#and using them like a rock and a piece of flint

[pro-anomalocaris]

More than pride, a big component in the failures of all of them throughout the book is also a lack of common sense. They don't have a great grasp on what a realistic or unrealistic idea is when situations arise, leading to some decision making that would make even a prideful person who's just a smidge more grounded not do this dumb thing.

Personally I love when characters are both intelligent and lacking in common sense. It lets them be dumb without it feeling like the author is forcing them to be out of character for the sake of the plot. While I find the pacing of the book bad in places, "these smart people are idiots" is a really good bit of writing particularly because the vast majority of the cast are filthy rich and highly sheltered. They have never had to have common sense before, hence why they lack it. The wisdom to go, "this plan is too convoluted", "this could go wrong easily because of x, y and z", "hey maybe I should have an alibi in case someone else in the group tries to pin this on me", etc. isn't there for in-universe well-explained and well-established reasons.

Two things can be true. They can be aces in their field of expertise and complete idiots in others. This is true of most of us. It's part of why the book's weird moments work fine in context.

Richard, however, is 100% pride incarnate and that's his fatal flaw. Other people display moments of pride giving way to self-preservation or other emotions. This man is pure insecurity masquerading as arrogance from the word go. And I love that. I like when a character is deeply flawed and it goes poorly for them.

If we're going to yell at anyone, we should probably yell at the fandom who insists there's no classism in the book when Donna Tartt has said there is and it's very obvious in how the characters view poor people vs rich people throughout the story. To me, that's the exasperating part. Shame about his class is a huge part of the main character's motivation and background. I have no idea how people missed this. He says outright he hates not being from generational wealth in his internal monologue. It really doesn't get much more blatant than that. How the fandom missed this, I have no idea. To me, a big part of the appeal is seeing how internalized classism and pride slowly devours any sense of morality Richard ever had. If I viewed it as rich kids with a cool secret club of cool kids the way other people on tumblr did, I don't think I'd find it very engaging at all.

...I mean, not to perpetuate this discourse, but I think the characters in TSH are all pretty smart - what undoes them is their pride. And I also think there's no need for y'all to be aggressive and insult ppl about their literary opinions in OTNF's inbox

--

I haven't read the thing, but one presumes that a fairly Greek level of fatal flaw would be appropriate for such a narrative.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Campfire

Materials Needed to Start a Fire

Matches, lighter, or flint stick: Every fire needs a flame. Use matches or a lighter to light the tinder. In the absence of matches or a lighter, a flint stick can help you get a fire going.

Tinder: Tinder material can take many forms. When looking to nature for tinder, pine cones, birch bark, dry grass, leaves, and pine needles are best. You can also use a knife to make sawdust or wood shavings for tinder. Household items, like cotton balls, dryer lint, newspaper, and cardboard are good options as well.

Kindling: Soft woods are the most ideal types of wood for kindling—think pine or cedar. Soft wood burns quickly and is useful for the initial phases of the fire. Use a knife or hatchet to break the wood into small pieces.

Firewood: You’ll need firewood of various sizes. Use smaller pieces during the initial fire-starting phase, and use larger pieces to maintain the fire over time.

Fire extinguisher: Though not essential for building a fire, having a reliable method to extinguish a fire is recommended—whether that be a fire extinguisher or bucket of water.

How to Start a Campfire

Follow this effective method for building a fire.

Create a fire ring. Choose a level spot on the ground to build your fire. Use your hands to create a circular area that is free of rocks and debris. Use any rocks you’ve cleared away to form a ring around the cleared area. If you have a shovel, you can use it to dig a fire pit. (A fire pit may be necessary in poor weather conditions.)

Use small sticks to create a platform. Place several small sticks or twigs flat against the ground to cover the base of your fire ring. This creates a platform that allows airflow beneath the tinder.

Build up tinder. Next, gather dry grass, leaves, birch bark, and/or pine needles and place them on top of the sticks. You can also use cotton balls, dryer lint, or sawdust if you have it.

Light the fire. If you have matches or a lighter on hand, use them to light the tinder. Alternatively, you can use flint or a bow drill to light the fire.

