#malachi strand

[tortoisesshells]

have been rewatching Longmire and forgot that, in the middle of the"multiple people's dangerous obsessions/monomanias collide, with a not insignificant death toll" season, there's a scene with elementary school kids performing Moby-Dick. flawless. amazing. i'd be ashamed of myself for writing it in but kudos to the writers for having the balls to commit to the fucking bit.

[pixii33]

𝐆𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋: 𝘈𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘔𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘺 𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘱𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘺, 𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘧 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘥.

The room was dimly lit, with only the soft glow of a bedside lamp casting long shadows against the walls. You sat on the edge of the bed, your hands trembling slightly as you tried to steady yourself. The warmth of the blanket draped over your shoulders did nothing to chase away the cold that gripped your heart.

Malachy knelt in front of you, a gentle smile on his lips as he carefully scooped up a spoonful of soup from the bowl in his hand. He brought it to your lips, his movements slow and deliberate, as though he were feeding a delicate bird.

“Open up, sweetheart,” he murmured softly, his voice a soothing lullaby that contrasted sharply with the storm of emotions raging inside you. “You need to eat something. It’ll make you feel better.”

You hesitated, your throat tightening as fresh tears welled up in your eyes. Everything felt wrong. The way he looked at you, the way he spoke to you—like you were something precious, something to be cherished. But you weren’t. Not anymore. Not after what he’d done.

Malachy’s free hand reached up to brush away a tear that slipped down your cheek, his thumb warm against your cool skin. “Shh, it’s okay,” he whispered, leaning in closer, his breath ghosting against your ear. “I’m here. I’ll take care of you. You don’t have to worry about anything, my sweet girl.”

You parted your lips, allowing him to feed you the spoonful of soup, the taste bland and unremarkable on your tongue. It slid down your throat, but the comfort it was supposed to bring never came. Instead, more tears spilled over, trailing down your cheeks in silent rivers.

“There you go,” Malachy crooned, wiping away your tears with the pad of his thumb before they could fall any further. “Such a good girl. My good girl.”

You wanted to pull away, to recoil from his touch, but your body refused to listen. You felt numb, your emotions a tangled mess that you couldn’t begin to unravel. All you could do was sit there and let him care for you, even though it only made the pain worse.

He set the bowl aside and moved closer, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you into his chest. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat was a cruel contrast to your own frantic pulse. His hand stroked your hair, his fingers threading through the strands with practiced ease.

“You’re so beautiful when you cry,” he whispered into your ear, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin. “So fragile, so perfect.”

His words were like poison, sweet and deadly, seeping into your mind and taking root. You hated how your body responded to him, how your tears seemed to fall faster with every gentle word he uttered.

“It’s okay to cry,” Malachy continued, his voice a soft hum. “You’ve been through so much. But I’m here now. I’ll protect you. I’ll keep you safe. You don’t have to be afraid anymore.”

But you were afraid. You were terrified. Not of him, but of yourself. Of how easy it was to fall into his arms, to let him hold you, to let him whisper those sweet nothings that made your heart ache and your tears flow.

He pressed a kiss to your temple, then another to your cheek, catching a tear with his lips. “I love you,” he whispered against your skin. “I’ll never let anyone hurt you. Not even yourself.”

The sob that tore from your throat was involuntary, your hands clutching at his shirt as you broke down completely. Malachy only held you tighter, his whispers of affection wrapping around you like a suffocating blanket.

“There, there, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice a low, comforting rumble. “I’m here. I’ll always be here. You don’t have to face anything alone.”

But the truth was, you felt more alone than ever.

And as you cried in his arms, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were drowning, slowly sinking into the depths of something dark and inescapable. But Malachy held you fast, anchoring you to him with a grip that felt more like a shackle than a lifeline.

And as much as you wanted to escape, a part of you knew you never would.

Part 1 ♡ Part 3

@ 𝒃𝒓𝒐𝒌𝒆𝒏𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒍 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒. 𝒅𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒄𝒐𝒑𝒚, 𝒓𝒆𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒔𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒐𝒇 𝒎𝒚 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒌𝒔 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒐𝒓 𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒘𝒆𝒃𝒔𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒔.

[kurithedweeb]

Dear Sir Garroth,

Allow me to be plain with you, Sir. I'm angry at you. Pissed at you, really. Extraordinarily pissed, if you couldn't tell from the scorched edge of this letter you will likely never see. I'm not even sure why I'm still writing this seeing as I tried to burn it before I finished the first sentence. Perhaps only because it's something to do.

I was stabbed the day before the battle ended, do you remember? By a frost dagger. I would have appreciated the warning that the cold will run through your veins, perhaps from a man who used to wield one himself? You know how the cold afflicts me, you bastard. No matter, my blood is plenty warm with hurt now. Since you first bound it on the field, my stitches have been torn thrice. I collapsed the moment I stepped through the portal and had to be helped into town to see Donna.

Though she may be a wondrously talented medic, Donna is no healer or witch. There's only so much she could do and so she's ordered I remain on bedrest until I've healed to her liking. I'm loathe to bring that woman's wrath down on myself, hence why I am now writing pointless letters to men stranded in different realms. She has four children now, Donna; Yip, twin boys Lello and Rollo, and a girl named Luca. She's only a babe, Luca, still in her swaddling, but the twins must be nearly ten. I tell you this because it's been fifteen years. We've been gone fifteen years. You may still be gone years and years.

Levin is grown now. Lord, even. He resembles you very much, all keen blue eyes and wisps of blond curls falling in his face, but his mannerisms are alike his mothers'. He has a faint trace of your accent in his words, too. He did not recognize me. I'm told he was too young when we left to remember us properly, though Malachi supposedly does. He's a trader these days, out at sea with Logan when we arrived home. Levin didn't speak with me long, as busy all day as our lady is—was. He did tell me he'd been excited to meet us both, that his brother and Uncle Dante had told him stories of us as he'd grown, and he'd known that if we were anything at all like how they'd described then we were good men he'd rather get to know.

Dante's grown old. I last saw him hours ago, and now he is head guard rather than the slight boy fresh from the academy we knew him as. The dark circles under his eyes make me worry he hasn't had a proper rest in years, and he's thin in a way I wish I didn't recognize. Do you remember the night he snuck away to handle the O'khasian archers? You might not. I've found even so soon after to my eyes the days and nights blend together at times. I remember the great tears rolling down his face when you and I removed the arrow and picked the remains from his face. That night left a scar on either cheek, rough ones shaped like starbursts or comets. The shape far-off lights make in the night when you squint just right. He felt so small in the cradle of my arms then. He's of a height with me now, standing eye to eye.

We missed their entire lives in the Matron's realm. Gone in a blink. Our boys, our brother, our friends, they have all moved past us. Irony of irony, they've sent us off into the Matron's embrace already, Sir Garroth Ro'Meave. Buried us and moved on.

Because of your actions, we have missed the whole of their lives, the lives we could have shared with them. Should have. All for what? For a man you hadn't seen in at least a decade, one you no longer knew at all?

Everything has changed because of what you did, you ass. I should tell you I will never forgive this deed of yours. And yet I miss you already.

Sincerely yours,

Your second-in-command, Sir Laurance Zvahl of Phoenix Drop.

[bisexual-kane]

One particularly obnoxious strand of bad AEW discourse is that Tony Khan is some kind of tyrant booker who forces wrestlers into spots/storylines/promos that are dangerous/uncomfortable.

(Kenny taking bumps Wednesday and Ospreay's shot at Triple H come to mind.)

I may be wrong, but at one time, AEW didn't really function like WWE where Vince dictated everything. Instead, wrestlers pitched their own ideas and Tony gave them a thumbs up or thumbs down.

