#repost because tumblr ate the original

[tuliharja]

I wanted to try draw something beautiful (from my mind)...I think I succeed in that quite well. 😉

Artwork: @tuliharja

Note: I’m fine with reblogging, but ask me first for my permission, if you want to repost my artwork.

DeviantArt I Pixiv

[keikakudori]

“  you’d accept a caress from the same hands that leave you bruised, just to feel warm.  ” / @godkilller

memes for that specific brand of ships

                 There was a weaving of sunlight in the office today, pouring in golden through the windows and slanting across the bowed head and setting golden sparks of fire to life in the tousled brown locks. The shoji doors pushed open just barely to allow a chill breeze to wash through the room, bringing with it a crisp, clean scent of further snow in the air to add to what already covered the division's grounds. Today was one of those days in which the second-in-command of the Fifth was slow in his work, slow for many reasons all his own; it would've been enough to raise questions had anyone else been there with him,him, but at the moment, he was alone in the office. His captain had vacated the area as soon as the notion of catching up on overdue paperwork had dropped out of Aizen's mouth and as for his little silver shadow... well, Aizen could sense Gin somewhere but he didn't pay focus enough to that hint of power to really place exactly where.

                 The frigid wisps of breezes slipped freely through the bangs that hung over his forehead, teasing gently at stray hairs, and Aizen simply focused in upon the brush he held. A slow day of work for already it promised to be cold and the cold ever distracted Aizen in some ways; he preferred the sharp chill of winter for many reasons. Winter, when he could slip by the eyes of others around him and never raise their notice, with the long hours of the dark there to keep him shrouded from eyes of searching hazel, eyes that would narrow at him from time to time when he was sure Shinji didn't know he was looking, the way his mouth would downturn for a moment at the corners as if he had caught wind of a smell that aggravated his senses.

                 But oh -- winter was beautiful, perhaps the most beautiful season. He enjoyed seeing ice during this time of the year and the way snow would blanket the Seireitei, muffling it, masking the blood that had seeped through it long ago. Beneath the veil of ivory powder, one could almost believe that it truly was as good as it claimed to be.

                 Almost.

                 But yes, Aizen had many reasons to appreciate the cold months of wintertime and how he might smile some days for reasons all his own -- not the least of which was the fact that he could often wear moesode beneath his shihakusho, snuggling down into the warm fabric as he pleased. It seemed to send his admirers into fits of swooning when he wore such things as these kinds of layers or when he might show up wearing a scarf that was patterned in some strange way or another; gifts from thin hands that he'd coveted throughout the years. The cold did always seem to bring out their admiration when he dressed warmly as the cold filled the air and he finally rose to go close the doors, sleeves falling back slightly from the warm fabric which covered his hands, his wrists. And Aizen was glad for that, for it gave him a chance to wear his uniform with longer sleeves, long enough to cover his arms down to the heels of his hands. He had reasons to wear the sleeves on this day.

                 So up he got, at last, moving to slide the shoji doors shut. When he turned around, Gin had somehow slipped in past him to perch in his favorite chair by Aizen's desk. It didn't surprise him to see the younger shinigami there in his usual spot, mouth curled up towards his ears at the corners and it drew a smile of his own as Aizen took him in with a single glance. He had known Gin was around since earlier, but whatever he'd been up to - visiting his classmate, perhaps - it did not bother Aizen to see that the boy had made himself comfortable as the air began warming with the circulation of a fan washing over a space heater to help fill the room with the sweet smell of camellia oil and more.

                 Today was a slow day, a day where his wrists ached quietly from the cold and from other reasons as he moved to sit down once more, staring down at the paperwork as something painful and heavy curled in his chest. It took a lot to make him ache anymore, the mornings after, but he was aching today.

                 It was not in the sense of the physical word, but an odd pang filled his chest and his throat time and time again; today, it seemed, it all pressed down on him. Aizen knew what he would see if he but slid the moesode up along his forearms and the older of the two in the office at current had no doubt that Gin would know as well, for the silver viper always seemed to know which days were the worst days when a night prior had been … busy, for lack of a better phrasing. He had seen them this morning when he'd stirred, awakened by the lingering presence of Gin at the door to his choice of room in the barracks.

                 Aizen did not speak of the dapples of blue which settled upon his wrists and while he had never expressly forbidden commentary upon them, it was seldom that his right hand - for already Gin had displaced Kaname in these last few years - spoke on them either. The brunet knew that those sharp blue eyes had ever clocked the darkened coils of skin when such nights had been involved, when it had been more use than actual, mutual want. Right then, he didn't want to speak on those marks, didn't try to bring them up at all. Instead, the elder simply moved a hand and set a plate of persimmons within Gin's reach, having absently gone to pick up such snacks earlier for the both of them.

                 Aizen had never tried persimmons before Gin had entered his life.

                 And now--?

                 Now, he was quite partial to them. So it seemed only fair to use his paycheck from time to time for such things when he knew they would be openly appreciated.

                 And yet, Gin was here, perched to his right where he usually favored to be, as if ready and willing for a hand to lift and direct him with a command. They were still learning one another and Aizen could admit that their learning was taking time for while he did not seek to reign Gin in, not entirely, he was pleasantly indulgent of him all the same. So those brown eyes turned to the youth, studying him as he found himself studied in kind.

                 Perched and observing him with a flicker of blue visible from beneath his lashes, a blue that seemed focused upon him -- or perhaps upon what Aizen had not fully revealed. Nine years since the night he had seen this youth under a spring moon, the silver moonlight on that evening  making him feel as if he were gazing upon a spirit of the forest instead of a Shinigami like himself. Whatever he had seen in Gin, he had been gleefully satisfied. Yes -- rumors abounded where this boy was concerned and Aizen had been validated in his assertions when he'd seen how easily Gin had dealt with the third seat; that fool of a man had put his hands where they didn't belong.

                 How easily ( if, it seemed, uncomfortably ) Shinji had accepted the youth, eyes flicking to where Aizen had set a hand upon Gin's shoulder, to the smile on Aizen's face, to the way they stood together. It was always easiest to make such moves if he used a person's lifestyle against them, as he'd done with the old Third Seat. The old man had been a hoarder of information, eyes cold and hard, and Aizen knew -- he knew what he'd overheard from the older man one day when he'd gone to take something to Shinji. Removing him from the picture had been a cold sort of joy and in the process, he had seen the skillset that had been promised by the paperwork included with the application to the Fifth from the boy who had come to be his own shadow.

                 So no -- he was not surprised his captain did not ask too closely, did not look too deeply, into the death of his subordinate. Two birds, one stone -- a benefit for both of them in the end. A benefit for Aizen for he had taken in the scraps of information the former third seat had curated, a benefit for Shinji because one threat to him and his public image had been removed. Aizen was not hesitant about removing threats to his captain, even if he remained one himself. Such was how it went. But he tried. He wanted and he tried. Yet trying had become such an effort of late, no matter what he did. Last night had proved one thing when he'd woken this morning; that gulf between them that sometimes seemed to lessen would never truly be bridged.

                 Aizen sighed, once, and then carefully lowered the calligraphy brush to the inkstone, dipping the pale bristles into the freshly made ink. The lieutenant enjoyed doing things with his own hands and he always had. A streak of creativity dwelt within him and even simple things like this could please him in a way and sometimes soothe an otherwise ragged mood; the precision that was demanded of his own hands made him focus on the ink strokes and far less dwelling took place where his own moods were in question.

                 Such little things, creativity; they had become a comfort for him. Making ink was one of those activities which could soothe and the dutiful second-in-command would spend his carefully curated funds on getting well-made inksticks for himself -- the older, the better. To grind them down was a ritual of sorts, and how neatly he wrote, his hand steady and his brush strokes were precisely laid out without any display of hesitation. There were such things as regular pens to be found, but Aizen was a traditionalist of sorts. He preferred the smell of fresh ink, the weight of the brush in his hand.

                 It was lighter than the weight on his wrists.

                 Sometimes Aizen preferred the quiet but today he was finding himself agitated by it, the silence only helping to agitate a somewhat surly and dour mood. The concept of talking did not appeal and there was no wind to speak of, no white noise to drown his thoughts out. Their excursions, himself and Gin and Kaname's, were starting to produce fruit. Out in the rukongai, no one cared if souls went missing. It was enough to make his lips curl with contempt in the days following the experiments, understanding that those in power did not care about the lost souls, these shinigami that he lived amongst, these individuals that were there to usher the dead along to their next stage of life.

                 There, in the Rukongai, living memories faded away slowly for some, quickly for others. But not for those like him, who'd been born into it. Silence clung to every corner of the room, every breath of air, and all the while he could feel that gaze upon him and it added tension to his shoulders. Too much silence and he was debating going to put on a record, to fill the room with the airy rippling of the jazz which Shinji had grown fond of - and, unbeknownst to him, Aizen as well - when Gin suddenly spoke up.

                 He spoke up and Aizen did his best not to freeze up for some reason he dared not name.

                 Sometimes, Gin's observations cut to the quick and Aizen's hands stilled in the middle of reaching for the paperwork. He knew it was a tell, but Gin enjoyed to test the boundaries, to see what was a button to poke, where the tender parts were. Here, in the twilight fading of devotion and something more pure, something warm and bright, that had turned sour, turned -- turned into something dark and cruel, all sharp edges and cutting notes -- Aizen truly found himself tender to such remarks.

                 So it was that he didn't expect Gin's hands to suddenly move for him, shoving up the sleeve of his uniform, of the garment he wore beneath the shihakusho, to stare at the chain that he was bound by. The links of it were rusting, rusting away, a leash he was no longer content to be held by, and Aizen took in the way those small fingers moved as if he would touch -- and his arm pulled back before contact could ensue, leaving him to reach and slide the sleeves back down. There was no need for him to look to Gin's face as he did so. It was not the first time that the little viper had seen the bruises and Aizen certainly didn't want to think about what had possibly been overheard by those small, sharp ears; but it was the first time that Gin had made such a move to bring direct attention to them.

                 Don't leave marks, he was always told. Sometimes, perhaps out of spite or some impish whim, he disobeyed that order to sink his teeth against skin and rake his nails over flesh to do that very thing yet he never strayed beyond the boundary of what could not be hidden. More often than not, lately, Aizen chose to disobey, no matter that Shinji would brush him off afterwards with a sharpness that would chew at his bones and burrow into the hollow void which dwelt in that powerful chest.