Slowly add kindling. Use a hatchet or knife to break down small pieces of wood. Add a few small pieces of firewood to the lit tinder. Slowly add larger pieces until you have a sizable flame.

Add larger logs. Begin to add larger logs in a teepee or log cabin formation. Use dry wood to avoid excessive smoking and smoldering.

Tips for Starting a Fire

Whether you’re an avid camper or a beginner fire-builder, improve your fire-making skills with these tips.

Keep a flint stick on hand when camping or backpacking. When venturing into the wilderness, it’s wise to keep a flint stick on hand. A flint stick is made of combustible magnesium. The tool comes with a steel striker. Use the striker (or a knife) to make magnesium shavings on top of dry tinder. Knock the striker against the stick to make sparks over the shavings. The sparks will ignite the shavings and catch the tinder on fire.

If the ground is wet, build an upside-down fire. When a wet forest floor threatens to soak your kindling, build your fire upside down. Place three to four larger logs on the bottom, then rotate smaller logs at a ninety-degree angle and stack them on top. Repeat this with increasingly smaller pieces of wood. Top with your tinder and kindling.

Practice the bow drill method. The bow drill method uses friction to create an ember. It consists of a fireboard, hand drill, and bowstring. Rapidly rub the hand drill against the fireboard until enough heat is made to create an ember, which you can then use for starting a fire.

Use the battery and steel wool method. If you have a nine-volt battery and steel wool, you can easily start a fire. Place a small bundle of steel wool in the middle of your tinder. Make contact with a nine-volt battery and the steel wool should immediately ignite.

Create a fire using a magnifying glass. In a pinch, a magnifying glass can harness heat from the sun in order to start a fire. Hold the magnifying glass up to the sun so that a concentrated beam of light is produced on your tinder. If weather conditions are right, it should produce enough heat to create an ember.

Source ⚜ More: References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[najia-cooks]

[ID: A plate of light brown bumpy flatbread with blackened spots, surrounded by za'tar and green olives. End ID]

خبز طابون / Khobz taboon (Palestinian flatbread)

Khobz taboon ("taboon bread") is a soft, chewy Palestinian flatbread. It may be eaten with olive oil and za'tar, but it is best known as the base of مسخن (musakhkhan), where it is topped with spiced aromatics and perhaps chicken.

Khobz taboon gets its name from the vessel it is traditionally cooked in—an outdoor, shallow conical oven with an opening at the top and a clay or metal cover to trap heat. Taboons may also have an opening at the side through which the fire can be stoked, especially in the east of Palestine. These ovens were historically made from a mixture of local clay and hay, but have more recently also been constructed from clay treated to be sturdier, or from metal.

A taboon is used by packing flammable material, such as hay, fabric, animal dung, wood, and charcoal, around the outside of the oven and letting it burn overnight; the fire transfers thermal energy to the clay, and to the river stones, sand, glass, or flint stones (صوان, "ṣawwān") that form the base of the oven. The ash is then brushed away, and the flattened dough is placed on the stones or stuck to the walls of the oven to cook. The clay and stones will continue to release thermal energy and cook things throughout the day. The clay and ash give a distinctive flavor to anything cooked inside the taboon, making this method a source of nostalgia for many people who have transitioned to cooking in indoor ovens.

Khobz taboon was traditionally made with whole wheat flour. Most people today use a blend of around two parts white flour to one part whole wheat, or else all white flour; they may even add milk or milk powder to ensure a very soft dough. This recipe uses a blend of flours to combine the nutty flavor of whole wheat dough with the pliancy of white dough. It also begins with an optional pre-ferment to mimic the traditional Palestinian method of including a piece of dough from the previous day's bread into each new batch (like a pâte fermentée) giving a rich and slightly sour flavor to the final bread. It calls for the use of rocks to imitate the bottom of a taboon; the rocks give the khobz its distinctive dimpled texture, and ensure that no interior pocket forms in the bread.

In the years following 2007, the siege Israel had imposed on Gaza caused a shortage of cooking gas that led to a resurgence in the use of taboons. The ovens were used to bake bread and to grill sweet potatoes during the time of their winter harvest. Meanwhile, in the West Bank, Israeli military forces repeatedly destroyed taboon ovens and assaulted villagers who tried to defend them, as Israeli settlers from nearby villages complained about the smoke that the ovens produced. Some of these ovens had been used to bake bread for entire families of 40 or more people. Palestinians continue to build, use, and defend these ovens, despite the fact that Israeli law de facto forbids Palestinians in the West Bank to build anything.

