#what is Vital when so many people live (and live full lives!) without?

[karmaphone]

hmm. that jokey post going around about an enemy missing ur vital organs & that being an insult to them bc of relative biomass and idk the wording is bothering me a little bc like. no single organ is Vital really. disabled ppl exist. lots of people don't have functioning intestines or pancreases. many people have one lung or kidney, or are on respirators or dialysis, people have pacemakers and artificial and pig hearts. I think all the time about that one woman who led a relatively 'normal' life until they discovered she just didn't have 70% of an adult human's brain mass and then she became another Scientist Test Subject

[thesiltverses]

Hello! Writing first to thank you for such an extraordinary creation - as a piece of writing and even more so in performance. Every episode manages to somehow build on and outdo the last; you navigated that transition from a smaller scale story of grisly mysteries and personal crises of faith to a grand scale of war, revolution and political satire with absolute aplomb, and never lost that throughline of exceptional characterisation and sharp writing, always steering to the most interesting conflicts. You are always very humble in your public comments, but I hope you allow yourself a little pride, because this is absolutely top notch stuff.

I was struck by Paige's final words, that she hopes what they left would be found 'flawed, inadequate, yearning'. As the show went on, I was surprised - in a good way - that the show's politics gradually crystalised into a full-on nihilist anarchism, something perhaps even along the lines of Monsieur Dupont. (Muna used the 'a' word in one of the Q&As but it was pretty evident even before that). Taking these gods as a metaphor for ideologies and social systems, the scope of it becomes pretty universal - and unsparing. And, equally, hard to answer.

I wondered when the Many Below/Wound Tree was introduced what answers they would find: what political movement could truly resist cooption or becoming its own horrible self-sustaining egregore. And in the end the answer you express I suppose is a negative one: that even Paige's god of victims is a tool, one that must eventually be discarded to go into some unknown place beyond it all (to walk away from Omelas), towards something that narrative fiction - as a form of the 'endless words' that are derided so much in the third season - can no longer address. Which I respect - to pose the question is vital, even if the tools can't reach any answers if they even exist.

I think this struggle exists in many stories that address themes of making a break from the rapacious society that created them (and take it seriously) - your Baru Cormorants and Mononoke-himes. We can describe the problem vividly, but since we do not have a counterexample to hand, any story we tell about ~what is to be done~ and what it will look like when it is feels like it will be just as hollow as the spins and angles and parasitic fantasies that so many characters advance in the Silt Verses. (How could there possibly be a time where it finally works out, after we have seen all this? But then, what are we living for?)

To try to make this a question and not a ramble, I wanted to ask - what do you see as the role of fiction in addressing the horrible machinery of this world? Is it enough to pose the question particularly sharply, skewer the bad and inadequate answers, and leave the readers/listeners to figure out how to make the killing of gods concrete? How do we punch through the bounds of it all being Content, another product to be bought and sold? What does it mean to sit here and fantasise about people making that revolutionary break when there is no revolution to be had?

I don't know what answer I'm hoping for here, but given the themes of the show, I feel like this must be a kind of thing you've thought about, and probably have a far more developed line of thought than I do. And if this is a bit too much to drop in your inbox on a Saturday morning, I will say again thank you for writing this story and all the actors for making it so strikingly concrete - it truly means a lot, and I will treasure it.

Hi, and thank you for listening and for a beautifully written and thoughtful ask! ('Horrible machinery of the world' stopped me dead in my tracks.) And I am very proud, genuinely.

I don't have a good enough answer to your questions, and for me a lot of TSV is very much about trying to figure those answers out, but let me try and sum up my perspective bit by bit.

Is it enough for fiction to pose the question, without also proposing the answer?

I don't think it's enough for fiction as a collective body of work.

I'd argue there's probably a tendency towards open-endedness and irresolution in these individual narratives simply because it feels like a more honest acknowledgement that in real life, the foe has yet to take a real body blow and will not go down easy; that the foe, in fact, is the marketplace for the work itself and ironically profits from the popularity of stories with easy heroic victories over villains who represent capitalism. That these stories inevitably become a pleasant consumable that serves our complacency within the belly of the beast, a kind of daily tonic to reassure us that good always triumphs and regular people always come out on top.

I also think that the sheer scale and scope of the topic creates its own challenges; you probably can't engage thoroughly enough with both the dystopian question and your ideas for a utopian answer all in a single story, without ultimately turning the latter into that false reassurance, a quick handwave of a happy ending.

You mention Omelas, and I think we could illustrate the problem by looking at how LeGuin handles her two successive masterpieces:

The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas, which gives us the titular resource-rich u(dys)topia built on invisible suffering, and the dissidents who turn their backs on that world and walk out into the inhospitable wilderness in search of something better.

The Dispossessed, which as its premise gives us Anarres, an imperfect but sympathetic anarchist society whose adherents turned their backs on a neighbouring world of capitalist plenty to live out in the inhospitable wilderness in search of something better.

Anarres can very reasonably be viewed as LeGuin's direct answer to the question posed by Omelas, and she would have likely had it in her mind already as she wrote Omelas. But if the short story had ended with 'I hear that against all odds, the ones who walk away have successfully founded an anarchist utopia where hardship is everywhere but it's shared as equitably as possible. THE END', the amount of lazy shorthand and empty comfort involved in that happier ending would inevitably make it a dishonest and unserious offering.

Instead, Anarres is a starting premise to be interrogated at length over the course of a separate story, rather than a happy ending to simply reassure the reader that better things are possible - and even at the end of the novel LeGuin's unresolved questions are still very similar to the ones that we're left with in Omelas (and the same questions that I feel like we were knocking about in The Silt Verses, and which I guess you could argue are all lingering concerns at the end of Mononoke, as well): how and where can we find space to create and sustain a genuine alternative when the narrative environment of capitalism is so powerfully all-subsuming and constantly growing to fill the space? Do we need to disconnect entirely, vanishing as if dead? If we disconnect, how can we possibly survive and what inhumanities or ethical compromises will be required of us? If we do survive, is our isolationism a dereliction of human responsibility to those left behind?

All of which is to say that I think present-day fiction absolutely can make the attempt to meaningfully explore potential alternative-utopian solutions in more depth and with far more tangibility than we attempted with TSV - but that dystopian fiction like ours which concludes with the unexplored promise of a revolutionary utopia and the vague reassurance that the irrepressible human spirit will figure things out from here on out (Chewbacca gets a medal, everyone's in the streets wearing a Guy Fawkes mask) doesn't do much more than dramatically undermine its own goal of disrupting the audience's comfort.

That said, one of my big regrets this season was that we didn't succeed in more engagingly exploring and articulating the Woundtree camp's development into a flawed but functioning society in Dispossessed fashion ahead of the ending. That was my intention, but what quickly became clear was that in a dramatic format, with a limited cast, it was just endless static meeting-room scenes with Paige and Elgin discussing difficult responses to impossible challenges, while everyone else was out having dynamic and exciting adventures with lots of fun and exciting gods. Dystopias remain too entertaining for utopias' own good.

What do you see as the role of fiction in addressing the horrible machinery of this world?

I believe that absurdist horror fiction specifically, founded on the principle of 'people in a world that makes no sense, deluding themselves that it definitely does make sense' can play a very powerful role in that stated purpose.

Many horror traditions carry the baggage of inbuilt or inadvertent conservatism - the concept of a peaceable, passive, safe, middle-class Normality which is then disrupted by a terrifying outside threat (alien, ultra-foreign, ultra-low-class, underworldly, wild, etc). But absurdist horror very directly identifies Normality as the true source of our terror and very directly confronts our human response to it. It creates the right environment for us to ask all of the good questions. Isn't this an unsustainable nightmare we're living in? Why are we expending so much energy pretending it isn't? How do we get out and what do we do if we can't?

Probably the only listener reaction that's genuinely frustrated me about both of our shows is the folks who come away turning their noses up at the bluntness of that approach and acting like they've Solved The Art simply for figuring out where our broad sympathies lie. "Hm, just listened to The Silt Verses and I understood it at once; it's clearly trying to say that capitalism is bad. A little heavy-handed in its messaging for my liking, hm-hm!"

Not to go full Garth Marenghi, but for me the directness of the provocation and the obvious outrageousness of the nightmare is the point; it then allows us to go to places that other genres (or more understated critiques) generally can't.

How do we punch through the bounds of it all being Content, another product to be bought and sold? What does it mean to sit here and fantasise about people making that revolutionary break when there is no revolution to be had?

God, I don't know.

Maybe it means nothing; maybe we can't punch through; maybe there is no story unruly enough to be truly unco-optable, and therefore even the most radical fiction ultimately serves as a distraction, a placebo, a reassurance (that we are not alone, that better things are possible) which will impact the wider world more by keeping us subscribed to the Kindle app than by any action we might feel inspired to take.

Amazon is paying Boots Riley to make TV shows. Disney won much praise for delivering a revolutionary fantasy in a Star Wars shell. Apple is funding excellent, discomfiting and furious corporate satires about how we happily ignore invisible worker abuses for the sake of our own lifestyles, but they also cannot be considered accountable for the deaths of Congolese child-labourers in the global cobalt supply chain. The Dispossessed is in development as a limited series and the LeGuin estate are closely involved.

The master doesn't just own the tools, he's been buying up the guillotines as well.

What if, as with the unknowable nothingness outside of Omelas, the only art that cannot be reduced to product in net service of the status quo is the art that's so invisible and inaccessible and disconnected as to not exist at all? Does being relatively small and ramshackle really lend us any ideological purity, any genuine detachment? You can listen to The Silt Verses on Apple and Spotify and Amazon Music. Brought to you by Acast.

Chapter 36 with Dev and Seb was to a large extent intended as an articulation of that worry. To what extent can we still trust in the integrity of a sincere love story (one that we want to believe in) it if takes place in an insincere and predatory environment? Can any meaningful story be told honestly within such a space?

This stuff really worries me. I think it's probably right to worry. I don't know the answer. I do know that there are some folks for whom the show has made a tangible difference in terms of their life's direction, and that's a huge comfort to me.

There was someone who said it helped them find their faith, strangely and wonderfully. Someone else who said it contributed to their decision not to go down a more lucrative career path within what they view as an exploitative industry. (I hope they don't regret that decision; I hope it makes them happy.)

So there's something there. Maybe.

[emeritusemeritus]

Why aren’t you drinking? [Fred Weasley]

Title: Why aren’t you drinking?

Pairing: Fred Weasley x reader (established relationship)

Timeline: Set around HBP (six months after Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes opened). No mentions of the war or Voldy.

Summary: The party is in full swing above Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, but Fred’s girlfriend just can’t seem to relax and enjoy herself.

Warnings: silly humour and fluff. Crude language, singular mention of male genitalia, brief mentions of pregnancy, breeding kink if you squint, established relationship. It’s implied that the reader lives with Fred and George above the shop.

The small flat above Weasley's wizard wheezes was thrumming with excitement, people dotted all around as the party raged on, the noise of music and radiant laughter filling the small living space. The twins were celebrating six whirlwind months of incredibly successful business since the store had opened, exceeding expectations in every way. Your friends were gathered, as well as employees and spouses, each person enjoying themselves as they talked, drank and danced in high spirits.

You were acting as a secondary host, ensuring that the food and drinks were topped up regularly, cleaning spills and messes to allow Fred and George to mingle and talk amongst their friends without worry. You were undoubtedly enjoying yourself but you couldn't help but feel slightly on edge. You didn't know if it was having so many people in your space, stress from hosting or something else but you had an astute intuition about what could be causing a lingering unease within you. You watched as each person held onto a red solo cup, a novelty that the twins had insisted on using ever since they had seen a couple of your beloved muggle films, seeing that they always seemed to be a vital component of a good party.

A few hours had passed and you had barely seen your boyfriend Fred and his brother George as they made their rounds, chatting with each person and lapping up the abundant praise they were deservedly receiving. You'd spent time with your friends, chatted with Ginny and Hermione and even played a few games of exploding snap with Ron and the group but nothing seemed to squash down the unease you felt whenever someone asked you if you wanted a drink. You'd politely declined every time and had insisted that you be the one to retrieve the drinks, effectively deflecting any unwanted questions about your lack of drink.

You were stood in the kitchen, pouring a cup of cola for yourself whilst grabbing a daisyroot draught for Ron when you felt a familiar pair of arms wrapping around your middle, immediately making you smile. You placed down the cup of cola you were about to drink as a precaution, not knowing would Fred would do next.

"Hello princess," Fred whispers, leaning in to you as he pressed a kiss to the nape of your neck which was unobstructed on account of your high ponytail. He was clearly intoxicated, swaying slightly as he attempted to stand still.

"Businessman Weasley," you teased, earning a playful little squeeze from Fred as he huffed a laugh into your neck.

"Mmm, missed you," he mumbles into your neck as he begins to pepper kisses along the side of your neck, right under your ear. He was slurring just enough for you to realise he was well on his way to being drunk, but not quite there yet.

"I would never have noticed," you teased, turning to spin in his arms to face him so that you could give him a proper kiss.

"Come on, I make food in here," George complained from behind you both, appearing by the door to the kitchen. His tone was playful and not ill-meaning, just dripping with sarcasm.

"I think you'll find, I make food in here," you retorted and he huffed out a laugh, simply nodding and shrugging at your reasoning, accepting that it was the truth.

Fred reached out behind you and grabbed your cup, taking a swig, before frowning at the taste.

"There's no alcohol in here," he says with a tone of disgust, as if it's a crime. You simply shrugged, turning in his arms to reach for Ron's drink that you still hadn't delivered.

"Not drinking eh?" George says, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed and a pleased smile on his face, trying to stir the pot.

"Oooh, are you pregnant?" Fred teases, leaning down towards you to whisper in your ear so that George couldn't hear, though you couldn't miss the hopefulness in his voice. You knew he was smiling as he pawed at your waist, which made a warm feeling and butterflies wash over you, knowing what he wanted.

"Im not pregnant," you replied quietly, your tone neutral as to not sound too harsh or disappointed. A moment of silence passed between you and you had to fight not to look at Fred, knowing there would be a mild look of disappointment in his face.

"Then why aren't you drinking princess?" Fred asked, recovering quickly and returning to his usual playful and teasing demeanour.

You turned to look towards the door to see that George was currently occupying himself by rifling through the bags of snacks and wasn't paying attention to you.

"It's stupid," you replied, trying to stop his questioning but you should have known that would never had happened, especially with him being so buzzed.

"Nothing you say is stupid sweetheart," he replied, sounding sincere and entirely accepting. You huffed out a breath and accepted your fate, ready to be mercilessly teased.

"I'm worried if I get stupidly drunk, I'll try and climb into bed with George or something," you said, averting your eyes entirely.

It was a passing, joking comment from Ron at the start of the night which had prompted a downward spiral in your thoughts, realising that it could be a genuine possibility that once drunk you wouldn't be able to tell them apart and would make a complete fool of yourself. You'd always prided yourself on being able to tell the twins apart from each other and you were already ashamed at the notion you'd mix them up or worse, try and kiss or climb into bed with the wrong brother. Then Fred would notice and rightfully be furious, George would be disgusted with you, you'd argue, cry and no doubt ruin your relationship with one drunken misstep. The entire thought was mortifying and admitting it out loud to Fred only seemed to further your mortification on the matter.

You were suddenly brought back to reality at the sound of Fred's tumultuous laughter, seeing that he was nearly doubled over as he chuckled behind you, only worsening your embarrassment. You tried to pull away, feeling humiliated but Fred suddenly sobered up and stopped laughing immediately as he realised that was not the reaction he should have had. He moves to stand behind you once more and grabs your waist, effortlessly spinning you around so that you were caged in his arms, both of his hands resting on the counter each side of you

"That's what your worried about?" He says, looking up into your eyes. You nod, still not meeting his gaze.

"Sweetheart half the people here have called me George at least once tonight."

"Unless I'm mistaken, none of them have tried to kiss you though, thinking that you're George."

He understands immediately what you're saying and brings his hand up to cup your chin, gently forcing you meet his gaze, seeing that he is giving you a soft and understanding look.

"Sweetheart," he says softly, a small smirk tugging at his lips, "Even if that happened, I wouldn't be mad at you, especially if you were drunk, just as long as you didn't actually want George."

You felt an immediate sense of partial relief at his words, but the unease never truly left you, realising that Fred also knew it could be a possibility. You sighed again, and Fred lifted your chin once more. This time you noticed the usual playful look on his face, eyes twinkling with delight which told you he was preparing something.

"Besides, you're being silly," he says smirking, pausing for effect to watch your face contort into a small frown, "I have a much bigger cock than Georgie, you'd soon notice and come running back."

