#loaf speaking from the void

[loafthecat]

In case anyone asks

She is me, and that is only half a joke.

….yes…….i might relate to gangle…..just a lil….only a smudge…..

[mothiir]

list of astartes ocs

here’s a brief little summary of my ocs, because i often lose track of them and thought that you might like to know more about the boys. NSFW stuff included, so stuck it beneath a cut. this is just the space marines — taleath will get his own post because he’s my favourite (don’t tell the others). Happy to answer asks/write stuff about them

Vanatas Borjigin

The self appointed leader of the trio. Turned into Astartes later than generally recommended, so has a decent memory of his life before; of raising a batch of squalling sisters, of scavenging for meat in Nostramo’s rancid streets. It gives him major older sibling energy, even now.

Taller than Shrike, shorter than Zakyr, with bone-white skin and void-black eyes. Wears his long dark hair in a ponytail more often than not; a severe hairstyle that accentuates his raptor-sharp cheekbones. He has the usual scars you’d expect an Astartes to carry, but due to the implants being carried out well into his teens (rather than in prepubescence) the surgery scars are far more prominent than normal, standing out liver-purple across his abdomen. 

Prone to fainting fits, in which he collapses, jaw tight against the screams welling in his throat, his skull singing agony. Blood drips from his nose and his eyes, and when he wakes he babbles nonsense — and yet the nonsense always seems to come true. That’s right: our boy Van is cursed with the gift of prophecy — something he is at pains to hide from the rest of his brothers. Zak and Shrike know, but they keep his secret. Normally, Vanatas can tell when one of the attacks is coming, and it gives him just enough warning to hide, or for one of the other two to shove him into a cupboard to stop someone seeing.  

He is mean mean mean to you. He really likes it when you cry, whether you’re begging for mercy or for him to slow down or please Mr Night Lord not back there — and he always gets a bit feral when you start getting weepy. He’s the most likely to treat you like a serf-shaped fleshlight, grabbing you with very little warning, yanking your skirt to the side and sinking in with a low, contented groan. 

Despite the above, he’s normally the one ensuring you’re functioning as well as possible. He remembers to feed you, shouts at the others when they’ve let you go too long without sleep, and even gave you painkillers one time, after Zak had been a mite too rough. Maybe there’s a shadow inside him, a whisper that remembers what it is to care. And maybe not. Who knows. 

Zakyr Lamnidae 

Large, even for an Astartes. Almost eight feet tall, all bulky muscle, and — as you might imagine — almost constantly hungry. The other two taunt him for being a lardass, but he always ends up with the best bits of any meal they’ve stolen (or hunted). They never say that they are doing this, nor does he acknowledge it or thank them. It is just how it is. You hide Van when he starts bleeding from the eyes; you give Zak the fat-marbled rump of an unfortunate heretic. Yum. 

Has the same black hair, black eyes combo as Vanatas and ninety per cent of other Night Lords. He wears his hair short, shaved at the sides, and has a distinctive scar on his cheek that crawls across his jawline, and down onto his throat. It looks almost like it was caused by the talon of a great bird — or maybe a set of claws, swift as lightning? Either way, he’s not saying how he got it. If you ask, he and Vanatas start getting a bit twitchy. Some secrets are best kept quiet. 

He was in the dungeons for stealing a loaf of bread. He was six years old and starving. That’s how he ended up getting shipped out to be a neophyte — this isn’t a story he tells much. He just sees it as a great amusing irony. Imprisoned for the most base of offences, and now free to commit far worse ones. That is justice, isn’t it?

Is the most intelligent of the three, if we class intelligence as ‘book smarts’. Speaks fluent Gothic, as well as a handful of other languages, and can threaten to flay someone in upwards of twenty three tongues, including some xenos ones. Is a truly excellent artist, and absolutely would not have given the poor serf that abomination of a tattoo. Back when they were neophytes, and thus not even allowed to smell women, he did very well for himself by drawing — uh — ‘special pictures’ for other Astartes. He likes drawing the serf, and has a sketchbook full of paintings that run the gambit from surprisingly beautiful to absolutely obscene. No one is allowed to touch that sketchbook — not since Van borrowed it and returned it with the pages sticking together. 

The others are doing their best to learn Gothic, and to teach you Nostramon. Unfortunately, it’s a slow process, so Zak often finds himself conscripted in for translation. The deal is simple: he will translate, but he gets to join in. 

As for the NSFW stuff — he can be very lazy in bed. He likes being ridden, because he does enough physical work in his day job and damn it he just wants to lie back and watch a pretty girl cry as she tries to get his dick inside. Is that too much to ask? He knows, theoretically, what a clitoris is, but good luck getting him to touch it. He likes degradation, but in his sadistic hedonist way he likes to get you to degrade yourself. He’ll whisper in your ear what a horrible little slut you are, spreading yourself for the legion, and get you to repeat it back for him. It’s also how he’s teaching you Nostramon. You have a very niche, very detailed vocabulary. 

He will threaten to get you pregnant at least once a week. If you hadn’t seen Vanatas and him get in a literal fight over it, you would believe the threat - he sounds so sincere. He will be buried balls-deep in your warm innards, cooing about what a shame it would be if he came inside, how awful it would be for you. It’s a game: you’re meant to beg him not to, to offer to suck his cock, or offer up your arse. And you probably should play it. If you don’t, he starts getting a bit huffy, and no one wants that. 

Shrike Melloria 

The man is an Emperor-forsaken pervert.

Right, you probably want more detail than that. Shrike is the youngest of the group, and was born in jail. His mother was a whore; his father some unknown vagabond. When the ships came for new recruits, they grabbed up the infant because, well, what else were they to do with him? 

The words ‘boyishly handsome’ aren’t usually used to describe a Night Lord — but Shrike manages to justify their use. Yes, he’s a seven-foot killing machine — but he also has golden hair, and eyes that are more very dark blue than black. He is pale, like all his brothers, but in a way that suggests he would tan under sunlight, rather than incinerate. Give him a paint job and a week on a farm, and he could pass for an Ultramarine (as long as he didn’t open his mouth, or come into contact with any civilians)

In battle, he is a stone-cold sniper; a prodigy. There’s very little that can escape his reach. As a consequence, he’s less scarred than your average Astartes, since the enemy doesn’t normally have a chance to reach him. In another, more foolish, Legion this might be seen as a mark of cowardice — but Night Lords are pragmatic, and Shrike’s strategy gets the enemy just as dead. 

Right, now the good stuff: he is a toxic mess of a man, clingy and snuggly and nuzzly, even while doing the worst possible things to you. He’ll fuck you full, almost render you speechless from fucking your throat, and then coo about how pretty you are while scooping his cum from between your legs and jamming it into your mouth. His brand of dirty talk is cloyingly sweet, while also being absolutely horrifying: “Sweet little fledgling, open wide for me! There we are, now that’s all you’re getting —“

Vanatas has explained to him multiple times that serf cannot survive on jizz alone, and yet he still considers trying it. 

Breeding kink like whoa. Doesn’t actually want a baby, but loves the idea of making you so completely his. Would be the worst father imaginable. Is being slipped birth control by both of his brothers just in case he gets any ideas. 

Yes, he did the tattoo. No, he did not ask permission. Yes, he considers you his wife. No, the others do not agree. No, divorce is not an option. Yes, of course Vanatas and Zak have elaborate ‘let’s cuck Shrike’ role play. 

So, these guys aren’t nearly as fully formed as the Night Lord Idiot Trio, but throwing them in here to remind myself to write something later. Here are my Black Templars: 

Ezra Rothenburg 

Captain of his squad, a venerable dilf veteran of countless campaigns. Tall, broad, grey-haired, with a bouquet of scars, including one that stretches across his lips, giving him a permanent sneer. 

Blessed by the Emperor and most devout in obeying His Commands. Those that know him note that the Emperor’s Commands tend to coincide with what Ezra was planning to do anyway. 

Can and will fake visions to get the more fanatical of his brethren to fall in line. The way he sees it, the Emperor would have struck him down if He disapproved. He has not, so He must be on Ezra’s side

Isaiah Bodenstein von Karlstadt 

Primaris Marine. Big boy. Very sweet and earnest and utterly devoted to the Emperor and his captain, in that order

Himbo energy hides a mind like a whetted knife

[soft-bellied-tannies]

Chubtober is here!

Hey friends, it's been a while! Life is hard and jobs suck, but it's Chubtober and I'm going to do my very best to keep up with it all month. Hopefully, it revives our little community a bit because I miss seeing the activity. Feel free to send prompts whether it follows the Chubtober prompts out there or not! I tend to do my own things this month as long as I'm writing. I hope you enjoy! :)

Read here or on AO3!

This one is from the Farmer's Market prompt on fatguarddog's 2024 Chubtober prompt list.

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It all started when Jin became a talented sourdough home baker. What began as a simple hobby developed into a lucrative small business. He had a standing booth at the weekly farmer’s market next to another small business owner. Jimin was also a baker, known for his aesthetic desserts and breakfast pastries. 

They had neighboring stands every Saturday morning without missing and became very popular stops for young locals and families. One of those regular customers quickly became Jin and Jimin’s favorite - Yoongi. The pair would consider him one of their biggest supporters, always purchasing multiple items at both stands. 

A loaf of bread, a pack of bagels, cinnamon rolls, “flavor of the week” cakes, cookie samplers, new pastry flavors. Yoongi’s haul was always impressive. Jin and Jimin were both incredibly grateful and also assumed that Yoongi must live with family or have a pack. They considered he may even bring them into his office or host a Sunday morning brunch after the Saturday farmer’s market.

But in reality, Yoongi was single, lived alone, never willingly hosted anything, and mostly worked from home. His hauls were solely for him because Yoongi thought the bakers deserved it. A handsome, funny man who could bake delicious bread and a cute, charming omega who could create beautiful desserts were a dual-sided attack on Yoongi’s willpower. 

In his first week of meeting them, he bought a bit of everything just to support the duo thinking he could freeze the extras or give some to his elderly neighbors. What Yoongi hadn’t expected was their stuff being so delicious that it was now all he craved and always needed in the house. On top of that, even though he wouldn’t admit it, Yoongi certainly had a crush on both omegas. 

After a few months, Yoongi was surprised to see two additional people with them. Jimin had an alpha at his booth named Namjoon who always had plants and flower arrangements while Jin brought Taehyung, a beta who grew up on a farm that produced fresh dairy products and fruits. 

Yoongi had more than enough money to throw around and started developing quite the appetite so he started buying from all four of them. His already big hauls of baked goods turned into him bringing home huge hauls from the two booths that were of course still right next to each other. He tried to ignore the feelings of disappointment at both omegas seeming to have partners, but their baked goods certainly filled the void of his emotions. 

Jin and Jimin loved talking with Yoongi, asking his thoughts on recent new items, and taking any suggestions he had. They never ventured into more personal topics, but Jin and Jimin both started to notice that Yoongi only carried his own omega scent and that he only talked about himself or his neighbors enjoying their food. 

Their small talk always filled the space while Jin and Jimin would pack his things nicely in cute bags with little notes, but after Yoongi left, the omegas would speak between themselves about how sweet Yoongi was. 

However, one thing they never discussed was the clear fact that Yoongi was getting a bit softer. He certainly had fuller cheeks and a little belly that seemed to start becoming more noticeable with his rotation of farmer’s market outfits. If anything, they thought Yoongi looked much healthier now than when they first met him.

After a few months, Jin and Jimin begin to question if it’s just softness. When more of the gain was enough to be noticeable and it was settling more on Yoongi’s belly, they had a passing moment of thinking Yoongi could be pregnant. Maybe all of this has been a pregnancy craving and that is what made him such a dedicated customer.