Today, Israel is deliberately targeting and destroying bakeries in refugee camps that had been supplying bread to tens of thousands of people in Gaza, continuing a long campaign of starvation of the Palestinian people.

Support Palestinian resistance by calling Elbit System's (Israel's primary weapons manufacturer) landlord; and donating to Palestine Action's bail fund.

Equipment:

A large, shallow mixing bowl, like a Moroccan qus'a

A large (12"), shallow clay cooking vessel, such as the bottom of a Moroccan tajine (one that is rated for very high temperatures), or a large baking tray

Assorted smooth river rocks of varying sizes, from 1 to 3" in diameter.

Make sure that your rocks have been thoroughly cleaned, and that they do not contain any fissures, cracks, or veins that could contain water (this water, once heated in the oven, could cause the rocks to crack open). Instead of river rocks, I used lava rocks designed for use in a clay tanoor. You just need something to provide thermal mass and give a bumpy texture.

Ingredients:

Makes 3 large breads.

For the pre-ferment:

140g whole wheat flour

1/2 tsp active dry yeast

140g water

You may also use a pâte fermentée that you already have (just adjust the ratio of white to whole wheat flour added later accordingly), or a sourdough starter. The hydration of the starter doesn't matter, since you will be adding water by eye later.

For the bread:

330g bread flour or all-purpose flour

30g whole wheat flour

5g salt

Water

If you skipped the pâte fermentée step, add 170g (rather than 30g) of wheat flour at this stage, as well as 1/2 Tbsp of active dry yeast. I have not tested the recipe this way.

Instructions:

For the pâte fermentée:

1. Mix flour and yeast in a small mixing bowl. Add water and stir to combine. Cover and leave out at room temperature for a day, or in the refrigerator for up to three days. At the end of the rising time, it should be about one and a half times its original size.

For the bread:

This recipe makes a high hydration dough that will need techniques such as slapping and folding to knead effectively.

1. Mix flours and salt in a very large, shallow mixing bowl. Add your pâte fermentée and mix to combine.

2. Add water until the flour comes together into a soft, sticky dough and continue keading. Have a bowl of water on your workstation. Every time the dough starts to stick to your hands or the sides of the bowl, wet your hands and rinse down the side of the bowl with some water. This will gradually add water to the dough.

3. You will notice the dough growing smoother and laxer. At this point, start kneading by repeatedly folding the edges of the dough in towards the center. Do this by occasionally wetting your hands, then running a hand along the side of the bowl and under the edge of the dough to unstick it from the bowl; then fold. You will get stuck less often if you try to touch the dough as lightly and briefly as possible. Every few folds, dimple the surface of the dough all over with your fingertips. You will have been kneading for about 10 minutes at this point.

The dough should become more smooth and less bumpy—you will notice it holding its shape and becoming more stretchy as gluten forms. It should form into a ball when you fold the corners in and hold its shape for a minute, but then gradually expand to take the shape of the bowl. I added about 2 1/2 cups of water total (in dry conditions) during steps 2 and 3.

4. At this point, the dough is wet enough that the slap and fold method is the best way to knead. Wet your hands and again unstick the dough from the sides of the bowl. Hook your hands under the dough and quickly pull it all up into the air; fold the hanging bottom part of the dough under, and plop the dough back down, folding it on top of the part you plopped down earlier. Give the bowl a quarter turn and repeat. Do this continually for another few minutes.

5. When the dough is very smooth and lax, smear some olive oil on the sides of the bowl and under the dough, and pat some oil on top.

6. Cover the bowl and bulk ferment the dough at room temperature for 8 hours, or for 16-24 hours in the fridge. At the end of the rising time, you should see bubbles beginning to form on the surface of the dough.

To shape and bake:

1. Place a layer of rocks at the bottom of a clay cooking vessel or baking sheet. Put the sheet in the top third of the oven and preheat your oven to 550 °F (290 °C), or as hot as it will go.