[crguang]

HI HELLO SHALOM INTERRO ??? THOUGHTS ??? HOW DO WE FEEL ABOUT CHIEF BEING THE PERSON TO BREAK THE PARADEISOS LOBOTOMY

ABSOLUTELY FUCKING INSANEEEEEEEEEEE. UNBELIEVABLE. WHAT????????! they are intrinsically linked together. at once by the shackles, paradeisos, loss of self, mutual liberation and their inevitable end perceived by others. they’re literally the same. shalom pre-lobotomy is chief pre-awakening; refusing to be controlled, full of vitality, hatred and defiance (as defined by having freedom). i have so many thoughts in my head and it’s hard to concretize them all but the language shalom used to talk about how chief opened the door for doubt in her mind stroke me, it’s so violent. “rift” “corrupting” “shattering” “beast/monster” “tore me apart”… it really conveyed how shocking of a transition it must have been for her to suddenly feel those “unnecessary emotions” that had been taken from her for 8 years. even more, it must be so surreal to understand that you’ve been dissected in two, dehumanized and objectified while simultaneously being able to gaze upon that part of yourself that cries in indignation. if she was truly emotionless it wouldn’t mean a thing, but she’s not… she’s so incredibly self-aware. i think this is what makes it so sad for me, knowing you have an expiration date based on your usefulness because you were “made” for one purpose while being able to feel pleasure and have desires, etc— to understand the weight of what has been snatched from you by people who think themselves righteous when they’re really just a bunch of fear-stricken cowards would have anybody go crazy. seeing what paradeisos did to her made me so sick. the apathy with which they treat every threat to themselves is shocking but straight up mocking her will to live for herself by calling the monster they’ve made using (a part of) her Rebel made my stomach churn like that is so disgusting… shalom is aware of the severity of what paradeisos did to her and it’s sick that she has to risk everything just for less than a 1% chance of success that doesn’t even include her survival mind you. im just SICKK

to think she was so full of life and fighting spirit and is now reduced to “resigned” looks and smiles, compared to an instrument and a doll— oh my god sev it made me so uncomfortable. i know that during the loyalty test in the consciousness observatory or whatever, she was essentially embodying paradeisos but reading her being described as “doll-like” “void” and such was so tough… for chief to get that impression of her being an empty shell, expression that shalom uses again in the end to describe herself, then for shalom wonder if she’s even human afterwards made me so sadddd 😭 i do like these two excerpts though because i feel like it describes the duality of her character well, the surface level at least. the fact that she is capable of being genuine and has mastered the art of “embodying paradeisos” so that they wouldn’t notice that flaw makes her impossible to figure her out without diving into her psyche. even chief couldn’t understand her fully, she wont be able to now that she’s forgotten her. she’s so wonderfully complex and her interrogation portrayed that concept super well.

ive talked about shalom and her smiles before but another thing that’s always struck me as odd was that she kinda laughed too much for an unfeeling robot. im not talking about her cute little chuckles either, yeah sometimes it’s only to add to her manipulation but at the end of flora unfurl, when all of her plans were coming to fruition and in the face of coquelic’s rage, she was laughing then still. her laughs and smiles are sometimes so inappropriate but her laughter especially stood out to me and i didnt really know why until this one scene… it takes more effort to fake a laugh than to fake a smile like she does all the time; from what i remember she wasn’t mocking coquelic or being unnecessarily cruel, but when she burst out laughing i was so confused exactly because it felt unnecessary and out of place, like what happened in that scene. laughter is often accompanied by emotion and during a time where rationality couldn’t explain the motive behind her action, schorl immediately scanned her for defects like that’s insane. the level of scrutiny she’s constantly under is impossibly oppressive— “try to rectify such purposeless physicalities”?! cant even laugh anymore because of woke. can’t voice her thoughts, can’t be fully genuine with the person who freed her from rationality, she literally cannot do shit omg. all of herself has to be available to paradeisos’ sterile gaze every second of every day… she’s used to that scrutiny but ughhh it’s not fair and it’s not how human beings are treated. shalom i will save you from this prison if it’s the last thing i do

despite it all, she has her small pleasures and it makes me want to scream and die. the way she “plays” with schorl by having it scan her meaninglessly, how she enjoys catching people off guard and observing their reactions, the way she’s always making fucking jokes?! so important to me. shes so unserious. shalom making jokes that fall flat because they’re in the middle of a heavy topic or issue is so important to me. “haha your garden’s better off with me than dead right? kidding, heh” and “why should i give a fuck about humanity?… just kidding! love these people” is so 😭😭😭 i genuinely find her hilarious because she doesn’t relieve any tension at all, she is NOT meant to be comedic relief 😭

back to her and chief tho…… is it not absolutely crazy how she was acting like they were once married with three kids before chief got amnesia. mind you they met ONCE before, officially. ONE TIME. and she was like “you made a lasting impression on me” “we’re friends” “i wanted to see you/my own subtle yearning to see you again” “we held hands like this once before… i still remember the touch” “being apart from you, i cant help but worry” SLOW DOWWWWWWN. MY GOODNESS. i know chief changed her life but shalom was so intense from the get go like she wants that cookie so effing bad. they used the words “tender” “intimate” and “gently” too often for me to believe they dont want each other like. and why was the hand holding written like a fanfiction— matter of fact, this whole thing was written like a fanfiction because why am i reading about the exposed skin of shalom’s collarbone, her pushing chief onto her bed then essentially climbing into it as well to whisper in her ear WHILE encouraging her to choke her?!?!?!?! what was even happening. lesbians make me sick. what a freak. i actually dont know how many times ive called shalom a freak while playing the first 2 interro phases

wish i could add all the screenshots from the choking scene but tumblr’s a BITCH. but this whole thing was insane. LIKE INSANE. this is gayer than 000 kissing chief. this is gayer than being a housewife for the assassin that kidnapped you. reconnecting with an old “friend” you cant remember yet feel an undeniable familiarity and connection towards and allowing yourself to be vulnerable and exposed in front of her regardless of ulterior motives… soulmates across space and time and circumstance idkkk, at the end of the day the one who can understand shalom the best if given a real chance is chief idc they’re mirror images of each other. shalom was so genuine in the interrogation room despite chief being suspicious of her like im sure of it now. the fact that they freed each other is forever ingrained in my heart, that is the most precious gift they could’ve given to each other even if it was done unconsciously from chief’s part. ALSO the fact that the one moment we hear the most emotion from shalom is when she’s at chief’s bedside telling her to come back? yeah. exactly.

let me stop yapping but there are many things that are escaping me that made me go “holy fuck”, i have a hundred screenshots and recordings just from her interro like it really blew my mind. shalom’s character is a bit clearer to me now and it really does put everything into perspective aaaaaa im aching to write for her properly this time

[edenfenixblogs]

hi, i wanted to give you an update on that post of mine you reblogged. heritageposts has informed me that they were using the red triangle in this context: https://www.middleeastmonitor.com/20231123-one-small-red-triangle-palestine-we-are-finally-looking/

i was wrong about what they meant with the 🔻 emoji and i am officially rescinding my previous statement

I am all for fact checking and I would love to believe that Heritage Posts did not mean this particular horrible thing they did.

However, Middle East Monitor (MEMO) is not a reliable source for information in this conflict. If HP is actually using MEMO for news, they should focus on more reliable ones going forward.

There are plenty of other left-leaning sources with more reliability, credibility, sourcing, and transparency.

They have failed several fact checks for misleading and occasionally false information. The publication is explicitly and repeatedly pro-Hamas, and they often omit vital information to skew their stories.

While they are not rated as an outright propaganda publication or as a source of conspiracy theories, they do often cite sources which do and are.

Finally, they are funded by donations. Of course these donations largely come from people who support the kind of reporting that people who donate to them support. They are a nonprofit organization, which is not inherently a bad thing. But this means their interests are not based in journalistic ideals but in political ideology. This is not a reason to completely discount a source, but it is something to keep in mind.

In general, with a topic this intense and with such profound consequences for so many people, I’m only engaging with sources who receive a “reporting” rating of “high” or better and a “credibility” rating of “high credibility.”

I would POSSIBLY consider a “reporting” rating of “Mostly factual” if it had a “high credibility” rating and several extenuating circumstances and reduced media bias to compensate for its lower score in another area.

Leftist sources worth referencing instead:

Forward Progressives

Haaretz

International Policy Digest

Current Affairs

And many others

Personally, though, (for this particular conflict especially) I tend to prefer sources that fall into the central three categories: left-center biased, least biased, and right-center biased.

No news source is perfect or without bias. But this conflict is so fraught that I frankly don’t trust anyone reporting with extreme ideological intentions. And I also don’t want to only read sources that make me comfortable. I am personally very leftist in all of my personal politics and voting. However, I also know that the far left has been more hostile to me based solely on my Jewish ethnicity than anyone else in these past months. Furthermore, I think politicians should be more left, but journalism should always prioritize facts and a full scope of a situation over any one viewpoint. I am the daughter of a journalist. I am deeply in favor of journalistic freedom. And I absolutely do NOT believe in “both sidesism.” Sometimes, there really aren’t two sides to a situation that are both equally worth listening to. There is no alternative viewpoint to “Black Lives Matter” for example that is not deeply racist.

There are not “two sides worth teaching” when it comes to The Holocaust.

But the Israeli-Palestinian conflict is not so simple. Israel should stop its bombing of Palestine. Palestinians should have full and equal rights. Jewish people in Israel and around the world should not have to live in constant fear or attack, harassment, or murder. There are a lot of extremely valid perspectives from Palestinians, Muslims, Israelis, Arabs, and Jews. And right now, the far left and the far right are weaponizing their ideologies to reduce all of the aforementioned groups to their worst actors. That is not something that will help anyone with regard to this conflict.

Left Leaning Sources

ABC News

Associated Press

Atlantic Media

Boston Globe

The Forward (This is a Jewish source. They had one failed fact check in the last five years, but issued an official correction.)

Human Rights Watch

Institute for Middle East Understanding (This is a Palestinian source and it has a completely clean fact check record)

Least Biased Sources

Jewish Telegraphic Agency (Obviously a Jewish source)

Reuters (this has a Very High reporting rating)

American Press Institute (not only have they not failed a fact check in five years; they have never failed a fact check ever)

The Conversation

Pew Research

Foreign Policy

Foreign Affairs

Sky News UK

Right Leaning

Note: As I stated numerous times, including in this post, I am a leftist. However, something important for American readers of this post to know is that, when it comes specifically to matters involving military analysis of foreign conflicts, a slight right lean in perspective is common and sometimes preferable to leftist idealism. I say this as someone who votes and holds opinions that are about as far left as one can get. However, I also say this as someone with a background in university studies of international politics. Because analysis of military conflicts is often done by those with experience in and understanding of the military, most of the most credible and detailed analyses of foreign military affairs do tend to be more right leaning than sources of equal worth focused on domestic political matters. Furthermore, a leftist tendency toward pacifism (which I share) tends to mean less leftist involvement in military-involved political matters at all. Of course, none of this means there are no quality leftist sources on the current conflict (which I obviously demonstrated by linking to such sources above). I am simply explaining the value of such sources to those who may justifiably be skeptical of anything right-leaning after the hellish past two decades of domestic policies and US-caused violence in other countries.

Note 2: There are plenty of right-leaning sources that received “high” credibility ratings and “high” reporting ratings. I found no sources that had both “very high” credibility and “high” reporting ratings in the “right-center” category.

Boston Herald

Chicago Tribune

Counter Extremism Project

Foreign Policy Research Institute

The Jewish Press (clearly a Jewish source, this publication is geared toward the Modern Orthodox Jewish community. They have no failed fact checks)

ITV News

Jewish Unpacked (this source has no failed fact checks. this source is right-leaning by necessity because of its historical examination of antisemitism in leftist spaces making those spaces inherently unsafe for Jews—not specifically in this most recent flare up in the I/p conflict, but for years).

Right Bias

Note: I don’t personally follow or read any of these sources. But I did list leftist sources with high credibility and reporting ratings, so I will do the same here in the interest of fairness. It should be noted that all other source bias ratings had results several pages long. Right Bias sources with high credibility and reporting ratings were confined to one page only. There are no Right Bias Sources with Very High reporting ratings and high credibility.

Economic Policy Journal (no failed fact checks now or ever)

Influence Watch (tends to view liberal and progressive politics as “extremist,” but has no failed fact checks.)

I am not inclined to trust HP simply because their most recent antisemitic behavior fell short of hoping for Jewish genocide. I have a higher bar for accounts than that.

[blueraineshadows]

Part Eleven

Sebastian Sallow 🔺️ F!MC 🔺️Leander Prewett

MC turns to Sebastian in search of answers, but can she trust him? He might ask the same of her. Their relationship turns a full circle as they try to figure out the path they are on, whilst Leander meets a new face.

13.4 k words. Tags: NSFW / angst / trauma / sexual tension / jealousy / possessiveness / love triangle / death reference / hints about murder and torture

Chapter master list and Ao3

Eleven: Loving You Is A Blood Sport

MC

In the deepest well of her memories lingered hazy flashbacks of hard, uncomfortable beds, cold feet, and the echoing loneliness of being one amongst many in the cramped rooms of the orphanage. Other children would come and go, either by death or taken in by some kind soul. Some would just disappear never to be seen again, but not MC. She remained. A constant in a world where you learned fast, eating what you were given as quickly as possible before it could be taken by another, sleeping with one ear and eye open lest a chancer came to steal your socks in the dead of night. It was an unforgiving upbringing, ruled over by a matron who used a cane to keep the children in line.

Always different, always an outsider, MC kept her silence and observed. There was no point making friends when that child could be gone the next day, and even if she did dare to befriend someone, her unusual gifts would chase them off eventually, the quirks of her magic sometimes appearing when her desperate attempts at control would slip.

As she grew older, boys began to take an interest, and she was grateful for the segregation fences that gave her space to remain hidden from their attention. Her unusual abilities were hard enough to keep a secret without all the extra focus, and so she remained distant, building the barriers that would help protect her in later life when she found herself behind bars.

Discovering that her magic was not a flaw, but in fact, a very vital and powerful part of herself, had felt like a homecoming of sorts when she entered the wizarding world. There had been no need for fences anymore, and she had allowed daylight through the cracks of her barriers, opening herself up enough to let a few people come close. Whilst easing the longing for intimacy that consumed her, it was also painful when you allowed people in. Caring for another opened you up to both the warmth of acceptance and the crushing pain of loss, and sorting through that tangle of emotions was hard. The temptation to immediately seal up the cracks was strong, and hiding would be all too easy, but the glow that came from being close to someone was very powerful and addictive. It surprised her how much she longed for even more of it, to be held and told that everything would be alright. It eased some of the heavy weight she carried when she could lay her head somewhere warm and safe, hear another's heartbeat thudding a comforting rhythm, and feel hands smoothing over her skin, evoking fire and abandon that distracted and sated.  

Once you let the first person in, it became a landslide as others joined the circle, and now she was spinning in bewildered shock as that circle now enlarged to include blood relatives. She had a family in the world. Real people. They had names, faces, lives…and what was even more shocking. She knew who they were.

Did they know who she was?

She suspected they did not, and her heart thudded painfully as she thought of the hours spent in the company of one who was blood, someone she had allowed to become close. All that time they had shared together, and they had been family all along. The need to see his face was overwhelming, and yet, she feared he would reject her, unable to accept that she was a relative. In order to get answers, though, she would need to confront that fear. In order to find her true self, she needed to step out beyond the barriers she still held tightly around herself.

Twilight shadows lengthened as the sky morphed into darkness, her boots stepping lightly across the cobbled street as she made for the door of the Black Rose pub. There was no point in hesitating outside and chewing her lip, worrying about the consequences of entering the establishment this time. Tired of lurking and waiting on the sidelines, MC pushed the door open and crossed the threshold, her hood pushed back to reveal her face. Holding her head high she scanned the room, her face carefully blank as her gaze landed on the small group of familiar Ashwinders seated in a far corner. The bar room was busy, the hum of chattering customers adding to the feeling of the walls pressing inwards, but she fought to ignore the imposing sensation of eyes on her as she crossed the space.

Rosier noticed her first, recognition dawning on his handsome face as she strode towards their table, swallowing down the gentle nervous flutters behind her ribs. He nudged Sebastian with his elbow, garnering his attention away from Luella, who was seated beside him. Ignoring the clench of envy in her stomach, MC remained determined as Sebastian’s eyes lifted towards her, a flash of delight appearing in the chocolate depths before he masked it with a similar cool indifference to her own stony facade. Despite her efforts to remain focused on her task, clearly there was a game to play here in front of everyone. Steeling herself, she kept her chin tilted upwards as she glanced around the table. 

She had turned down Leander’s offer of help earlier today, concerned that he was risking himself enough by digging up buried information for her. Rather than let him get into trouble, she had come here to seek out someone who could easily point her in the right direction without the added risk. Gazing upon Sebastian’s freckled face, she wondered if he knew the truth. Did he know what his uncle had done when she was a baby? Did he know the blood he had bonded with ran strong with a power other than her ancient magic? Could it be his reason for wanting her in the first place, and not because of deeper feelings brought on by their time together?

“We meet again, sweetheart,” Rosier said, that disarming smile of his drawing her attention away from Sebastian. “Are you planning on sticking around a bit longer this time? You seemed in rather a hurry to get away at our previous meeting, and just when I was starting to get to know you.” 

“Good evening, Mr Rosier,” MC said coolly, trying to ignore the way his smile widened at her formality. There was something in his eyes that told her he liked a challenge as he lazily surveyed her. “I'm actually here to speak with Mr Sallow, if he wouldn't mind.” 

“He wouldn't mind at all,” Sebastian said, placing down his whiskey. Luella was watching with narrowed eyes, her shoulders tense as Sebastian looked expectant. “What can I do for you?”

“I believe we can help each other,” she said, playing the game. “I hear you have been looking for me, and I find myself in need of some information. Perhaps we could strike up a deal.”

The slow smirk that spread across Sebastian’s face made the flutters behind her ribs twirl downwards, pooling dangerously in her lower stomach. She could feel the heat spreading, making the back of her neck warm up as she forced herself to appear calm and in control. 

“I’m all ears, sweetheart,” he purred, lounging casually back in his seat, a dangerous and knowing glint in his eyes as he repeated words he had spoken to her on a hillside in Scotland mere hours ago. A shiver whispered down her spine, the memory of his arms holding her still fresh, the soft tendrils of flame at the feel of his mouth on her throat invoking anything but calm control over her senses.

Bastard.

Clenching her hands into fists as she maintained her tenuous grip on her control, MC glanced from Rosier to Luella and let her lips twist into a slight smirk. “A private word, if you would be so kind.” 

Rosier threw a grin Sebastian’s way. “Look lively, Sallow,” he said, nudging him again. “Don't keep the lady waiting.” 

Sebastian threw Rosier a warning look before standing, Luella reaching out to place a rather possessive hand on his forearm. MC felt herself stiffen at the touch, and noticed Sebastian did the same, although he looked down at Luella with surprising patience. 

“A private word?” Luella asked, one eyebrow arching upwards in a perfect curve. “Is that wise?” 

Sebastian shrugged, subtly slipping his arm free of her touch. “I'm sure I can handle it.”

Luella’s cheeks darkened with a flush, her eyes flashing as she glared at MC. It was all too clear that MC had stepped into this witch’s territory and was luring Sebastian away, Luella’s envy creeping over her face as Sebastian stepped out from the table to join MC. It was interesting to note that Sebastian barely gave Luella a second glance, turning to Rosier rather than the beautiful witch as he took his leave from their group.

“I’ll catch up with you later,” he nodded, and then turned his gaze onto MC. While his face portrayed his typical casual confidence, there was a hint of something darker and far more dangerous in the depths of his eyes. “I’m ready when you are.”

MC chanced one more glance towards Luella, the fury in the depths of her blue eyes hinting that Rookwood was likely to hear about this. Good. MC dared to smirk, her lips curving upwards in a cold, but pleased expression as she stepped aside to let Sebastian lead.

Feeling Luella’s gaze like daggers into her back, MC followed Sebastian through the bar, not failing to notice the broad expanse of his shoulders and the steady way he held himself. Tearing her eyes away from him, she let her gaze wander around the busy bar, but soon enough, she was drawn back to him as he held the door open for her.

“After you,” he said, gesturing towards the street outside. So much weight carried in two little words when you combined them with the way he looked at her, but MC fought against the urge to smile, remembering the possessive way Luella had touched him.

