#that meant perseverance triggered first so I had to do all of perseverance

[apostacism]

Good for Cullen for not getting into a relationship if he's on the juice. I admire that for him.

[bridgertonbabe]

Does Franscescas story also include miscarriage and infertility?

I would be interested to know how her infertility affects her relationship with her family and friends.

What about Michael? What are his emotions like? What is the wizard perspective of miscarriage and infertility?

Is any Magic involved in making lil'John and Janet?

Anon asked: How is infertility treated in the Wizarding world? How would fran and michael make a family?

*Trigger Warning: this post contains mentions of miscarriage.*

From a young age Francesca always knew she wanted to be a mother and though she briefly wondered if Michael wouldn't be the type of person to ever want kids, seeing just how much he loved doting on their nieces and nephews affirmed that he would one day be the world's best dad. But they still had years ahead of them to start a family and both were content to continue the tour life and enjoyed travelling the world together.

It wasn't until Eloise announced her pregnancy not too long after Penelope's that Francesca brought up the subject of starting a family with Michael. While Eloise had been a mother to Oliver and Amanda for nearing ten years, Francesca genuinely never expected her sister to want to go through a pregnancy herself and what's more she was shocked that Eloise of all people was going to have that experience before she did. She was relieved when Michael turned out to be on the exact same page as her, having felt flabbergasted that Colin was beating him to fatherhood; and so they decided to start trying right away.

After a couple of months Francesca did fall pregnant, however she miscarried after only a few weeks. While it was upsetting, Francesca tried to be pragmatic about it and persevere, assuring herself that miscarriages occur in 1 in 4 pregnancies and it shouldn't discourage her from trying again. However much to her frustration almost an entire year went by before she was able to wave a positive pregnancy test in front of Michael - but unfortunately it resulted in another miscarriage. In spite of the disappointment, Francesca remained determined to get pregnant and once again she and Michael began trying.

However another year went by, during which time Penelope and Eloise each welcomed another baby with relative ease. As happy as she was to meet her newest niece and nephew, Michael could see the hurt in Francesca's eyes when she held Thomas and Georgiana for the first time. He knew just how badly she wanted to be a mother and carry her own child and he was suffering not because of struggle to conceive a baby of their own but to see his wife suffering no matter how hard she tried hiding it.

He resolved to do everything in his power for them to be able to have a baby and took charge; booking fertility tests, looking into IVF, reading up on potions that were meant to increase the chances of carrying a pregnancy to term. He hoped by taking even one of those steps that they'd be on their way to having a baby; however the results of the fertility test revealed that they had a very low chance of ever conceiving a baby naturally. As crushing as it was, Michael refused to let the odds stand in the way of creating a family with Francesca. After contacting the best potion masters in the wizarding world he acquired specialist elixirs that should help them on their way to making a baby, which they took while simultaneously having their first round of IVF. Michael had been trying to keep positive for both himself and Francesca, willing on for all of their efforts to work; and yet both the potions and the IVF proved fruitless, and after three unsuccessful rounds Francesca declared she couldn't go through with another.

After that Francesca couldn't even bear to talk about it, despite Michael trying to get her to open up. He became desperate to try and find some alternative way of conceiving, to the point which he began grasping at straws and looking into dubious potions being sold in Knockturn Alley and even unlawful spells that supposedly might work a miracle. He gathered all the information that he could and presented it to Francesca in a last-ditch attempt to provide her with the one thing she longed for, however Francesca lashed out and firmly told him to stop because if none of the conventional methods worked for them there was no way in hell that any of the nefarious alternative routes would work either.

For the next week Francesca didn't utter a single word to him and a distraught Michael took to sleeping on the couch just to give her space. Then at a family birthday party at Aubrey Hollow, Gregory and Lucy revealed they were expecting their second child; and it turned out to be Francesca's breaking point. She excused herself from the festivities and went up to her old bedroom where she proceeded to cry her heart out. She jumped when there was a gentle knock and told Michael to leave her alone but she was surprised when the door opened to reveal Sophie instead.

Sophie didn't hesitate to rush to her sister-in-law's side, holding her tightly as Francesca cried on her shoulder and the younger woman released all the heartache she had been suffering from over the last three years. When she was no longer able to shed any more tears, she told Sophie all about her infertility struggles, how devastated she was to miscarry twice, and how much it hurt that none of the efforts they had gone to had worked.

"It's not fair." she shook her head. "Eloise never even wanted to be pregnant. Since we were kids she always said she couldn't stand the thought of having a baby bump, and she always joked that getting together with Phil was a win-win because she had Oliver and Amanda without the aches and pains of pregnancy and childbirth; but then she still went on to have Penny and Georgiana like it was nothing." she vented, expressing all the underlying ugly bitterness that had built up inside of her over the years. "And then there's Daphne; popping out four kids in four years with barely any time in between to breathe. And don't get me started on Hyacinth having kids before me - and now Greg's having another baby; I mean, they're still just kids to me and they're already parents and I'm not... and probably never will be." she swallowed and looked away as soon as she saw Sophie tilting her head sympathetically at her. "It's just not fair. How come it's so easy for everyone else?"

Sophie's hand clutched hers as she tucked a loose lock behind Francesca's ear. "I miscarried." she uttered and Francesca snapped her neck to look at her. "Twice."

"Really?" Francesca gulped, stunned to hear that Sophie had experienced the same agony as she had.

"The first one I tried to forget about. It would have been a honeymoon baby and I miscarried early on. I didn't even know I was pregnant until the doctors told me. I couldn't believe it and I felt guilty for not even realising and for miscarrying in the first place. But I shrugged it off and told myself it would have been way worse if we had actually been trying and I had known and celebrated the fact that I was."

"What about the second time?" Francesca asked tentatively and squeezed Sophie's hand, communicating that she could take her time as she was sharing such a vulnerable time in her life.

"We had been trying. And we were so thrilled." Sophie explained and wore a sad smile as she continued. "We agreed we'd wait until the 12 week scan before we told anyone and after everything seemed alright we decided to announce it at Violet's birthday a few days later. But then when I was at work I suddenly experienced cramping... and I knew." she exhaled. "I knew I was losing the baby. Your dad took me to the hospital and called Benedict but by the time he got there the baby was gone. And I felt like my whole world had come crashing down. We begged Edmund not to breathe a word about it. I couldn't stand the thought of Violet or Daphne or Kate or Posy coming over to sympathise. I couldn't bear the thought of anyone who had only experienced successful pregnancies to be around me. And then at your mum's birthday someone passed Miles into my arms and I still don't know how I didn't break right then and there. Do you know what I did instead?"

"What?"

"I ran up to Ben's old room and burst into tears." she revealed, and Francesca's heart thumped emphatically; as heart-wrenching as it was to hear about Sophie's losses, she took comfort that she had done the exact same thing she had done by fleeing to an old bedroom to break down in private. "It was killing me to be around everyone else's babies without being able to call any of them my own."

"That's exactly how I feel." Francesca commiserated. "It's how I've felt for the last three years now. And I hate being this self-pitying jealous-ridden bitter cow. I don't want to feel so angry and sad without any let up... but I don't know what else to do."

"I can't imagine what the last three years must have felt like for you. And I know there's nothing I can say or do to ease your pain. But it's okay to feel everything that you're feeling. Don't let yourself feel bad for those negative feelings and don't be so hard on yourself for not being able to conceive. I know it's easier said than done but you've got to go easy on yourself; for your own sake."

Francesca nodded, knowing Sophie was right, and realising just how exhausting keeping all her emotions to herself was.

"How did it finally happen for you in the end? Did you have Charlie through IVF, or...?"

"We were prepared to try if it came to that." Sophie answered. "But when I was ready to try again we just took it easy. We didn't put pressure on ourselves to be fervently trying. We treated it as more of a let's just wait and see, and if it happens it happens and if it doesn't then we'll give fertility treatments a go. I let go of any expectations and just cherished being with Ben, and then a few months later we found out we were expecting and we had Charlie."

"The doctors said there's a very low chance of us ever conceiving naturally." Francesca uttered. "As much as I'd like to think that just going with the flow could work,"

"But they still said there's a chance." Sophie pointed out. "As low as it might be; there's still the possibility it could happen. I know you've been through so much disappointment and must feel so dispirited; but hold onto that hope. No matter how small it might seem."

After the sisterly heart-to-heart, when they returned home Francesca apologised to Michael for how she had treated him in the last week. It was an apology Michael assured her was unnecessary and he understood how soul-crushing the last three years had been; he was just sorry he couldn't provide her with the one thing she wanted more than anything else. She told him about her talk with Sophie and how they should give it one more year before looking into adoption, but in the meantime they could try without really trying.

And so they chose to let go of all of the heavy expectations that had built up and they had put upon themselves and accepted that conceiving a baby might not happen for them, but not letting that stop them from cherishing each other and getting in the way of their love... and just like that, one year later they welcomed their beautiful baby son, John.

[xaracosmia]

ꕥ — WELCOME TO NEFE COSMIA, THERION. 🌓

ꕥ — OOC INFORMATION;

name / alias: elu. age: nineteen. pronouns: any. ooc contact: tumblr @ winifreya. other characters in xc: erenville.

ꕥ — IC INFORMATION;

name: therion. age: twenty-two. pronouns: he/him, any. series: octopath traveler (i). canon point: post-game, 100% story content, initial “protagonist” lock, no inclusion of extra battles from Octopath Traveler II app triggers: implied parental death or neglect, emotional abuse and manipulation, relationship abuse, non-parental death; Octopath Traveler I spoilers for all therion content and the postgame plot

personality:

therion tries to define himself by thievery and little else: to mark himself as anything more is to mark as a toymaker’s fool. therion has been treated like that before, and shame on him if he dares be treated like it again; so, he follows the most extreme methods to avoid it. with a body cast in shadows and a past in an unmarked grave, the most that the majority of his homeworld knows of him is as a master thief, calculating and callous, who works on his own. there is not a single thief in orsterra that will ever match up to his deeds. to speak his name is to spread another rumor and to speak prayers for those richer rumormongers that he dares never visit their home.

and therion is hell-bent on keeping it that way. not all of it is a farce. therion is cold and misanthropic to anyone in his path. he loathes working with others, and he hates to be given help. he got through almost eighteen years on his own, and he can continue to now. he is also, in many ways, a walking enigma, or a picture of contradictions. he is cunning enough to leave the richest in ruins without a trace, but his arrogance can make him shortsighted. a blend of arrogance and a desperation to remain alone is a vice to the degree of hubris, and it was what placed him in recent troubles in the first place.

unfortunately, the contradictions extend beyond the mask. therion has a bleeding heart for a core and heartstrings to expose for cruel puppetry. he seeks loneliness to avoid heartbreak. he has arrogance as a thief and only a thief: there must be nothing else to see in him. people are meant to be cruel to him and horrified by him, so being shown kindness and care and concern is overwhelming. his heart aches for this, too, more than it does to reject it. but it is always foiled by a broken sense of trust and a fogged, fearful isolation, and so, though he may repay it in his own way—fumbling theft and covers and ale—the care of others will always be turned away and broken.

something your muse struggles with: he’s deathly afraid of connection to the point of self-destruction. to that end, therion will self-sabotage at every opportunity and alienate anyone who perseveres against it.

your muse’s greatest strength: loyalty to the end, if you win over his heart. he’ll care for those who have ever stood closest to him, and the feelings linger even through betrayal. the sickly-sweet sentimentality and the refusal to leave his companions’ side is a large factor in his attempts to self-sabotage against new connections.

history / background:

your name is therion. it’s the only name you’ve ever had, if you exclude the jeers and scowling. this is the most you’ve made, in the eyes of those who think themselves better than you, of a life you’ve known since the first day you blinked.

when you were young, you were stupid, as all greenhorns are. you were smart enough to piece together how to survive on your own. you were foolish enough to get caught doing it, and you were thrown in the gaols of riverford for it. let’s set things straight, it wasn’t foolish to be held up in the gaols: you could have died—would have, maybe, should have, yes—but you were always going to escape. it was foolish for you to escape by working with the other who was trapped in your cell. but you believed him when he said you’d work as partners in crime, and you believed the motto of thick as thieves, and maybe your heart beat at the thought of the blood in a covenant running thicker than the water in a womb.

his name was darius, and he was a self-professed tea leaf. the two of you first worked together ten years ago. you might’ve been the greatest thieves to ever live. your title today rings clear, but you know his all the same: he made off with one thing which you could never reclaim, and that was all the love and trust you’d had left in your heart.

gods, you were dumb. gods, you were blind. a sentimental fool, he’ll call you for it later, six years after he pushed you off a cliff to your demise. you should have died in the ditches of the cliftlands, and it’s one hell of a miracle you didn’t. you should have been tossed away earlier because he was growing sick of you, and this was inevitable, but you didn’t see it until you lost an eye for it. he pushed you down because you were getting in his way. you betrayed him because you angered him and a mark that offered him power, and he took it by ending your life.

but somehow, after everything, you’re smart enough to remain alive. the ravine carried you to recovery, though it left you to die. betrayal didn’t kill you, but you won’t give it any more chances to try again. you force yourself to the lonesome road and make another name for yourself: a phantom thief that takes from all who they stumble upon and disappears with no trail. you thieve enough for a cache to stave you off until you die, should you ever quit the job. but your survival in your teens and twenties can’t depend on a retirement fund, so you keep going.

one heist blends into the next. you’re a master thief before long, infamous to aristocrats who dread your ghastly presence. you get arrogant. this is your life. this is you, now: not anyone else, not you and darius, only you. even if you wake up and live out your days plagued by the shadow of his hand and an endless laughter. no one else can rival you, and no one, no guards, no thieves, no one who knows naught of the betrayal and hardship and heartache you were dealt, will ever thwart you.

you’re bested at twenty-two when a fool’s bangle clasps around your wrist. a band of shame mars you for falling prey to a mark in the cliftlands: a lady cordelia, heir of house ravus, and her conniving butler heathcote. they laid the trap: rumors spread by the town and tavern of a remarkable treasure hidden away, and every arrogant thief had been put in the gaols for trying to make away with it. it turns out that the treasure existed—four jewels known as the dragonstones, heirlooms of the ravuses—but had been plundered long ago. heathcote, the bastard who shackled you, presents you with knowing opportunity: reclaim the three lost dragonstones, and you can be set free.

you’ve made a fool of yourself few times before, and you refuse to let this be one of them. thus, you shut up and take the deal. and when you try to work at it alone, your burden, your shame, you find yourself with allies by your side. seven strangers see the blemish of your wrist and travel beside you anyway as you map the continent whole, pluck from every corner and aid every last soul.

you find one gemstone in a stuffy town of nobles and prickly scholars. you find the second in a black market in the desert cradled in darius’s bloody hands. you feel your blood go cold, something opposite of bleeding. he mocks you for being sentimental. you barely make it out alive. he’ll kill you for sure if you go after him.

but you follow him anyways. you follow him to his lair by his village-kingdom and you take back the last dragonstones with your allies. you take back everything he stole from you except for a life. and you don’t even try. you watch him leave with his tail tucked in shame. that’s the last that you ever see of darius again.

you should be alone after that. you’re not. you end up staying by your allies. you save their stories, and you save those of plenty others. your own is told by play to the masses and is enshrined as a legend of hope. you find yourself at the end only once you’ve saved the whole world from a strange god past an ethereal gate. it’s a long, strange story, and you don’t think you have the time or care to explain it. so the story ends there, once your demons are dead, and once the voracious god is, too.

finally, you’re on your own again—a nameless vagabond pickpocketing fools in orsterra. you would be lying if you said you didn’t miss what came before. you disgust yourself wishing you were.

powers / abilities:

fire magic. the ability to cast concentrated fire. this fire can only be concentrated in a singular place, and he is unable to concentrate it against multiple targets at once.

hp thief/steal sp. when attacking a target, a portion of that target’s life which was taken via injury, whether through their health and blood or through their energy respectively, transfers to therion.

share sp. therion can donate some or all of his extra energy and spirit to an ally. this pulls from his own reserves, so if used, he usually needs to restore it, such as through steal sp or a restorative item.

shackle foe/armor corrosive. when someone is targeted, just by raising one’s hand and channeling their energy, that target is physically weakened in some way. shackle foe reduces the target’s outgoing weapon strength, and armor corrosive increases the target’s vulnerability to incoming weapon and physical-based attacks.

aeber’s reckoning. after conserving a set large amount of energy, therion can attack all enemies on the field with his dagger in the blink of an eye, heavily injuring anyone he hits.

winnehild’s battle cry. after conserving a set large amount of energy, therion can attack all enemies on the field with all equipped weapons (specifically the sword, polearm, dagger, axe, bow and arrow, and staff), attacking once per each weapon.

inherent abilities:

by default, therion is the stereotypical rpg thief: a fighter with hard-hitting, fast attacks using metal and weaponry as well as incredible deftness, but with lower inherent physical endurance and a weaker affinity for magic.

speaking of which, he’s specifically known as a master thief in his homeworld, so he’s very good at, well, thievery. he could pickpocket someone in the midst of a conversation right in front of their eyes and they wouldn’t see. few who can rival his skill exist, and those few who would are older, skilled thieves themselves.

in this portrayal, as therion is also versed as a warmaster, he is trained as physically stronger and more agile than the usual thief. he has proficiency with various weapons, specifically the sword, polearm, dagger, axe, bow and arrow, and staff.

he’s a skilled actor and costume artist and can easily fool most regarding his true nature.

he has a scar going through his left eye covered entirely with his hair. he accordingly has great vision in his right eye, but he is blind in his left eye.

he has a higher sensitivity to the cold and to ice.

items / weapons:

viper dagger. a small dagger which fits in the palm of one’s hand. therion’s weapon type of choice, though not exactly the one he last used. this blade is laced with poison and may accordingly poison enemies.

battle-tested blade. a powerful longsword. therion’s secondary weapon type of choice.

battle-tested spear. a powerful polearm. that’s about it.

memorial axe. a large, light axe. it was given to the party in exchange for reigniting a love thought lost.

giant’s club. a large staff. though used as a conduit for magic, a more apt use for its composition is to beat the enemy senseless.

battle-tested bow. a powerful bow with a matching quiver. that’s about it.

fool’s bangle. a large and clunky metal bangle with a chain. in orsterra, it is used to mark thieves who were foolish enough to get caught by the bangle’s user and alerts unaware strangers of the victim’s true nature. this bangle is no longer in use, having been unlocked a long time ago.

red apples. two of them, both bruised after being dropped from the pockets of a dead man. they still taste good.

starting ability: fire magic starting item: the viper dagger

would you like this character to be housed upon arrival?: yes

extra:

irt canon point: this portrayal is based on my playthrough of Octopath Traveler: therion had the misfortune of being the “protagonist” (the first character chosen in-game; played off in-character as being the first to set off from their starting town and the only one to do so on their own) and was required to stay in the playable party through each party member’s introduction as well as until his own goals/character arc was finished. then he remained in the playable party for most of the playthrough anyways because i have a bias and i also made him overpowered. i can explain in depth how my playthrough went to people who care, but this is the only major note wrt the story.

irt the above note plus the powers/abilities and weapons/inventory sections: this portrayal of therion has previously used the merchant, hunter, and warmaster secondary classes, but in xc will only use the thief/warmaster class combination and abilities.

most of the warmaster abilities are a variation of “hit enemy/multiple enemies with a specific weapon for a lot of damage”, so they were not included as actual powers. the other abilities are from him being the thief class.

for other octopath players:

i hate dancer therion and it makes me uncomfortable. it’s never used in my portrayal!

i also write darius and therion as being in a past unhealthy relationship (resulting specifically from abuse). i will literally never mention this in detail or really mention it at all outside of close friends ooc and castmates (with warning), but i thought it should be mentioned!!!

optional/random bullshit go:

this portrayal does subscribe to the fandom’s mandela effect induced eyescar headcanon

“i’m probably nonbinary but i’ve been running from the guard/blackmailed into a job/fighting an eldritch god whose existence will destroy the world we love so i don’t have time for that”

will literally steal candy from sick kids i gasped every time i was just allowed to do this in game

short prince of thieves or whatever

my fun fact is i wrote this guy in 2018 but i was a kid so i was so impatient and hated playing rpgs so much i never actually got past getting a second party member. i’ve changed now. 2018 me had no damn clue what she was writing about…

he makes me very sad, ok…? please be kind to him

discord id: cliftlands

[simplisticslime]

Twisted Wonderland dorm leaders. Part 1 {Riddle,Azul ft.Leech brothers,Leona}

==========

with a Makima!reader

=================

Warning:

[contains kinda spoilers of Chainsawman and Makima's abilities]

[Also It's my first time writing headcannons like this some things can go well OOC]

———————

Riddle❣️

•He likes you,he appreciates the fact that you don't break the rules and respects his rules, but he knows there's something wrong with you, your strange smile and charisma trigger something that makes him worried;

•Did he notice how calm Grim was when you approached as if you were even scared, and that time you were holding a mouse!?wait you are saying something to the mouse!?