2. Meanwhile, fold the edges of the risen dough over into the middle a few more times with damp hands. Pinch off a large piece of dough (about the size of two fists), and fold the sides over into the middle to make a neat packet.

3. Drop the packet of dough onto a heavily floured surface, and flip to flour both sides. Pat the dough flat, then throw it back and forth between your hands, catching the edge each time as you spin it through the air, like a pizza crust, to stretch it into a circle about 1/4" (1/2cm) thick with a diameter of about 10" (25cm).

You may also stretch and pat the dough out on a flat surface.

4. Remove the tray from the oven. Flip the dough circle over the back of your hand to transfer it and lay it down over the hot rocks. Re-stretch it into a circle, if necessary.

5. Place the tray back in the oven and cook for 5-7 minutes, until the top of the bread has golden brown spots. Repeat with each piece of dough, leaving the rocks in the oven for a few minutes between each one to allow them to come back up to temperature.

6. (Optional): Hold each flatbread directly over a gas flame for a minute or two to blacken a few spots and mimic the flavor that a wood-fired oven would give to your khobz.

You may also use a method similar to the dhungar technique to smoke your bread. Place each piece of bread one at a time into a large vessel with a closely fitting lid, alongside a small bowl. Light a piece of wood on fire and drop it into the bowl; then cover the vessel with the lid as you allow the wood to smoke for a minute or two.

[libraford]

i rather like your amirite idea, not like most 'gemstones' aren't just glass or resin impregnated stone. still impressed with how nice many of these look for hdpe tho, a few pieces you've shown look more like acrylic(make me think of mixed color dice)

The ones I've been showing are like... processed scraps from all of my failures, lol. I can't tell you how many times these plastics have been folded into each other, mixed with ldpe to make it smoother, molded into a piece that's straight up ugly, and then folded again. So far they seem to just melt back into each other without affecting their integrity, but we'll see what happens.

The smaller pieces end up looking like agates, or sometimes like Ohio Flint. Larger pieces look like color vomit.

My goal is to make a goddamn ton of agate-ish beads to use in later projects, or maybe sell in bundles, and then work on making some things in more pleasing colors.

But I absolutely hear you on the 'gemstones.' When the craft store I used to work at came out with their 'natural stone' line and they were really goddamn cheap I was like...

... this is glass.

Like there's no way that this isn't glass or resin with like 10% real stones in it pretending to be authentic mined amethyst.

And like you can pick some things up and I don't know how to put it but you can just... you can tell. Its like holding a counterfeit dollar bill, you're just like... you're aware that its wrong. You touch it and you're like... that's incorrect.

But that's like... that's me being friends with rock-hounds, and being an amateur rockhound myself. And talking to the people at crystal shops who actually know what they're doing instead of just selling crystals.

There is nothing wrong with glass or resin, but pretending that its authentic gemstone just makes me feel like I'm being treated like a child.

Like there are a handful of creators in my circle who make 'gemstone bracelets' and have a long list of properties that go along with them and its like... this is glass. I know your manufacturer, and this is glass. If crystal healing is your angle, this is glass. But I hold my tongue because its how they make their money and they believe it all to be true... but its glass.

So I might as well make my own rocks, enjoy the science, have a little fun with it, and make the thousands of bottles at the community center less of a chore at work.

[jumpywhumpywriter]

Living Weapon Whumpee part 40

Warnings: forced living weapon/fighter, aftermath of war

But it was beautiful, in Whumpee's eyes. And he cherished the gesture, the kindness that came with receiving a gift.

"I'm so glad you're back!" Myra squealed happily. "I've been wanting to ask you something. You said you didn't know how to write, right?"

Whumpee shook his head sadly.

"That's it, I am going to teach you how to draw no matter what!" Myra said resolutely.

Whumpee flinched slightly in surprise at the unexpected contact when Myra suddenly slipped her soft tiny hand into his giant calloused one, tugging him toward a table with paper and coloring tools on it. But he quickly recovered and let the young girl lead him away and force him to sit at the small children's table. He towered over it, and ended up convincing Myra to just let him sit on the floor instead of a chair. He'd probably break it anyway.