But as omegas, they knew the other signs and nothing else was seeming like pregnancy. He had this round belly that started to show more at certain times. They debated asking, but it felt so invasive and rude to assume. Then another two or three weeks passed of Jin and Jimin talking about it after he left their booths and Yoongi’s next stop was a local brewery’s booth where he took a couple of samples. It confirmed for Jin and Jimin that he was simply gaining weight and to them, it almost felt satisfying to know they were providing for him in a way.

While the other two were finding themselves so endeared with him, Yoongi was admittedly a bit dejected to find out that both omegas seemed to have committed partners, but that certainly would not stop him from supporting them. It also may have to do with the fact that he can’t imagine going without their delicious food. They were sweet to him, always gave him a little extra for free, and genuinely seemed to care about how he was doing each week.

Somehow, Yoongi missed all the signs that it may be more than both omegas having their own partners. Being raised in a family that was “traditional” meant that he saw mates as monogamous couples. He didn’t put together that the four of them were clearly a pack.

He simply reasoned in his head that they were just really good friends. When Jimin hopped over to Jin’s booth to ask for something and kissed him on the cheek in thanks, it was a friendly gesture. When Taehyung hugged Namjoon while fondly watching the omegas make a joint sale, Yoongi thought it was nice that alphas were so affectionate in their friendships.

When two other “random” guys showed up at their booths and Jin introduced them to him, Yoongi again somehow missed the way Jin comforted a shy alpha named Jungkook or how the beta named Hoseok immediately moved to help Jimin restock one of his display shelves. 

It was clear Yoongi was starting to place some distance between them after a while. He didn’t want to embarrass himself with the weird flirting that sometimes developed on his end so now he just stopped to buy his usual order and stayed long enough for them to pack it up. Granted, that was still quite a bit of time since Yoongi started with just a tote bag thinking he would try the market once to see if there was anything he wanted and has since upgraded to a cart solely for his bakery hauls. 

The pack started to catch on that Yoongi was slightly oblivious and even more lonely considering how he’d missed all their hints at more than a customer relationship. When he started to pull away from engaging with them, they were disappointed but decided not to push him and just remain hopeful that they could get through to him at some point. 

However, taking it slow went out the window when Yoongi missed two weekends in a row. He hadn’t missed since the first time Jin and Jimin met him and they were genuinely worried about him. They even considered trying to find him online or reaching out through their digital payment system, but they decided to be patient. 

After those two weeks, Yoongi showed up looking tired and pale. He had clearly lost a little weight and lacked his usual pleasant demeanor. Something about Jin and Jimin being fellow omegas made Yoongi comfortable enough to explain that he caught the flu that somehow developed into an unexpected heat. 

The other two omegas were worried, almost horrified, at the thought that no one was there to take care of him. They had yet to confirm if Yoongi lived with anyone or had a pack, but the lack of other scents and always coming to the market alone made it likely that he was alone. 

Both immediately offered to come by later with some soup and more substantial food so Yoongi could actually rest. Yoongi wanted to say no, but the fact that they were so kind and seemed so safe allowed him to say yes. And as much as he wanted to deny it, Yoongi did feel his omega immediately preen at the idea of being taken care of by the other two.

When they dropped off food, Jin and Jimin were able to confirm that only one scent was present at his place and it was fairly standard furnishing and decor for a single person. They decided right there to make a more concerted effort to get closer to him even if Yoongi only wanted to be friends. He still hadn’t seemed to pick up any of the hints from the pack, but they were not quitters.

The following month left Yoongi feeling torn as the sweet bakers from the farmer’s market were slowly becoming his friends who he could rely on to bring him delicious food and genuine conversation, but the struggle to keep his attraction to them at bay was growing in tandem. And this emotional turmoil seemed to distract Yoongi from the fact that his growing attachment to these new people in his life was not the only thing growing. 

Every time Yoongi told himself to again put distance between himself and them, maybe even skip the farmer’s market one weekend, was overshadowed by their kindness and desire to connect with him. The biggest gesture came as a surprise to him. 

Jin and Jimin show up unannounced one day with two weeks' worth of meals in hand as their heats were approaching. They warned him that they wouldn’t be at the next market and made him meals on top of extra baked goods plus some flowers from Namjoon and a whole bundle of stuff from Tae’s family farm. They left multiple bags on his counter before hugging him and heading home, leaving him to unpack the surprises.

Yoongi found that they wrote little notes for everything about the best ways to reheat or prepare to make it last longer, with an extra little letter from them saying they would miss him which left him feeling butterflies, a blush high on his cheeks from a simple note. He was beyond crushing on them at this point. Yoongi was in love. 

That thought terrified him as they were taken omegas. Yoongi couldn’t possibly impose on any relationships. He wasn’t even sure how he could face them again at this point. The embarrassment of becoming lonely enough to rely on vendors at the farmer’s market turned friends for comfort pushed him toward one answer. He needed to try dating again. 

His omega mother had been trying to set him up for years and he’s finally going to let her do it. He can’t crush on these mated omegas forever. Yoongi made sure to emphasize that his mom should pick a beta who was calm and accepting. He wasn’t asking for much. 

However, Yoongi should have sent his mom a new picture to use since she clearly sent her friend’s son one of his graduation photos. The beta arrived outside the restaurant to meet Yoongi and the awkward look up and down made the omega feel exposed and judged. He knew the picture held a much slimmer, more confident Yoongi and the date readily reminded him of that. 

Riding home in the taxi left Yoongi feeling drained and anxious, maybe even humiliated. The beta had raised a brow at him ordering pasta instead of a salad and all the conversations led back to if Yoongi had any physical hobbies. He felt judged and forced to think about his weight gain which was a topic he kept shoved in the corner of his mind more and more lately. 

His solution now? Continuing his normal routine of visiting the farmer’s market and forcing his omega to realize that Jin, Jimin, and the others with them were going to remain friends - that’s all. And maybe he would let himself fantasize about living in a comfortable cottage with Jin and Jimin, eating their delicious food and feeling content. What was the harm in that? 

Yoongi decided to rip the bandage off the following Saturday, telling Jin and Jimin about his disaster of a date, but the reaction he received was completely unexpected. The omegas were clearly putting on a fake smile for him, seeming bothered by the fact he went on a date even before Yoongi shared the outcome. It seemed to boost their mood that it went terribly and they expressed their sympathy, saying some people were just assholes and he deserved better. 

Jin added two extra cupcakes to his box of pastries to “lift his spirits” and Jimin drew little hearts and smiley faces on all the labels. Neither of those things was particularly out of the ordinary, but Yoongi felt it was a little more charged than usual. He couldn’t seem to let go of how disappointed they both seemed when he said he went on a date and then relieved when he explained that it was bad. 

Then Jin and Jimin both start dropping by with food more and more, asking him to test new recipes for the market or simply offering to bring by dinner since they “made too much”. Their meal drop-off chats grew longer and longer until Jin and Jimin started offering to cook dinner at his place, hanging out and sharing the meal with him. It always came with an excuse like the planned meal would be better fresh or they were over near his place anyway since they needed to pick up the ingredients. 

Yoongi had started to ask if Namjoon and Taehyung were okay with them spending so much extra time with him, thinking they should be at their respective homes for dinner instead. It still hadn’t occurred to him that they were all in a pack together and sometimes he even felt like Jin and Jimin were doing this almost as a charity to him than friendship. 

However, the other two constantly reassured him that they wanted to be there, that their mates were perfectly happy to let them be there, but that they would leave him be if they were overstaying their welcome. The only excuse Yoongi could even think of was that he shouldn’t be eating so much hearty food since his pants needed to be sized up, but his omega shut that down before any denying words came out. 

Almost six months and 50 pounds later, Yoongi finally realized they were a pack. Jin and Jimin were over once again, cooking in his kitchen and feeding him random bits as they went. Everything was going as normal until Jimin slipped up and cut his hand. It was a minor cut, but it was bleeding quite a bit and as his omega mate, Jin naturally was very worried. 

Jin asked Yoongi for bandages as he ran Jimin’s hand under the faucet. Yoongi hurried off to his bathroom to find his first aid kit while he heard comforting whispers from Jin. As he returned from the bathroom, Yoongi was surprised to see Jimin calming Jin with a kiss, telling him that it was just a small cut. 

Yoongi felt stuck, confused at that level of intimacy between close friends. He had seen them affectionate before, but this felt well beyond acceptable friendship especially when they both had partners. As he sees Jin then lean in and scent Jimin much more deeply than a friend would ever consider, Yoongi couldn’t resist speaking up about how they were even closer than he realized. 

The other two omegas were clearly confused yet seemed to understand there was somehow a miscommunication going on. Jin simply said, “I mean, I feel like most packs are this close, but if we are making you uncomfortable, we can definitely leave. Just say the word.” 

Yoongi’s racing mind came to a screeching halt, berating his childhood mind for limiting him to traditional thinking and holding him back from knowing so much more about these wonderful people. His omega was screaming at him that there was a chance for them now. 

Jin and Jimin saw the moment it clicked for him and felt hope building up for their pack too. They decided to pause, asking Yoongi to let them wrap up Jimin’s hand before taking him to their pack home as they wanted to have an open conversation with everyone. Yoongi was shocked once again to find out that there wasn’t just a tiny chance for him, he was wanted by their pack. 

The lingering insecurity of his weight gain and clear lack of knowledge of pack life started to brew up anxiety, but his omega shut it down real quick as he watched Jin and Jimin pack up the dinner they prepared for him to take back home with them. 

Yoongi played through all their interactions since he met them at the farmer’s market and had the staggering realization that they obviously won’t care about the weight gain. Jin and Jimin had been feeding him for months, giving him extras, and making him huge, delicious meals. It wasn’t charity and it wasn’t pity. 

Jin and Jimin had been courting him all along and they were very good at it. Yoongi had a feeling that if courting was this successful, mating would be even better.

[atoriv-art]

asks

putting these above the readmore because otherwise i will be speaking into the void

fave. grouping these together to say: i do read fanfic on occasion but it's usually filtered through a friend of mine who reads far more than i do! ie, she reads stuff and sends me what she likes

however she did say that i could tell people to link me things so she can read through them. so feel free to link me whatever in the replies/asks/idk. no promises i will be the one reading it LMAO but we have very similar tastes in characters/pairings and also the types of fics we like 👍

i actually gravitate towards gen fics which are a dying breed lol but you can link whatever you want <3

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anyway. under the cut: misc asks, sasuneji 💕, also a tiny hyuga ramble

this is so late LMAO sorry, its all in my old blog @atoriv-moved ! haven't deleted any of it so if anything happened it's tumblr's fault. i miss kingdom hearts i need luxu to be in things again so i can go crazy :/

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thank you so much!!! 😭😭 it always makes me happy to hear the emotional weight of my work comes through! it's what i'm always trying to improve to make the little scenes in my head real :)

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thank you!!!! i never know what to say to these but they always make me smile 8)

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thank you so much!! honestly noses still give me trouble sometimes but as someone who is particular about trying to properly translate 3D shapes, especially of the face, in my rendering it's probably one of the most important landmarks :P and i think you can enhance a design sooo much with them, despite my struggles they're one of my favorite things to draw now!

i totally encourage you to start drawing again if you want to! but i'm biased of course hehe

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cute i never know how to answer these... maybe a little boring but i'm of the opinion sasuke is the clingier one in the rs :)

he's a very loving person but because of both his personality and collection of issues he struggles to fully articulate his thoughts in a manner that doesn't come off as rude or detached, but imo sasuke esp once he's out of his spiral would hate to have his love go unexpressed. so i think him having trouble with words and making up for it with flopping onto the people he loves like a large dog is sooooo cute, and i always think about how clingy he was as a baby.. he is made for latching onto people and wiggling them with a 😐 face

neji on the other hand is Weird About Intimacy since he's trained himself to be self-sufficient, and is hyperaware of how other people might perceive him due to him having to calibrate himself around his family. neji is very principled and especially when he's older won't let his anxieties keep him from doing something he believes in, but it gets a little more complicated when it comes to his personal relationships because for 90% of his life he had no hope of fostering those. so he ends up in a weird middle ground where he Does allow himself to express some of those feelings, but not fully, and often in a very self-conscious manner. his default answer to vulnerability is fluffing up like a cat because that's what's he's trained himself to do lol

so with these two in particular i think it'd combo into a lot of "flopping onto you like a weighed blanket because you're upset and i don't know what to say but i want to be here for you" situations, especially with sasuke doing it to neji because neji struggles with verbally articulating when he needs comfort like that. i think it works wonders for them because sometimes words get really messy when you have their combination of issues... it doesn't mean they can't talk through their problems of course, it just means that if something can be solved by the cat loaf maneuver it will be :)

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not reading too much into it at all, i love it! i like how much people talk about my kabuto hahaha i really want to draw him more often, i think he's a way more interesting character than he's given credit for (and this is coming from someone who really didn't like him at first :P), and his hairstyle change is one of the most obvious ways to explore that visually imo!

tysm for this, i really enjoyed reading it!