•now he is disgusted

•That fucking smile is becoming terrifing pls stop

•Always invited for tea.

•During the Overblotting case he only saw you point a finger gun at him, soon after Riddle felt the metallic and bitter taste of blood, he didn't understand very well what happened, but he knows that you had a finger on that (litteraly)

•After the incident he doesn't have any doubts anymore, there's something wrong with you, uh, what was he thinking anyway?...maybe it wasn't that important, He needs to organize the next Unbirthday party now.

•when he finally realized that you were a demon, at first he was scared, and the worst thing was that you were persistent with the plan to get the chainsaw man's heart, and he was ok

•Hmm you did it again didn't you? What a wicked mind.

Azul 🐙

•oh dear he is all the time ✨👓

• you have something he wants, but what would that be? you were meant to be a non-magical human

•You scared Floyd just by looking at the poor guy with his piercing eyes at first he even forgot to squeeze you

•You hypinitized Azul without even using any skills he fell into your trap without having to do anything, just because he wants something he doesn't even recognize yet

•Fool.

•He may be the first to discover the fact that you are the demon of control, but do you care?No dear,no one will believes him,You ? The human so sweet and charismatic who always helps everyone being a cruel creature who wants to control everything, what a joke Azul!I think you're making a mistake!

•He will convince everyone at some point but it's ok you have a plan after all, the mirror didn't realize your powers it won't be the whole school that will realize now, and if they persevere, oops

•Where did the Octotrio end up?Wait who's Azul?

Leona🦁

•At first he didn't cared not even a single thing

•but after the Overblotting event he realized that he couldn't remember why he overblotted in the first place

•He was the first to believe in Azul, something was off about you and that you were in fact not a magicless human,in fact he was suree that you're not human in the first place

•he didn't said a thing after that about you,he realized that Azul was gone for a day and no one seemed to remember that he desapered.

•he needs a plan to show the truth but for now let's take a nap, herbivore (demon).

[testudoaubrei-blog]

Content note for discussions of eternal damnation, and all sorts of other shit that will trigger a lot of folks with religious trauma.

Before I get started I might as well explain where I’m coming from - unlike a lot of She-Ra fans, and a lot of queer people, I don’t have much religious trauma, or any, maybe (okay there were a number of years I was convinced I was going to hell, but that happens to everyone, right?). I was raised a liberal Christian by liberal Christian parents in the Episcopal Church, where most of my memories are overwhelmingly positive. Fuck, growing up in the 90’s, Chuch was probably the only place outside my home I didn’t have homophobia spewed at me. Because it was the 90’s and it was a fucking hellscape of bigotry where 5 year olds knew enough to taunt each other with homophobic slurs and the adults didn’t know enough to realize how fucked up that was. Anyway. This is my experience, but it is an atypical one, and I know it. Quite frankly I know that my experience of Christianity has very little at all to do with what most people experienced, or what people generally mean when they talk about Christianity as a cultural force in America today. So if you were raised Christian and you don’t recognize your theology here, congrats, neither do I, but these ideas and cultural forces are huge and powerful and dominant. And it’s this dominant Christian narrative that I’m referring to in this post. As well as, you know, a children’s cartoon about lesbian rainbow princesses. So here it goes. This is going to get batshit.

"All events whatsoever are governed by the secret counsel of God." - John Calvin

“We’re all just a bunch of wooly guys” - Noelle Stevenson

This is a post triggered by a single scene, and a single line. It’s one of the most fucked-up scenes in She-Ra, toward the end of Save the Cat. Catra, turned into a puppet by Prime, struggles with her chip, desperately trying to gain control of herself, so lost and scared and vulnerable that she flings aside her own death wish and her pride and tearfully begs Adora to rescue her. Adora reaches out , about to grab her, and then Prime takes control back, pronounces ‘disappointing’ and activates the kill switch that pitches Catra off the platform and to her death (and seriously, she dies here, guys - also Adora breaks both her legs in the fall). But before he does, he dismisses Catra with one of his most chilling lines. “Some creatures are meant only for destruction.”

And that’s when everyone watching probably had their heart broken a little bit, but some of the viewers raised in or around Christianity watching the same scene probably whispered ‘holy shit’ to themselves. Because Prime’s line - which works as a chilling and callous dismissal of Catra - is also an allusion to a passage from the Bible. In fact, it’s from one of the most fucked up passages in a book with more than its share of fucked up passages. It’s from Romans 9:22, and I’m going to quote several previous verses to give the context of the passage (if not the entire Epistle, which is more about who needs to abide by Jewish dietary restrictions but was used to construct a systematic theology in the centuries afterwards because people decided it was Eternal Truth).

19 Thou wilt say then unto me, Why doth he yet find fault? For who hath resisted his will?

20 Nay but, O man, who art thou that repliest against God? Shall the thing formed say to him that formed it, Why hast thou made me thus?

21 Hath not the potter power over the clay, of the same lump to make one vessel unto honour, and another unto dishonour?

22 What if God, willing to shew his wrath, and to make his power known, endured with much longsuffering the vessels of wrath fitted to destruction:

The context of the allusion supports the context in the show. Prime is dismissing Catra - serial betrayer, liar, failed conqueror, former bloody-handed warlord - as worthless, as having always been worthless and fit only to be destroyed. He is speaking from a divine and authoritative perspective (because he really does think he’s God, more of this in my TL/DR Horde Prime thing). Prime is echoing not only his own haughty dismissal of Catra, and Shadow Weaver’s view of her, but also perhaps the viewer’s harshest assessment of her, and her own worst fears about herself. Catra was bad from the start, doomed to destroy and to be destroyed. A malformed pot, cracked in firing, destined to be shattered against a wall and have her shards classified by some future archaeologist 2,000 years later. And all that’s bad enough.

But the full historical and theological context of this passage shows the real depth of Noelle Stevenson’s passion and thought and care when writing this show. Noelle was raised in Evangelical or Fundamentalist Christianity. To my knowledge, he has never specified what sect or denomination, but in interviews and her memoir Noelle has shown a particular concern for questions that this passage raises, and a particular loathing for the strains of Protestant theology that take this passage and run with it - that is to say, Calvinism. So while I’m not sure if Noelle was raised as a conservative, Calvinist Presbyterian, his preoccupation with these questions mean that it’s time to talk about Calvinism.

It would be unfair, perhaps, to say that Calvinism is a systematic theology built entirely upon the Epistles of Romans and Galatians, but only -just- (and here my Catholic readers in particular will chuckle to themselves and lovingly stroke their favorite passage of the Epistle of James). The core of Calvinist Doctrine is often expressed by the very Dutch acronym TULIP:

Total Depravity - people are wholly evil, and incapable of good action or even willing good thoughts or deeds

Unconditional Election - God chooses some people to save because ¯\_(ツ)_/¯, not because they did anything to deserve, trigger or accept it

Limited Atonement - Jesus died only to save the people God chose to save, not the rest of us bastards

Irresistible Grace - God chooses some people to be saved - if you didn’t want to be saved, too bad, God said so.

Perseverance of the Saints - People often forget this one and assume it’s ‘predestination’ but it’s actually this - basically, once saved by God, always saved, and if it looks like someone falls out of grace, they were never saved to begin with. Well that’s all sealed up tight I guess.

Reading through these, predestination isn’t a single doctrine in Calvinism but the entire theological underpinnings of it together with humanity’s utter powerlessness before sin. Basically God has all agency, humanity has none. Calvinism (and a lot of early modern Protestantism) is obsessed with questions of how God saves people (grace alone, AKA Sola Fides) and who God saves (the people god elects and only the people God elects, and fuck everyone else).

It’s apparent that Noelle was really taken by these questions, and repelled by the answers he heard. He’s alluded to having a tattoo refuting the Gospel passage about Sheep and Goats being sorted at the end times, affirming instead that ‘we’re all just a bunch of wooly guys’ (you can see this goat tattoo in some of his self-portraits in comics, etc). He’s also mentioned that rejecting and subverting destiny is a huge part of everything he writes as a particular rejection of the idea that some individual people are 'chosen' by God or that God has a plan for any of us. You can see that -so clearly- in Adora’s arc, where Adora embraces and then rejects destiny time and again and finally learns to live life for herself.

But for Catra, we’re much more concerned about the most negative aspect of this - the idea that some people are vessels meant for destruction. And that’s something else that Noelle is preoccupied with. In her memoir in the section about leaving the church and becoming a humanistic atheist, there is a drawing of a pot and the question ‘Am I a vessel prepared for destruction?’ Obviously this was on Noelle’s mind (And this is before he came out to himself as queer!).

To look at how this question plays out in Catra’s entire arc, let’s first talk about how ideas of damnation and salvation actually play out in society. And for that I’m going to plug one of my favorite books, Gin Lun’s Damned Nation: Hell in America from the Revolution to Reconstruction (if you can tell by now, I am a fucking blast at parties). Lun tells the long and very interesting story about, how ideas of hell and who went there changed during the Early American Republic. One of the interesting developments that she talks about is how while at first people who were repelled by Calvinism started moving toward a doctrine of universal salvation (no on goes to hell, at least not forever*), eventually they decided that hell was fine as long as only the right kind of people went there. Mostly The Other - non-Christian foreigners, Catholics, Atheists, people who were sinners in ways that were not just bad but weird and violated Victorian ideas of respectability. Really, Hell became a way of othering people, and arguably that’s how it survives today, especially as a way to other queer people (but expanding this is slated for my Montero rant). Now while a lot of people were consciously rejecting Calvinist predestination, they were still drawing the distinction between the Elect (good, saved, worthwhile) and the everyone else (bad, damned, worthless). I would argue that secularized ideas of this survive to this day even among non-Christian spaces in our society - we like to draw lines between those who Elect, and those who aren’t.

And that’s what brings us back to Catra. Because Catra’s entire arc is a refutation of the idea that some people are worthless and irredeemable, either by nature, nurture or their own actions. Catra’s actions strain the conventions of who is sympathetic in a Kid’s cartoon - I’ve half joked that she’s Walter White as a cat girl, and it’s only half a joke. She’s cruel, self-deluded, she spends 4 seasons refusing to take responsibility for anything she does and until Season 5 she just about always chooses the thing that does the most damage to herself and others. As I mentioned in my Catra rant, the show goes out of its way to demonstrate that Catra is morally culpable in every step of her descent into evil (except maybe her break with reality just before she pulls the lever). The way that Catra personally betrays everyone around her, the way she strips herself of all of her better qualities and most of what makes her human, hell even her costume changes would signal in any other show that she’s irredeemable.

It’s tempting to see this as Noelle’s version of being edgy - pushing the boundaries of what a sympathetic character is, throwing out antiheroics in favor of just making the villain a protagonist. Noelle isn’t quite Alex ‘I am in the business of traumatizing children’ Hirsch, who seems to have viewed his job as pushing the bounds of what you could show on the Disney Channel (I saw Gravity Falls as an adult and a bunch of that shit lives rent free in my nightmares forever), but Noelle has his own dark side, mostly thematically. The show’s willingness to deal with abuse, and messed up religious themes, and volatile, passionate, not particularly healthy relationships feels pretty daring. I’m not joking when I gleefully recommend this show to friends as ‘a couple from a Mountain Goats Song fights for four seasons in a cartoon intended for 9 year olds’. Noelle is in his own way pushing the boundaries of what a kids show can do. If you read Noelle’s other works like Nimona, you see an argument for Noelle being at least a bit edgy. Nimona is also angry, gleefully destructive, violent and spiteful - not unlike Catra. Given that it was a 2010s webcomic and not a kids show, Nimona is a good deal worse than Catra in some ways - Catra doesn’t kill people on screen, while Nimona laughs about it (that was just like, a webcomic thing - one of the fan favorite characters in my personal favorite, Narbonic, was a fucking sociopath, and the heroes were all amoral mad scientists, except for the superintelligent gerbil**). But unlike Nimona, whose fate is left open ended, Catra is redeemed.

And that is weird. We’ve had redemption arcs, but generally not of characters with -so- much vile stuff in their history. Going back to the comparison between her and Azula, many other shows, like Avatar, would have made Catra a semi-sympathetic villain who has a sob-story in their origin but who is beyond redemption, and in so doing would articulate a kind of psychologized Calvinism where some people are too traumatized to ever be fully and truly human. I’d argue this is the problem with Azula as a character - she’s a fun villain, but she doesn’t have moral agency, and the ultimate message of her arc - that she’s a broken person destined only to hurt people - is actually pretty fucked up. And that’s the origin story of so many serial killers and psycopaths that populate so many TV shows and movies. Beyond ‘hurt people hurt people’ they have nothing to teach us except perhaps that trauma makes you a monster and that the only possible response to people doing bad things is to cut them out of your life and out of our society (and that’s why we have prisons, right?)

And so Catra’s redemption and the depths from which she claws herself back goes back to Noelle’s desire to prove that no person is a vessel ‘fitted for destruction.’ Catra goes about as far down the path of evil as we’ve ever seen a protagonist in a kids show go, and she still has the capacity for good. Importantly, she is not subject to total depravity - she is capable of a good act, if only one at first. Catra is the one who begins her own redemption (unlike in Calvinism, where grace is unearned and even unwelcomed) - because she wants something better than what she has, even if its too late, because she realizes that she never wanted any of this anyway, because she wants to do one good thing once in her life even if it kills her.

The very extremity of Catra’s descent into villainy serves to underline the point that Noelle is trying to make - that no one can be written off completely, that everyone is capable of change, and that no human being is garbage, no matter how twisted they’ve become. Meanwhile her ability to set her own redemption in motion is a powerful statement of human agency, and healing, and a refutation of Calvinism’s idea that we are powerless before sin or pop cultural tropes about us being powerful before the traumas of our upbringing. Catra’s arc, then, is a kind of anti-Calvinist theological statement - about the nature of people and the nature of goodness.

Now, there is a darker side to this that Noelle has only hinted at, but which is suggested by other characters on the show. Because while Catra’s redemption shows that people are capable of change, even when they’ve done horrible things, been fucked up and fucked themselves up, it also illustrates the things people do to themselves that make change hard. As I mentioned in my Catra rant, two of the most sinister parts of her descent into villainy are her self-dehumanization (crushing her own compassion and desire to do good) and her rewriting of her own history in her speech and memory to make her own actions seem justified (which we see with her insistence that Adora left her, eliding Adora’s offers to have Catra join her, or her even more clearly false insistence that Entrapta had betrayed them). In Catra, these processes keep her going down the path of evil, and allow her to nearly destroy herself and everyone else. But we can see the same processes at work in two much darker figures - Shadow Weaver and Horde Prime. These are both rants for another day, but the completeness of Shadow Weaver’s narcissistic self-justification and cultivated callousness and the even more complete narcissism of Prime’s god complex cut both characters off from everyone around them. Perhaps, in a theoretical sense, they are still redeemable, but for narrative purposes they might as well be damned.

This willingness to show a case where someone -isn’t- redeemed actually serves to make Catra’s redemption more believable, especially since Noelle and the writers draw the distinction between how Catra and SW/Prime can relate to reality and other people, not how broken they are by their trauma (unlike Zuko and Azula, who are differentiated by How Fucked Uolp They Are). Redemption is there, it’s an option, we can always do what is right, but someone people will choose not to, in part because doing the right thing involves opening ourselves to the world and others, and thus being vulnerable. Noelle mentions this offhandedly in an interview after Season 1 with the She-Ra Progressive of Power podcast - “I sometimes think that shades of grey, sympathetic villains are part of the escapist fantasy of shows like this.” Because in the real world, some people are just bastards, a point that was particularly clear in 2017. Prime and Shadow Weaver admit this reality, while Catra makes a philosophical point that even the bastards can change their ways (at least in theory).

*An idea first proposed in the second century by Origen, who’s a trip and a fucking half by himself, and an idea that becomes the Catholic doctrine of purgatory, which protestants vehemently denied!

**Speaking of favorite Noelle tropes

[starstruck-shima]

❄️Kaeya meets a Bunny Girl Senpai❄️

Notes: Kinda crack, references to Kaeya’s backstory, fem reader, heavily based off of/inspired by Bunny Girl Senpai.

“In which Kaeya questions his sanity over a wild bunny girl that only he could see.”

Sometimes, he wonders if he’s finally lost it. After all those years of working in the knights, experiencing the shithole that was his early childhood, and the split that happened between him and the man he still saw as his sworn brother, you’d be pleasantly surprised to see how Kaeya still persevered and became the infamous cavalry captain we all know and love today.

And yet there he was, taking a double take on the sight before him during his rounds around the city. More specifically, the sight in question was that of a girl, just around his age--yet unlike him, who at least considered donning on some type of protective wear (wether it was for the weather or public decency, perhaps both), she opted for a less... conventional outfit. It was the bunny ears that really caught his attention though. 

