eyes and Wander leaned in with a whisper and a gesture at his cloak, “When I was younger, I met a wonderful group of people who liked to travel as much as I did, and they showed me many things. Some of those were places that you could not, and will never, find on any map of Eos.”

     Dionysus leaned closer, “Like the story of the magic rock that secretly led t’ the world of Hiso Hiso al’ens?”

     Wander’s eyes glittered and his magic that draped around them felt like delighted laughter, “Just like that, yes. But my doorway wasn’t a rock.”

     Dionysus looked all around in awe. He was in a secret world just like in the stories! Or the memory of a secret world anyway. He looked back over at Wander, “Did you fight an evil copy of your frien’? Did the copy try t’ de- delete the whole world ‘till you an’ Serah stopped it an’ saved all the Hiso Hiso?”

     Wander’s shoulders shook a little, then stilled, “No. Nothing quite so exciting. But I did meet a woman with cat ears and a tail, and we did become good friends.” Dionysus gasped in excitement, and when Wander stood up and held out his hand, Dionysus took it without hesitation, “Come on,” Wander chuckled, “I’m afraid I cannot show you any aliens or evil copies, but I can show you a few other places I’ve been that no one on Eos will find.”

     And he did. A few steps into the woods and the trees all turned to hills of sand and shimmering waves of sunny heat. Strange creatures with humps on their backs plodded slowly by in the distance, and in front of them was a tower that reached up to the sky all by itself. Wander told him that it was a dungeon, and that anyone who managed to reach the treasure at the very top would become a king and get magic of their very own. Dionysus asked him if he’d ever done it, if he had dungeon magic, but Wander shook his head and said he already had magic, so he’d let a friend take it instead. They plodded their way through a few shifting steps of sand and suddenly they were out of the hot sand and on an island in the sky. There was a strange ceiling high-high-high above their heads, and Wander told him that this was not one floating island, but a hundred of them all stacked on top of each other, each one just a bit smaller than the last so they didn’t block out all the sunlight for the levels below. Dragons swooped off in the distance, and when Wander led him to the edge and held him tight so he wouldn’t fall, Dionysus leaned over and saw nothing but thick clouds drifting below them.

     They stepped back and the world became an ocean. They stood on the wooden deck of a ship and around them was bright blue water and flapping sails and before them was some kind of creature so big it was an island, it’s long legs plodding slowly through the sea with trees and buildings on its back. Wander told him that talking animals lived on the back of the big creature, and that very few people could find the island unless they were born there because it was always moving. He led Dionysus below decks and then they were on an island with a tree growing in the middle that was so tall and so big it had another, much smaller island sitting in its branches. The air tingled with old-friendly-amused magic that felt like laughter and mysteries, and Wander told him that this was the island of fairies.

     He showed Dionysus a bunch of places, each one different and strange and amazing, each one with a little story to go with it that made Dionysus want desperately to know and explore more until the next one came and he wanted to see that one instead. Wander held his hand the whole time, steady and sure, making sure he never got lost or stepped too close to something dangerous. It was amazing and weird and exciting, and Dionysus decided he liked Wander a lot. Wander was different from the others, even Grandma Crepera. He didn’t seem to have any questions, and he didn’t mind answering all of Dionysus’s. He wasn’t grumpy, or loud, and there was … something about him. About his soft voice and the look in his eyes that reminded Dionysus of his dad.

... (And here’s Deleantur!)

     He sensed someone approach through the outskirts of the crowd. Not that it was easy to miss someone as big as Chief Ligeia considering she stood a head taller than most of the other people here. He tipped his chin to her in greeting as she came to a stop next to him, a mug of something that smelled like alcohol in one hand. She grinned at him, all teeth and good humor, “Going to just watch? Or are you going to go have some fun?”

     Deleantur shrugged and went back to crowd-watching, “I am having fun.” It wasn’t a lie, he found it both fascinating and entertaining to watch the party unfold before him. Galahdians weren’t all that different from the mainland in how they celebrated, but there were differences that were interesting to see. For one thing, there was a lot more dancing and singing. Even people taking a break at the makeshift feasting tables were all but dancing on the benches, feet tapping, heads bobbing- there was never a moment of stillness even from the groups lingering on the outskirts of the party to talk rather than dance.

     The dances themselves were a lot more vibrant and energetic too. There were no royal waltzes here, but circle dances that dragged everyone nearby into them, or spinning dances where partners traded off at dizzying speeds. There was also a vaguely alarming number of somersaults, backflips, and instances of people climbing up trees and rubble like squirrels to better perform an acrobatic flip in time to the music, and not just from the children and the teenagers. He half suspected that the only reason the Elders weren’t doing such stunts were because they were physically too old and arthritic to pull it off.

    Chief Ligeia scoffed, “Just watching is never fun. You should go out there and dance. Don’t want Stella to think you’re ignoring her, do you?”

     Deleantur blinked at her, then glanced into the crowd where Stella was currently spinning and flipping in time with her little brother Eventus like some kind of circus performance rather than a dance for a party, “She knows where to find me if she needs me.”

     Chief Ligeia slapped one of his shoulders hard enough that he had to bite back a hiss, “Not the point. You should be out there dancing with her. It’s good for young people like you two.” Deleantur gave her the flattest look he could manage and barely refrained from telling her that he was currently two thousand years removed from his date of birth —though that distance was technically in reverse—, even if he only looked to be twenty-six. But that wasn’t something he told anyone, especially not a party-happy stranger. Chief Ligeia rolled her eyes, utterly undisturbed by his look, and slapped his shoulder again in an effort to get him moving, “Go on.”

     Deleantur raised an eyebrow and didn’t budge, “Why do you care?”

     The Behemoth of a woman took a long drink from her mug, then answered blithely, “Because Candor is my second cousin and Stella is the best niece I ever had and I want her to be happy. You dancing with her will make her happy. So,” the woman moved with astonishing speed, so fast even Deleantur’s instincts and borrowed experience couldn’t stop her from bodily lifting him by the back of his tunic with one hand and all but toss him into the flow of the crowd, “go dance with her!” Deleantur staggered into the crowd, trying to catch his balance, then yelped as his hands were snatched up by a passing dancer and he was pulled into the flow.

... (and here, have a long snip of Buckler too)

     They camped on the nearest Haven for the night, and Axis cooked dinner without comment while Nox fussed over his uncle and the redhead just sighed and complained about losing his shirts. He listened to them bicker, watched the way their shoulders slowly relaxed the longer Axis went without recoiling from them or acting afraid, and came to a decision. It was a reckless one, a stupid one even but … but it felt like the right one. He hadn’t asked about what happened, or how Ardyn had magic, but he knew what he’d seen and so did they. He knew not just one, but two of their greatest secrets now —that Nox was a Lucis Caelum, that Ardyn was a Lucis Caelum and couldn’t die—.

     In the morning, before they could wander off into the wilderness again, Axis invited —ordered— them to come with him to Meldacio HQ. The two exchanged nervous glances before obediently following him on the trek up to the Vesperpool area.

     If his wife was surprised when Axis turned up a week later with not just Nox in tow, but Niflheim’s Chancellor, she didn’t show it. She just smiled and welcomed them into their tiny house with a gesture and a promise of dinner soon. Nox’s eyes were wide as they shuffled in and Axis had known Ardyn long enough to spot the nervous edge in his sweeping bow.

     Both of them went totally still when they spotted the playpen taking up most of the living room floor, filled with ratty stuffed toys that Axis had either purchased from Outposts or had been gifted by members of his, Tredd’s, and Luche’s Clans. Inside the playpen, Axis’s triplets —his treasures, his children, his greatest and most precious secrets— cooed and babbled eagerly at Axis, waving their hands and crawling around. His last visit hadn’t been that long ago, and they remembered him —the fact that he had been gone for long enough stretches when they were smaller that he’d been a stranger to them would always hurt—. Venia, his smallest and boldest, spotted Nox and Ardyn and babbled at them, fearlessly crawling up to the edge of the playpen to look at them. Axis reached in and picked her up, kissing her forehead and tickling her stomach with a hand to hear her laugh before turning to watch Nox’s and Ardyn’s reactions.

     Nox was still staring at Historia and Spiritus in the playpen, a bright-eyed look on his face and a shiver of power in the air that felt protective. He looked at them like any of Axis’s remaining clan did, or how Tredd and Luche had first looked at them. Awe and protectiveness and already blooming adoration. Axis glanced at Ardyn.

     Ardyn was staring at Venia, and the look on his face took Axis’s breath away. There was pure, open adoration there, wonder and a bright-edged fear, like just being near her would be enough to break her. Venia spotted Ardyn staring, dressed in all his clashing layers and colors, and giggled at him. She had never been afraid of strangers, and she didn’t hesitate to flail her hands in his direction, babbling with all the energy of a healthy nine month old. Ardyn flinched faintly away, even though her hands were nowhere near him, his own hands curling shyly inside his long sleeves like he was terrified of touching her.

     Something in Axis’s heart broke a little.

     No one as unexpectedly kind as Ardyn should fear being near a child.

     “Her name is Venia,” Axis murmured, “that’s her sister Historia, and her brother Spiritus.”

     “They’re so little.” Nox cooed as he crouched just outside the playpen, watching the two babies who stared back with far less fearless curiosity than their sister had —but not outright fear, Axis wondered if they too could feel Nox’s magic swelling around the room, rumbling with protective and already loving emotions—. Porrima reappeared at Axis’s elbow, reaching past him to pluck Spiritus out of the playpen. She gave their guests a considering look, then calmly reached out and plopped their son into Nox’s arms. Nox’s grip tensed, but his arms shifted into a proper position with a speed that looked instinctive, “Hey, wait-!”

     Porrima ignored Nox’s breathless squawk and Spiritus’s wary coo, just picked up Historia and turned to face Ardyn, who had gone stiff as a board and deathly white, “Madam,” Ardyn said tensely, “I don’t think-.”

     “Are you going to hurt them?” Porrima asked.

     Ardyn’s jaw tightened, “Never, but I don’t-.”

     “Are your arms so weak you’ll drop her?”

     “No, but-.”

     “Are you sick?”

     Ardyn shook his head but kept shying subtly back, “I-.”

     Axis sighed at his wife as she exchanged Historia for Venia, then turned and fearlessly stepped into Ardyn’s space to put their boldest daughter in the arms of Niflheim’s Chancellor —and the king’s unknown relative—. Ardyn went stone still as soon as Venia was in his arms, hands cradling her like she was fragile as glass and his eyes huge. Axis bounced Historia in his arms a little as he scolded, “Porrima. Don’t force them to hold the children if they don’t want to.”

     “But they do want to, and it’s good for the triplets to meet new safe people,” his wife sniffed back. Then she flitted back to the kitchen without waiting to see the fallout of her actions.

     Sometimes his wife trusted his judgement and choice of houseguests a little too much.

     Axis sidled closer to Ardyn and held out an arm, “I can take her back if this really makes you uncomfortable.”

     Ardyn stared down at Venia with the roundest eyes Axis had ever seen. Venia blinked up at her new handler, looked over at her dad, then looked back at Ardyn and clumsily patted his cheek, grabbing curiously at his red-violet hair a moment later. Ardyn inhaled, and Axis felt a second magic flood the room, old and powerful and monstrously protective. Where Nox’s was deep like the ocean, powerful but … subtle, like currents under the surface, Ardyn’s magic felt wild. It felt like the ripple of spotted fur in the jungle, the glimpse of fangs and teeth of a feral beast. Nox’s protective adoration of the little boy he was bouncing in his arms was like the pull of the tide, sweeping in and out with each breath, but Ardyn’s-. Ardyn’s was the rumble of a Coeurl’s purr as it curled around its cub, the singing edge of bloody steel, promising death to anyone that so much as looked wrong at Axis’s triplets.

     Ardyn very slowly sank down onto the floor, legs crossed to form a lap for Venia to flop on, and when he looked up at Axis, his normally blue eyes were a brilliant, Coeurl gold, “They’re beautiful.” He whispered hoarsely.

[crazycat-88]

Male Orc Raum x Female Reader Part 2 (NSFW) Complete

The continuation of my orc story that I did in part for the Ok:Cryptid Collab by @thetravelerwrites 

Part 1 - Here

I’m not particularly happy with this one, but I think it’s as good as its going to get. I hope you enjoy it anyway.

This story also introduces you to West Oaks, a small town that has been mentioned in a previous story. I will be writing more stories that feature this town. NSFW at the very end,  for those who don’t like it but still want to read the story.

Wordcount:2,257

The following Friday you find yourself on your doorstep with a packed bag, waiting on Raum to pick you up. Pulling up in his car, you get in only to be accosted by Buster, the dobermann that’s meant to be in the back seat. Laughing, you give him some attention before telling him to lie down.

‘‘Hey, got everything you need?’’ Raum asks, grinning at you.

You nod, before giving him a kiss in greeting. Pulling back, you ask, ‘‘How long will it take for us to get there?’’

‘‘About four hours.’’ he smiles. ‘‘Feel free to put the music on.’’

Fiddling with the music player, you eventually find something you like. Looking back at Buster, you see he has already settled down to sleep, and smile. ‘‘So… tell me what your hometown is like and who I’m all going to meet.’’

‘‘Well… the travel guides will tell you it’s an idyllic little coastal town, with picturesque views, sandy beaches, a forest further inland… A lake, quaint little houses and a market every Wednesday and Sunday with stalls, where the townsfolk sell a variety of things.’’

‘‘And what would you tell me?’’ you ask.

‘‘The same,’’ he laughs. ‘‘No seriously, it is all that and more. It’s the perfect location for non-humans and always has been. Three hundred years ago all that was there was an orc compound and monster folk hiding in the forest. Eventually more people came, starting with humans who had mated with monsters and it built from there. Now it’s the most monster populated town there is I believe.’’

‘‘Certainly sounds idyllic,’’ you smile.

‘‘It is for the most part. I mean it’s not perfect, no town is… it has problems like everywhere else. Old prejudices between the different species and such, but for the most part it’s good. It’s home.’’ he says, with a fond smile.

‘‘What about your family? Who am I going to meet?’’

‘‘Well there’s my mother Eivor, she’ll love you, my dad John, my older brother Dane and his wife Naria and their two children. My younger brothers, Sigmar and Halden, Halden’s the birthday boy,’’ he says, looking over to you briefly. ‘‘Then there's cousins, aunts, uncles and family friends,’’ he laughs.

‘‘That’s a lot of people,’’ you say, nervously frowning.