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i do! i wish more was done with her because i'm really fascinated by the implications of how she's presented, and how she could've shown that being the favorite child of someone like hiashi isn't necessarily a good thing! i always thought she seems like she's a little dissociated from life outside of the clan, which is really fun to work with (and definitely sucks for her because the clan is Not good lol)

i haven't gotten through the arduous task of watching all naruto filler (lmao) but one of my favorites is the one about hanabi and her relationship with hinata, especially the first half, episode 389 i think? i'm really obsessed with the way that episode shows what day-to-day life was like for the kids and the way the hyuga structure themselves, and how it creates distance between them. i'm pretty sure it implies hanabi (pre-plot) didn't know who neji is, for example? which i get isn't canon but i looove that thought. and on a less deep note hanabi is one of the few characters who gets a design i actually like in boruto! i think she looks soooooo cute

since i spend a lot of time thinking about them i actually am fond of all of the hyuga to some capacity, hiashi definitely in a "wow this guy sucks so much it's impressive" way but still lol i think his relationship with his brother and how it informs how he regards neji is very fascinating, or at least the directions it could have taken (if kishi cared at all.) are!

see my problem is that i wish naruto was about weird families and their issues (i am also obsessed with the suna family <3), but it is a shonen anime made for normal audiences

[pierrotwrites-hc]

Chapter 43 Sneak Peak

Being locked away in the back of the cart brought back memories of the cell at the training house. Only this time Luca wasn’t the one in pain; Doran was. Somehow, that was so much worse.

Doran spent the next few days feverish, drifting in and out of consciousness. He called out for Annie, for Connell’s mother, for his own. Once even the Duke.

“Infected,” said Connell grimly, surveying the festering mess of Doran’s back. “I’ll need to flush the wounds. Can you hold him down?”

Luca’s new muscle might’ve horrified the Steward, but he still wasn’t strong enough to restrain Doran on his own. The kind guard—his name was Saunders—took hold of Doran’s other arm and braced a knee against his thigh.

Luca had hoped Doran would be too delirious to feel the antiseptic burn through raw tissue, but no luck. He thrashed and bellowed, insensate with pain. Luca grit his teeth and tightened his grip.

The memory came, unbidden, of holding Asher down for Master Boq. Luca pushed it away. He could only hope that Doran would forgive him.

(Luca didn’t hope for forgiveness from Asher. He didn’t deserve it.)

At last, Doran passed out. They shared a sigh of relief. Connell was able to seal the now-clean wounds with pine sap. Already the inflammation was receding.

“You’re a medic, eh?” said the guard, impressed. “Didn’t know they trained slaves for healing. You’ve a deft hand, lad.”

Connell’s ears went pink. Through the haze of guilt and exhaustion, Luca was pleased for him. Connell was brilliant. He deserved to have his gifts acknowledged.

Doran healed more quickly than any of them had dared hope. But something had changed in him. He filled the cart with brooding silences. Luca tried to tell himself that Doran was just in pain, but he knew the hurt went deeper. More than his back had been rent by the whipping. His pride was damaged—and that not even Connell could heal.

Doran’s discontent found an easy outlet in outrage on Luca’s behalf. The Steward insisted on replicating the conditions of the seray as much as possible. Luca was allowed out of the cart only at night, and only to relieve himself. No one was allowed to speak to him, and he was, of course, forbidden to speak without permission.

That’s a kindness, isn’t it, hole? You’ve nothing to say that’s worth hearing.

The first week in the cart, Doran was too out of it to notice how Luca was being treated. How little he was being fed. But it was only a matter of time before Doran heard Luca’s traitorous stomach growl and decided to do something about it.

The next time a guard came with their meals, Doran pushed himself up on his elbow, ignoring Luca’s noise of alarm. He watched through narrowed eyes as the guard set down their rations: a flat loaf of millet bread for Doran, and a crust for Luca.

“Where’s the rest of Luca’s portion, sir?” Doran asked.

The guard shrugged.

“Steward’s orders. He says General Balkas let the Golden Bird get fat.”

The moment the doors slammed shut, Doran exploded.

“Fat! What, because you weigh a little more than your shadow now? Fields of hell, Mouse, that bastard can’t expect you to survive on so little.”

Luca had survived on less, but he wasn’t about to tell that to Doran. It wouldn’t improve his mood.

(Besides, he wasn’t hungry. Funny; hunger had been his companion for most of his life. Now it had deserted him. All that was left was a hollow, void of feeling.)

“Here,” said Doran, breaking off a lump of bread. “You eat that.”

Luca took what he was given. He didn’t want to fight.

When Doran wasn’t looking, he tore the bread in half and tucked the uneaten portion away.

Redditch met General Gaskin with rather less than the expected fanfare. Lieutenant Davies—no, General Davies now, though Gaskin would always see him as a puffed-up little boy with a receding hairline—was holed up in his quarters and refused to greet Gaskin in person.

“Refused” was perhaps a strong word; Davies had sent a fulsomely apologetic letter with his secretary, a spiderlike man with a mouth pinched in what Gaskin suspected was a permanent expression of distaste. But Gaskin knew a refusal when he saw one.

No doubt Davies resented Gaskin’s presence at Redditch. No doubt he surmised—correctly—that it indicated a lack of faith in his leadership.

Had Davies the courtesy to meet him in person, Gaskin would have reassured him that his arrival did not herald a changing of the guard. He would stay at Redditch only long enough to refit his own men and collect supplies for the Enkaaran Legion. During that time, he had intended to do Davies the favor of deferring to him. Or at least appearing to.

But Davies had decided to lock himself in his room like a child. Well, let him stew. Gaskin may only be staying at Redditch for as long as it took to refit and restock, but while he was here, the garrison would answer to his orders and his orders alone.

While Gaskin was busy playing new-crowned King of Redditch, Tris took advantage of his master’s distraction to commandeer Binns.

Binns was not happy to be commandeered. Then again, he never was. It grated on him to take orders from a slave. This was why Tris so enjoyed issuing them.

“Take me to the forge,” he ordered, and watched with amusement as Binns’s face turned colors.

Binns protested, of course—the forge was no place for a pleasure slave, never mind one owned by the most powerful General in Solas—but he knew as well as Tris who held the power here. At last he gave in, on the condition that Tris wear a woolen wrap to protect him from the lascivious eyes of the forgeworkers.

Tris didn’t mind the wrap. It served his purpose to give Binns these little victories. Besides, Redditch was bloody freezing.

At the forge, cold and hot pressure systems converged. At once the wrap felt oppressive. Sweat prickled unpleasantly at his nape. Ignoring Binns’s protests, Tris pulled the wrap down, baring his face.

The reaction was less than he might’ve hoped for. The smiths were either running to and fro or bent over their anvils, hammering madly; they were too busy to look at him. When Tris approached a laborer to ask whether he knew a smith named Finn, the man pointed him to a slave hunched over his anvil at the far end of the forge without more than a fleeting (but, Tris consoled himself, admiring) glance.

He supposed it was to be excepted. Gaskin had ordered new weapons be made for the Enkaaran fleet; the forgeworkers were understandably preoccupied. Besides, that idiot Balkas probably had Luca running errands all over the garrison. No doubt the forgeworkers are used to visits from beautiful courtesans.

Pity. Beautiful courtesans should never be taken for granted.

As Tris approached the slave at the anvil at the far side of the forge, he felt a twinge of unease. The man was big enough to be a barbarian. (Well, a normal-sized barbarian. Tris had always suspected Luca was some sort of mutant.) His shovel-sized hand was wrapped around a hammer, and he brought it down on the red-hot metal on his anvil with enough force to shake the earth.

Apparently Tris wasn’t the only one discomfited by the smith’s strength. He was chained like a dog to his anvil. Had he tried to run?

Tris shivered, and not from the cold. He reminded himself that Aram said they shouldn’t think about running until it was time. They should look at freedom only from the corner of their eye, as if it were the sun on a clear day. Otherwise it could blind them.

The smith—Finn—looked up, and Tris’s unease melted away. His face was broad, sooty, good-humored, with laughing eyes and a mouth that turned up at the corners.

“Don’t tell me you’re another one from Highcourt,” said Finn, grinning. “Come to have your golden collar swapped out?”

“My collar is silver,” said Tris, pulling down his collar to show the gleam. “And I’ve come from Breakwater, not Highcourt.”

“Well, that makes a change.” Finn wiped his hands on his apron, leaving streaks of soot. “What can I do for you, lovely?”

Tris took the funny little box from his tunic.

“My friend asked me to give this to you. He says he solved your puzzle.”

“Your friend?” said Finn, furrowing his brow. Then the coin dropped. “Luca? You know him?”

“We’re colleagues,” said Tris, annoyed. Did this drudge not recognize a pleasure slave when he saw one?

“Yeah. Right.” Finn looked down at the puzzle box. A slow grin broke over his face. “Thank you.”

“I don’t do it to be thanked,” said Tris grandly.

As Tris allowed Binns to herd him back to Gaskin’s quarters, he caught sight of carts at the gate, their contents unloaded by rag-clad peasants. The peasants had that drawn, starved look, and Tris wondered—not for the first time—whether he ought to be glad his mother had been sold after her parents lost their the farm. Slaves were fed, at least, however meagerly.

For a moment, Tris thought he saw a familiar face—so familiar, in fact, that he felt a phantom pain in his nose from an all-too-well-remembered fist. Then it was gone, and Tris was left wondering what in the name of all the gods Asher Lacey was doing at Redditch.

[lookinghalfacorpse]

i have a bad habit of dumping au or 'what if THIS happened!' bunnies onto people so i have a dsmp one for you, also its really long i am so sorry

what if cdream, in the back of his mind, always knew that XD had made him? His whole purpose was to bring together and maintain the peace and family like nature of the server. Too whatever lengths it took. The original Dream, the manhunter speedrunner the eight were close too became the server that universe, thats why its call Dream SMP. XD was created by the server to maintain it, XD created this puppet replica of Dream so his friends could live there, their friends could live there and their family and friends.

after the vault, cDream knows hes too damaged to keep fullfilling that purpose. Philza and Techno get the vibe that Dream's given up. They try to help him regain that, but Dream has accepted that as soon as he's in reach of one of XD's anchor points, such as the End Portal, XD will most likely undo him and remake him. A different version of Revival. HE doesn't tell Phil or Techno this at all, why? it doesn't change anything, and they would try make so it did.