He’s less intrigued by the black leotard, tights, and heels and more interested on who you are and why are you doing this. A wild bunny girl, with a vision strapped onto your collar too... you were most certainly a big deal. Yet why did no one bat an eye at you, or at least your appearance? 

“You’re staring.” Those were the first words you said to him, and Kaeya blinks--seeing bunny ears nearly obstruct his vision. You could talk. He’s either imagining things even more or it was a sign that you had a mind of your own. Either way, he’s still a bit taken aback. “Huh, you can still see me.”

“Forgive me, I just couldn’t help but notice you. What brings you to Mondstadt?” He tries to carry on a conversation--a surmise way for him to ease someone into at least spilling a bit of info on them.

Your next answer caught him off guard. “I live here.” That certainly raised his suspicions. He’s been patrolling around Mondstadt for years, to the point where he knows the familiar faces of regulars at the Angel’s Share bar, and even the names and schedules of the knights who guard the city walls. Who exactly were you? Perhaps you were new? But you didn’t look like an outsider either... you felt right at home in Mondstadt.

“I’m (Y/n) (L/n), part of the Knights of Favonius.” His eyes widened a bit at the revelation. You were part of the knights? “Forget what you saw today. Farewell.” Before he could inquire further, you had disappeared right there and then.

Kaeya takes it upon himself to immediately read up on you. Records, testimonies from fellow knights, checking your rank, asking Lisa, he did it all. His findings surprised him even more--not much was known about you, and from what he heard, you’ve barely even showed your face--or rather, not much have actually seen you around. Some can’t even recall your appearance. Yet the records state otherwise. You definitely existed. 

And so, Kaeya’s trip down down the rabbit hole had begun. After all, someone had to get to the bottom of this, and frankly, he was pretty much the only one who could, considering the circumstances.

It wasn’t long until you noticed his behavior, and it led to another chance encounter. This time, in front of your house. You knew he would’ve eventually found out in the records, yet you were surprised at his perseverance nonetheless. What was his deal? “Cavalry captain, why are you so persistent?”

He chuckles. “So you do know me.”You roll your eyes a bit. It was nothing, really. He was a huge a name here after all. 

When you ask him why he cared for your case so much, he simply responds like it was common sense. You still don’t understand why. ”It’d be bad for me to let you run off on your own, you know? Especially in that.” His eyes gesture onto your clothing. Right, you almost forgot. “Consider it a favor.”

And thus, began your strange friendship with Kaeya.

It started a bit rocky, but as time passed, the two of you started to see past your differences. Petty remarks turned into playful banter, and suspicions were cast aside into genuine fondness--though none of you openly admitted to that.

Kaeya soon learns more of your predicament, after patiently waiting for you to be ready to open up. It started with an incident in your lab--you were testing the limits of elemental reactions, which led to an explosion. 

At first, you thought there wouldn’t be any side effects, however, you quickly learned that the opposite was true, when Sucrose came to check up on the noise... yet didn’t notice you in the room. It only got worse from there.

So, you tried to test another theory. People were sure to notice and have a bigger impression of you in their memory if you caught their attention, right? Perhaps by making a huge impression, it’ll trigger a memory--hence causing them to remember. So, you opted for something that would definitely be a sight worth seeing (and remembering, to an extent). That was how you ended up as Mondstadt’s wild bunny girl, hopping around the city as a phenomenon waiting to be seen.

Yet somehow, only one man did. And amidst the time you had to bond, wether it was during a quiet meal in your abode after he helped you in getting groceries, or looking through the library for hints to solve your predicament, Kaeya and you proved to be quite the close pair.

Time was ticking however, and you knew that if Kaeya and you couldn’t find a solution, then sooner or later, you’d be gone for good. Left to be forgotten. A failed experiment.

It was something you never told Kaeya--something you kept hidden in your many papers dedicated in solving your predicament. You kept convincing yourself that it was better this way. He could go back to his knightly duties and continue protecting Mondstadt without an extra burden.

But what you didn’t know was that he found out. It was all adding up, really--the way you started to distance yourself from him, how you began stocking up on food, and the notes he read behind your back when you were away. 

...Which meant he also read about the details of your planned experiment to make him lose his memory. And he didn’t like the idea one bit. He’d never abandon you after all you’ve been through. He hates the very idea of such.

So one day, when you asked him to meet you in front of the gates, wearing that same old bunny girl suit for shits and giggles, he knew what he was getting into. He calculated the time you’d finish prepping your little memory loss experiment, and today was the day.

You thought everything was going as planned. Kaeya didn’t once suspect the drink you gave him. Your first mistake. Your second was letting your guard down... as Kaeya had immediately chucked the drink into your lips, forcing you to gulp it down, choking in disbelief. Wait... did you see him spit it out right as he did that?!

“You--” coughing, you look at Kaeya in distraught. “YOU KNEW?!”

But the man merely chuckles, quoting a friend that helped him solve the mystery. Of course, in return, he had to submit a full, detailed report on your entire predicament, but he could care less. Thank you Albedo.“With equal force comes equal reaction.” 

“I still don’t get what you mean--” you stiffen, suddenly feeling eyes on you, several people saying your name. Wait... if they remembered your name, could they see you?

“So that was where you ran off to,” You almost cry tears of joy when Albedo actually talks to you, walking alongside Sucrose to where you were situated. “I expect a huge explanation on how all of this happened--” he briefly turns to Kaeya. “--And everything in between.”

Still in the high of euphoria, you don’t notice the cold night air until Sucrose brings you back to reality. “Um... Ms. (Y/n), not to be rude, but... aren’t you cold in that?”

You stiffen, your mind wanting you to slap the blue haired man behind you for laughing hysterically in response. Right, almost forgot about that.

[ginnympotter]

okay i just found out your blog and i’m literally obsessed with it! love your writing! for the prompt thing, i’ll ask for 75, jily, if you’re up for it :)

A/N: HI SORRY THIS IS SO LATE!!! just did some plotless making out hope that’s ok lmao that’s just what my brain wanted  :))

“You can’t keep doing this,” she told him half-heartedly.  

“Doing what?” James asked, feigning innocence as he threw her tie to the side.

Lily pulled a face, but James just smiled, and then proceeded to return to his work down her neck. He was very good at distracting her from scolding him, but she tried to persevere. “Bringing me into your room under false pretenses.” 

He moved her hair to the side to get better access to a spot he knew always made her feel weak. “No false pretenses,” he whispered. “Also, you’re the one straddling my lap right now.” He planted a kiss there, soft, wet, his breath hot. 

She tried not to give away how little air she had left in her lungs as she spoke. “You said you needed help finishing up your potions essay.”

James chuckled against her. He moved his face so they could look at each other again. “Well, that is true, I do need help finishing that shit. But I thought help with homework was our code phrase for bedroom activities when we’re in front of other people.”

“We never agreed to that.”

“I thought it was implicitly agreed upon. Or obvious, at least.”

“If it’s obvious then it’s probably a rubbish code phrase, don’t you think?”

“I meant obvious for someone so clever like you.”

“I’m already dating you, James, you don’t have to do the flattery bit anymore.”

He laughed. “It’s my life’s mission to flatter you forever, Evans,” he said before leaning in and kissing her, and she felt herself melt into his embrace, his arms strong around her, his hands soft but firm. When he pulled away from the kiss she involuntarily groaned in dissatisfaction, which triggered a triumphant look on James’s face. He kissed her lips quickly again before returning to her jaw, then down the front of her neck. He removed a hand from her back and brought it to the front of her shirt, trying to unbutton the top button. 

Getting impatient, Lily helped him, not just with the first but with the second and third as well as his second hand joined the other at her front. Her stomach dropped at his glittering grin before dipping his mouth lower along her neck down to her chest, following the trail of skin they just helped make available. 

Lily allowed herself to get lost in the various sensations James went on to provide over the next few minutes, but eventually, as it all became a bit too pleasantly overwhelming and she could feel James’s excitement against her, her mind began working again, and she pulled his face back up to hers. He frowned at this, eyebrows creasing, spectacles fogged. She chuckled at his disgruntled state. “You are dangerous, and we only have twenty minutes left of our free period,” she explained, hoping her face didn’t give her away too much, how badly she wanted to be convinced out of her rationality. “If we don’t stop now.... Well, I don’t know how I’ll be able to stop at all.”

James’s smile returned at her admission. “Plenty can be done in twenty minutes, Evans. I can be very punctual.”

She ran a hand through his unruly hair and sighed. “Why don’t you put that punctuality to use by finishing your essay in time for class.”

“Shit, we actually have potions next, don’t we?”

“C’mon, I’ll help you finish it off real quick.”

“I’d prefer to finish something else-”

“Later,” she said, disappointed at her own self-control. 

As she was about to remove herself from his lap, he held her firmly in place. “Promise?”

She nodded. “Promise. But we won’t have the luxury of your room by then, so you’ll have to find somewhere.”

“That won’t be a problem,” he said confidently, smiling. Lily laughed, leaning in to kiss him one last time. When her lips met his, he put his hands in her hair, licked her lower lip, prompting her to open her mouth and allow him to deepen the kiss. She got lost in it for a minute before she shook herself from her reverie and pulled away again, breathing heavily. “No, no more, you’ve got an essay to finish.”

“Lil…” James breathed, leaning his forehead against hers. 

“I promised later!” she reminded him. She kissed his forehead and forced herself off of her boyfriend’s lap and sat on the edge of his bed, buttoning her shirt back up.

James groaned, plopping down flat on his back. “You are a cruel woman and I hate you.”

“Sure you do,” she said when she finished the last button, tapping his thigh sympathetically. “C’mon, I find men who are on top of their academic responsibilities very sexy.”

He chuckled at that, sitting up and reaching for his rucksack. “So the Head Boy badge is what finally did you in this year?”

“More like the straw that broke the camel’s back.”

“I’ll remember to keep it on later, then.”

“Please do.”

[castiel-barnes]

Holocron dreams.

The Mandalorian and The Jedi.

Pairing: Din Djarin x Jedi Reader.

Summary: After looking at what's on the Holocron, a sense of déjà vu and a series of nightmares ensue.

Wordcount: 1.7K

Warnings: PTSD. Dark premonitions. Swearing. Soft Din. Hurt comfort. Mentions of throwing up.

Previous chapter. | Masterlist.

Tags: @phoenixhalliwell @prideandpascal @scribbledghost @farfromjustordinary @ginger-swag-rapunzel

A/N: The dream and message section of writing will be written in type writer font.

The Razor Crest was still set down by the river on Miko -7. Even though Grogu was tired, he was restless after seeing what you had found in the cave.

A holocron.

You sat there thinking, and you decided to open it. Din had been sitting next to you, with Grogu in your lap and Grogu knew what was about to happen.

"You ready cyare?" Din asked almost hesitantly,

"Yeah." You responded just staring at the blue cube that had gold embedded onto it.

Closing your eyes, the air in the area around the three of you shifted. It was a similar change when you rebuilt your lightsaber, but this time. It was stronger. Grogu shifted in Dins lap and looked at him whining.

"I know Ad'ika. I know." Din whispered to him.

The holocron started to float in front of you. And no matter how much force you were using, it didn't feel like you were straining. As you sat there, the holocron opened and that's when a projection of Obi Wan Kenobi turned up.

You opened your eyes and gasped a little. Not expecting to have found this.

"This is Master Obi Wan Kenobi. I regret to report that both our Jedi Order and the Republic have fallen, with the dark shadow of the Empire rising to take their place. This message is a warning and a reminder for any surviving Jedi. Trust in the force. Do not return to the temple. That time has passed. And our future is uncertain. We will each be challenged. Our trust... our faith... our friendships. But we must persevere. And in time a new hope will emerge. May the force be with you... always.'

Tears pricked your eyes. This wasn't the first time you had heard this message. But everytime, it reminded of everything that was lost.

The holocron closed and fell to the ground as you tried to wrap your head around the growing headache. Grogu had sensed your slight distress, and climbed into your lap cooing.

"I-i know buddy. I wasn't expecting that either." You spoke softly to Grogu,

You felt Din move closer to you, placing his hand on your knee.

"Y/N what was that?" Din asked, wondering what he had just been looking at and what the message meant.

"That was Kenobi, he was a former master at the Jedi Order. And that was the message he sent out... sent out after order 66. I was so young and when I heard that, I was so scared. But I got out. I escaped Din. We escaped." You said closing your eyes as you felt Grogu hide his face into your chest.

Din pulled you gently into him. Though it wasn't comfortable with his beskar. You knew he meant well. The three of you stayed there for a little while, until the sun went down. You didn't realise at the time how tired you were, using the force, hearing the message. The feeling of anxiety. The same anxiety of hearing the message for the first time.

"I think I might go to bed." You stated giving Grogu back to Din,

"Okay, you alright though?" Din stated a bit concerned. You nodded and smiled walking into the crest. Grogu whined looking up at Din.

"Yeah, I'm worried too kid." Din said watching you retreat back. Din sighed, and continued to play with Grogu for the next hour and a bit. Then after finally getting Grogu to sleep, Din was left alone for a while.

He locked the Crest up, knowing that neither of you would be going out for the rest of the night. At some point Din must've fallen asleep. Because the next thing he knew, he jolted awake. Something obviously waking him up.

Sitting there quietly for the next few seconds, that's when he heard you. Whimpering, muttering and thrashing around. He bolted out the chair, and he rushed to the cot where you laid.

"Y/N? Y/N come on wake up. You need to wake up!" Din stated holding your arms gently.

Inside your dream, lots of things were happening. Everything was in diasary, the first thing you knew was that you were running with a bundle of blankets in your arms.

"Trust in the force......."

You heard Kenobi say. Spinning around you saw bodies laying on the floor. Bodies of former padawans. Then turning around you saw the bodies of Resistance fighters. Your friends. X-wings crashing as they were shot down above Endor. You felt the pain of the wounds you got, the ones that caused scars.

Din could physically feel you shaking, your night shirt sticking to your clammy skin. This was one of many times that Din was scared for you, he was struggling to wake you up. Not knowing what was going on.

"Fuck. Come on cyar’ika, you have to wake up. It's just a bad dream mesh'la, come on." Din stated, his eyes misting over a little bit.

You flinched hard as you heard blaster fire all around you. Images of clones over running cities. Being trapped in corners.

Then the imagery changed. You didn't recognise it though. You recognised the location, but ... this had yet to happen. Again you flinched at the sound of blaster fire, but this time it was no clones. It was Stormtroopers. Lots of them. Then someone else, this time only wearing partial armour.

"My name is Moff Gi......"

Another voice coming over Dins comms. There was your friend the shock trooper. Greef Carga.

Then you were outside. And an explosion went off. Right by Din. It felt like your heart had stopped.

From Din's perspective, you had momentarily stopped breathing. That made him panic. He knew it wasn't the best idea, but he shook you slightly and took your pulse to make sure you were still there.

Next in your dream, you were back inside. But Din was laying there, almost motionless and unresponsive.

"Din?" You muttered, running over to him. Discovering blood underneath his helmet.

"Din? No. No Din. Please." You muttered, your back arching a little with you whimpering.

"Cyar’ika wake up. I'm right here. I promise, you're safe." Din tried waking you again,

"This...is...the...way."

Din choked out in your dream. The next thing you knew, you were screaming and crying being dragged away. And then a buzz of a saber.

That. Was when you woke. Screaming and crying. You could barely breathe. You looked around the cot and found his helmet infront of you.

"D-din...I." You tried to speak but you couldn't.

"It's alright sweetheart I promise." He reassured you,

You still couldn't breathe properly and you were choking on sobs. Feeling like you were about to throw up, you gagged and Din took that as an obvious hint.

He grabbed you an empty bucket, and sat it in your lap.

"Let it out baby, come on let it out." Din stated rubbing your back. You heaved and let out what you had for dinner. Making you feel a bit better.

But you were still crying and shaking, your voice gone from screaming.

"You're safe now cyare, you're safe." Din kept reassuring you. He stood up, and you grabbed for his wrist with a begging look.

"I'm just taking my armour off. I promise." He reassured you, kneeling to your level. You blinked at him for a moment, and then nodded and watched as he stood. Din quickly discarded his armour, and carefully climbed onto the cot with you.

"D-din, my throat... it hurts." You stated, voice scratchy and hoarse,

"I know cyar’ika, here some water." Din gave you a canteen of water, and watched as you gulped it down.

You were still breathing heavily, tears staining your cheeks. Laying against Dins chest, you felt his heartbeat against your ear. You knew at this point that he was alive, you were safe and Din was safe.

The next thing you knew, Din turned off the lights with his vambrace that was on the cot next to you. You heard the hiss of his helmet, and then felt the warmth of his lips on your head.

"You don't have to talk about it cyare. But I'm here, I promise you now that I'll always be here. You're safe. Always." Din stated whispering in your ear.

Though you were asleep, the nightmares took a lot of energy out of you. You nodded off, and cuddled into Din's chest. He always felt so warm, even in the coldest of nights when going through hyperspace.

By now Din had decided not to fall back to sleep. Too worried that you might fall into another nightmare. During the midst of your dreams, the things you mumbled out and the force of your thrashing around made Din consider that you've been through more than he thought. More than you told him.

He thought about asking you. But was too scared that he might trigger something and cause you to go into another panic.

Grogu had woken up, feeling and hearing the disturbance from you. He crawled into your lap and fell back to sleep shortly after.

*************************

The next morning:

When you awoke the next morning, your throat felt like it had been ripped out. The slight memory of what happened coming back to you, made you shudder. But that's when you realised a warmth encompassed you.

Behind you, there was Din holding you against his chest. And on top of you was Grogu laying on your stomach.

You shifted slightly to find the canteen of water that Din had given you the previous night.

"Hey cyar’ika, you okay?" Din asked his voice sounded a bit tired,

"Yeah... my throat is hurting again." You rasped out, leaning back into Din. He found the canteen and passed it back to you. Taking a few sips of water, your throat felt slightly better.

"Din... I'm sorry about last night." You let out in a whisper.

"Hey, no no. No apologising. You didn't do anything wrong last night, I promise you." Din stated quickly, holding you tightly,

"It all felt so real though, and then there were other things which I don't think are real but I have no clue." You responded a few tears falling down your cheek.

"I know mesh'la. But the thing is, you're safe. Okay?" Din said softly kissing the top of your head.

The three of you stayed like the for most of the day. Not wanting to move from your positions on the cot.

[talpup]

Summary: Yami Sukehiro just wanted to join the Magic Knights and make his mentor proud. He knew there would be trails. He knew trouble would come his way. Knew he would be faced with discrimination for being a foreigner and a peasant. What he didn’t know. Didn’t expect. Was that literal Chaos would come his way. That he and his mentor’s sister would be at the center of world ending trouble. Or that he would fall in love with his mentor’s sister and face more than discrimination; but the jealously of Nozel Silva who loved the same woman he did.