‘‘They’ll all love you, don’t worry so much,’’ he smiles giving your knee a squeeze.

You spend the rest of the journey, talking about his family, and he lets you know what you can expect from certain folk. You learn that his dad John, a human, is technically his step-father but he’s been a dad to Raum since he was five and he thinks of him as his real dad.

You make one stop on the journey, to grab lunch and let Buster out to run. Soon enough you're seeing the signs pointing to West Oaks, looking around you notice the surrounding area is mostly countryside and woodland. As you enter the outskirts of the town itself, you see exactly what Raum meant when he said the town was picturesque. With rolling hills, lush greenery, a few scattered white houses and the coastline in the distance with crystal clear blue water. It’s beautiful you think gazing around in awe.

‘‘It’s so beautiful here,’’ you say, turning to look at Raum, before gazing back out of the window.

‘‘Nothing like the city eh?’’ he says, chuckling.

Not at all, you think, shaking your head. Seeing you’re now entering the central part of town, you can see the townsfolk strolling the streets and loads of little shops and housing, some of which are painted in bright colours, making you smile. Along the coastline there are little cottages and you can just about spot a lighthouse in the distance. What a place to call home you think to yourself.

‘‘I booked us a beach house for our stay here, do you want to go there first or shall we go let my folks know we’re here?’’ Raum says, looking at you before looking back at the road.

‘‘We aren’t staying at your parents house?’’ you ask, slightly confused. You had just assumed you would be and are a bit surprised he’s booked a place to stay.

‘‘No, my folks house will be packed as it is and while I know my mother would fit us in, I didn’t want to overwhelm you…’’ he says. ‘‘I also thought for our first… vacation together, we might like some privacy.’’

You see him throwing you looks, looking a little nervous, waiting on your reaction. You smile and squeeze his thigh, ‘‘Thank you,’’ you say. ‘‘Let's go see them first then, so when we get to the beach house we can just relax for the evening.’’

Nodding, he gives you a smile. You continue to gaze out the car window while he drives to his folks house. As soon as you have parked, you see an orc rush out the house and throw herself into Raums’ arms. She’s clearly an older orc but still very beautiful. As she finishes fussing over Raum, she looks over at you and gathers you up in her arms in a hug.

‘‘Look at you! Aren’t you a pretty one…’’ she says looking at you.

‘‘Um… thank you…’’ you say chuckling, feeling flustered.

‘I’m Eivor, but feel free to call me Mum.’’ she says, as she leads you into the house. ‘‘Come meet my John, and the rest of my brood.’’

Looking back, you see that Raum is shaking his head in despair, obviously embarrassed but wearing a small smile. He lets Buster out the back of the car and the dog runs straight into the house, taking over all of you. As you get inside, you see the Buster has jumped up on another orc, who’s clearly one of Raum’s brothers.

Spending the afternoon with Raum’s family is a lot more fun than you ever thought it could be. All of them are so friendly and welcoming that your nerves soon settle. You end up spending the whole time laughing flustered as you watch Raum’s brothers tease and badger him over how he managed to find a catch like you. When Raum tells his folks, it's time for the two of you to leave, you actually feel reluctant to go so soon.

Knowing you’ll be returning tomorrow, you say your goodbyes and Raum drives you both to the rented beach house. The house is beautiful, you think, as you wander around exploring it. With three bedrooms, living room, kitchen and a porch out back that gives you a stunning view of the beach and water, you think you could happily stay there forever.

Deciding to take Buster for a walk along the beach, you and Raum casually stroll down the beach holding hands. He points out some of the different shops and where some of his favourite places are. At one point you think you see orca breaching the surface but soon realise it's actually a mer-orca and smile delighted.

You and Raum end up at one of the beach front restaurants, named The Shark Tank, for dinner, sitting outside as you have taken Buster along too. Your served by a pretty blonde girl who looks human at first glance but you see as she serves you that she has webbing in between her fingers and very pointy sharp teeth. Raum informs you that she is one of the rare mer-sharks that can take human form.

‘‘Does she own this place?’’ you ask Raum questionly.

‘‘Yes, her and her brother do, most of the staff that work here are mer-folk too,’’ he replies.

After your dinner your feeling very full and very tired, heading back to the beach house, Raum asks if you want to share a bedroom or use one of the others. You think about it briefly, quickly deciding to share, you tell Raum and he smiles widely and pulls you into his side with his arm around you. As both of you are really tired, you go straight to bed, and cuddling in to each other, share soft slow kisses before eventually falling asleep.

In the morning, you and Raum take Buster for a walk along the beach again. He takes you to a little cove, which is empty of other people, and you play fetch with Buster, running about and falling in the sand. Laughingly Raum takes you in arms and thoroughly kisses you, wandering hands explore each other and just before things escalate, Buster starts barking.

Looking up, you see a couple of mermaids have joined you in the cove and they’re leaning up on the rocks watching you both grinning. When they spot they’ve been seen, they slip back into the water, waving goodbye as they go. Laughing, you and Raum get up to leave the beach.

You spend the afternoon in the town, Raum takes you round all the shops, telling you the stories about some of the buildings there. You fall in love with one shop in particular, that sells little figurines of all types of creatures, all hand painted and beautiful. You wish you had the money to buy them all, but settle for one of an orc, who you tease looks just like Raum.

Wanting to get Halden a birthday present, you pick up a figurine of a small tortoiseshell cat that Raum assures you that he will love. That done, you head back to the beach house, with a few hours to spare before the party.

‘‘What do you want to now?’’ Raum asks, sitting beside you on the couch.

‘‘Take a nap?’’ you laugh, feeling tired from all the walking.

‘‘Hmm… in bed?’’ he asks.

When you nod, he picks you up and carries you into the bedroom and puts you in bed. Getting in beside you, he strokes your cheek and leans forward to kiss you. Swiping his tongue along your lips, you allow him entrance, sucking on his tongue. As his hands start exploring your breasts over your top, he bucks against you and you can feel he’s already hard.

Groaning he asks, ‘‘Do you want to…’’ before cutting off with a whimper as your hands trace his erection through his trousers.

‘‘Yes,’’ you say, moving away to remove your clothing. You watch as he rushes to get his own clothes off. Watching as he strips, you see his body as just as you expected, lean and fit, with fine hair on his chest. His cock is a good length and decent girth, with a mushroom head, not to big but bigger than you’d ever taken before.

Taking you back in your arms, he leans over you kissing you again, before moving down your body. Kissing and sucking your breasts, he fondles one with one hand, feeling it’s weight before playing with your nipple. His other hand trails down to your slit, finding you wet, he spreads your juices along your folds before entering one of his fingers inside you. Working it in and out of you, he slowly adds another. With two fingers inside of you, you beg for him asking for his cock.

‘‘You’re not ready for that yet…’’ he groans, moving his fingers faster.

Moaning and writhing on the bed, you cry out as he adds a third finger and uses his thumb to circle your clit. ‘‘Please… please,’’ you moan.

‘‘Come for me,’’ he says, before nipping at your breasts. As he crooks a finger, just in the right spot, you come hard, squealing his name. You watch moaning as he raises his hand, covered in your cum, and sucks his fingers.

‘‘God… you taste good,’’ he says. Rising up on to his knees, you see his cock is already weeping, and taking it in his hand, he spreads your cum over it with a groan. Lining himself up, he pauses to look at you, ‘‘Tell me if I hurt you,’’ he asks.

Nodding, you groan as he slowly enters you, to slowly for your liking. Grabbing at his waist, you tilt your hips up, taking him in to you completely. He groans and swears, as you wince, it’s not painful but your filled so full it’s slightly uncomfortable. Wrapping your legs around him, you hook your ankles around his waist, holding him still.

‘‘Oh god…I feel so full,’’ you say, catching your breath, ‘‘Move... please Raum,’’ you plead.

Raum slowly pulls out and pushes back in, thrusting gently. ‘‘Fuck! Your tight,’’ he gasps.

Starting to move faster, he grunts as you tighten around him, moving his hand down he starts stroking at your clit, pleading for you to come.  Inhaling sharply, clutching at his shoulders, you come with a cry, scratching your nails down his back.

He comes inside you with a grunt, back arching, and hands tightening where he holds you. Collapsing to the side of you, you both pant harshly, trying to catch your breath.

‘‘Wow,’’ he starts breathlessly. ‘‘That was… I’m not sure I’m going to be able to walk anytime soon.’’

‘‘Me either,’’ you laugh breathlessly, turning to face him, throwing an arm around him. ‘‘How long until the party starts?’’

Groaning he sits up slightly to check the clock, ‘‘We’ve got an hour and a half before we have to be there,’’ he says collapsing back onto the bed. ‘‘Time for a quick nap,’’ he laughs, pulling you to lie half on top of him.

Nuzzling into his chest, you agree and soon fall asleep with a smile on your face, listening to his heartbeat.

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Thanks for reading! If you liked it, reblog it. Likes & Comments are also much appreciated.

My Masterlist

[minaa-munch]

A Kid and his Keeper (who was the Keeper, again?)

“I still think this is a bad idea.” Inoichi mumbled from somewhere behind him in the mostly empty meeting lounge. There were a few other Jōnin discussing something (read: gossiping like old ladies at tea time) somewhere further down the table, but they hardly registered as miniature blips in Minato’s peripheral as blue hues darted across printed kanji. 

In fact, apart from Inoichi, all was eerily calm - the Yamanaka simply happened to be loud and particularly annoying at present. 

“Oi, are you even listening? It’s a bad idea!”

Cue a noncommittal hum, though the younger blond didn’t entirely dismiss his concerns. The Namikaze had just been promoted to Jōnin, and his first order of business was to unceremoniously poke his nose in matters that had little to do with him, according to the Internal Affairs Division.

For the life of him though, Minato had been unable to help himself. Granted, he had only been assigned to Kakashi a few days ago before his father... 

Kami, his father. Seldom a nin in his batch could claim to not know Hatake Sakumo. Apparently, the famed Jōnin had gone down the seppuku route a week ago which meant his son, who was barely four - what, five? years old would be bounced around one foster family from the next, if he was lucky. If not, to the village orphanage because the child wasn’t even an official Genin yet. Technically, he could still live in the Hatake residence, but the village would prioritize getting him settled in another environment over his comfort. 

Besides, it didn’t help that Kakashi was related to Sakumo; the legendary Jōnin had a score of enemies across the borders of Hi no Kuni. Since the war had ended not too long ago - and in Konoha’s favor, no less; there was always the possibility of the boy becoming a target of misplaced ire.

The thought made him pause, though more in concern than anything else. Wars bred more wars; it was a never ending cycle and Kakashi was just...lucky. Had he been from a more volatile area, not even kami woul--

Sigh. He wouldn’t want such a fate to befall anyone, regardless of borders. At the moment though, he was solely concerned about Kakashi. Minato had already decided to take him under his wing; not entirely dissimilar to how Jiraiya had been kind enough to tolerate Minato hounding him at odd hours, showing up at his doorstep for the silliest reasons and asking the weirdest questions.

All in all, finding excuses to stay with the elder as much as said elder would allow (which was a lot). If Jiraiya hadn’t been Jiraiya, the Namikaze would have had no one to turn to - seeing as how he had no one else. He couldn’t - wouldn’t let Kakashi suffer the loneliness associated with such a fate.

Now if only he could figure out why they wanted to know if he had any cousins twice removed -- what did that even mean?

“So...finally realized this is a bad idea?” Inoichi’s head poked over his shoulder, teal hues blinking curiously at the forms on the table. “You don’t even know how kids are made, Namikaze.”

The comment was met with a well placed jab in the diaphragm “I know enough, asagao chan.”

“Hah, you’re hilarious” The Yamanaka wheezed with barely a twitch of the eyebrow at the nickname. “Fine, how about a bet then?” He continued, one arm around his middle in case of further wandering elbows, “A hundred ryō and a month’s worth of pending mission reports say you’ll make the kid cry in the first three weeks.” 

“Deal.” Minato’s reply was almost automatic, his gaze never leaving the paper he was scribbling on. There was blissful silence for a few moments, before--

“You do know that kids can’t survive on military rations, right?” 

“...I knew that.”

“I can see myself winning the bet already.” 

@konohagakurekakashi

[writingwithcolor]

I’m writing a story in which a nation of nonhumans, having been trapped in a pocket dimension for two millenia, integrates into human society. Would it be insensitive to have them successfully argue that, as they were indigenous peoples of the Americas, they should be legally recognized as a Native American tribe with tribal sovereignty? Native Americans (specifically of the Ojibwe tribe) magically trapped them in the first place, but I’m hoping that’s ok because all humans have magic, not just

“Native American mystics” or w/e, and the character designs aren’t based off any NA myths. But they’re VERY inhuman, resembling animals, and a subplot is that they’re called “monsters” so often they begin to embrace/reclaim the term. It’s mainly just a device to deal with the logistics of integrating thousands of new people (with their own established government) into the American political system at once, so I can scrap it if needed.

Ancient Monsters Indigenous to America; Should They be Called Native?

So. There are four parts to this question, based off how you’ve worded the question. 

1- Native Americans Shunning An “Okay” Group

2- Native American Monsters

3- Imposing Monsters Where None Exist

4- What Makes Someone Native

One at a time:

Native Americans Shunning an Okay Group

If these inhuman people are a genuine threat or were a genuine threat, then this is less relevant. But even if some of them were a threat, and the whole group was shunned, you end up recreating a big piece of racism in modern day:

Natives hate outsiders “needlessly.” If only they gave this group a chance, they’d find out they weren’t that bad. But they’re too mean to do that.

The modern caution around Native and colonizer culture mixing is, as the term implies, modern. Natives didn’t necessarily shun outsiders, and as evident by how colonizers needed us to survive for awhile, they were relatively welcoming early on. In Canada, we even have a whole group of people who were born out of intermarriage between traders and Native people: the Metis.

But non-Natives tend to take this caution as an insult, because they assume they should be welcomed with open arms despite the atrocities committed. Colonizers have far, far, far exceeded the threshold for “general mistrust”, but they don’t realize it. They think everything should be fine, because schools teach only that Natives used to be welcoming, but then turned mean and jealous without saying why.

For example, when I was in my teens, my grandma went on a probably 15-30 minute rant about how my (white) cousin wasn’t allowed to work horticulture on the local reserve because it was taking jobs away from Native people. My whole family spent the next hour agreeing with her, how they really were just so closed off and mean, he was just trying to help.