It's kind of why a lot of WWE refugees like Andrade El Idolo felt like they didn't do much. Without Triple H/Vince dictating a story, what were they to do? Malachi Black in particular totally has the vibes of a guy who has really, really cool ideas--but they are ideas and not stories, so despite House of Black being heavily featured, it feels like they never do anything.

Meanwhile, The Elite (and all of their friends/hangers-on/dick riders) have spent a lot of time developing their own characters and improv skills through New Japan, ROH, PWG, and (I cannot emphasize this enough) BTE. Jon Moxley in particular when he bailed on WWE talked up a lot about how he wanted the freedom to improv promos and that he didn't need a script because that ain't wrestling to him. You can also see people like Christian Cage and Adam Copeland (and even Chris Jericho), who left WWE by choice who are really excited to be in AEW because they get a chance to flex creative muscles they didn't get to in WWE and they are doing really interesting and cool things.

(I mean, I know we are all sour on Chris Jericho right now in 2024, but Inner Circle Jericho was a really great heel champion.)

Again, I am totally just an outside fan who has no inner knowledge. But at least at one point, AEW was trying to be a more collaborative environment. Tony Khan has final say about what goes on the show, but the talent themselves are doing a lot of pitching the ideas about what ends up on it.

Like, Tony is not making Will Ospreay go out there and take shots at Triple H against his will. Stop making up a villain in your head, people. jeeze.

[let-me-love-you-loki]

Everything Has Changed--Ch. 29

Chapter 29

Nick

            I hadn’t spoken to Matt in almost a week. He called constantly the first day or two, then eventually stopped by day five. My voicemail had at least two dozen messages from him. I honestly couldn’t bring myself to listen to any of them. The truth was that I felt horrible for leaving him stranded in the parking lot at LAX. It had been a stupid and selfish thing to do, and I felt sick that I’d done it from the moment I hit the highway. But I was also so angry and hurt that I stuck by it.

            My parents, Malachi, DJ, all of them called. I didn’t answer. I knew that my siblings would try to get me to forget what happened. Dad would have tried to counsel me; told me I was my brother’s keeper and all that. Mom would have put the emotional screws on me to make me forgive him. Of course, I was sure that Matt had given them the story he wanted them to hear. He wouldn’t have told them about why I’d been so upset. How he’d basically picked Kenny Omega over me. Even knowing what he’d done to Shaye, Matt had chosen to basically break up the team we’d built for our entire lives. I hated him for it, and I hated myself for hating him.

            The only person who actually showed up at my apartment to try to drag some kind of conversation out of me was Sam. I don’t know why it surprised me when she appeared, banging on the door and screaming for me to open up. She’d completely filled my voicemail with one message after the other telling me how I was being stupid and selfish and generally a massive prick. The first few times I’d just let her knock and scream until she wore herself out. But then my neighbors complained. Then I just opened the door, told her to go away, and slammed it in her face.

            I’d basically locked myself away in my apartment and cut off contact with just about everyone I knew. Especially my family. It was just easier to avoid everyone because I didn’t want to have to explain or justify what I’d done against the convincingly smooth lies my brother would have told everyone around him. I hated thinking about Matt like that, but at the moment it seemed about right. It wasn’t like he was going out of his way to find out what really happened in Winnipeg.

            I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten anything, and even though my stomach was growling I had no desire for food. My head had been killing me for hours despite chugging water and eating ibuprofen like candy. I suppose going without food for so long wasn’t helping either.

            My fingers groped through the tangled sheets for my phone. I clicked it on to check the time: half past five. So, eight thirty on the East Coast. My finger lingered over the screen as I fought with myself. It wasn’t like I was exactly on the top of my game emotionally—as good an excuse as any to do the Jackson family version of drunk calling.

            I sucked in a breath and scrolled through to Shaye’s number, tapping on it before I could think twice. My nerves were so shot that I almost wished I was drunk as I listened to the line ringing over and over again. After the tenth ring, it was clear she wasn’t going to answer.

            Click. “You’ve reached Shaye Walker. Please leave a message at the tone.” Beep.

            My stomach dropped out. Of course she wouldn’t answer my call. She hadn’t done it for the last month, so there was no reason for her to change her mind now. I felt my jaw tighten as my breath caught in my chest.

            What’s the point, I thought. “I’m sorry,” I said almost too softly to hear my own words. “I shouldn’t have called.”

            I hung up and tossed the phone somewhere near the foot of the bed. My stomach grumbled and my head throbbed.

            What’s the point?

***

Shaye

            I tugged my bag tighter against my chest as I waited on the platform for the train to the Upper East Side. My head felt like it had been squeezed in a vice all day, and all I wanted to do was go home, crawl into my bed, and wait for Kenny to call. If he called. Sometimes he did, sometimes he didn’t. I never knew which one it was going to be, so I kept myself awake for as long as I could and dragged myself out of bed as early as possible. I didn’t want to miss his call no matter how much it ground me down day after day.

            The subway was hot and stuffy. I rubbed my fingers over my forehead and groaned as I checked my watch. The train was late. I just wanted to go home. Was that too much to ask? I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been this exhausted. Or the last time I’d existed on so much caffeine. A yawn worked its way out.

            I blinked and the train doors were just about to slam shut in my face. Before it could, I forced my way onto the car and found a place to sit. My body practically collapsed into the plastic seat as I dug in my pocket for my phone. Maybe Kenny would be available. Maybe I could speak to him for a bit and then be able to go to bed not long after I got home.

            The voicemail icon caught my attention. I tapped it without checking who called.

            It played once, but I could barely hear the words against the noise of the subway. The message was short, not even ten seconds. What was the point of leaving a message if it was so quiet that it could barely be heard and so short that it could barely contain any useful information?

            Frustrated, I connected my headphones, turned up the volume as loud as it would go, and then replayed the message.

            “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have called.”

            The line went dead, but I could still hear the words rolling around in my skull. It had been a long time since I’d heard that voice. Not since I’d practically told him to leave me alone. But I would never forget the sound.

            My heart skipped one beat after another. It nearly choked the breath from my lungs. That was the only explanation I had for what I did.

            I closed my eyes and tried to calm my heartbeat as I waited for the call to connect. The seconds between each ring seemed to stretch out further and further. Almost as if the universe was giving me a chance to rethink what I was doing. To stop the manic stupidity that I was exhibiting in that moment.

            My finger hovered over the screen, ready to disconnect the call.

            “H-hello?”

            My heart clawed up my throat. “Hey.”

            For a moment, I thought the call had dropped. It sounded like nothing but static and then a prolonged silence.

            “Are you there?” I asked softly. My fingers trembled with anxiety.

            “I… Yeah, I’m here,” came the reply. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought he sounded drunk. “I… Are you okay?”

            A warm, gentle sensation settled into my chest. Almost as if something I’d lost had fallen back into place again. I took a deep breath. When was the last time I’d been able to breathe this easily?

            “Good. I’m good.” The words were out before I could stop them. The huge lie that they were. “What about you?”

            He cleared his throat. I heard a rustle that sounded like he was rolling around in blankets. I looked at my watch. Had I got the time wrong?

            “You didn’t have to call,” Nick said after what felt like forever. “I didn’t expect you to. Honestly, I didn’t even expect you to listen to the message. If you even got it. For all I knew, you’d blocked my number.”

            I felt those words like a blow to my chest. He hadn’t said it to be hurtful. I knew that much about Nick Jackson. But it had hurt nonetheless, and it reminded me of how I’d treated this guy who’d been more than kind to me when I needed it most.

            “I—Why d’you think I’d do that?”

            Nick groaned. I heard a thump and wondered if he’d knocked his head back against the headboard. A memory rushed into me unbidden of falling asleep in Nick’s bed after everything that happened in Winnipeg. Realization settled over me. California had really been the last time I’d felt remotely safe or normal.