Please remember this fic is rated mature and has warnings of violence, abuse, sexual tension, sexual behavior, and other possible triggers. For a full list of story tags please check the fics AO3 (link to that at the top of my tumblrs homepage).

Sorry about the late update. My mom passed a few years back on Mother’s Day and last weekend hit me harder than expected. Please don’t feel the need to give any sympathy's. I’m not asking for that. Anyway, hope you all enjoy.

Chapter 98

“Light cannot exist without Darkness for without Darkness how would we...”

“Shut up!” Yami roared.

“...know what Light was.” The all too familiar voice finished.

Yami was sick of the voice. He hated it and wondered if he would instantly recognize the voice if he heard it out in the waking world. While it was similar enough to belong to the same person as the Crazy, Happy, Killer voice that spoke when he and Teris received the History of Chaos; it was also different enough for him to question if it indeed belonged to the same person.

Yami blinked remembering what he had forgotten from the last time the page of Chaos had contacted him. “You were right. The Future of Chaos wasn’t in labyrinth two hundred thousand—whatever.”

“The Future of Chaos is not to be found in labyrinth 297,353. The Future of Chaos has long since been taken and moved. Joined where it can be safe.” The voice said.

Yami puzzled at the word “joined”. But the voice was always saying strange things that didn’t make sense, so he instead focused on another question he had. “How did you know? How did I remember?”

Truthfully, Yami hadn’t actually remembered anything concerning his past dreams with the page of Chaos the night Alowishus had taken Teris and him into the labyrinth. But his distinct feeling that evening, the certainty he had that everything would be alright proved that some unconscious part of him remembered these dreams.

“You remember what you must when it is necessary. Even Chaos must bend to the will of Fate. You and the Light alone are destined to have the Future of Chaos. It is not meant for Death. Death cannot have it.”

“At least we agree on that last part.” Yami muttered.

“The time of Darkness is nearing. Your strength will rise in truth once the Light’s power reaches it peak and begins to dwindled.”

“You’re talking about the Summer Solstice. The days growing shorter and all. Not Teris’ actual power dwindling. Right?”

“The time of Darkness is nearing. Your strength will rise in truth once the Light’s power reaches it peak and begins to dwindled.” The voice said again.

Yami growled. The only thing more annoying than these forced communicative dreams with the page of Chaos, was how the voice repeated itself when it didn’t want to answer a question. Thinking of another question, Yami asked. “Why two years for my supposed rise of power? Teris didn’t have that.” Or did she, he wondered. There was no way to know for sure since they had known nothing about it until last years Summer Solstice.

“You must persevere least the world descend into Darkness. You must remember the Light and not consume it least your wrath fall upon the world.”

“Why would I forget Teris? What do you mean consume her?” Yami was disturbed by the memory of his, or more correctly the Darkness’ hunger for the Light and the way the Darkness had drawn the Light into its bottomless abyss.

“Light cannot exist without Darkness for without Darkness how would we know what Light was.”

“Shut up with that and answer me!”

There was a loud slam and slight reverberation that woke Yami up with a start. He sat up feeling groggy despite having gone to bed early. “I’m awake.”

Door still rattling on its hinges, Jax stormed. “I told you to be downstairs and ready to go before breakfast. Not only were you not downstairs but you’re far from ready.”

Yami shook off the disorientating fog of restless sleep, not feeling all there. “Just give me half a minute.”

Jax watched Yami roll out of bed and stumble, falling to a knee. “You’re not hung over, or worse still drunk are you?”

“Nope.” Yami pushed to his feet and sat on the edge of the bed, putting on his pants.

Jax watched a moment longer.

Yami’s movements became quicker and more sure as he pulled on and laced his boots.

Jax relaxed seeing his Vice Captain become less clumsy. “Did you do as I said? You’re not going to get into a fight with Nozel Silva if I take you, are you?”

“Depends. Braid Face gonna start one?” Yami asked, standing and grabbing the clean white muscle shirt.

“My only concern is that you don’t antagonize or strike first.” Jax said.

“I think I can manage that.” Yami grabbed the two belts off the bedpost, first putting on the sword belt Teris got him that helped hold up his pants and carried his grimoire.

Jax watched the younger man wrap the second belt around his waist. “About last night. I hope you understand my reasoning.”

“Would it change your command if I didn’t?” Yami asked, slipping his sheathed katana into place.

Sorry he had bothered trying to smooth any hard feelings, Jax wondered aloud. “You sure you’re good to do this? The questions Alowishus posed might be unnerving. Never mind what questions Nozel and Fuegoleon might've answered. I told you to work out this aggression you’ve been feeling and you’re still brimming with it.”

“Yeah, and who’s fault is that? You’re the one who said we couldn’t go out.” Yami said.

Jax sighed and turned away. “That’s it. You’re staying.”

Cursing his temper, Yami called. “Captain, wait”

Jax stopped at the closed bedroom door.

Resting his hands on his hips, Yami told. “I won’t antagonize or start a fight with the Royal Ball of Pride. You have my word.”

“I’m holding you to that.” Jax told.

98.2

Walking out of Healer’s Hall with Randall beside him, Fuegoleon found Teris waiting outside. Stepping to his cousin, the Crimson Lions Vice Captain embraced her in a tight hug.

“Leon. I can’t breath.” Teris croaked.

“Deal.” Fuegoleon told, his hold loosening slightly when his still healing wounds complained. Eyes closed in relief and gratitude, shame began to fill him. He didn’t care what anyone said. It was his fault. The Agents of Chaos had used him to get his cousin to comply with their wishes.

Releasing her, Fuegoleon gripped Teris’ shoulders. “Never scare me like that again. You hear me.”

“Scare you? You’re the one who--” Teris stop, unable and unwilling to verbalize the truth. Fuegoleon had almost died. If they had gotten him to the healers just a few minutes later… She shook away the terrible thought and hugged him again.

“Leona said you came by yesterday.”

Teris pulled away and nodded. “You were asleep. I didn’t want to disturb or tax you.”

Fuegoleon almost argued that he would've gladly given up rest to see her; but he didn’t. The visit from the Crimson Lions had taken a lot out of him. But he had endured it. As Vice Captain, he had to show the Crimson Lions he appreciated their care and efforts. More than that, he had to let them see that he was well and able to continue his duties to serve the Kingdom, its people, and the squad. After what had happened to Quince and the lingering un-healable injury that had left the previous Vice Captain unable to return to duty; Fuegoleon felt it necessary to reassure any fears or questions the squad had about him. Once his report was written and he was fully debriefed, he would go out on a mission and waylay any lingering doubts the squad might secretly have about his fitness.

Fuegoleon smiled gently. “I’m just glad you’re alright.”

“There you go stealing my line, again.” Teris smiled back.

Fuegoleon’s smile faltered. After what had happened during last years Summer Solstice, he had feared that the Agents of Chaos might’ve had something similar planned for Teris and Yami this time too. When Mereoleona had told him about the labyrinth and its missing contents, Fuegoleon’s relief had been overwhelming. Still, he had betrayed his cousin; breaking down and answering Alowishus Spade’s questions when they had begun torturing Nozel to make him speak. He was hardly mad at Nozel for his own worse state because the Silver Eagle had remained silent so much longer than he had. If anything, it added to Fuegoleon’s shame.

Teris saw Fuegoleon’s expression change and shook her head. “Leon, don’t. If you or Nozel had...” She swallowed unable to bear the thought of a world without either of them. Still, she knew something of the guilt Fuegoleon was feeling. She had been there too often herself. Staring up at him, she told. “If you really feel so terrible about it, I’d be happy to give you a penance.”

Randall stepped forward incensed at Teris’ unbelievable nerve.

“Anything.” Fuegoleon said, head lowered.

“You have to promise to do as I command.” Teris said, eyes hard and piercing.

Randall opened his mouth to call a stop to this; but before he could speak, Fuegoleon replied.

“Just tell me how to make this right.”

Teris gripped her cousin’s arm. “Forgive yourself. Don’t beat yourself up over this. You’re ashamed at being taken by these crazies. Yami and I have been abducted and set upon so many times it’s embarrassing. You feel bad for being used. I’ve been used by these lunatics far more than I care to admit. You feel as if you betrayed me. I nearly destroyed the four kingdoms and beyond during last years Summer Solstice. Talk about betrayal.”

Fuegoleon shook his head. She didn’t understand.

“They were torturing your best friend, Leon. I would've answered any question they posed if in your place.”

“I should have been stronger. Held out longer. Nozel managed to.”

“And then Nozel would have been just as bad off as you were, if not worse.” Teris argued.

Fuegoleon exhaled, knowing she was right. It had been an impossible situation. Perfectly planned to be one.

As if reading his thoughts, Teris said. “Alowishus knows what he’s doing. He’s planned this for who knows how many years. Mana knows how many people he has helping him see it through. Using our love and care against us is what they do. They think it’s a weakness, meant to be exploited and manipulated. But it’s our strength. It’s why we go on and won’t break. Why we fight and won’t lose the war, no matter how many battles they win against us.”

Fuegoleon nodded. “We’ll beat them.”

“Do you forgive me?” Before Fuegoleon asked what she meant, Teris went on. “For our argument. For my slapping you. Do you forgive me?”

If it had been a normal argument, Fuegoleon would’ve said I don’t know, then asked if she forgave him. But their fight had been far from normal. And given what had led to it, jokes of ladies undergarments and learning Yami had taken one of Teris’ unmentionables. With the matter still unresolved, he definitely would've insisted that Teris promise to get the garment back, and probably would've demanded that she also distance herself from Yami or at the very least have some decorum where the man was concerned. But this encounter with the Agents of Chaos made issues even as important as that feel insignificant; at least at the present.

Overcome, Fuegoleon pulled Teris into squeezing hug. “Always.”

98.2.2

Teris had a light breakfast with Fuegoleon and Randall at a nearby cafe. Through an unspoken agreement the two cousin’s avoided mentioning Yami and Nozel, neither wanting to cause another argument. After, Teris made her way to Magic Investigations for a meeting with Marx.

Entering the building, Teris recognized the Counter Clerk Manager but didn’t recall his name. “Good morning.”

Axus looked up from his book. “Is it? Hadn’t noticed.”

“That it’s morning? Or that it’s a good one?” Teris questioned, smiling.

Axus’ lips twitched upward. Scowling, he pulled them back down into their usual frown. “What do you what?”

“If you would please inform Marx Francois that Teris Nova is here for our meeting.” Teris said.

Axus scrutinized her a moment, acting as if he didn’t recognize her from before. “You’re Lord Julius’ sister, eh? You look nothing like him.”

“He doesn’t make you call him Lord Julius, does he?” Teris questioned, humored.

“No one makes me do anything.” Axus snapped wondering when he had begun to show the Azure Deers Captain such respect. He turned away. “Give me a moment to call up Marx.”

“There’s nothing I have to fill out or sign for today's visit?” Teris asked.

“Not this time.” Axus said, setting down the communication crystal.

He wondered what Marx could be doing with Julius Nova’s sister that he had asked for her visit be kept off record. Axus didn’t really care. All that mattered was that Marx had asked a favor and it never hurt to win points with the person who would likely be the next Wizard King’s Advisor; especially when you liked and trusted them more than the current Advisor. There was also the case of barrel aged whiskey Marx had given him for the favor…

Axus’ lips smacked at the thought of the nine beautiful bottles waiting for him at home.

Teris lifted an eyebrow. She had found it curious waking up to find Marx had sent message requesting her to meet him at Magic Investigations this morning. Marx struck her as someone who liked to plan well in advance so the spontaneous meeting seemed odd. Adding to the wonder of it was the timing; Nozel was being debriefed at Magic Knights Headquarters at this very moment. And now she didn’t have to sign in when all visitors had to do so, unless they were the Wizard King or Magic Knights Commander.

The two turned at the sound of a door opening.

“Thank you, Axus.” Marx stayed at the door behind the front counter.

Teris gave the Counter Manager a departing smile. “Thank you.”

Axus didn’t know if it was her cheery demeanor or the fact that she remembered he existed once she had gotten what she wanted; but he found his lips tugging upward again. He pulled them back down with a grunt and inclined his head.

Teris followed Marx down a long hall and up several flights of stairs.

Marx opened a final door for her and entered behind, closing it shut. He gestured to the rectangular table. “Please, have a seat. I’m sure you’re wondering why I called you here.”

“To show me something you couldn’t take out of here?” Teris guessed.

Marx paused in his trek around the table.

Teris shrugged a shoulder. “Why else would you ask for a secret meeting here when we’re having a secret meeting with everyone else this evening? That’s what this is, isn’t it? I didn’t have to sign in, and I’m sure Advisor Ellara is sitting in on Nozel’s debriefing which is going on right now.”

Marx blinked, mildly impressed by her deduction. He blinked again when Teris changed the subject with barely a pausing breath.

“Have you figured out who might've moved the Future of Chaos? Or where they moved it?” Teris asked.

“Magic Investigations is working on that. As are Julius and I.” Marx sank into the straight backed chair across from her. “Are you disappointed the Future of Chaos wasn’t in the labyrinth?”

“Hardly. Alowishus would’ve got it.”

Marx shook his head. “That’s not what I meant. I mean do you want the Future of Chaos?”

Teris frowned. “No. The History of Chaos has been more than enough trouble. I’d be crazy to want to add to it. Even if, when, we’ve moved passed this mess and done away with the Agents of Chaos; I still wouldn’t want the Future of Chaos. It’s too much responsibility.”

“What if someone else were to find it?” Marx wondered.

“I’d feel sorry for them, but glad that stupid prophecy was wrong and it wasn’t Yami and me.” Teris answered, without hesitance.

“But wouldn’t you at least want to have a look at it?” Marx asked.

“I admit my curiosity can be comparable to Julius’. It’s certainly seen me get into enough trouble over the years. But when it comes to the Future of Chaos, I have no interest in ever seeing the thing. I’d probably be like Yami and have ignored the History of Chaos if it weren’t for the possible help it could be in dealing with the Agents of Chaos and figuring out their plans. Not that it’s been any help.” Teris griped under her breath.

Marx wondered if maybe that was why Yami and Teris were destined to have the Future of Chaos. Because neither one wanted it or its information. While Marx may not have wanted the burden of having such a thing in his grimoire, he had to admit he had a great desire to see and read the piece. Destiny was a funny thing, he thought.

Getting to the matter he had called her for, Marx said. “You’re half right. I did ask you here because I wish to show you something. Sadly my magic does not allow me to copy such things as detailed as drawings or images, or I would’ve done that and waited till our meeting this evening. But the reason for showing you doesn’t involve you so much as what you have. The History of Chaos.”

Teris straightened in her seat, interest peaked.

“Captain Jax once mentioned he overheard you ask the History of Chaos about the Master of Master’s and Alowishus Spade.” Marx said.

“Not that it’s done any good. The ink just swirls around on the page then says insufficient image.” Teris grumbled. At least after seeing Alowishus Spade for the first time, she understood why the page of Chaos had said such a thing, unable to display his ever changing image.

“Have you ever asked it about Yurist?” Marx questioned.

Teris blinked, mouth falling open. Yurist was the one who had written both the History and Future of Chaos. How was it that she had never considered asking the page about its author?

Seeing her expression, Marx sighed. “Are all the Nova’s guilty of ignoring the painfully obvious? Or is it just you and Julius?”

Teris bristled; but held her tongue.

“Please do so when you get a chance. For now,” Marx pushed a long, wide, leather clad folder across the table toward her, “please look at that and ask the History of Chaos.”

“Ask it what? What is this?” Teris pulled the hard backed folder closer.

“It’s a small portrait that was found in the ruins of an unearthed city. The team of Magic Investigators assigned to the task have been focusing on what we believe use to be the building that once held Yurist’s lab.”

“Why haven’t I heard of this!”

Marx tilted his head. “Do I know of every mission you Magic Knights go out on?”

“No but--”

“Even Magic Knights Commander Greywright doesn’t know every assignment Magic Investigations is working on. You, Vice Captain, certainly have no right or expectation to know everything that goes on in this division.”

Teris’ shoulders tensed even as they hunched, her form shrinking.

“For your information, I came in before sunrise this morning to learn a fellow Investigation Mage had unearthed that.” Marx inclined his head to the still closed folder. “Which is why I sent you message asking you to come, not knowing when Advisor Ellara would be away again to give us chance for you to see and question the History of Chaos about it.”

“Sorry.” Teris mumbled. She was so use to people, especially her superiors keeping secrets from her and Yami about matters that concerned them that she had assumed this had been more of the same.

“We do not know who the couple in the portrait is, though a number of us here have theories.” Marx said.

“So you want me to what? Look at the picture and ask the History of Chaos about the people in it?” Teris asked, not understanding why. “It doesn’t work that way. It only answers questions about the history of Chaos.”

“If that were true why would it attempt to show you the image of Alowishus Spade?” Marx questioned.

“And fail, saying insufficient image.” Teris retorted.

“If all the History of Chaos did was just strictly cover the history of Chaos why would it even make an attempt at showing you the image of Alowishus Spade or the Master of Master's? However old Alowishus Spade is, I truly doubt he’s old enough to have been alive during the time of Chaos’ reign and defeat which brought about Order.”

Teris frowned, having never considered that. Her eyebrows pulled together, wondering at Marx’s pointed question. Shadows of fragments flinted through his mind trying to coalesce and puzzle something out, but something else pieced together first.

Teris’ eyes lifted to Marx, realization dawning. “You think the portrait is of Yurist.”

98.3

Yami found Teris out at the Saber Wolf pens. His appearance announced by the beasts long before Teris heard or saw him.

“I’ll have you know I had to use my mana sense to find you. What are you doing out here?” Yami almost asked if she wanted to go for a ride, but remembered Jax’s order and bristled.

Teris gave No Name the signal to return to his kennel. “I thought we agreed not to do that unless necessary.”

“When I’d still be walking around searching for you, I consider it necessary. It’s a stupid agreement anyway.”

Teris latched the kennel gate. “Privacy is hardly stupid.”

“If there’s no secrets between us why the need for privacy?” Yami half teased.

Teris turned to him, questioning brow raised. “Do you really want to know every time I go to the baths?”

“Do you really have to ask?” Yami grinned, lewdly.

“Yami.” Teris scolded, lightly. Blushing, she closed the gap between them, burying her face in his chest.

Yami chuckled, holding her to him. “Let me see that pretty blush, Princess.”

Teris shook her head, burrowing deeper into him. It was stupid, but she suddenly became emotional about what happened during this mornings meeting with Marx. Her arms tightened around Yami, seeking his soothing strength. She didn’t even know what she was so distressed about. It wasn’t like the History of Chaos could have been talking about Alowishus. No one could be that old. Then again the man did use corpse magic. And when had anything surrounding Chaos or the works Yurist wrote not spelled some kind of terrible for them.