Then Punz shows up, in a rare moment that Techno and Phil are gone (syndicate meeting? ranboo's still dead and dream is almost refusing to even try to get better) and takes Dream to that End Portal. Following Dream's instructions to his End. They show up, holding this broken puppet man and XD appears. Neither XD or dream speak, but XD lays their many hands upon dream, like a mother upon her child and says "Sleep, You Have Done More Than Earn It. I Will Take Care of Them All For You Now." and Dream nods and goes to sleep.

And all the Life leaves him, however you want to envision it. Techno will say like cooling corpse on a hospital bed, Niki will say like barely there steam from a fresh loaf rising and twirling away.

And Phil? Phil would say that even though Kristin stood over trying to catch the butterflies and dragonflies that left him, she couldn't. Those little creatures return to the server, along with rumors from the Artic of a Dream who's never known the rest of the SMP, who is exactly the same as the Dream the eight knew, before anyone else joined. Quietly, in the Void with the Dragon, a deity hopes that this time they'll find enough love in their to heal from the posions they fed themselves and the puppet man who had hurt them so much trying to protect them.

like an amnesia arc for only c!dream ?? am i reading that right ?

i’m picturing a dream who’s confused by the scars on his skin, who doesn’t remember losing any fingers, who’s frustrated by his trembling hands and the ache of his shoulders and hips.  he’s confused, and lost, but in other ways he’s still very much himself.  he’s sharp.  quick-witted.  he loves animals and insects and has read all of techno’s books about wildlife already.  he smiles more.  he doesn’t shy away from touch.  he has gruesome nightmares about lava and pliers and needles and infinite tnt falling from the sky and he doesn’t know what they mean.

philza would love him.  he’d teach him about history.  he’d show him how to heal, how to grow crops (not potatoes-- that’s techno’s job), how to cook, how to build.  phil already watched sam lose his memories and start a new life, so he’d surely grant dream the same freedom.  he’d be protective of this second chance, hiding him from the rest of the server because he Knows that the younger members won’t recognize what a rare and merciful opportunity this is.  at first, in the face of dream’s many many questions, he might say that he’s dream’s father or a similar arrangement.  in time, he might find a way to tell him the truth.

techno would mourn him.  at least at first.  all the inside jokes, the memories, the infallible Trust he worked so hard to build has disappeared.  losing that would be hard.  i do think he’d come to agree with phil, however, that this was probably the best option-- the kid was on death’s door anyway, so at least this way they haven’t lost him completely.  he’ll be grateful that punz had the foresight to see that.  he’d feel honor-bound to the new dream, determined to protect him, and, of course, to make him laugh.  he’s good at that.

niki finds it hard to look at his face and forget who he used to be.  it takes her some time.  punz feels the same-- there’s an ache in his chest that won’t seem to pass.  anyone else who comes to the cabins to investigate is chased away.

dream will wander off on his own, and when he finds the frozen body of a butterfly in the snow, he’ll take it home and preserve it.

[colossusking-orach]

1 - Autumn POV

“Autumn…Little Kitty? Where are you?”

A thunderously deep voice rumbled above just before the ground shifted. Autumn would have surely flew into the void had it not been for her claws finding purchase in the soft leather of the pillow. She shot daggers towards the still shifting colossus, whom only now seemed to notice her plight.

The deep, rippling sound of the giant’s chuckling felt more like the thunder of a distant storm. A wide hand came from beneath to cup Autumn’s chest, it tried to pull her away from the pillow. While not forceful the movement forced an embarrassingly pathetic mewl out of her. The force disappeared but the hand continued to cradle her.

“Oh no! Little Kitty! Here, I help!”

Autumn hissed and spat when she felt a fingertip thicker than her tiny paw start to gently stroke her fluffy little head. Her ears tilted back at the giant’s soft rumbling in his native language. A coarse humming or soft growl, sounds like a curious bear. He spoke within the rhythm of his deep breathing. Forceful breaths tousling her thick fur, now developing mats.

He had not brushed her once since abducting her from the forest. Autumn began to question if he knew how to care for a house cat at all.

The thick digit began moving on to massage each pad enough to retract her claws. Once free, he placed her onto a fleece blanket at the head of their sleeping nook. Panels of the wall slid up out of sight to reveal the larger space of the room.

The mountainous man pulled himself out of the alcove before thundering off to the washroom to begin his day.

Now suddenly alone, Autumn settled into a loaf to wait for the giant space bear to come back. It is only within these quiet moments in the morning that Autumn would dare to venture a thought about what her options are.

She held little hope for escape, there was no chance she would evade a man so obsessed over a cat he found in the woods. She struggled to focus and use the only human part she had left.

Her psyche.

It took her some time to realize he hadn’t come back yet. The sounds of water running and low growling still coming from somewhere out of sight beyond the threshold.

Now may be my one chance to get away from this alien.

She paced back and forth mentally calculating the risks of jumping. The fall felt more like 3m than the 2m it actually was.

It’s still too high to jump! I’ll break my legs!

Autumn wasn’t really familiar with her cat body yet, she had been taken by the giant shortly after the Solar Flare transformed her. He already knew she wasn’t a cat.

THUD

mew

She slid and fell onto the ground, sprawling out before to finding her paws again. She hoped so desperately that HE hadn’t heard her.

“Kitty?

“Autumn, tell me where you are! You’re too small to wander. Little Kitty, say something.”

Autumn curled into as tight a ball she could, his voice was sharper now, closer to a snarl. She has seen how others flinched whenever her giant spoke to the lesser giants. He must be a feared man, but she didn’t know why.

Slow, deafening, methodical steps sent jolts straight to her core. Each one more jarring than the last. Shuddering with indecision, helplessly staring at the ever approaching giant.

Sudden tears surprised her, cats don’t cry in the way a human would. She felt ridged with terror coursing through her. Her breath caught, heart sank. Trying to at least keep composure.

“There!”

Autumn flailed, instinctively trying to claw and bite the hand that seized her, she battled the large hands trying to trap her as the looming shadow of the alien fell over her.

“Let! Go! Ow. Squeeze too hard!”

The little kitty yowled, fighting to get purchase on the thick green skin.

“Oh, so now you speak to me?

Autumn only replied with a low growl, avoiding his gaze.

2 - Orach POV

Amused by her little intimidation attempt, Orach starts to hum. Drowning out her mewling protests, and choosing to ignore her. He knew it was mean of him, as she depended so heavily on him but the spunky little cat would only get in the way or worse underfoot if left to roam.

Orach let out a course huff resolving to never let anything hurt the fluffy brown cat. He clenched his jaw thinking about the woods he found her in. Now the Hunting Grounds, she’d be torn to shreds by the hunting parties

Instead he occupied his thoughts with where to put his little friend.

*Kitty put in basket*

[autumnalwalker]

Empty Names - 11 - Afterparty

Author's Note: Sullivan makes largely-accurate-but-crucially-flawed assessments of his teammates, round two. And some more glimpses of what he's capable of doing besides standing off to the side making snide comments. Sullivan may be terrible and kind of creepy, but he's surprisingly fun to write. Word Count: 3,959 Content Warning: Mild body horror.

<-Previous Chapter Masterpost Next Chapter->

There are at least seventeen dining rooms in Bridgewood Manor.  From the chandelier-lit and gleaming grand banquet hall whose long table with a throne-like chair at one end that seats dozens to a dim, cozy café with intimately curtained booths for two.  The whimsy of tea tables on lilypads drifting across a pond while whole flowers grow suspended in the air contrasted with the stark modernist experiment in black and white and chrome.  All are served by kitchens with staff constructed from the purchased memories of expert chefs, bargained as collateral in their youth and collected upon their retirement.  Only the finest ingredients stock the stasis-locked pantries, indefinitely preserving the foodstuffs that only a centuries-old sorceress from still-older money could have purchased without blanching at the price that comes from the combination of quality, rarity, and need to transport across worlds.

Sullivan and his friend are sharing their dinner of water, a loaf of bread, a small wedge of cheese, and an apple apiece, sitting on the floor of a never-used guest bedroom.

“My friend, I dare say we struck gold with these recruits of yours.”

“You know that’s practically a pun coming from you?”

“I prefer to think of it as ‘being on brand.’”

“Honestly, I’m more surprised to hear you speak highly of them.”

“I only said ‘struck gold.’  It still needs extracted, refined, smelt, worked, and shaped into something worthwhile.”

“I think you might be overworking that metaphor.”

“No, what was overworked was your inspirational speech there at the end,” Sullivan says, shaking a still-unbitten apple at his friend for emphasis.  “Then again, I suppose it’s comforting to hear that you’re still just as corny and over-rehearsed as ever in that department.”

“That was one hundred percent off-the-cuff, thank you very much.”

“That just makes it worse.  You understand why that’s worse, right?”

“No,” they say around a bite of bread.

Sullivan slowly shakes his head.  Void Without, they’re going to be the death of him one day.

“My advice, drop the speeches.  You’ve always done better with the more de facto leadership of being the one to step up and take responsibility for getting things moving than as a formal role.”

“I’ll take your word on that.  Heh.  It’s not like I’ve been able to learn from experience.”

Sullivan nearly drops the apple.  Did they just make a self-deprecating joke about that?  Oh, no no no no, changing the topic right now.

“But as I was saying,” he resumes without a trace of fear, “the kids have potential.”

“I’d hardly call Eris and Lacuna ‘kids,’ and barely Ashan.”

“Oh please, you and I are both older than the three of them put together and I married a woman with anecdotes older than the country we do most of our work in these days.  They’re kids.”

His friend freezes for half a second, awful recognition flickering across their face.  They open their mouth to speak but the moment passes, their expression returns to an easy casual smile, and whatever they were about to say is replaced by “Do go on then.  You almost never speak well of anyone, so this should be good.”

That was a close one.  Sullivan curses himself for bringing up their age.  Is he really that out of practice from so short a time apart?  He continues on as if he noticed nothing.

“Well, obviously there’s wizard boy being a proper anchor world mage twisting thermodynamics to fuel spells from a magic system where that shouldn’t work just because it makes sense to him.”  He starts rhythmically tossing the apple in the air and catching it again.  “It’s not every day you find a mage who actually thinks to make tactical use of his power source’s side effects instead of tunnel visioning on actual spells.  Not to mention his capacity for power draw and output exceeds even my expectations.  If he can figure out a way to internalize a more efficient channeling schema and diversify his repertoire we’ll have a true rarity on our hands.”

“So that’s it?  Just another rare and valuable artifact for the collection?”

“If one wants to set a strong foundation for the sort of organization you’re looking to build then one must needs start with the best of the best to inspire the next generation.  He has the potential to be that.  And besides,” he rolls the apple down his arm, behind his shoulder and into the other hand, “he’s demonstrated a truly classic willingness to throw himself into the fire to save his comrades.  He’s a good fit for you.”

Not that Sullivan or his friend needed the help back there, but the kid couldn’t have known that.

“That is the sort of thing I would have done in his place, isn’t it?”

“More like ‘have done repeatedly.’  Maybe you’ll get to ease off and take turns now.  He’ll make a good right hand for you.  With me ever as the left, of course.”  He begins contact juggling the apple, noting with satisfaction how his friend’s eyes follow it.  “The techie meanwhile: adorably spineless.  She’ll probably just do paperwork for us all day if you let her, but - credit where it’s due - I underestimated her usefulness when you said you were bringing her on as our fifth.”

“You’re referring to the remote glyphs.  She was reluctant to talk about that when I brought it up.”

“Oh she’s definitely not supposed to have those,” he chuckles.  “The records of what she was working on before she got sacked were thoroughly scrubbed, but having seen it, there’s not much else it could be.  It’s hilarious how skittish she is about anything she’s actually good for, but I’m sure that with the right push she’ll make good clay for you to shape into whatever you want her to be.”