Now factor in how the largest group of unemployed people in Canada is Native people, because they lack job skills from a lack of opportunity. Now consider how horticulture was actually one of our specialties and there’s still a lot of tradition around how to take care of the land. And how a white person fresh out of college with a degree was being brought in as the “expert.” And how he was doing the work, instead of helping people on the reserve do the work (which would allow them to put landscaping skills on their resume, giving them a foot in the door)

Suddenly that “unnecessary shunning” makes a whole lot more sense, doesn’t it?

I want to know why the Ojibwe sealed them off. Because I highly doubt such a drastic action would’ve been taken if they were truly a benevolent group. 

Native American Monsters

And this is where things get touchier.

I want to ask all writers who want Indigenous monsters to ask themselves one question: why do you want to tie Indigenous identity to “monster” so strongly?

It’s a fixation I see time and again: the concept of Indigenous people as inhuman, as having ties to the inhuman, as having ties to creatures who could be feared. 

If these monsters are a complex society, are intelligent, are generally… people, then you’ve fallen more heavily into the first point I mentioned (which I’m uncomfortable with) but mitigate this part. They’re shown as people-like and worthy of respect, then it might work as showing Indigenous people aren’t inhuman.

Or it might further reinforce the concept that all Indigenous people are monsters.

Which one it does depends on the writing. Either way, it’s something I’m deeply uncomfortable with, just from sheer exposure. A lot of the questions I receive are about dark, twisted, criminal, or otherwise monstrous Indigenous people. Like, about half the questions. It’s a lot.

Why are we tied so strongly to monsters? What about Native identity makes this such an easy connection? Why just the monsters and none of our healing from them?

Why?

Imposing Monsters Where None Exist

Further, it’s honestly a bit weird to me that they don’t come Ojibwe/Great Lakes legends. Because I’d assume sealing away a whole population of monsters would merit some oral legends and teachings for how to seal them back away should they return. And these monsters would bleed into other peoples’ legends, with how each creature as a concept spread across such a wide landmass and across so many peoples. So everywhere these monsters touched, there’d be some version of the story.

It’s a little too close to playing god with real religions for me. Indigenous oral legends around the globe are meticulous, and when analyzed are as solid as written history. Creating a group of monsters that are not based in our stories, that have no oral histories and legends, just has me wondering how this impacted society. 

Monsters have a place in Indigenous society. They are cautions, they are warnings, they are sickness, they teach lessons about how to care for the earth and/or yourself to starve off the monster’s approach. 

(And no, this doesn’t contradict the fixation on Monstrous Natives. Why do you fixate on the monsters and not how we heal from them? I specify “we” because there’s a tendency to make the antithesis of Native monsters Christian, which further colonizers the narrative. We had our own ways of healing)

Indigenous people, in general, have history from around the Ice Age (Australian Aboriginals have from during if not before). Two millennia is nothing for the oral history, even if you brought in the angle that the stories were genocided out in the residential school system (Which would be a very touchy subject as well). Because something that big would be spread among a dozen tribes, and would have threads that survived in whispers.

Indigenous religions aren’t a mythology playground where you can free-reign insert or remove whole concepts like sealing away monsters willy-nilly. 

I’d run this concept by somebody Ojibwe before proceeding. They might find a way to make it work, or they might tell you that there’d be a much deeper cultural impact than can be handled by an outsider.

What Makes Someone Native

Here’s the thing: being Native isn’t just about how we were here first.

There’s taking care of the land. There’s our language. There’s our unity to each other. There’s our religion. There’s so much nuance to what makes somebody Native that goes beyond just time spent on the continent. 

Each tribe has its own definition of what it means to be part of the tribe. The government doesn’t always line up with who we are, but we have our own definition. A lot of basic principles are similar (sustainability, for one), but the nuance for each people will be different.

And the government still doesn’t recognize all the tribes that were self-governing peoples before colonizers got here. That fact alone makes it a stretch to believe these monsters could successfully argue to the government they belong as Native. The only reason I could see it as successful is the government rather overtly assuming Native people are monsters, which codifies the above.

You’ve got to keep in mind that the government wants as few Natives to exist as possible. Because the more Natives exist, the more political power we have, the more resources the government has to allocate towards us, and we are seen as an inconvenience. 

Getting off the registry of Native people is laughably easy. Getting back on is notoriously hard. This isn’t a case of “have a hearing and the government gives you full status rights.” It’s “we have petitioned the government to have our claim to this land recognized for literally hundreds of years and now they’re about to bulldoze our sacred land so we have to protest to put a stop to it and suffer the arrests and deaths required to keep our land safe and hope that this protest gets enough pressure on the government to have them back off.”

(True story. The latter describes the Oka Crisis, which thankfully did have the land restored, but not until 1 death on each side, and 75 Mohawk and allies injured. And it was a long, long, long drawn out process).

Natives are, technically, wards of the state. The more Natives exist, the more people the state has to take care of. And history proves the state absolutely hates taking care of Native people.

Overall

This feels off in multiple ways, for me. It’s treating our legends as if they’re just frilly decorations that don’t deeply inform our culture, for starters, then there’s how no matter which way it’s sliced it’s reinforcing some sort of racist idea about Natives: either we shun “good” groups for no reason, or we’re tied to monsters. Then there’s the assumption our identity can be easily expanded to include a nonhuman group when it’s more complicated than that. There’s also the assumption the government would actually work to add more people it has to take care of.

You’re going to need to do a lot more research and reach out to a lot more sensitivity readers. It’s so far removed from who we are and our cultural identity I’d take a good hard look at the concept before continuing.

~ Mod Lesya

COMMENTARY:

@octopodesinmybutt

So the concept of "indigenous monsters sealed away" would actually work really well with Irish mythology about the Fae/Tuatha de Danon. They're considered the real indigenous ppl of Ireland. It's a bit more complex than that, but you could look into it.

[cchellacat]

The Price of Magic

Inspired by WHALTC and Charles Blackwood.

Warning:  No smut ahead, none, not even a little bit. Not even fluff.

Supernatural. 

 He was late.  I sat in the car debating my next move.  Charles prided himself on punctuality.  One of his many little idiosyncrasies, but one that I had over the course of a century knowing him, come to appreciate.    I could count on one hand the number of times he had stood me up in the last ninety years and each and every time he had gotten himself into trouble.  I turned the letter over in my hand, re reading it for the tenth time. 

He’d gone to check on some distant family.  He’d check in on the Blackwood’s every few decades, introduce himself as a cousin, find out how bad things were for them.  It was a tragic story and one he’d told me only once.  A curse placed on his family’s line, one of madness and power.  I knew he’d hoped it would eventually die out, but magic was poisonous.  It often exacted a terrible price.  It was also something that grew stronger over time when tied to blood.  I wasn’t sure why he bothered going back, but every time I tried to explain that the curse would only grow more powerful he shut me down.   

 This time he thought he had the answer.  The money, the silver pieces, he thought if he could gather them all up, remove them from the family, the curse would cease to have influence.  Maybe he was right, but magic would work against him, stop him. 

He and his brother had been close once, but Charles brother James had grown greedy, killed their friend who had  wanted to marry their sister and then stabbed Charles in a fit of blind rage when he had challenged him.  That’s how I’d met him.  Laying at the bottom of a cliff, blood pooling on the rocks, sinking into the sand, the stink of dark magic heavy in the air, curling around the dying man.  I’m still not sure I made the right decision, healing him…  changing him. 

 He wasn’t happy at first.  Haunted constantly by the thought of his brother, his twin.  We’d spent fifty years together before he’d decided he needed time on his own.  Living as long as we do, I understood the need for space.  We spent a decade apart before joining each other again.  He’d come back lighter, more sure of himself.  He’d come back fluent in Italian and Portuguese.  Another few decades passed and we parted ways for a time again.  That’s when he got himself in trouble with some witches in the French Quarter.  I loathed New Orleans, the place made my bones hurt.  Magic thick and suffocating, sunk deep in the ground.  Getting him out had been tricky, I’d had to buy his freedom with blood.  It took him nearly a year before he was himself again after that.  Then there had been Tibet.  The stupid man had went looking for some mystic or other and fell down a mountain, getting trapped in a crevice.  He was lucky the locals had remembered the path he took or I might never have found him. 

 Charles always meant well, but he was too reckless, too ignorant in how magic worked.  I couldn’t blame him, it wasn’t in his veins as it was in mine and I guarded my own secrets closely.  He hadn’t had hundreds of years to learn to be wary, to be careful of what it could do.  He seemed to think because he was technically immortal that he couldn’t be hurt.  That fallacy was far from the truth, it just meant we had longer to truly appreciate the horror of death.  It meant people could get creative with us and not worry about permanently killing us. 

 He was over a week late for our meeting.  I eyed the address on the back of the envelope.  It seemed I’d have to go find him and pull him out of trouble, again.

 The Blackwood house was a wreck.  The roof caved in in places, windows broken and boarded up.  Just what had happened here?  I didn’t dare approach the house, the place was warded, it was sloppy, but effective.   I could break the wards with a little effort, but I decided to wait, watch.  See if I could spot him.

 Five days later and not a sign of my charming lover had me agitated.

 I waited till dawn before breaking the outer ward, running a mental hand over my link to Charles and tugging.  There was no response, but the link was still there, so wherever he was, he wasn’t dead.  I had worried after smelling the linger scent of ash and smoke from the house that he had actually been killed.  Fire, the only way to truly kill our kind. 

 Picking my way through the undergrowth I reached another set of wards, marking off the garden.  Kneeling I dug my fingers into the earth and found the ward anchor. A silver coin.  I almost dropped it on contact.  The piece felt slimy and corrupt to my own magic. 

This then, was one of the pieces of cursed treasure.  They were planted all around the house!  What madness could possibly have taken root so strongly to make any witch worth her salt think spreading such tainted objects so liberally would do anything other than make everything worse threefold and three.  I centred myself and followed the ward lines.  They were sealed in blood, anchored not just by the tainted treasure but by sympathetic magics too.   

 A cluster off to the right circled a mound of freshly dug earth.  It didn’t take much to figure out where he was and why he hadn’t returned.  The warding was to keep things bound to the earth, to stop them returning.  It was old magic, magic I thought I had managed to eradicate decades ago.  A binding spell to keep my kind in the grave.  Just how had they managed to pull this off?  How had they known?  Or was it just dumb luck?  I’d have to break the whole warding scheme to free him.  When I got him out of here I was going to kill him myself.  First thing first, I needed set up my own wards, I didn’t fancy being killed because I got complacent.

Breaking the ward was more taxing than it could have been, digging up his corpse had me reaching my limits.  When I finally had him free, I checked him over.  No pulse, no breath…  lodged in the back of his skull a piece of glass.  I wrenched it out and sat exhausted, waiting for him to come back. 

 The jerk of his body and the sudden choking intake of breath startled me more than it should have.  Charles eyes were wild with fright and shock.  When he saw me he reached for me, burying his face in my shoulder as he cried, my name a whispered prayer of relef on his lips.  What the hell had happened here?

 I felt the tell tale tingling of another magic user and looked over my shoulder.  The girl was ungainly and thin, hair braided harshly on either side of her head.  Looking into her eyes, all I could see was madness.  The quiet sort that twisted a mind and ate away at sanity.  There was death in her shadow, she’d taken many lives.  I could feel the corruption on her soul.  She’d used magic to kill. 

 “Stay back.”  I reached for my own power and sent it out in warning.  Charles jerked, head up, staring at the girl.  I couldn’t read his face, but I felt his fear, his confusion.

 “He’s dead.  I killed him.  Why is he back?”

 I ignored her and hauled Charles to his feet.  We were leaving, I couldn’t stand to stay another moment in this place.

She glared at me as I led him away, her fingers curling into fists.  We wouldn’t be safe until we were far from her influence.  Actually seeing the cursed silver and feeling the taint of the magic in this place gave me much more information than I’d had before.  The source of the curse was not human, but demonic.  The girl was too far gone to be helped, even if we had managed to find a way to lift the curse, she would always be a danger.  I’d have to contact a coven, owe another favour to those damned witches in New Orleans. 

Charles stumbled beside me silently, his arm slung over my shoulder. 

 “Are you going to say I told you so?”

 I rolled my eyes and tightened my grip on his waist

.

“No.  I think you’ve learned your lesson this time.”

 “She killed me.”

 “Which one was she?”

 “Merricat.   I…  God my head’s a mess.  I feel like I’m waking up from a nightmare.”

 “No wonder, she’d powerful, she’s been messing around with cursed silver and using magic for years.  She’s a murderer.  I could feel it.  Your family weren’t killed by some servant or grocer with a grudge.  It was her.  She put death in their food and watched them die.  How old would she have been?  Twelve?”

 “Something like that.  She…  god I don’t know what came over me…  I think I hit her.”

 “Charles, you can’t save them.  They’re already as good as dead.  Let the line end with them, let me clean this up.  If that girl has children…  it will never end, do you understand?  She’ll birth a demon and bring hell to earth.”

 “I thought I could save Constance, but once I was living in that room…  I don’t know what happened to me, it was like I was someone else.”

 “Are the family buried on the grounds?”

 “How did you know?”

 “A lucky guess.  She’d trapped their souls there.  You were probably being influenced by one and the curse would have been reaching for you too, this is the longest you’ve ever visited since your brother died.  You’re lucky she didn’t burn you.”

 “I know.  I’m sorry, I thought…  I wanted to help them.”

 “Sometimes, there’s no help you can give.”

 He looked at me sharply, but I didn’t buckle.  He saw the harsh reality in my eyes, I watched as he gave in with a heavy heart.  He knew what I would have to do.

 “I’m sorry.”

 I looked away.  The trouble with Charles is that he’s always sorry. 

 “Don’t be sorry, just… don’t go off into danger like that again.”

  The shower ran in the bathroom of our hotel room.  The lights were on, I’d turned back the bed and I ran a towel through my hair, drying it as best I could.  The usual whistling the silly man indulged in was noticeably absent.  I took the clothes he left and stuffed them in a bag, I’d make sure we burnt them as soon as possible.  The shower shut off and he appeared in the doorway, towel slung low around his hips.

 “Better?”

 “Well, I’m clean.”  He answered somewhat bitterly.

 “Charles…”

 “I know.  I’m sorry.  I still feel like I’m about to snap.”

 “It’ll take a few days before you start to feel like yourself again.”