Yami looked down at the top of her head, growing serious. “What’s this?”

Teris shook her head again.

Yami frowned, a sudden swell of anger bubbling inside him. His teeth ground together, muscle in his jaw ticking in cold burning rage. His arms tightened around Teris. He couldn’t even say what he was so mad about. All he knew was that Teris was upset and he wanted to obliterate whatever had upset her. Pressing his lips to the crown of her head, Yami’s eyes slipped closed. He took in a deep breath and slowly exhaled, soaking in Teris’ calming warmth. With effort he forced his fisted hands to relax and uncurl; reasoning with himself that he didn’t even know if it was something or someone he could hit.

“Teris. What’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing.” Teris mumbled against Yami’s strong chest, praying that it truly was nothing.

“Look at me and say that.”

Teris lift her head at Yami’s tone. He sounded angry. But when her eyes met his there was nothing but love and concern.

Yami caressed her cheek. “Talk to me, Ikigai. Tell me what’s wrong.”

98.4

Iban paused in plucking mushrooms and looked at a bird flying overhead. Unlike the other creatures of the forest, the Jay wasn’t startled away by the slithering presence of the person who stalked closer. Odd, since Jay’s were rarely seen without their mate nearby and Iban’s keen eyes hadn’t seen the flashier male.

Leveling his head, Iban turned to the stalking presence. “It doesn’t matter how quiet you are. I always know when you’re about.”

“Why haven’t you mentioned that the Darkness within Yami had reach such strength so soon?” Ellara demanded, getting right to the point.

“I figured your plaything would have told you. Whether he wanted to or not.” Iban said.

“I’ve used Olsen far too much of late.” Ellara told, angry she had been forced to use him at all.

“Is that not what he is for?” Iban questioned.

“What’s it matter to you what I use him for? It’s you who had a deal with the Master.” Ellara said.

“A forced deal to stay out of your way and not interfere with your Master’s plans, or tell anyone anything I know.” Iban said.

“And have you kept that deal?” Ellara asked.

Iban thought of the bit about his family's past that he had told Yami, and what little he had told Jax three weeks ago. Clearly the vow of silence Alowishus had forced him into seemed to think he had kept the deal since the people he cared about were still alive.

Iban wondered if the Captain had found the journal he had told him about. The journal that had belonged to one of the earlier Agents of Chaos’ Masters. The Master who had battled and lost to the Clover Kingdoms last light magic user before Teris. Jax had returned five days after Iban had told where he might find the journal only to leave with Yami and Teris shortly after returning. It wasn’t as if Iban was going to ask the Captain if he had found the thing. He had tested Jax enough with his comments about Bronn the day he revealed what few secrets he could. He had certainly tested the binding vow and jeopardized his loved ones enough.

Looking at Ellara, Iban answered. “My family's existence depends on that deal. Your Master made sure of that.”

Ellara glared, not trusting him.

“Though was such care necessary when a simple traitor could turn himself in and confess all your Master's plans? No doubt your puppet Sir Jorah, along with Magic Knights Commander Greywright and countless others know all about your Master's plans by now.” Iban said.

“As if the Master is careless enough to let a low level follower know his plans.” Ellara shot back.

“Do you know his plans?” Iban asked, pointedly. “Wife and follower you may be, but people like your husband and Master hold all sorts of secrets. Like how to kill a traitor from afar.”

Ellara’s eyes widened. After Greywright had stolen point in dealing with the traitor Flic, she had returned to her office and sent word to Alowishus. Her Master's brief response had been clear. She was to stay well away from the prisoner. When Flic had died yesterday evening, she knew Alowishus had been the cause; but figured he had sent some other follower to infect or slowly poison Flic.

Iban’s golden eyes seemed to glow in the heavily shaded forest. “I know a dark magic decay spell with I hear of its symptoms. It is a slow, terrible way to die. Does your Master have a piece of all his followers? How did he manage to get each of you to willing hand a piece of yourselves over?”

“What do you mean?” Ellara asked, breathless.

“I suppose your Master or some loyal follower could have been lucky. Found some bit of Flic’s person to use for the spell. But Alowishus Spade does not strike me as the type of person to leave things to luck. If I were to guess, I would say it came in the form of an initiation ritual for joining the Agents of Chaos. It is how I would have done it. Something easily done and given with little to no question, and soon forgotten about in the joyous rapture of family found and collective cause.” Sensing Ellara’s quickening heartbeat, Iban cooed. “Do not beat yourself up, Advisor. You are hardly alone in being tricked into willingly, if not happily giving up a piece of yourself. How many other fools—excuse me, followers have joined Alowishus Spade’s supposed cause?”

“Shut up!”

“I doubt he would do to you what he did to that traitor. You are his honored and beloved wife, after all. If he would harm you, what hope does anyone else have of being spared?”

Ellara sneered. “You’re a snake hissing nothing but lies. Twisting and turning peoples words and deeds. Now unless you wish to see the Darkness within Yami bleed out and start to effect him. Tell me just how bad it is.”

“If I am such lying snake who does nothing but twist and turn peoples words and deeds, why would you believe anything I say?” Iban asked.

“Do you want the power within Yami to consume him? The Darkness inside is greater than expected.”

“Greater than you expected.” Iban corrected. “I knew from the start that Yami Sukehiro was more than just a vessel for the Darkness. As to your question. No. I do not wish to see the Darkness consume him. The world would end if it did. Which makes me wonder why your Master wouldn’t want that. Isn’t that the purpose of all this? To end this existence in the foolish hope of beginning the next? Unless that is not his true goal.” Before Ellara could speak, he went on. “As for how bad it is. The Darkness in Yami is already bleeding out and affecting him. He has been more volatile. Angrier than usually. Possibly even more desirous of Teris and the Light that is inside her.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? The deal--”

“The deal made with your Master does not include feeding you information. That is something you tried to force upon me. I went along with for a time because it was fun and suited me. But I have long since grown weary of it. If you want such information, try affecting your plaything. Not that you will get anything of use. Olsen has little care unless it is for life's beauty or the romantic. Even if he were around more, he would not see much.”

Ellara raised a brow, realizing. “You’re protective of your sole friend.”

“Hardly.” Iban silently cursed, unable to make himself believe the lie let alone convince her of it.

“So Iban Halvor does have a heart. Interesting.” Ellara would've been glad to have something to use against the Blood Mage. But her own care for Olsen wouldn’t let her hurt him to force Iban into anything.

Iban watched Ellara turn around and step away.

“The Darkness within Yami cannot overtake him before it is time. We will handle it.” Ellara said.

It was an effort for Iban not to use his magic to end the woman then and there. Thankfully she used her transportation charm and disappeared before his control was tested further. No longer in the mood to be surrounded by life and fresh air, Iban looked down at the basket of harvested herbs and mushrooms. He didn’t have all he needed for the brews and potions he was making. But he had enough to get started.

Waving a few bees away, Iban headed back to the base.

98.5

Seated in his bedroom, Bran’s eyes cleared. Even though the encounter he had witnessed had happened deep inside the property’s forest, he turned to the closed door half expecting to see Iban standing there.

Comments are VERY MUCH appreciated and really make my day. Thank you to those who have left hearts. And a special THANK YOU to those who have recently commented or re-blogged. It really means a lot.

Next chapter snippet:

“Yami is not the concern here. It is Teris. At this rate she will not survive the Ritual of Darkness. If she doesn’t grow stronger the Darkness within Yami will kill her and the Light inside her with it.”

[trillian-anders]

bewitched

pairing: geralt of rivia x reader

warnings: violence (physical violence, mentions of suicide, death, harm to a child), angst, smut

word count: 4544

description: part 1 of 3. there’s a curse on your kingdom and as the king’s mage it’s your duty to break it. but only when the curse seems to befall you do you call for help. a man you’d seen once in your youth. a witcher. 

note: (can be read as stand-alone) there are some trigger warnings, it’s dark as far as mentions suicide and a child is harmed in this.

It was slow, moving through the foggy moor. The dew not yet settled. The sound of the spectre cutting through the grass could be heard if you listen, but the poor victim was not listening hard enough. A man who’d been travelling for days, escaping to the next village over for fear of prosecution. His hands were stained with blood for the woman he loved, and he accidentally killed. The man’s guilt was feasting on his belly, rum and whiskey he’d been trying to burn it away with did nothing more than stir the bile. 

Vomit stained his boots, upchucking again, dry heaving by the side of the road. He gagged, sipping water from his hide, he persevered on. Through the fog and tall grass he could see his destination. The village was a good size for him to disappear into, in a dip of land behind a mighty castle, large sea rock behind, waves crashing upon the cliff in steady beats. It was lively enough to have an open pub. A place to further drown his sorrows. 

A scratch. That’s all it takes. Deep and unseen. The scratch that leads into madness. His guilt the trail of breadcrumbs leading the spectre to its feast. He stumbles into the warm stone building, stragglers and early morning travellers dipping into their vices once more before starting their day, those who’ve not rested since the previous evening. 

A stumble and fall into the bench, his eyes unfocused. Sweat pooling on his brow as he replayed his crime. Over and over until the slosh put in front of him wasn’t enough to drown. He swallowed his guilt, coins tossed on the table and asked for a room. Sleep his sorrows away until they no longer felt so raw. 

But it did nothing to quell the festering wound left by the spectre, the wound he didn’t know existed. The spectre stayed in the shadows, enjoying the meal it had been given. The guilt filled it’s belly for the first time in ages. But it wasn’t enough. The spectre was patient. This wound would fester more until it consumed the man’s body, until he was empty in madness or until he ended his life. And it would be fed. After, it could sense the delicious trail of guilt and sorrow in this village, it would feed again. The shadow demon grew satisfied in that it would no longer feel the acidic gnaw of hunger. 

A place destined for madness. 

Years passed and those who did not live and die in this village never stayed for long. Some stories would say it cursed. People would grow mad, men and women slitting their throats in the street. Hanging themselves in the gallows. Screaming and becoming belligerent. Locked away for the rest of their lives. Holy men dared not step foot on the plagued ground. And the king grew sick with it. The disgrace handed down to him from generations before. The blame put on a mad King, his Great-Great-Grandfather now long dead, buried in the crypt below his feet. 

With three wives dead, a fourth with a child on the way, hopeful for a son. He buried himself into resentment for the life he’d been given. Ungrateful for the fortune and wealth. Ungrateful for the ease in which he was able to live. 

That’s what you resented him for. 

You’d been given away as soon as your parents realized you had the gift. Trained and tasked with becoming the mage you were today. A king’s mage. The Cursed King’s mage. You’d seen this lineage’s descent into madness and were expected to stop it. You lurked in the shadows of his life, willfully standing by as wife after wife failed to produce him a son, the curse of the town pulling them into madness. 

The first threw herself from a tower. The second put rocks in her pockets and walked her and her newborn daughter into the sea. The third was locked away in the asylum, screaming until her throat bleeds. The King, unsatisfied with his brood, took on a fourth wife. Maybe this time she’ll provide him a true heir. 

But in all this, you felt, maybe you were the ungrateful one. You were given whatever you wanted, whatever resource you could possibly need or want. And you didn’t even have to fetch them yourself, a courier would pluck your herb and slaughter your animals. Your hands, shaking as they may be in grief for your position, no longer have the dirt and scars from your youth. 

“You’re a beauty.” He’d mused. Your old King. He’d sought for you, the talent you’d possessed when you’d felt yourself still a girl. You were naive then, unknown to you the curse he brought on his back and lay at your feet. The dance in court, a seduction to your new position. Whether it was for you or him there was no clear answer. You knew, as your master had taught you, that he would never see you as more than a pretty ornament. A tool for his mastery. 

It was better than digging up radishes and eating half cooked potatoes in your family’s shed. You wouldn’t care to wonder what they are doing now. Your parents and sisters are most likely older, more gray and more dead. A lineage you know not if it was passed on, but you weren’t of them anymore. Not for nearly half a century. 

He was fat, your king, stuffing his sorrows down with roast pork and wine, blind with it. You mused if he could even perform at all let alone produce an heir on his part. His pretty bride, sold to him by her own family, a noble’s daughter who was afraid, very afraid. 

“Will I be cursed?” She asked, made aware of her pregnancy, the seed having taken root in her belly like the beginning of her end. A death sentence created by rumor. “When my babe is born, would I sooner throw myself into a pyre than try to produce again?” Her eyes dazed, wide, and unblinking. 

You were meant to console her, you assumed. Tell her what she wanted to hear, that she wouldn’t fall into the same madness that had taken every Queen before her. 

“Madness only takes you if you let it.” A small vial for the health and well being of her baby. “Persevere and keep yourself strong.” That’s all you could give. 

You’d come here softer than you should, calloused from your training, but training and real world experience were very different. The first time the old King had come to you in ramblings and despair you’d given him something to sleep, you tried to find the source of his pain like he’d instructed, but he’d soon fell. Locked away in the stone walls of this castle until the day he’d passed, his son taking the throne hastily after and finding a proper bride who quickly sired him a son. Your current King. The one who took his throne only after his Father was slipped into madness like a dream in the night. Swift and abrupt, unending nightmare of a dream. 

He’d hung himself in the main hall. 

His son was a child then, twelve when he’d taken the throne. You’d served a boy who’d barely found his own cock before he was giving you instruction. Pompous and confident in the wake of his Father’s death, the boy seemed so sure he would not meet the same fate. But now as his beard turned gray without an heir he claimed he was given a headier curse. 

“Is there anything you could do to guarantee me a son?” His face half lit by the candles in your room, red and puckered with age. 

“There is nothing guaranteed with magic.” You state and wrap your gown further across your body, the King having interrupted your bath, gown sticking to your legs. “I’ve done everything I’ve known to try to give you a son, everything ethically possible.” His mouth stank of rot. Spitting, snarling, hair pulling,

“Well try something unethical then or it shall next be your neck hanging from my gallows.” 

It was hard to be grateful for this life, but swallowed down by the guilt of others suffering. Those you could see without food or drink, empty bellies in his Kingdom he cared not about more than his own life. 

There was a way, but it was never something you’d expected to be pushed to do. It seemed madness had already taken root in him, or perhaps it was you for you were not sure who was more mad for this act. Him requesting it or you following through. 

It made you sick, but it was not something you could show. And when he asked it done you appeased him. The memory of the sweat and crying, your fingers aching with it. The unrest afterward. 

The village, thick with mud from the last rain, smelled of shit. You thought about all of the other mages that were gifted with you, their gilded cages in high towers above prosperous cities. You’d picked the short straw. Or perhaps you’d been the short straw that your old King picked himself. 

Winter was approaching, snow would soon lay thick on the ground, so you had to move quickly or else you’d never get a moment of peace until well after the birth of the new prince. Your fingers found the precarious rock’s surface. A deep crawl belly to salty rock to make your way into the sunken cave, the ocean spraying against your side, soaking you to your slip as you made entrance. 

A wave and the fire roared to life, illuminating your place of escape. 

You’d found it in a dream, leftovers from the mage before you, burned on a pyre for bringing this curse upon the village. The curse upon her king. But you knew it wasn’t a curse, you’d known that for a while now. It was your purpose to identify the source of the curse, but you had. It was not something you knew how to fight. 

The beast was uncommon, a whisper heard in the shadows, a task only a Witcher could take on with hope to survive. The last Witcher that had stumbled upon your town had gone mad in his own right, succumbed faster than any before him and threw himself into the sea. 

That seemed like a lifetime ago. 

The cave was hot with the fire, clothes discarded, you kneel at the foot of the fire. Seeking, in fear for your own life now, the guilt of what you’d just done was enough to take root deep in your belly and rip you apart. You had to find another Witcher. And soon. 

You drift into a memory. Just a girl, well before you knew what you would soon become. Your hands, clean, reverting to calloused and thick with dirt. You hadn’t had your first blood, your breasts mere buds, new and tender, you were back on your family’s farm. 

You saw him there for the first time. The man they called the White Wolf. He threw a creature at the foot of a man’s hearth. An exchange of coins, your eyes looking up to meet his; gold. You felt bewitched by them. A wash of familiarity... You’d been waiting near his horse, a gut feeling you couldn’t resolve. He’d paused, you were sure looking down at your dirty face and hands. An empty belly. A moment of eye contact while you waited for him to speak, but he didn’t. He’d slipped you a coin, pulled from his pocket and into your grubby little hands. One coin. Before his back turned and he rode his horse out of the village and far away from you. 

You felt it, beneath your fingertips. Smooth and cold. You marveled at how men would kill for this shiny piece of metal, given no more worth than what they themselves give to it. 

When you’re pulled back to your present it was there, between your thumb and forefinger, the only difference being fifty years. But the world was vast. It would take a certain orchestration of events to get your Witcher here. It would be your paranoia maybe, or the fact that the spectre knew what you were doing, but you could see the shadows shift out of the corners of your eyes. 

The Witcher needed to get here fast, the Hym seemed to have locked it’s sights on you. 

…

The Witcher heard tales of a beast, coin for another, and another. He’d never had good enough fortune for money such as this. Every village he went to seemed to have a story for another, and another. On and on until the realization. A clear path on a map leading him to an unknown destination. He wondered who’d orchestrated this. You could sense it from your sanctuary. 

The wonder of the plan. The hope that it would be a lost love. You cared not for who he loved but only wished he would quicken his feet. The paranoia grew by the day. The fear buried in your gut and sickness that washed over you as the Hym suckled at the guilt, feeding it’s belly on your mistakes. 

A trail of breadcrumbs stained the bodies of creatures you’d placed into his path. Bodies slewn and dispatched for thankful villages and the satisfaction of a job well done. It had been months before you saw him cross the threshold of your castle. The paranoia and fear growing in bile in your belly. You weren’t sure he was even real until your King called an audience with him. 

The Witcher, Geralt of Rivia. He stepped into your throne room and there was a primal feeling in your gut. You’d brought him here, to you. The Hym scratching at your back. You knew your King would seek any cure to save his life that he could, even if it wasn’t actually his life that was in danger. 

You could imagine the spectre’s claws in your back as your King began to speak. 

“I’ve heard tales of you, Witcher.” Your King’s voice, sure and booming for respect. “The White Wolf.” You watched Geralt, expressionless, almost bored. “I have a task for you Witcher.” You saw those gold eyes shift from him, a pull towards you that you’ve created. A raised eyebrow. “My family has been cursed for nearly a century now.” He stood from his throne, stepping towards the man. “My useless mage has not found a resolve for said curse,” His eyes drift to you as well as your King’s. You willfully show no response. Your King scoffs, “I’m hoping to employ you for the cause of saving my kingdom.” More to save himself. 

The Witcher looks to you, the familiarity on his features, the same familiarity you felt when you’d met him as a child. You could see the gears of his mind turning. He turned his gaze from you slowly as your King continued. 