            “Last time we talked, you basically told me to get lost. I guessed from there.”

            Tears prickled my eyes. I tried to blink them away, but they came so fast that I couldn’t hold them back. So much had happened since the last time Nick and I had spoken. The weight of it all was suddenly the only thing I could think about. I couldn’t breathe through the tears.

            “I’m sorry, Nick,” I said, knowing the brokenness in my voice was evident. “I shouldn’t have called and dragged you back into my mess.”

            It sounded as if Nick let out a growl. “Am I going to get a say in anything that happens?” he spat angrily. “You and Matt… I’m a grown man. Let me act like it.”

            “I… Wait, what happened with Matt?”

            Nick huffed on the other end of the line. “We’re done. The Bucks are over. Matt still wants to wrestle in a trio with Kenny, even knowing everything that he did.”

            Bile burned the back of my throat. “Nick, please,” I whimpered, “don’t let what happened tear you guys apart. It isn’t worth it.”

            “It is to me. Because I don’t like it when people I love get hurt. Even if it’s other people I love who do it.”

_________________________________

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[billytough]

Open Arms - Sza

This story is about Uba Sully, the second-born daughter of Jake and Neytiri.

Uba , the daughter of Jake and Neytiri, feels immense pressure to live up to the legendary status of her parents and older brother. She's unsure of her own path, as the traditional expectations placed upon her are daunting. Following the events of Avatar: The Way of Water, Uba encounters an old childhood friend who quickly becomes Jake's worst nightmare.

Note: The images used are not mine and belong to their respective owners. James Cameron is the rightful owner of the Avatar franchise. [And if he ever needs another writer, I'm available! 👩🏽‍🦯] p.s I wrote this maybe a year or so ago, for my friends 🫡 I love them dearly

Oc list visuals [Found on Pinterest images belong to their respective owners]

Malachi Riot

RDA - Human - Avatar - Plant specialist

Espen

RDA - Human - Avatar - Malachi’s friend

Uba Sully

Omatikaya - Best weaver - Silent Hunter

Mawley

Omatikaya - Free spirit - Uba's best friend - Best with Tsko A'eoio (bow)

1st Lieutenant Cinder

RDA - Human - Na'vi  - Best shooter

Txana

Metkayina - Fastest swimmer - Twin sister of Ao'nung

I’m

Satari

Metkayina - Future tsahìk - Best singer - 1st daughter of Ronal and Tonowari eldest of three

+ one [getting updated]

[Story here pt 1]

They say that once you get a taste of something new, it's hard to let it go. It gives you butterflies every time you close your eyes; it makes you look out a window whenever things around you are noisy. It makes you yearn for it over and over again. When you're awake, it's your motivation; when you dream, it's your safe place. It's a connection so deep you yourself start to wonder, did you make it all up.

"Wakey wakey~"

Malachi opened his eyes, the light in the room slightly blinding him as he began to sit up in his bed while rubbing his eyes. "What time is it? He mumbled with a yawn.

"It's  1 o'clock, you slept in more than usual Malachi."

Malachi let out a deep sigh, his eyes now fully open, as he adjusted to the sun's rays in the sky that shone through his window. He focused his attention on the girl beside the bed as she peered out the window with a smile. The girl had brown hair that was tied up in a ponytail with a few strands that stuck to the sides of her face and her forehead, indicating that she had just come from a run. She had dark brown eyes and a long scar that was visible on the right side of her face.

"You stink," Malachi huffs while stretching his body. "Says you, when was the last time you washed your ass, huh?"

Malachi walked out of the room, taking a quick left turn down the corridor, as he heard Espen let out a large gasp while chasing after him. "You were!"

"Shut up!" Malachi shouted at her before reaching the boy's bathroom, quickly getting inside, and shutting the door. Malachi clenched his jaw feeling his body become tingly and his cheeks becoming tense. He took in a few breaths while turning on his heel and heading to the joint showers in the back. The white and silver textures of the bathroom kept him calm so his thoughts didn't start to wander to the back of his mind.

The RDA was a blessing and curse in Malachi's eyes. He was close to the scientist that researched another world other than Earth, he got to explore and roam the environment while on a scout mission when he was younger. His knowledge of plants helped him survive on earth. But over there. Being lost was an experience he could never get out of his head. It wasn't like getting lost in a store, it was something indescribable.

Malachi shook his head, entering the open curtain stall and closing the curtain behind him, he turned the faucet of the shower, the cold water hitting his skin as he leaned his head against the wall in front of him while he closed his eyes. He began to relax while the memories flooded back to him, the memories of the other world; the plants, the sounds, the sights, the animals, and finally, her.

Malachi smiled softly, recalling the Na'vi girl who had shown him the baskets she had woven. How welcoming of him she was. Even though there was a language barrier between them, they both tried the best they could. She was shy at first, only speaking when she thought she needed to.

With a sigh, Malachi felt the water start to warm up along his body. He opened his eyes slightly to observe the water drain beneath his feet. He recalled the Na'vi girl's soft nature; at the time, he thought she was cute. It was unusual, but heartfelt. They weren't even the same species; was he even allowed to find her captivating? She was an alien, and he was a human inhabiting an alien body. Was it even right?

The water was now hot with the steam filling in the showers. He was a kid then, now almost a young adult. It had been eight years since then, Malachi had to go through intense training with Espen, just to finally be able to go back once everything became cleared by one of the higher ups at the RDA. However, with new management came new priorities; his new task was to adapt Earth's plant life to Pandora's environment. But he could only do it from the station pods until he was cleared to return to Pandora with an Avatar.

Unfortunately, the Avatar program had been put on hold due to the death of a woman named Grace. Malachi knew she was the woman who founded the program; he respected her work and had so many questions for her, so many thoughts he hoped he could share with her. Nevertheless, she died. From what he'd heard, she was a traitor, according to some of the older scientists.

"Yo! What's with all the steam?Malachi is that you again?"

"Yeah, my bad," Malachi replied, turning the faucet down a bit.

"There ain't no plants in here boyo." An older man chuckled. Malachi heard other guys come in while deep into conversation while getting into the other showers around him.

"Wouldn't it be crazy if he had kids?" someone said.

"How the hell would he even do that?"

"Shit I couldn't even tell you, but like imagine though."

"It's disgusting that he betrayed his own flesh in blood for some alien cheeks. Talk about honoring your country."

Malachi cringed at the comment. All the warmth in his body became cold, he felt angry for some reason, he wasn't sure why. He quickly began to wash himself wanting to get out more than ever.

Malachi grabbed his towel and wrapped it around his lower half, he pushed the curtain aside and walked towards the exit of the showers and into the locker area.

"Sup prodigy," one of the guys said, giving Malachi a salute walking past him. Malachi smiled at the man in response, going past a few other guys who greeted him nearly the same way. Once he reached his locker, he took a glance around making sure he was out of view while he put in his combination and opened his locker.

Malachi smiled softly, his eyes landing on a bracelet with two beads on them. He quickly grabbed it and placed it on his wrist before grabbing his uniform shirt and put it on. Malachi got dressed quickly and headed towards the exit of the locker room and back into the corridor. He sighed looking at his reflection in the long glass window. Then shifted his gaze to the dirty blonde standing by the door with a grin on her face.

Malachi began to walk away as Espen followed him.

"How was it this time?" Espen asked. "Did you tell her how captivating she was?  Ooh or did you—"

Malachi groaned, "Will you leave it alone? My god you're like a damn dog."

Espen giggled at Malachi's frustration. "Hell no, come on tell me! What happened in your dream?"

"It's just a dream."

"Yeah, something that you slept in for. Oh come on Malachi just tell me! Did you kiss her or something?"

Malachi shot Espen a glare. "What? No. I was like 8 when I met her anyway."