“Such a gent,” she quipped, tilting her chin upwards as she strode past, the chill evening air kissing her cheeks.

“How private does this need to be?” He asked quietly, appearing close to her shoulder. 

She gave him a sideways look, her pulse flickering into a faster beat at his proximity. “Very,” she murmured, the weight of her truth bearing down on her.

He nodded and she felt his hands slip about her waist from behind, her lungs drawing air in sharply as he held her tight against his chest, his breath hot on her neck. “Hold on, sweetheart.” 

As her hands clasped over his, Knockturn Alley swirled out of view. They landed on grass, his hands still holding her about the waist as they steadied their footing, her eyes darting about at their surroundings and realising they were in some kind of park.

“You need to stop doing that,” she said breathlessly, turning her head to look up at him.

“Spoil sport,” he smirked, his touch lingering at her waist. “We are still in London. Crystal Palace Park, to be exact. We should be able to enjoy some privacy here.”

His hand sought hers and he grasped it firmly, leading her across well kept grass towards a tall hedge, the breeze sighing softly through some nearby trees. Looking down at their clasped hands, she couldn’t help but be taken back five years, gallivanting across the Highland landscape with him and beginning to believe she had found her forever. The pinch in her chest was sharp as the shadows loomed over her head, the idea that nothing good would ever find roots in her soul making her eyes sting with lonely tears. What if she couldn't trust Sebastian again? It would cut out the closest thing she'd ever had with anyone.

They rounded the hedge only to be confronted by more of them, the night sky above sprinkled with early stars as Sebastian led her into the foliage tunnel, her head swivelling as she realised what it was.

“We’re in a maze,” she said, her brow furrowing as he continued to lead her deeper.

“That we are,” he said, throwing a smirk over his shoulder as he made a turn, and then another.

“Do you even know the way?” 

He turned, stepping backwards as he smiled down at her. Damn him, and his charming smile. “Isn’t not knowing all part of the fun?”

“That all depends on the details,” she said, irritation sparking along her veins. She tugged her hand from his grip making him stumble slightly as they came to a stop. “I haven’t got time for your games, Sebastian. I wasn’t lying when I said I wanted to talk.”

“Alright,” he said carefully, pushing his fingers through his mop of hair. Shadows cloaked them, and his eyes glittered in the darkness. “What did you want to talk about?”

Where did she start? How to find the words and begin? Now that they were here, her mind was spinning from the last 24 hours. Tracking Sebastian into the tunnels, McKinnon’s death, her conflicting emotions after being reunited with Sebastian, and the revelation of her birth mother. It all spun in circles, suspended in her thoughts and making her chest tighten as she stared at him.

“When you first met me, did you know who I really was?” She asked, her voice trembling slightly, her fingers grazing softly against the scar on her palm. “I told you about growing up in an orphanage, but did you have any idea of how I got there in the first place?”

He stepped closer, and she could make out the confused frown on his brow through the darkness. “How could I possibly know that? The first time I saw you was in the Great Hall at Hogwarts. I had no idea who you were then.”

She nodded, dipping her gaze as she took a steadying breath. “What about after you took me to meet your family? What did they say about me?”

“MC, what is this?” He asked, stepping even closer, his hands reaching to take hold of her elbows, drawing her into his space. She met his gaze and saw the worry there, the confusion. “Where is this going?”

“Tell me the truth,” she whispered, her lower lip wobbling as she rested her closed fists against the expanse of his chest, his hands cupping her elbows. She wanted to believe in him so much it made her ache deep inside. “Do you know who my mother is?”

He stared at her, his eyes shifting as he studied her carefully, and his grip on her tightened. “I have no idea who your mother is, MC. I promise,” he said, shaking his head. “But I get the impression you do. What happened? What makes you think I would know? Tell me.”

“I…,” she faltered, her throat closing as she teetered on the edge of her trust. She wanted to believe him, but Solomon’s name on that paperwork was as clear as day. The link of her childhood to the Sallow name was shocking. Her feet had taken her straight back to the man who had placed her into care, meeting Sebastian had put her right in front of Solomon without even realising his connection to her. Doubt tugged at her, and as much as she could feel the longing to be held by Sebastian, she stepped back, removing her arms from his grasp. The walls around her heart closed in, shutting down the gaping maw in her chest that screamed to be made whole.

“You can trust me, MC,” he said desperately, reaching forward as though to touch her, but he hesitated. “Whatever this is, whatever you need, I’m here. I promise. No matter what.”

“Leander found my birth records,” she began, her hands unfurling and clenching tightly, over and over. “He gave them to me earlier today. I know who my mother is.”

Her chest tightened, and the very air she breathed felt too thin and full of his scent, distracting her. Taking another step back from him, she considered running and not telling him anymore. Knowledge was power, after all, and how much did she want to give him?

“Who is she?” He asked, his voice strained. “Why would you think I know her? You’re worrying me, MC.”

She could hear it in his voice, see it in the way he was looking at her. In all honesty, it worried her, too. The weight that came with her birth name hung over her head, another shadow to carry along with all the others. Sebastian shared so many of her secrets already, and she knew most of his up until the point they had been forced apart. Maybe it wasn’t so wrong to share more. After all, he was the first one she had come to after declining Leander’s help. She was beginning to wonder if everything would always come back to Sebastian in the end. It was almost as though fate had cast her onto his path, a pre-written clause that she would enter the house of Slytherin and find exactly who she needed to all those years ago. Sebastian and his best friend. Their trio of darkness sealed by those who came before.

Like his uncle. Like her mother. 

“Don’t worry about me,” she said, shaking her head, still maintaining a distance. “I will be fine. I just need to find... I need…”

“Anything, MC,” he promised. “I’ll do anything.”

Staring into those molten chocolate eyes, it was so easy to believe that he would. Every cell in her body seemed to tremble with the need to feel him, the desire to press so close until their bodies blended as one seemed to almost obliterate everything else, but she couldn’t let herself get distracted in such a way. Closing her eyes, she took a steadying breath, her fingers stroking against the scar on her palm.

Not two hours ago she had been held by Leander, her face buried against the warmth of his chest, his graceful fingers soothing against her hair and back. He never asked anything of her, merely gave all that he could to ensure that she was okay. That kind of safety was foreign and felt completely undeserved, and she felt guilt tear and slide through her stomach. Her fondness for the tall Auror had grown, and she did not want to hurt him. The confusion of her feelings choked up the truth that she had come here to speak. 

Looking at Sebastian in the dark of the maze, feeling the pull that he had on her body, the magnetism that seemed to keep them locked in each other's orbit, she battled with the guilt of giving herself to another man. A man who was the light to Sebastian’s shadow. 

“Why do I always end up alone with you in the dark, Sebastian?”

The pain she tried so hard to bury echoed through the whisper of her voice. Would she regret coming back to him? Would he take what he needed and then leave her to face the dark alone?

“I'll always find you in the dark, MC,” he promised. “And you will always find me there waiting for you. It's just what we do, you and I.”

“What if that isn't enough?” 

“What more do you want?” He frowned, capturing her hand in his and holding it, his thumb grazing against her skin in a caress she could feel all the way to her bones. His gaze was intense, a muscle working in his jaw as he stepped closer. “Whatever it is you want to tell me, it won't change how I feel about you. Nothing will. I will always choose you above all others.”

Staring back at him, she wondered if he was referring to Luella, the question burning her tongue. If she asked him outright, she might not like the answers he would give. His words seeped through her thoughts, the years of solitude still making her cling to her barriers, her trust wobbling back and forth regarding him. They could love each other as deeply, and for as long as there was time on earth, but to make it work she had to choose this. She had to fight for it. Did she want that? How deeply was his family involved in her shadowed past? What secrets hung over them, and would they rip whatever remained of them apart?

Leander was the light to Sebastian’s darkness. She knew she would cast shadows over that light and smother it out eventually, and she couldn’t bear to do it to him. Sebastian had his own darkness, and together they would be reckless and dangerous. Maybe neither of these men were right for her, and the path she must walk could prove to be a lonely one after all. The ache of that possibility swelled behind her ribs, and it was crippling.

Squeezing his hand she took a breath and looked up through the gap in the maze walls to the sky above. So many questions, so many secrets and truths, and they all clogged up in her throat. She couldn't tell him. She wasn't ready. The fragility she shielded from him was held back by a cracking wall, and she needed a stronger foundation before she began to build back what they had. 

If there was anything left to build with, of course. She wasn't the only one who had taken comfort in the arms of another. Bringing her gaze back to him, she felt herself hardening as she thought of who they had left behind at the pub.

“I want to trust you, but I'm not sure I can,” she said, shaking her head. “Luella. How long has it been going on?”

She tried to pull her hand free, but this time he didn’t let her go, his grip tightening into a vice grip. Any softness she had been feeling evaporated, and a slithering, dark part of her began to creep out to play.

“I don’t know what it is you think you know, but Luella and I are not courting,” he said firmly. “She is a gang member that I must appear loyal to, that is all.”

MC felt every muscle tighten with envy, her words bitter sounding as they slid from her tongue. She was done being trodden on by anyone. “But you have fucked her, haven’t you?” 

Unable to forget the expression on his face when she had thrown Luella’s name at him on that hillside in Scotland, she let her envy get the better of her, watching him carefully in the dark of the maze as she awaited his answer. He looked down at the ground, her stomach sinking as he gripped her hand, stopping her from being able to run or Apparate without him. He nodded, and she felt her stomach cave with a sickening lurch.

“I did,” he confessed, lifting those big, brown eyes her way again. “MC, I’m sorry…”

“Let me go,” she demanded, her voice cracking. Eyes burning, she yanked her hand, but he stubbornly refused to release her, taking hold of her other arm to keep her trapped in his space. She twisted in his grip, but he held firm. She glared at him, forcing the softness from her eyes. “My memories of you kept me sane in that place, and you were out here bedding the daughter of my enemy…”

Her words choked out of her throat at the end, her chest squeezing as she bent over, gasping for breath. Her head swam with the thought of them together, his confession compounding her fears and turning them into a reality. Daring to trust him again made her a fool. Doubt clouding her thoughts, she pulled against his firm grip as he tried to stutter out an excuse.

“I don’t want to hear your apologies, Sebastian!” She snapped, her body going rigid as rage swept through her. The burn in her eyes manifested tears that began to scald her cheeks, but the rage woke the ancient magic that always lurked beneath the surface, flickering dangerously in the depths of her eyes. “And to think I felt guilty about where I lay my head at night. Well, no more.”

The remorseful expression on his face morphed swiftly into one of stony suspicion, his mouth forming a tight line as he spoke with a cold fury. “Please, don’t tell me you’re sleeping in Prewett’s bed.”

The telling blistering crackle of a bond being tested began to seeth in her blood, but she laughed, the need to bite back so strong she could almost taste it. A heady and reckless daring flooded through her with the scalding burn. She could see the rage building in his eyes, feel the tense way his body was responding to her taunt. The need to lash out and sting him the way he had ripped through her was very real, her own guilt conveniently forgotten as she let her temper get the better of her. 

“Oh, trust me, there hasn’t been much sleeping going on if you catch my drift,” she chuckled darkly. “You're not the only one who knows how to play, Sebastian, and Leander proved a most willing and satisfying accomplice.” 

“I will end him,” he hissed, his face dark and tight with fury as he gripped her harder.

Something hot and fierce bloomed behind her ribs, her cheeks flushing as she pushed back against Sebastian, her own anger ablaze in the depths of her eyes.

“You dare do anything to hurt Leander, and you will never see me again,” she warned, her words deathly cold despite the burn of her temper. Surprised at the wave of protectiveness that had flooded through her, she saw the dismay dawn on Sebastian’s face, her guilt seeping back to curl around her anger.

“You…you would do that,” he said, his brows drawing together. “You would abandon me for him?”

“You don’t understand what he did for me,” she said, her voice hushed. “What he still does…”

“He touches you,” he said, his voice hoarse, his eyes scanning her body as he tried to process her words. “You let him touch you.”

“And you let Luella touch you,” she said, some of the hardness in her voice cracking to reveal a slither of her pain. “What does that say about us?”

His hand gripped her jaw, tilting her face up to his as he fought against the fury flaring in his eyes. “She is nothing to me. Nothing!” He hissed, those dark eyes burning into hers. “What about him? You feel something for him, don’t you? I saw the way you looked at him in those tunnels. You were muttering his name in your sleep, and now you dare to threaten me to protect him. Look me in the eye and tell me you feel nothing for him. Go on!”

Coming here for his help had turned into this. Instead of keeping a grip on her control, she was lashing out and trying to hurt him. Maybe she was trying to push him away deliberately. It sounded like something stupid she would do, slam those barriers up and kick down anyone who dared to try and breach them. Just as she had warned Leander not to get too attached to her, she was striking out at Sebastian, too.

She felt heat burn in her cheeks upon discovering she spoke Leander’s name in her sleep, that he had noticed the softness she harboured for the Auror in her eyes. Despite her fury that Sebastian had taken Luella to bed, she felt guilt curl tightly in her stomach, and she let her gaze dip away from the intensity of his eyes. Her blood crackled and burned at the thought of denying her feelings, the very notion of trying to lie to Sebastian searing her heart through a promise given.

“You can’t, can you?” His voice dripped with disbelief. He let her go, his hand sliding from her jaw as he stepped back. “You have feelings for him.”

She shook her head, but the truth couldn’t be denied. “I can’t explain it…”

“I don’t want to hear it!” Sebastian roared, the tendons in his neck standing rigid as he clenched his fists. The rage on his face was absolute. “Leander Prewett will regret the day he dared lay a finger on what belongs to me!”

Sebastian

The burning in his blood was spreading like wildfire, out of control and consuming him faster than his rage, and he could physically feel the tremble all the way to his fingertips. The rage he could understand, his mind screamed with the knowledge that MC felt something for that damned Gryffindor.

His girl, his precious, precious girl. 

He blinked slowly, gritting his teeth against the crackling fire that lit his blood and scorched his heart, the sensation new and shocking. Pressing a hand to his chest, he wondered if this was heartbreak, could this be how he would die. His whole body erupting into nothing but ashes and fires of fury because she was slipping out from his reach.

The first time he had kissed those lips, the first time she had touched her fingers to his skin in a way that meant more than friendship, the breath-stealing whirlwind of falling for her…it all seemed to flash behind his eyes, like those stories you heard about facing your death. His thoughts flickered and danced like a picture book of memories, all of her, and a fog darker than death himself was striving to steal them away. He could only shake his head in denial of the fact, his own misdemeanour forgotten as he stared at her beautiful face. A face that Prewett had now touched, kissed, that prick had seen her laying against his pillow when she should only be with him.

That coiling, dark snake of his evil began to slither around his insides, seductive and alluring. The darkness lingered at his shoulder, whispering its taunts and urging him to answer. He could see the tall, redheaded figure of Prewett in his mind. The smart suit and fine robe, the healthy glow of his skin, the unwavering loyalty and truth of his eyes. A proper gentleman and an Auror, fucking perfect Prewett, always showing up and spoiling the fun. 

Why did it have to be Prewett that got her out of Azkaban first? How was it fair that he got to play the fucking hero when Sebastian had been waiting years to see her face?

He would start slowly, cracking the bones in his legs so he couldn’t run, snapping his wand so he couldn’t cast. Ropes to bind his hands, a gag to silence him, but his eyes he would leave free. He wanted to see the pain in that bastard’s eyes as he was punished. He wanted Prewett to see the face of the one he owed, and his debt of pain was a colossal one.

The thought of Prewett’s hands on her skin, his lips tasting what Sebastian hungered for…

Her laughter snapped his train of thought and he stared at her, the bitterness in that chuckle threw ice over the burn. How could this possibly be funny?

“Hurts, doesn’t it?” She said, nodding. “I know what you’re doing, Seb. You want to destroy Leander, don’t you? Perhaps you have failed to realise that by hurting him, you will also hurt me, and you can’t do that. You can’t betray me like that, because you made a promise. Trapped by your own pact, Sebastian.”

She held up her left palm, waving it in his face, her blood scar vivid against her pale flesh. “It makes your blood boil, doesn’t it? Does your heart feel like it’s going to burst in your chest?”

“Sounds like you’re speaking from experience, love?” He said, his voice low and dangerous as he spoke through gritted teeth.

“You do have a habit of giving me reasons to be mad,” she huffed. “You, and that bitch of a sister of yours. I won’t deny that I have considered my revenge, no matter who she is.”

She winced, sucking in a breath and pressing a hand to her own chest. Interesting…

Looking at his own scar on his palm, he pondered the burn, the wicked pulse of his heart as he seethed. The blood magic was strong, their connection absolute. He couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride at the success of it. He tilted his head, his body slipping into that sleek and alert mode he so enjoyed when faced with a challenge. Blood thrumming with anger and a promise made, he realised his wand was already in his grip. He couldn’t recall slipping it from his holster. So intent was he on his rage, his blinkers over her betrayal cancelling out everything else, he even allowed the slur against his twin.

“Hurting Prewett might just be worth the pain,” he said, the coiling darkness so seductive and alluring. Dare he add another dark mark on his arm, another soul for his little collection. He licked his lips as he fought back the idea of the auror’s hands at her waist, her thigh, her pretty little neck. He would snap every bone in Prewett’s hand for daring to touch her.

He watched her eyes flare, her soft lips parting slightly as she stared. “You would die,” she rasped.

“Would you even care?” He asked, his feet shifting position, his fingers flexing around his wand handle. His eyes narrowed, envious and raw. “Does he please you, MC? Does he give you what you need?”

Her throat worked as she counter stepped, her own wand in her hand now, but it was aimed towards the ground and not him. His lips almost twitched into a smirk of satisfaction, the hours spent sparring with her when they were young still so ingrained into her body that she moved without thinking. Their steps like a dance, he raised his wand arm, and she mirrored his move.

“Do you really want to know the details, Sebastian?”

The hedges rose up in the dark around them, shielding them from the London park. The night sky stretched above them, the smog thin this evening, allowing the stars to peek down upon their heads with the gentle glow of a half moon. The air was chilled, but his blood was enough to keep him warm as he faced MC down on the maze path. His hand shook with the effort of holding his wand pointed in her direction, his veins pulsing and burning as a sweat began to break out across his forehead. He didn’t want to know the details, and yet his head was taking him there, imagining her moaning Prewett’s name while her cheeks flushed pink with her pleasure. It was a torment, a nightmare sent to rip his rational mind into tatters.