 I sat on the bed and patted the space beside me.  He looked torn and I faltered for a moment.  I‘d assumed the reason he’d written to me was because he planned for us to pick up our relationship where we left it twenty years ago but perhaps now wasn’t the time.  Maybe he had someone else out there waiting for him to return to.

 “Why did you come?”

 The question unnerved me.

 “What do you mean, why did I come?  Haven’t I always come for you?  Why would I stop now?”

 “We didn’t part on the best terms, I only sent the letter so you’d know…  if something happened to me.  I didn’t expect you to come help.”

 “Dear God you’re dense.  We’re connected, you and I.  I could no more leave you to your fate than I could cut a part of myself off.  I can’t ignore you, no matter how long we live, I’ll always come for you if you need me.”

 “I don’t deserve it.  I don’t deserve any of it.  I don’t understand why you didn’t just leave me on that beach to die.  Now I’ve cost you even more.  What will they want from you this time?”

 “The same as before no doubt, or maybe a future favour.”

 “It’s not your debt, it’s mine.”

 “That won’t matter to the witches of the French Quarter.  They want power Charles and you don’t have any, at least none that they need.”

 “You could have left me in the ground.”

 “I could have.  Did you want me too?  Did you enjoy the silence?”

 He sat beside me and braced his arms on his knees.

 “It was peaceful, being dead.  There was nothing, just…”

 I touched his shoulder, running my had to the nape of his neck and rubbing softly.

 “I know…”

 “I’m sorry, about Prague.  About leaving you like that.”

 “I know.  I didn’t like it, I might have disagreed. But I understood.  Besides, it was twenty years ago.  Your silly notion of needing to fight the good fight was the right one.  I went to Rio and stayed there for the rest of the war.  I knew you’d turn up eventually, you always do.  I was just surprised it took so long.”

 “You would really take me back?  After everything?”

 “I’ll always take you back.”  It was the truth, I always would.  He was stubborn and opinionated and passionate.  He was everything.

 “You ever going to tell me why you saved me that night?”

 He lifted his head and I smiled sadly.

 “Maybe one day.”

 It wasn’t a lie, I would have told him, one day, when he was ready, when he remembered.  It’s why I always came for him. 

 Memory like desert heat, rippled in my mind, hot sand under my feet and the sky an endless blue.  Him.  Standing in the light like a god, the play of powerful muscle beneath his sun bronzed skin, the spear held tight in his hand and the arena packed with people, screaming for blood.  His blood.

I’d been foolish, falling in love with a mortal, even the magic I had could do nothing to save him that day.  We’d had so little time, but it had been the happiest I’d ever felt, before or after. 

 He’d been tied to his family in this life, so much so that he couldn’t let it go. So driven by his need to free them that, although we had been happy together, a part of him was always plotting, thinking, scheming to find a way to help them.  Maybe now, finally, he could let them rest. 

 “Come on, you need sleep, real sleep, not the two week dirt nap you took.”  I scooted over to the other side of the bed and tugged on his arm till he lay down beside me. 

 He lay still, staring at the ceiling.  He was always the same, in every life I’d met him, always obsessing over every little detail.  I’d hoped, by linking his life to mine that eventually he might remember who he once was.  I could see the same traits come to the surface each time, stubborn pride, a quick temper, his need to be in control.  But under all that, the passion and heart of an artist.  He was more than just a few two-dimensional traits bundled together, he was like all humans, complicated chaos personified.  I switched off the light and we lay in the dark.  I let out a breath when he finally fell asleep. 

 Sadness welled in me, he hadn’t reached for me once, not since he’d cried on my shoulder in the garden.  Turning on my side, I finally let the tears fall.  I knew the answer to the curse on his blood line now.  I felt nothing but helpless anger.  I’d brought it on myself, the price of magic.  Foolish to think I had circumvented it for myself when I knew the laws as well as any. 

 Once upon a time I had been in love. In my anger at the man who ordered my lovers death I had summoned an entity I shouldn’t have, cursing him and all his line to madness and death.  The gods of magic must have laughed, my love’s soul reborn into the same line I had cursed in his name.  The price of magic was death.  I knew the curse would continue, even my own magic couldn’t shield Charles forever.  When he was the only Blackwood left, the curse would finally eat away at him, until there was nothing left but an unrecognisable shell of the man I once loved.  The price of magic was death.  My death.

[welllpthisishappening]

Hi, Laura. I have a question for you, how did Liam and Elsa started dating in Blue Line?

In an effort to avoid thinking about Ryan McDonagh and JT Miller playing the Rangers for the first time since the trade deadline, I wrote this instead. It’s not real long, but it’s been a week in a way that deserved a few more italics and maybe a few underlines and I’ve been thinking about this ask non-stop for, like, the last twenty-four hours. 

Some more under the cut because I am me.

“He absolutely does not know.”

“You don’t know that.”

Liam stared at her, head tilted slightly with something that felt like a mix of fondness and disbelief rolling off him. “I do know that,” he said, letting his forehead rest on hers. “He’s way too preoccupied with whatever stories they’re going to publish in the next two days.”

“He’s got to relax about that,” Elsa muttered, rolling her eyes when Liam scoffed in response. “He’s not even twenty years old and he’s going to give himself an aneurysm.”

“You want to tell him that?”

“I mean…no.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Liam laughed.

Elsa huffed and she couldn’t actually cross her arms, pushed against the door in the hallway of the hotel she, technically, wasn’t supposed to be in.

It was making her anxious.

The whole goddamn weekend was making her anxious – and only seventy-two percent of that anxiety was hockey based. At least ten percent of it was focused on Killian and his ability to be the single most dramatic human being on the planet because he also wanted to be the single best hockey player on the planet and, well, maybe her original percentages were a little off.

She, at least, was not one-hundred percent worried about hockey. She was, at least, five percent worried about what anyone at that national championship hockey game would do if they figured out that she and Liam were dating.

And had been. For the last five years. Well, kind of.

They’d grown up together, of course, living down the hallway from each other and people used to say stupid things about them all the time.

Oh, you must think of each other like live-in cousins. Oh, isn’t it great to have an older brother like that? Oh, you must be incredibly close.

She hated it. She hated the questions and the assumptions and, yeah, Liam lived down the hallway, but it wasn’t like he was actually her brother and it was…kind of stupid.

She liked him.

She liked him.

Elsa blamed the wine coolers. She’d just turned seventeen and Killian had gotten them somewhere and snuck them into the basement and air hockey was a lot more fun when she was pleasantly buzzed and she hadn’t realized she was alone in the basement with Liam until he coughed softly under his breath. And then it just kind of happened.

They just kind of happened.

She absolutely kissed him first.

“You’re thinking so loudly, you’re transferring your stress to me,” Liam said, brushing the words into Elsa’s jaw and that kind of helps. “Killian knows nothing. He knows less than nothing.”

“Anna knows.”

“Yeah, well that’s Anna.”

“You want to tell her that?” Elsa asked. She, somehow, managed to get an arm in between them, tugging on the front of the jersey he had to wear for pre-game interviews and the fabric of the ‘C’ on his shoulder was rough against her fingertips.

Liam shook his head, hair far too long and curls almost dangerously close to his eyebrows. It made her heart speed up. “Nah,” he grinned. “That’s ok. But thanks for the offer.”

“At least your manners are intact.”

“Good upbringing.”

Elsa could feel herself freeze, eyes going wide before she could stop herself and Liam blinked, by her count, fourteen times. She heard his lips part before she saw them, eyes practically boring a hole into the ground, and she’s now, at least, two percent worried she’s going to sprain a muscle in her cheek from twisting her mouth so much.

“The thoughts, Magi,” he whispered, letting his fingers card through the ends of her hair and her heart might have actually exploded at the quiet nickname. 

He’d come up with after when she was fifteen and managed to figure out two different hockey schedules and four different school schedules and he had exams and she had projects and everything got done. He told her it was magic and that might have been the exact moment Elsa stopped thinking of Liam as the vaguely attractive guy with a different last name who lived down the hall from her.

He never once called her that around anyone else.

“That’s cheating,” Elsa mumbled. She pressed up on her toes anyway, arms looping around Liam’s neck and his jersey got twisted in between them when he ducked his head.

They were still in the hallway, still playing with fire, which seemed problematic a few hours removed from a national championship hockey game, but she didn’t want to leave and he kept promising Killian didn’t know anything and maybe she didn’t have to worry. Maybe things would just be ok. Maybe no one would freak out. Maybe it wasn’t as weird as she was worried, terrified, it might have been.

“And that’s still not an answer,” Liam pointed out.

“God, I don’t know who’s more stubborn. You or KJ.”

“It’s definitely Killian, but if you could maybe not talk about Killian while I’m trying to make out with you, that would be great.”

Elsa laughed, burying her head into the curve of his shoulder and her lungs felt a bit more like a functioning part of her body when she felt his lips press against the top of her hair. “I’ll take that into account in the future,” she said. “You really don’t think this is weird?”

“What’s weird?”

“This. Us. All of it?”

She felt him tense under her, the fingers that had been tracing out nonsensical patterns on her back stilling immediately. Elsa squeezed her eyes closed, gritting her teeth and counting seconds like that would make any of this better or less weird. She’d made it so weird.

Liam leaned back, staring at her incredulously. And, maybe, with just a bit of anxiety on the edge for good measure. “Do you think it’s weird?” he asked, doing his best to make sure his voice didn’t shake and coming up decidedly short of the mark. “Have you always thought it’s weird?”

“For the last five years?” Elsa countered skeptically. He widened his eyes. She wished she had wine coolers to blame all of this on. “No, no, I don’t, but…we’re here and there are all these cameras and Mom and Dad and, like I said, Anna totally knows and has known forever and wants details—“

“—Details?”

“She’s Anna.” Liam hummed, the ends of his mouth twitching and maybe Elsa was worrying for nothing. It would probably be fine. “But, yeah, details and I’m not really sure we’ve ever been that great at sneaking around and what happens if you win?”

“Now you sound like Killian.”

Elsa scowled, but Liam was definitely smiling at her – enough to make her wonder if confidence was a thing she should be working a bit more on. “I’m serious,” she said. “We’re just supposed to pretend like we’re…what? Totally platonic brother and sister and I’m super psyched that you won a national title?”

“I don’t think you have to use the phrase super psyched, technically.”

“None of these are actual answers, you know.”

“I know Magi,” Liam grinned, brushing his lips over hers again. “But that’s mostly because I don’t have one. And I know that’s going to stress you out. So better to just ignore, right?”

“I’m not sure that’s going to help.”

He chuckled lightly, nosing at her cheek and he really did need a hair cut. Her parents wouldn’t appreciate if he had curls in his eyes when he inevitably posed for pictures post championship. They were absolutely going to win.

And Elsa had no idea when she started thinking of it as some kind of collective pronoun.

“I really do not think of you as my sister,” Liam said. “I have never thought of you as my sister. Best friend, definitely, but never sister.”

“You’re trying to be charming.”

“Is it working?”

“Decidedly.”

He kissed her before she could say anything else – or, maybe, the other way around, but it absolutely, positively did not matter because she needed to get back to a different hotel and avoid her actual sister like several different plagues and she nearly jumped a foot in the air when she hears footsteps rounding the corner.

Killian stopped a few feet away, blinking at both of them with a tie hanging loosely around neck and something that looked a bit like the visual definition of incredulity on his face. “Hey, El,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Elsa stammered. She tried to take a step back, but there was a door in her way and the tips of Liam’s ears might stay red for the rest of their lives. “I was just, ummm….”

“Ummm….”

“Ok, don’t be an ass, KJ.”

He widened his eyes, hand still stuck in his hair and she briefly considered checking him into the closest wall – if only to get that vaguely suspicious look off his face. “I’m not being anything, El,” Killian said. “It’s almost eleven, though, which is almost curfew and you guys are standing out in the hallway like Mrs. V just found out we went on the uptown-3 at rush hour.”

“That definitely falls into the category of being an ass,” Liam muttered. “And Elsa just wanted to double check on the plan for tomorrow post-game. You know Mr. and Mrs. V want to do something if we win.”

“When,” Elsa corrected, but it was pointless and both Jones brothers mumbled no jinx under their breath. She rolled her eyes, retreating back another few steps until she was closer to Killian than Liam and the whole goddamn thing was a disaster. “Well,” she continued. “I’m, uh…going to go now. Because we’ve got a plan and an idea and a plan.”

“You said that already, El,” Killian said.

“That’s true. I did. Well done on the listening portion of the exam, KJ. You absolutely pass.” She pressed her lips together when he kept staring at her, eyeing her like he was trying to read her mind and he was usually better at that. “I probably won’t see you guys before tomorrow though,” Elsa added, not entirely sure why she was keeping the conversation going, but she’d made it weird and then weirder and she could still feel the anxiety churning in the pit of her stomach. She was going to fix this. Kind of. “So. Good luck. And score a ton and we’ll follow the plan after, right?”

Killian gaped at her, mouth hanging open in something that felt a lot like suspicion, but Elsa’s eyes darted to Liam. He smiled. And nodded.

And she was only, like, sixteen percent anxious about anything after that.

“Yeah,” Liam said. “We’ll absolutely follow the plan later.”

The plan, obviously, went to complete shit as soon as the final whistle went off.

She spent most of the third period trying not to cry and trying even harder to ignore Anna’s not-so-quiet quips about how clear the tears in her eyes were, but that might have been the best pass Liam ever made and she’d never seen Killian’s smile that wide or that honest and they won.

They won.

They open up the zamboni doors after – a small army of maroon and gold jerseys passing around one pair of ceremonial scissors to cut up the net and it took, approximately, forty-seven seconds for Liam’s eyes to land on hers. He handed Killian the scissors. And if the game-winning set up in front of the net had been the best pass Liam Jones had ever made, then the few feet between him and Elsa was the best he’d ever skated and she didn’t think before moving, lunging forward and slinging her arms around his neck as soon as his hands landed on her waist.

He still had one glove on when he kissed her. Or she kissed him. She probably kissed him.

That was kind of their thing.

Anna shrieked and Killian might have gasped, but her parents looked frozen and just a bit stunned and maybe they’d been better at sneaking around than Elsa assumed.

“So much for all of that, huh?” Liam asked, voice shaking with his laughter and there were still tears on her cheeks. “Magi, are you crying?”

“No,” Elsa hissed. He lifted his eyebrows when he leaned back to look at her and her feet had left the ice at some point. “It was a really good pass.”

“I was totally trying to impress you, how’d it go?”

“Pretty ok, honestly.”

“All part of the plan.”