"Damn it's been that long," Espen replied in slight disbelief. "And you're still hung up over her? Wow. She must've been one hell of a girl to keep you this obsessed for so long."

"I'm not obsessed with her, don't say it like that." Malachi cringed at Espen's comment. He didn't think he was obsessed. If anything he admired the Na'vi girl.

He liked her craftsmen ship at their young ages at the time and how kind and gentle she was. He never figured he was obsessed with the girl. How could he be obsessed? Malachi's mind wandered back to the conversation he overheard in the shower. His body became tense while recalling it.

He didn't want to be known for being obsessive of an alien. He was a prodigy. Not an alien lover...

How could he, a human, be attracted to an alien?

Then again.

It happened once.

Malachi turned his head towards the glass window beside him then shifted his gaze towards the floor beneath him, he glanced at the bracelet on his wrist. Maybe Espen was right? Maybe he was obsessed.

If he went back to that place, would she even remember him? Would she even accept him with open arms like she did before?

[zenixromeave]

aphtober day 20: parent and child

aphmau and levin try to reconnect over breakfast

Levin pulls on a stray curl, looking at the woman. The blonde strand bounces back to him. He knows his mama– Zoey– isn't blood related to him, but at least he looks like her. He feels like he was meant to be her child, even if she never even met his mother and father.

But Aphmau–

He can't see it.

Malachi calls her mom. He remembers her.

Zoey calls her his mom. She remembers her.

There are big, big eyebags under her warm eyes, and it makes him think twice about everything he's ever been. His mama told him stories, as he grew up without her, of what she was like, how selfless and wonderful she was. Is. Everyone who ever met her seemed to fall in love, and she returned their love in favor, no matter how much it took from her.

He wanted to be strong and beautiful like her, but even though she looks nothing like him, looking at her is like looking into a mirror.

She looks so tired.

He's heard she hasn't been sleeping well recently.

He's heard of the wonderful people she's lost.

He's heard of how she's never had the peace to mourn them.

The sizzling of eggs on an oiled, cast-iron pan quiets to only the popping of the oil as the heat dies, and the quick clatter of dishes and forks as Aphmau plates the two fried eggs alongside buttered and honeyed bread.

"Does Zoey still make her toast like this?" She asks, placing a decorated plate in his place on the small wooden table, and doing the same once again for herself before sitting across from him. "With the honey? She showed me to do it like this, back when we were first getting to know each other."

Levin brings the sweet bread to his mouth and takes a bite, gauging its similarity to what his mama would make for him. It seems to melt in his mouth, delicious, he nods with his mouth full. "Yeah, not as much anymore, but when we were younger she used to make me and Malachi bread like this for breakfast, too. I think she put extra sugar on it though, because she knew I liked it."

The warmest smile twitches onto Aphmau's face– a smile so genuine and loving he feels as if he's looking at something he's not supposed to: a smile for someone else. "Sweet tooth, huh? I think Zoey's always liked sweet things, too."

"I grew out of it, sort of." He takes another bite. "This is good though. Thank you, Aphmau."

He's a smart boy; he sees the wave of sadness wash over her, quick as it is, but he doesn't think that lying and calling her mom would feel quite right to either of them.

"Do you like to cook?" She hasn't taken a bite yet, more intent on conversation than hunger.

He thinks about it for a minute, trying to give her as much as he can. "Yeah, I like to give things to other people. I'm not that good at it yet, but I've been working on it, in my free time."

"I'm sure it's yummy," Aphmau smiles with a hint of a laugh. "What else do you like to do?"

He's in the middle of a bite of egg and toast, so he has a moment to think again. He likes helping people. He likes protecting people. "I don't know, um–" He chuckles awkwardly, "You're putting me on the spot. I just like to do whatever makes other people happy."

He sees it, and he knows she sees it too. The way the darkened circles under their eyes mirror each other, even if his are much lighter.

She tilts her head with a funny expression– one he isn't sure how to read. "You used to like to paint, when you were little. You'd get so messy, painting with your stubby little fingers. I kept everything you made, I hope Zoey still has it… do you still like painting?"

Levin knits his pale eyebrows together, "Ah, I don't know. I haven't done anything like that since I was a kid. We don't have many art supplies around, anyways."

With just a little bit of toast in her mouth, "Since you were a kid," she repeats with a lighthearted, mocking tone, poking at him with her fork– still skewering the white of an egg. "You're still a kid, Levin. I know it doesn't feel like it, but you are." She sighs, pausing for a second. "I used to paint the back of my house, and the… old house, out in the woods. Somewhere where no one could see, so I knew I couldn't mess up, you know?" He nods, and se smiles again, "But I always showed you and Malachi. I knew you two wouldn't judge."

"I guess, but we still don't have any paints."

Aphmau lets out a humored laugh, "That's half the fun! That never stopped me, I got pretty good at making them myself." She leans forward, and Levin takes in the wonderous look in her eyes. "It's really nice; to have something all to yourself. It doesn't have to be painting, but if you want me to show you the ropes, I'd love to. It's… been a while for me, too."

"...That might be nice."

[the-chosen-fanfiction]

Capernaum's Sweetest | Chapter 5

Chapter 5 - A legacy of loaves

Chapter list

“…I’m so tired,” sighs John as he rubs the sleep from his heavy eyes, “We really shouldn’t have promised to start an hour early.” The sons of Zebedee traverse the empty streets of Capernaum in the light of the moon rather than the sun.

“We should have gone to bed earlier,” James corrects his younger brother. “I mean, we knew that uncle Malachi is great at talking our ears off about his adventures, but we went to sleep far past midnight.”

“And I regret it,” John mutters, stifling a yawn. “How many hours of sleep did you get?” 

James thinks for a moment. “Four?” 

“You’re quite lucky, then.” John mutters, “It took a while for me to fall asleep.” 

“It’s not a competition,” his older brother tells him.

About to open his mouth to protest the accusation of making it a competition of sleeping the least amount of hours possible, John turns the corner to the bakery, but the words get stuck in his throat and get replaced by another sentence instead: “Wait. Why is there light in the bakery?” 

“Maybe (Y/n) forgot to extinguish the torches?” 

“She wouldn’t do that.” John counters.

James hums. “Indeed, she wouldn’t…” For a moment, the brothers give one another a concerned look, before quickly rushing over to the bakery, finding the front door locked. 

“Of course, around the back.” James remembers, the two of them rounding the building and heading through the unlocked gate. 

With your head resting in your folded arms, leaning on the table in the centre of the baking area, you sit on a chair, seemingly asleep. You are covered with a woollen blanket. Next to you stands the nub of a candle flickering as it nears its end, wax dripping onto the brass holder. “(Y/n)?” James questions softly, “What are you doing here?” He puts a hand on your shoulder to shake you awake.

For a moment, your eyelids flutter as you are roused, eyes squinting blearily against the low light. “James?” you groggily mutter, “John?” You sit up straighter in the chair, rub your eyes, tuck some strands of (h/c) hair that have come loose from your veil back behind your ears. Your cheeks are red and raw, hollowness in your gaze. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at home?” 

“It’s nearly morning.” 

You try to regain your consciousness as you swallow hard, slowly coming to your senses again. A stranger’s blanket sits around your shoulders. When you stop seeing double, the weight of last night dawns on you.

“Have you fallen asleep during your shift or someth—” 

“Hosea is gone,” you croak.

The sons of Zebedee give you a look. “What? What do you mean?” 

Your eyes fill with sudden tears, the brothers growing blurry to your field of view. When you adjust your apron, they realise it’s torn on the collar. “He’s dead.” 

Their jaws fall open in sudden shock. “What?” John exclaims, “How? When?” 