                 But the aching today was especially poignant, for he'd seen that rare softness in his captain last night, the way those eyes of olive brown had regarded him, the way fingers had seemed to brush his cheeks -- a softness that'd stirred the same feeble flicker of hope within Aizen as it always did, that maybe -- maybe this time, this time, he had begun to bridge that distance between them. And then they'd shot suddenly to gunmetal gray, steely, as the man he called his captain pulled back and away from him, turned to show his back and that long drape of sunlit hair, had flicked his hand in the way he did and oh so bluntly said that it was time for him to leave. That had been akin to ice water, a cold shock that had left the younger man still where he laid and with something much like tears in his eyes for how bluntly the words had been hurled at him.

                 Shinji pulled back and Aizen was sure, so sure, that his captain could not be so blind as to not see what the pulling back was doing to him in kind. How could Shinji not see it, not see how much his withdrawal affected the brunet every time he did so--? Perhaps that was why it felt like the bruises were far more common of late. As if his captain sought to contain him. And yet he would pull back when Aizen tried to reach out to him, even where no one else could see them.

                 Never again had the brunet attempted to repeat the one single time he'd reached for Shinji's hand at a festival that he had gone to and found his captain at. He hadn't expected it. He had only smiled on that evening, bubbling and bright, when he'd run into the older man. And then he had made a mistake. Just one mistake. He had tried to reach out for the other man where everyone could see them and that had been the worst thing he could have done it appeared; the look that had been cast his way had been sharp, a warning laden into that glance that had made AIzen's hand freeze and something cold had been crushed into his chest.

                 It had been an impulse, a desire to take the older man's hand, to take him over to a food vendor. Aizen had thought of treating him, buying him something to eat, had planned to laugh and perhaps even tease the older man. To be playful. It had been an inspiration of sorts, a whimsy that had been cut down before it could even bloom into life. He had not followed his captain immediately, busy feeling a burning shame and humiliation filling his chest and stomach and his gaze had gone to the ground. That single look that he received ensured that he'd never attempt that again. It was a lesson.

                 Only the sharp crack of his name in that accent and beckoning fingers had finally made him move at last to follow him but he had not repeated the gesture. And when they had walked by the river, out of view of others, when those spindly and thin fingers had found his hand ---... it'd hurt. It had hurt in a way he'd never experienced before.

                 Oh, it seemed that his captain would provide him with shows of affection --- but only, only, when no one else would be able to see them. Aizen never dared to use his Kyoka Suigetsu too often upon his captain; he didn't want to be subtle with him, to be hidden. But he was. Like he was --... unwanted. This was different from all those times before. The look -- something between disgust and hatred each. That was what he saw; that was something that he could never explain and something he didn't dare ask his captain about.

                 Shinji kept pulling back from him every time he thought that he might be able to lower the mask in full, to show himself, to speak of what should be changed. Surely the man could see that. Surely he had to understand. Why did children of the Rukongai have to suffer? Why couldn't they change that? But every time he tried to speak of those thoughts, eyes would narrow at him if he so much as hinted at his beliefs, no matter how innocuously he'd hint at it. So he had stopped doing that years ago.

                 No matter what Aizen did, Shinji kept pulling back from him, puling away, pushing to keep that distance between the both of them. How could his captain not see it, not see the yearning, not see what he so desperately desired and dreamed of and wanted--? A connection. Their connection to one another. He tried, tried, tried so much, tried so desperately to acquire the closeness that he desired with the man he loved.

                 Closeness. Something that so many had. So many wanted it. He wanted it but it was not something which he had.

                 A nearness between them that he could only call want, hope, desire -- born from an emotion which had curled gently in his chest for so long but now the pool from which it bloomed was going stagnant, growing rancid within him.

                 How long could one sustain themselves upon false hope, upon having the realization time and time again that no matter what they did -- it would never be good enough?

                 When he found those oft-hidden eyes of blue on him in the weeks following Gin's arrival at the Fifth, Aizen realized just what it meant for him to be seen by someone; even if the someone was a dangerous little viper that seemed eager to coil himself around Aizen's wrist, as if he would shield the skin from accumulating the bruises which were not always there -- but they were fully present today in vulgar shades of dark blues and purples.

                 How many times of seeing Shinji seem to overcompensate for those moments of seeming affection, of seeming care, only to feel something inside himself break again and again every time his captain turned away from him--? 

                 He'd found himself snared by an arm before he could leave for perhaps the older man had seen something in his face that'd produced a retroactive sense of guilt for what he'd said about how it was time for Aizen to leave, for it was rare for Aizen to be the first to leave the blankets which would become tangled from their intimacy, had been dragged back down to the futon for a time and had made his escape later to his own quarters once the older man had fallen asleep. There, the man who wore that badge had laid down and slept fitfully, restlessly, tossing and turning and waking up again and again in starts of awareness and had not truly gotten any rest whatsoever. 

                 So he sat there now, sandy-eyed, head pounding, staring down at his own wrist where it had been exposed before his eyes lifted to Gin. How long could a resource be tapped until it was no longer available--?

                 Gin had not been here for the bulk of their -- whatever they were to one another. Not lovers nor partners. Whatever Hirako Shinji and Aizen Sousuke shared, it was nothing so kind nor romantic nor respectful -- at least, not from the older man, no matter how much his adjutant tried over and over and over to make it be otherwise. Aizen had worked himself to the bone, it felt like, to make his captain look at him, to let him in. He had thought if he had been perfect, if he did everything right, if he was just good enough--- if, if, if.

                 But he wasn't good enough, was he? He wasn't good enough and never had been.

                 Because, if he was good enough, if he was enough at all--- ... then wouldn't Shinji have wanted him? Wouldn't that man want him, if he was good enough? But he didn't. That was the thought that kept curling through Aizen's head. He wasn't good enough. How Aizen tried to excel in everything he did, working late, taking on his captain's paperwork; everything he tried to earn that attention.

                 He was never good enough.

                 --- who would ever want a man who wasn't good enough?

                 ❝ -- I don't tend to find myself very warm anymore where those hands are concerned. ❞ 

                 He had spoken at last, breaking the silence which had dropped heavily into place between himself and Gin. Gin understood him where others did not -- he asked questions, saw what even Kaname missed. Kaname, who was afraid to disappoint him, to speak against him, who used him in kind as Aizen commanded him in turn. 

                 ❝ … I don't think i've felt warm under their touch in a long, long time. ❞

                 Gin seemed content to wait, to let Aizen speak at his own pace, his own rate. That was perhaps one thing Aizen adored about this young man. That Gin was content to sit back and allow Aizen to collate his thoughts, as if waiting to see what answer he would get to his questions. Even as Aizen's fingers moved to curl over the fabric, he found his mind turning things over. He wanted to keep that man and he wanted to break him. Break him the way he'd been breaking the brunet down over long years. He wanted to make him hurt and there were so many thoughts and ideas of how to vent out that slick viciousness that had been building for years.

                 A rage, a pain -- pain, from something that could have been so gentle and warm turning dark and vicious. What did it take for him to be seen by a man he wanted to see him in turn--? What did it take to make those eyes look at him and truly behold him--? He had allowed the mask to slip from time to time, watching the way the gaze which landed on him would take in the teeth, the claws. Only a brief showing of them. Only brief. And yet he would be called in to keep him warm.

                 All Aizen felt now was cold.

                 Cold, cold, cold -- cold from indifference, cold from distance. Cold, when once those hands had warmed him. Oh, true - his body responded to them. He was well-trained. He knew what looks meant, the way a hand might move, the slow curling of fingers to beckon him closer, closer, to come close and dip to press mouth to mouth, as the hands would lift to fist into the locks of brown were he on his knees. He knew. He knew what look meant to bend and what meant to kneel, what meant for him to lie back or roll over or -- he knew. Just as he knew the rule: don't leave marks.

                 How absently Aizen tugged at the fabric now, the fingers of his opposite hand curling into the warm fabric as he stared into the distance. Something dark wrapped in his mind snarled in the wake of what he said. Rage that made teeth itch to sink into flesh.

                 ❝ … I think, Gin … it's time we begin to move things along. The timetable. … I find myself curious to see what will happen next. ❞

                 And he did not see the souls that would fall under the sway of his Hogyoku. He did not see the potential for other shinigami to fall in its wake. His eyes looked ahead, forward -- towards a back that was thin. He knew where the muscles of that body were at their strongest, upon his back and abdomen. How well he knows the feeling of that body against his own, the scars his fingers have touched to for years upon years. Of how it could tense, of how he was never sure if Shinji would see how he would hunch in on himself more and more, head bowing to hide the burning in his eyes -- not of glossy wetness but something else, something he yearned for, craved, something he needed to feel.

                 How could his captain not see it--? How could he ignore it--? But Shinji was not here now. Meetings today, leaving the second- and third-seat to play captain and right hand. A precarious thing, that. Aizen filled that role easily. So did Gin. As if they were already woven together, but Shinji did not seem to pay heed to it.

                 ❝ --... I think it is time to begin seeing just how far we can push things and see if the experimentations will win through or not. And I think... ❞

                 His fingers drummed once over the surface of that desk. A desk where more than once, he'd had a thin frame bear its weight down upon his own, a frame his legs knew the slotting fit of, the frame where he would find bruises upon his inner thighs when it could be rough. But not always. He remembered when Shinji had been gentler. Almost kind. It only made him want to swallow now, to find himself besieged by doubt -- even now. Even now. But the doubt was a small thing compared to that obsidian sharpness that scraped through every vein; he had been hurt. It made sense to employ hurt in return. He knew the weak points. He knew how to apply pressure to them. And if his mouth curled into a cold, sharp smile whilst his eyes narrowed behind his glasses, he didn't seem aware of it.

                 ❝ I have the perfect candidate in mind. ❞

[james-silvercat]

(Repost because tumblr ate the tags and the original doesn't appear on searches)

This is a deceptive little thing, a goddamn polar bear, out and about in the warmest day of summer stealing your beets, it would wear a jacket if it had one. This thing is just not equipped to withstand it's own frost sac and you are going to hunt this thing with the wrong element weapon at first when they tell you it deals frost damage

Like to milk him reblog to get horn stabs and chest lacerations, tell me what you think this boygirl's equipment looks like

[adorpheus]

Recipe: Supernatural Devil's Trap Demon Proof Cherry Pie

Hello, tumblr family. Below is a repost of an article originally posted on adorpheus.com, and is being shared here for archival purposes. Original post date: Circa 2012.