The darkness offered to swallow his pain, a tempting cloak as he stared at her, shaking as he fought the rage that boiled in his chest. How easy it would be to let the dark curl around it all, envelope him completely and leave him a shadow of himself. Cast off the pain and rage, and succumb to the icy depths of the bleak and empty landscape of cold terror. He could become a weapon, unfeeling and uncaring, carving through this life intent on nothing but destruction. What point was there to anything without her?

The loneliness of it all yawned like a maw before his feet, just an easy reach to cast himself into the dark and leave behind everything else. Maybe it would be easier. He was just so tired of fighting, so tired of cradling the pain. Succumb and be done with it.

Other memories began to seep through the shadow, dragging him back away from the drop, flickers of candlelight and her soft smile. Her fingers swiping the tears from his cheeks as he sobbed in the cold of the Undercroft, the tremble of their bodies after they had given themselves to each other for the first time, the familiar and safe glances over their textbooks in the library… her laughter as he chased her across the beach near Feldcroft under a summer sun.

The roaring throb of his pulse in his ears mingled with the rapid fire of his heaving lungs. His feet were backing up, the scratch of the hedge branches caught against his jacket and hair as he all but sagged against the foliage. Hand shaking so hard, he had to grip his wand tightly to avoid dropping it, he felt as well as heard the harsh sob that left his mouth.

“You can’t love him,” he croaked, shaking his head.

“You can’t control everything, Sebastian,” she said, lowering her wand. “We are already bound by blood magic, you cannot seek to control how I feel towards others. I am not an object to master. I have a mind of my own.”

Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to deny what lay hidden in her words. She did love Prewett. He was losing her. He could feel her slipping through his fingers, and she was right. He couldn’t control it. The fate of continuous failure seemed to truly be embedded into his soul, and this, this would be his ultimate loss. His very reason for everything was scooped up and carried away in the arms of a white knight in Auror robes.

The old crone in the prison cell had choked on her own blood and spit, cackling at the notion of him losing her to another, the pain he had inflicted on her neither easing his agony or changing the fact. How many times would he lash out and try to smash something in his attempts to fix what was broken?

It was him. He was the broken one.

Aiming with wild abandon, he cast Confringo, the blast of fire erupting from his wand and scorching the hedge to the side of him as he cried out in a sound that was more agony than rage. The blaze caught, devouring the branches and leaves in a crackle of flame that seared his eyes against the darkness of the maze. The heat of it against his cheeks had him scrambling backwards, tipping sideways onto the dirt path.

“Sebastian!”

The fire began to spread, the pungent scent of scorched fir trees filling his nose as he leapt to his feet. He felt a hand grip his arm, pulling him backwards away from the chaos of his reckless fury, just as a blast of cool blue shot past him, banking the flames back with the power of her magic.

“You’re an idiot, Sebastian,” she muttered near his ear. “Get us the fuck out of here.”

Turning to meet her gaze, his eyes stinging from the fire and tears, the streaks of which coursed through the ash on his cheeks, he almost choked on his breath. “Us?”

Her hand gripped his arm tighter as she nodded. Just like that, a flicker, a glow like the light of gods ignited in his chest. Us. She wasn’t going to leave here without him. Clamping his hand firmly over hers where she held him, he focused his thoughts and felt the pull of Apparation take them away from the flames.

…*...

The opposite of heat and flame was cold and water. The expanse and depth of the limitless ocean. They hit the sand with a thump, their booted feet sliding on the softness and making them tumble over. He immediately braced himself, trying to avoid crushing her as they rolled on the sand, but he didn’t let her go. Her grunt of pain made him fight her flailing arms, pinning her to the beach as the cool freshness of salty air filled his lungs and the roar of the waves reached his ears.

She glared up at him, resisting his grip. “Get off,” she snapped.

“Are you hurt?” His eyes scanned over her, ignoring her command.

Her mouth tightened. “Only where it counts.”

It was like a knife of ice slicing through him, his eyes turning bleak as he looked down at her. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I never want to hurt you.”

She blinked rapidly, turning her head to the side as she glanced around them, taking in the wild and abandoned landscape that was the Scottish coastline. Her brow furrowed slightly. “Is this…this is Feldcroft.”

He sighed, head dipping as he fought down the anxiety that only this place could pull out of him. Of all the places in the world, he had brought her home, if that’s what he could still call this place.

“Why here?”

He met her gaze in the moonlight, the ebb and flow of the waves, the only sound in the vicinity. “I feel like we need to go back to the start,” he said, his voice tight and pained. “This place doesn’t just hold dark memories. It also gives me some of the best memories I own. Our memories. We can make amends, MC. Despite everything. I am yours in the end, so we need to find that path we once walked. Together.”

The silence stretched as he tried to calm the burning anger, steadying his breathing as he prepared to fight for her rather than against.

“Why her?” Lips trembling, MC sank back into the sand, her hair pooled around her head like a dark halo. “Why did you do it?”

Wincing at the question, he pushed up to his knees, one each side of her hips. He released her arms and put his hands to his face, scrubbing at his cheeks with his palms as he tried to find an answer for her. Luring Luella into his bed had been a means to an end, a devious way to keep her sweet and gain access to what he wanted. So very Slytherin of him, but at what expense? 

Looking down at MC he realised just how much he stood to lose for his selfishness and it twisted his heart painfully. All those nights he had tried to find sleep alone, clutching the amulet in his hands and desperately clinging to the memory of her face. Luella had eased that ache, she had made him forget, even if it had only been for a brief time.

“I was lonely,” he sighed, turning to look out at the heaving mass of the ocean, dark and restless and stretching out towards nothing. “All I cared about was getting my revenge, finding a way to stop Anne’s curse, and perhaps seek out some way of getting you out. The nights were the worst. I missed you so much it was like a physical ache. Luella was there. She was a key to getting in closer to Rookwood’s nest, and I…I was weak.”

The sting of tears returned and he wiped his sleeve across his eyes, shaking his head at the pathetic sound of his words.

“I want to fix it,” he said, his voice beginning to shake as he looked back down at her. She was utterly still, her eyes locked on him as she listened. “I want to be forgiven, but I know that’s not something I can force or control. But, I promise you, I only want you. You are all I have ever wanted. When I arrived at your cell door and you were gone, I felt like you had been ripped away from me like that night when Harrington came for you. I can’t do that…I can’t lose you again. I will do anything to put this right.”

“Oh, fuck,” she sighed, her eyes closing as she brought her hands together as if in prayer. She held them against her mouth, her breathing shaky. “You can’t look at me like that, Sebastian, not with those big, bloody, brown eyes of yours.”

“That depends. Is it working?”

She sighed harshly and frowned, covering her face with her hands. He was pushing his luck and he knew it. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, that flicker of hope in his chest striving to remain alight.

When she opened her eyes and looked up at him, her gaze still had the power to rob him of breath, his lungs tightening as she sat up, her face tilting towards his.

“I’m sorry, too,” she said softly, her fingers reaching up to brush back the wild tumble of his hair. Such a gentle touch, yet it made him shiver, goosebumps spreading along his arms.

It felt like a tightrope that they were balanced on, alone here on the beach with only themselves to contend with. Laid bare, vulnerable. He wondered what she was sorry for, perhaps laying in Prewett’s bed or for loving him. Sebastian felt cold fear seep through his bones as the possibility emerged that she could be sorry about having to leave him, despite his plea to try and fix this mess. 

Unable to stop himself, his hands cupped her face, his fingertips seeking out the delicate bones of cheek and jaw. “I love you,” he whispered, the words a ghostly plea in the dark.

Her hand slid deeper into his hair, pulling him down towards her, and then her mouth collided with his, making him breath in sharply through his nose as her softness enveloped him. Grunting at the urgent pull of his hair, his arms encircled her immediately, crushing her against his chest as he kissed her back with a fierceness that made his blood hotter than any urge to betray his bond. 

The taste of her obliterated all else as he took advantage of her parted lips, kissing her so deeply as though starved, and maybe he was. The scales of rage and passion swung wildly, one flame consuming the other until it flared with white heat. His hands roamed down her back, seeking the curve of waist and hip, relearning the shape of her under his palms. That ache that lived in his chest sharpened, chasing back the shadows and dragging him screaming into the light of the moon, into the light only she could give him. It felt like belonging, so perfect, so right. 

When she pulled back from him, he moaned in protest, urging her closer as they both breathed harshly. She whispered his name, her hands still on him as she studied his face with heavily lidded eyes. He still had a hold on her. It was in her flushed cheeks and blown out gaze, the seeking caress of her hand through his hair.

“This is so confusing,” she said, her brows drawing together as if pained. “I don’t know what to do.”

His fingers ghosted against her cheek, his thumb lovingly stroking the damp fullness of her lower lip. “Stay,” he begged. “Stay till the morning.”

“I can’t,” she breathed, closing her eyes, leaning in to his touch. 

He pressed gentle kisses around the edge of her mouth, watching her through his lashes as she shivered, her lips parting with ragged breaths. He sucked gently on her lower lip, trailing his tongue with aching slowness, watching her reactions all the while, stroking her back with long, easing caresses.

“Stay with me,” he repeated, his words breathed into her mouth before he claimed another long kiss. He could feel her melting, sense the pull of longing that might just keep her here with him. So strong was his desire to keep her right here, he felt all his willpower flow out of him, resorting to begging to keep that warmth in his arms. “I just want you close, that’s all. I need to feel you there. I have longed for this…please.”

“Yes,” she whispered, nodding as he pressed his forehead to hers. Elation swelled in his chest as he held her close, his eyes closing in utter relief. “I’ll stay with you.”

MC

Standing side by side, hands clasped, MC and Sebastian stared at the headstone, the weeds of the garden beginning to stake their claim over Solomon’s resting place. It felt surreal to stand here before it after everything that had passed, reading the name of the man who sent her behind bars with his death and Anne’s cunning, a man who had signed her over to a children’s home when she had been a toddler. Seeing Solomon’s grave was a reminder of why she had sought Sebastian out in the first place and her anxiety swelled.

“I’ve not been back here in years,” Sebastian said tightly, his thumb tracing circles against her hand. “It’s just too hard.”

“Why now?” She turned her head to look at him, watching the way the breeze tugged at his mop of hair, locks of it tumbling forward over his forehead.

He squeezed her hand. “You,” he said, turning dark eyes her way, eyes that were always her undoing. “I can do it with you beside me.”

Heart twisting, she couldn’t deny the doubt that lingered as they entered the cottage that had been Sebastian’s home. The blend of emotions she carried left her feeling drained and exhausted, her limbs heavy as they removed the dust sheets from the furniture and lit the fire. A search of the cupboards turned up a bottle of spiced rum and some old potions that looked past their prime. Dusting of the bottle of rum, Sebastian opened it and took a swig, wincing and coughing as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He held the bottle out to her. “Here, it’s strong and will take the edge off.” 

The air was loaded with tension, her doubt making her eye the door and consider leaving. There was a Floo in the hamlet. She could go back to London and Leander. Swallowing the rum down, she winced at the burn, remembering the feel of Sebastian’s kiss, his hands on her body. The craving had overcome all else, her resolve weakening under that irresistible pull that only he had. Despite the fury and the envy, she had pressed her mouth to his as though staking her claim. 

It was all too easy to succumb to her desire for him, with that she had always been weak, but the matter of trust was another beast entirely. As much as she longed to believe in him again, she held back behind her barriers and kept her heart in a jar of glass with the lid tightened. She may have agreed to stay with him until the morning, but this was by no means fixed.

With no food, they sipped from the rum bottle and made up the bed. Her eyes meeting with him as memories flooded her thoughts, summer nights spent entangled with each other, naked and lost in their own little world. It made her chest hurt to remember how she had been torn from him, the agony of that night returning as he put out the lamp and removed his jacket. 

“Maybe we shouldn’t have come here,” she said, hesitating about removing her own clothing. Her throat felt thick, restricted, and she tucked her hair behind her ears as she fought against the anxiety.

His hands smoothed down her arms, his eyes dark and soft as he looked at her. “Believe me, I can’t believe I’m here either, but as I said on the beach, I want to remember the good things we found here. I want you to remember what it felt like for us here before…”

She closed her eyes, fighting back the shadows of the past. She felt his lips on her nose, pressing soft kisses on her cheek before holding her close. His scent filled her up, the thick press of his arms enveloping her in a cocoon of warmth that she couldn’t help but lean into. 

Guilt twisted her stomach and she tensed, Leander on her mind, easing out of his embrace as she dipped her gaze towards the bed. “We should try and get some sleep. I don’t know about you, but I’m shattered.”

Removing her boots and jacket, MC kept her clothes on as she lay down on the bed, Sebastian removing everything but his shirt and undershorts, opening his collar before laying beside her. Turning to face her, he gathered her into his arms, pressing a kiss to her head before smiling softly.

“Finally,” he murmured. 

The reflection of the crackling fire danced in his eyes, his unruly hair dark against the white pillow. The sheets were a bit musty from being in storage, but the intoxicating scent that was Sebastian held her attention more than anything else. 

“Won’t you be missed?” She asked, trying not to think about the press of his thick thighs against hers. 

“No,” he said, stroking her hair. “Rosier will cover me, and besides, this is where I want to be. I don’t care what they say.” 

“And Luella? She clearly didn’t want you to leave with me.”

He shook his head, his fingers curling through her hair. “Then she is going to be disappointed. I made no promises to her, and I have no desire to be with her. She needs to accept that.”

Lowering her gaze, MC bit her lip, knowing that in London, Leander would be likely thinking of her. He wouldn't want her to be here with Sebastian either. Lying here beside him, letting him hold her, it made the guilt tear through her. How tangled their paths had become, swiftly moving streams that linked and flowed around each other, and it was hard to choose the right course. MC felt caught in the tide, her arms seemingly reaching out to grasp at something to keep her steady, but which bough would be the best choice? 

As Sebastian sought her lips, kissing her softly, she felt her barriers weakening, and she couldn’t let that happen. She knew how dangerously slippery this slope could be, her body so in tune with his that it was already calling for him. Bringing her hand up between them, she pressed her fingertips to his mouth to halt him, their eyes so close she could almost feel the burn of his gaze. 

“I’m here, and I will stay, but this doesn’t mean that everything is fixed,” she said softly, focusing on the steady intake of her breaths. “It will take time, Sebastian. I hope you understand that.”

“Is this because of Prewett?”

She winced slightly, his grip tightening subtly in her hair. “No. This is about learning to trust you again.”

“Can I trust you?” He asked, his eyes dark and brooding. “You are here with me now, but how do I know that you won’t crawl back into his bed once you leave here?”

She met his gaze, the pointed question slamming into her like a rock, because the thought of making a clean cut from Leander actually made her pause and think. The slow patching up of her wounded soul had been rooted in the gentle affection Leander had bestowed upon her, and to rip away from that would likely tear at the fragile healing she was still going through.

“I guess we both need to take a chance if we are ever going to work,” she said carefully. “Like I said, this is going to take some time.”

“That wasn’t a no,” he said, his mouth tightening. 

Swallowing down her apprehension, she leaned to press a kiss to his cheek, unable to summon the will to fight this out right now. “Goodnight, Sebastian.” 

….*….

It wasn’t quite dawn, the fire long since burned low, and a chill had settled over the cottage. Sitting empty for so long, the damp had encroached, and the house no longer held any of that cosy charm it once had. Sebastian was asleep, his lashes dark and thick against his freckled cheekbones, his hair a riot of tumbled locks. It needed cutting, and there was enough growth on his jaw to almost be a beard. He was a man now, no longer the damaged boy she had first fallen for.

Taking a moment in the dead of night to study him while he slept felt like a luxury after the years spent yearning for him in the thick dark of Azkaban. She still felt like a pinch on her arm would wake her up, and all of this would turn out to be a fever dream, and she would still be in that cell, cold and alone.

Tears stained her cheeks, her eyes tight and aching from the silent crying she had been unable to stop as she lay staring up at the thatched worked ceiling. Sitting up with her arms wrapped around her knees, MC tried to process through the tangled mess of her feelings. It was impossible, none of it made sense, and it made her chest ache to think of losing either of these men who had snuck into her heart. For her own selfishness, she knew to stand without them would take a summoning of immense courage, and she feared she had lost some of that whilst drowning in the dark sorrow of Azkaban.

How to be whole again? 

Slipping quietly from the bed, she took out the secret message parchment and wrote to Leander, hoping he hadn’t lain awake all night waiting for her to come back. The tether of their bond was stronger than she would ever likely admit to anyone, and she hated the thought that she would be worrying him. Tapping her wand to her message, she watched the ink fade to nothing before she returned to the bed, taking a steadying breath before gently climbing back onto it.

Perhaps finding her mother would shine a light on things. Taking a look at her past, unravelling some truths and hoping they showed some clues for her future. Wiping the tears from her cheeks, she looked down at Sebastian, her hand drifting to gently stroke back a lock of hair from his forehead. He was so very beautiful. Beautiful and fractured, stumbling around in the dark like she was. 

Sliding down onto the mattress beside him, she dipped her hand beneath the blanket and found his, clasping it gently. He shifted in his sleep, eyelids fluttering, but he didn’t fully wake. Snuggling closer, MC closed her eyes as she leant her head against his chest to feel his heartbeat, her lips almost curving into a sad smile as his arm circled around her and pulled her closer. Lips pressed against her hair, his fingers squeezing her hand as though in reassurance. For her, or for himself, she wasn’t sure. 

Leander

The sun’s morning rays had crept across towards the bed, the glow of the golden haze that came from autumn filtered through the smog of London’s bustle and warmed the bed through the glass window. Leander had blinked his tired eyes and tried not to feel the vacant spot beside him in the bed. Waking up alone felt so hollow now. It was cold and quiet, the bed felt so big and empty without her warmth there beside him.

Dressed and drinking his morning tea, Leander unfolded his secret parchment and tapped his wand to it, putting down his tea cup as MC’s script appeared. 

I’m alright. Luella Rookwood clearly doesn’t like me, and I hope this doesn’t pose a problem. I am in Scotland, but I will be back in London soon. I will be in touch once I have faced Rookwood.

Stay safe, Lee, please. Sebastian knows. I’m sorry.

MC xx

Sebastian knows.

She was with him. There wasn’t even a glimmer of smug satisfaction to be found knowing that Sebastian was aware that he took MC to bed. If anything, it merely highlighted the point that she was in deep with the Slytherin, deeper than she probably even realised. He could imagine the way that conversation had gone down, but the lack of her return proved that in choice, she had stayed with Sallow. Clearly, those bridges were still fit for mending.