She didn’t really stop crying for the rest of the night or a few days later when Liam and Killian sat in front of a backdrop with cartoon gophers on it and announced they were turning pro or, a few years later, when the world seemed to crash down around her and Liam had looked so young when they carted him off the ice. Killian kept pacing in the hallway of the hospital, shoulders sagging under the weight of the guilt he’d carry with him for years, and Elsa couldn’t stop crying, didn’t know what to do next until someone told her she could go in now and she practically ran through the doorway.

He smiled at her from the hospital bed.

“Hey Magi,” Liam mumbled, voice gruff and scratchy and she wasn’t sure what sound she made in response, but it might not have been human. “It’s going to be ok. It’s just…we may need to come up with a new plan now.”

They did.

They figured it out and she cried a few more times and moved across the goddamn country and she was still anxious about hockey for, at least, forty-three percent of the year, but it was a good plan and they were even better at executing it. And Elsa knew there were more tears on her cheeks, standing behind a different zamboni door in an arena she’d always just assumed both Liam and Killian would rule together, but it all worked and he nearly tripped over his own skates when he spotted them – the goddamn Stanley Cup lifted above his head.

“Go skate, little brother,” Liam said and Killian visibly exhaled, that guilt disappearing as quickly as it arrived. Elsa might have sobbed.

Liam slung an arm around her shoulder when they were allowed onto the rink, confident steps as soon as their shoes land on ice. There was music playing and Roland was screaming somewhere and Scarlet refused to relinquish the Cup to anyone, but Elsa barely saw any of them – instead her eyes landed on Emma and her barely-certain movements, skidding towards Killian with a smile on her face and something vaguely familiar lingering in the air around her.

She kissed him. Or he kissed her.

The specifics weren’t important.

“The more things change, huh?” Liam muttered, dragging his fingers over the tiny bundle of blankets masquerading as a baby in the crook of Elsa’s arm.

She nodded, grinning as wide as she could and as certain as she’d ever been and it wasn’t easy to kiss him, but they made that work too and it wasn’t ever really weird. “I love you,” she whispered, barely letting him repeat the words back to her before she heard both Robin and Scarlet shouting and Killian laughing and Liam smiled when he kissed her again.

[rassilon-imprimatur]

The Rival Presidency of Drornid...

Skagra relinquished his place at the controls. “You are familiar with the planet Drornid?” he said stiffly.

Romana nodded. “It was the scene of an incident in Gallifreyan history.”

“An incident,” said Skagra. He tilted his head to one side. “I admire your understatement. It is an excellent quality.”

“Thank you,’ said Romana. “Many thousands of years ago there was a schism in the College of Cardinals on Gallifrey. Cardinal Thorac fled to Drornid, declared himself President of the Time Lords, and established a rival court there.”

“Where he became known as the Heresiarch of Drornid,” Skagra continued. “Eventually Thorac returned to Gallifrey.”

Romana nodded, thinking back to her history lessons. “The High Council forced him to return by simply ignoring him.”

Skagra’s eyes narrowed. “And do you know what happened on Drornid, Time Lady, both during and after the reign of the Heresiarch?”

Romana searched her memory. “There was no mention of that on my history syllabus at the Academy.”

“Skagra grunted, and his hands flew over the controls. The holo-screen shifted to show another image. “Then it is time for me to expand your learning. This was Drornid during the reign of the Heresiarch.”

The holo-screen showed the wide vista of a city that nestled in a large valley. Towering over the buildings was an enormous statue of a hook-nosed man in the robes of a Time Lord President. “The Heresiarch controlled the planet from the statue. He set up a pacification beam from his court within, quelling any unrest or resistance from the native populace.”

The image shifted again as Skagra manipulated more controls. Now Romana saw the crowded streets of the city from ground level, with the statue looming down from on high. The citizens of Drornid shambled happily along the streets, dumb smiles on their faces. 

“Drornid at this time was an advanced civilisation, late level nine, early level ten,” continued Skagra. “But the day came, after several hundred years, when Thorac, as you say, left to return to Gallifrey.”

The screen now showed an aerial view of the city. Tiny figures teemed through the streets. “The pacification ray was switched suddenly off,” said Skagra. “The people of Drornid suffered a severe psychic feedback. The centuries of quiet subservience were over, and all the accumulated aggression and unrest spilled back into their minds. They tore their own planet apart.”

- Shada, Gareth Roberts 

Dronid’s first disastrous contact with the Great Houses was long before the War Era, in the period following the Imperator Presidency when various intervention groups on the Homeworld were beginning to demand greater involvement in the affairs of the outside universe. In these “difficult” times several of the more active groups attempted to make aggressive, highly-politicised statements to the ruling Houses. One of the more successful efforts was undertaken by the Grandfather of House Paradox: while one of the least successful was a minor rebellion in the ranks of the ruling Houses themselves. A small clique from the elite bloodlines announced, with great pomp and ceremony, that the Homeworld was no longer fit to do its job and that a new Homeworld should be created inside the Spiral Politic itself… right under the noses of the lesser species. The members of this cabal simply turned their backs on the Presidency, and removed themselves to a world where they felt the locals would treat them as the beings of wisdom and status they so obviously were. The site they choose was Dronid, then a world in its early industrial era, divided into autonomous city-states but with a rapidly-expanding system of trade and technology.

Yet the “renegade Presidency” is now only a footnote in history, nowhere near as well-remembered as greater rebellions like the Imperator Presidency. Why? The main reason is just that this new attempt at defying the ruling Houses was stupid, infantile and badly-planned. The renegades believed themselves to be following in the footsteps of the Imperator, doing something cutting-edge and revolutionary, but while the Imperator had been ambitious, bloody-minded and utterly ruthless, the new rebels were polite academicians and deluded bureaucrats who in truth knew next to nothing about concepts like ”warfare”, “conquest” or even “violence”. They simply didn’t believe that the ruling Houses would hurt them, and besides, they’d seen how confused and helpless the Houses had been after the Imperator’s rebellion. Surely, they told themselves, we’ll be safe from our cousins back Home?

They were, of course, hopelessly wrong on both counts. Following the Imperator crisis the ruling Houses had become distinctly paranoid, terrified that a second Imperator might make their problems even worse. These new rebels might have been hopeless time-wasters, but the Houses didn’t feel it was worth taking any risks. They elected to deal with the breakaway ”Presidency” in the most damning way imaginable: by ignoring it.

This is far worse than it sounds. As has been documented elsewhere, the Houses created and maintained the entire framework of history. To this day they see the Homeworld as the great ”eye” which observes that framework, keeping all its causal connections and time-structures in check. If this “eye” should fail to see some part of the Spiral Politic, then the effect on that world would be catastrophic. Ungoverned by the certainty of history, the world would be torn apart by the random probability-forms of the unformatted universe. There may have been House members on Dronid to try to keep time stable, but the renegades now had no link to the Homeworld, nobody to acknowledge that they even existed.

The result was a cataclysm, a front of protospace and anti-history which not only tore the renegades’ powerbase to shreds but ate its way through the culture of the world’s local population. The city-states of Dronid became terrified, insular communities, the inhabitants hiding behind their siege walls as neighbouring states were ripped apart by the colliding time-states. Once the attack of ignorance was over, and the Houses saw fit to re-connect the world to the rest of the Spiral Politic, the face of Dronid had been changed beyond recognition. An early-industrial society had been turned into a world of fallen nations and paranoid anxiety, while most of the original renegades were nowhere to be found. (Having a certain resistance to alter-time effects, it’s generally thought that they must have escaped the world before being consumed by the storm. Though the leaders of the clique were returned to the Homeworld, the others have never been heard of since, but if any of them survive then they’re hardly likely to pose any kind of threat in future.)

- The Book of the War, edited by Lawrence Miles, Appendix I: The Rival Homeworld 

[...]

Mr Gabriel reached for the Blue Dog. “So, you want to get yourself off Drornid while you’ve still got all your legs?”

Mr Qixotl felt like hissing. He hated people who did that. Technically, this planet was supposed to be called “Drornid”; that was the name the locals had always used, anyway. But there’d been a typo in the first edition of Bartholomew’s Planetary Gazeteer, so the rest of the universe called it “Dronid”, including the off-worlders who came to make a living/killing here. And, as the off-worlders were at the heart of the planet’s economy, most of the natives went along with them. Some people always had to be picky, though.

- Alien Bodies, Lawrence Miles

(Obviously the contradiction between the Shada novelization account and The Book of the War/War in Heaven account is that most of Gareth Roberts’ expansions are his own invention... to my knowledge, Douglas Adams hadn’t actually developed the history of Dro(r)nid that deeply, other than the idea that a renegade Time Lord had set up shop and then got ignored by Gallifrey. This contradictory gap is a really fascinating spark of theorizing/headcanoning; how can the Rival Homeworld be a millennia-old event taught in Academy history, while only being a result of the Morbius’ Crisis, which, according to The Book of the War, a mere few years before the Doctor left Gallifrey? War propoganda? Rewriting of Gallifrey history to hide the unpleasantness? You decide!) 

[iamthestrangerinmoscow]

Nail Polish

Doctor Who, rated G, ~2000 words, Thoschei/Twissy implied

Just a fun little thing I wrote about Theta Sigma, Koschei and bottle of black nail polish. 

-...if you flip to section 13 point 4 of your books, you will find another, more detailed explanation of this theorem. Pay attention to calculations for secondary elements, especially combinatorial topological spaces. - The Professor lifted his tired eyes from the holographic lightboard and peered into the lecture hall. Four thousand years of teaching the same course, again and again, and barely any satisfaction. - Do you have any questions?

Evidently, the students didn't have questions. Most of them didn't even care about the subject at all, and certainly not this early in the morning. A few young Time Lords were dozing off at the top row of seats, not having slept for a week or so. Some were chatting telepathically, mouths covered to conceal giggles. Two or three were scribbling in High Gallifreyan, trying to finish homework that was already late. Barely anyone even knew what the Professor was talking about.

In the center of the hall, right next to an ancient column, sat two students who irritated the Professor the most – Theta Sigma and Koschei, as they called themselves. The first one was pale and skinny, with forever messy fair hair and a smile that stole many hearts. The second had the bluest blue eyes you have ever seen, and a bit patchy goatee beard. Instead of making notes, Theta was currently painting Koschei's nails with a black nail polish. He was nearly finished with his right hand, and was about to start on the left.

One of the girls on the left side of the hall was watching them with a smile on her face.

-Ushas? - She called, turning to her right.

-What? - Ushas was one of the few students who actually wanted to study, so she didn't appreciate the interruptions.

-Is Theta and Kosch... you know... a thing?

Ushas smirked. - He wishes. - She replied, pointing at Theta.

-Does that mean I have a chance with him?

-Probably. I mean, he has already hooked up with half the students his age, so...

The other girl looked surprised.

-Compensating. - Ushas shrugged.

At that point most of the people in the hall were staring at Koschei and Theta, amazed by their level of insolence. Rebellion was pretty much removed out of Time Lord genetic code a long time ago. Therefore breaking the rules like that was really rare, and, as a consequence, really cool. Unfortunately, students weren't the only ones who noticed the little rebellion.

-Am I interrupting you, by any chance? - He said, looking at the two friends with disapproval.

-No-no, it's fine. - Theta replied, now applying nail polish to Koschei's left pinky finger. - Carry on.

The hall roared with laughter.

-Perhaps you know how to prove this theorem then? - Professor asked, raising his eyebrows.

-I do, actually. - Koschei said, his voice calm and dry.

The Professor let out a single high-pitched laugh, bewildered by such a preposterous and arrogant claim. - Ridiculous! I've been a math teacher my entire life, and I can assure you, young man, that you don't. Dozens of Time Lords and Time Ladies have tried for thousands of years, scholars much wiser than you or me, and all have failed.

-But I can prove it. - Koschei insisted, carefully removing his hand from Theta's grasp. - Did that when I was seventy four.

-Well, why don't you show us then? - The Professor suggested, sitting down at his desk.

-No problem. - Koschei got up and walked down the steps, his oversized robes dragging on the floor behind him.

He approached the lightboard and glanced at his hands. Realizing that he can't use his right hand, he placed it behind his back and started writing with elegant movements of his left index finger. While he was writing, he mumbled something under his breath. Only five minutes later he placed a final symbol on the lightboard and stepped back, admiring his work.

-That's roughly it. - He said, returning to his desk, and taking the nail polish from the table to finish the work himself. - Go figure.

The Professor was reading the calculations frantically, eyes wide in bewilderment. On the left of the hall Ushas scratched her chin, rather impressed. She turned to the girl who was sitting next to her.

-Looks like he did prove it. - She said. - Damn.

-Impossible! - The Professor declared. - This is too simple, too obvious. Someone would have thought of it ages ago!

-But it does prove it. - Koschei told him. - Perhaps the wise scholars weren't that wise after all.

The Professor was still in denial. -Class dismissed! - He announced, and everyone jumped up from their seats.

-Thanks, mate! - Mortimus and Drax both saluted Koschei as they were leaving the room.

Magnus even snapped a photo of the poor Professor, his world shattered to pieces by one small equation.

-Do you want to get some food? - Theta Sigma asked, once they entered the lengthy corridor outside the hall.

-Might as well. - Koschei replied, and followed his best friend.

***

Koschei was sitting in a small, round room which must have belonged to a professor of the Academy. It was full of ancient books, obscure pieces of tech and relics of the past. He sat in a comfy armchair, feet up on the table, reading one of the old texts someone left unsupervised. It wasn't very entertaining.

At last the front door has opened, and a Time Lady stepped inside. She didn't look a day older Koschei, despite having lived a very long life and now being at her last regeneration.

-This is absurd. - Koschei proclaimed, not even looking up from the text. - You can't punish me for proving a theorem!

-Who said anything about punishment? - The Time Lady smiled, coming closer to the table.

He finally put the text down to see her for the first time, and realizing who she was immediately removed his feet from the table.

-Lady Cardinal. - He said, more than a little bit surprised.

-Indeed. - She nodded. - However I am not here as the Cardinal of the Prydonian Chapter, but rather as a scholar of math – one of those you called not so wise after all.

Koschei wasn't intimidated by her in the slightest. - It's a simple solution.

-It is. - She agreed. - And an elegant one too. It takes skill, and knowledge, and also imagination to come up with something like that. All the things I look for in my students. You could be one of them soon: work with advanced material, things you can't find in your textbooks. What do you think, Lord of Oakdown?