A small and fragile creature bossing around a giant war weapon. How cute, Whumpee thought to himself with a small grin. But he was content to play along, even if his back might be stiff later from sitting on the floor so long. It made Myra happy, and he enjoyed seeing her excitement.

Myra snatched up a paper and some crayons and put them in front of Whumpee, doing the same for herself.

"Okay, so first you have to hold it like this--" Myra demonstrated the proper way to hold a writing tool, and Whumpee tried to copy it. The first couple of tries he accidently snapped the crayon in half completely, before figuring out the right amount of gentleness required to hold without breaking. It felt like holding a thin, brittle twig.

"All right. Now you just draw whatever you feel like!" Myra squeaked, and drew one of her signature stick figures. It didn't look too hard.

...It was, in fact, significantly harder than Whumpee had expected, coordinating his thoughts with his hand that would translate it through the crayon and turn it into a recognizable image. So far all he'd managed was a bunch of wild squiggles in the shape of -- a rock? A word? He had no idea.

His hand was stiff with old scar tissue from countless battles that made it hard to flex the right muscles to get the crayon to do what he wanted and move in the right direction. It felt awkward and unnatural to keep his hand in the right position to hold it. It didn't help that the crayons were like toothpicks in his giant hands anyway.

Whumpee frowned down at his attempted creation, disappointed.

"Look, you can turn even a mess into a masterpiece!" Myra chirped, and she took a crayon of her own and scribbled two dots in the middle of the lumpy, deranged circle-thing he had drawn. "See? Now it looks like the monster under my bed!"

Whumpee couldn't help bursting out laughing. Myra was trying so hard to be helpful -- it was adorable to witness. And even funnier that a 13-year old girl was teaching a grown man to draw the simplest pictures, and even that was challenging for Whumpee.

They went through dozens of papers and countless crayons before Whumpee finally managed to make something he could be proud of.

Because there, in the center of his latest paper, was a single wobbly stick figure -- the lines not as sharp and clean as Myra always made them, but it was recognizably a stick figure, and Whumpee was ecstatic about his accomplishment. His first piece of actual art.

"Now you know how to draw!" Myra squeaked happily, and threw her little arms around Whumpee in an unexpected hug, startling him.

But then Whumpee cautiously draped a giant arm around her in return in a half-hug, oh-so-carefully, viscerally aware of his own supernatural strength. It was strange how these hands, that were usually drenched in blood, were so warm and gentle right now. How he used them for kindness just as naturally as he used them for violence.

Whumpee's gaze flicked up and he saw Flint standing in the doorway with arms crossed over his chest, an amused and slightly grateful expression on his face.

Such a strange turn of events, how Whumpee had gone from a mindless war dog... to a gentle but powerful guard dog instead. It would be a rough change for all of them, but... Whumpee was looking forward to the freedom that awaited him in the future now that the war was over. Though he had a feeling he'd stick around the headquarters anyway.

⏪��� Back (Part 1 of sequel story)

Masterlist

@scoundrelwithboba @lumpofsand @isikedmyself878 @iamheretohurt @fleur-a-whump

@ay5ksal @otterfrost @sausages-things @i-don't-know-sal @togzy

@whump-till-ya-jump @cravesunconditionallove @whumpwritinglover222 @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl @cepheusgalaxy

@dragongodryss

[nekohime19]

Bimawen # 11 : Pondering

Mengai is understably frazzled after Wukong unexpected confession, like always he overthink everything. Wukong just wants to spend time with him and doesn't know the meaning of personal space.

Mengai weighted the piece of flint in his hand, he rubbed the rough surface with the pad of his thumb, kindly caressing the rock's cold skin. It was small. As large as one eye. He lowered the rock above a candle and rubbed it against a small piece of metal. Sparks poured down on the candle, they glided on the yellowed body made of animal's fat. The wick ignited. Mengai took the golden cup holding the candle and brought it closer, the wavering flame cut the darkness enveloping the assistant's room, brightening its surroundings with a meager golden halo. 