“We’ve been under this curse, turned my family, my citizens into madness.” He says, “With not a clue as to the cause. If you listen you can hear the screams from the mad in the asylum upon entrance. If any being born of magic can break this curse, it would be you Witcher.”

Like poison in your veins, black and thick, you dipped down into that madness. Sweat on your brow, sorrow and rough cries in the night. It’s how he found you. 

“How long have you known of this Hym?” His voice gruff, deep. You could see in the mirror your sunken eyes and vacant expression. A pallor of death. 

“Long enough to be a fool to be taken by it.” You breathe, dampening a cloth to place on your neck. He leaned against the wall by your door, reflected in your mirror. 

“Were you the one laying beasts in my path to lead me here?” Those eyes, focused and calculating, sent a chill down your spine as you turned to him. 

“How else would I have acquired a Witcher?” His eyes focused on the shifting shadow. A pass of the spectre hiding behind you.

“What is your guilt?” He asked, hands clenched tightly by his sides. You swallow roughly, the words not wanting to peel from your throat. 

“To be fair,” You bemoan, “I deserve death.” A hand braced on the table. “It feeds on the despair of the guilty and has served its cause.” You can’t sink down into it, the drowning. 

“Killing.” He states. You shake your head, swallowing roughly. 

“Saving.” He circles the room, stepping close to the shadow, the spectre moving out of his way. “Brutal men... rapists and murderers. Women who drown their children based on their sex.” Your heart picks up speed as he settles in front of you, “It deserves to die with me.” 

“So you would let it take you?” His eyes looked through you, burying themselves into your thoughts. 

“I deserve this madness.” A hand placed over your belly to steady yourself, “I’ve given the King what he wants at the cost of my own conscience.” You had to admire the Witcher for his poker face. Not many men would not show emotion when you admit to a child sacrifice. The give and take of magic a cruel fate for the King’s needs. It felt justified and left you craving his disappointment, his ire. But it hadn’t been given. 

“Slaying a Hym isn’t easy.” You could feel the spectre, the emotions it felt at the cost of the proximity to the Witcher, but departing a Hym from its meal was a feat on its own. 

“You’re Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf,” you muse, “If anyone can do it, you can.” You see him swallow, eyes focusing in on yours. Close enough that you can feel his breath. 

“We’ll have to go somewhere a little more private for that, its lair will be the place tied to your guilt. We have to go there.” The sorrow, the lust for death, a sweet release from this ebbing guilt. You could almost taste it.

Your shadow shifted and he could see the horns. A demon to be exorcised. 

He followed you to the cliffs, trusting your footing to be true as you climbed down into them, sliding your belly against the wall and watching as he held his sword aloft to fit through the small space into the cavern aglow by fire. 

“I’m going to need more light than this.” His eyes focused on the damp walls and dim glow. A log pulled from the fire. He lit the torches in the corners of the room, a deep dark hole that led further into the cave systems beneath the city forgotten, his back to it while he faced you. “I need you to focus on something, anything else but the guilt… preferably something pleasant.” He steps towards you, “It’s going to come out of hiding and what you will feel will be intense, whatever you do, don’t succumb.” A vial, procured from his pocket and quickly drank, eyes blackening. 

“You make it sound so easy.” A drawl from your mouth as the whispers begin. The haunting demon who plagued your every thought, the despair that grew on your tongue. 

“Focus.” His voice cut through, pushing you back against the far wall, “And stay here.” His sword gripped in his hand. “Do not interfere.” He turned his back to you, the shadows shifting on the ground as the Hym exposed itself. The tall spectre’s horns brushing the top of the cave. Red eyes glowing in the pitch black. 

Elder spilled softly from your mouth, his sword turning in his hand, before striking the beast. Your vision blurred, knees sinking into the floor as it flooded your airways, burning down your throat. 

“Again!” a yell. A rod against your back, you straighten. Your training, so long ago now. Tissaia. The old mage taught you well. Raised you practically in the cobwebs of her home. The place that birthed every proper mage of your lifetime. The chaos that spilled from your fingertips, the fire burning in your belly, stoked by her hand. “You’re better than this.” Her beauty matched only by her venom. Her bite, fierce and lethal. “Do better.” 

You flourished under her through perseverance and determination. These private lessons you’d suffered through long before you were brought into the circle, years before you would ascend, years before your time in court. 

“Focus!” Was that her voice or… your vision snaps back to the present, Geralt damp with sweat, blood cascading down his arm you find yourself panting on the ground. His silver sword slashes across the demon’s belly. A high pitched whine. You could feel the edges blur again, ebbing and flowing, taking your consciousness. 

A boy birthed in the asylum. A slight deformation. You hushed him quietly as you robbed him in the night. Villain. That’s what you were and what you’d come to be. This boy wouldn’t survive. A slim chance with the ailments he was born with. He would soon be ripped from this world regardless, that’s how you reasoned in choosing your prey. Your last ingredient for a spell you shouldn’t be casting. 

You’ll do this, and then it will take you. That blissful Hym. It will give you the final push into cowardice. The push you would need to finally be rid of this place. This useless mage you’d become. His belly was round, so were his cheeks, his legs kicked in the cold air of the cave as he wailed. 

Elder words spill from your mouth as you raise the blade into the air. Striking true between the third and fourth rib. A wheeze and he’s gone. 

You found yourself gasping for air. Screaming as the wind picked up, a strong force over your mouth and chest. You felt trapped, cold stone against your back. It clears, your vision focusing in the dark. Whimpering against Geralt’s hand, “You’re fine.” Gruff words of comfort. “It’s gone, you’re free.” You catch your breath against him, pinned down by his arms in your anguish. What had you done?

You wail. Embarrassingly and out of code. You wail. He lets you struggle out of his grip, hands beating on his chest. “I told you to let it take me!” His jaw clenched, letting you sit up, backing yourself away from him and pressing as far into the wall as you could possibly be. “I told you--”

“I know what you said.” Voice level as always, even though there’s blood crusting on his arm and neck. “I saved you--”

“I should not have been saved.” He scoffs, sitting on his ass. 

“I thought that was the Hym talking.” He shrugged, steeling you with his eyes. You glare. 

“It was not.” He hummed, looking around the room, seeing the vials and herbs strewn about, glasses broken in battle. 

“I thought Mage’s brave.” He mused, “You’re a coward.” 

“I brought you here for a reason, Witcher.” Your head leaning back against the stone. 

“If you wanted to die, you wouldn’t have brought me here at all.” His brow furrows, in mock contemplation, “But why wouldn’t you let it just take you? Once you’re dead you’d no longer have to concern yourself with a Hym anyway. It doesn’t torment the dead. So that means…” You roll your eyes, avoiding his gaze. “You care enough about the people here, as much as your cold dead heart could, to save them from the same fate…. How noble of you.”

“Shut up.” His smirk, you let a heavy breath, eyes dry and itchy from crying, “I still killed a child.” The smirk drops, and he sighs as well. You were sure your womb would be aching if you had one. 

“The child,” He starts, “Wouldn’t have survived either way?”

“It might have if--” You shake your head, rubbing your eyes with your hands. 

“You wouldn’t have chosen a child not destined to die.” A glare, your glare. 

“You don’t know me.” You spit, pushing yourself up from the floor. He follows suit, standing across from you. 

“You’re right, I don’t.” A step closer. “But I’ve known Mages like you.” Another step. “And Mages tend to have a soft spot for children.” You could feel anger bubbling up in your chest,

“I’ve never wanted a child,” You bite.

“Regardless of that you no longer have the choice.” His canines were sharp up close. “And that kills you.” 

“If only.” He scoffs, close enough to taste his breath. You remember the rumors about Witchers, the rumors you knew to be true. How they were formed. “You know,” his head leaned down, forehead brushing yours. “I’m sorry for what they’ve done to you.” A stab into his chest, drowning out in a primal need. The comment ignored as he smashed his lips with yours, tangling his fingers into your hair. His teeth were sharp against your bottom lip. You beat him back with your fists, blood smeared on your bottom lip, his pupils blown wide. “Cad.” You spit, a grin, and you meet again. 

The stones rough against your back as you submit to him, his palms wrapped around your wrists and pinning you to the floor, a rough thrust and a gasp from first contact. Those eyes, black around the edges still, boring into your very soul as his hips meet yours in a brutal pace, splitting you into eye rolling pleasure. 

The friction of primal need. A burning of adrenaline in your veins. His hands release yours, sitting back on his haunches he grips your hips tightly. Your own hips rocking to meet him on their own accord, chasing the pleasure you so desperately sought. The slip you’d been wearing, torn on the sides from hasty tugging, he leaned over lavishing a nipple into his mouth, your fingers drifting between the two of you to bring yourself over, breath being caught in your throat, face red with exertion you push him over, his back meeting the stone floor where you straddle his hips. 

You slip yourself down his length, legs still shaking in orgasm and press your hands to his chest, rocking yourself, grinding your oversensitive clit against the course hairs at the base of his cock. His head hits the ground, hands bruising your hips as you work both him and yourself to a release. Head tossed back, sweat dripping down your spine. He spills himself inside you while you work yourself through your own aftershocks. Panting and suddenly extremely tired. Drained, you collapse next to him, his seed dripping down your thigh. 

“Collect your coin,” You pant, “And be gone before I wake.” You could see from the corner of your eye, his head turning towards yours. A pause, your breath catching. You felt bare, naked before this man. The forgetfulness of lust crusting on your leg. You needed him gone, if only to drown your sorrows once more before moving on. You see his mouth open, then close, deciding against whatever he was originally going to say. A moment of quiet. 

“As you wish.”

.

.

.

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[brightbeautifulthings]

Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace

"'What if sometimes there is no choice about what to love? What if the temple comes to Mohammed? What if you just love? without deciding? You just do: you see her and in that instant are lost to sober account-keeping and cannot choose but to love?'"

Year Read: 2014, 2020

Rating: 5/5

Context: It's hard to know where to begin writing a review for this book. I read it for the first time in graduate school in about five weeks (alongside everything else I had to do in grad school, so I don't recommend that), and it basically blew my mind. At the same time, it's hard to imagine tackling it any other way for the first time. Despite its difficulty, there are things obsessive and immersive and, appropriately, even addictive about it. Full immersion might be the only way to read it for the first time, and I obsessed about it for months afterward. Since I'm not on any deadlines, I took it more slowly this time (21 weeks) so I could enjoy the writing and the nuances without the pressure to finish. For my less coherent weekly updates in real time, see my blog posts. Trigger warnings: Everything, everything. Death (on-page), child death, animal death, suicide, suicidal ideation, rape, pedophilia, possible incest, child abuse/abusive households, graphic violence/gore, eye horror, severe injury, drug use, addiction, alcoholism, mental illness, depression, OCD, grief, racism, ableism, transphobia, sexism, inexplicable hostility toward Canadians.

About: If it's difficult to know how to write a review, it's equally hard to describe what Infinite Jest is about. It's about so many things, tennis, addiction, communication (failures), and entertainment among them, but I'll do my best. Beneath all the numerous characters, timelines, and subplots, the main plot is about a film so entertaining that it kills anyone who watches it, robs them of all desire to do anything but watch it until they die, and what a faction of Canadian assassins will do to possess it. The auteur is James Incandenza, a suicide whose son, Hal, is a prodigy at Enfield Tennis Academy. Next door to E.T.A. is Ennet House, a drug rehabilitation center where Don Gately, former thief and Demerol addict, is taking it day by day to stay sober. Though they don't know it, Hal and Gately are connected, and the deadly Entertainment and those who seek it draw their paths closer and closer together.

Thoughts: It's rare to find a book that is actually as smart as it claims to be, but IJ is--certainly much smarter than I am, despite all my attempts to make sense of it. It starts off strong and doesn't let up for several hundred pages, which is a huge achievement all by itself. Wallace excels at writing extremely polished sections that could almost function alone as short stories, and the first chapter is one of my favorites in all fiction. It's reassuring, I think, to start the book off on a strong note, in case we worried we were in for a thousand pages of tedious slog. It can be both, but it's often heartfelt, insightful, and funny as well, and the payoff is well worth the effort. I don’t know how Wallace manages to pack every page with so much meaning. Anybody can put tedious lists in their books or make reading purposely difficult (and I have attitude about writers who do this for no reason), but there’s nothing haphazard about this book, despite its size and varied focus. Everything seems utterly intentional. The conversations are really top-tier; Wallace has a great ear for how people talk, and it's a fascinating look at how communication works and doesn't work.

Thematically, I think the book succeeds on more than any other level, including plot or structure. If we could say this book is "about" anything, we would almost certainly start with the themes and not the plot, which is often secondary to whatever point Wallace is trying to make at the moment. It takes an in-depth looks at things like addiction, depression, loneliness, failed communication, sincerity v. irony, critiques of postmodernism and metafiction (while being very meta itself, at times), and the very specific selfishness of an American culture that insists on freedom even to the point of self-destruction. At times, it feels a little heavy-handed or like it was yanked right out of an intro to philosophy course, but I suppose something in a thousand pages has to be obvious if we're ever going to pick up on it. A lot of these themes resurface in his other work, from "This is Water" and "E Unibus Pluram" to Orin Incandenza's Brief Interview style Q and A (and he would be a perfectly fitting character in that book).

The characters are some of my favorites in literary fiction as well, particularly the Incandenza family and Don Gately, and to a lesser extent Joelle Van Dyne (although Wallace typically doesn’t write female characters very well, and she comes with some issues). Hal and Gately couldn't be more different; Hal excels at everything he's ever done, and Gately has a record that includes accidental homicide on it. Hal is the hero of non-action, since little that happens in the book is engineered by him, while Gately is closer to the more typical hero of action, who defends the undeserving at great cost to himself. Yet their struggles with addiction are similar, and they both manage to be incredibly sympathetic characters. In my opinion, the book is always at its best when we’re with Hal or Gately, but I’m strongly driven by good characters. Despite being dead, James Incandenza's presence is also felt all over the book, from the Entertainment he created to his haunting ETA and sticking beds to the ceiling (probably the weirdest ghost I've ever seen in fiction). He's a tragic character in a book full of tragic characters. The others are too numerous to name, from the other tennis players at ETA and recovering addicts at Enfield, to the various bystanders populating Boston. We get brief glimpses into almost all of them, and while they may not all feel relevant at the time, most are memorable or heart-wrenching or slapstick funny, or all three. It's a book that contains multitudes.

That's not to say it's always on point though, and it isn't. There are a number of very serious problems with representation in this novel, and they're as bad as its detractors claim. A lot of the 90s humor aged very poorly, but that's not an excuse for some of the unabashedly racist depictions of African Americans, the uncharitable descriptions of Steeply's and Poor Tony's cross-dressing, or--however much I love him as a character--the fact that Mario Incandenza’s descriptions are ableist in just about every possible way. Wallace thinks he's capturing "voice" when he's really encouraging harmful stereotypes. The humor of the novel often doesn’t depend at all on these stereotypes and would in fact, be a lot more funny if I wasn’t spending so much energy cringing at it. So many of the little racist and ableist asides could have easily been edited out of the entire novel to make it less offensive. There are also sections where he seems at pains to be as gross as possible for its own sake. There are plenty of things grim or uncomfortable or flat out distasteful about this book, but sometimes the graphic violence kind of jumps out and stabs you in the eye, say, with a railroad spike.

If there are times when I was totally absorbed in the little tragedies of the Incandenza family or Gately's struggles, there are plenty more where it's like pushing something heavy up a hill. No lie, some of it is slogging through tedious minutiae and various experimental writing styles (some more successful and less offensive than others). Wallace has a gift for purposeful tedium; it’s at its peak in The Pale King, but he gives it a nice warm-up round here. The novel is difficult and meant to be, since Wallace maintained that some of the best pleasures are the ones we have to work for, and he's not totally off base. There's something very satisfying about living, for a time, in a book that spans a thousand pages, that demands focus and perseverance, and manages to give back (almost) as much as it takes. The book is always structurally interesting, but it starts to get more complicated toward the end as various characters and plots begin to almost slide into one another. I forgot how frustrating it was to near the end and realize--again--that it wasn't going to wrap up with any kind of satisfaction; the various plots slide, but they don’t meet. I thought if I paid closer attention on a second read that I would pick up more of the plot things I’d missed on my first, but I think the problem is that those answers simply aren’t to be found in the actual text. Of course, they can point us toward various conclusions, and the novel certainly encourages us to speculate and make connections, but I don’t think the actual answers are there.

That brings me to some of my final thoughts, for now. There's no doubt that this is a hugely successful book, and I believe it accomplished exactly what Wallace meant it to do. He jokingly referred to it as a failed entertainment, much the way Jim considered his lethal Entertainment a failure, but I have the sense that Wallace, unlike Jim, failed on purpose. The book purposely pays more attention to structure and theme than it does to plot or character, yet the plot and characters are hugely compelling for what we see of them. Imagine the book it could have been if he had paid equal attention to all of them. Wallace attempted to create a book that people wouldn't want to stop reading. Reaching the end certainly encourages us to begin again, as the first chapter is actually the last in chronology, but that trick only works the first time. By my second read, I realized that starting over wouldn't help me fill in any of those blanks or answer any of my questions, and I was content to let it go. On the one hand, IJ depends upon its structure to tell the story it's telling. On the other, think of the book it could have been if it spent more time telling a story and developing its characters and less time belaboring a point. It's one of the best books I've ever read, and the tragedy is that I think it could have been even better.

[tiaragqueen]

Solicit

✂ Pairing: Yandere! Giyū Tomioka x Kakushi! Reader

✂ Word Count: 1,1k+

✂ Trigger Warnings: Loss of limb, implied manipulation

[Edited]

***

Soft, manipulative Giyū is the best. Also, a slight SPOILER for anime watchers so BEWARE!

If you like my writing, please support me on ko-fi!

“I'm losing my sense of control. Everyday, it goes on and on, we play the same old song. Baby, you know I'm just a slave to your love.” - Slave To Your Love [Wigwam]

Throughout your one year relationship, never once did Giyū actively sought your affection. It wasn’t as if he neglected you, or manipulating you to depend on him, but being a slayer required his full attention first and foremost. He’d occasionally drop by your house to sleep, often very late at night, and left early. His job reduced your time together, but you didn’t mind it. Being a Kakushi yourself, you were regularly sent to the battlefields to aid the injured and comprehended the severity of even a minor blunder to someone’s life. Your packed schedules also imparted a dear lesson on how to appreciate the little time you both had, especially after the death of close friends or acquaintances. Thus, relegating Giyū as the receiver since he was more reserved than you in terms of affection.

He didn’t mind it, of course. In fact, Giyū was content with his position. Being a completely different person just to cater to your needs had been one of his fears in dating, so he was relieved once he learned that you weren’t particularly clingy.