You know what's pretty cool? Fandom food things. I came up with this Supernatural themed cherry pie a few years ago. Here's the recipe I came up with.

(sugar free, gluten free option, vegan) I make it up as I go along for this pie, so the measurements are approximate. Use your own discretion, you culinary genius, you!

For the crust we used Namaste Foods Biscuits Pie Crust and More Mix. We followed the directions for pie crust, except we substituted the butter with Earth Balance (the stick kind) and the egg with a flax "egg". You can use a pre-made pie crust if that behooves you.

For the filling

2 ten ounce bags of frozen pitted cherries, preferably organic (about 4-5 cups). Obviously you can use fresh cherries too, but do YOU wanna remove the seeds from 4 cups of cherries?

1 cup of water

1/2 tsp of sea salt

3 TBSP (or more to taste) of Stevia Baking Blend Powder, Coconut Sugar, or other dry sweetener

1 TBSP of organic cornstarch

For the Devil's Trap Again, I was winging it here. This also made way more chocolate than we needed (we ate the rest like fondue and dipped banana slices in it).

1/4 cup cocoa powder

2-3 TBSP coconut oil, melted

Stevia or other sweetener to taste

(You can also melt some vegan chocolate chips if you don't want to make your own chocolate sauce from scratch).

Method

Preheat the oven to 350f/176c. Make the pie crust according to the package directions if you're not using a pre-made crust. Put the bottom crust into a greased 8-inch pie pan.

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To make the filling, combine the first 4 filling ingredients in a saucepan over medium heat. Cook until the stevia or other sweetener is dissolved and the cherries are defrosted, and the water is boiling a little. Add more water if necessary. Once its boiling, add in the cornstarch and whisk until thickened. Pour the cooked filling into the bottom crust and prepare the top crust while the mixture cools. Add the top crust when ready.

For the devil's trap, I etched it into the top crust with a knife prior to baking (above). We used this image from Super-Wiki as a reference.

Anyways, after that we put it in the oven until it looked done. Probably about a half hour, but I wasn't really paying attention. You bake it until the crust is browned a little and if you can see any of the filling, it should be bubbling. Before decorating with chocolate, set the pie aside to cool for at least 45 minutes. Especially if you're using coconut oil, you don't want the pie to be warm at all because it'll melt the chocolate. After the pie is cooled off, assemble all the chocolate ingredients in a saucepan and heat over low until the coconut oil is melted. Whisk them together to form a chocolate sauce. I used a knife to carefully (painfully) draw the design by dipping the tip of the knife in chocolate and drawing along the lines I had etched in the crust prior to baking. This was tricky and not that fun. If you have a better method for doing this, go ahead and try that. Let the chocolate cool. Eat.

[absolutebl]

Ai’ with Aye & Akk - The Eclipse & Thai honorifics

hazmatilda asked: (and tumblr ate it so I’m reposting)

So I went down quite a rabbit hole with your bl linguistics Tag (thanks for that, 3 hours of reading when I should have been sleeping or working on my masters thesis for Wednesday :/ ), and I am riveted. I started watching Thai BLs with bad buddy when it was airing, and have watched most of the ones that have aired since then and now working on the backlog. I love linguistics, and have been noticing the different personal pronouns etc in Thai especially, so it was really cool to see that all laid out in your posts! The third person one is particular is quite special to me, and I wish it existed more in English and German. It's very frustrating being a genderqueer person living in Germany because non gendered pronouns don't really exist, and when they do it's quite niche and hard to get others to use :/

I couldn't agree more. I've grown to have real affection and love for Thailand's pronouns.

I also adore the way in many Asian languages we can just say our own name for the "I" pronoun. So much harder to forget someone's name and ALSO  you're consistently reminded of what it is and how it shoudl be pronounced.

Just so you don't have to deal with my terrible (and hugely erratic) tagging system, I do have a language post meta guide (master post round up) just in case you want to rabbit hole some more: 

BL Language & Culture Master Post (mostly Thai) 

Back to your question... 

Anyway, my question is, I noticed in The Eclipse the Ai' prefix (particle?) used between the boys, which you mentioned is not really used in BLs often, and I wanted your more detailed take on the way that Akk changes in his address of Aye in this regard, especially over the last couple of episodes. Is he being particularly rude?

Ai is an honorific originally used between peer/age mates/equals. (Like Phi or Nong.)

But now, depending on the stress/emphasis it carries different connotations including affection (Akk & Aye), insult (Ae & Pond in Love By Chance), annoyance/exasperation (Leo in Don't Say No), or pleading/whining (Fiat in Don't Say No).

Is he being particularly rude?

Yes but also, no. He's being... rudely affectionate? He's changing the boundaries of their relationship with, what amounts to, what I'd call an “insult honorific or mode of address.” (Common within peer groups, particularly marginalized ones. See gay & masculine identified use of "bitch" in late 90s early 2000s queer culture, particularly in North American coastal cities.)

So amongst some of my queer friends, regardless of gender or orientation someone will often yell, "Hey Biiitchesss!" Technically an insulting term, in this context, a friends honorific among peers and a way of identifying oneself and ones friends as different from the surrounding social morays.

Back to Ai'.

It seems mostly used for relationship emphasis these days (friendly intimacy, of a jocular/teasing nature), and almost always among peers. I think of it occasionally as an insult honorific.

In California the word "dude" is often used for this. "Seriously, dude!?" when someone cuts you off on the FWY. "Hey, Dude" to a friend you meet for lunch. "Awe, Dude, that's rough" affection/sympathy. And so forth.

I haven't watched Eclipse in a while so I can't speak to the bit your actually referring to. So there may be an additional use pattern in play, but Ai is an interesting honorific, in that it's one of those that isn’t always, or even often, entirely honoring. So to speak.

I do talk about Ai quite a bit in this post: 

Why Ai'Hia was so funny in Cutie Pie

Never let me go also seems to be playing with the formality a lot, due to the class differences, which is cool to see. I'm sure the changing register and formality will play into PalmNuengs speech as the show progresses hehe.

Sorry for the ramble! 🧡🧡🧡

No apologies for rambling needed here, since I’m ruler of rambletown. 

Yes it’s very very fun to see. You also get this a little with RainPhayu in Oh My Sunshine night (young high class seme + older servant uke), and a TON with Ae & Pete in Love By Chance. 

If you haven’t watched it, I would highly recommend that one. Pete talks almsot entirely in high formal register and Ae in low. It’s a great way to train your ear for the two different registers. There’s no spoiled prince dynamic, so it’s an entirely different play on a class difference than NLMG. They are one of my all time favorite pairs for many reasons. Language is one.

All the best and I hope you keep enjoying yourself with BL and the linguistics! 

 (source)

[b1adie]

ADRIENE ANGELVIRUS xxiv × mirror pronouns × aro lesbo

… or just adriene, or adri…

this is a sideblog, main is a secret ^_^

uid: 604304306 (north america)

SOME RULES;

please don’t send me fetish content, especially if you are on anon, a minor, or have no age listed. tbh don’t send me any nsfw unless you’re an adult and i’ve asked

i would appreciate if you could avoid tagging my posts with anything like ‘daddy/mommy’ even in a joking way, unless you are using it only as a parental term. keep in mind that i’m a real guy and have to see all of your tags…

don’t comment sinophobic stuff on my posts (ie. “they’ll never make a gay relationship canon because its a chinese game” etc). don’t do any bigoted stuff really but thats the one i’ve mainly seen

if you want to repost some of my stuff, if it’s just a text post edited onto a pic, credit isn’t required (but still appreciated)! if it’s anything more complex, please do credit me, preferably with a link back to the original post. i spend way longer on my silly little edits than you’d expect.

you’re welcome to dm me, but please keep in mind that we start off as strangers, so something you think is funny could be misconstrued as rude or confusing on my end. tone indicators are absolutely fine to use if you’d like. conversely, feel free to ask me for clarification on anything you need, i don’t mind! i know i can be hard to read sometimes.

i’d also prefer you have an age (or at least age range or indicator like minor, 20+, etc) listed if you dm me, but obviously you don’t need to tell anyone anything. that’s just for my own personal comfort. i’m fine being friends with anyone, but a friendship with a high schooler would look a lot different than a friendship with someone around my own age.

if you make/find any art or content about worm theory you have to show it to me asap

FAQ;

(something about genshin impact or wuthering waves or zenless zone zero)

please send that to my genshin blog or my wuthering waves blog OR my zenless zone zero blog instead! (@nabumalikata + @threnodian + @nicoledemaras)

(any lore question)

if i know it i’ll go find the source for you. if i don’t know, you can ask anyway and there’s a good chance i’ll go hunt down some answers for you. i love lore. i know everything

how do you make your (edits/gifs/etc)?

for silly edits usually just picsart, but procreate for the more intense ones. gifs i use a yt downloader site, then capcut to edit, then ezgif. videos either splice or capcut. glitters i made a tutorial here, but like, my method is really complicated since i’m always on my phone, so there’s probably an easier way if you have a pc…

can you make a gif/edit/glitter of this?

probably! be specific with what you want— send me pictures or direct links if you can. requests are always open, just keep in mind i may not do every single one i get, and if i do, it may take a while. BUT!! if you REALLY want some gifs made, you can commission me for them! not required ofc, just an option.

why didn’t you answer my ask yet?

sometimes i see an ask pop up in my activity feed so i answer it right away. otherwise it has to wait til i decide to open my inbox. if it’s an ask that requires some time, like asking about lore or builds or opinions, it’ll probably take me longer to get to. i’m a busy guy, i work 13 hour shifts irl and have chronic hand tendonitis which makes typing hard. ofc if you’re worried tumblr ate your ask, you’re fine to send another, just please don’t be rude or pushy about it, i promise i’ll get around to it ^^;

(worm theory) actually the noblesse worm died because it had so much knowledge so ratio cant be—

he’s a new worm. aha’s second worm. and, the first worm didnt die because it had too much knowledge, it died because aha took its power away.

do you ship (xyz) / how do you feel about (ship)?

probably sure + fine. i can pretty much get behind anything, i’m a multishipper, fine with poly and switching and whatever. the exceptions are child x adult and shipping family members in a romantic or sexual way. 👎.

this thing you said was incorrect!

woops! it happens. bring a source if you’re gonna correct me though— not cuz i don’t believe you, but because i love being right and need to be right next time. if this is about a theory, though, well… sometimes theories dont turn out right. its not MY fault hsr wasn’t cool enough to make Something Unto Death the corrupted remnant of Mikhail’s soul. whatever… my theory is just better than canon

you tagged a post with (character) but they’re not in it!

ah man. i mass tagged everything and am gradually going back and fixing it… send me a link to the post and i’ll edit it!

i’ll add more as i think of it…

[ekebolou]

Academy Days: Day Two, Evening

This is for those of you who love bureaucracy. Originally it had a lot of architecture in it, too, but I had to cut it because 8,000 words is really too much, even for me. What I'm saying is, this may be a bit boring, but we do leave our boys' perspective behind for a bit, so that's a nice break.