As your bottom lip starts to quiver, they rush over, James grabbing you a cup of water before sitting with you and John. “Take a breath and calmly tell us what happened.”

Inhaling and exhaling, you drink with long sips, until you’ve calmed down enough again to answer their questions. “Yesterday evening, just a few minutes after you two went home, there was a thud in the backroom. When I went to check it out, I saw Hosea on the floor, not breathing, blood on his face. I… I ran outside and called for help… I… I don’t really remember anything else, other than that they carried his body away and... Oh, this can’t be happening!” 

Putting your hand over your mouth, you stifle another cry. The brothers put a hand on your back to comfort you, silently trying to deliberate what to do as you once again burst out into tears. “I’m so sorry you had to see that, (Y/n).”

“We shouldn’t have left you on your own yesterday.” James adds. 

You shake your head, sniffling. “No, no, don’t say that. You couldn’t have known, nor could you have done anything.” 

“But still, we should have been there for you.” John mutters, gently rubbing circles over your back. 

With a shaky sigh, you rub dry your cheeks and take another sip of water. “What do I do? I can’t open the bakery today! I may need to help sorting things out… Hosea was a widower, he didn’t have children, nor a lot of family… I may be the only one he has left… Oh, what am I to do now? What will come of this bakery now?” 

James swallows hard. “Listen, (Y/n), don’t you worry about the bakery for a while, alright? John and I will make sure that things around here keep running. The turnover may not be as big, but we can do whatever we can whilst you focus on making arrangements and sitting shiva.” 

You want to open your mouth to protest, but no sound comes out when you realise that the older son of Zebedee is making an offer you can’t refuse. Besides, you can hardly split your time figuring things out now. “I’ve never… Arranged a funeral.” 

“Our abba might be able to help you out. Our grandmother, may she rest in peace, passed away a few months ago. He knows what to do.” John suggests. You give him a grateful albeit watery smile. 

“We haven’t known each other for long,” you whisper, “But I honestly wouldn’t know what I’d have done without you guys.” 

They give you wry smiles in turn, their eyes a little glassy from grief. “Of course. It is the right thing to do, right John?” James’ brother nods. Both of them walk over to the ovens and gather some old soot from the stone, rubbing it on their foreheads. The tear of linen is heard in the small room, and you sniffle at the sound. 

“You two need to mourn, too.” 

“Hosea meant way more to you than to us,” says James, “As weird as that might sound. But we can’t close up this shop with how tight money has been according to the baker himself, may he rest in peace.” 

John nods. “I reckon it is what he would have wanted, no? Take all the time you need to mourn. We will make sure that things will remain in check around here.” 

You look from one to the other. You would definitely entrust the bakery into their hands. “I can’t pay you.” 

“You don’t need to. Things will be figured out with Hosea’s inheritance later, alright?” 

You lower your gaze and nod. “Okay,” you whisper. 

“Now, let us bring you to our home.” 

Home. It suddenly dawns on you that you haven’t come home last night and that your mother must have gone to bed worried and not properly taken care of. “I… I need to go visit my eema first. She must be worried sick…! She needs her medicine, I—” 

“Easy, take a deep breath,” James puts a hand on your shoulder and gently squeezes. “There is no need to panic. How about this — you go home and check in on your mother, freshen up and get some rest, maybe breakfast if you feel like you can stomach it. We will fetch our father and bring him here. As soon as you’re ready, come see us here so he can help make the arrangements.” 

Grateful, you nod at him. Then, you step away towards the exit. “Thank you, guys. I owe you.” 

“You really don’t, alright?” John says, smiling gently. “We will make this work.” His brother nods in agreement. With a final nod of gratitude, you head out of the bakery, stepping into the warm light of the rising sun.

As soon as the door closes behind you, the two brothers let out a sigh, their shoulders slumping. “Poor (Y/n),” John whispers, “Hosea was like a second father to her.” 

“Yes,” James mutters, looking around the bakery. “I can’t believe he’s gone. It’s like he can walk through that door any minute now and berate us for slacking.” 

John let’s out a humourless chuckle and turns to his older brother. “Okay. Let’s get to work and see what we can do. Why don’t you go get abba whilst I get the bread into the oven?” 

James finds it a good idea and heads out back towards their home. 

In the meantime, you’ve run to your house on the other side of the village — a tiny, poky flat in which you are lucky to have your own bedroom although only a bed and a side-table fit inside. Your mother sits in her usual chair, giving you a wary look as you enter the home. Instead of calling your name, she lets out a pained sound. With red-hot shame on your face, you hurry to her side to administer her medicine, stirring the liquid into a cup of water before putting it in her hand and guiding it to her lips.

“Oh, eema. I’m so sorry…” you sob, suddenly crying again, “Hosea, my boss, he… He passed away last night and I witnessed it happen. I was just awoken by the two colleagues I told you about, James and John. I had fallen asleep in the kitchen area.” 

Your mother’s hand wraps itself around your wrist as the analgesic medicine flows into her bloodstream, her eyes growing a little brighter as the pain subdues slowly but surely, although not fully. “My girl,” she mutters weakly, “I’m so sorry for your loss.” She thumbs at the ash you had dusted on your forehead earlier tonight — you can’t recall performing the action — before resting her hand on your face. 

“Now, I… I can’t stay for long. I’m going to put on something fresh, eat something and head back to the bakery. The boys are getting their father to help me out making the funeral arrangements.” 

She gives a small nod, gently wiping away a tear that rolls down your cheek. “Take it easy, okay? I’ll be fine. Just… Before you go, would you please help me lay down in bed?” 

Again, guilt grips at your throat at the realisation that she has waited for your return in utter discomfort for almost the entire night. 

“Oh, eema. I’m so sorry,” you whisper whilst you help her up, supporting her with your arm.

“Don’t apologise,” she commands, “This situation is strange and unforeseen. Don’t think I hold this against you, my dear daughter.” 

With a sigh, she plops down on the edge of her bed and you tuck her in, removing her headscarf and fluffing up her pillow. “Your mourning clothes are on the left side of the wardrobe,” she mentions, causing you to turn to the closet in the corner of her room. She watches you as you open the door, the hinges creaking as you do so, and find the same dress you had worn whilst sitting shiva for your father. 

With a heavy heart, you take the familiar tunic out of the wardrobe and drape it over your arm. “Go rest, alright eema? I’ll prepare you some food to put on your nightstand, so that you can eat it once you wake up.” 

She nods and lets her heavy eyes fall shut. Her body seems so frail, as if she has aged twice as fast ever since losing abba. Part of you fears — bitterly knows — she will be next. With a hard, visible swallow, you leave her be to freshen up and get dressed. 

Back at the bakery, James returns with both Zebedee and Salome. In tears, Salome rushes over to embrace her younger son for a moment. “I’m so sorry that you have to go through this,” she whispers into the crook of his neck even though it is clearly hurting her more than it is hurting them, “Hosea was a good man. May he rest in peace.” 

“We are sorry, too.” James states, “We know Hosea was a familiar face to you.” 

“It is why I am here,” says Salome, “You said the girl has a sick mother she needs to take care of. The least I can do is lift that weight off her shoulders so that she can focus on… All of this.”

The two brothers look at one another in slight awe, glad to have such concerned parents.

“You are doing a noble thing,” Zebedee tells his sons, “Helping out a fellow Jew in need. Don’t you worry. Your mother and I will look after her so that you can focus on the bakery.” 

John opens his mouth, “We can look after her, too,” but the comment falls on deaf ears when the backdoor opens again and reveals you in all black. There is at least a little more colour in your cheeks now that you have run a wet rag over your face and have eaten a meal, but your steps are heavy. 

“Shalom shalom,” you whisper when looking at the two strangers inside the bakery, “You must be the parents of James and John.” 