Regardless, Giyū wasn’t a spoiled brat who could only take and take without ever giving anything in return. If your mission happened to coincide with his, he would ensure to protect you and help you with household chores during his rare day off. Giyū was also willing to step outside his comfort zone by offering you solace whenever you hit rock bottom from the countless and seemingly incessant deaths, although the furthest thing he could was an awkward hug.

He wouldn’t say much, and his words were often terse and frigid, but you knew he meant well. His criticisms, albeit hard to swallow sometimes, implied his boundless concern over your well-being.

Just as his demand conveyed his desperation over something you’d always be more than happy to give, and something that he was used to receiving.

“No.”

“And what do you mean by ‘no’?” Instead of looking at him like he desired, you only frowned and kept putting on your socks. “Many people need my help, Giyū. I can’t just sit here and watch them die. If I can prevent it, that is.”

You mumbled the last part and didn’t expect him to pick it up, but he did anyway. Then again, he wouldn’t be a slayer if he didn’t hone his hearing in the place.

Giyū squinted. “Muzan’s dead, and there’s a lot of Kakushi other than you. An absent volunteer won’t have a large impact on their performance if they’re really capable of handling the victims.” Frustration boiled within his chest when he saw you nonchalantly got up from the floor and headed towards the door, but Giyū persisted. He was certain that with a bit more pressure, you’d definitely crumble. “Besides, you’ve been working tirelessly these past few weeks. Give your body a break, will you?”

“What are you talking about? I’ve taken two days off to take care of you after the war.”

“So, you only need two days to tend for your boyfriend and weeks for strangers?” he retorted. “Well, you sure have your priorities straight.”

You sucked an exasperated breath, clenching your fists to control the forthcoming outburst. It was barely morning, and yet, he already tried to provoke you by bringing up trivial matters. He’d been doing this ever since your ‘vacation’ ended, and while it started sweet, his controlling attitude gradually snuffed your patience. You supposed he felt lonely at home, since his condition was no longer suitable for fighting, and needed someone to talk to. But surely he could tolerate several hours without your presence? It wasn’t as if this was the first time you left him or vice versa, the latter being more frequent than you could remember. Besides, you weren’t too keen on excessive training and always spent your spare time at home, anyway. Therefore, he shouldn’t have any reason to complain about your unavailability.

“Are we really having this conversation, Giyū?”

“Yes,” he hissed. “because I care about you and I want you to rest.”

It was true, though. Despite the notable elimination of Muzan and the upper moons, some powerful demons still loitered nearby. Their attacks were occasional yet devastating, and the records of missing persons had increased steadily. Still, the victims couldn't heal in one day. The medicines could only do so much for their bodies, and the rest was up to the regeneration of each individual. It hadn’t even included the number of weaker slayers who had gotten injured, or the dead bodies you needed to bury.

Oyakata was by no means blind, either. He’d noticed your lackluster performance and urged you to rest for a while, but you remained adamant. You loved helping people, and there was no way you’d lose to your perpetual dispute.

A quarrel that you knew would end in your defeat, anyway.

You just hadn’t expected it to arrive early.

“[Name], please.” You blinked in surprise when you heard his plea accompanied by a gentle clasp on your hand. Cobalt eyes staring up at you tenderly, almost imploring, and you could’ve sworn you caught his lips trembled a little. “Stay with me, that’s all I want.”

A pang of guilt clenched your heart when you saw his right hand, or the lack thereof. On one tranquil night, when the ghosts of deceased comrades decided to withdraw into the darkest corner of your mind for once, you remembered playing with his fingers and admiring the appendage that had saved many lives. Lives that might or might not have thanked him, but he still defended nonetheless. The hand that had protected your single-minded self countless times, yet never had the chance to truly thank him.

Was this how you repay his efforts and sacrifices he’d readily and selflessly given? If so, then you weren’t worth the title of Giyū’s girlfriend.

“I’m…” You bowed and bit your bottom lip. Would you persevere against his harmless wish? Would you surrender instead? There was no considerable loss other than missing a day, but you were sure Oyakata would understand. Sighing, you tensed shoulders finally sagged as you looked away rather sulkily. “Okay, I guess… I guess I can be absent for today.”

Years of training and mental anguish had taught him to suppress his emotions, but even Giyū couldn’t refrain a tiny smirk from appearing at his victory. Wrapping an arm around your stomach, he sunk his face against the dark uniform and deftly exhaled the triumph before you could sense it.

“Thank you, [Name].”

His lost appendage would always be a traumatic experience, one that Giyū could never forget no matter how hard he tried. At the very least, you paid more attention to him now. Even if he had to nudge you first, even if he had to sacrifice his broken pride by appealing to your conscience, the result was definitely worth the effort.

[lunarxdaydream]

advent calendar rp meme

→  day five: a male character (of someone else’s)

→  ‘Nolan Asato’ : V-20579 ( @vacuitas​ )

     Where do I even begin on this muse? If there is ever a time where you’re looking for feels, I can promise that you will find it here. I cannot begin to tell you the amount of times his story had just broken my heart. His development has been one of the most amazing things I have seen (and I mean this outside of our own interactions). His complex layers are one among the numerous traits that expand throughout the Viscera storyline characters.

     Nolan is an artificial who, like many others, were experimented on. Unfortunately, through the selfish and cruel whims of Viscera’s scientists, he was subjected to a change of his DNA that has led to his shifting akin to a werewolf. Enhanced abilities and strength have made him a dangerous creature. Nolan, or rather V-20579, is another subject whose life was not above a lab rat with no purpose in life. Because of this, his life span has potentially been shortened as one of its many side effects. 

     Through his story, you find that Nolan often keeps to himself. His apathy allows him to maintain a distance from unnecessary connections that could potentially hinder his work or worse, reopen old wounds from his traumatic past. His only trusted companions prior to his development have been Talon, a mentor and pseudo father after a scale of artificial runaways, and Vice, Talon’s second-in-command and friend. While you may see other relationships to artificials, you will find that Nolan’s trust is primarily located among those two. Aside of this, nothing else mattered nor did he share interest in expanding his circle. 

     At least that was until he met Satine. From there, Nolan has learned to not only allow emotions but believe that he too, is a living human rather than a ‘monster’. Sadly, even with love in his life, Nolan has continued to struggle with his inner demons such as self-doubts and hatred. After a recent revelation of his accidental slaughter of his family, Nolan has seemed to lose trust in his own ability to keep those around him safe. It makes you wonder if he trusts his current fiancée to pull the trigger on the weapon to kill him should he suddenly attack her in his transformed state. 

     Nolan is continuing to learn about the world and more importantly, how to live in it. For the first time, Nolan seems to have a reason to live. Frankly, a reason to desire something for himself instead of living an existence void of purpose. At times, you catch glimpses of his trauma and inner beliefs clashing against his current hopes. Wherein the past Nolan might’ve not cared whether he died, now you find that he fears it because he doesn’t want to hurt those around him. 

     From an isolated muse with an apathetic demeanor to one who now is learning to cope with new found wishes, Nolan is a heartbreaking muse with a beautiful story. Here you have someone who has lived in the dark and been treated less than dirt now wanting to be part of a world. You can observe how his old habits affect his relationship, particularly with his fiancée, by hiding the decline of his health. In fact, he even went as far as to neglect the idea of proposing for so long despite his desire to take her as a wife because of his fear to leave her a widow. 

     To this day, Nolan continues to suffer in silence. While promising to no longer lie, you can understand Nolan’s motivations in attempting to ease the burden of devastating news. Add the strained relationship he has with Talon due to his purposeful decision to hide the truth behind Nolan’s actions to his family, you find that he is slowly re-isolating himself. Many times, Nolan struggles with the feelings of humanity. After all, how could anyone consider him ‘human’ when he is a creature that turns and leaves nothing but destruction in his wake?

     As the days lead closer to the full moon, you also witness an increase of Nolan’s anxieties and aggression. On the night of the full moon, Nolan becomes what he considers to be a ‘monster’ with no memory of the events he committed. An example of this is the slaughter of his entire family by his very claws and the attempted attack on Satine years back. You cannot help but feel your heart bleed for him because, in many ways, he reverts to almost a frightened child who wants to simply be safe. He doesn’t want to suffer anymore ... and yet, no one could stop the pain that he has continuously endured through his life. 

     In essence, Nolan is a muse who is trying to understand his existence. He is someone that has only recently begun to learn how to deal with his emotions and allow himself to trust. On the one hand, you can understand his apprehension considering that a high weight of emotions can also serve as a trigger to his transformation outside the full moon. On the other, you can also see him attempting to reach out to possess a life that was never meant for him. I think in many ways, he still does not have a definitive answer to what outcome he wants because of the consequences that follow his life. To say I absolutely love this muse is the understatement of the century. It hurts me so much to see him in pain but at the same time, the way he manages to persevere against the odds is something to admire. 

[crescentharborrp]

BASICS

Name: Lara Christina Winter.

Gender/Pronouns: cisfemale, (she/her).

Date of Birth: April 13th, 1987.

Age: 33.

Hometown: Seattle, Washington.

Length of time in Crescent Harbor: 33 years.

Neighborhood: Bywater Park.

Occupation: Social Media Manager.

Faceclaim: Satomi Ishihara.

BIOGRAPHY (trigger warnings: implied drug abuse, implied alcoholism, overdose, foster care)

“The world goes on, stupid and brutal, but I do not. Can't you see? I do not.” —Jennifer Donnelly

The Winter family have always been the exact opposite of the image their name would invoke, a family that instead of being frosty and detached, were a warm and loving bunch with as many troubling trials and mishaps as any family next door. ‘There is no such thing as perfection’ Mrs. Winter would remind her children, a mixed bunch of adopted and foster kids that belonged as much as her biological children did. ‘But what matters is that you try.’ Mr. Winter would finish. And though such words of encouragement were only meant to help and not hinder, Lara Christina would not be first nor last to realise that their name isn’t inspired by the literal cold, but the ceaseless strength of such a season that endured, even in the most silent, most dread-filled moments. 

Lara was one of the middle children of the Winter brood, identifiable by the blonde hair almost always set in braids with her cornflower blue eyes perpetually set to the distance. With a penchant for adventure it was she who would be the last child inside for dinner with dirt on her hands and knees and leaves in her pocket, she who by the time she was fourteen would steal weekends to stay with friends or adventuring into the city, even taking up hiking eventually when she convinced her elder siblings that she could keep up with them. 

Her parents used to say that her restlessness would lead her right out of Crescent Harbor one day, and by the time she was sixteen she had dreams of walking through the halls of Versailles, of backpacking through Italy, and taking a photo outside of Buckingham Palace (and maybe even meeting Prince Harry), maps and brochures taped to her side of the bedroom she shared with her siblings. There was no question about it: their adventurer was made for a world beyond Crescent Harbor, and she had every intention of making her dreams come true. 

However, those same dreams had not included a child by her high school sweetheart at a young age. They’d talked about it of course (it, being what they wanted to do in the future), getting out of town and being able to travel as they grew older, maybe even applying to a university out of the state and studying for a semester out of the country. But Lara had fallen pregnant over New Years break her junior year, and early into her senior year of high school, they’d welcomed their little Mason Hawthorne into the world. 

It should be known that they’d both tried to do the right things. Not only for themselves, but for their infant son. Without either of their parents’ support, they moved in together, trying to balance raising their son between Quinn dropping out taking on multiple jobs to keep them afloat and Lara working part time and staying in school. There was nothing easy about it. Lara can’t remember how many times she’d cried, still nearly a child herself as she tried to settle their son down for the night so she could trudge her way through a calculus assignment and Quinn could rest. But what mattered at the end of the day was that they made it through each day, and that every day they tried even more to give as good as they could. As her parents had instilled in her, it wasn’t that they had a perfect life. But that they put in the effort. 

What she didn’t expect was how difficult it all could become; how being a young adult, a young mother would test her mettle. They weren’t perfect, but they were happy. Or, at least, she tried to convince themselves they were until the fighting had become too much and seemingly out of nowhere, she stopped trying temporarily. Lara had left with their son on her hip and returned home. Their adventurer, their dreamer returned to her safe place to land with her head down and tears in her eyes. Her dreams, hers and Quinn’s promises had not only frayed at the edges, but finally cracked like a mirror. Reflected in her gaze were those ideas shattered. So she’d begin again, under the safety of her parents’ roof, with the help of her siblings as she slowly picked herself up: she enrolled in a local college, worked full time — and in a way that only a Winter could, Lara tried, again and again with Quinn. 

Perhaps a better girlfriend would have stuck it out; a better partner would have been able to support him better for his sake and hers and Mason’s. In a way, she will never forgive herself for not being able to do so; as regrettably with each relapse, after every promise that he was clean and stable and better for them and their son was broken, that same shattered yet enduring love wore away with the sea that lapped at Crescent Harbor’s shores. His overdose at the age of twenty-six, a scene she (much to her horror) had discovered with their son, was the last straw. After being raised to not stop trying, to endure and persevere, to not prize perfection but the effort put forward, Lara stopped entirely. 

Instead of attempting again to try and raise their son together as a family, to heal what was so obviously fractured between the both of them, Lara Christina Winter stepped away, for once embodying the unforgiving, frosty invocation of her surname. She looked critically at her jobs and career trajectory, dedicated herself to her son: her dreams would no longer be based on a family of three, but two; the trips and little escapes from the monotony of life would be for her and Mason to enjoy. She’d give their son the stability a child would need, a soft place to land if he fell, and after failing Quinn, the promise on her own life that she would never stop trying for him.

In the next handful of years, it would be she and Mason on a trip to Disneyland and Universal Studios, to Hawaii, and after landing a new job three years ago as a social media manager for an eSports organisation based in Seattle, she’s finally been able to afford the both of them a short trip to France and Italy, and has flown with Mason to trips across the United States to attend the professional league tournaments of the video games he loves. 

Although she’s finally had the adventures she’s dreamed of by the age of thirty-three (and lived many more that she could have never imagined) it’s only through her new occupation that she’s had an inkling how much she has to regain. Between her career, Mason, and still lukewarm-at-best relationship with Quinn since his last overdose, it’s been seven years of hard work without letting anyone into her life to access those same vulnerabilities and dreams that Lara had for herself. Mason is sixteen now, and the ‘what if's' of a bigger family, of having a partner or another child have popped into her mind thanks to the younger demographic of her workplace. She’s been reminded time and time again (and the reminders have now begun to come from Mason, too) that she’s still young, and still has the world of opportunities to enjoy. She has to remember she’s more than a mother and co-worker— Lara has to try for herself, too.

PERSONALITY

+ creative, self-sufficient, dedicated.

- protective, escapist, repressed.

[baphometsss]

Finding the floor

Pairing: Ian x Mickey

Rating: E

Word Count: 3,879

Trigger warnings: Discussion of Depression, Anxiety and Bipolar Disorder, plus talk about meds

A/N: My first (and probably only) time writing bottom!Ian. I would call this ‘PWP’ but honestly the sex is not that… sexy. It’s meant to be kind of realistic (i.e. awkward). It’s just soft, hurt/comfort-y smut that I decided to write after having a crappy day. I hope you enjoy it.

AO3

-

It had been a rough few months.

After a bout of depression triggered by increased resistance to one of his meds, Ian was slowly coming back to himself. It had been difficult getting him to see that he was sick to begin with, and Mickey had once again been faced with the painful possibility of seeing his husband admitted to hospital. Thankfully it hadn’t come to that this time, but it was no less painful to see his goober of a husband deteriorate into just a shell of himself.

The new meds, however, were not without their side effects. The first type Ian tried had given him devastating anxiety and nausea that kept him up through the night. The shrink had insisted that Ian “persevere” through the first ten days “or so” of side effects. However, after the third night in a row of peeling his sweat-soaked husband off the bathroom floor and stroking his back until he fell into fitful sleep, Mickey had marched Ian down to the clinic again and demanded a new drug that didn’t turn his husband into a complete wreck.

This one was much better in that it wasn’t forcing them both to take time off work to deal with it, but it was causing some other, no less pleasing effects.

Which was how Mickey found himself with his head cradled in his husband’s crotch, his mouth wrapped around his dick, trying to work it to full hardness. He pulled his head away and glanced up at Ian, who was resting his head against the pillows with his eyes closed, and worked on jerking his husband’s still-flaccid cock with his hand.

“Hey, you still with me?” he said, a smile playing at his lips.

Ian opened one eye. “Yeah,” he whispered.

It was dark, the room only lit by the lamp beside the bed. The house was silent but for their breathing and the odd creak of the mattress.

“Not feelin’ it?” he asked.

“I am, but I just can’t…” Ian replied, shifting a little on the bed.

Mickey gave him a soft look. “You don’t need to be embarrassed, man.”

“I’m not—” Ian began, his voice raising an octave before it came back down to the same hushed tones they were speaking in. “I’m not embarrassed, I just… I want to make you feel good. I want to feel close to you and I can’t—I can’t even get it up,” he finished. “You sure you don’t want me to try sucking you off again? Fuck my gag reflex.”

Mickey shook his head and looked him up and down, over the soft ginger hairs peppering the sinuous planes and dips of muscle, considered his bitten fingernails resting on the pillow beside his head. He stroked one hand up and let his fingers glide through the dip between his pectoral muscles, then over his collarbone and neck until he was cradling the side of his head. He leaned forward and placed a slow, deep kiss on Ian’s lips, his tongue slipping between them.

When he pulled away, they were both breathing a little harder into the warm space between them, and Mickey felt his husband’s cock twitch minutely in his grip.

“I want you to get something out of this too. How is your stomach, by the way?” Mickey asked, resting his palm against Ian’s belly.

Ian glanced down at it. “Fine. I haven’t felt sick at all since I started taking them. Why?” he asked.

“You don’t look as sick as you did before. You looked even paler, if that’s possible.”

Ian smiled ruefully. “You know, this isn’t a very sexy conversation.”

“Fuck you,” Mickey laughed. “I’m just thinking…”

“Woah, don’t hurt yourself,” Ian said.

Mickey pinched his nipple and bit back a grin.

Ian squirmed away with a giggle and Mickey let go of his cock, still no harder now than when they began almost thirty minutes ago. If Ian was back to making his lame jokes, it could only be a good sign that the meds were starting to work.

It was quiet for a little while and they basked in the stillness of the night. Somewhere in the distance, a dog was barking. A few streets away, two men were yelling – probably drunk, or high, or both (probably both). Something in the house ticked over and began to hum.

“Maybe… maybe we should try something different,” Mickey said tentatively, lying against his husband’s side and playing with his balls idly.

“Like what?” Ian asked, blowing out a stream of smoke.

Mickey took the cig from him and took a drag. “Well,” he said, passing it back to him, “did you really start bottoming while I was gone?”

Ian was silent. “Well… yeah, but it was only with one guy.”