If I were writing this to be in a book, I would definitely have to cut stuff like this, but I'm not writing it for a book, I'm writing it for serial release. Maybe it'll get put into book format, but serial format means I can kinda go hog wild with what in TV would I guess be called 'filler' - it's not that it doesn't move the plot forward or do important things for character development and introduction, it's just that it doesn't do so in the most exciting or straightforward way. It may make it harder to get into as a novel, but frankly, I expect the Academy Days stories are harder to get into as a novel anyway - I'm not so sure how independent they are of the main Kostas storyline (which I've heard is still up in its entirety on Wattpad, which I've been meaning to delete, but maybe haven't because maybe you want to read it. No I'm not going through the psychological torture that would be reposting that on Tumblr, it'll be on the website eventually).

Anywho, I have lots of thoughts about narrative etc, but for the time being here's a chapter featuring a meeting, Corin being douche a being shut down, and the introduction of Quartermaster Ghent (and Horace, which if you remember Horace I am pretty impressed). I should probably start labeling these with what's in them more consistently, 'cause, you know, that might make people more interested in reading them.

The fire roared in the fireplace, the plates steamed on the sideboards, and the wine sparkled, red, gold, and yellow in the thick patterned glasses, yet you could not have purposefully assembled a duller crowd.

“It is a despicable kind of joke that mocks our very values…”

The Representative for the Palace leaned back in his chair and pressed a cherry to his lips, tempted to practice some kind of flirtatious stem-twisting maneuver for later, when he might attend a real party, with actual important people. But he didn’t want to give any of the dour Military men the wrong idea. And also, he was supposed to be representing the Palace (not accurately, but respectfully, so no flirtatious maneuvers of any kind).

At the Palace they probably would have pitted the cherry and removed the stem, anyway, which was a shame both because it ruined the cherry, whose deliciousness lay in the unbroken tension of its skin, and because it removed the opportunity for flirtatious maneuvers. But it probably also removed the chance for someone to choke to death on a pit, which he supposed might be good.

He reminded himself not to put his heels on the table, ate his cherry, and observed.

“…How can the other cadets be expected to perform at their best…”

This was the nicest of the meeting rooms, so it was a terrible shame it, like the pitted cherry, was being so abused. It really was too small for the crowd the opening meeting this year had garnered – or, rather, it wasn’t actually too small, but its usual comforts were waylaid by it being slightly too full.

The Gold Room at the Palace would have scoffed at calling many times more people a crowd, but these were (for the most part) Military officers, and high-ranked ones. It had long been below their dignity to be squeezing into barracks or classrooms. To have so many so close was like trying to pack porcupines in a box. They puffed to maintain their stately space from one another.

“…much less receive adequate training, when so distracted…”

Yet, they stayed, crowded. In fact, a few more filtered in sending a little rippling squoosh through all the bubbles of personal dignity, and adding a fresh spritz of resentment to the air. The poor little room! Could they have changed venues? Yes, but this, the traditional space, was the easiest to find, the most comfortable (when properly attended meetings were held), and had the second-quickest service. And, of course, the Council was not going to change its traditions for the sake of the comfort of guests.

To the Council anyone not preoccupied with the day-to-day running of the Academy counted as guests, whether they had merely the unexercised right to attend (as many of this evening’s attendees did), or were supposed to have been attending all along (as a slightly smaller number of attendees), or were the actual public (technically, he supposed, the guests who were guests that were also military officers who made up most of the rest of the crowd, because no citizen of the Capitol deigned to give the Academy too much serious attention, lest it begin to believe itself important).

Thus, the air of resentment.

“The ollamh were not even consulted! What strange customs and beliefs…”

Sweet Peace, if only there could be dancing. Was there even a space for dancing at the Academy? (Logically, there had to be – all the little cadets showed up to their graduation relatively skilled, if stiff, dancers, at least of the traditional forms). It was, at this moment, hard to imagine.

The Representative of the Palace briefly entertained himself with memories of past graduation balls, and by the depth of his distraction was briefly saved from hearing the stentorian complaints of whatever ollamh it was holding forth.

“…might have been the case in the past, though I doubt the veracity of these claims and even IF true…”

By Modesty’s Shaded Nipples, everyone was being quite uncharacteristically polite.

Even and especially Quartermaster Ghent, who was the Representative’s only real hope.  He quite liked Ghent, not because he was particularly impressive, friendly, or sociable, but rather, he was so thrillingly uncouth he tended to move the meetings along with tremendous efficiency.

This admiration existed only from afar. Quartermaster Ghent, if he knew the Palace Representative existed as a person, as opposed to an office, would probably hate him more than he appeared to hate most of the population of the Academy. Likewise, if in any proximity to Quartermaster Ghent outside the Academy walls, the Representative could easily imagine himself hiding behind bushes or perhaps drowning in a pond to avoid being seen so accompanied.  But parliamentarian admiration from afar was fine.

Case in point, though: sometimes, when he thought something particularly stupid or useless was being discussed at too great a length, Quartermaster Ghent liked to suggest they should get bells and motley to put on the Academy Tower – he could really go on at great length about it, always with new details and suggestions, however long was needed to bully the other speaker into silence. But nobody liked to listen to Quartermaster Ghent, for precisely this reason: his suggestions tended to be in the ‘go fuck yourself’ direction.

Why he wasn’t doing so now was baffling.

“…can even be accounted for, much less matters of custom and hygiene…”

Bells and motley would at least give him something to look at, though. All the grey stone and dark wood and flickering torches and ceremony (but, like, the stiff and boring kind, not the necessary and beautiful kind, that you got dressed up for). What about a little flair? Colored fire? Some music? Surely the Academy Council could arrange something – surely they didn’t purposefully impose how boring these things were.  The King, who also hated the Capitol, at least let people throw parties down here.

Not that bells and motley would help, currently. They couldn’t see the Academy Tower from this dim basement (was it all basement? Maybe!). They were underground, at a crotch proximal to the Tower where several eras of building overlapped like pastry. Still the best room, as the windows of its neighboring rooms created a cross breeze to ventilate it, and the Tower kitchen was only a floor below and somewhere left (also, miraculously, ensconced in a basement – how everyone didn’t die of smoke or heat baffled him, when he thought about it, which he didn’t, at least not often).

“…furthermore the traditions of the Academy itself should be considered, its bricks laid down by Keadar-Ainjir himself…”

The Representative was thinking about how the crowd in the room should dim the ring of the ollamh’s voice, at least a little bit, but this brought on the terrifying thought that this was the ollamh’s voice ‘dimmed’, and his thoughts rapidly diverted.

It was hard to tell exactly when the meeting would start, but their hand wouldn’t be forced merely by being annoyed. Though a beautiful, heavy, long table stretched importantly across the head of the room before the fire, none of the Councilmembers sat until they absolutely had to, to avoid being overheated in the ambivalent cold of early spring.  Everyone else – sans orator – was trying to mill about sociably amongst the tables scattered around the floor, three or four chairs around each so decidedly inadequate in number for seating them all that hardly anybody sat in any of them. The only place with any current at all – again, an admirable marker of (very boring) Military manners – was around the many thin tables arranged at the edges of the room, generously laden with food or drinks as appropriate.

They might not change venues, but they were at least not so stupidly rigid as to under-prepare the kitchens for an overabundant crowd, which any fool could have predicted would attend. 

The Military didn’t do unprecedented, so it had been quite a long time since anything unprecedented happened. He just wished it hadn’t inspired pre-meeting oration, which might be his new most hated occurrence at a meeting.

But thank fuck, here was Ghent.

“Aren’t you hungry, Ollamh Corin? Thirsty? Winded? Bravery’s Brass Balls, that could stop your mouth for a moment, couldn’t it?”

The Representative restrained himself from cheering. Quartermaster Ghent, being on the council, was one of few of rank enough to stem the tide, and of those few was perhaps the only one who maintained a soldierly sense of when to tell someone to shut the fuck up. (To be fair, he only ever told people to shut the fuck up. That there might be other, more polite ways to handle things never seemed to occur to him).

Their orator particularly disturbed to be so addressed by a member of the Council. “I would think you of all people wouldn’t be soft on this issue–”

“Fucking Fate protect us from you thinking, Corin.” With this, the old Quartermaster heaved himself painfully out of his chair and wandered over to one of the sideboards, gravelly voice continuing in a not-at-all contained rumination, twin to the one he had so effectively stopped. 

“I know, why don’t we have a little meeting about, eh? Why don’t we get everyone together let’s say, within the first few days of the new classes arriving and just have ourselves a little group think, and once that starts, we’ll have a whole section of it devoted to listening the bleating of idiots, and then you can express your blighted opinion all you want, eh? How about let’s do that instead of listening to you patter like rain while we wait for the blasted meeting to start.”

The officer who had remained sitting at Ghent’s table – an unusual-looking fellow with more-than-sun-browned skin and white hair – cast a glance over his shoulder, perhaps to hide his smile more than watch Ghent shamble to the food.

Brave of him to sit with Ghent (he was beloved, just not often by anyone of rank).  This companion was one of many the representative from the Palace didn’t recognize, though some he could pick up through his study of descriptions of the relevant players in Military matters. It was an unusually stacked crowd, but again – unprecedented. 

Corin seemed like he was about to go on – Charity’s Twin Cheeks, how could he? – when they were saved by General Durante abruptly mounting the step up to the head table.

“As good a sign as any – shall we get started?” 

Tall and well-built, just past his middle age with only the finest of gray hair showing, Durante had the presence one expected from a military officer, and the politesse more befitting the court than these dank halls. At times he had seemed to know it, and he made a good show of himself in Palace events, but then he would recede, disassociate, find himself too busy for every invitation (and as an officer, it was surprising he received any).