The night was dark, darker than usual, entirely moonless. The stars didn't even deign to peek from the ink-black clouds covering the sky. Usually, the moonlight was enough to illuminate his room, but tonight he had to ask for candles. The clones were happy to obey. They scurried to stasify his wishes and brought him all sorts of candles. He didn't ask for this much but somehow he didn't have the strength to squander their efforts. So he nodded and dropped the outrageous amount of candles besides his study.

Mengai sighed and leaned over the pile of scrolls crawling on his study. He resumed his reading, using the candle frail light to illuminate the paper's old skin. 

Mengai was a cautious individual. He knew he didn't have the strength to break through any walls, nor the body to seduce his way out of problems. The only thing he had was his ears. Information. He relied heavily on their power. But sometimes whispers weren't enough. He needed to dive in old papers. Know everything beforehand to assure his safety. Mengai knew the stories of the Yellow Emperor and the God of War but he believed it wasn't enough. He wanted to know everything. To know them inside and out. Only then would he feel reassured at having them under his orders. 

Of course he knew those two wouldn't try anything dangerous with the bimawen around. But Mengai couldn't help himself. It was in his nature to fret, to think, to plan. He was broken out of his reading by a peculiar sound. Something rattling. Mengai took his candle and went towards his window, a familiar shape was standing on the other side of the oiled paper. The assistant slid the window aside and sighed at the sight. A familiar tailed songbird was standing there, hopping innocently on the windowsill. The black-furred monkey looked down at the bead-eyed bird and reluctantly allowed it to enter. Wukong hopped inside. He fluttered down Mengai's bed and picked at his ruffled feathers. 

Mengai should have expected it. He didn't go to work today, too engrossed in his research. He used his bleeding ears as an excuse, even if they weren't in pain anymore. When Wukong proposed to stay with him, Mengai refused. Partially because he knew he wouldn't be able to do his research properly with the bimawen around but also because he needed some space after his boss's confession. He couldn't help but worry about it. Love? He didn't know anything about love. He didn't even have friends before Wukong. 

It happened that, when he was stealing people's lives, he imitated romantics or husbands. But it wasn't the same. Back then, he was pretending to feel love. Pretending to feel his stomach flutter under coy eyes, pretending to be tongue tied before a renowned beauty. His understanding of love was limited to his scrutiny. It was a phenomenon he was able to fake. But he never truly felt it. He never had those desires. He liked Wukong, even if he wasn't willing to admit it. But was he in love with him? He didn't know. And, of course, Wukong didn't even seem to fret about it. As calm as ever. He was the one who confessed, yet why was Mengai the one stressing about it? It was truly unfair. 

Curse this mogwai and his carefree attitude! 

Wukong chirped and perched himself on Mengai's shoulder. He buried himself in the black-furred monkey neck, glued to him. The assistant sighed. He raised his hand, about to remove the leech latching on his neck, but gave up halfway. Wukong was a clingy person. It was impossible to tear him apart from those he wanted to latch on. Mengai decided to ignore him. He went back to his study and resumed his research. 

Of course, the bimawen couldn't sit still for long. He nipped at Mengai's ears after not even an incense time. The assistant turned towards the bird perched on his shoulder and raised an eyebrow. Wukong chirped in indignation, as if it was preposterous for Mengai to not give him his undivided attention. The assistant rubbed the bird's belly. Wukong calmed down and huffed, eyes half lidded in pleasure. Mengai spent a few minutes indulging his boss, then he returned to his papers. Wukong sat still for a bit, but then he nipped at his assistant's ears, again. 

“Really, birdie ? You're going to be like that?” Groaned Mengai, he glared at his boss, daring him to nip at his ears. Wukong looked at him, unashamed, and slowly leaned over the ear, he nipped at it without breaking eye contact. Mengai huffed. His eyebrow twitched in annoyance. “You want my attention, huh?” Asked the black-furred monkey. He smirked at the bird and grabbed him. Wukong squeaked, greatly surprised.

Mengai smooched the bird all over. Ruffling all of his precious feathers. When he put Wukong down, the bird wobbled a bit, unsteady. Once he regained his spirit, the bimawen glared at his assistant and angrily smoothed out his ruffled feathers. Yet he couldn't hide his tail's happy twitch. Mengai snorted at the sight. It was fun to tease his boss. Especially since he was unaware that Mengai knew of his true identity. The black-furred monkey happily went back to his research. But it didn't last. Wukong observed him from the study's corner, plotting his revenge. After an incense time the bird hopped on Mengai's scroll and glared up at him. 