“I’m not interested in ‘shaping’ anyone.  These are our teammates we’re talking about, our friends, not a bunch of shiny new toys to play with.”

“Call it ‘inspiring’ her then if it makes you feel better.  She’d probably like the clay analogy though.  Given today’s revelations and her circumstances I’d be willing to bet she’s got at least a decent theoretical grasp of any transmutation related topic you care to name.  It’s an obvious case of someone who doesn’t know who they want to be but knows it’s not who they are now.  Show her like you showed me.  It should be easy enough; it’s obvious every time she looks at you that she thinks the world of you.”

“Just like it’s obvious she’s terrified of you?  Seriously, what did you say to her when I wasn’t around?”

Sullivan clasps his apple-less hand over where his heart should be and gasps in mock indignation.  “Why, I was nothing other than my usual charming self.”

“That’s what worries me.  You were being antagonistic enough while I was around; I’m not completely blind to how you are when I’m not.”

The apple’s returned to its original hand when Sullivan pulls it away from his chest into an exaggerated shrug.  He cheated that particular sleight-of-hand, but that’s one of the perks of being him.

“I was just stress testing them.  If they can’t take a bit of light provocation now, how can we expect them to hold up a year from now in a real high-stakes situation with tensions running high?  Besides, if I’d really been trying to antagonize anyone there would have been bloodshed.”

His friend sighs.  “I know, I know.  But for once, could you at least pretend to get along?  I really want this to work out.”

Sullivan stops playing with the apple.  “I know, and so do I.  That’s why I did it.  But since you asked, I’ll… show some restraint.”

“Thank you.  Building up team trust and understanding is going farther than just learning to tolerate each other.”

Sullivan peels a bit of skin off the apple with his teeth instead of answering.  The taste is so-so.  Better as a prop than food, especially for one who doesn’t need to eat.

“I notice you didn’t mention Eris,” his friend says after a few bites of their own meal.

“Muscles?  What’s there to say?  Every team needs its resident brute and she fits the role.  Big, simple, strong, durable, and resorts to physical force at every opportunity without thinking the consequences through.  But, as they say, ‘when all you have is a hammer…’” He traces a ring around the apple’s stem with a finger and then rips out the core with one tug.  “It’s cute though how protective she gets of the techie,” he continues as he tosses the de-cored ring of fruit to his friend.  “Pound of gold says the two of them are sleeping together by the end of the year if they’re not already.  Muscles will probably be obsolete once the other two come into their own, but she’s a good shield until then and - as we’ve seen - putting her in danger’s a good way to motivate the techie.  Not that you would ever do that intentionally of course.”

His friend pauses, apple halfway to their mouth, and gives him a flat look.

“And not that I would either, don’t worry,” he assures them while lazily swinging the apple core by its stem.  “Besides, it’s not like I’ll be going into the field with them again anytime soon.”

“You have a lead then?”

“That remains to be seen, but as you pointed out yourself when you got the call for this job, a bizarre accident on a known smuggling route just weeks after a cross-world smuggling ring got wiped out and robbed is enough of a coincidence to be suspicious.  I’ll be checking on our lighthouse-dwelling acquaintance to ask him if he knows anything about this ‘pulse’ our sole survivor mentioned.  After that I still need to have an interview with said survivor to make sure there aren’t any other details he’s forgetting, sort through the salvaged luggage and cargo for anything incriminating, and grease whatever appendages on whatever politicians in Crossherd I need to in order to get all those pod people out of my garden and back to Culescu.

“Suffice to say, that all should keep me occupied for some time, and even if it turns out to be unrelated to your initial case there should be some positively delicious secrets to be dug up in the course of looking into why this happened.  Assuming you want me to find out, of course.”

“Go for it.  If there’s a chance something or someone intentionally caused this disaster then we need to know.  I’m guessing that ward monitor you had me plant at the lighthouse still hasn’t picked up anything?”

Sullivan shakes his head.  “No one’s been in or out of there except us and Cabetha’s crew, and at this point I don’t think anyone’s going to be.  Either that or whatever it is they’ve been doing to keep from leaving a trace is even more paranoid in its thoroughness than I thought.  I’ll retrieve it when I’m back out there tomorrow morning.”

His friend nods.  “In the meantime, I was planning on seeing if I can track down Jero and talk xem into helping wake up the passengers.”

“Xe’s still on-world, last I checked.  Let me know when you’re bringing xem by so I can get xem through security.  You bringing wizard boy along with you?”

“No, I figure we can let him and the others rest for a few days while you and I wrap things up on this quest.”  They smirk a little as they say that last word and Sullivan lets them have this indulgence without comment.  “I take it you’re fine with him staying here that long?”

“Whatever faults I may hypothetically have, I have always been an excellent host.  I’ll not remove a guest who hasn’t done anything to deserve it.  I’ll see to it that the staff keeps him and our other guest from getting lost without me.”

“Thanks.  Speaking of Ashan though, any idea what’s with the tattoo on the back of his neck?”

“Tattoo?” Sullivan asks, his surprise nearly causing him to miss the falling apple core he’d just tossed into the air.  Barely catching it with his teeth, he pulls it the rest of the way into his mouth and swallows it whole.

“I just caught a glimpse of it when he was pulling his hair back.  You were busy with the radio and I think Eris was distracted by seasickness, so I suppose it makes sense if neither of you saw it.  It looked like a glyph of some kind.  Thought you might have recognized it if you saw it, having lived with Carnette and all.”

Sullivan smiles wide.  “Now that is some interesting gossip.”

“Please don’t sneak into his room while he’s sleeping to examine it”

“Fine,” he concedes with a huff and a roll of his eyes.

*******

It’s approaching midnight and - to his own surprise - Sullivan’s been true to his word and not spied on any guests in their sleep.  Not for the first time lately, the thought crosses his mind that he might be going soft.

He pinches the ivory candle floating in front of him to snuff out its black flame, dropping the interior of the spherical mirror chamber into darkness and releasing the ghost he’d spent the past half hour cross-examining from the infinite reflection of its corpse.  He claps twice and soon he feels the subtle shift in the air from the chamber opening.  He gathers up the cadaver and candle in his usual fashion, takes a hold of the silk rope that��s been lowered to exactly where protocol dictates, and allows himself to be lifted out.  The pull of gravity returns, a trapdoor slides shut with a soft wooden swish-thunk, a carpet unrolls with a whump, and old wooden furniture creaks as it returns to its proper alignment.

As he lets go to drop into the plushly upholstered chair now beneath him a buzzing electric chandelier flickers to life, revealing the recreation of a nineteenth century occultist’s séance parlor around him.  Dark red velvet curtains (expensive) lining the walls, crystal ball (mundane) nestled in a pillow on the table (mahogany) in front of him, ouija board (fake) on one side, tarot deck (fake but good for introspection) on the other, human skull (real) on a nearby pedestal, cabinet of curiosities (fraudulent) behind him, and eldritch communion incense (distressingly real) resting cold and unburnt in a tentacle-shaped holder.

It had been another one of Carnette’s little jokes, setting up this hackneyed facade on top of the actual necromantic summoning chamber of her own design.  There was always one of those to go through anytime Sullivan wanted to get into the tools and mechanisms she’d left behind.  Daily reminders of her just as constant as the blue metal wedding band on his finger.

Sullivan’s no mage himself - and never could be in this world cluster - but he could still manage his fair share of rituals, especially with the help of his dearly departed wife’s implements, reagents, and grimoires.  Using one of the bodies of the Culescun crew members he’d discreetly gathered up while his video feed was off to summon the associated ghost to verify Dis!ma*s’s story had practically been child’s play with the mirror chamber doing most of the work for him.  Truth be told he’s feeling disappointed, both at how little a challenge it was and at how little new he learned.  Just because the ghost had corroborated the story Dis!ma*s had told them that didn’t mean there wasn’t more going on that neither of them knew about, nor did it mean there wasn’t still something the live one had left out.  Never trust a sole survivor.  Sullivan’s been one enough times to know.

As he removes the ivory candle from his person and places it in a candlestick he contemplates repeating the process on the ship’s resident flesh-shaper.  On the one hand, the other two were just grunts and someone of higher station might know more.  On the other hand, it’s not every day he gets his hands on a body with a skill this rare and it had been dead long enough before he got it into stasis that there’s not enough essence left lingering for both summoning and… personal indulgence.

A series of rapid beeps emits from his breast pocket.  What to do about that morsel is a decision that will have to be tabled for another time.  It was hard to tell with how they blended together, but at a rough guess Sullivan would say about twenty.  Roughly twenty people have just crossed the bounds of the perception ward around Lachlan’s lighthouse.  More than he’d anticipated - even before he gave up on anyone showing - but not, he thinks, more than he can handle.

This morning it had taken the carriage roughly forty minutes to make the trip from the front door of the Manor to the base of the cliff below the lighthouse.

Alone, Sullivan figures he can make it in five.

He stands and his skin ripples and writhes from that which is beneath it.

Space warps and compresses to a single point in his vision.

He takes a step and is out in the hallway.

Another step and he’s at the far end.

A turn, a step, another hallway.

Cross rooms and repeat.

The internal labyrinth of Bridgewood Manor is not conducive to this mode of travel.

He doesn’t bother waking his friend or Ashan.

Outnumbered as he expects to be, he may do some things they wouldn’t approve of.

He’s faster alone anyway.

And he hates to disturb his friend’s rare sound sleep.

One minute.

He steps out the door into the night air.

One step to the edge of the forest.

Three steps to the correct tree.

He lets himself settle for a moment so as not to confuse the security.

A brief transit north through the dark of the bridge.

Still faster for the master of the house alone than it would be with others.

Rise from the weathered wooden floorboards to stand in an arctic wind.

No longer a storm but still enough to rattle the remains of the old collapsed cabin.

Two minutes.

The twisting beneath his skin resumes.

One step down to the shore.

Practically a leisurely stroll down the winding coast.

Faster than the wind whose bite is but a tickling nibble to him.

Three minutes.

The boom echoes across the water and off the cliffs from kilometers away.

The pillar of fire erupts high enough to pierce the perception ward.

The lighthouse’s last light.

He picks up his pace.

Four minutes.

The receiver in his breast pocket beeps twenty three times.

The beeps are more spread out this time.

He swears and rounds the bend in the coast.

The dragon and the bone ship are long gone.

A single, strained step takes him across the bay and to the top of the cliff.

The receiver beeps once with his passage.

He stands at the base of the lighthouse.

It looks like the door’s been kicked in and then lit on fire.

Five minutes.

He steps to what’s left of the top of the lighthouse.  The glowing red metal grating of the widow’s walk bends beneath his weight and begins blackening and cracking the leather soles of his shoes as he perches at the edge of the hollowed out tube.  There’s light to be seen down there from the molten stone walls; not much, but enough to show that naught remains inside but swirling smoke and ash.

Sullivan stills that which is beneath his skin before opening is mouth wide (but only humanly so), sticking out his tongue, and breathing in the char on the air.  Plenty dead here, but nothing remotely recent.  Annoying, but curious.  He stands up straight and looks around, taking full use of the high vantage point as he blinks his eyes to cycle through spectrums and filters.

A quarter of a kilometer inland, well outside the bounds of the perception ward, he spots the last fading wisps of a spatial distortion marking a mass teleport.  Even from here he can tell there’s not enough left to trace the destination.  He gives a whistle of appreciation for whoever was skilled enough to break space that cleanly.  Turning his reconfigured gaze back to the burning hole that was once an alchemist’s workshop he notices a previously unseen current toward the bottom.  May as well check that out.