-Oh please, Lord of Oakdown is my father. And my grandfather. And all of my cousins. Call me Koschei.

-Koschei. - Lady Cardinal repeated. - Academy nicknames weren't so exotic in my time as a student. What does it mean?

-It's from an Earth fairytale. - He explained. - It is a name of a magical being. Powerful, intelligent and immortal. All the things I strive to be.

-Oh yes, I know your friend, Lord of Lungbarrow, is obsessed with Earth cultures.

-Obsessed is a strong word. - Koschei said. - Theta is curious, that's all. Curious beyond my understanding. That alien cultures course we took was the definition of boring, and he still enjoyed.

-Couldn't have been that boring, if you learned something from it. - She put her hand in her pocket and took out a tiny bottle of nail polish she picked up in the lecture hall. - Yours, I presume?

Koschei took the bottle from her hand and hid it in his bag, leaving her remark unanswered.

-I won't keep you here any longer. - Lady Cardinal said. - You are free to go now. Think about my offer.

-Sure. - He told her, getting up. - And if I decide to join you, maybe you would consider giving some extra credit to 'Lord of Lungbarrow'? - He asked.

Lady Cardinal chuckled. - What did he do to deserve it?

-He inspires me. - Koschei smiled, closing the door behind him.

This time, he was only partially joking.

***

Missy heard the Doctor walking even before he started messing with the Vault's opening mechanism. He had a heavy step that echoed across the universities corridors and inevitably gave away his location. As he was unlocking the door, she made an attempt to un-mess her hair, but it didn't work. So instead she leaned back in her chair and pretended to not be bothered by it.

-Good evening. - The Doctor greeted her. - Or is it good night already? I can't tell.

-You're just in time for Game of Thrones. - Missy told him.

-What's that?

-A TV-show I watch. - She said. - There's a lot of sex and drama and decapitations.

-Sounds like your thing.

-Well, we can't watch Disney all the time, can we?

They both paused for a moment, and then a smile appeared on the Doctor's face, for seemingly no reason.

-I nearly forgot. - He said, and took something out of his pocket.

He placed the object on the table in front of Missy.

-It's black nail polish. - She looked at him, waiting for an explanation.

-Do you remember it?

Missy thought for a few moments.

-Is it..?

-Yes.

-No.

-Yes it is! - The Doctor was beaming.

-How could you possibly preserve it? - Missy scoffed. - It's been hundreds of years ago!

-I am sentimental. - The Doctor shrugged. - Took it with me when I was leaving Gallifrey with Susan. Wanted to have something that reminded me of you.

She wasn't sure how to react to that.

-Did you enjoy Lady Cardinal's advanced math class? - He asked.

-Not more than the look on our math professor's face when I proved that theorem.

They both laughed, remembering that little moment of triumph. Then, without a word, the Doctor opened the nail polish bottle and gently took Missy's hand.

-You will never forgive me. - The words escaped her mouth before she had a chance to think about it. - I know you want me to be good and maybe, somehow, you will actually believe that yourself, but you will never forgive me.

-Doesn't matter. - The Doctor replied. - I haven't forgiven myself either, not even for the things I technically didn't do. - He sighed, and briefly looked her in the eyes. - One day, a long time ago, I had to come to terms with the fact that we are not, in fact, that different.

She smiled with a corner of her mouth and decided not to reply.

That night the darkness resided only in the latest episode of Game of Thrones and in the intense color of her favorite nail polish.

[laurabwrites]

Character Development Questions: Hard Mode - Eric

This is for the same story Lucas from last Monday will be appearing in. Eric is the second (out of three) characters I’m trying to flesh out.

1. Does your character have siblings or family members in their age group? which one are they closest with?

Eric had a younger brother, Marcus, who was three years younger than him. All their cousins were hundreds of miles away, so the families weren’t close. Marcus and Eric weren’t super close but they were friendly and sometimes did stuff together (video games or catch. Occasionally Eric chaperoned Marcus and some friends at the movies [‘cause he could drive]), but mostly they hung out with their respective friends group.

2. What is/was your character’s relationship with their mother like?

Reasonably good. Eric’s mom, Nadine, worked longish hours as a professional so he didn’t see her as much as his Dad, but he respected his Mom’s professional accomplishments, her work ethic, her outlook on life, and her chili.

3. What is/was your character’s relationship with their father like?

Close. Eric learned a lot of household skills from his Dad, Eliot, and had long discussions about literature and ethics with him.

4. Has your character ever witnessed something that fundamentally changed them? If so, does anyone else know?

Yes. And he really doesn’t want to talk about it.

(Pria has the news article summary version of what happened, but not from Eric. So her view is that she doesn’t know what happened, not really. Lucas doesn’t know.)

5. On an average day, what can be found in your character’s pockets?

Phone, wallet, pocket/multi tool (Leatherman actually). In his backpack is his laptop, today’s class textbook, notebook for the appropriate class, homework, pencils, notecards, highlighters, sunglasses, water bottle, and a deck of playing cards.

6. Does your character have recurring themes in their dreams?

Walking through the woods during the fall with his Dad and brother.

7. Does your character have recurring themes in their nightmares?

Theme, no; event, yes — his parents’ and brother’s murder. Technically, his murder too, except for the permanently dying part.

8. Has your character ever fired a gun? If so, what was their first target?

Yes, he went target shooting once. He decided it’d take more time and work than he could afford to get accurate enough to make a gun a reasonable weapon choice. So that was the last time he touched a gun too.

9. Is your character’s current socioeconomic status different than it was when they were growing up?

Yes. Eric grew up solidly upper-middle class — two working, professional parents — and now he’s a black college student on financial aid and work study with no family support.

10. Does your character feel more comfortable with more clothing, or with less clothing?

Eh. It’s cold in New England and heat is expensive. More clothing for now.

11. In what situation was your character the most afraid they’ve ever been?

The night his home was invaded and his family was murdered.

12. In what situation was your character the most calm they’ve ever been?

Calm might be the wrong emotion but he appeared incredibly calm at his family’s funeral. That was shock, numbness, and disassociation though. Actual calm would probably be last night, right before falling sleeping with Pria, or the walk through the woods with his dad when they talked through applying to colleges and career goals.

13. Is your character bothered by the sight of blood? If so, in what way?

Yes, it makes him angry and shaky (in sufficient quantities. A paper cut or scrap is fine.)

14. Does your character remember names or faces easier?

Faces.

15. Is your character preoccupied with money or material possession? Why or why not?

A little - he has to be right now for survival.

16. Which does your character idealize most: happiness or success?

Happiness.

17. What was your character’s favorite toy as a child?

A puppet stage he and his brother put shows on together.

18. Is your character more likely to admire wisdom, or ambition in others?

Wisdom. Reminds him of his Dad.

19. What is your character’s biggest relationship flaw? Has this flaw destroyed relationships for them before?

He’s been a bit too passive and too willing to put up with shit (like people staying in the closet) for the past year, year and a half. There’s some self-loathing issues going on.

20. In what ways does your character compare themselves to others? Do they do this for the sake of self-validation, or self-criticism?

Eric compares himself to what other people accomplish as a method of self-criticism. He’s carrying a lot of guilt (and anger) and thinks he should have been capable of doing more.

21. If something tragic or negative happens to your character, do they believe they may have caused or deserved it, or are they quick to blame others?

Depends on the severity of what happens, but right now, Eric definitely thinks he deserves everything bad that comes his way.

22. What does your character like in other people?

Imagination, creativity, empathy, follow through, reliability.

23. What does your character dislike in other people?

Violence, dullness, meanness, cruelty.

24. How quick is your character to trust someone else?

Give people a chance but verify.

25. How quick is your character to suspect someone else? Does this change if they are close with that person?

Depends — does he have a reason to suspect someone? If he does, he’ll worry at the problem until he figures it out.

26. How does your character behave around children?

He’ll try to engage them in a storytelling or imagination game. It usually works.

27. How does your character normally deal with confrontation?

Depends on who’s on the other side of the confrontation. He’s black and very aware of the disadvantages that puts him in New England, even (particularly) on a liberal arts college campus. If it’s with people he knows and trusts, he’ll verbally stand his ground, preferably engaging in a debate. He doesn’t trust people it’d turn to violence around, so during such a confrontation he’d work to calm things down so he can get the hell out of there. And preferably never interact with them again.

28. How quick or slow is your character to resort to physical violence in a confrontation?

They need to swing first. Except when it comes to Lucas’s frat brothers, the ones older than Lucas. Eric thinks they swung first a long time ago.

29. What did your character dream of being or doing as a child? Did that dream come true?

A professor of literature, preferably African-American or Japanese.

He’s 18. He’s working on it. Maybe.

30. What does your character find repulsive or disgusting?

Organ meat. Sewage. Anything with a bad enough smell.

31. Describe a scenario in which your character feels most comfortable.

Reading a book with a cup of hot chocolate. Maybe some music. Maybe some other folks hanging out.

What? It’s cold in New England. He may have grown up here but it’s still cold!

32. Describe a scenario in which your character feels most uncomfortable.

Angry authority figures — particularly law enforcement or security services.

33. In the face of criticism, is your character defensive, self-deprecating, or willing to improve?

Willing to improve

34. Is your character more likely to keep trying a solution/method that didn’t work the first time, or immediately move on to a different solution/method?

Socially, different solution. Physical problem trying to solve, try again to figure out why it isn’t working and then correct from there.

35. How does your character behave around people they like?

A little intense, in that he’d like to keep talking/interacting so he’s paying a lot of attention to the conversation. Unless folks are just hanging out, then he’ll relax into whatever activity is going on. If he really likes them / is attracted to them, he’ll be as physically close/affectionate as their body language indicates they’re comfortable with.

36. How does your character behave around people they dislike?

Disengaged.

37. Is your character more concerned with defending their honor, or protecting their status?

Status, as in the status of being alive.

38. Is your character more likely to remove a problem/threat, or remove themselves from a problem/threat?

He’d prefer to remove himself, but recognizes this isn’t always an option.

39. Has your character ever been bitten by an animal? How were they affected (or unaffected)?

Not a thing that’s happened to him.

40. How does your character treat people in service jobs?

You’ve got a job to do and I’ll try not to make it any harder than it has to be.

41. Does your character feel that they deserve to have what they want, whether it be material or abstract, or do they feel they must earn it first?

Eric thinks it doesn’t matter, he’ll have to earn it and keep demonstrably earning it to prevent it, whatever it is, from being taken away.

42. Has your character ever had a parental figure who was not related to them?

Yes, his freshman history teacher — she taught him a lot about text analysis.

43. Has your character ever had a dependent figure who was not related to them?

No.

44. How easy or difficult is it for your character to say “I love you?” Can they say it without meaning it?

Fairly easy if he means it, but also yes, he can say it without meaning it.

45. What does your character believe will happen to them after they die? Does this belief scare them?

He’s not sure — probably hell, assuming anything exists after death. (Have I given the impression that Eric is a bit depressed? Because he’s a lot depressed.)

[awasete-2]

Riverbank

Seven months ago, I went to a three-day Christian retreat in the backwoods of Missouri. I wrote about it.

In the front of the camp cabin, Jonathan, a bespectacled senior with a softspoken voice, reads off of a list on his phone. “Martin and Ryan; Philip and Xiaoteng.” Ten of us guys are circled around him, bundled up in sweaters and rain boots—even though it’s only September, the hours after midnight can become surprisingly frigid. “Uhm, David and William.” As Jonathan reads off each pair of names, the upperclassmen exchange knowing glances. They know what’s about to happen, even though the juniors are in the dark.

“Brian, you’re with, well, other Brian.” The taller Brian punches the shorter one on the shoulder, jostling the entire group. A snicker ruffles through our small group of boys.

“And Michael—you’re with Jonah.” I’m a little relieved. Jonah Zhang seems to be one of the gentler guides. We’re both technically the same age, but he’s been in Asian Christian Fellowship for longer than I have, making him a senior of sorts. He’s wearing his trademark Student Technology Services hoodie and a goofy smile on his face; when he walks towards me, he’s a little uncertain, awkward. It puts me at ease.

“We’ve said this to the first watch already, but I’m saying it again just to be safe. Make sure you’re bundled up, because the woods are always colder than you think. You may not have noticed this, but it’s dark as hell, so use your phones for flashlights. And pairs always stick together—coyote watching can be dangerous.”

Jonathan swings open the door, and the ten of us leave into the woods.

No one tells you how lonely freshman year is until you experience the loneliness for yourself. And, just like in faith, everyone’s moment of epiphany comes in different forms. Mine came suddenly, on a late Wednesday evening, when my face was hovering three inches away from the chemistry lecture on my laptop screen. With a cheap cafeteria chicken tender in my left hand, and a note-taking pencil in my right, my eyes suddenly glazed over and I realized I had done the same routine four nights in a row. Four days of going straight home after classes, getting chicken and fries, watching lectures, studying for tests, and letting my head crash my pillow to go to sleep. Four days in a row; half a week, a prison sentence, an eternity. The realization was devastating in its simplicity—it wasn’t that studying left me with no time to do anything else. There was just nothing else to fill my time.

My family’s incessant calls only served to accentuate my loneliness. That night, in our weekly group Facetime call, my mother asked: “Have you met any Asian friends yet?” And my grandfather chimed in: “Maybe even an Asian girlfriend?” Laughter from all parties in the call; laughter from Illinois, Pennsylvania, the Philippines. “Y-yeah! I’ve met a lot.” Improvising, I add: “I’ve, uh, even met some Filipino friends.”

This was the right answer. The three faces on my screen smiled, impressed. My mother piped up excitedly. “You know Cielo, don’t you, Michael? Your cousin! She joined the, ano, the Filipino Student Association at SLU. Fifty Filipinos! They have banquets and even dance the Tinikling. You should find those! Asian, Filipino student groups.”

Throughout this, I nodded enthusiastically. “Uh-huh. Yeah. Uhm, I, uh, I really have to study. A big test tomorrow.” These words, although sudden, were the easy way out—there was no way Asian parents would argue with the filial obligation of studying. “Oh, okay!” They say their goodbyes.

My father: “Study hard.”

My grandmother: “Are you eating well? Eat more.”

My mother: “And sleep early.” They all wave to me, and the screen shuts off.

The last thing I see before the call cut was my mother’s smiling face.

The night is clear, but the shade of the tall trees and the mist covering the ground keep anything from coming into view. So I stare at the back of Jonah’s hoodie for a landmark—as he walks, there’s no trace of his earlier awkwardness. He moves determinedly, and I have to hurry to keep up with him on the winding hiking paths. I want to make conversation, make a benign comment about how cold it is, but the rest of the group is hushed in a reverent silence. I swallow my apprehension and continue on.