The office was busy, Aurors and researchers alike working to file reports on some raids that had taken place over night. Leander arrived at his desk and paused, staring in surprise at the blonde girl unpacking a box of personal items onto Odessa’s desk. Her sleek hair was twisted up into a neat knot, exposing the slender column of her neck, skin like porcelain, her movements suggesting grace and confidence as she placed a framed photograph before adjusting its position slightly.

On turning her attention back to her box, she glanced up at him, pausing as a smile spread across her face. Leander could only stand and stare, her smile lighting up her eyes and making them sparkle. “Oh, hello!” She said, brightly, her eyes shifting towards his desk as she stepped closer. “Tall, red hair, and impeccably dressed. You must be Auror Prewett.”

Apparently, he could neither confirm nor deny her observation, his lips parting as though to speak but no words actually forming. He felt the slow burn of his cheeks flushing pink, his hand nervously smoothing his tie as he couldn’t help but admire the slope of her nose. It was a very cute and pretty nose, rather fitting for her lovely face. As for her eyes, well, it was very difficult not to stare at them. Framed with dark lashes, they were a soft brown, large and captivating. There was something rather intriguing about them, in a fiesty and fun way.

“I’m Auror Montgomery,” she said, holding out a slender hand towards him. She grinned. “Gosh, that still sounds so formal and strange to say. Seeing as we are to be colleagues, perhaps it might be alright for you to call me Ivy. I certainly wouldn’t mind, but I suppose that all depends on how much of a stickler you are for the rules.”

Leander looked down at her hand, her cheerful words filtering through the haze of shy insecurity he suddenly felt himself under. “Ivy,” he said, slowly, his gaze returning to her face. 

Her smile seemed to lose some of its shine as she studied him, a crease of worry appearing on her brow, her arm going a little slack. “Oh no, have I been too informal already?” She cringed, moving to tuck hair behind her ear despite it being so effortlessly neat already. “I have been known to be a little too forward sometimes. Do forgive me. I was hoping to make a good first impression on my first day, especially to you.”

“Really? Why me?” Genuinely baffled, Leander tilted his head as he considered her more closely. She seemed to be not much younger than himself, bright eyed and keen. A new graduate by the sounds of it, a new Auror in their ranks, and taking the seat of one so recently deceased. 

“Am I not to be mentored by you, Auror Prewett?” She asked, turning to ruffle through her box of possessions and pulling out a rolled parchment. Unrolling it, she scanned the note and held it up. “I was told to report to Auror Harrington, which I have done, and then seek out my mentor for further instruction. Auror Harrington confirmed it would be you. You are Auror Prewett, aren’t you?”

His blush darkening even further, Leander looked to his intray on his desk, spying a similar roll of parchment issued by the Head Auror’s office and he winced. It wasn’t like him to slip up on his paperwork, and he cursed himself for allowing a certain ex-convict to distract him so thoroughly. 

“Forgive me, Auror Montgomery,” he said, finding his manners. He straightened his perfect tie and held out his hand. “Let’s start this again, shall we? I am, indeed, Auror Prewett. It’s lovely to meet you. Welcome to the office.”

Her smile of delight was so very warm, and she slipped her hand into his, shaking firmly despite her slender fingers being completely dwarfed by his grip. “A pleasure,” she said. “I can’t wait to get started.”

….*….

Sweating and out of breath, Leander pressed a towel to his face and glanced into the locker room mirror, noting the darker shadows under his eyes from too many late nights. Whilst he couldn’t regret his reasons, he felt the drain of tiredness pulling at him after that workout. He couldn’t afford to slack off. 

Gathering his things for a shower, he paused as Harrington entered the locker room, robe billowing as he strode towards him.

“There you are, Prewett,” he greeted, nodding once as he came to a pause. “I was hoping to catch you. Have you met our new recruit?”

“Auror Montgomery? Yes, I have. She introduced herself this morning.”

Harrington nodded, pleased. “Excellent. She is a promising young thing, excellent grades, and plenty of ambition. She comes from a good family, too. I think she will be an asset to the team, and that’s why I thought she could shadow you for a while.”

“It would be an honour,” Leander said. “I take it she will be on the Ashwinder case with us?” 

Harrington nodded, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Yes, I thought it would be best to place a fresh face in McKinnon’s seat. A new start, so to speak.”

Harrington hesitated, giving Leander a careful look. “A snitch on the team is always bad for morale, and I know you were disappointed, to say the least. I also warned you about the emotional downfalls of this case, and I couldn’t help but notice how familiar our little prisoner had become with you. I hope you are being careful, Prewett.”

Leander felt his cheeks warm and he shifted position, clutching his towel and shower things a little tighter. “I’m just trying to do the right thing,” he said, lifting his chin in an attempt at confidence. “I won’t deny it can be difficult, but I understand the job.”

“Just so long as you do,” Harrington warned, placing a heavy hand on his shoulder. “You’re a fine Auror, Prewett. Don’t let one girl mess that up for you. Taking young Montgomery on field work with you will hopefully remind you about your responsibilities, and being her role model will pay off handsomely in the end.”

Leander wondered how transparent his emotions really were on his face for Harrington to have noticed how much MC had gotten under his skin. So, the new recruit had been placed to distract him, to give him a focus other than their ex convict turned spy. With Montgomery hanging around all the time, there would be less opportunity for him and MC to be alone. Especially if she ceased coming to the flat at night. 

“Message received,” he said carefully, his pulse firing rapidly as he thought of all the rule breaking he had been indulging in of late. “I shall aim to be the best of role models.”

“Good man,” Harrington smiled, clapping his shoulder firmly before turning for the door. “Oh, and some of us are heading to the Cauldron for a few beers this evening. You should come along. Perhaps invite your new partner?”

Harrington’s eyebrows twitched suggestively and he grinned before exiting the changing rooms. Leander watched him leave, sighing as the door closed and pressing a hand to his forehead, fingers pinching slightly in pained anxiety.

Auror Montgomery was a very pretty young lady, of course, but his whole body and soul burned for MC. The suggestion that he could turn his affections towards another seemed impossible. He didn’t think he could handle the trappings of it all, his emotions stretched to the limit already. Perhaps he would merely suggest the drinks meet up to Montgomery as a group activity rather than cordially invite her as his guest. It wouldn’t do to start off on the wrong foot, after all. 

Sebastian

The return to London had been a dismal one, the skies overcast and the breeze carrying a damp drizzle that seemed to seep into one’s bones. Despite the weather, he felt surprisingly rested considering he had slept in that cold cottage last night. Perhaps the word ‘slept’ was the key factor in things, for he had indeed slept rather well. Glancing beside him at MC, smirking at the way her nose was slightly wrinkled against the tickle of the rain, he knew she was the reason for his deeper rest. Despite the lingering tension over Prewett and Luella, she was still with him, and he almost dared to believe that he could glimpse a hint of something promising in her eyes when they lingered on him. Even if she did skip her gaze hastily away when she caught him staring back.

“Does he always keep you waiting like this?” She grumbled, her head glancing up and down the lake’s edge as she rubbed her hands together. She seemed tense, on edge, but had refused to give a solid reason to explain her request for this meeting. He had the distinct feeling that it was a lot more than just missing an old friend that had made her ask for the owl to be sent first thing this morning.

“You know Ominis,” he smirked. “He is a law unto himself.”

She scoffed, eyeing him in disbelief. “That is rich, coming from you.”

His smirk widened and he pulled the collar up a bit higher on his jacket against the damp. “He will be along, don’t worry. He is a busy man you know, and we did send the owl rather short notice.”

She began to pace again, twisting her hands, her eyes dark and wary as she scanned the London park for any sign of their fellow Slytherin. “I just need to see him.”

“You never really said what it was about,” he probed, head tilting curiously.

Her eyes flicked his way and she seemed to curl in on herself, her teeth pulling at her lip. His eyes narrowed, his brow creasing in thought as he watched her. Something was afoot here, something was bothering her, and he had the strange feeling that it was something about these birth records Prewett had given her. Last night in the maze she had started to talk about it before closing up, the conversation turning to subjects much more volatile, their attention focused on the chaos of their relationship.

“It’s complicated,” she muttered, wrapping her arms around herself. “I need to ask him a favour.”

“Complicated, you say? Hmm, I do like a challenge,” he said, stepping towards her.

She looked up as he approached, her throat working nervously as he gently cupped her face. He’d always loved intense eye contact with her, he sought it as much as possible, yearned for it even. Even now under the miserable clouds of London, her eyes darkened, the depths expanding to let him in and he savoured the sight, his thumb teasing at her chilled cheek.

“Perhaps I can help,” he whispered. Her soft lips parted and he lowered his face, hungry to taste what he craved, but the distinct tap of a cane and the clearing of a throat interrupted their moment.

“Ominis,” she said, turning from him, stepping out from his touch and heading towards their old friend.

Impeccably presented in expensive black robes, his blonde hair swept fashionably back, Ominis stood proudly under a black umbrella. The epitome of an English gentleman. His head bowed slightly, his lips curving with a hint of pleasure as MC stepped up before him, his eyes shifting from side to side as he subtly aimed his cane in order to seek her out.

“We meet again, my dear,” he greeted. “When Sebastian said you wished to meet with me, I couldn’t help but be curious. The last we spoke, you seemed rather set on your goal. I trust things are running smoothly, despite your obvious proximity to the lord of chaos over here.”

Sebastian frowned as he joined them, hands flexing. “You’re not funny.”

Ominis twisted his mouth in amusement. “Oh, I don’t know. If the cap fits, and all that.”

“I’m still set on my goal, Ominis, and I heeded your words,” MC said, her face rather earnest as she stared at him. “However, this meeting is for another matter entirely. You see, I need your help with something. Something…personal.”

Sebastian stilled, noticing how intently MC was staring at Ominis, free to study him without worry of being caught. Her eyes held a fascination that burned vividly, and if he hadn’t known her better, he might have thought to be envious of the rapt attention she had focused on him.

“Oh? This sounds interesting. How may I be of service, my dear? It must be quite something to haul me out into this awful weather.”

“I’m looking for someone,” she said, her hands twisting together again, a flush staining her cheeks. “You are the only person I can ask this of, Ominis, and I am placing all of my hope onto the possibility that you can help me.”

Something icy began to trickle down Sebastian’s spine, a thick and choking realisation of where this could be headed. He looked at Ominis, saw the curious tilt of his head, and then turned to the anxious plea on MC’s face.

“I see. Well, who are you looking for?”

MC took a steadying breath, and to Sebastian’s surprise, her shaking hand reached out for him, her fingers like ice as she grasped hold of his hand. He wrapped his hand firmly around hers, waiting for the next words out of her mouth.

“I’m looking for Elizabeth Gaunt,” she said, her voice so strained it was breathless.

Sebastian felt the quickening of his pulse, his ears roaring in the silence that followed that name. Ominis went rigid, whatever colour he had in his porcelain complexion faded to a waxy white, his mouth parting in stunned disbelief. 

Looking at MC, Sebastian could see the tears welling in her eyes, the savage grip she held on his hand conveying the stress she must have been feeling in that moment. The shocking realisation swept through him and he stared at her with new eyes. She couldn’t be…

Ominis made a choking sound, clearing his throat as his hand gripped his cane with tight control. “And why would you be looking for her?”

“You do know her, then?” MC asked, hope flaring in her eyes. “She is a close relative of yours?”

“She is my aunt,” Ominis said tightly, his face ashen, a muscle twitching in his jaw. “My estranged aunt, I might add. None of us have seen her for many years. What do you want with her?”

A tear escaped and rolled down MC’s cheek, her lips trembling as she stared at Ominis. “Elizabeth Gaunt is my birth mother,” she said, her voice wobbling dangerously. Sebastian gave her hand a squeeze, his other arm swiftly wrapping around her waist as she swayed. “If she is your aunt, then…then that means we are cousins.”

Ominis staggered slightly, his head shaking in denial, a shocked gasp escaping his lips as he began to back up away from them. MC was shaking in Sebastian’s arms, and he held her up, her knees caving as the tears flowed freely down her cheeks, shuddering at the look on Ominis’ face.

“No…that’s impossible…” Ominis muttered, a gloved hand pressing to his mouth. “The only child Aunt Elizabeth ever had died. The child died when she was a baby…”

MC sobbed and Sebastian held her against him, trying to grasp this information himself as he turned a pleading look towards his shaken friend. “Ominis, please,” he said.

“Don’t plead with me,” Ominis snapped, his mouth tightening. “Did you know about this? Where in Merlin’s name did you get this information?”

MC dug into her pocket and retrieved a file, holding it up with a shaking hand. Sebastian took it from her, trying to look reassuring as he pressed a kiss to her head, whilst his mind and heart raced with a million thoughts and feelings. Opening the file, he needed to see this with his own eyes, the inked words confirming the birth record for MC.

“MC has a document from Ministry archives recording her birth,” Sebastian said, maintaining control over his voice as he tried to make sense of it all. “Here, you can check for yourself. It says she was born to Elizabeth Gaunt and a man named William.”

“William Brierley,” Ominis choked, shaking his head. He took the parchment file, daring to slip his wand free in order to read it. “Gods…”

“You know of him? So, it’s true,” MC sobbed, staring at Ominis. “You’re really my family.”

Ominis turned away from them, pacing on the path as he gathered himself, rechecking the evidence he held in his hand. The rain fell softly around them, but none of them paid much heed to it any more, their minds too full of what was unfolding between them. Sebastian held MC in his embrace, soothing a hand against her head as she trembled, crying freely now. When she looked up at him, the fear in her eyes staggered him. 

“He hates the very idea of it,” she rasped painfully, wincing.

“Give him a moment, MC,” he urged, his chest tight with worry. “Let him process it. I’m in need of a moment myself.”

“Do you hate the thought of me being a Gaunt, too?” 

He stared at her, tears and raindrops dripping from her pale face, her dark hair hanging limply in the cold breeze. He couldn’t help scanning her features, searching for any resemblances he may have missed before, but all he could see was the face of the girl he loved. It mattered not what blood flowed through her veins, a daughter of Slytherin, a witch most powerful and utterly beautiful.

“I could never hate you,” he promised, shaking his head. “So, you’re a Gaunt. I already love one member of that gods forsaken family, perhaps I was destined to love another.”

Sagging against him in relief, she buried her face into him, his arms holding her tight as he glanced across towards Ominis. He seemed to have gathered himself, and he turned, cane angled so he could move towards them. Slowly, he reached out, his fingers gently seeking out MC. Touching her shoulder, he grasped it, and she looked up at him.

“So, cousin,” he said, his pale ethereal eyes shining with unshed tears. “May I call you that?”

As she whimpered, Ominis appeared to reach for her, and Sebastian manoeuvred her into his embrace. Ominis usually wasn’t one for too much physical interaction, so to see him like this pulled at heartstrings in Sebastian’s chest. At Ominis’ gesture, he moved closer to them, joining the embrace so that the three of them stood together, wrapped in each other’s arms. It reminded him of that terrible day when they had discovered Slytherin’s Scriptorium, the dark terror of having to inflict pain in order to survive had bonded the three of them in ways that nobody else would ever understand. They had held each other like this that night, bound by the horror, the secrecy, the shared pain of their memories.

Now, they were bound by something even deeper. They were family, and once again, he felt certain that nobody else would understand it.

Ominis held the birth record, and Sebastian took it, looking down to read the truth of MC’s bloodline again. Realising there was another parchment tucked behind it, he turned the paper over, a curious frown dipping over his brow as he read the details of the orphanage she had grown up in. 

As his eyes read the details quickly, Sebastian felt his blood freeze in his veins when they landed on a name that was all too familiar to him. His lungs screamed for air, but it was as though his mind had forgotten how to control his basic bodily needs. He stared and stared until the name and signature blurred out of reality. No wonder she had asked him if he knew about her mother, if he had known who she was all along.

“What is it?” Ominis asked, frowning in his direction. “I felt you tense.”

Blinking through his shock, Sebastian stared at MC, barely managing to draw the breath required to speak. “MC, why is Uncle Solomon’s name on your orphan paperwork?”

Turning her head slowly to look at him, her eyes dark and pained, she fixed him with a look that made him shiver. “I was hoping you would be able to tell me,” she said.

Fate, it seemed, enjoyed kicking the shit out of him far too much.

To be continued...

Ivy Montgomery is an OC character created and owned by @eternalremorse Used with her kind permission 💜

Taglist: @eternalremorse @slytherin-paramour @evaslytherpuff @marketfreshfics @writing-intheundercroft @sevprince-91 @loving-him-was-red13

[luckyarchivist]

Don’t be afraid, give us more of your Ais/Ocudeus thought crumbs

You mean, like...the spicy thought crumbs? Well, if you insist...

Ais/Ocudeus Sexytoxic HCs

Have been doing some research on The Tumblr and have seen people imply that Ocudeus can actually have full control of Ais's body? Which I guess I should've realized, but now that I have... Oh, the implications.

How many times has Ocudeus hijacked Ais's body when he was in bed with someone else, the odd pupils of his eyes hidden by the darkness?

It definitely taunts Ais, when he has sex with other people. Ocudeus is the awful, intrusive voice in his head that tells him that the person on top of him is totally unaware, lost in pleasure — it would be so easy, and so good, to kill them in this moment.

I think Ais knows from experience how dangerous and cruel Ocudeus can be. He himself has been hurt by it, physically and emotionally — has had those tentacles around his wrists, around his neck. But he's learned to live with its rules, and to play nice with his bodymate.

But when it takes him over and squeezes hips hard enough to bruise, bites until the person underneath its mouth cries out, Ais remembers why he can't get truly close to anyone, especially anyone without their own defenses.

Ocudeus wonders: Would Ais prefer that it just subsume his partners into the groupmind? It's not above dragging people in just to placate its host.

(Ocudeus knows Ais's preference is for conflict with his friends and lovers, but clearly that's an inferior way to live. It just has to convince him that total subservience is best through example! Besides, if Ocudeus rules all minds, there will be no one around to distract, to stop it from consuming every facet of Ais's body and mind, and every corner of his life.)

When they're alone, Ocudeus will take control of Ais's body just to run his hands across it, enjoying the feel of its host's skin under its stolen palms. In Ais's head, Ocudeus is more cut-off from the world, but when it inhabits his body, every sensation is clear and present.

It knows where Ais is most sensitive (because of course it does, knowing this information about its host is absolutely vital) and spends its time leisurely working him up with his own hands, indulgently pleased at the way that Ais fights for control of his own body from within his mind. And right when Ais's body is at its limit, Ocudeus retreats and leaves its host wanting.