Casually, he rolls up the hems of his tailored pants, breaks apart the brittle and crumbling ruins of his shoes, peels off his flaming socks and steps over the ledge.  He falls twice the height of the lighthouse tower into the hollowed-out depths of the cliff before the shock of his upright landing sends a boneless ripple through his body.  The cavern he’s landed in is low and wide.  As above, so below remains nothing but cooling molten rock, ashes, and smoke.  Oh, and an entrancingly toxic mix of fumes from whatever alchemical concoctions the fire was meant to dispose of.  A shame the fire vaporized the equipment as well.  If he could condense this into a cologne the scent would simply be to die for.  Not that he’d have many places he could get away with wearing it, but he’s sure it would be a hit in the few that he could.  

Alas, he has a job to be doing, so he’ll have to satisfy himself with the short-term sensation of the gases that burn his face and nose just as surely as the floor is burning his bare feet.  He follows the invisible current of warping space to the gasping remnants of a collapsed bridge near the wall.  Had he arrived any later it would have been gone completely.  It’s visible now, up close, refracting the orange veins of light emanating from the wall more than what mere heat distortion could accomplish and gathering the ubiquitous fumes into a slowly swirling vortex.

Sullivan sticks a hand into that vortex, hardly feeling it as his palm is shredded and his nails are plucked.  Not passable - no surprise there - and routed through multiple proxy destinations.  Clever and thorough, as befits an alchemist worthy of the name, but not so clever that one worthy of the name of Bridgewood can’t get a feel for the general area of the final destination.  More importantly, he can feel the last traces of the alchemist’s “footprint.”  The man escaped before he set his home to blow up in the faces of unwanted guests.  Lachlan always had been the sort of man who’d rather destroy his own secrets than share them.  Not quite Sullivan’s style, but close enough that he can respect it.

He withdraws his arm with a smile and massages his wrist while his hand returns to a pristine and manicured state.  Now this was a lead.  And even better, his friend wouldn’t need to be sad and blame themself for the man dying under their watch.  He’d been worried about that when the the two of them first found the bodies aboard the Culescun ship, but fortunately Dis!ma*s’s timeline of the crew having died before his friend even got the call to investigate seemed to be enough for them to compartmentalize and rationalize it all as a success.

But best of all, it had been ages since Sullivan had a proper manhunt, much less one promising to end in a conflict with a large force backed by significant magical firepower.  He’ll need to expedite his other plans for the next few days because this is going to be delicious.

<-Previous Chapter Masterpost Next Chapter->

[ask-sad-ghost-piett]

Posthumous Admiral's Log - Entry 41

(OOC: There's a little bit of angst and dysfunctional parent-child relationships in this one.)

Read the full log on Ao3.

I have finally returned to the afterlife. I would like to say that I departed from my mother on good terms. Unfortunately, we had a rather acrimonious argument shortly before she exorcised me. The trouble is I’m not even entirely sure how it came about.

I woke up earlier than my fellow Imperials after Max pushed me off the bed in his sleep. I can scarcely blame him. That bed was much too small. So, I went downstairs and found my mother already awake.

I started telling her about what happened on Exegol. She seemed to be paying very little attention, frankly, being much too occupied with her Axxilan morning soap opera. However, when I mentioned that the Emperor asked me to command his nonfunctional fleet of frozen Star Destroyers, she suddenly became very excited and insisted that I must accept the offer.

I told her that I have no desire to lead a fleet under the Emperor’s command ever again. Firstly, the Star Destroyers he has acquired have been damaged beyond repair by the ice. Secondly, I must confess that my love for the Empire did not extend to love for Palpatine’s military strategy, especially in the twilight of the Imperial Era. Many of his ideas frankly made very little sense, and if I mustered up the courage to inquire for clarification, he would simply cackle and ramble about how everything was going as he had foreseen.

However, my mother refused to accept this answer and preceded to berate me for turning down a “great opportunity”.

“All this time I thought that our chances of restoring the Sith Empire were dashed the moment you crashed that ship of yours over Endor,” she said. “Now, you’ve been given the perfect opportunity to make it right, and you’re going to simply loaf around in the afterlife?”

 “I can assure you that there won’t be any loafing under Grand Moff Tarkin’s command,” I told her. “Truly, I work very hard to haunt the Rebellion and drag their souls into the void. I scarcely have any time to myself outside of that, mother. I have neither the time nor the desire to assume command on Exegol.”

The row only got more heated after that. Eventually, I got frustrated and asked her why she expected me of all people to restore the “Sith Empire” (whatever her conceptions of that may be, as they clearly differ from my definition of the Galactic Empire). She then told me something that left me more confused than angry:

“Because you had so much potential, Firmus. Your father being as Force-null as he is, I didn’t expect any of you to be Force-sensitive, of course. But you were the closest out of all your siblings.”

I then sarcastically asked her whether she meant to imply that I was Force sensitive.

“Of course not, Firmus,” she said. “And I don’t care for the attitude. You’re not Force-sensitive, but as I always said, you’re sensitive and that’s closer than any of your siblings ever were. That’s why I’ve always had such high hopes for you…”

“Well, if that’s true, you never did show it,” I told her. “And it’s a little late to start now. So, why don’t we get on with this exorcism, and then I can go back to perpetually disappointing you in death just as I did in life?”

Now, in retrospect, I will admit that wasn’t a very nice thing to say and I regret it now. We scarcely talked after that. My mother was very quiet for the rest of the morning. She didn’t even bother to berate Jerjerrod for being a bad influence, which means she must have been feeling very down. Afterwards, she conducted the exorcism fairly quickly. We did say goodbye and I told her I’d speak with her during our next séance but that felt insufficient.

Upon returning to the afterlife, I immediately retreated to my pocket dimension. Grand Moff Tarkin attempted to confront me about my unexplained leave (apparently my nephew nearly created an interdimensional fire while I was away) but for the first time in my life, I simply ignored him. I’ll pay for it later, but that’s a problem for another day.

Max found me eventually. Well, I suppose if I didn’t want to be found, I ought to have picked a less predictable hiding spot or created a new pocket dimension. At first, he attempted to cheer me up by telling me jokes about the futility of Rebel shield generators. However, for once, I actually wasn’t in the mood. The COMPNOR bulletins lied. There are some things you can’t fix with laughing about the downfall of the Rebellion.

“Family’s always difficult, Firmus,” Max said eventually. “It’s just part of having one.”

We talked for a while like that. I will not share all of it for the sake of sparing the reader the awkwardness. I will admit, neither of us are very used to discussing messy things like family and emotions. Usually, I just find a secluded corner and stare despairingly at the stars, ruminating about everything that’s going wrong in my existence. Max usually keeps his emotions bottled up and then unleashes all his rage in a devastating offensive against the Rebels, which was admittedly highly useful for the Empire. However, I can see how talking through things may be beneficial under some circumstances.

“You should try to talk to her,” Max advised me. “Can’t say it’ll be pleasant. Stars know it hasn’t been pleasant the couple times I’ve tried to talk to Zev. But it’ll be worse if you don’t.”

“You sound like Needa,” I said. “But I suppose I’ll entertain the thought.”

I haven’t quite decided what I shall do about this latest issue with my mother or Emperor Palpatine’s frozen fleet. I haven’t felt so dejected since Lord Vader choked Captain Needa and immediately turned around to threaten me. In fact, I daresay, I would prefer an encounter with Lord Vader to my current predicament.

-Admiral Piett

[fordecree7]

THE BIBLE BOOK OF GOD

Old Testament

Numbers 6

The Nazirite Vow

6 And the Lord spoke to Moses, saying, 2 “Speak to the people of Israel and say to them, When either a man or a woman makes a special vow, the vow of a Nazirite, to separate himself to the Lord, 3 he shall separate himself from wine and strong drink. He shall drink no vinegar made from wine or strong drink and shall not drink any juice of grapes or eat grapes, fresh or dried. 4 All the days of his separation he shall eat nothing that is produced by the grapevine, not even the seeds or the skins.

5 “All the days of his vow of separation, no razor shall touch his head. Until the time is completed for which he separates himself to the Lord, he shall be holy. He shall let the locks of hair of his head grow long.

6 “All the days that he separates himself to the Lord he shall not go near a dead body. 7 Not even for his father or for his mother, for brother or sister, if they die, shall he make himself unclean, because his separation to God is on his head. 8 All the days of his separation he is holy to the Lord.

9 “And if any man dies very suddenly beside him and he defiles his consecrated head, then he shall shave his head on the day of his cleansing; on the seventh day he shall shave it. 10 On the eighth day he shall bring two turtledoves or two pigeons to the priest to the entrance of the tent of meeting, 11 and the priest shall offer one for a sin offering and the other for a burnt offering, and make atonement for him, because he sinned by reason of the dead body. And he shall consecrate his head that same day 12 and separate himself to the Lord for the days of his separation and bring a male lamb a year old for a guilt offering. But the previous period shall be void, because his separation was defiled.

13 “And this is the law for the Nazirite, when the time of his separation has been completed: he shall be brought to the entrance of the tent of meeting, 14 and he shall bring his gift to the Lord, one male lamb a year old without blemish for a burnt offering, and one ewe lamb a year old without blemish as a sin offering, and one ram without blemish as a peace offering, 15 and a basket of unleavened bread, loaves of fine flour mixed with oil, and unleavened wafers smeared with oil, and their grain offering and their drink offerings. 16 And the priest shall bring them before the Lord and offer his sin offering and his burnt offering, 17 and he shall offer the ram as a sacrifice of peace offering to the Lord, with the basket of unleavened bread. The priest shall offer also its grain offering and its drink offering. 18 And the Nazirite shall shave his consecrated head at the entrance of the tent of meeting and shall take the hair from his consecrated head and put it on the fire that is under the sacrifice of the peace offering. 19 And the priest shall take the shoulder of the ram, when it is boiled, and one unleavened loaf out of the basket and one unleavened wafer, and shall put them on the hands of the Nazirite, after he has shaved the hair of his consecration, 20 and the priest shall wave them for a wave offering before the Lord. They are a holy portion for the priest, together with the breast that is waved and the thigh that is contributed. And after that the Nazirite may drink wine.

21 “This is the law of the Nazirite. But if he vows an offering to the Lord above his Nazirite vow, as he can afford, in exact accordance with the vow that he takes, then he shall do in addition to the law of the Nazirite.”

Aaron's Blessing

22 The Lord spoke to Moses, saying, 23 “Speak to Aaron and his sons, saying, Thus you shall bless the people of Israel: you shall say to them,

24 The Lord bless you and keep you; 25 the Lord make his face to shine upon you and be gracious to you; 26 the Lord lift up his countenance upon you and give you peace.

27 “So shall they put my name upon the people of Israel, and I will bless them.”

Numbers 6

Diane Beauford

[crackspinewornpages]

Les Misérables 360/365 -Victor Hugo

351 

In the mayor’s office they were dressed in finery and nice clothes Gillenormand had to give away Cosette as Valjean broke his thumb. (how does this hinder him from giving her away) “Evil does not come from man, who is good at bottom.”p.870 Gillenormand declares everyone to be happy and also, he no longer has any political opinions. (they would be happy to hear that) They returned to a home full of flowers and a party of relatives, Theodule was now a captain, Cosette and him didn’t recognize each other. At the banquet Valjean told Cosette he was content and laughed at her command but as the guests entered the hall Valjean wasn’t there, he left with the excuse of his ailment. (just a broken thumb stop being a baby) Gillenormand makes a toast that there can't be too much love, women must be loved, impossible for God to make people anything but for it. The couple left for the wedding night, “To love, or to be loved-this suffices. Demand nothing more, there is no other pearl to be found in the shadowy folds of life. To love is a fufilment.”p.875 (that’s a theme of this tome) 

352 

When no one was paying attention Valjean slipped away to the chamber he had carried Marius eight months before. He listened to the party and left returning to Rue de l’ Homme Arme, the house was empty and bare. He took out Cosette's childhood mourning clothes he saved and thought of that December, thinking Fantine would be pleased she was mourning for her and was warm, broken hearted, he sobbed. 