We suddenly emerge from the woods, and in front of us a river unfolds; a fine mist hovers over it, and its reflection glows beneath the night sky. Down by the riverbank, a short distance away, I see a rickety wooden bridge floating on the river, connecting our side to the grassy clearing on the other. I’m still shivering from the cold as Jonah begins leading me towards the bridge.

“You’ve probably figured this out by now, but we’re not actually watching any coyotes,” he says candidly, breaking the silence. “We call it ‘coyote watching,’ but it’s a tradition that ACF guys always do for their brothers on the last night of the retreat. I think the girls have a similar tradition. And oh—watch your step. The bridge is slippery.” I follow Jonah down the bridge, closer to the far riverbank, and suddenly he sits down. He pats the ground next to him. “Have a seat,” he invites me. “I’m going to take off your socks.”

In the next moment, I’m feeling the cold air assaulting my bare toes, and I start to shiver even more intensely. I’m appalled; turning around, I see the other four pairs of guys doing the exact same thing, seated and spaced evenly around the bridge. All the underclassmen (myself included) are hovering their feet above the water and the seniors are bending over to gingerly peel their shoes and socks off. In the darkness, I see one of the seniors reach down, dip his hands in the water, and begin scrubbing his junior’s foot.

“No. No way. You don’t have to do something like that...” I trail off.

“No, I’m going to,” he says simply, as if it’s already been decided. Jonah’s procured a rag out of nowhere, and he’s bending over, soaking it in the cold lake water.

Indignantly, I protest. “Washing my feet? Jonah—you’re really going to wash my feet?” I look around, and I seem to be the only one protesting. I drop my voice, a little ashamed.

“It’s not as cold as you think. You get used to it.”

His hands meet me, and my entire body shivers.

Of course, I had been lying to my parents. It had been five months in college and I didn’t have any Asian friends to show for it. My original strategy of making friends, waiting for someone to magically appear and begin talking to me, wasn’t working, as evidenced by my crippling loneliness. So I started to follow my mother’s idea of finding Asian student groups.

Asian kids tend to stick together, and if you wanted to find the big Asian cliques at WashU, you really only had two choices—the international students (I was not an international student), and the Asian Christian Fellowship.

I once heard someone call ACF the “big daddy of all Asian student groups,” and indeed it was—its membership encompassed the presidents of the school’s Lunar New Year Festival, the North Korean awareness club, the K-pop dance team, and every Asian cultural club in between. Participating in its events were members of the Chinese, Taiwanese, Vietnamese, Japanese, Korean, Hong Kong, and Southeast Asian student groups. And, just like the name implied, it was filled to the brim with over a hundred Asian-American Christians.

I went starry-eyed thinking about this, imagining myself surrounded by other smiling Asian college students, with their arms around me as we posed for pictures. ACF was the portal to my new life, to being a part of culture clubs like my cousin Cielo, to performing in Lunar New Year, and to parties and kickbacks and late-night trips to McDonalds.

It really didn’t matter to me whether my friends were Asian or not, but the prospect of being less lonely while making my parents proud was irresistible. And I was passably Christian—I had a few years of Catholic elementary school under my belt, and I wore a bracelet with a cross sometimes. And so when an acquaintance from ACF invited me to attend their Fall Conference—a three day Christian retreat in the backwoods of Missouri—I said yes.

“Do you know why we do this?” Jonah asks. I shake my head no. He scoops up another dollop of frigid lake water and pours it over my toes. I’m still shivering; a breeze is passing through, and I haven’t gotten used to the cold yet.

“Before he was about to be killed, Jesus gathered his apostles for the Last Supper, right? And up until then, his role was always the teacher, the leader—the one who set examples, performed miracles, and all that kind of thing.

“But before the Supper, he goes out of his way to wash the apostle’s feet—something a servant usually does for their master’s guests. Jesus was trying to say that even the masters will have to serve as servants.

“We wash your feet because we—your upperclassmen—want to be your servants in God. And we’ve made a promise to walk alongside you as you explore your faith deeper, to find what you need to find.”

I work up the nerve to speak. “What have you found?”

Jonah finally removes his hands from my feet and breathes a contented sigh. “God’s love,” he says. “A perfect love. To me, it’s the reason for existing.” He looks at me expectantly—is he expecting me to prompt him further? To disagree?

“Other people might have different priorities. But we—we have our eyes on something bigger. This world is beautiful, and there is great value in loving it, but we believe that it can never fully satisfy us. We know that a love even more beautiful, even more perfect, still awaits us in the next life.”

My head is spinning—I’m not sure if it’s sleep deprivation or hypothermia from the cold water, but something keeps me from comprehending anything Jonah has said.

“And God’s love is something that you can have, too.”

My first night at ACF’s Fall Conference was the happiest I had felt in a long time. On the way to the camp, I awkwardly introduced myself to the other members in the car, each of us crammed in with duffel bags and overstuffed backpacks. (ACF had around nine or ten cars going to camp, all just as stuffed as ours.) The chummy junior next to me who had introduced himself as Ryan threw an arm around me: “Good to have you, Michael! I hope you don’t mind Taylor Swift, because that’s all Lucy plays in her car.” The rest of the car laughed; Lucy whipped around and smacked him on the knee. “I’ll kick you out of this car,” she threatened, and suddenly, I found myself laughing too. We spent the next hour-and-a-half belting the lyrics to every Taylor Swift song we could think of. I hadn’t sung or smiled that much in a long time—I was afraid I was going to lose my voice.

Once we arrived, night had already fallen. Lucy told us to leave our supplies in the car, and follow her into the main cabin. “We’re a little late for worship, so walk in quietly,” she said in a hushed voice. As our small caravan shuffled into the cabin, I saw a few students setting up instruments—an electric guitar, a keyboard, a drum set—in the front of the room, and scores of ACF members seated in foldable chairs facing the makeshift stage. Just as we seated ourselves in the back row, the lights dimmed and the crowd hushed, with no trace of the rowdy socializing a few seconds before.

The music began to play—the guitar and a piano uncertainly stumbling into their opening chords. Someone had turned on a projector, and lyrics showed up in big white letters on the screen in front of the room. Everyone stood up, and I stood up too, afraid to be left out.

“Worthy of every song we could ever sing.”

I watched as a transformation began to settle across the audience. People closed their eyes, took deep breaths, and began swaying to the music. They recited the first lyric in unison—everyone seemed to know the song except me.

“Worthy of all the praise we could ever bring.”

The voices began to gain confidence, lifted along by the rising chorus. In the darkened room, I could see a sea of faces, some stoic, some smiling wide, some struggling to hold back tears. I felt like I couldn’t join in—I was awestruck by the concert unfolding around me. “We live for you,” the crowd sang in unison. “We live for you.”

The strangest thing about the faces in the crowd was that I recognized them. Peering across the room, I saw Will and Joseph and Simon, three boys from my study group that always pantomimed basketball shots instead of paying attention during review sessions. Here, they pumped their fists; their booming voices made the chorus sound like a national anthem.

To my left stood birdlike, brown-haired Allison clutching her hands close to her heart, fingernails turning white. Her cheeks were flushed, eyes closed, as if expecting a kiss from somebody. But all the while she continued to sing, her quiet voice harmonizing with the rest of the crowd.

And directly behind me was Martin—stoic, emotionless, heavyset Martin of WashU football team fame—with both hands raised to the air and his eyes shut tight. “Open up my eyes in wonder,” he belted. “Open up my eyes.”

Voice upon voice built upon each other, drowning out the instruments, forming a deafening cacophony of worship. In the darkened room, I could only see outstretched arms, tear-streaked faces; my ears and heart were pounding with the music, singing, sobbing; it was hard for me to breathe. The room, to me, was beating and spinning.

Nearby, a boy collapsed into his seat, his head in his hands, and his body shaking as he sobbed. His friend immediately sat with him, wrapping an arm around him, and I heard him say, “Shh, it’s okay. We’re here for you, okay. God is here.”

I began to cry. I was overwhelmed at the depth of their dedication, the outpouring of love they were displaying all at once, all together. I looked wildly around at my classmates, my acquaintances, my brothers and sisters in Christ: how long have you been hiding something like this? Is this what you were thinking about the whole time, during classes, on the ride here, before you go to sleep, when you talk to your parents? Is this what you were holding back?

Suddenly, I realized that I was one of them too. Standing in the center of the room, I had become indistinguishable from any of the other sobbing, crying, singing Asian Christians in the Missouri countryside. To love God, to dedicate my life to him—this was possible for me, too. I was born with this same chance. Our voices had become one.

I stretched my arm upwards. I wondered, would I be able to reach this too? To feel what they are all feeling? To see what they can see? And in spite of myself, I began to sing, through tears: “I will put my trust in you alone,” I choked. “And I will not be shaken.”

Jonah is still looking at me expectantly. The worship songs from last night are replaying in my head. My feet are still cold, and dripping wet.

I finally ask: “Where did you… how did you find all of this? Has everyone…” I fumble with my words. “How does every ACF member know how to do this?”

“We all started in different places,” he replies. “For me, ACF was so similar to my church at home that the transition was very natural. But everyone here”—he gestures towards the rest of the bridge, with the other pairs of boys—“we’re all still figuring out how to love God, and how to dedicate everything we do to him. Don’t think of yourself as inexperienced, or anything; I saw you singing at worship last night.” We both laugh.

“And if you ever want to talk or read or pray about the things you’ve explored here, the promises you’ve made—it would be my joy to do that with you.”

Jonah pulls a towel from his pockets to dry my feet, and as he does, the bridge jolts and shifts on the water. I am suddenly paranoid, as if someone’s about to burst in and arrest me for faking it, for lying. I hadn’t been seriously religious since elementary school, when all you had to do to please God was finish your Noah’s Ark coloring book and memorize the rosary. So why was Jonah washing my feet, extending this invitation to somebody like me? Doesn’t he know that I came here just to make Asian friends, not for God?

But if this was the path I needed to take to find friends, to please my parents, to finally stop watching lectures by myself on Friday nights, then part of me was ready to take that chance. Love, acceptance—I didn’t care whether it was from Jonah or God or from every Asian Christian at Washington University. I just wanted to feel like I did last night, when I sang with my hands held high, when my soul felt full and complete. Jonah looks at me, and his brown eyes promise eternal life. They say that I have been through enough.

“I—I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say,” I admit.

“It’s okay. We don’t have to say anything,” Jonah comforts me. “If you want, we can pray instead?”

“I don’t know how to do that.”

“That’s okay. I’ll just pray for you, then.”

“I don’t know how to, well, have someone pray for me.”

“I can teach you that too,” he says, clasping his hands in mine. “Close your eyes.”

I’m meeting a friend a few months later after Fall Conference, eating cafeteria chicken tenders and catching up, and offhandedly I mention my brief foray into religiosity. She’s Asian, incidentally—through a series of shared classes, we’ve fallen in to the habit of grabbing meals together.

“Wait—you’re in ACF? I just found out that so many people I know were in it, too! The president of our dance team always talks about it.”

“Was. Or I kind of am. I’m not super active or anything.”

“You know, my parents want me to join.”

“Yeah, same. My parents were thrilled when I told them about it.”

“They want me to find a nice, Korean, Christian man. Can you imagine?” Fiddling with a napkin, she lowers her voice. “Aren’t they, like, kind of a cult?”

I pause. Part of me resists. The word sounds wrong—it feels like I’d be slapping Jonah in the face, or splashing lake water on him and laughing. You washed my feet, weirdo.

She backpedals. “Oh, nonono, don’t get me wrong, if you really like it, I don’t want to call it a cult or anything. Uhh, I’m sorry. Forget I said anything.” She stares down at her fries.

“It’s okay!” I reassure her. Without thinking: “You’re right. They kind of are.”

“I told you!” We both laugh. In the corner of my eye, I see Jonah leave the cafeteria.

In an instant, we make eye contact, and suddenly I remember, the singing, the washing, his merciful eyes. He’s messaged me every week or so since then, and I’ve either made excuses or ignored them altogether. I feel a surge of guilt, trailing a string of broken promises behind me.

But he is looking at me with so, so much kindness. He smiles. I smile back. And absolved of my sins, I turn away.

[sacred-arrow-writes]

Twelve Days of Christmas. On the Eleventh Day of Christmas-

A/N: In which each day, Kagome gives Inuyasha a gift signed by his Secret Santa in hopes of bringing back his Christmas Spirit.

I got the idea from Hallmark as a prompt. Im just using the idea for the story, the only thing I kept the same from the movie is the newspaper, so don’t sue. I do not own Hallmark or Inuyasha and Co. So, enjoy! I’ll post a ficlet a day until December 25th. Enjoy everyone!

Now, be warned: this chapter is the beginning of the end. It's going to be about drama and angst. So technically, it won't have a happy ending like the ones before. But fear not! I will have a happy ending to the entire series. So keep seated and enjoy the ride. ;)

Internally I am screaming about how pissy this is because I am NOT an angst writer. I am Puppy kisses and Rainbows covered in Fluff then dipped in Smut. So forgive me, but I think it’s okay. Now to finish the final CHAPTER! 

My loves, this is for you:

@inunanna @keichanz @mmhinman @akiza-hades-rose @adorableears7 @ryupioupiou @kagomeforever @grapefruitwannabe @purekagome @astarisms @stoatsandweasels @inukag-4ever

Day Eleven December 22, 2016:

---IK---

Sango was practically dripping sweat when Inuyasha walked through the front doors at eight AM sharp. He had a spring in his step and a smile that was far too bright for his usual annoyed self. He's in a great mood, dammit. She straightened her posture and smiled back -albiet it was an awkward smile- but a smile non the less. The half-demon, in the most un-Inuyasha-like manner, twirled around and handed Sango an envelope. The brunette eyed the white envelope cautiously. "What is this?"

Golden eyes sparkled as he softly shoved the paper into her hesitant hands. "It's a bonus. I wanted to make sure you knew how grateful I am that you made me give Kagome a chance on the Secret Santa thing." He gave her another mega watt grin before bouncing into his office where he knew the eleventh gift was waiting for him.

Sango face-palmed for she knew something he didn't know and she wasn't sure how long she could keep such a secret from him. As she opened the envelope and saw what bonus he had given her, she nearly fainted. Guilt welled inside her and Sango had to bite her tongue to keep from confessing. "Kagome better come clean, or I'll burst." She muttered as she made her way to Inuyasha's side.