“We are.” Zebedee says with a wry smile, holding out his hand for you to shake. “My name is Zebedee.” 

“And I am Salome. You are (Y/n), right? You have my deepest condolences.” 

John steps closer to his mother whilst looking at you. “She knew Hosea, too. She used to come here from time to time.” 

“I’m sorry for your loss,” you murmur, giving her a watery smile. “It’s good to meet you two. Thank you for helping out. You didn’t have to, I’m a complete stranger after all.” 

“Ah, nonsense,” Zebedee smiles a bit at his sons. “These two have mentioned you so often that you feel like an acquaintance already.” 

“Abba…” John hisses in his direction, but his father doesn’t pick up on it, shrugging instead. 

With a small look of surprise on your face, you look at the boys, but decide to not ask. “Shall we sit?” you suggest, “I’ll make you all a drink.” 

“I’ll do that for you,” James pipes up, “Have a seat.” His parents give one another a raise of their brow at their son’s sudden maturity and politeness. 

“Alright,” Zebedee begins, “Let us cut straight to the chase because we don’t want to waste any of your time. Have you been at a funeral before?” 

You nod, glad he doesn’t beat around the bush. “Yes, my father’s.” 

“I’m sorry to hear that.” 

“Thank you. My mother made the arrangements back then, so I know a few things, but not the details.” 

Salome reaches over the table to put a hand on your wrist — a kind gesture you’re not used to, so you look at it for a moment in slight surprise. “We heard she is sick. I would like to offer to take care of her for a few days, at least until shiva is over and you can pick up your life again.” 

You do not deserve this, you want to say, but they are giving you such kind looks that you can’t refuse their offer. “Thank you,” you whisper, “I’ll… I’ll give you the address…” 

Salome smiles and squeezes your arm. “Of course.” James places a few cups on the table. 

“In the meantime, I’ll help you out with everything you’ll need to think of. It’s easy to forget things during a time of mourning. A second perspective might be all you need.” Zebedee continues, “I know he wasn’t your father and that you aren’t each other’s relatives, but I understood that he doesn’t have a lot of other family left, no?” 

You shake your head. “Maybe a few distant cousins, but I wouldn’t even know how to reach them.” 

“Very well. That leaves most of the responsibility in the hands of the community.” 

“James and I will take care of things around here,” John reassures you, “Don’t worry about us. We have learned more than enough to know the ropes.” James hums and crosses his arms over his chest in determination.

“Just come back whenever you feel like working again.” 

“How about the finances? Our salaries? I don’t know how that works…” 

Zebedee gives you a small smile. “Don’t break your head open over such technicalities now. That will all come later.” 

You run a hand down your face. What if you’ll lose your job? It is a sudden concern you don’t dare to voice out loud at the moment, afraid it would be considered another one of these semantics Zebedee insists you to not worry about. 

And so, it happens. 

You don’t even know where to begin if you were to ever pay them back for their help. Zebedee assists you in making the arrangements whilst allowing you to sit shiva in Hosea’s house for extended periods of time, whilst Salome takes care of your mother and gets familiar with her. All the while, their sons make sure to not burn down the bakery, and although the sales are less than usual, they manage to sell a fair batch of bread every single day. 

After the funeral and completing the week of mourning, you return with dark circles underneath your eyes. Although your soft, pink headscarf would normally bring out the colour in your face, it does little to hide the exhaustion on your features. 

The sons of Zebedee find you in the bakery one morning. It is clear you have been around for a few hours, having prepared the dough for its first rise and the counters are cleaner than how they had left them. You’re sitting at the table, tracing an empty cup with your index finger, and look up when James and John enter the bakery. 

“Good morning,” you greet them, met with a surprised shalom shalom in unison, and you slide off the chair to fetch them both a drink. “How are you guys doing? How have things been going during my absence.” 

“They have been going well,” James reassures you, “But how have you been?” 

You shrug and give yourself a refill as well before placing the cups of water in front of them. “I’ve had better days, of course, but I’m managing. I’m looking forward to taking my mind off things again. To surround myself with the smell of freshly baked goods and carry on Hosea’s legacy. For as far as possible, of course… I’m not sure how long we can keep this place afloat.” 

John gives you a reassuring look. “We will make it work.” 

“Yeah.” James agrees, taking a sip from his drink. “It will be fine.” 

“The bakery will most likely go to the Jewish authorities,” you bitterly remind them, “Probably the synagogue. They wouldn’t see a woman working behind the counters of a bakery. Hosea wasn’t that rigid in his beliefs, allowing me the position, but… The rabbis, they wouldn’t like it.” 

Your hand shakes when you lift your cup to your lips, and the brothers notice. “Hey, stop worrying.” 

You give James a wry smile and a small shake of your head. “Can’t turn it off just like that.” 

They sigh, knowing that you’re right. 

“Just… Let us know if you need anything, okay?” John mutters, causing you to hum in acknowledgement.

“I will,” you say.

The morning carries on slowly in spite of your early arrival at the bakery. The first bread is loaded onto the displays in the front of the shop around the opening hour, a few people already standing in line to either show their sympathy towards Hosea’s late employees or just to nosily check how things are going now that the boss has been buried.

Your first work day after all recent events passes by in a bit of a blur, filled mainly with worry and sorrow. Hosea’s usual spot is heartbreakingly empty. Just when you are taking a brief break between your cleaning tasks and staring at it in thought, John enters the backroom, James in tow.

“Hey, (Y/n), there is someone at the counter who is asking for you.” 

Perhaps it is a regular, you think to yourself as you straighten your back and try to smooth down the lines of grief from your face, and you turn to walk after them. 

However, the man giving you a kind smile is a complete stranger, and his clothes are a little too crisp to be considered common. “Shalom,” he says, “I’m one of the synagogue’s secretaries. Are you (Y/n) bat Adam?”

You gulp. “Yes, that’s me. If you are looking for my father, he is no longer with us.” 

“I’m not here for that. Do you have somewhere we could take a seat?” 

You give the sons of Zebedee a worried look. They nod at you, indicating that they’ll be right behind you.

“Of course. Come with us, please.” 

You take a seat with the stranger — the synagogues secretary — and John places a drink in front of the man even though he shakes his head as he rejects it. “I won’t be long,” he tells you, taking some things from his bag and pushing them your way. A roll of parchment, bound with a metal ring around it, as well as an unsealed roll of paper with broken wax sitting on the outside. 

“First of all, I am so sorry for your loss.” The words of the man sound empty and hollow, as if he has practised the words too often. “The late owner of this bakery, Hosea bar Josiah, did not have any close relatives.” 

You swallow hard and nod. “I am aware, yes.” 

The secretary nods at the papers in front of you, and you unfurl the parchment. Letting your eyes go over them, your thumb traces over a deep red seal on the bottom of the page. You look up after a moment. “What is it?” 

“It is the deed of his bakery,” John whispers. The secretary nods and pats the other letter with his hand.

“It is. Even though part of his inheritance, like his home and his donkey, are reserved for the synagogue. However, he leaves the bakery to you, (Y/n), as well as a small sum of money to get through the first months together with these two gentlemen.” He gestures at James and John as you try to let it sink in.

“He’s… He’s left me the bakery?” When it dawns on you that Hosea knew he was going to die soon, you gulp away the lump in your throat.

The man nods. “Yes,” he says, “He had hoped to give you more, but he was tight on money. He mentioned that he hopes you’ll use the money to take the time to find a new owner to buy it from you, or keep the place running until you’ve found a different job. What do you with the money is ultimately up to you, he said.” 

James and John look over either of your shoulders as they read the documents in front of you. “How do we access these funds?” James wants to know. 

“It’s all at the bottom of the page.” 

“What does it say?” you whisper as James reads it. 