Durante was really the Representative’s main concern – or, he had been told so. He just wasn’t exactly sure what he was supposed to do about it. The meetings were boring. Nothing of great import was ever discussed. It wasn’t like a social event. It was all quite unpromising, really, but that wasn’t for the representative to judge. The Palace had its connections to the Academy the way the Academy had its – neglected and somewhat atrophied in this day and age – connections to the Palace, and they begrudgingly fulfilled the duty of maintaining them.

At least the object of the Palace’s vague interest wasn’t Ghent.

Now, the Councilmembers who weren’t Ghent slowly made their way from tables of food or drink or old friends to their designated spots at the head table. Durante took the center seat, his back to the fire but face nonetheless alight thanks to well-mirrored crystal lamps spaced across the table. Ghent continued to get himself food and drink. The other Councilmembers didn’t seem to think it necessary to wait for him.

“Let the first meeting of the Academy Council for year 541 commence; please recognize Marerog, note-taker, and Saeloch, senior; Ghent, senior; Ichtoran, Fiodar, and Durante, serving, and…” his eyes moved over the room, “some fifty, guest, honored guest, and ollamh.”

Now, the Representative did not particularly like thinking about politics, or would not admit to liking it, but like tinder taking flame – he lit up.

With the exception of Ghent, whose service as Quartermaster required his constant presence, the other Councilmembers rotated. Members could depart, resign, or be called to the field, so a roster existed of ‘active’ and ‘inactive’ candidates for Council seats in perpetual rotation, with the exigencies of Academy business and requirement of odd number the determining factors of its composition. They usually served no less than a year, those bouts of five to eight were more common, and peaks and valleys in the intensity of their work determined who was on hand any given day. The opening meeting required a full bench – no polite notes accepted – so there were only five.

Five was a low number; the peak was something like fifteen. A normal year, with some unrest, would be more like seven or nine (three was the kind of minimum that revealed an emergency or perhaps plague). So some months ago, at the autumn recess, when the decisions had been made about who to bully into being responsible for being there, they had expected little disruption in the day-to-day business of the Academy.

So, in some sense, they had been surprised, too (though they had had months to ruminate on it. The Military did not just make adjustments. That was a kind of flighty, reflexive, responsiveness reserved for the unreliable Nobility or the Executive officers).

With the meeting commenced, Durante was now looking down at a pile of paper, threateningly thick. 

It would contain all of the bureaucratic detritus that piled up between the end of one academic ‘year’ and the start of the next: overviews of schedules, information on divisions of students, reports on supplies and personnel in the medical facilities, some few early requests for more material for classes, early reports of trouble on the grounds from delayed maintenance of buildings or gardens (always so many requests from the gardeners). The onrush of new cadets, the return of old, the re-engagement of staff and resumption of projects delayed acted like the weight of a step on a semi-rotted stair; there always seemed to be some cracking and breakage not noticed on the last trip up.

All of it needed to be addressed in order, or the Academy – nay, the nation – nay, the entire world, would fall into chaos.

“I open the floor to the ollamh.”

Ghent, who had seated himself back at his table instead of the head table, grunted a “thank fuck” nonetheless audible for the scrapes of shifting chairs and little gasps of surprise.  He heaved himself up – repast in hand – to laboriously make the trek up to his official seat.

“We cannot allow a Midraeic to continue as a cadet,” said ollamh Corin, not waiting to be called.

“You are formally recognized as speaker, Ollamh Corin,” Marerog said dryly, scratching it into his notes and titching the sand closer to his hand, prepared to combat the smears of fast writing.

“Complaint registered,” Durante intoned. His final say on admissions made him liable. “But what is its substance?”

“It’s ludicrous,” Corin spat.

“Elaborate,” Durante replied.

“This is ludicrous,” Corin said, looking around the room for support. “On the face of it. I cannot imagine it an oversight, as classes have begun and this Midraeic is among the cadets. So I must assume it was done on purpose.”

Ichtoran, whose duties included ranking and thus the class rosters, seemed annoyed more by the aspersion on his record-keeping than opposed to – or in favor of – Corin’s objections. “All of the appropriate steps were taken for enrollment. There is nothing in the regulations that would prevent enrollment.”

“I would not doubt General Ichtoran’s grasp of the regulations, but some reasoning must be provided to those of us perhaps less familiar with their intricacies,” Corin said, barely maintaining a polite tone over his seething. “There should be an explanation.”

“Would it not be unusual to explain admission of a cadet in compliance with regulations?” Durante inquired, much better at maintaining a neutral tone. Not that it mattered, because–

“Why not?” Saeloch asked, offering the requested explanation in a bored, raspy voice, looking down to pick a new morsel from his plate.

“The objections are obvious and numerous, and to go through the procedure for removing a cadet at this point could be harmful to the class formation, and reveals a shortsightedness–”

Ghent’s glower seemed to imply he would respond, but before he could Durante raised a hand to stop them both. “On what specific premise would admission be refused?”

“We refuse admission all the time,” Corin objected.

“On regulatory grounds,” Ichtoran replied coolly, apparently still smarting from having his punctiliousness slandered.

“Also on the grounds of the spirit of the institution,” Corin retorted.

“Can you provide any specific examples of such?” Durante said over Saeloch grumbling “‘Spirit’ my ass.”

(The Representative assumed Marerog did not record this addition, though he did flourish his paper into a new orientation to quickly continue his notes)

Corin balked, but only for a moment. “The second son of the Royal Family, who applied as second son but became Prince Cullan.”

“That happened more than a hundred years ago,” Fiodar said, almost reluctantly. “And was the Palace’s business.”

“The Council then applied its right of refusal on grounds of the purpose of the institution.”

“But the objection was raised and prosecuted by the royal family,” Fiodar said. “The Council’s ruling was a concession of the branches and not on internal regulatory grounds. It was a gift of the Military to the Nobility.”

“And how could such a similar ruling not apply in this case? Prosecuted by the people of Ainjir for the sake of the purpose of the institution?”

“Because that’s horseshit,” Ghent said, which Durante quickly followed with, “the people of Ainjir have no such voice in the doings of the Academy.”

This was actually quite tetchy, in a way that sent political-theory tingles up the Palace Representative’s spine. There COULD be something like a voice of the people IF the third branch were revived…

But, perhaps finally realizing there was some chance that the Council had already discussed the matter, Corin paused to reassess, glare sweeping from one side of the great table to the other.

Finally, he took a nice lungful of air and started back where he had begun before the meeting commenced, “It’s a stain on the honor of–”

Durante held up a hand. “Condense your objections only to the salient points and we will commence discussion only if the Council’s answers prove insufficient.”

Really, he should have realized then that he was dead in the water, but it appeared that Corin’s anger up to this point had been mostly rhetorical, put on for show.  This call for concision truly got to him – the Representative could tell as the little tips of his pressed-flat ears reddened. “I don’t see how that’s a reasonable request. The ollamh were not consulted, not even warned–”

“It is neither the habit nor a requirement of the Council to consult ollamh on decisions of admission before the Academy year begins.”

Lips pressed into a line, Corin re-engaged. “The differences of belief, custom, even basic behavior and moral–”

“Differ from region to region,” Saeloch interrupted this time, “from family to family, from station to station – braile-breith cadets and noble and east and west and plain and forest, farm and mine – if the cadet adapts to the Academy from any of these places of difference then there is no reason to expect that a Midraeic cannot do the same. If he fails to adapt he can leave, like the rest.”

“Have you not considered the level of disruption–”

“This is one cadet,” Saeloch said, as if having to bring it up tired him. “The Academy has run its business during war. This cannot be more disruption than the raids from Geron were, and cadets died in those.”

“The level of disruption,” Corin continued pointedly, “this may bring to the Academy’s reputation? That it may not be a ploy?”

He had struck gold! The Council’s hesitation proved that they had not considered this. But that was because it was so very stupid an idea.

After a brief glance at the rest of the members, Durant raised a flat hand to invite a response from the Palace Representative.

The Palace Representative stared dumbly, for he was surprised.

“The nomination was made by Baron Seolgaire. Speaking on behalf of the Nobility, does the Palace wish to address the nomination of a Midraeic cadet by Baron Seolgaire?”

“As you know, the Palace on principle takes no interest in who chooses to attend Academy and how Noble families might wish to handle their sponsorships. Those are adjudicated entirely individually, within the family, except on small matters of inheritance when certain conditions of conflict are met, which in this case doesn’t apply – one assumes.”

He didn’t want to suggest that Baron Seolgaire might somehow have an unknown Midraeic inheritor, but… well, it wasn’t likely, though it wasn’t UNlikely, either, but… that was… well, that was quite out of the Palace’s purview and really any of his business and nobody, including the Military itself, would want the Military involved.

Durante was still looking at him, though, so the Representative went on, pausing between each statement to see when he had said enough that he could stop. “Which Baron Seolgaire? There’s some dispute, over title inheritance, at the moment. There’s a pretender.”

This damaged Corin’s clever suggestion, if only because it was yet another indication that the Nobility were very silly people.

Durante had to consult his stack of paperwork, digging down several sheets, adjusting his distance from the paper to consult the right note. “Baron Raghailligh Seolgaire.”

“Oh, well,” the Representative shrugged, “that’s who I would back. Anyway, no.”

“No what?” Corin objected.

“No, I can’t possibly see what Baron Raghailligh Seolgaire would get out of this. Actually not the other one, either, but still. That Baron Seolgaire is known for being eccentric. Thus the title challenge. Might actually be a Seolgaire by blood, which would mean there’s been some… close marriages in his ancestry. Runs a fine estate but makes odd choices, so it’s in keeping. Quite harmless most of the time. Likes to wear furry knickers, puts butter on–”

“Enough,” Corin barked.

Since Durante was still looking at him – as was the rest of the Council – the representative shrugged again. “I would imagine not. No ploy that makes any sense, anyway. And, of course, it goes without saying the Palace disavows any knowledge of such a plot, so even if there was one, it would be up to him, and I don’t think he’s up to much of anything except filing lineage proofs and frightening the peasants with the occasional public eccentricity. Of which the Palace also avows no pre-emptive knowledge. Officially.”

“Are there any other objections to raise on this issue?” Durante said tiredly to the assembly. Then, particularly to Corin: “Consider what Councilmember Ichtoran has said. Proceed with the understanding the decision has been made.”

“What loyalty can we expect from a Midraeic to Ainjir?” said a man with a severe face, square-jawed and narrow-eyed – an ollamh, sitting amongst the others. “The point of this education is to raise officers who will then give their oath to defend the nation. The Oath would be meaningless to a Midraeic.”

Corin nodded, as did a few others in the room. Even the other Council members turned to Durante.