Has Ais ever been desperate enough to finish what Ocudeus started, or worse, ask Ocudeus for help? I don't think so, but Ocudeus is very patient. It can wait. It's waited this long.

Of course, sometimes Ocudeus wants its contact with its host to be more...tangible. At night, its tentacles crawl across his skin. It wants to explore him, to please him, maybe to win him over, even as it demands his mental and physical submission.

I do think the tattoo is like a brand — less Ocudeus's actual body, and more a symbol of its presence in Ais's. The black ink squirms and wriggles across Ais's shoulder as Ocudeus's large tentacles caress Ais's skin, creeping under clothing, lavishing something like love onto each centimeter of skin when its host is most vulnerable.

Ocudeus is a terrifying, awe-inspiring being, one that could rend unending torment on any person it chose. It is cruel, and jealous. It demands, and deserves, complete obedience. But its host deserves to be worshipped, too. When he's being cooperative.

[theresattrpgforthat]

THEME: Fuck WotC

With the updates to the OGL, you might be looking for a way to play your fantasy game without having to worry about supporting a company that doesn't hold the interests of the community as a priority. These series of recommendations are specifically about exploring dungeons in settings that might possibly have dragons, and require little to no time, effort, or money given towards Wizards of the Coast. Moreover, most of these games heavily encourage home-brew, rule hacks, and your own custom creations!

Ironsworn, by Shawn Tomkin.

In the Ironsworn tabletop roleplaying game, you are a hero sworn to undertake perilous quests in the dark fantasy setting of the Ironlands.

Others live out their lives hardly venturing beyond the walls of their village or steading, but you are different. You will explore untracked wilds, fight desperate battles, forge bonds with isolated communities, and reveal the secrets of this harsh land.

Are you ready to swear iron vows and see them fulfilled—no matter the cost?

Ironsworn is majestic. Character motivation is built in during creation, so you start the game knowing something about who your character is and what they want - and from the very beginning, your character’s story is vital to the campaign. You can approach problems from a number of different approaches, including combat, persuasion, physical prowess, and more. 

The game is built for solo, co-op, and guided play. This means that if you have a friend who’s willing to GM, they have plenty of help in coming up with plot. If you have no-one who’s willing to GM, you can still play the game - and if you have no-one who’s willing to play the game with you, you can still play it. Finally, and this might be the best part: Ironsworn, a 270-page PDF full of lore, advice and foes… is free. 

DURF, by Emil Boven.

DURF is a rules-light dungeon-fantasy RPG in the vein of games like Knave, Troika! and Into the Odd. When it comes to character background, appearance, and history, much of what you decide will be up to you: your character backstory doesn’t have to influence your stats if you don’t want it to. Your character’s stats are boiled down to three: Strength, Dexterity, and Willpower, and you have an inventory of 10+ your Strength. The game is rules-light, but the rules that are there make combat similar to what you see in D&D: you have to roll higher than your opponent, account for range, and most rolls depend on a d20. 

Spell casting isn’t limited to specific classes in DURF, because there aren’t any specific classes. However, that doesn’t limit what your character can do to grow. You can increase character stats, add new spells, and consult a trove of content for this game created by people who love it, much of which is either free or incredibly reasonably priced! If you find yourself writing a lot of your own content for your D&D game anyways, you might enjoy the really creative community that’s popped up around DURF and similar OSR games.

World of Dungeons, by John Harper.

World of Dungeons is a simple, quick-play, dungeon crawling game, using one of the core mechanics from the Powered by the Apocalypse rules system. It's compatible with Old School Renaissance and original D&D monsters, dungeons, and adventure modules.

This is another game that doesn’t require a lot of dedication to convert what you know and are comfortable with into a new system. It’s also an introduction to the standard PbtA conceit of rolling 2d6 for every action and a three-tiered level of success that moves the plot forward, even if you fail. Failure in PbtA games can be just as interesting and engaging as successes - and once you’ve got the hang of this mechanic, there’s a whole world of games available to you!

Tunnel Goons, by Nate Treme (Highland Paranormal Society).

Tunnel Goons is a simple table-top role-playing game. It was originally only included in the zine The Eternal Caverns of Urk. It's a light weight 2d6 system that can be applied to many different genres and settings.

An extremely streamlined system, Tunnel Goons is only 4 pages long and is pay-what-you-want. You only need d6’s to play, and have three stats to take care of. If you enjoy roleplaying but find the idea of transferring to a new system daunting, you pick up a game of Tunnel Goons to try out something new without having to learn a bunch of new rules or spending a lot of money. 

This game is small and simple, but it’s also been hacked a number of times for many different genres, which means that if what you like about roleplaying is coming up with new settings and new character options to play with, you’re right at home here!

Realms of Terrinoth, by Fantasy Flight Games.

Terrinoth is a land of forgotten greatness and lost legacies. Once ruled by the Elder Kings who called upon mighty magics to perform great deeds and work marvels, the land has suffered greatly at the hands of its three great foes: the undead armies of Waiqar the Betrayer, the demon-possessed hordes of the bloodthirsty Uthuk Y’llan, and the terrifying dragons of the Molten Heath. Many of its great cities have been cast down into ruins, and many wondrous secrets and powerful artifacts have been lost.

For hundreds of years, Terrinoth slipped into gloom and decay. But heroes arise just when their lands need them the most. Courageous adventurers brave the ruins of past ages and the foul creatures within to uncover the treasures of their ancestors. The Daqan Barons, inheritors of the ancient kingdoms, rebuild their walls and muster their armies, while the wizards of Greyhaven gather runes of power to awaken guardians of stone and steel. These preparations come none too soon, for the ancient enemies of the lawful races are stirring again, and Terrinoth needs champions of courage and cunning to stand against the rising darkness.

If what you like about D&D is the collection of options and stat-block builds that you can lovingly craft, the Genesys system that runs Realms of Terrinoth has plenty of options that help you build your own backgrounds and create your own classes. So if the setting doesn’t have what you’re looking for, it can’t stop you! The dice system is fundamentally different in that the dice don’t have numbers on them at all - they provide you with successes, failures, advantages and threats, which means that it’s possible to succeed and also running into obstacles, as well as fail and still experience a boatload of good luck! This is the only game on this list that isn't an indie game.

Cairn, by Yochai Gal.

Cairn is an adventure game for one facilitator (the Warden) and at least one other player. Players act as hardened adventurers exploring a dark & mysterious Wood filled with strange folk, hidden treasure, and unspeakable monstrosities.

Based on Knave by Ben Milton and Into The Odd by Chris McDowall, Cairn is an attempt at making Into The Odd semi-compatible with popular OSR settings like Dolmenwood. Character generation is quick and random, classless, and relies on fictional advancement rather than through XP or level mechanics. The game itself is rules-light but functional, leaving most rulings up to the Warden.

Cairn is an excellent example of how creative and generous the indie ttrpg community is, especially within the OSR scene. A free rulebook, it is designed to be used alongside other popular games in the OSR scene, and has many of its own adventures designed by the community. These kinds of games are wonderful for players who are excited about exploring fantastical and dangerous places, and solving the variety of problems that appear within.

Blades in the Dark, by John Harper.

Blades in the Dark is a tabletop role-playing game about a crew of daring scoundrels seeking their fortunes on the haunted streets of an industrial-fantasy city. There are heists, chases, occult mysteries, dangerous bargains, bloody skirmishes, and, above all, riches to be had — if you’re bold enough to seize them.

You and your fledgling crew must thrive amidst the threats of rival gangs, powerful noble families, vengeful ghosts, the Bluecoats of the city watch, and the siren song of your scoundrel’s own vices. Will you rise to power in the criminal underworld? What are you willing to do to get to the top?

Blades in the Dark is a setting that has amassed a large following for a number of reasons: it has free player resources, it prioritizes fiction-first gaming, it has a tight set of rules that are easy to learn and expand upon, and the setting fucking slaps. It’s the parent of the entire Forged in the Dark family of games, so if you don’t want to play criminal masterminds in an industrial city - you don’t have to! There’s so many games published under this ruleset that fall under different themes, such as Band of Blades, a military fantasy setting, Into the Dark, a dungeon-delving game, and Blades Against Darkness, a game about adventurers exploring tombs and new frontiers. FitD games provide a tight setting and focus for your group, so you’ll always know what your players are working towards, and there are number of interlocking systems that you can pull on to increase your chance of success - at the risk of pushing your character a little closer to stress and trauma.

If you want something that's not high-fantasy dungeon delving -well, that's what the rest of my blog is for!

[jupiitersreturn]

Astrocartography Observations Part Two: Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, Pluto.

(Disclaimer: A lot of Astrologers use different orbs of measurements for Astrocartography. My limit is 200 km because I have seen lines that have influences up to that point, and depending on the planet, sometimes more.)

Planets:

Sun: Fame, Happiness, Vitality, Children.

Moon: Home, Roots, Family, Nostalgia.

Venus: Love, Beauty, Luxury, Desires.

Mercury: Lower Education, Communication, Knowledge, Friendships.

Mars: Passions, Action, Pain, Anger.

Jupiter: Luck, Higher Education, Religion, Beliefs.

Saturn: Karma, Restrictions, Discipline, Commitments, Delays

Uranus: Unpredictability, Innovation, Rebellion, Technology, Humanitarian ideals

Neptune: Illusions, Dreams, Spirituality, Intuition, Fame, Popularity.

Pluto: Destruction, Transformations, Deaths and Rebirths.

Where your Pluto lines are running through are places where you could experience the most profound transformations in your life. Places where you can discover more about yourself thus leading to enlightenment. However, being at these lines does not come without a price. Many fundamental teachings of Pluto will be present here (Death, Rebirth, Destruction, etc.) I'd also like to add that when Pluto takes, it always gives something else in return.

☆ Aaliyah Haughton has her Pluto MC line running through Los Angeles. Robert Sylvester Kelly was her executive producer at the time she released her 1994 debut album "Age Ain't Nothing But A Number". It was then that the rumors began to circulate that 15 year old Aaliyah had married her then 27 year old executive producer who named her album and became the driving influence in her success and her music career. Los Angeles (Hollywood) = Fame, MC = Career, Pluto = Transformations.

☆ Ryan Reynolds has his Pluto AS line running through Brazil where he was almost crushed by a falling barrier during a fan event due to it being overcrowded with people. Interestingly enough, Reynolds has his Mercury MC line (which rules groups of people as well as social events) squaring this line. AS = You, Pluto = Destruction.

☆ Blake Lively has her Pluto IC line running through Los Angeles where she was raised. Blake Lively secure her first real movie role (that just so happened to become a huge hit) after her older brother called a casting director and asked them to hire Lively who had already had a ton of experience with acting, having a talent scout mother and director father. Pluto = Transformations, IC = Family, Home, Roots.

Where your Saturn lines are running through are places where you could experience or be subject to delays and restrictions. I've also noticed that where these lines cross are places where you could make serious commitments and decisions; good or bad.

☆ David Beckham has his Saturn DC line running through Toronto. After injuring his ankle, Beckham made the decision to sit out what according to MLS Soccer, "would've been Beckham's first official league game, shown to a national TV audience on ESPN2 and played in a stadium full of Toronto fans that are already considered the most rabid in the league."

☆ Blake Lively has her Saturn IC line running through South Carolina which is where she married Ryan Reynolds. Saturn = Commitments, IC = Home, Family, Foundations.

☆ Catherine Zeta Jones has her Saturn DC line running through New York which is where she married Michael Douglas. Saturn = Commitment, DC = Partnerships, Relationships.

☆ Selena Quintanilla's Saturn IC line runs through Mexico and she is Mexican. Although she became the biggest Mexican-American music artist in her 20's, when she was younger she had no connection to her Mexican ancestry (IC). She had to learn about her ancestry, AND learn Spanish before she was able to be labeled a Mexican American music artist. (Saturn represents restrictions and delays).

Where your Neptune lines are running through are places where you could experience or be subject to idolization, and extreme popularity or fame. Having it running through the United States can signify global fame.

☆ Gigi Hadid has her Neptune MC line running through Los Angeles where she gained fame from being a model.

☆ Kendall Jenner has her Neptune MC line running through the middle of the United States and she is famous for not only modeling, but being a social media influencer, as well as being a member of one of the most popular families in America; The Kardashian-Jenners.

☆ Ariana Grande has her Neptune MC line running through the United Kingdom which is one of her top countries in terms of popularity.

☆ Elvis Presley has his Neptune MC line running through America. He has a global amount of fame from being a famous musician, with America being his strongest country with the most listeners. Additionally, he also has his Neptune DC line running through London which is his second strongest country in terms of streams and listeners.

☆ Twice's Mina has her Neptune IC running through Japan which is her hometown as well as the location of her biggest fan base.

Where your Uranus lines run through are placed where you could be part of or cause a major change,places where you experience unpredictable and shocking situations. It can also represent places where you can take up Humanitarian beliefs and concepts.

☆ Tom Hanks has his Uranus MC line running through North Carolina. During the pandemic a small bookstore was in danger of shutting down permanently due to the lack of business. After Tom Hanks gave the store a shoutout on "The Late Show" and a million dollar ad was given to the store, business for the bookstore skyrocketed and they were able to stay open at least through the summer.

☆ Ariana Grande has her Uranus MC line to the East of Manchester where there was, sadly, an unexpected fatal incident during one of her concerts. Interestingly enough, she also has her Chiron AC line squaring this line.

☆ Bella Hadid has her Uranus AS line running through India. In 2022 she slammed India for their blatant Islamophobia regarding the hijab row. She went on to say that she stands in solidarity with Muslim women.

[swaps55]

I have a question that came up during my current re-read - how would Sam be different if he'd somehow been raised primarily by Hannah, instead of Daniel?

I have this image in my head of Sam dragging Daniel along and Daniel trying to get him to slow down for once - would Hannah have been trying to drag Sam even faster? Or some other dynamic entirely?

(The parental relationships in Opus are so special to me, all of them)

What an incredible question. I am also obsessed with his parental relationships, because Sam is such a potent mix of their best and worst qualities.

He gets his ruthlessness and drive from his mother, his curiosity and compassion from his father. Sometimes those things work together to do something incredible, like save the galaxy, other times they work against each other, like we're seeing in Mezzo. Sam can take ruthlessness to an extreme the same way he can compassion - he loves people so hard and so completely that it sets a standard many feel they can't live up to.

(Anderson is about to get a face full of that compassion working in everyone's worst interests.)

I think the compassion and nurturing Sam got from his father was vital, because when that ruthless intensity of Sam's runs up against a universe that never lives up to to the high expectations he sets for it, there needs to be something at his core that can keep him from losing himself in disillusionment, disappointment, and bitterness.

His mother couldn't give him that anchor. She wasn't made or meant for it, and it's not her fault. But without Daniel Shepard teaching Sam he could be soft and love the world anyway, even when it was cruel, he would have grown up to be a much harder, colder, and unforgiving person who never would have found a home on the 'Yang.

Hannah gives her son the tools to survive, to save, to excel, to never quit. Daniel gives his son a reason to do those things, and the ability to realize he cannot do those things alone. He needs both of them very badly to be Commander Shepard.

But I also think Hannah's influence runs strongest in him. He is more like her than he is Daniel. Which is why I think he needed Daniel at his side throughout his childhood to be his better angel and teach him how to use the parts of him that come from his father. Without that, the compassion becomes unchecked rage and burns him up in ways he can't come back from.

Basically, if Hannah had raised him instead of Daniel, everything Anderson was afraid of after Torfan would have come to pass.

But she didn't raise him. Daniel did. And when Kaidan offered a hand in that bar on Arcturus, he took it.

And, well, you know the rest. :)

[thevampiremarie]

Magindara

When invaders threaten your home, life, and people, you, a sirena, strike a desperate bargain with Dream of the Endless to save them all.

Dream of the Endless x mermaid!reader, one shot (for now)

Tags: war, gore, torture, death/murder, mentions of SA, slavery, things that generally come with colonialism

Inspired by the episode “Jibaro” from the Netflix show Love Death + Robots. This one shot draws heavily from Filipino mythology, culture, and history. I ENCOURAGE and INVITE people who don’t come from a Filipino background to read this story and enjoy! There is so much beauty to be had in cultures of color, for everyone. Just as I have read many stories steeped in Greek, Celtic, Norse, medieval England, etc cultures, without coming from those backgrounds, I humbly ask you do the same and entertain this little fic. Thank you. I may write a follow up if there’s interest. Glossary at the end.

-

From the banks of your river, you can hear the horses.

Metal plate clangs and screeches against itself, swords jostle in their sheaths, and shields bump where they rest on armored backs so loud that you want to scratch your sensitive ears out, just to make the sounds stop.

Your ates and kuyas hide deep below in the caverns known only to your kind. When you close your black eyes, you feel them tugging at the edges of your mind like little lights in the deep darkness of the sea. They believe that will be enough to save them.

Only you have braved the surface, because only you know what these strange men upon their strange beasts want.

They want the gold in the dark, fertile earth. You don’t understand why - it’s just shiny metal. Only the dwarves under the hills covet it. But the men who ravage your lands and your kin like wildfires, grasping everything and destroying it in the same breath, care very much. They want the never-dying orchids that line the banks and the brilliant emerald green vitality bursting from every leaf and vine that could keep a mortal alive for a thousand years. They want to feed their glory on your broken bodies. They want to take the people you protect for slaves, the women shamed and disgraced and the men subservient and humiliated.

You’ve seen it for yourself.

You’ve tasted the water of streams running red with blood, the iron like acid on your blue tongue.

You’ve swam farther and seen enough to make you hate. Families torn apart, children with their hair cut off and given names in an ugly language, forbidden to speak their own - the same language you speak. Fathers dragged onto large ships, larger than a butandíng, never to return. Altars burned. The men put your red sisters who live in the balete trees, their hair tangled with vines and lovely, fierce, flickering yellow eyes, to the flame. You witnessed their dying howls and curses for vengeance.

Some of the white-haired annani have already begun to clip their pointed ears, tear the crowns of flowers from their hair, and even cut out their tongues so as to lock away the magic these men desire, never to be spoken again. “There is no place for us,” Those tall, graceful elves told you. “We will be gone in a generation, by sword or by starvation.”

They’re coming.

The jungle is quiet as it has never been in a thousand years.

You could no more hide your tail, glittering blue and turquoise, with long, sweeping fins like ferns, than you could hide the long sweep of hair that reaches your waist, or the ink-black lines embedded on your skin, painting your face, your neck, and your arms with the story of your people and your home.

The calls that echoed from the depths of the river have stopped. It seems that your family has accepted that you won’t come back.