After a pause, he replies. “We can get the money from the synagogue. They have already subtracted the taxes that should be given to the Roman authorities… And you could put the money into your own account right after.” 

With a small nod, you try to make heads or tails of the situation, now suddenly made the owner of the bakery you’ve been working at for only a few months. 

“Oh, before I forget,” the man reaches into his bag again, “He has also written up a long list of instructions about how you can maintain this place.” Another roll of parchment is slid in your direction. “That is all,” the secretary says, “If you don’t mind, I have other matters to tend to. Once again, I’m so sorry for your loss, and I wish you a good day. Shalom shalom.” 

“Shalom shalom…” you whisper absentmindedly as you let your finger trace the seal at the bottom of the deed. 

“So… You’re our boss now.” John tries to lightheartedly lift the tension in the room, but you don’t really smile. His own grin falls as soon as he sees your solemn expression and squeezes your shoulder. “Hey, (Y/n), no need to be concerned. Hosea has managed to keep this place afloat for a long time, and with his instructions, we can carry on his legacy.” 

James hands you the paper with instructions. Your eyes momentarily flutter over the letters before you whisper something under your breath. 

“What was that?” the older son of Zebedee asks for clarification. You clear your throat and look away in shame as you gulp.

“I can’t read,” you admit with darkened cheeks.

“What? Are you serious?”

“I… I never got the proper education,” you explain. “I can’t… Can’t be in charge of the administration of this place…! Figure out the finances…” you run a hand down your face, “I can barely count money; I’ve been doing everything through memory so far and that was fine— I wasn’t the owner of this place—” 

“—Take it easy, (Y/n)!” John says over your rapidly rising octave, “James and I will be with you every step of the way, and I’m certain that our parents would be glad to help out more wherever necessary.” 

You inhale sharply and look from one man to the other, a small smile playing over your lips. “I don’t know why I deserve you two, but I’m glad you two are here.” 

“Of course, don’t mention it.” James murmurs, smiling as he plants his hand on your shoulder. 

Inhaling deeply, you run your hands down your face before straightening up. “Alright,” you conclude, “Let’s go back to work. We’ve got a bakery to run.”

---

Chapter list

[ask-obt]

so, given that eggs are made with aura, how do genetics work? obviously, traits are passed down, but is there study as to how this works? are there ways to compare genetics between family members like a parentage test? how does that factor in when a Mystery Dungeon gets involved in the creation of a child? what genes does an environment pass down?

Malachi: Like with any sort of genetics a lot of it has to do with random chance, but the aura contains a sort of "imprint" for a pokemon that influences how the rest of the body will look. It's sort of like how a strand of hair still contains a lot of genetic information for a pokemon. Often, traits that get passed down depend on the biological synergy between the pokemon involved in the exchange process. So for example, Inigo's traits prioritized a pouch since it's something shared with the line even though only Nidoqueens develop pouches, not Nidorans or Nidorinas. Likewise, Eilwyn doesn't have the shape of a Lumineon, but instead has the glowing patches since it works out better for the shape of their body.

When two (or more) pokemon create an egg together, the aura is the first thing that's developed. It's just a tiny amount, but it's the basis for everything that follows. You might've heard that carrying an egg around is the best way to get it to hatch- but the reason for this is so it can passively absorb aura from its surroundings to help it grow. Usually the aura absorbed from the surrounding environment just mimics the aura already developing inside the egg as it gets incorporated, but sometimes it can end up influencing the egg, which is how you get regional variants! And if you take an egg into a mystery dungeon, it'll help the egg develop even faster due to all the ley lines in the dungeon.

There are a few different types of genetic tests that can be done. Some can be done with aura readers who look at the shape and wavelength of aura between pokemon, but it requires a lot of practice and precision to get definitive results. You could also take something like spit samples and break down some of the information from that... but I don't really... know how that one works, hehe.

[galactic-writes]

Character Introductions

---

Romance Options

Ash Saha - The Best Friend

Your best friend, classmate, and coworker. Neither of you can remember if you met at school or at the diner where you both work, but you’ve been inseparable ever since.

Name: Ashmit (male) / Ashmita (female) / Ash (nonbinary)

Appearance: Brown skin and deep brown downturned eyes. Thick black wavy hair. If male, hair is mid-back length and half up in a loose bun; if female, hair is shoulder-length and parted to the side; if nonbinary, hair is short and parted in the middle with curtain bangs. Wears casual sporty clothes and gold jewelry, including multiple ear piercings. 5'7.

Likes: hiking, bad ghost/monster hunting shows, chocolate ice cream

Dislikes: self-absorbed people, exams, grape-flavored things

Birthday: Dec 11

MBTI: ENFJ-T

Blake Blakesley - The Private Investigator

A young PI who frequents the diner and has a bit of a grudge against you. They’re investigating some local disappearances and are very serious about their job.

Name: Vincent (male) / V (nonbinary)

Appearance: Olive skin and deep-set amber eyes. Straight brown hair. If male, hair is in a short quiff haircut. If nonbinary, hair is in a short mullet with fade. Wears business casual or casual clothes. 5’10.

Likes: puzzles, running, Fall

Dislikes: crime dramas, perfume, spicy food

Birthday: Oct 4

MBTI: ISTJ-A

Jo Fabron - The Mysterious Student

Another student you met when you stumbled upon their study spot. They’re incredibly studious—though you have no clue what their major is–and very withdrawn.

Name: Joan

Appearance: Light, freckled skin and round gray eyes. Thick sandy blonde hair cut in a shoulder-length shag. Wears retro style ‘smart casual’ clothes. 6’0.

Likes: 90s alt-rock, summer, reading

Dislikes: social media, being alone, chalk

Birthday: Jan 24

MBTI: INTJ-A

Mac Hayward - The Childhood Friend

You haven’t spoken in years, but your families knew each other so you spent a lot of time together growing up. Last you heard, they were working at their family’s auto shop.

Name: Malachi (male) / Marcia (female)

Appearance: Light brown skin and black almond-shaped eyes. Tightly curled black hair. If male, hair is in short two-strand twists or a twist out. If female, hair is in shoulder-length flat twists or a twist out (worn in a low bun at work). Wears sturdy workwear clothing and baseball caps. 5’11.

Likes: movie nights, gardening, their family

Dislikes: sour candy, paperwork, change

Birthday: Jun 8

MBTI: ISFJ-T

Toks Keadee - The Tourist

An interesting customer who started coming into the diner. She travels a lot and wants to know more about the area and about you—maybe she’ll stick around for a while?

Name: Olatokunbo

Appearance: Dark brown skin and dark brown round eyes. Coily black hair, currently styled in medium-length goddess braids in black, dark blue, and dark red. Wears bright, colorful clothes with many beaded gemstone bracelets. 5’9.

Likes: meeting new people, fluffy animals, fireworks

Dislikes: coffee, secrets, being stuck in one place

Birthday: Feb 23

MBTI: ENFP-A

[lythelle-bennington]

The Basics ––– –

Name: Lythelle Bennington

Alias: None

Age: 45

Birthday: October 1st

Race: Kul Tiran

Gender: Female

Marital Status: Single

Physical Appearance ––– –

Hair: Black

Eyes: Jeweled Ivy

Height: 5′7"

Build: Slim

Distinguishing Marks: Her eyes, an enchanting shade of ivy, held depths as mysterious as the Drustvar pines.They seemed to shimmer with an inner light, a verdant glow that contrasted strikingly with the inky blackness of her hair. This raven-hued cascade framed her face, each strand a polished obsidian thread, reflecting the world in a myriad of dark, shimmering reflections.

Tattoos: None.

Piercings: Ears.