Though it was evidently his answer to give, Durante instead turned to Ghent. “Quartermaster, your experience might suggest a better answer. What say you to this objection?”

Startled at having been called upon, Ghent started to answer, only for Durante to cut him off: “Please refrain from casting aspersions on the meaning of the Oath or other unrelated objections to the premise. A cadet is at issue.”

Ghent resettled himself, spending a moment looking out into the room without necessarily seeing it. His face maintained the same disgruntled expression that had settled on it upon first walking into the room. Corin seemed to be about to interject when he finally rumbled out a response.

“There is no difference. If this boy has chosen the path, then he’ll walk it, or not. The decision was made when he walked through the gates in the first place, same as the rest of them.”

“The weakness of superstition–” Corin began.

“Will get him kicked out. Or it won’t. He would hardly be the first superstitious cadet, and certainly not the last. Believers have come through the gates before, open and, more likely, many clandestine. It has never been raised as an objection to the Oath, which relies only on the personal valor of the cadet, their individual worthiness and participation in our society. To go through the Academy is to participate more fully than many a person outside the Midraeic people in Ainjir. If he lasts to the end, he may swear as truly as any other.”

“To disrupt the learning of the other cadets–” Corin began, but Ghent had no more interest in letting him finish than he had all evening.

“Many might be less worthy. Many a superstitious person has sworn the Oath, and many more a stupid person has done the same, and it’s the stupid ones that worry me more. I didn’t see you objecting then. Probably because–”

“That will do. Thank you, Quartermaster” Durante interjected. “The matter is settled. The Midraeic cadet has been admitted and will perform or fail as any other cadets performs or fails. Shall we proceed?”

Ghent stayed up at the table for the duration of the open-floor part of the meeting, but there was – perhaps surprisingly, perhaps not – little to bring in that was not already on the agenda at some other point. So the Palace’s Representative soon watched Ghent stump away from the table, back presumably to one more comfortable, with very little to add to what the Representative had thought was going to be the most exciting portion of the evening.

But alas again, all the interest of this particular evening had been spent, and now there was nothing to look forward to, except whether the discussion of the medical budget would lead to fisticuffs between the practitioners of rival healing arts. Which, frankly, appointment of the latest head, a woman who almost certain had ties to the Families and clandestine religious beliefs, had put quite a damper on. Though exciting in that she added to overall political drama of the Academy, she seemed to frown on the practitioners spending their first few weeks healing themselves, and thus doomed the meeting. So there wasn’t even that to look forward to.

**

Despite Durante’s radical reordering of the agenda, the meeting still stretched into the wee hours of the night. This was why Ghent advocated for holding all such meetings in the stables, where they would all be as sore and aching from sitting on dirty floors and railings as he got from the ‘comfortable’ chairs indoors, and would all come out stinking of shit literally instead of just figuratively. It would take some walking to work out the stiffness in his joints and twists in his muscles, but his rooms were some ways away of walking, so it worked out.

Ghent stumped through the halls with his broad rolling gait; his companion walked beside him with long, slow strides.

“Thank you for inviting me,” he said.

Ghent grunted. “What shit. You were conveniently around to be invited. Awfully conveniently. I hope you got what you came for – there’s nobody that would thank anyone for being put through that shit.”

“Well, it was interesting.”

“It absolutely was not.”

“I was interested.”

“Aiming for my job?” Ghent glanced up at him through narrowed eyes, but it was a show. He grunted again. “You can have it. Who wants it? Too much grief. Fucking gardeners wanting every cursed plant. Then they want to dig it up and put in every other cursed plant. These bloody meetings. Cadets.”

“Surely no one could hope to do your job as well as you.”

“Horseshit,” Ghent grumbled. “Any idiot could do my job.”

They ambled together in silence for a few paces.

Ghent seemed finally to lose his patience; though every bit as gruff, his outburst was quiet. “What do you want, Horace?”

Rather than responding, Horace turned his face to the sky, appreciating the stars.

“Oh, fuck you,” Ghent said, but in his way, meaning it was a kind of compliment.

“Well, if I just asked, would you do it?” Horace was smiling, as he often smiled with friends, whose company, though they might be yelling to wake Ainjir’s dead gods, make him happy.

What this meant was that Ghent was going to have to figure it out. Because of course he wouldn’t do it if he was just asked. At least, if he hadn’t already thought of doing it himself. So Horace must think he has an unusual request. This could be any of a thousand things, given the wide range of duties of the Academy Quartermaster, whose power really was second only to Durante’s, if he chose to exercise it (Ghent did not, but then, they had chosen Ghent at least partially because he could not leverage power through personal connections, his being quite so sparse). Ghent had other strengths.

But that wasn’t why Horace was asking; Horace was asking because he was Ghent, and was asking because he was Horace. Because he was Horace, there was an obvious connection to make, well outside Ghent’s usual wheelhouse.

“What do you think I can do for him?”

Horace smiled, as if for the thousandth time as for the first, dazzled by his companion’s brilliance (that he did this in a way that didn’t seem patronizing was one of his exceedingly unique gifts – when he was patronizing, you sure did notice, though).

“That’s a bit of the puzzle, isn’t it?” Horace asked, looking down at the grass as he kicked his feet through it. “I don’t even really know why I’m asking.”

“Beyond the obvious?” Ghent said.

Horace had been nodding along as soon as he had started to speak. “There’s not some conspiracy, you know. I wasn’t even raised in the faith, as you’re aware. I wish I could offer some kind of unique perspective to tell you what you might look out for, but really, I think the reason I thought of it, and the reason I thought of you–”

“–Other than my amazing puissance–”

“–Other than your amazing puissance, is because it seems so mightily unfair.”

“It’s not a fair place,” Ghent said, but as a pat response, not an objection.

“Neither was the border,” Horace replied. “At the border, at least, we all had a sense that we were there to make it fair.”

“‘We all’, my ass,” Ghent said, anger heating his voice. “It was setting bones getting all you grubs to think anything. All you had was hot blood and wet loins.”

“To be fair, many of us only hoped for wet loins,” Horace replied thoughtfully, to Ghent’s conceding nod. “Yet some sergeant seemed driven by death itself to get us to think of something else.”

“Well, there was hope for you, yet,” Ghent said. “You weren’t officers.”

Horace didn’t have to say anything about their officers. They walked in silence for a few long, slow paces.

“We talked to the Fourth Year class. Reminded them that if they had any pretensions of having reached their station through merit, the role of merit was theirs to maintain. I think they picked it up.”

“We?”

“Durante and I.”

Horace grunted, a surprisingly Ghent-like noise. “Well, I wonder if anything should be done beyond that.”

“The Fourth Years can’t be everywhere,” Ghent said. He had clasped his hands behind his back, slowed their walk to give them time to resolve the conversation.

“They’ll be busy,” Horace said.

“Very,” Ghent agreed. “At the same time, I’m not sure what I can do.”

“Keep an eye out, maybe?” Horace said, turning to look sidelong, smile on his face. “As you once did for another young soldier forced into your company?”

Ghent grunted disdainfully. “You didn’t need my eye out. You had them all running.”

“Maybe,” Horace said. “But maybe it mattered that somebody didn’t run, too.”

“And wasn’t thin as the last piss squeezed from a pencil dick.”

“Oh, some of them turned out alright.”

“Once they had it beaten out of them.” This time Ghent’s grunt was a little raspy, more from phlegm than sentimentality, probably, but raspy all the same. “If they lived.”

“If they lived,” Horace agreed. “It wouldn’t hurt to give this one a fighting chance at living, you think?”

Ghent spat, whatever had been building up in his lungs excised by pleasant conversation. “If he turns out not to be a limpdick snot stone.”

Horace nodded and smiled. “If he turns out to be a limpdick snot stone. But frankly, if he’s made it this far and hasn’t realized he’s thrown himself to the wolves, I would be very surprised. Takes a bit more than a limpdick snot stone to keep at it after that. Surely there’s at least some stubbornness there. Stubbornness can be admired. Or at least keep him alive until he’s worth being admired for something else.”

“How dare you,” Ghent said flatly. “There’s nothing else worth being admired for.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Horace replied, grinning. “I’ve heard people quite like sociability, also one of your foremost traits.”

“You just want my liquor.”

“Not true! I also want your recommendation for the best House to visit.”

“Virtue’s Tits, man,” Ghent grumbled, “make sure you’ve got your own wrapper.”

“For the liquor, or…?”

“Come in, you reprobate, and keep your dick away from my liquor, wrapped or no.”

“Ah,” Horace said, as Ghent laboriously unfastened the antique lock to the tiny outer court of his quarters, “to visit old friends is to know joy, even if you aren’t allowed to put your dick in their liquor, isn’t it?”

“Fuck off,” Ghent said, by which he meant, yes.

[ncisjes]

One Last Time

PAIRING: TIVA

Rating: A really light M. It’s in there but you can skip if you want.

FF.net

The door swings wide as the room key flies across the air, sliding across the table, and eventually somersaulting to the floor.

What a day.

Attempting to multitask, Tony feels out the lamp on the side table and somehow manages to turn it on without knocking it over while removing his suit jacket. He really did not understand the need to get dressed up and go to dinner, but Senior insisted they needed to break the monotony of eating room service every day. Even though the exhaustion from the past two weeks was starting to really wear on him, Tony reluctantly agreed to go out and have an authentic Italian meal.

Tali looked beautiful in the velvet maroon dress they had bought for her earlier that day. It was all smiles and giggles as she made art with her spaghetti. A handful of noodles in each palm, she decorated the table, the floor, Tony’s face, and even the waiter’s jacket with red sauce and pasta.

If Ziva were only here to see this.

Tony was grateful that Senior had agreed to keep Tali in his room for the night to allow Tony to get some much-needed rest. After a bath, singing lullabies, and tucking in Tali with her keh’lev, he walked mindlessly to his suite down the hall.

The nights were the worst for him. Only when Tali had drifted off to sleep would he allow himself to break his playful dad demeanor and let his mind race and wander to Ziva. At first, he felt lucky if he was able to sleep, but the dreams of her seemed to be even more encompassing than his thoughts. No matter how many times he thought or heard or said she was gone, it still felt like a knife to the heart each time.

Letting out a sigh, he began unbuttoning his shirt when suddenly the air thickened and every hair on his body stood at attention. Someone was watching him from behind. Before he could turn around to see who it was, a hand clasped over his mouth in a vice like grip and another forced a dagger against his throat. Reaching for the SIG he no longer carried, Tony quickly scanned the room for an object to use as a weapon. Warm air caressed his neck as his assailant began to speak.