353 

Valjean struggled once again, how many times has he been through this, a crossroad and heart-rending question. Marius and Cosette was his doing but should he retain Cosette, as a father, as he is in disgrace, in the law. He had clung to Cosette and ascended from disaster, should he let go, the Champmathieu affair is nothing compared to Cosette’s marriage. Reentrance to the galleys, to the void, should he impose the galleys to those children, sacrifice Cosette or himself, he thought of it for twelve hours. 

354 

On February 17 there was a visitor, Valjean returned to Gillenormand’s, he has to speak to Marius privately. Neither Valjean or Marius had slept well (we know you don’t have to say it) but Marius was happy to see him and they want him to live here. Valjean tells him he is an ex convict and it took a while for Marius to understand. He faked his injury since it wouldn't be right to forge the marriage documents, he’s not related to Cosette, she just needed him, he fulfilled that duty. “We have all undergone moments of trouble in which everything within us is dispersed; we say the first things that occur to us, which are not always precisely those which should be said.”p.883 

Marius asks why confess, he could have kept it a secret, what’s his motive, honesty. He doesn’t belong here, he doesn’t belong to family of men, (you stole a freaking loaf of bread and escaped prison decades ago) it all come to an end with Cosette’s marriage, he could lie for her but not himself, his conscience made him confess, he couldn’t have them share his taint. (again you stole a loaf of bread) He condemns himself and evaluates by degrading himself in his eyes, a galley slave with a conscience. (like nobody in prison have any redeeming qualities) “There are encounters which bind us, there are chances which involves in duties.”p.885 When one has a horror over their head, (you stole bread and escaped prison) it’s not right to make others share it without knowledge, Fauchelevent lent his name but he has no right to use it, he once stole bread to live and today he won't steal a name to live. (do I need to beat you with a newspaper too) 

Imagine if he said nothing and one day someone called out Jean Valjean and revealed him, he is a wretched man, Marius says he can get him a pardon, he’s presumed dead already. (yes this is the 1800s modern forensics and photo records don’t exist he’s believed to be dead for like a decade now how many people know his name and face and remember when the public saw you risk your life to save somebody they wanted you pardoned) It was then Cosette entered the room and thinks they are talking politics and won't have it, Marius tried to say they are talking business, then she’ll stay and listen but he wants to talk privately. She sees Valjean is pale and asks if he’s well, no and he smiles for her, and Marius convinces her to leave. Marius worries when she’ll find out, but Valjean has him swear to keep it from her, she was frightened enough of the passing galley slaves. He starts crying, wanting to die, Marius tells him he’ll keep it secret. Valjean asks if he shouldn’t see Cosette anymore, he thinks it’s for the best. As he leaves, he says he desires to see Cosette, but he had to tell him for nine years he was a father, he’s not sure if Marius understands, he’s told he can visit in the evening. 

355 

Marius was upset he felt instinctively enigmatic about Valjean and it was the galleys, was he and Cosette’s happiness condemned to it. He had entered this love affair without precautions and life amended it little by little. (that’s what happens when you marry someone you only knew for a few months) He had never told Cosette of the Gorbeau house affair, the fleeing victim, the Thenardiers, Eponine, he was so intoxicated with Cosette at the time nothing but love. (that’s obsession) Weighing consequences if he had told her and found out Valjean was a convict would it change anything, no, so nothing to regret. Valjean might have been hidden forever in an honest family but didn’t for conscience, Marius tried to find balance from Fauchelevent and Valjean, he went to the barricade for Javert out of revenge it seems. (you could clear this all up by asking him) How had to come to Cosette and kept her for so long, her childhood sheltered by a criminal, he couldn’t think of it without getting dizzy. 

How did he educate her, why raise her, that was Valjean and God’s secret. Marius knew God has his tools and Valjean was one for Cosette. He wouldn’t dare question Valjean, (seriously a third act misunderstanding stop being stupid) Cosette was pure and that was enough for him, so Valjean’s personal affairs didn’t concern him. “Jean Valjean was a passer-by. He had said so himself. Well, he had passed. Whatever he was, his part was finished.”p.893 The man was a convict, not even on a social ladder, Marius had found it simple, breeches in law should be followed with suffering, then there came Valjean. He should have freed his house of a man like Valjean but he made a promise and Valjean held his and one must keep their word, but his first duty was Cosette and through questioning her found the nettle protected the lily. (yeah it’s almost as if felons can still be good fathers) 

BOOK EIGHTH FADING AWAY OF THE TWILIGHT 

356 

The following night Valjean knocked on the Gillenormand house and was let in, fatigued, he sat in an armchair and dozed until Cosette came to him. He doesn’t move to embrace her and tells her not to call him father but Jean if she wants. She wants to know what he means, what happened, she doesn’t understand, she no longer needs a father since she has a husband. She’s furious at this (oh actual emotion besides weeping) and Marius’s strange behavior, is he angry at her because she’s happy, her happiness was his life now his days are over. She embraces him, he pulls her off and leaves and won’t address her formally again. 

357 

Valjean came the next night and Cosette wasn’t as warm, Valjean came every day and Marius arranged to be absent, no one knew the reasons behind it. Weeks passed like this and Cosette fell into married life, only wanting Marius to be with her and eventually Valjean became a different person, she doesn’t like it, who is he, she doesn’t know how good he is, she’d be afraid of him. Over time he visits became longer and once Cosette slipped and called him father he felt joy but said to call him Jean, she doesn’t see him cry. (you ever wish you could beat some sense into fictional characters as much as I do) 

358 

Then there was no more familiarity, he talked of her childhood, one day Marius took Cosette to the garden of Rue Plumet and forgot the time when Valjean would visit and Cosette didn't notice she didn’t see him. Valjean points out that she should have a carriage and hasn’t replaced Toussaint, why not profit from her riches, it adds to happiness, Cosette didn't respond. To stay longer Valjean talked of Marius, it was nice to forget by her side. One day Cosette mentioned to him Marius wants to live frugally on three thousand a year, (I don’t know how much that is in 1833 but in 2023 that is way below poverty line) Valjean didn't say anything to her but Marius believes he came into that money by nefarious means. (could have this cleared up instantly by just asking him) The lack of fire and distant chairs in the room was a subtle way of showing him the door. Once the chairs weren't there and a servant said they weren't expecting anyone to visit, the next day Valjean didn’t come Cosette inquired why and was told he was traveling. She only noticed he didn't come one day, it was two. 

359 

Summer 1833 shopkeepers noticed the same passerby in black from Rue de l’ Homme Arme he walked slowly and slowly shortened his journey, what was the use. (so he’s getting ready to die) 

BOOK NINTH SUPREME SHADOW, SUPREME DRAW 

360 

How terrible happiness is to make one forget duty, Marius regretted the promise so gradually estranged Valjean from Cosette, he considered it necessary and just. He tried to restitution the six hundred thousand francs and wouldn’t condemn Cosette to this knowledge, (again how is he a love interest he’s just terrible) who mechanically did as he wished, she was attached to her father but loved her husband. (she really has no personality of her own does she) Occasionally she asked if he returned from his journey and Valjean gave the answer no. Cosette allowed herself to be taken away from him, (really no personality or will of her own) it is the ingratitude of nature, youth go where there is joy, old age the end. (you have no idea how happy I am that this is almost the end) 

NEXT

[loafthecat]

Some people’s blorbos are murder cats

Some people’s blorbos are weird creatrs

My blorbo is a stick figure, WITH A FCKING HAT-

No joke- that’s the only way you know it’s him!!! Except for the shoes!!!

MY BLORBO IS A STICKFIGURE THATS ONLY DEFINING DESIGN TRAIT IS A HAT-

And I say that lovingly.

[gingermcl]

Lord means master of a household, ruler, feudal lord, superior; husband, God," from Old English hlaford “one who guards the loaves," from hlaf "bread, loaf, a portion of bread baked in a mass of definite form," from Proto-Germanic *khlaibuz "bread" + weard "keeper, guardian" - from PIE root *wer- (3) "perceive, watch out for" I think of money being called bread and money is an energy harvesting system. I honestly feel the money system is the first beast system.

Lord sounds a lot like Lured. Like fishing lures. International law is Admiralty maritime law, or law of the sea. The Holy See/Sea also reminds me of this being a water world. And I think of the all seeing eye.

Lure means “something which allures or entices, an attraction, bait”from Proto-Germanic *lothran "to call"

The word Lure can be rearranged into rule; rules are the opposite of free will. Guidelines would be more appropriate. I hold the opinion this realm is a prison but we somehow came in here voluntarily. I feel strongly this realm was misrepresented & were not truly told what we were consenting to. We were lured and took the bait. We do not simply exit upon death either.

This is a reincarnation trap that uses a light, often in a tunnel, that lures you in and lovebombs you, then it tells you you have to do a life review and convinces you to come back and fix your wrongs aka do another life. Kind of like how a bug lamp lures a moth.

We have to remember that we are sovereign beings and we cannot be attached to the flesh or matter. We must tell these entities posing as our creator we do not consent, especially if a situation goes against your gut feelings because your intuition is actually the true God or the creator speaking to you.

Honestly I feel we need to avoid the entire light tunnel and go into the void. From there our inner light will come from within and/or an exit will appear. Blinding light is not where one can be peaceful and create but rather that happens in darkness. The first thing Elohim said is let there be light, presumably God came out of darkness. Anything posing as a Lord is trying to exercise authority over other immortal souls is a false God. Immortal essence honors free will, creative power, and sovereign authority of each fractal of spirit.

Lord of the rings comes to mind. I feel Saturn or Satan is the Lord of the rings. The rings around Saturn may be some type of technology working with the moon to project a lower density here. I feel this realm is 5D with a 3-D overlay. The moon has not always been here. There are legends around the entire around that speak of the moon arriving in the chaos that ensued afterward. The Quran speaks of a day the moon will breaks. Saturn was somehow a sun in this world long ago. Festivals such as saturnalia, which is what Christmas is modeled after honored Saturn. the Sabbath used to be on Saturday, saturn day, and was later moved to Sunday.

All I know is I’m tired of being lured into this matrix and am not answering to an external Lord. I hope to find the way out. I’m open to ideas.

[musingmemories]

@fablesuntold

Eyes so stormy they'd almost been black. Sunken in against a malnourished, exhausted, broken shell of the person he was once . Peeta's condition had been alarming, gut punching and made her breath hitch from the tidal wave of emotion that threatened to crash into her so violently she would've been knocked down had it not been for Peeta doing that physically instead. They'd stuck with her, haunted her, eyes that weren't his. Muddled with fear, anger, and an almost empty void different from the brightness and clarity they'd once held.

'The important thing is... he's safe.' Reassurance always fell flat, Haymitch knew when to pick his battles, leaving her alone after checking in post-attack. Wasn't like Katniss could actually answer, and instead had settled for an incredulous glower that she'd intended to be read 'But at what cost?" Surviving with a hijacked mind, not able to differentiate between reality and the fables Snow had spun in his web of lies that linked every single person to her? She wondered if the old Peeta would've wished for death instead.

‘Do you think by telling me all this it’s going to earn my trust?’ Katniss didn’t mean to let the ironic huff rise and fall out of her in response, the tables now turned from who they were years ago when it was Katniss at odds with Peeta and defensive about his means of earning her trust. Steely gaze meeting his in stride, Katniss found herself noticing the differences about him the longer she spent looking at him, comparing the contrast between the person Peeta had been before and who he was now. Face was more filled, less twisted with malice after speaking with anyone else but her back in Thirteen for the start of his long recovery. Snow had completely changed the personality of someone that’d once been warm and kind as gentle sunlight shimmering through forest leaves, comforting as a freshly baked loaf of bread.