Mickey didn’t say anything to that. He didn’t especially want to hear about Ian’s flings with other men, or his own semi was going to go totally soft before the smoke was even stubbed out in the ashtray.

…But he didn’t like the idea of Ian only ever bottoming for one guy either. It felt… wrong for that guy to not be him.

“Did you like it?” he asked.

Ian seemed to consider this for a moment. “Well, I can’t say it’s my preference,” he began.

Mickey snorted. “You can say that again. You are the definition of a service top, Gallagher.”

Ian laughed softly. Mickey felt his heart skip a beat.

“Yeah, and you’re the definition of a bossy bottom,” he said, squeezing Mickey’s pectoral muscle with the hand that was slung over his shoulder. “Nah… It was okay. It wasn’t… it wasn’t anything to write home about, I guess. I did it because he wanted to do it that way and… I agreed. But you’re right. I do like being on top. I love it.”

Mickey smirked and played with Ian’s fingers as he thought.

“You ever thought about doing it with me?” he asked.

Ian turned his head on the pillow and looked down at him. “Are you asking to fuck me in the ass?” he asked, only slightly teasing.

“I’m just sayin’… maybe it’ll help get you goin’…” he mumbled.

Ian stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray and settled down again. “Well... I can’t say I haven’t thought about it,” he said.

Mickey smirked.

“I know you’d make it good,” Ian murmured, looking at Mickey from under his eyelashes.

Mickey stared at him and swallowed. Truthfully, he didn’t like topping all that much. It never came close to the intensity of pleasure and release of stress that being fucked gave him. It just felt so natural to him, to be penetrated by another man – specifically Ian – despite everything he’d been taught to the contrary, and the desire had persisted beyond every attempt he’d made to repress it. But the way that Ian was looking at him, and the prospect of sharing that pleasure with him, was making him reel with the possibilities of being on the opposite end of things…

Slowly, Mickey leaned forward and caught his husband’s lips with his own again. This kiss had a different feel to it. Ian still felt vulnerable; he still had that jittery edge to his movements, but now Mickey was responding to the desire Ian hadn’t been able to express physically and it felt more fluid. He moaned as they kissed passionately and slid forward until he was straddling his hips. Their cocks slid together wonderfully, sending jolts of electricity through their bodies.

Ian’s hands came up to grip his hips and he sighed into the kiss. He tilted his head to the side and the kiss got even better. Little waves of static shivered up and down his back as Ian’s hand stroked his spine, then over his hips again to grip one of Mickey’s ass cheeks.

Mickey almost whined. He didn’t need his ass played with right now – it only fuelled his hunger for Ian’s cock to be inside him even further, which was not conductive to what he had in mind.

“Fuck,” he breathed as he pulled away.

Ian smirked and brought both his hands down to squeeze Mickey’s ass cheeks hard, then pulled them apart so his hole was exposed to the cool night air. A shudder wracked Mickey’s body, and he let out a cry as Ian’s mouth found his nipple just as he felt a fingertip tease his rim.

“Fuck—Ian—!” he panted.

“Jesus,” Ian growled against his chest, “fucking meds.”

Mickey glanced down and reached for his husband’s cock, tugging on it a few times. His arm flexed as he jerked it desperately, even pausing to tease the fraenulum the way he knew Ian liked.

Ian was staring too, his brow furrowed as he rubbed Mickey’s hole and panted through his nose.

…Nothing.

“Fuck sake,” Ian sighed, his head falling back onto the pillow.

Mickey bit his lip and pulled his arm away in defeat. Then, he reached into the drawer of their nightstand and pulled out the lube.

“You sure about this?” he asked. “I mean, I know I’m not like you. I’m not hung like a fucking horse or anything, but I do have a lot of experience with getting fucked in the ass. It hurts if you don’t do it right.”

Ian shifted on the bed below him, one arm slung across his forehead and a dismayed expression on his face. “It can’t hurt. We’ve tried pretty much everything else.”

Mickey nodded and leaned down to kiss him. He swirled his tongue around inside his mouth and hummed softly. They made out for a few minutes, Mickey rocking against him slowly, his own cock now rock hard as Ian stroked his back. He spread his legs a little wider to accommodate Mickey’s body.

Pulling away, Mickey reached for the lube again and uncapped it with his thumb. He tried not to show it in his body language, but he was nervous. He never felt nervous during sex, especially not with Ian. He certainly hadn’t felt nervous with the guys in prison, but there was an agenda there that he didn’t have with Ian. He wanted him to feel good. It hadn’t been this way with them.

Despite his attempts to hide his nerves, Ian apparently clocked them anyway, because there was a large hand threading itself through the short hair on the back of his head and pulling him down. Ian kissed him slowly, brought his other hand up to stroke his face with his thumb soothingly.

“I trust you,” he whispered after pulling away.

Mickey gazed down at him and nodded.

His fingers slid into him more smoothly than he’d expected, and he tried not to think about it too much. Ian seemed to be relaxed, if his breathing was anything to go by, and Mickey focused on pressing a third finger into him.

Ian let out a soft groan at that. Mickey bit his lip and continued to watch his husband’s face as he felt around inside the hot, pulsing heat of him, searching for that spot that always made him come apart when Ian fucked him. It took a few tries, which was several more than it usually took Mickey, who was more than used to doing this to himself. It turned out that doing it to someone else was quite a lot harder; Ian was bigger than he was, his proportions were different, and Mickey wasn’t all that well versed in anatomy, so he didn’t really know where to look.

Finally, he brushed it with a knuckle. He knew this because Ian suddenly seemed to light up like a Christmas tree: his eyes flew open, his hips jerked and he let out a punchy, breathless moan.

Mickey grinned as he listened to Ian let out a stream of shaky breaths. When he finally sighed and relaxed back into the pillows, Mickey smirked and curled his fingers towards himself again.

The result was the same, but Ian let out a choked groan and the muscles in his thighs, which were pressed against Mickey’s hips, actually quivered. Mickey smirked again and leaned down to kiss his husband’s parted lips. Ian’s brow was furrowed and his face was flushed with arousal. Mickey liked that about him; his ears would pink first, then his cheeks, and then all of his pale, Celtic skin would flush scarlet.

“Feeling good?” he asked against his lips.

“Yeah,” Ian replied, his breath shuddering out of him. “Get inside me.”

Mickey smiled against his mouth and slid his fingers out of him. He squeezed a little more lube out of the bottle and spread it over his cock, then wiped his hand on the bed sheet. He steadied himself on his knees and pushed Ian’s legs up slightly with his elbows. Then he was lining himself up, the head of his cock rubbing against the tight curl of muscle between his husband’s legs.

Ian was staring up at him, his eyes wide and his face vulnerable. His mouth was a tight line, and he was panting through his nose as Mickey pushed into him.

It was so outside of Mickey’s usual desires when it came to sex that it kind of surprised him how good it felt. He could feel every pulse and twitch of Ian’s body against his cock. His hole was tighter than anything he’d ever felt around him. He arched his back and closed his eyes as he leaned into the feeling, a low groan escaping his lips.

Below him, Ian was panting. It took a few moments for Mickey to come back to himself and focus on his husband once more.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice a little choked with the pressure of keeping still.

“Uh huh,” Ian replied, but his voice was a bit too tight for Mickey’s liking.  

He didn’t say anything, but he kept still until Ian’s face softened and his breathing evened out.

“You can move,” he breathed, his legs relaxing a little.

Mickey nodded and licked his lips. He closed his eyes and drew back a little, glancing up when he heard Ian sigh. He pushed back in again, slowly, and then out, and then in again, gently. He was watching Ian’s face for any sign of pain, but he found none; only tension and the same edge of anxiety he’d had for the last couple of weeks.

For his part, Mickey was having a hard time keeping his libido under control. He wanted to fuck into Ian until he was spent, but more than that he wanted him inside him, where he belonged.

Speaking of…

Mickey glanced down to Ian’s cock and smirked.

“Hey,” he said softly, and motioned down to where they were joined.

“I know,” Ian gasped, and arched his back a little. “Fuck.”

Licking his lips, Mickey began to thrust a little faster, but still with the same caution as before. Ian moaned, a low sound, and then he shuddered.

“Ah—Mick—” he panted, his voice smothering the gentle creaks the mattress had begun to make in time with Mickey’s thrusts.

Mickey brought his hand up to stroke Ian’s face and he leaned in for a kiss. He moaned into it, his hips jerking as Ian pulsed around him. He started aiming a little higher, and he almost came when he felt a pair of long legs wrap around his waist.

“Faster,” Ian begged, and Mickey could only oblige.

Their hips were slapping together now as they grunted and moaned, Mickey lunging and Ian clawing at his back. He was letting out deep, punched-out breaths, a telltale sign that Mickey was hitting the mark. He almost smirked, relishing in being the one to give him that white-hot pleasure even as he was desperate to be in his husband’s position.

“Fuck, I’m close,” Mickey gasped, his hips jerking. His balls were tightening and he could feel his belly pulsing and quivering.

“Do it,” Ian barked, his voice gravelly and low with arousal.

“Are you—?”

“Doesn’t matter. Please. I want you to come inside me,” he demanded, his voice tight.

Mickey panted and glanced down at his husband’s cock. He was hard, and his body was flushed and sweating with lust.

Not in the mood to argue with his orgasm so close, Mickey nodded and began to thrust in earnest. He was sweating with the exertion, but it was only when he felt a hand grip his ass and then slide between his cheeks to his hole that he became totally helpless to it. Ian slid his middle finger inside him and began to fuck it in and out rapidly, and it was with a whimper and a couple of thrusts later that Mickey was coming hard. His hips totally lost whatever rhythm he’d found as he pressed into him and found his release, and he let out a strangled moan of pleasure as he pulsed and shook through the crescendo.

They were both panting fit to burst a lung as Mickey pulled out of him and rolled to the side. It was quiet in the room save for the sound of their breathing and occasional groan.

Eventually, when they had both calmed down a little, Mickey found himself glancing over at his husband with a lopsided grin. Ian looked back at him, his face still pinked, his legs still spread.

“Your turn,” Mickey said softly, grinning even wider now.

Ian grinned back and reached for the lube before rolling over and settling between Mickey’s legs. Barely ten seconds seemed to pass before his fingers were slick with lube and rubbing over his hole, then his own now-fully hard cock.

“Ungh, fuck,” Mickey grunted, his legs opening wider as he felt the head of Ian’s erection push against him.

Ian moaned softly as he slid inside in one fluid stroke, his brow furrowing as he bottomed out. Mickey reached up and placed his hands on his ribs, his body relaxed in post-orgasmic bliss but his cock still half-hard. His refractory period was as short as it had ever been despite the fact that he was no longer a teenager, but he didn’t mind if he didn’t come again. He just wanted Ian to release some of the pressure that had been building up inside of him, but that he’d been unable to get out with his body so compromised.

Above him, Ian was hitching his legs up and hooking his elbows under his knees. He groaned and began to thrust in and out, slowly at first. He built up the pace with a moan, but it took only a brief nudge of Mickey’s heel into his hip for him to get the message.

It was a clumsy, discordant fuck, lacking almost all of their usual finesse. Somehow they shifted and Ian’s leg ended up hooked over Mickey’s, but it allowed them a deeper penetration that had Mickey’s cock standing to attention barely ten minutes after he’d come inside his husband.

“Fu-uck-!” Mickey gasped. His thigh quivered as Ian’s cock pulled a lightning charge from his body and he arched his back with a whine.

“You close?” Ian panted. Mickey’s other leg was resting on Ian’s shoulder, where his mouth pressed against his calf as he panted and worked himself into a sweat.

Mickey nodded and his nails dug into Ian’s bicep as he writhed and chased his orgasm. Ian’s hand found his cock, made a fist around it and began to rub it mercilessly. His rhythm stuttered and he was grunting with his eyes screwed shut.

“Fuck—Ian, I’m—!” Mickey gasped.

Ian gave a guttural moan, the volume barely kept in check as he pressed into him and came.

Mickey found his own release at the first pulse of Ian’s orgasm, a strange feeling deep inside that turned him on no end. He moaned lowly and his body shook with ecstasy as he came in hot stripes across his belly.

Above him, Ian’s hips were shaking as he emptied himself. Glancing up, Mickey could see Ian’s face in the semi-darkness, reddened and slightly sweaty with exertion.

“Fuck,” Mickey gasped, his head flopping down onto the pillow behind him. His body was bent at a weird angle from the way their limbs had tangled, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.

Ian was panting now, his body free of the tension that he’d been suffering with these past couple of weeks. Mickey was relieved. He knew his husband had a sex drive to rival his and it would’ve been bothering him not to be able to release that pressure.

Slowly, he began to extricate himself from Mickey’s body. Mickey tried not to feel disappointed, but they were kind of sticky with sweat and it wasn’t pleasant anyway, especially now he had cum all over his belly.

“Jesus, what the fuck,” Ian snickered as he awkwardly wriggled around. “We look like a goddamn… Hindu god or some shit…”

Mickey laughed quietly as Ian untangled them and he lifted his legs as necessary to help him pull away. He sighed as he felt him slide out, his cock now spent. They cleaned up as well as they could, but there was a wetness between his legs that he was going to have to deal with, though Ian probably would too. But it could wait for a moment.

They settled back against the mattress and Ian pulled him close until he was resting his head on his shoulder with a long, freckled arm slung around him.

“Do you feel better?” Mickey asked softly, gently stroking his wrist.

Ian was quiet for a moment. “Yeah,” he said softly. He sounded tired.

“Good,” Mickey replied, and shut his eyes as his body began to sink into sleep.

It was silent for a few moments and Mickey assumed that his husband had dropped off to sleep before him.

“For a while I thought… that I wouldn’t be able to get it up again…” he mumbled.

Mickey furrowed his brow. “Why would you think that?”

Ian was silent.

“Ian, you know the side effects don’t last. We’ve been through this before, and it always balances out eventually,” he said softly, turning his head and glancing up at his husband.

“Mm…”

“Don’t over think it. It’s gonna take a while for you to feel normal again. Well, as normal as you usually are,” he said with a fond smile.

Ian smirked. “At least my dick is working again,” he said after a few more minutes of silence.

Mickey laughed quietly. “Yeah it is,” he said proudly.

“You’re a pretty good top too, you know,” Ian said teasingly. “I’ll have to get you to give it to me more often.”

Mickey rolled his eyes. “You better not stop fuckin’ me just ‘cause you got a taste for my dick in your ass now, shithead.”

Ian laughed. “I won’t, I promise,” he said. “Jesus, I was right about the bossy bottom thing. Gonna get me goin’ again, Mick.”

Mickey snorted. “Save it for the morning, Casanova.”

A few days later, Mickey woke up to a familiar hardness poking into the back of his thigh. They celebrated by fucking loudly enough for Debbie to yell at them to shut up from across the hall.

Relief was a sweet, sweet feeling.  

[parmesancheeze]

An essay about Self

Sanchez, CyronDeriz D.

BACOMM 1-H

           My name is Cyron Deriz D. Sanchez and I am alive.

           On September 23rd my Mum gave birth to a wonderful handsome baby boy – me. I don’t have memories about my infancy but according to stories I was one energetic baby. I’m the third child and also the first son of Mr. Ronnie and Mrs. Corazon Sanchez. I have 2 sisters who are both loving and supportive of me and a younger brother whom I adore very much. Growing up, I had everything. A roof over my head, all the food I want to eat and all the toys I want to play. It was a blissful childhood and I knew that I was meant for greatness.

As years go by, my family and I had some big walls that needed climbing. I was 14 – years old when our house was taken as a collateral during my father’s trial with Metrobank. Our life drastically changed when my father lost his job. He was our main provider and the loss of the financial stability he gave the family made life significantly harder. It was around this time that I realized life isn’t just. Our home was wrongfully taken from us, the home where I grew up. I was angry and hateful of everything, my once perfect life is not so perfect anymore.I became rebellious for the rest of my teenage years. I partied day and night, smoked hundreds of cigarettes, drank different kinds of alcoholic drinks, and tried recreation with drugs. I couldn’t accept the fact that I lost the life I used to live. I was hurting and I didn’t think anybody noticed or cared.I was too fixated on my pain and my suffering that I never tried to look at the pain and suffering of others and at the bright side of change.I never gave a glance at my parent’s pain, at their disappointment that their first-born son fallen so low; at their worry every time I stay out late drinking, and then driving. I didn’t notice how my friends’ attitude toward my presence, they hated my guts because my irritation with life affects their mood, too. I might as well have closed my eyes when the people around me were hurting because of my actions. I was selfish and conceited, I thought the world would stop for me because I was in pain. Multiple times, I tried taking away my own life in hopes that my death would mean the end of all the hurting. I was never courageous enough to go through with it.

I was 17 – years old when my cousin and best friend died, it was aneurysm that took away his life. In life, my cousin was a very happy man. He took care of his parents and siblings, he made sure his friends were having fun whenever he’s around, he was satisfied with the things he had. He was satisfied, maybe even basking in the glory of his life. According to the doctors, extreme fatigue and overwork was the trigger of his aneurysm. I remember during the wake, I was sitting by his casket when I realized how much love he must have had for his family that he overworked himself to death. He literally died trying to offer the world to his family. His life was short and it is very sad that he died so young, but my cousin’s death was my catalyst. After his burial, I started working on myself. I worked so hard to make up for all the bad things I did to my family. I apologize to them, and I tried to not make them worry so much. I learned to control my emotions, stopped bossing people around, I saved money, but of all I accepted the fact that we weren’t rich anymore, that I had to man up and take my responsibilities seriously, and that people leave and it is not your fault. It was a slow and grueling process that involved sleepless nights and lots of talking. I didn’t change after a night’s sleep, it is a conscious decision every waking moment to be kind-hearted, to do good things, and to be better every day. My cousin taught me how to be satisfied with the life that I have. It was him that showed me that it doesn’t matter where you came from because you choose where to go next. I made bad decisions during my younger years. But these mistakes are lessons about life that shaped me to be the person I am today, at the end of the day I still think it was worth it. My only regret is that my cousin isn’t here to see the person I have become, that he isn’t here to celebrate wins with me.

In the near future I would like to be able to finally get my diploma. I know it’s going to be a long and hard journey but I will persevere and make my parents proud. From there, I would work in an office or in politics if I could. Build up a saving, settle into a place of my own. Find to true love and get married, have kids. I’m dreaming of having a big family, kind of like the one that I grew up in. Grow old and watch my grandchildren run circles around me. I want a long, happy, wholesome existence. My life has been one hell of a ride and it only has begun. I was side-tracked multiple times, been through many ups and downs. There are times when I feel like I’m going back to the place that I fought so hard to get out of and that is okay. Life goes on and so do we. Bad days and good days. I am alive and I will live out the rest of my days.

In loving memory of Danemor Vergel Cezar (April 17, 1996 – September 16, 2016)

Rest in peace, brother.