“When I let you go, please try to keep your voice down.”

His whole body goes rigid at these words. He feels the release of the knife first and then his mouth, and for a moment he can’t bring himself to turn around.

Could it be?

Their eyes lock when he turns to face her. Time stops, and every emotion he has been burying the past few days washes over him. He can’t move. He can’t speak. He can’t breathe. His mind is racing with thoughts, but he can’t quite seem to grasp them. It’s almost as if he is waiting for her to disappear again; for this all to be an illusion. Slowly shutting his eyes, Tony takes a deep exhale knowing this moment will be over as soon as his eyes open. When she is still standing there, his mouth seems to move on its own.

“Ziva…” he whispers.

She gives him a small but begrudging smile before responding, “Hello, Tony.”.

They stand in silence for a few moments more as Tony is still in disbelief that this is happening. It really doesn’t seem real until Ziva asks, “Where is Tali?”

She already knows the answer.

His eyes study her as he responds. “She’s down the hall. With Senior.”

Ziva’s face falls a little as she wrings her hands.

“I wanted to see her, but perhaps it is better this way.” She lets out a weak smile, knowing that this request was more selfish than beneficial.

“Look, Tony, I know I have a lot of explaining to do…” She starts to say as she makes her way towards him.

Tony doesn’t let her finish. In a flash, he closes the gap between them and wraps himself around her. Their lips meet as he pulls her entire body against him. His hands entangle themselves in her wild curly hair. Ziva responds by enclosing her arms around his torso. The kiss is filled with so much fervor that it is almost painful.

Wanting to feel every inch of her, Tony’s lips skate across Ziva’s jawline to her neck, then just below her ear making Ziva moan. Continuing his amorous assault, he kisses her neck down to her chest to the cup of her bra before removing it along with her shirt.  He begins to move them toward the bed, undoing the button and zipper on her pants in the process. Ziva finishes the job of unbuttoning Tony’s shirt, and quickly shucks it off before pulling his white undershirt over his head. Pushing her back on the bed, Tony yanks Ziva’s pants off, taking her panties with them, and deposits them haphazardly on the floor. Making quick work of his belt, button, and zipper, he drops his pants and boxers. Giving a swift kiss to her center, he slides into her waiting heat.

Staring down at her naked body bathed in moonlight, her hair splayed across the sheets, Tony begins to slowly thrust. Their eyes lock once again, saying everything they verbally can’t express. Ziva wraps her legs around his waist and lifts her hips to meet him. It doesn’t take long for them both to tumble over the edge. Tony collapses on top of her, breathing in the scent of her hair. Ziva wraps her arms around him, hugging him tightly, never wanting to let him go. They lie there silent for a few moments, skin pressed against skin, matching each other’s breathing.

The air seems to change as Tony withdraws and rolls over beside her. They both stare at the ceiling. The tension is palpable in their silence.

“You could have told me.” Tony says before he stands, squatting to pull up his pants. He walks across the room to retrieve his shirt.

Sitting up on her elbows, Ziva watches him move around the room, confusion etched across her face. They are going to do this now?  She knew it was coming, but she expected things to go in a completely different order.

“I know.” She whispers, not making eye contact. Her demeanor showed her remorse.

“You know?” Tony asks in disbelief.

Feeling vulnerable laying naked before him, Ziva gets up and quickly dresses. Running a hand through her wild hair, she finally meets his eyes, seeing the anger in them. She takes a deep breath before beginning.

“I know you must be upset Tony. I know the past few weeks must have been difficult with everything that was shoved onto your plate. That is why I came here. I believe I owe you an explanation.”

“An explanation?” He scoffs. “You kept our daughter from me for two and half years. You apparently faked your own death and sent her to me without even a phone call. It better be one hell of an explanation, Ziva.”

“Tony please. Keep your voice down.” She pleads with him. “’Faking my own death’ as you put it, was not my doing. There was an opportunity, and we had to take it. Of course, I did not want you to find out this way. If Orli knew I was here…”

“This is all her doing then? Did she tell you to keep Tali from me as well?” He seethes.

“No, the opposite actually. Not telling you was my choice.” Her face falls again, wringing her hands to control her emotions.

“Why Ziva, why wouldn’t you tell me?” Tony questions exasperated at this point.

“Because I did not know how!” It was her turn to yell. She begins to pace the room. “What was I supposed to do, call you up and say, ‘Hey Tony, I know that I said wanted time to figure things out on my own, but I am pregnant, and I need you?’ That is not me!”

 “You’re right. It’s not, but I had the right to know you were carrying our child!” He shouts back. Her stubbornness breaks as she turns away from him.

“You do not understand.” She whispers. Tony begins to ask her what he doesn’t understand, but she holds her hand up to silence him. “When I found out I was pregnant with Tali, I was still dealing with everything. Leaving NCIS, the pain and hurt I had caused people, letting you go. I still was not alright, and when you went back to DC everything just seemed to go back to normal for you. You got a new team member who seemed to mesh seamlessly. You were dating. It felt like your life picked up without me right where you left off. I did not want to take you away from that.”

“That wasn’t your choice-” He starts, but she silences him once again.

“I know that, but I also knew what I needed to do in order to feel safe and secure with my child. Never in my wildest dreams did I think I would be a mother Tony, but when I found out I was pregnant I knew I did not want her to have the same childhood as I did. Never knowing when, or if, Abba would come home. Not being able to interact with him when he was home because he was either still working or too stressed and tired. Missing school because there was a threat against him which put my entire family in danger. I did not want that for our daughter, Tony.”

“I would have given it up in a second if that is what you wanted.” He responds, the contempt in voice beginning to fade.

“Would you? Think about it, Tony. If I had returned to U.S. and stayed home with Tali, would you really have left N.C.I.S?”

Tony knows she’s right. He wouldn’t have.

“And even if you did, you would resent me for making you leave the job you love. You needed to make that decision on your own, the same way I did.”

“You are probably right, but even so that did not give you the right to keep her from me.” He crosses his arms and turns away.

“You are right. It is a decision I shall regret to the end of my days.” She says softly, her eyes filling with tears.

The silence falls between them again as Tony stares out the window at the rain and thunder that color the evening sky. Ziva stands rooted in her spot, waiting for him to speak.

“So what now? You’re off to save the world on some secret Mossad mission and you need me to take care of her?” He questions with disdain.  

Thrown completely off guard by his question, Ziva’s face contorts with confusion. “What?” Is all she can muster before her fury sets in. “Is that what you think? That I sent you Tali for some mission?”

“I don’t know what to believe.” He says curtly when he turns to face her. “Hell, a few hours ago I thought you were dead. A few weeks ago, I didn’t think I was a father. A few months ago, I thought you were in Israel still trying to find yourself, but boy was I wrong! So, excuse me Ziva, if I really don’t know what I believe right now!”

He turns to stare out the window once more. Staring down at her hands, Ziva begins to wring them together in another attempt to reign in her emotions. After a few steadying breaths, she begins to tread lightly towards him. She stares at his profile from behind, committing it to memory as she had done so many times in the past, before enveloping him in a huge hug from behind. Tony tenses for a moment, expecting some form of pain as Ziva usually resorted to when she really needed him to listen. When all he felt was the warmth of her body pressed against his, he allowed his arms to overlap hers, his palms holding her in place.

“I cannot change the past Tony.” She croons softly in his ear, when suddenly the air shifts once more. Tony turns and wraps his arms around her and pulls her tightly against him.

“I thought I lost you.” He whispers to her, his voice breaking. His hands tangle themselves in her hair once more as the soft tears fall from his eyes. He kisses her chastely, and Ziva feels the wetness on her lips.

“I know.” She whispers to him, their foreheads pressed longingly together.

“I came looking for you.” He says firmly.

“I know.” She allows herself to smile and laugh. “Eshel told me. He said you vowed to search every end of the earth until you knew I was longer on it.”

“I did. I may have been inebriated at the time, but deep down I didn’t really believe you were dead. Just didn’t feel right. No body, no crime. I had planned to keep looking for you until…” His voice began to trail.

“Until? You decided to stop looking for me?” She pulled away to study his face.

“I would have spent the rest of my life searching if it meant one day I would find you, but Senior said something to me, and it just made sense.”

A small pain stabbed her heart at Seniors dismissal, but she wanted to know what prompted this, so she asked, “And what did Antonio DiNozzo, Senior, say to persuade you?”

“He reminded me of how it was when my mom passed, and while he didn’t literally look for her, he looked for in every figurative sense of the word. Alcohol. Drugs. Sex. Women. Money. It wasn’t until he stopped looking, stopped trying to fill that void, that he was able to heal, and in turn I was able to start to heal.”

Ziva stared into his emerald eyes. She had seen them so many times before, but now they carried a little more pain and a little less sparkle.

“I didn’t want that for Tali, so after doing some soul searching and losing it for a little while, I decided to let my desire to find you die in Israel. To leave your memory in peace.”

Ziva stared down at the floor, not realizing the emotions her death would bring about in her own inner being. Tears begin to fall down her cheeks as Tony cupped her chin.

“Hey,” he calls, breaking her from her reverie while he thumbs her cheek back and forth. “It didn’t work. Even here I still look for around every corner. I don’t think I would have ever stopped looking Ziva, not really.”

“I know.” She laughs once more. Looking up at Tony as he brushes her tears away, she begins to tell him the real reason for her visit. “I knew you would never stop looking, which is why I knew I had to come see you.”

Tony’s eyes bored into hers as he stood up a little straighter, realizing this was important.

“When I did my soul searching after my father’s death, I went to apologize to people to I had hurt in my time at Mossad as I had told you the last time we saw each other. It was in doing this, that I made my presence known to people who thought I was dead. People who wanted to hurt me because I had hurt them. By trying to right my wrongs, I instead put a target on my back, and possibly yours and Tali’s as well. When I realized I was pregnant, I stopped making these pilgrimages and focused solely on my health and well being for the baby. Tali was about 18 months old when Orli began to get word that someone was looking for me.”

“Who was it?” Tony questioned.

“I do not know.” Ziva responded shortly.

“Well, where are they?” He continued.

“I do not know that either.”  

“Well we have to tell Gibbs, and Abby and McGee can help too and-” Ziva cut him off by placing her hand over his moth before he could continue.

“Tony, that is what I am here to tell you. I do not want anyone’s help. I brought this upon myself and I will finish it myself. Your help is not necessary.”