You look at your webbed hands, test your claws against your flesh. What is one magindara to a hundred conquistadors?

When the men spear you, they won’t just be slaughtering a mermaid. They’ll be killing the stories you keep. Centuries of stories. Countless names. Each pearl around your neck is a tribe, full of the old songs of grandmothers and the new rhymes of babies. You’re draped in thousands of shimmering strands of pearls.

You may not be the cleverest, or the most beautiful, or the one with the sweetest voice…

But you can be the bravest.

“Lord Morpheus,” You intone, frowning as the syllables ripple wrong and harsh from your throat.

You’ve never spoken to any of the gods beyond your islands before. “Dream of the Endless.” All you can do is hope and pray this one listens and comes to you in time. Will they be kind? Will it be merciful? Will he, or she, save your home?

Perhaps such a god does not exist at all, and you are praying to wind and sunlight, and soon your guts will color the cerulean water purple and black. The strange men will defile your body, no doubt. A week ago, you crawled from your river to cut down the corpse of a long-gone ate from a stake, jagged holes ripped into the tail of her corpse that made you vomit and her dead eyes full of pain.

Once you’d laid her to rest in the water, she dissolved into nothing. “Prince of Stories,” You sing. That is what faces everything you’ve ever loved if you fail.

“I beg you, save us. Save our stories, our dreams. We call for your aid.”

The men bark at each other. Any moment now, they’ll see you, your hands raised and your face tipped towards the heavens, inky flowers blooming on your forehead and cheeks and crocodile teeth tattooed on the sharp line of your jaw.

A new quiet falls over the world. Like nighttime, when things are resting, not dead.

You have called, and I answer.

A being stands on the banks of your river in the shape of a man. His hair is blacker than Bakunawa’s maw and his eyes are filled with gold and silver stars brighter than any you’ve seen before. His pale skin carries no markings.

He is as grotesquely, menacingly beautiful as the razor’s edge of shark teeth, as a great python curling in a tree, as an eagle with its claws stuck in the beating, bleeding heart of a monkey.

You feel the weight of his gaze on your brow heavier and hotter than the sun on the longest day of summer, burning out the truth in your heart. “I would bargain with you, Dream Lord. For my people, and my land, and my home, which I love more than my own life.”

What would you have me do? When Lord Morpheus speaks, his voice pours through your mind ringing like the purest, clearest freshwater.

The many jewels around your throat, pearls, sapphires, rubies, diamonds, plates of beaten gold, click as you swallow nervously.

The dream king stands so tall that he could touch the sky if he reached up. And he doesn’t look away or blink. You can’t read the inhuman planes of his face whatsoever, you can’t find any familiar sign in his long limbs that might bring comfort. For all you know, you’ve spelled your doom.

“Keep them alive. Keep our names and spirits alive. Bring our stories into your kingdom so that we won’t be forgotten. That is what the men want. They want to raze us to the ground and rebuild the world in their image but we will not go.” You pause. “We will never, ever go,” You growl, fierce and deadly, around a mouth full of fangs. In your words you pour the horrors you’ve seen, combined with the beauty surrounding the two of you.

The hot, muggy air, the warm rain, the scent of night-blooming jasmines. Orange mangoes, bursting with sweetness, bamboo sticks clacking as joyful youths dance in and out of them, laughing gaily. Rolling drums. Bright feathers tucked into black hair. A toddling child reaching out to her grandmother with a chubby-cheeked smile, pressing the back of the withered, ancient hand against her little forehead. Love, so much love.

I have not walked these lands before.

You found traces of Lord Morpheus scribbled in the margins of paper and in the back alleys of lost dreams. Your last and only hope.

When you went to Diyan Masalanta, she wept and showed how the soldiers bound her hands. When you cried out to her brother, Apolaki, the sun god called back and said the invaders took his shield.

Bathala is gone. Mayari is gone. Lakapati is dead. The conquistadors stripped her naked, cut her ribs from her chest, and planted her bones in the fields they set their slaves, your people, to work.

“They say you are Endless. You preside over all beings in all places. Please, I beg you, preside over us. Are we not worthy of your favor? Do we not deserve to live in your dreams and nightmares?”

If Lord Morpheus refuses you, you’ll cut your throat before you let your enemies have you.

He tilts his head like he can hear your thoughts. One shining hand stretches out, almost as if to touch your face. You sing prettily, little siren. You draw back with a start. Why is there hunger in his voice? A hollow, all-consuming, terrifying hunger?

You know what it feels like to starve when the fish are scarce. This is leagues away, a typhoon to your trickle of rain. Shadows bloom under his hollowed cheeks. His pupils eclipse his brilliant aquamarine irises.

He’s-

He’s aching.

Morpheus flashes his bone-white teeth as he bends at the waist to examine you further. His gaze traces your tattoos, your large, frightened eyes, and your body beneath the necklaces and bracelets.

As scared as you are, as convinced that you’ll bleed the instant his fingers brush your blue-streaked skin, your numb lips move.

“I vow to you now, Lord Morpheus, before every god and being I know, that should you render us this aid, I will give you anything within my power to grant that you wish.”

Anything?

“Name it, my lord, and it shall be yours.” With that, your eyes flutter shut as you await his judgment.

You can’t hide from him, even in your mind. You don’t see him, but you feel a straining pressure build where he prods at you, pushing on the fragile edges of your being like he’s cracking a duck egg. He claws and scrapes until-

I will aid your people.

You open for him like a sampaguita flower. Dream of the Endless picks through your soul like he’s picking blossoms, you feel how much he wants with every brush, every long moment where he sticks his fingers in and relishes the feel of you. Nothing has ever touched you like this before.

He’s on his knees on the riverbank, the dark soil pressing into his clothes. His hands clench the rocky edge of the bank. Your wet hair sticks to your back as you rise up, close enough that you can count his night-black eyelashes. There’s a dizzying amount of them.

“Thank you. Thank you. Salamat-po. And your price, majesty?”

You’ll do whatever he wants. Does his thirst demand souls? You’ll harvest them by the dozen. You can picture Lord Morpheus unhinging his jaw, swallowing those soldiers whole. Their swords wouldn’t even scrape him going down. Riches? You have no use for them if you’re dead. He can take every speck of wealth to be had.

You. I want you.

Your sisters and brothers wail. They sense the foreign king tearing at the flesh binding you together. They feel him taking a knife to your indigo heart and cutting it loose from your body. Your head tilts back as you gasp for breath and see him hold the organ aloft. Dark blood trails in rivulets down his wrists.

“I-“

There are no creatures like you in my realm. So I shall have you, in every way that I wish, and you’ll obey. Those are my terms.

Your tail lashes in the water as if you fight hard enough, you can swim away. The cavity pulses with searing, unholy pain. You’ve made a mistake. You’ve summoned- He is an aswang, a devil, a soul-eater, you’ll never see your home again, you’ll never touch the water you’ve known since birth.

Lord Morpheus brings your heart to his mouth. His lips are beautifully-formed. You can’t find it in yourself to hate such a wondrous creature. Even your amethyst ichor looks more beguiling when he’s covered in it.

It was never a question. “Yes, my lord. I accept these terms.”

His white teeth stain purple when he sinks them into your heart.

-

Glossary:

Ate (ah-tey) - sister

Kuya (koo-yah) - brother

Butandíng - whale shark

Balete tree - very cool large tree native to Southeast Asia

Annani - elves from the stories of the Ibanag people, who look like humans with pointed ears. They are kind guardians of the forest and often share healing knowledge with humans if treated with respect.

Magindara - mermaids from the folklore of the Bicolano people. Beautiful half human, half fish guardians of rivers/streams/lakes/the oceans, who sing to lure fisherman and warriors to their death but leave children unharmed.

Bakunawa - a great mythic serpent and god/goddess of darkness. Various myths place Bakunawa responsible for eclipses.

Diyan Masalanta - Tagalog goddess of love, war, childbirth

Apolaki - Tagalog god of the sun and war, patron saint of warriors, soldiers, modern day patron saint of Filipino traditional martial arts (Kali/eskrima/arnis) practitioners

Bathala - the Tagalog supreme creator god

Mayari - the Tagalog goddess of the moon, war, revolution, and justice. She fought her brother Apolaki for dominion over the heavens.

Lakapati - the Tagalog goddess of fertility, food, bounty, balance, and prosperity. She represents both male and female and has both male and female genitalia. Patron saint of queer/trans people.

Sampaguita - the Filipino name for sambac jasmine, the national flower of the Philippines

Salamat-po (sah-lah-maht poh) - thank you (utmost respect) in Tagalog

Aswang - overall name for the malicious/demonic/monstrous beings in Filipino folklore. Vampires, zombies, ghouls, organ eaters, cannibals.

I hope you guys liked this! Let me know if you have any questions or want to read more from this.

[monstersdownthepath]

Homebrew Horror: Plague Tapper

(Art and concept from the Book of Unremitting Horror, pg. 27-29)

Plague Tappers are not natural creatures. A simple glance at them is often enough for most people to conclude this, but the truth goes even further: they're a bioweapon created for assassinations. Many groups are credited with the creation of these horrors by those who've experienced them, from cruel alchemists and mad curse-crafters, to the Dominion of the Black, to Apollyon, the Horseman of Pestilence (or one of his servants; the Tappers fit the modus operandi of Voda quite well), but whoever made them first matters little nowadays, as these horrors can be called into service by anyone capable of using their Occult Ritual: Festering Hatred.

Every Plague Tapper ever found on Golarion was called to its soil by this ritual, and each one was crafted with the purpose of executing a single target in a horrifically gruesome manner. Unfortunately for everyone involved, once the initial target has been infected by the plague which makes up half the Tapper's name, the creature is freed from the command of the ritual and may seek out others to torment with its hideous disease... including its creator, if the opportunity arises. Though not particularly intelligent, Plague Tappers are guided by malefic instinct to cause panic, pain, and death, and hold signs of good health and vitality as an insult to their craft, intentionally targeting creatures who appear at the prime of their life and the height of their health and then watching from nearby as they succumb to its disease, the Roiling Rot.

The Roiling Rot is found only inside the bodies of Plague Tappers, and any attempt to create it without conjuring one of these creatures or store samples of it in any container BUT a Tapper's body has--thankfully--failed, perhaps because the disease is linked directly to and sustained by the emotional focus of the ritual used to create it: intense hatred. The Rot is a tenacious and terrifying disease which cannot be fought off without magic, and acts so quickly that most creatures affected by it believe they've been poisoned or even cursed, utilizing the wrong methods and magic entirely to try and end their suffering only for their every hope to fail. Most creatures perish from it long before they can find any form of help, but there are rare tales of people miraculously resisting the disease's effects on their body until a cleric or apothecary could reach them.

Plague Tappers are most dangerous when first conjured, as they're created with a full payload of their disease to blight their target. Once the payload is delivered, Plague Tappers quickly flee to hide until they can create a new dose the next day, as the entirety of their threat hails from this infection; without a dose, their painful bites only cause terrific pain and nausea, which is merciful compared to what the Roiling Rot does to its victims. One can tell when a dose of the disease is prepared, as the Plague Tappers will loudly 'tap' themselves with their lengthy legs to pump it from their body into their mouths in preparation for the fatal bite, which for the victim sounds an awful lot like a clock ticking down.

Plague Tappers are scarcely larger than mice, making them extremely difficult to spot, especially in the darkened ceiling corners they tend to hide in and attack from. They do not reproduce and have no worldly needs, existing only to bring about terrible ends to their victims. Thankfully, they live for approximately one week (1d4+7 days, specifically) before finally running out of energy and perishing, dissolving into a greasy black smear within seconds of their deaths.

Festering Hatred School: Conjuration (Calling, Evil); Level: 3 Casting Time: 30 minutes Components: S, F (an effigy of your target made of wax and/or straw, or the target themselves) Skill Checks: Bluff or Intimidate DC 25 (see text), 2 checks; Knowledge (the Planes) DC 25, 1 check Range: Personal Target: Any one creature the primary caster truly and sincerely hates Duration: Instantaneous; see text Saving Throw: None; Spell Resistance: No

Backlash: The primary caster is automatically infected by Slimy Doom and is exhausted. Failure: The primary caster's tongue is torn from their mouth, inflicting 2d6 bleed damage and preventing them from speaking until their tongue is restored.

——— Effect ———

Special: If the primary caster bites off their tongue during the casting of this ritual (inflicting the failure state upon themselves willingly), the ritual succeeds automatically, casts in 3 minutes instead of 30, and the conjured Tapper lives for 3 weeks before dying. However, that primary caster can never again perform this ritual, even if they regain their tongue, and the summoned Plague Tapper gains the benefits of its Find Target ability against the primary caster once the initial target is infected, compelling it to seek out and kill its creator.

This ritual is a cruel and terrible one, conjuring a Plague Tapper within the primary caster's body as they speak and swallow down every curse and vile thing they wish to say about their target until their hatred literally congeals into the tiny fiend. The lump in their throat grows more and more pronounced as the ritual nears its completion until, finally, the horrid thing squirms up their throat and out of the mouth, pushing its way into the world. The target of the ritual is immediately marked by the Tapper's Find Target ability, which it pursues to the best of its abilities.

Once the Tapper successfully injects the target with its Roiling Rot disease, or the target dies in any other way, it becomes free-willed and typically seeks to kill as many creatures as possible before it dies, unless the caster can somehow reason with it to gain control of it.

------

Plague Tapper CR 5 Neutral Evil Tiny Outsider (Daemon, Evil, Native) Init: +7; Senses: Darkvision 120ft, Detect Good; Perception +11 ------ Defense ------ AC 23, touch 22, flat-footed 15 (+7 Dex, +1 dodge, +1 natural, +4 size) HP 40 (5d10+5) Fort +2 Ref +11 Will +7 DR 3/Good or silver; Immune Acid, death effects, disease, poison; Resist Cold 10, Electricity 10 Weaknesses Curative Vulnerability ------ Offense ------ Speed 30ft, climb 30ft Melee Bite +16 (1 nonlethal plus agonize plus disease) Special Attacks Agonize, Disease Spell-like Abilities (CL 5th; Concentration +2) Constant--Detect Good, Feather Fall ------ Statistics ------ Str 1 Dex 24 Con 12 Int 11 Wis 16 Cha 5 Base Atk: +5; CMB -4; CMD 13 Feats Ability Focus (Disease), Dodge, Weapon Finesse Skills Acrobatics +15, Climb +11, Escape Artist +15, Perception +11, Stealth +27, Survival +11 Languages Abyssal, Draconic, Infernal (can't speak); telepathy 30ft SQ Find Target ------ Ecology ------ Environment Any Organization Solitary Treasure None ------

Combat: Plague Tapper exist to deliver their disease, then flee into the shadows. Once they successfully bite their target, they Leap to Cover swiftly as possible and begin to use Stealth to make sure they succumb to the Roiling Rot. If forced into battle, they use their painful bites to debilitate attackers into retreating and flee once their enemies fall unconscious or otherwise cease their attack.

Morale: Tappers with a dose of their disease will risk their own lives to deliver it. Without it, they flee any combat they enter until they can create another dose, biting only in self-defense. Tappers cower in the presence of creatures who they have seen use magic to cure disease or poison, and will flee any encounter with one as swiftly as they can, lest their Curative Vulnerability be taken advantage of. ------ Special Abilities ------

Agonize (Su): The bite of a Plague Tapper is supernaturally painful. Any creature bitten by one must succeed a DC 16 Fortitude save or take 1d6 points of nonlethal damage and become sickened for 1 minute (the sickened condition applies before the Tapper's disease is injected, if a dose is prepared). A creature that is already sickened or suffering from the effects of a disease instead takes 2d6 nonlethal damage and is nauseated for 1 round. This is a pain effect, and the save DC is Constitution-based.

Curative Vulnerability (Ex): A Tapper that is successfully affected by any spell effect which cures diseases (such as Remove Disease and Heal) immediately loses any dose of Roiling Rot in its body and takes 1d10 damage per caster level. It does not receive any benefits from such spells.

Disease (Su): Once per day, a Plague Tapper can spend a move action to 'tap' its body to prepare a dose of a fatal and fiendish disease called Roiling Rot. This rhythmic, clock-like tapping gives the creature a -10 penalty to its Stealth checks for the round. The next bite attack the Tapper makes within 1 minute attempts to infect the bitten creature with the rot. No amount of saving throws can fight off the supernatural rot, and once symptoms have begin to manifest, only magic can halt its gruesome progress; before the onset period finishes, near- immediate amputation of the bitten limb or excision of the flesh around the bite prevent the sickness from taking hold. Both acts deal 4d6 damage and 1d6 Constitution damage to the victim, but a successful DC 20 Heal check made over the course of 10 minutes reduces this to 2d6 damage and 1d3 Constitution damage.

--Roiling Rot (Su) Bite--injury; save Fort DC 16, onset 30 minutes, frequency every 10 minutes, effect 1d8 Con damage, cure none.

Find Target (Su): When a Tapper is first conjured, it immediately locks onto the caster's target and can track them unerringly, as though it had a permanent Locate Creature which is not blocked by water and has an unlimited range. It always knows the swiftest possible path to reach its target. The Tapper is irresistibly compelled to seek out the target and deliver its disease to them, and will not bite any other creature but its target when it's first conjured. Once it has injected the target with its disease, it loses the benefits of Find Target and is no longer compelled to attack that particular creature. However, it will almost always try again if the target successfully resists the disease.

Leap to Cover (Ex): Once every 1d4 rounds as a full-round action, a Plague Tapper can leap up to 50ft in any direction, including straight up, and make an immediate Stealth check at the end of the movement. It can make this Stealth check even while being observed as its swift and chaotic movements cause creatures to lose track of its exact position.