Common Accessories: The necklace was a constant, a skeletal framework of ancient silver that clung to her collarbone like a shadow. Its allure lay not in the metal, however, but in the living jewels that adorned it. Each stone was a chameleon, shifting and changing with the whim of its wearer. With each change of dress, the void erupted into a dazzling display, mirroring the hues and textures of her ensemble.

Personal Information––– –

Profession: Investor

Hobbies: Reading, Traveling

Languages: Common

Residence: Stormwind

Birthplace: Drustvar

Religion: None

Patron Deity: None

Fears: Losing control

Relationships ––– -

Spouse: Single / None.

Children: None.

Parents: Lord Malachi Bennington & Lady Leandra Bennington.

Siblings: Morwen Bennington (Older Brother, alive).

Other Relatives: None.

Pets: None.

Romance ––– -

Sexual Orientation: Heterosexual

Preferred Emotional Role: submissive | dominant | switch

Love Language: Acts of Devotion

Relationship Tendencies: Prefers "pets", goveling, doting

Traits ––– -

* Bold your character’s answer.

Extroverted / In Between / Introverted

Disorganized / In Between / Organized

Close Minded / In Between / Open Minded

Calm / In Between / Anxious

Disagreeable / In Between / Agreeable

Cautious / In Between / Reckless

Patient / In Between /  Impatient

Outspoken / In Between / Reserved

Leader / In Between / Follower

Empathetic / In Between / Apathetic

Optimistic / In Between / Pessimistic

Traditional / In Between / Modern

Hard-working / In Between / Lazy

Cultured / In Between / Uncultured

Loyal / In Between / Disloyal

Faithful / In Between / Unfaithful

Additional information ––– –

Smoking Habit: Ocassionally.

Drugs: Never.

Alcohol: Frequently.

RP Hooks ––– –

Heartsbane Coven:

Lythelle was more than just a beautiful face. There was an aura of mystery that clung to her like a shroud. Rumors whispered of her wealth, a fortune amassed with a speed and ease that defied explanation. Some said she was a pirate queen, others a smuggler, and still others a ruthless businesswoman. But none of these theories could fully explain the extent of her riches.

As her wealth grew, so too did the whispers. Darker tales began to circulate, painting Lythelle as something more sinister. It was said that she was a witch, a member of the infamous Heartsbane Coven. Tales of dark rituals and forbidden magic were whispered in hushed tones, and Lythelle’s emerald eyes took on a sinister glow in the minds of the superstitious.

Perhaps there was merit to their claims. Perhaps there wasn't.

[bkwormkate]

LONGMIRE: Resolved | A Longmire Fanfic

The sequel to Unresolved picks up right where things left off, in the aftermath of the showdown with Malachi Strand. This story follows Cady Longmire and Jacob Nighthorse as they attempt to move forward with their lives together. Will Sheriff Walt Longmire accept his daughter’s apparent betrayal? How will things be resolved when so much is at stake? 

The last two chapters of this ten chapter fanfic are up. I hope you enjoy it as much as I have. ❤️

[kipocricyy]

✘ ✘ ✘ ✘ ✘  | an olive branch of epic proportions // @rising-angelx​

he pulled the fabric of his shirt down over his belt as he exited the elevator. it was weird heading to tidal’s section of their floor and not be heading there for dae or ren. truthfully malachi never actively sought angel. not on purpose or anything, but he felt like being in her presence was like tip-toeing around a mad parent who has to be in public. she wouldn’t blow up in front of everyone, but you can feel the rage radiating off your mother’s skin any time. even if angel didn’t care, even if she had forgiven he still felt it. it burrowed underneath his skin and tainted his veins, making him feel every ounce of hurt he’d left her with.

pushing his fingers through his dark strands kai found himself simply, standing, in front of her door. shuffling the notebooks in his hand from side to side as he suddenly felt like his art work on their covers were lack luster, inadequate for the woman that would answer.

‘yo, i’m outside your door, i don’t wanna knock since it’s late.’ he typed out on his phone, sending the text quickly before dropping it back into the pockets of his jeans.

[sovereignsecurity]

Narra quickly snaps her fingers, and the tiny child is transferred to another part of the map along with the blanket. Inside the room is a barren mattress that she ripped from the files.

"Easy there... Easy. Stay here for a bit while everything eases up..."

She gently pats her hand against his head, ruffling his pretty golden hair. She can't interfere with the main story line- She cant godmode the plot, even to save her friend, but she can lessen the damage...

"Do you need feeding, Kid...? If not, you can just go back to sleep... you shouldnt of had to see that."

Malachi was shaking, tears beading in his eyes as his nose ran.. He sniffled into the blanket, wiping his face on it as he curled up... There was some blood mixed into his hair, slicking back a few of the strands into a red, gooey spot.. His father's blood..

The poor thing was hungry, stressed, and still disoriented from being shoved off the bed in a hurry.. He couldn't bring the words to mind, taking after Raphael in that regard, a kid of very few words.. All Malachi could do was try to put on a brave looking face..

It didn't sell very well when he was trembling so hard and still sniffly...

[templardom]

God’s Whistleblower

The eyes of the LORD are in every place, keeping watch on the evil and the good. Proverbs 15:3 (ESV)

The hot sun rises and the grass withers; the little flower droops and falls, and its beauty fades away. In the same way, the rich will fade away with all of their achievements. James 1:11 (NLT) 

Then the fourth angel poured out his bowl on the sun, and it was given power to scorch the people with fire. And the people were scorched by intense heat, and they cursed the name of God, who had authority over these plagues; yet they did not repent and give Him glory. Apocalypse 16:8-9 (BSB) 

Since everything will be destroyed in this way, what kind of people ought you to be? You ought to conduct yourselves in holiness and godliness as you anticipate and hasten the coming of the day of God, when the heavens will be destroyed by fire and the elements will melt in the heat. 2 Peter 3:11-12 (BSB)

For behold, the LORD will come with fire—His chariots are like a whirlwind—to execute His anger with fury and His rebuke with flames of fire. Isaiah 66:15 (BSB) 

“And now, you priests, this warning is for you. If you do not listen, and if you do not resolve to honor my name,” says the LORD Almighty, “I will send a curse on you, and I will curse your blessings. Yes, I have already cursed them, because you have not resolved to honor me." Malachi 2:1-2 (NIV) 

Does not disaster come to the unjust and calamity to the workers of iniquity? Job 31:3 (BSB) 

Calamity will surely destroy the wicked, and those who hate the righteous will be punished. Psalm 34:21 (NLT) 

[deviatory]

@devilmass cont.

Tears. The brush of slender fingers pulled down his cheek. A cool moisture smearing in glistening streaks he observed across his fingertips as he brought them down. It was a rarity for Malachi to cry. Sorrow was not owned solely by mortal men, but tears, they were only human. He didn’t need such raw emotion. It was not something that should have belonged on his face. Although he could not say why and when it had become so shameful to do. Was it pride? Or perhaps it was fear of being human. How many nights could be lost to foolish tears? He needed help.

His head hung low, eyes averted as he accepted the dampness on his cheeks in all the madness that brought it. Shame. He doesn’t find solace in the man’s face. He must be more than this. “Forgive me, Father. I am not usually so – I’m not - usually like - this.” His voice hesitates with his step, pawing at the threshold, seeking a brief humour in the way of a scoff at his situation. The toll of distress, however, reflected differently on well worn eyes.

“I have travelled – some way. I haven’t had much -- sleep. I don’t remember the last time.” His It wasn’t the first. Driving. Driving. Nowhere. He needed nowhere. He just needed to go. (Was he running? Why was he running?) No destination. Just oblivion. 

He had hoped for oblivion, however the ageing engine of the Silver Dawn had not taken kindly to the cross country trip. He was stranded, without a hope, or a soul in the world to rely on. Sarah was… gone. He was alone. She had been alone.

“I need to talk. Do you have time?”