"I knew it would be here. I can't wait to see what it is. Sango, call Kagome please. I want her to meet me."

Gulping, Sango pulled out her phone. "W-when and where?"

His right, black brow rose when he caught her stutter. "You okay San?"

Nodding quickly, she repeated herself. "When and where sir?"

Sir? When did Sango start to refer to me as sir? Shrugging it off, he peeled back the paper to the brown, package paper. "Now, if she can and at the cafe on Broad. I want to take her to breakfast." He continued to open the gift and smiled when he pulled out a green box decorated in white stock paper with silver glitter and snowflakes on the edging. In the center was two large, white snowballs that appeared to be sailing through the air. He lifted the lid carefully, removing the note and picking up a styrofoam ball covered in silver glitter.

On the eleventh day of Christmas,

My Secret Santa gave to thee;

Throw away your worries,

Leave behind your cares.

Bring along a friend,

and throw snowflakes in the air.

Merry Christmas, your Secret Santa.

"A snowball fight? Huh, that's sounds interesting. I'll call Kagura and see if I can pick up Rin on my way to see Kagome. Did you get ahold of her yet?"

Sango nodded. "Yes, she'll meet you there soon. Shall I call Kagura?"

Inuyasha shook his head. "Nah, I got it. Go visit that boyfriend of yours." He waved her off in good graces.

Sango did not need to be told twice. She fled the office and the building, racing for the Gazette as fast as she could in three inch heels.

---IK---

Kagome sat nervously at a table in the cafe she and Inuyasha visited frequently. She knew this as going to be the hardest thing she ever did, especially after all the things they had been through together. She twisted her fingers around one another until she heard her name being called as she was met with two pairs of golden eyes coming up the stairs to the second floor of the cafe.

Rin grinned as she flew to hug Kagome. Her raven locks pulled back into a tight braid, flew around her as she skidded to a halt and embraced the startled woman. "Kagome! Uncle Ash said we're going to have a snowball fight!"

Kagome smiled, despite the pain she was feeling, or was it guilt -no, it was both- and nodded. "If that's what the eleventh gift is, then I guess so. Are you excited?"

"Of course I am! So is he." Rin hooked a thumb over her shoulder to point at the half-demon staring fondly at Kagome.

"Hey." She smiled.

Inuyasha closed the distance between them to cup her face softly and kiss her. "Hey back." At the sound of Rin's giggles, Inuyasha blushed and pushed the child behind him. "Can it squirt." Rin just giggled some more.

Kagome was lost in his eyes and the determination to tell him about the job and her being his secret santa, flew out the window. He grabbed her hand as Rin grabbed the other and they tugged her gently out the door.

Her heart broke just a little at the thought of telling the truth. Before they made it to the lobby of the cafe, Rin released their hands and flew down the steps as if she were on a mission. "Daddy!" She jumped the remaining step and landed safely in her father's arms. The young girl nuzzled his neck, smiling ear to ear.

"She really loves him doesn't she?" Kagome asked smiling.

"Daddy's girl hands down. You should have seen him when she was born. I swear his heart grew three times that day." Kagome laughed at the pun used referring the Grinch, but in this case the Ice Lord himself.

"In other words, he melted a little?" Inuyasha snorted with a nod.

Sesshomaru had the faintest hint of a smile curl his lips as he held his daughter. "Rin, what have I told you about jumping off the stairs like that?"

"Sorry daddy, I was excited to see you."

"Hn." He kissed her temple before setting her on her feet. "Ah, Miss. Higurashi. I hear congratulations are in order."

Kagome paled as her brown eyes snapped to his face in horror. Oh please no. Not now. However, luck was not on her side.

"I was just informed that you were offered a job at our Seattle post."

"Seattle as in Seattle, Washington?" Inuyasha turned to Kagome who could only nod dumbly.

"Yes, brother. Washington."

"But that's three-thousand miles away!"

"It's actually only two-thousand-eight-hundred and fifty-seven point six miles away." Kagome whispered.

"She was offered a very impressive job, Inuyasha. I was intrigued in how she did it until I received a call from the Editor in Chief stating that her piece on your Secret Santa article was in fact impressive. It sealed the deal. They want her there after the first of the year. I thought she would have told you."

Kagome shook her head. "I was going to, I just didn't know how to tell you."

Inuyasha's forehead developed a crinkle as he thought for a moment. Soon he was wrapping his arms around her. "You deserve this, Kagome. I am happy for you. We can make this work between us. I'm not letting you go again." He whispered in her ear.

Tears welled up in her eyes and when she blinked, they fell hard and fast. She gripped his back and half cried, half laughed as she kissed him. "Thank you." She whispered.

Sesshomaru bent down to kiss his daughter's head before he gave a snort and walked up the stairs. "I'll see you tonight, brother."

"Yeah."

"Oh and Inuyasha-" said half-demon released the crying woman to look up at his brother. "-if you return Rin to us with even a the tiniest scratch, I'll maim you."

Rin huffed out a "Daddy!" before Inuyasha flipped him off. "I know how to take care of my girls!" With that, he grabbed them both and bolted for the door.

---IK---

Sango knocked on the door to the Higurashi house, panting. She expected Miroku to answer, but when Kikyou opened the door, Sango squeaked. "O-oh, K- Kikyou. I was expecting Miroku."

The newly, expecting mother laughed. "I see. Well, even though he doesn't technically live her anymore, you're welcome to come in. He's actually eating us outta house and home."

Finally catching her breath, Sango laughed as she was led through the door. Miroku was indeed in the kitchen eating Kikyou out of house and home. When violet eyes landed on his woman, fork half way to his open mouth, he dropped said fork and ran to her side. "Sango. Please tell me you didn't mention anything to Inuyasha."

Closing her eyes and leaning back, Sango wiped spewed bits of eggs off her face. "Miroku, say it, don't spray it!"

Miroku covered his mouth and finished swallowing. "Sorry, love."

Kikyou handed her a napkin. "Did you tell him?"

Thanking her for the offering, Sango shook her head. "No. I left as quick as I could. You have to understand the guilt I feel for keeping this from him. He is so happy, I mean disgustingly happy, and he gave me a bonus for Christmas and I can finally pay off my car-" Sango rambled as the other two looked at her as if she was growing another head. "-it's killing me! He finally found someone to make him happy, really happy. And since his mother died, he finally found his Christmas spirit again. Inuyasha is a lot of things, but being common sense smart isn't one of them. For the love he hasn't figured out Kagome is his secret santa-" She gasped and slapped a hand over her mouth as Miroku's fell open.

"Excuse me?! Kagome is the one whose been giving him all these gifts?!" Miroku shrieked like a harpy. Sango and Kikyou nodded. Violet eyes widened and he pointed an accusing finger in her direction. "You knew too?"

Kikyou lifted her arms in a shrug and nodded. "I did, but so what? I'm her twin. She tells me everything."

Her cousin was having none of it and growled. "That story got her a new job, away from us, you know." Again the twin nodded. "I'm happy for her too, but did she plan this out all along?"

Kikyou smacked him upside the head. "No, idiot. Kagome just wanted to show Inuyasha the Christmas he had forgotten. He's the one who brought her home nine years ago during that blizzard that almost stranded her to the campus."

Sango's brow lifted up as she looked to Miroku for confirmation. "The one she fell in love with?"

"Yes. The job was just as much a shock to her as it was to us. Let her figure things out." Kikyou kissed his cheek. "I'm going to eat, if you left anything for me to eat that is."

He sighed. "Yeah, yeah."

"And you better no have eaten my last donut." She warned as she made her way to the kitchen.

Sango jumped as his eyes suddenly widened and he grabbed her wrist hissing for her to run. He pulled her along to the door and started throwing on his coat and shoes. Sango was about to ask what was wrong when she heard a loud thud and a scream. "MIROKUUUU! You ate my donut?!"

Said man paled as he drug his girlfriend out into the snow. "You ate a pregnant woman's food?" He nodded. "What the hell, Miroku?!" She smacked him twice, just for being an idiot.

---IK---

Rin laughed as she hid behind a large tree in the park, large, white balls of snow flying in every direction. Peeking around the tree, she noticed her Uncle's back to her, -obviously he was honed in on Kagome's direction- and she let a ball of ice sail through the air. When it collided against his broad back, she stiffened when he stood straight and turned narrowed golden orbs on her. Rin squealed, ducking for cover. "Kagome! He's gonna get me!"

Inuyasha chuckled as he snuck up on her and tackled her to the snow with a tickle fight. Rin squealed harder, alerting Kagome to the attack. Inuyasha caught a glimpse of raven hair as Kagome darted behind a bench. "Silly wench, I see you!" He paused the attack on his niece to stare at her hunched form.

Kagome laughed as she stood up, right arm behind her back. "I know." With a wink to Rin, that went unnoticed, the eight year old giggled and shoved a handful of frozen water down her uncle's shirt. He yelped, jumping up unaware of his sneaky wench. Kagome let loose a string of snow balls she had pre-made to assault the half-demon.

"I was a diversion!" Rin yelled as she took off running.

Inuyasha growled playfully. "Oh yeah?" With wide, golden eyes, Rin gulped and took off running as fast her demonic legs would take her. Kagome stared wide eyed at the speed in which she was displaying and never noticed Inuyasha until it was too late. He barreled into her, tackling her and smothering her with swift licks to the neck and cheek. "Ew! Doggy kisses!" She howled in laughter.

Rin stopped to add to the dog pile, pun intended, and laughed with Kagome. When everyone caught their breath, Rin noticed something shiny on Kagome's scarf. "What's this?" She pulled back her hand to reveal silver, glitter-coated claws. "Glitter?"

Kagome shot straight up and tried dusting herself off, but it was too late. Inuyasha held up one end of her scarf and investigated the substance. He recalled the glitter from his gift he received only a few hours prior. When he finally put them together, he heard his brother's earlier statement in his head: "-I received a call from the Editor in Chief stating that her piece on your Secret Santa articles was in fact impressive. It sealed the deal." It sealed the deal  Frowning, he turned to her. "Kagome?"

She gulped, but smiled anyway. "I was going to tell you-"

"That you're my fucking Secret Santa?" She gasped as she sat back causing Rin to stand and move back at the flare of Inuyasha's demonic energy. Rin mumbled a quiet 'Uncle Ash?' before he too stood. "What the actual hell, Kagome?!"

"I was going to tell you, but being a Secret Santa is kinda self explanatory! It was a SECRET!" Kagome defended, standing as well, dusting off the snow coating her jeans.

"A secret my ass. You used me!" He howled, Rin backed away when she noticed the red seeping into his golden hued eyes. She sat on the bench Kagome had hidden behind earlier that day.

Kagome placed her hands on her hips. "What are you talking about?"

"You started the whole thing to get a story out of me! You only used me to get a promotion didn't you?!"

"What? No! I would never do that! I never expected anything from doing this-"

"Oh bullshit! You planned it from the moment you saw me again. Use the guy who was buying the Gazette so she could advance her career. Did you know I was back in town when you "ran" into me that day?" Inuyasha's anger was morphing from pissed off to sad fast.

"No, Inuyasha. Miroku told me to do a piece on the man buying the company so I could prove I was fit to do my job since you were buying us out."

He pointed a clawed finger in her direction. "You admit it! That fucking pervert told you to write about me! You just added a little glitter and girly shit to the mix! Clever girl."

It was Kagome's turn to fume. "Watch your mouth about my family! We had no idea it was you! I had no idea! Honestly. I just didn't want to get fired. The only reason I did the twelve gifts was to help bring back your Christmas Spirit, jerk!"

Inuyasha scoffed. "Yeah right. This was all a ploy and I can't believe I actually believed it. I can't actually believe I trusted you." He spat.

"Hold on a minute! I didn't think this would end up twisted-"

"Well, it did. Here I was falling in fucking lo-" he shook his head. "-no, you pull this shit. You betrayed my trust, and my feelings!" He pushed past her to walk away.

Kagome's eyes widened with tears at the sentence he almost finished. Before she could think, she scooped up some snow and threw a snowball, -hard- at his back. "You jerk!" Inuyasha stopped, but never turned around. "I never meant for this to happen. My feelings were real. They are real. I had nothing to do with the job. I never knew anything about it. In fact I never even agreed to take it. As for the gifts, I was just doing that for you. Inuyasha, please. I love you." The tears fell like a waterfall.

He stiffened, but soon shook it off. "Rin lets go." He reached for her hand and she hesitantly took it. Her eyes still pinned on Kagome's face, tears still streaming freely down reddened cheeks and her nose slightly damp.

"But, she said she-"

"I heard what she said. Did you hear what I said? Let's go." He growled.

Rin cringed at his tone, but nodded and followed her uncle quietly. She looked over her shoulder to see Kagome fall to her knees, hands clutched to her chest and still crying. She heard a faint whisper and by the look on Inuyasha's scrunched face, he heard it too.

"I love you, Inuyasha." Kagome watched as they walked through the falling snow to get in his truck and when the sound of his engine roared to life, she covered her face and howled out her despair. She couldn't possible watch them drive out her life forever.

It was at that moment the sound of shattering erupted in the air, Kagome being the only one who heard it. When she took a shuddering breath, she realized it was the sound of her heart breaking. It wasn't until several minutes later did Kagome drag herself from the snow and walk home.

Inuyasha. I have to make this right.

Inuyasha viciously wiped tears from his eyes as he refused to cry in front of his niece. Apparently, she was the only girl in his life who loved him unconditionally, for the woman he fell head over heels for, stabbed him in the back. He figured Kagome was walking back home laughing at how foolish he was for trusting her. "Who could ever love a half-demon like yourself?" He sneered when the thought crossed his mind. "That bitch." He hissed.

Rin sat quietly in the passengers seat. She knew he was just upset, that he really loved Kagome and this would fade soon. She reached over to touch his white knuckles gripping the wheel. Almost instantly, Inuyasha relaxed and held her tiny hand. No words passed between them the whole ride home.

Please, whoever is up there listening. Make this right. Uncle Ash and Kagome belong together. Don't let this be the end. Rin opened her eyes and smiled. Things would work out. She just knew it.

---To Be Continued---

I'm sorry. Like I said, I am not an angst writer. Until later my loves. Check back and see what the LAST day has in store for our favorite couple! ONLY one chapter left! Then I can finally finish the New years ficlet that I started on a month ago! Thank you for your patience!