[theonceandfuturequeenoftarts]

Prompt-ober 2023 – Mythology and chaste kiss

From the moment Harry first sees the block of marble, he knows what it’s meant to be. He gets it at a discount due to some flaws – not enough dark green striations to look intentional, too many to create a piece using only the pure white marble, a slight crack formed during transport from the quarry. None of them matter to Harry. Once he has it in place in his spartan studio, Harry works like a man possessed to bring his creation to life. His friends, well aware of how Harry gets when he’s sculpting, pop by to bring him food and drink and make him take breaks to sleep. He’s not sure what he’d do without them. Probably die from overwork and malnutrition. He’ll have to do something really nice for them once he’s finished his sculpture. It takes three months of solid, near round-the-clock work to chip the precious but unnecessary stone away from the form he can envision within. The time flies by. He knows he’s never seen the face he’s shaping before, but it seems so familiar to him. If he were to really think about it, he might be able to determine who he’d used as a reference for the chin or the nose or the lips. But looking at the features as they take form, he can’t imagine them any other way. He takes his time with the final polishing, ensuring the sheen and smoothness of the stone appears as perfect as he can make it. The sculpture’s skin almost glows – he’s gotten the translucent lustre just right. Harry stands back and takes in his finished work, removing his apron, pockets heavy with chisels, rasps and sanding paper, and dusting off his worn, ripped jeans.  The figure is seated on an ornate throne, slouching the slightest bit and staring down its aquiline nose at some unseen supplicant. The face is beautiful, but there’s a cruelty to the arch of its brow and the twist of its full lips. Lush, wavy hair frames high cheekbones, leading down to a long neck and broad shoulders. The sculpture’s body is trim and firm, but the musculature isn’t overly defined. Seven dark green veins of varying sizes spiderweb across the figure’s torso and arms. Its feet are planted solidly on the plinth beneath it, arms loose but holding a sword across its lap – covered with carved, draping fabric for modesty, because Harry just couldn’t visualise the sculpture’s bits and, at a certain point, he'd felt decidedly perverted from his continued efforts to do so. He has always been told that his sculptures are full of vitality – that they look ready to step off their plinth and join the world of the living. But even he thinks he’s outdone himself this time. Harry decides to catch a few hours of sleep then give the sculpture one final go-over. Before he puts out the lights and leaves, he wanders over to stare at his creation, looking as an observer rather than the craftsman. He’d been so careful to touch the marble with his bare skin as little as possible, to prevent his skin oils from discolouring the stone. But, just this once, he allows himself to reach out and gently stroke the sculpture’s cheek with the backs of his fingers. Cold and smooth. When Hermione had last popped in to make sure he was eating enough, she’d looked at his sculpture, raised her eyebrows, then looked at Harry and asked if he’d finally carved himself a Galatea. Harry had huffed a laugh – people had been making those sorts of comments to him for years at this point – and asked Hermione about her work at the library. But now, as he rests his hand against the figure’s cheek, he wonders if she’d noticed something he hadn’t. He’ll miss this project more than any other, once it’s sent to the gallery that displays his work. He leans in closer and presses his lips, feather-light, against the figure’s lips, thinking maybe… But he’s no Pygmalion, and the sculpture remains marble beneath his touch. Laughing a little at his fanciful actions, Harry finishes closing up his studio for the day and goes to rest. ──⚝── Hours later, with dawn’s first light illuminating the airborne dust in the studio and no one around to see, a marble finger twitches.

Part two can be read here.

[wesleysniperking]

From Luffy, to Usopp (from a One Piece “modern day” AU I’ll probably never write) ☀️ 🌱

Luffy: I remember the first time I met you. The first thing you told me was a lie, but I believed you anyway. Everyone told me you were lying, but I still believed you because you told me yourself. That’s what made you honest to me.

I think we all come from somewhere in the sky. You told me everything in this world—objects, humans, flowers—was real and had a soul. You made me believe that. So when I hear everyone talk about you, I have to listen to their lies because they don’t know you like I do. You’re still here; I know you are. You could be standing right in front of me.

Everyone lies about you because you aren’t here to tell the truth. But I remember the one time you were truly honest with me. You seemed so down, so sad. It was hard to believe because you always appeared so strong and happy.

Now I have to hear people say you were depressed, that I didn’t know you at all, that you had a darkness inside. How could I see darkness when all you showed me was light? You always blinded me in a good way. So why aren’t you here? Why aren’t you in the front row, laughing at me, saying, “You’re so stupid, what are you doing up there giving a speech?”

You were a bad liar, and so am I. But you were there for me, and now you aren’t. You were the only one who could go along with my craziness, who could play with me, who could be at my level of fun. Yet, you could also ground me, bring me back to reality, and say, “Maybe we shouldn’t do this because it’s not right.”

I don’t know if I’ll ever find someone like that again. You used to compare me to the sun, saying I was the brightest thing in your life. I never told you this, but you were like air to me. You gave life to everything around you. Even now, it feels like I can’t live without you.

But you’re still here. You breathed air into all of those who loved you, and I’m surrounded by that. I can breathe again. You were the most genuine person I knew. You claimed to be a superhero, to slay giants, and I believed you. The last thing you said to me was, “You don’t understand, I am a lie.” But no, you weren’t a lie. You were the realest person I knew. You were air, you kept everything alive. Somewhere in the unknown, wherever people go after it ends, you’re there. Alive.

Context: I've been reflecting on Usopp and his role within the crew. He's that one person in the friend group who is full of life and always making everyone laugh, but beneath that vibrant exterior, he hides a lot of darkness and depression. It's a heartbreaking reality that many people only discover these hidden struggles of a loved one or friend when it's too late.

I recently read a fic that compared Luffy to the Sun and Usopp to a plant, and it resonated deeply with me. Usopp, as a character, has undergone perhaps the most growth in the series. He brings life to the crew and gave life to the Merry. Through his storytelling, he breathes life into things that don't even exist. Plants produce oxygen, which is essential for human survival, just as Usopp's presence is vital for the crew.

When I think about what would have happened if Usopp had left the crew back in Water 7, I can't imagine Luffy carrying on with just his sunshine alone. Without sunshine, there is no life, but without plants, there is no oxygen, which is equally crucial. This idea led me to write a piece imagining Luffy giving a monologue about Usopp, in the event that he were to leave this world too soon.

gif link credit

Usopp fan club (join if you want to)

[geekywritings]

“You see me... for me.”

I got a lovely request from @christinaatyourservice92​ for a Cal Kestis x reader story. So here we go :D

You are a shy cartographer with a love for art, having travelled with Cal and the Mantis crew for quite a while now. Your feelings for the red-haired Jedi are a secret you have kept tightly, just as the little collection of sketches you have of him. Well, time for some secrets to be revealed. 

(If you also wanna send me requests and prompts, please do! I’m always happy to read them!)

____________

You all had different reasons for being part of the crew, but what brought you all together, made you a family almost, was the shared hope for a better future. You were all fighting an overly powerful enemy for a slither of a chance to live a normal life, each in your own way.

To be fair, Cal was doing most of the fighting. You weren’t a bad shot, but your talents lay elsewhere. You wanted to map out all the planets of the Outer-Rim, especially those the Empire had not completely overrun yet. Until then, you also put your talents to good use to forge maps for the rebel alliance, highlighting safe routes and the locations of enemy bases on the various planets the Mantis crew visited. A small job, some would argue, but nevertheless vital.

Four years had passed since you literally ran into Cal Kestis on Nar Shadaa, both of you trying to outrun some Stormtroopers, albeit for different offenses. Your knowledge of the intricate underground tunnels of the capital city had saved both your lives and the Jedi had offered you a place on the Mantis without hesitation in gratitude. Apparently, the ship’s doors were open to anyone willing to help.

After living and working alone for almost all your life, being part of a crew was difficult to get used to. Especially since you weren’t exactly an extrovert. Lucky for you, most of the crew wasn’t either. Cere always respected your privacy, almost as if sensing when you needed to retreat and Merrin herself seemed to prefer solitude a lot of times. Greeze was often trying to get you to loosen up with varying degrees of success, but even he never pushed too far.

And then there was Cal. Friendly, gentle and understanding Cal Kestis. He did his best to make you feel at home, testing the waters with each careful word and gesture. Especially at the beginning, he was fumbling with words as much as you were. But unlike you, he had grown more confident in the last few years. You were still a blushing mess when he spoke in that special low tone of his or placed a hand on your shoulder.

Not because you were still nervous… but because the Jedi had managed to work himself into your heart. You admired him for his optimism and drive, shared his hopes for a better future, and trusted him completely. And you were pining for him. Badly. So much so that even Merrin remarked on it one evening, asking why you didn’t say anything.

But you couldn’t. You knew little of the Jedi Order, having grown up in a very rural setting on a Mid-Rim planet, but you did know that love was forbidden for its members. Cal was still following the old lifestyle in many ways and you just assumed he would turn you down because of it.

So months went by and you soaked up every kind word and gesture, as if they were water in a desert, trying to convince yourself that it was enough. Eventually, you found another way to wrangle your emotions back into place: drawing.

Although your cartography skills were almost unmatched, you also had a talent for sketching. Landscapes, creatures and even people filled the pages of the small notebook that was constantly attached to your belt. Recently, however, your fingers automatically traced the features of only one person over and over again.

The new notebook you had started was full of Cal Kestis only. Pensive looking, determined, calm and smiling. You tried to catch every expression possible, burning it into your memory to then bring it back to life on the slightly yellow paper. It was your secret. Or at least had been… until now.

You had landed on a desert planet in the Outer-Rim to refuel and the crew had split up for provisions. Cere accompanied Greeze to find a spare part for the Mantis and replenish your food rations, while Merrin decided to explore the area. It left Cal and you alone on the ship with the task of cleaning up a bit.

“Why do we always get cleaning duty?”, the Jedi grumbled, as he collected the dishes from your last meal off the table, bringing them over to you at the sink.

“Maybe because we are good at it?”, you offered, unable to think of anything cleverer to say.

Cal raised an eyebrow at you, standing so close that your shoulders were touching. “I think you highly overestimate us.”, he replied with a tiny smile.

While you took care of the dishes, Cal busied himself with picking up the various items flying all over the living room area. At least five people shared this space and it showed. Somewhere in the back, you could hear BD-1 and Kip beeping merrily, making you wonder what the droids were up to.

“Y/N?”

The call of your name had you turn, ready to ask what was up, but when you saw Cal with your notebook – your OPEN notebook – you almost dropped the plate you had been holding. He was flicking through the pages, eyes wide in wonder.

Your entire face went hot, the color probably matching the red of his hair, as you watched in horror. Nobody was ever supposed to see these sketches. HE was never supposed to see them.

Stars, he was going to hate you. Or think you some sort of creep. Either way, things would never be the same between you.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to… I was cleaning the table and it fell down.”, he excused himself, obviously noticing your discomfort.

“N-no… I… it’s fine…”, you began to stutter. “I should be the one to say sorry…. Sorry.”

The Jedi raised an eyebrow at you again, coming closer, but still holding the notebook in his hands. “Why? These are good. Certainly better than the Wanted bulletins of me.”

His humor never failed to make you smile, even now, but still. There was a tight knot in your stomach and all you wanted was to grab the notebook and run. Silence fell, as you were unable to find anything to say.

Cal saw the clear discomfort in your eyes, the blush on your cheeks and the nervous fumbling of your hands. Usually, your shy demeanor was cute. Endearing even. But at this very moment, it made him feel guilty for having brought you into this situation.

“Here.”, he said, holding your sketchbook out to you. “Next time you draw a new one, can I see it?”

Your eyes snapped to his, taking in the intense green. How could he be so perfect? Didn’t he know how hard it was to stop falling for him more and more? Was it even possible to love him more than you already did?

“Y-yes… sure…”, you said slowly, reaching for the item, fingers brushing against Cal’s in the process.

“I am honored that you pick me as your model.”, he continued. “Though I am not sure how I deserve the privilege.”

“You’re fascinating.”, you blurt before you can stop yourself. Oh stars, what have you done? Cal’s asking you silently to elaborate, while your fumbling hands are turning your sketchbook round and round, as you try to hold the man’s gaze.

“Your face… it’s handsome… and it reflects so many emotions in different ways. Your jaw clenches when you are concentrating. And your lip twitches upwards ever so slightly when you have a good hand while playing cards. And…” As if a dam had broken, you kept going on and on, revealing more tiny details that nobody but you had probably noticed.

“I-I… I just wanted to memorize them all.”

Cal was overwhelmed, but not in a bad way. People usually saw the Jedi in him. The survivor. The traitor if you asked on the other side. But you… you saw him. Every detail of him, inside and out. He saw you too, even though you preferred to blend into the shadows. You were quiet, but your actions spoke volumes. You were shy, often fumbling with words and he saw much of his younger self in that. Most of all, you were warm. Not in the physical sense, but emotionally. Your presence settled around him like a blanket, offering comfort and calmness. No matter how hard a fight had been, with you close, Cal could always ground himself again.

“Thank you, Y/N.”

“For what?”, you asked, confused. This wasn’t the reaction you had anticipated after your awkward monologue.

“For being you. For seeing me…as me.” He had stepped even closer, barely leaving any distance between you now. Your hands suddenly stilled and you looked down to see why. He had grasped them in his, holding them gently, but firmly.

Slowly, your gaze wandered back to his face, being rewarded with an expression you had not seen before. His eyes were locked to you, as if searching for something. He looked both hesitant and determined and you noticed his lips parting and closing several times, as if he tried and failed to find the right thing to say.

“Listen, Y/N…”, he finally did begin, his grip around your hands tightening ever so slightly. “I have been thinking…” Again a pause, trying to sort himself. “The Order is gone… and while I respect Cere’s mission to rebuild it… I am not sure if I can be a part of it anymore…”

Where was he going with this? And why tell you?

“So much has happened… I don’t think I can call myself Jedi anymore.”

Your lips parted to protest, but you didn’t get a chance to even begin, as Cal continued.

“A lot of the Order’s rules don’t feel right anymore… I… I think I know what I want now.”

Slowly, one of his hands came up, brushing a stray strand of hair away from your face. “I’ve been thinking a lot… about you.”

This confession sucked the air right out your lungs and you felt your heart clench in the best way possible. Was this really happening? Had you heard correctly? Or was this a dream and you’d find yourself waking up in the cabin you shared with Merrin?

No, the feeling of your hand in his and the soft brush of his fingers against your cheek was real.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d feel the same��� But after seeing the sketchbook…”

“I love you.”, you blurted right between whatever kind of confession he was trying to get out. The words had tumbled out without your permission and instantly you lowered your head to hide the blush that had certainly intensified a thousandfold.

Seconds ticked by and you wondered if the admission of your feelings had been too much. Fingers under your chin turned your face upward again. You were hesitant to look at him, but he didn’t leave you the chance anyway. Instead, Cal leaned down, pressing his lips against yours.

Slowly, and gently at first. Again, testing the waters with you and going only as far as you were comfortable. It was the sweetest sensation you had ever felt. The sketchbook fell to the ground again, as your hands came to grasp his blue vest instead, while his arms pulled you closer against his form.

How long did you stand there, lips locking over and over again, finally giving way to the longing you had both felt?

“I love you too…”, Cal finally voiced what the kiss had already made perfectly clear. You would remember that look in his eyes forever. So full of love and happiness. The next moment you got, you’d have to immortalize it in your little sketchbook again.

“That’s… That’s not what I expected.”, you admitted shyly.

“I didn’t see it coming either… but life has a funny way of taking unexpected turns… And I am glad to follow this new path with you. If you will have me.”

Of course, you would have him! And to prove it you rose to your toes again for another kiss, absolutely ready for a new kind of territory to chart together with him.

[be-the-glenn-to-my-maggie]

Time travel, it's a funny thing really, even funnier when you take in account all the different interpretations of its inner workings. So, what if we take out boy Spider, and put him in yet another ridiculous situation like we usually do? By that I mean sending him back before even the events of the first film and letting the chaos ensue.

Spider being, well, himself wants to fix whatever he can because he's just built like that. Problem with that is time doesn't like being messed with and will throw hands to keep things as they are. What now? you may ask. Well, Spider is not one to give up easily, he'll roll up his non existing sleeves, put on his game face and.... fail miserably, dyeing a horrible death in the process.

And what now? you may ask again. You're right to be confused, but you're forgetting that there's still a baby to be born to one of the worst of the demons and a pilot, one who is yet to even be called Spider. That's right, this is a time loop.

This one will live trough life, doing the same things as the first one, getting sent back, until he too fails the same way. Then the next one, and the one after that, will do the same, on and on until, eventually, one decides to leave behind a clue for his (future/present/past?) self, just in case. And the dominoes start falling from there.

I won't go into detail of what he does because it would be way to long, but it's basically millions upon millions of tries until he get's to the "golden" run, where he's basically herding people around into "safe spots" without them knowing. Yes, he did throw a fire extinguisher at Quaritch so he would miss Grace's vitals, she still had to transfer but it worked this time (thus Kiri being born, but with her bio mom being alive and well. I leave the rest to your imagination.)

That leaves us with pretty much everyone alive (Yes, Sylwanin is alive. That's how far back he went) and casualties on the human side being kept to a minimum.

All anyone clearly saw of future Spider was the human stranger with dreaded hair, standing over Quaritch's dead body right outside the shack Jake was in ( kinda dark, I know), leading to him becoming kind of his own legend amongst the na'vi (they do figure out he's been helping them all along, their not dumb) This is also why Jake decided to dread his hair, in honor of the stranger who was saving their asses from the background.

Sadly, Spider does die one final time, sufferings from an injury he got while saving Tsu'tey from doing that funny fall. That does fix the paradox of there being two Spiders sooo, win I guess?

After that, everything goes on as normal as it can be, what with everyone being alive and all. They do eventually find the clues left behind by the MANY Spiders and piece together what happened, they don't believe it at first, but all of that, combined with Spider growing up and becoming a spiting image of the stranger leaves them with little else (Imagine learning that your sister, father and a bunch of other important people to you are still alive only because the boy you hate for being the "Spawn of that demon" was sent back in time countless times, died countless deaths, all so everyone else could have a happier life, couldn't be me)

I'm also imagining that Eywa (She's more like a literal goddess here, not full on cosmic being, but enough to see trough time) saw all of it and at the half way point was like "PLEASE STOP! Even one was enough, just please!" all the while the embodiment of Spider's will was cackling like a gremlin " I ain't even half way done!"

Best of all, Miguel O'Hara can't do shit about it (The time loop is a cannon event)

So yeah, that's my thingy to you, a bit long (sorry!) but it is there.

Ooh, well I haven't seen a Spider time travel fic yet, only ones with the other Sully's or with the people from the first movie coming forward in time.

I do loooove a time loop, it's like a little mystery to figure out exactly how the perfect series of events can pan out. I love that Quaritch still dies though, that makes me happy. Spider of COURSE had to throw a fire extinguisher.

I am fascinated by how lonely his time in the past must have been. Especially if he was still a teenage boy. And if he went back as far as saving Sylwanin, dude was like so fucking old by the time they made it to the end there. He was older than Neytiri then so his ass was like nearing the end of middle aged. His bones are creaking their way around the forest. Where did he fucking live, how did he have the supplies to breathe and care for his human needs, how did no one notice him for like forty years?? So many questions.

Also hilarious to imply Eywa had nothing at all to do with this and was just watching.