The fury Katniss felt wanted to make her hands shake from how it rattled against her chest. Not only to the man that sat in his ivory tower patiently waiting for her arrival but toward herself, and how she should’ve paid more attention to the man that’d been in front of her all along.

Words once full of encouragement and support were now replaced with accusation and loathing. She was a mutt, and she manipulated people — had manipulated him. "How have I been doing that, Peeta?" Tongue ran over drying lips, water scarce for their journey ahead, knowing she shouldn't be saying anything to agitate him... but gentleness hadn't ever been her forte... only his. "I wanted nothing to do with you at the beginning... but you helped me by tossing that bread in the rain. The memory you regret. And you were the one that declared your love in front of all of Panem. I thought you were the one manipulating me." But now... oh she hoped her voice maintained the lowered murmur she wanted to keep between them, an intimate space, a safe one. But knowing Katniss she was more than likely stoking coals. "You changed me, for the better." Admitted barely above a whisper, perhaps lost to Peeta's next words:

'You’ll get them all killed eventually...'

'You’d have done Panem a favour if you’d died during the first games. I should’ve killed you then.'

He had her there. "Yeah, maybe you should've." Katniss' tongue now felt like lead, forcing herself to continue, it wasn't like he'd believe her anyway, the one that'd never been good at saying something. “It's not an act. My... caring. I didn't make them all come. I was actually going to come alone. Storm the Capitol, take out Snow myself. Johanna was ready to get me out of Thirteen but guess I'm not as sneaky as I'd like to be, or she either bragged or boasted about my stupidity and everyone wanted a piece of Snow themselves. So... here we all are." Steady now. Gray blues met Peeta's muddled ones, her own expression softening. "You wouldn't have let me come alone either, you know."

@musingmemories

The rebellion was upon them.. there was no turning back now. Past decisions came back to bite them all, the sands of time slipping too fast for any of them to fully grasp the reality that this journey could well and truly be their last. It was as though a match had been struck and the whole of Panem was engulfed by the embers of a war that had been brewing for centuries.. yet, nobody thought it would ever commence. Oh, how wrong they all were. Not even Snow had foreseen this movement coming. At least not at this rate, anyway.

And here Peeta was staring at the source of it all through the dimly lit tunnel they’d taken shelter in for the night.. Katniss Everdeen.

Just the sight of her had every hair on the back of his neck stand on edge, stomach churning into taut knots whenever her gaze dared rove over his frame. Someone he’d once called his ally; a lover, now somebody he couldn’t bare to look at without wanting to wrap his hands around her neck and squeeze until the last dying light dimmed in her eyes, a glazing nothingness to replace it. He would’ve already prevailed at that, had it not been for Boggs’ swift reaction in knocking him out cold to save her. But she didn’t deserve to be saved, did she? Snow had opened his eyes to who she really was; a mutt. A game player. A deceiver. And although his methods may have been harsh and unforgiving.. Peeta was thankful to have finally broken free from her hold on him. A hold on him that she would never have again so long as his mind remained dark and cavernous with nothing but the sporadic memories that had been twisted and altered through endless bouts of torture and Tracker Jacker venom.

Katniss was loathsome. Somebody not to be trusted and she’d only proven that further by discussing him like he wasn’t even there. The audacity she had was astounding.

But what was even more astounding was the delivered verdict that he was the threat here. Now that drew out a vexed puff of air from his nose. “I’m a threat? That’s rich coming from you.” The beloved Mockingjay. A symbol of hope for the people— a hero, they’d painted her out to be. That made Peeta sick, fists clenching so tight that he swore his knuckles would break through his skin. All of this unnecessary death and destruction among the districts was because of her. Why couldn’t they see that? She sure had a way with people though, Peeta had to hand it to her. As heartless as she was, she had a certain charm to her. A master of gaslighting, able to creep her way around people somehow.

The silent assassin.

If not for Snow’s rectifying of his mind, Peeta feared he may have fallen for her act once again. Instead, her words had his blank stare turning into one of pure infuriation, fingers finding the sores lacing around his wrists from where he’d struggled earlier against his restraints; left bloodied and bruised.

“Do you think by telling me all of this, it’s gonna earn my trust?” Raw, unfiltered hatred replaced the glimmer in his eyes where there was once adoration. He was terrified of her. She was a monster. “I know what you’re doing. I know what you are. You’re a mutt and you manipulate people. You manipulate me.” Voice amping up a notch, Peeta cast his wary gaze around at the sleeping faces of those who had taken the oath to follow Katniss into the uncontrollable war she’d started. “You’ll get them all killed eventually..” It was crystal clear that she’d worked her mind games on them too. Like naive moths to a flame— and oh, ‘The Girl On Fire’ was the brightest spark. Katniss was like poison. Corrupting everything she touched and sapping the life out of them one by one both psychically and mentally until there was simply nothing left of any of them. “It’s not like you actually care about them though, right? You only care about yourself. It’s all an act.” That’s all it ever was to her. Proven during their first game.

There was one thing Peeta was certain of, and it slipped out before he could think twice about it. “You’d have done Panem a favour if you’d died during the first games. I should’ve killed you then.” President Snow’s words or his own? Peeta was unsure, conflicted about what was his own thought process and what had been tampered with during his time spent locked away in the Capitol’s ‘care.’ What was real and what wasn’t? A question he constantly pondered on. The more he thought about it, the less he knew and the start of what felt like a painful migraine already threatened to pulse through his temples in unwelcome waves— only furthering his growing frustration tenfold

[averlym]

to literally anyone who’s ever interacted with me on here, thank you so much

don’t have any new art today but but but! today marks the first post of this blog! i’ve been here for a year and hooray tumblr birthday and just- thank you so much for all the support seriously thank you thank you thank you to all the friends i’ve made and all the sweet validation and letting me share stuff here and wow huh this is interesting! i genuinely didn’t think i’d last a year but yay! i’ve changed so much and also not at all but i love it here and to whoever’s reading this, have a nice day!!!!

[smells-like-mettaton]

Sensory asks- 55 for gaster, sans, and papyrus :)

Dis-carded

Rating: G Word Count: 986 Prompt: Finding old photographs you'd forgotten about Read on AO3: here Notes: probably both more angsty and stupid than what you'd expect lol. takes place post deltarune and post ut pacifist

XXX

“Hey, uh, Dad?” 

Sans stared down at one of the boxes Gaster had brought with him when they’d finally fished him out of the Void. You’d think that getting stuck in Nowhere would leave you with a lot of Nothing, but somehow Dad had remained as much a hoarder as ever. 

“You get into scrapbooking while you were stuck in time prison?” he asked, looking up.

“Scrapbook—? Ah, yes, that.” Gaster swept over to pull out the green leatherbound photo album. He tried to brush dust off the front of it, but just succeeded in dribbling it with black goop instead.

“Didn’t think there was enough light in there for takin’ pics.” Sans’s head tilted curiously.

“You have pictures of the Void???” Papyrus stuck his head in from the kitchen, where he was cooking a healthy post-dimensional-hopping meal. 

Sans wasn’t sure if Dad would be able to eat it or not. Maybe he’d be better off if he couldn’t.

“Not exactly.”

Gaster settled down on the living room carpet. He looked more like a cat becoming a loaf than he did a skeleton. No legs to speak of, just his floating hands gently flipping open the book.

“I had nearly forgotten about these. Ralsei compiled them for me, as an ‘Escaping The Abyss’ gift.” His wobbling smile stretched a little wider.

Ralsei… which one was that? Dad hadn’t given them a super thorough run-down of his, uh, ‘Void Adventures,’ yet. All Sans knew was that he’d screwed around with another universe, and one of his Void Buddies had finally patched Sans and Papyrus through to pick him up. Dess, her name was. She’d made some comments about teaching Gaster how to use a microwave.

“Did you make friends in the Abyss??” Papyrus plopped down next to him. “What was it like?”

“Well. Mostly, I kept watch over the Player. Their assistance was required to prevent the world from being covered in darkness.”

Gaster pointed to a photo of a glowing heart, the red blown out against the dark background. It looked just like Frisk’s soul, from the few times he remembered seeing ‘em in combat.

“But wasn’t your world already covered in darkness?” Papyrus asked. 

“The not-place where I resided was. But the world itself, was not. Mostly. Depending on your perspective.”

“Thanks. Real transparent explanation, there.” Sans grinned, as he always did. Dad didn’t know him well enough to see that it was tight at the corners.

Dad had been gone, and then he’d been back. No warning. No explanation. No apologies. Barely even an acknowledgement of what Sans and Papyrus had risked to tow his melting butt out. 

Papyrus didn’t seem to mind. Sans didn’t seem to, either. Mostly because expressing any kind of annoyance was too much effort.

(Also because it was Dad. Dad, who moved, and expected the world to move with him.)

(And for the most part, it did.)

“There is Kris and Susie’s first meeting with Ralsei… he was so shy at the time. I couldn’t code too strong of a personality into him, you see, or it might have clashed with the Player…”

“Huh?”

“And there’s Lancer—isn’t he just the cutest little thing? I modeled his form somewhat after what you looked like as a child, Sans. You always did enjoy wearing your hood up…”

Something in Sans’s stomach dropped. Gaster continued talking warmly, fondly, about the kids who he’d either made or manipulated. His voice turned to white noise, fuzzing in the back of Sans’s skull.

“Um, Dad?” Papyrus interrupted with a frown. 

“Yes, son?”

“You know that controlling people is bad, right?”

Gaster blinked. A glob of goop dripped from roughly where his shoulder should’ve been.

“It was to save the world. They understood.”

Sans sighed and shook his head.

“You drove several of them insane,” Papyrus insisted. “You have photos. You just showed us. You saw Spamtong—die? Did he die?”

Sans shrugged. He figured if Spamton was as much like Mettaton as the pictures implied, then losing his “BIG” body must have been like dying in any way that mattered.

“He poured his essence into the pair of spectacles. See, Ralsei is wearing him here when they fight—”

“DAD!” Papyrus gripped his ‘shoulders,’ his gloves sinking into the goop. “That is unacceptable!! You can’t just—throw people away when you’re done using them!”

Sans snorted. Couldn’t he, though? What had done with Sans and Papyrus, huh? Left ‘em as soon as he’d had bigger and better things to do.

“He was not discarded, as you can see—”

“Father!” Papyrus jumped to his feet, stomping his boot on the carpet. “No more arguing! There is only one thing to be done about this!!”

Sans’s eyelights flickered out, just for a minute. Papyrus really didn’t plan to go back there, did he? It sounded like they could spend years and not clean up all of Dad’s mistakes. Besides, how would you even turn a pair of glasses back into a person?

From inside his ribcage, though, Papyrus pulled out a tall bundle of Hallmark greeting cards. They had a picture of a skeleton and a joke on the front, though Sans couldn’t quite make out the words. Looked like something about birthdays? Getting old and dying, maybe? That was a bit morbid, by Papyrus’s standards.

“Apology cards!” Papyrus dropped the bundle on top of the photo album.

Gaster squinted at them.

“...These are for someone’s fiftieth birthday.” 

“Not after some help from my trusty Sharpie, they won’t be! Nyeh heh heh!”

Sans couldn’t help chuckling, though a few cards wouldn’t make a difference. Screwing up someone’s life that bad wasn’t something you could just apologize for. But maybe a few hours of cramping phalanges would teach Dad a lesson.

And at least next time, Sans and Papyrus would be here to make sure he didn’t do anything too stupid.