“Ziva you are not going to do this alone, how many times do I have to tell you, you are not alone in-”

“TONY!” Ziva yells, cutting him off for the final time. “I know that I am not all in this world, but my world consists of people I love and I would like to keep it that way! If I wanted to put Tali in danger I would have kept her with me!”

The lightning strikes and it is almost as if it illuminates the lightbulb in Tony’s brain. Tali. How would they protect Tali? He quickly scans through the people in their lives that he could trust to keep her safe, but no matter how many solutions he came up with, Tali would never be safe because she was the one key to hurt them both. Ziva could almost see it click in his mind on why she came to the conclusion she needed to do this on her own.

“When Orli started to hear traffic that someone was looking to kill me, she helped me dodge them by having Mossad say my whereabouts where anywhere but where I was. I was spotted all over the globe, but when they figured out that all these leads came up with dead ends, they came looking for me in Israel. Orli found out only hours before the attack was set into motion. Luckily we had a contingency plan in place.”

Tony stared at her, sensing whatever she was about to divulge was very difficult for her. “I knew it was time for me to send Tali to the one person I knew would protect her the same way, if not more, than I would… and that person was you.”

Ziva buried her face into Tony’s chest as she began to sob uncontrollably. Tony could not imagine what it was like to have to say goodbye to their daughter. He had only known her for a few weeks, and he could not fathom spending more than a day without her. He held Ziva tightly, kissing her hair and whispering to her it was okay.

“That is why I am here Tony. I need you to promise me. Promise me that you will not come looking for me. Promise me that you will keep our daughter safe. Promise me that no matter what they say they will do to me, you will protect her at all costs.

Ziva began to sob again and all Tony could do to comfort her was to repeatedly say I promise as he held her close. Rocking her back and forth gently, his own tears began to stream down his face as he realized he would be saying goodbye to her once again.

“I don’t want to lose you. Not again.” He whispered to her hair. Ziva looked up to him through bloodshot eyes and smiled a soft smile.

“You will not lose me Tony. No matter where I am, I am always with you. That is why I sent you my necklace, to give you a sign that I am still here and I am still fighting, for us.”

Tony cannot help but kiss her. He cups her face as their lips touch, and he feels her breathing hitch. Grabbing her by the hips, he lifts Ziva up and she wraps her legs around his waist. He carries them back to the bedroom. Depositing her onto the bed, he climbs between her thighs and begins to kiss his way up her body. Reaching the top of her shirt, he begins to unbutton it slowly, making her watch with hesitation. Once he is done, he kisses her belly, silently wishing he had seen her pregnant. Ziva reads his mind and gives him a small sad smile, but he wipes it away with a deep kiss. They take their time with each other, teasing and tempting one another closer and closer to the edge. They make love for what seems like hours, wanting to savor every last moment together. Ziva rides him to their release, screaming Tony’s name and collapsing on his chest.

They lie there together, coming down from their highs when the air shifts one last time. The realization that she must go hits them like a ton bricks, and neither says anything in hopes that it will prolong their time with one another. Laying with her cheek pressed to his chest, Ziva begins to draw circular patterns on Tony’s left arm. His right-hand skates down to small of her back and begins to do the same. They lie there in silence enjoying the others touch, very well knowing it may be the last time they feel it.

After some time, Ziva comes to her senses and lifts her head just enough to say, “It is going to be light soon. I must get going.”

Tony instinctively wraps his arms around her to hold her in place. Even though he knew this was coming, it is still so hard to let go. “I wish you would stay.” He says softly to her hair.

“I cannot.” She says with great pain in her voice. We’ve been through this.

“I know.” He whispers.

When Ziva moves to get up, Tony lets go without hesitation. Feeling an immediate loss when he withdraws from inside of her, Ziva moves to sit at the edge of the bed for a moment. Letting out a large sigh, she begins to dress, locating each item of clothing strewn across the room. Tony follows suit, wanting to properly see her out. When they both are fully clothed, he takes Ziva between his arms and holds her. Kissing her hair, he vows to himself this will not be the last time he does this.

“Take care of our girl.” Ziva says as she looks up at him, and Tony kisses her deeply to confirm he will protect their daughter with his life.

Ziva eventually pulls away, her mission calling her to return to the safe house Eshel had set up for her. They do not exchange I love you’s or even goodbyes, because deep down they each know how the other feels and hopes this will not be the last chance to say to one another.

With her hand on the handle, Ziva takes one last look back at Tony, smiles, and says, “Hardest 180 of my life.” Before slipping through the door without a sound.

*-**-**-**-*

The next morning, Tony wakes to sunlight streaming through the windows, illuminating the room with warmth. After a quick shower he heads down the hallway to Senior’s room where Tali is playing with the blocks they bought her in Israel that have the Hebrew symbols. Senior has already ordered breakfast for the three of them and is preparing Tali’s pancakes when Tony walks through the door.

Was it all a dream?

When Senior smiles and asks, “Did you have a good night son?

Tony knows it couldn’t have been.

FIN

[takato1993]

Tumblr seems to have deleted my post about changing the name of the thug stat block from the monster manual to ruffian instead because it doesn't have the racist connotations attached to it

and while it was just really meant as a reminder to me for the next time I need to run stronger bandits but struggle to come up with a better name, I just find it annoying that the post has seemingly disappeared from my blog entirely

I can find the other dnd post I made shortly after about a random encounter where a rug of smothering that gets defeated and turns into a flying carpet the players can use tho.

[anwenevergreen]

It wasn’t falling. It was growing.

As she traced through the hostile maze of thorny vines and voracious tendrils of Mordremoth’s realm, she realised how fitting it was that her own heart was ensnared in an evergrowing hold, coiling like ivy and tightening with every moment under the canopy.

It wasn’t falling. It was growing.

Seeds planted one by one with every little moment - small attentions, whispered encouragements and lingering glances, stolen in the heat of the battle – blossoming and reaching towards a gentle light, burying roots into her soul till it smothered her and stole her breath away.

It wasn’t falling. It was growing.

A bitter harvest of battles lost and lives forsaken. A weight pulling at the strings attached on her heart with every fearful night and every vengeful wake. A scream growing in her chest and dying in her throat with every nightmare. A sorrowful pride leaving a taste of salt on her lips and a burn on her lids with every testimony of their sacrifice.

It wasn’t falling. It was growing.

Short-lived relief when her friends were rescued, a vision of Nightmare averted at the tip of her sword, slashing through the blighting pods. Shallow satisfaction at being a thorn in the dragon’s side. Profound unadulterated dread at the thought of everything she still had to lose. Guilt and despair when there should be joy and relief. The bitter taste of defeat in the midst of victory.

A thousand sharp thorns clawing at her. A thousand blighted branches slowing her advance. A thousand cruel tendrils quartering her heart as they mangled him.

It wasn’t falling.

A vertiginous drop, a chasm gaping like an open wound to the Heart of Thorns, a fall she would gladly take if it meant saving him.

It was growing.

Embers flaring into a searing brightness burning away the remnants of doubt and reducing the shadow to cinders.

It wasn’t falling.

A darkness remaining, beckoning him to succumb.

And raging against the cries and the roars of the Dragon, a call more beautiful.

“Our fates are bound together. I’m not leaving without you.”

And I will chase it back to you.

[willwriteforruns]

Favorite Female Characters - Vera Claythorne from And Then There Were None

Vera Elizabeth Claythorne, that you did murder Cyril Ogilvie Hamilton.

[gothamopossum]

Dips & Drabbles: M&M

More shenanigans featuring Stolas’s bathtub from my previous post.

Full disclosure: I’m probably going to turn this (bathtub scene) into a series (henceforth called Dips & Drabbles) that will also feature some members of the Hazbin cast

[thatwritingho]

Edits for the prettiest tensai's birthday!

Happy Fuji Day!

[foamimi]

Heyo!! To any CC artists, creators, or whomever is in search of  some inspiration, may I suggest checking out...

♥ ♥♥ the old Club Penguin wigs archive! ♥ ♥ ♥

there’s a ton available to look at throughout the website. this is just a small fraction of what’s there regardless of the fact that some are duplicates (mainly just recolors of one another). the majority come with additional pics, too.

I realize it’s Club Penguin of all places, but hey who knows, they may help spark some creativity in one form or another!

idk if this kind of thing meets the requirements by any means, so feel free to ignore if not ;; just thought I’d tag on the off chance it did @maxismatchccworld​

direct links for the ones previewed under the cut

Row 1.)

The Dark

The Electric

The Curly Lochs

Row 2.)

The Rows

Unnamed Pink and Black Wig

The Masquerade

Row 3.)

The Wave Washed

Blue Sweat Band

The Striking

Row 4.)

The Chief

The Willow Wisp

The Cinder

Row 5.)

The Flow

The Aquamarine

The Strawberry Braid

Row 6.)

The Secured

The Enchantment

The Stomping

Row 7.)

The Too Cool

The Chic

The Summer Jam

Row 8.)

The Rocker-chic

The Styled Messy

The Right On

Row 9.)

The Blue Ombre

The Replay

The All Star

Row 10.)

The Firey Flare

The Short & Sweet

The Glamorous

[shishiikura]

@shimamineweek Day 2 - “Why are you like this?”/School/Beach

Ageswap AU anyone? 

The classroom door slid open, and Hatori looked up first.

“Oh Minegishi? What are you doing here?”

“I left my book here,” a bored yet smooth voice and the rustling of leaves shook Shimazaki from his looping thoughts. This person had an aura, just like himself, like Touichiro and Hatori and the rest of the council. An esper’s aura.

[sturdydenimblue]

musings on Barry’s character (p2 of 3)

On the topic of Barry being super calculating…lets talk about what he’s bringing to the table skill wise

Dude’s got a solid penchant for mind control and possession, reflected in his relic. It really is kind of His Thing- in fact it’s specifically what Lucretia is worried about the red robe doing:

If they… if they do some sort of mind control on you, and they figure out what we’re doing here with our operation, that’s- that’s the ball-game, boys.

There are these recurrent themes here of Control. Whether it’s bodily taking someone over, casting command or straight up necromancy. All of his stuff is generally about taking control over uncontrollable situations. The actions of other people or, y’know, death itself.

Which feels a lot like a fun manifestation of Barry’s chronic anxiety. Constant sensations of helplessness being translated into a proclivity for genuinely spooky and ethically dubious magic is super fucking cool. I love it. I love this poor nerd.