“I can't read if you're on the papers.” Sighed Mengai. Wukong huffed and preened himself, happily obstructing his assistant's research. The black-furred monkey squinted. Well if Wukong wanted to be annoying then perhaps it was time to employ drastic measures. Mengai grabbed his boss and tickled him. The bird squeaked. His high-pitched trills echoed all around the room. He squirmed, trying to escape his assistant's deft hands but Mengai had an iron grip.

Wukong laughed so much he accidently turned back. His weight made the study crack, the candle was spilled on the floor and the scrolls flew around. Mengai blinked in surprise, he didn't expect that. Wukong heaved, trying to catch his breath. 

“How dare you tickle this bimawen?” Huffed the blonde-furred monkey. 

Mengai was wholly unimpressed. “How dare you turn into a bird to spy on me?”

Wukong brushed the accusation off with a flick of the wrist. Mengai snorted at his nonchalant attitude. He bent down and scooped up the broken candle. He put it on the study and picked up another fresh one. Wukong hopped off the desk and leisurely walked around the room, letting his eyes wander everywhere. Mengai took the piece of flint and ignited the fresh candle, the flame illuminated the room anew, chasing the darkness away. When he turned, Mengai found his boss sitting on the bed, legs sprawled without a care in the world.

“You knew I was the bird.” Observed Wukong, his gaze lingered on the macaque before wandering on the pile of scrolls gathered on the study. He frowned at the sight. Frustrated that those papers had his assistant's attention.

“You're not discreet.” Chuckled Mengai. “So what do you want?”

“Can't I just see you because I want to?” Huffed the bimawen, he had this infuriating smile on his lips, as if he had already won. Mengai rolled his eyes, he put down the candle on his study and sat down.

“You missed me.” Teased the black-furred monkey, his boss averted his eyes and crossed his arms, unwilling to admit it. Mengai snorted. This guy was really too clingy. 

Wukong leaned on the wall, the candle's golden luster glided on his face, making his eyes twinkle. “You didn't wanna see me today…” Mengai flinched, it was well-hidden but he could hear the hint of hurt lingering in his boss's voice. The assistant sighed and raked his hand in his fuzzy fur. He didn't want to hurt his boss. But… the confession really messed with his head. Mengai turned towards the candle, eyebrows furrowed. 

“You're too carefree.” Sighed the assistant, he didn't understand how his boss could be this calm? Especially after confessing… Shouldn't he wallow in nervosity and awkwardness? “You can't just say something like that and act like nothing happened.”

“You're talking about?” Tentatively asked Wukong. 

“Your confession.” Mumbled Mengai as he averted his eyes. Embarrassed to even mention it. Wukong chuckled, he had this look on his face, the one he had when he thought Mengai was acting silly. 

“Yeah, I love you.” Hummed Wukong. Mengai's fur puffed out in alarm, he sprang on his feet and glared at his boss. Wukong snickered at his reaction.

“It's not funny!” Hissed Mengai, he began to pace around the room, tail twitching nervously. “It's a big deal. You can't just… say it like that. Besides we are working together, it would be very improper to have this kind of relationship! And what if the other gods heard you? They'll call you a cut-sleeve and…and your reputation will suffer. And I don't even know what I'm feeling but because you confessed I have to answer somewhat and… and I feel awkward.” Wukong patiently listened to his rambling, when he saw that Mengai's words were slowly fading he opened his arms, a silent invitation. 

Mengai side-eyed his boss, still frustrated by the situation. He wanted to lash out. His claws were itching to scratch at something, to let go of the frustration, the helplessness building inside of him. But the need disappeared in a sigh. It disappeared with Wukong's silent invitation. Mengai hesitated for a short instant before slowly crawling over his boss. He let Wukong tug him in his arms. The black-furred monkey put his head on Wukong's shoulder and closed his eyes, inhaling the familiar scent of sun and grass. 

“You don't have to worry so much.” Hummed Wukong. He cupped Mengai's head and softly caressed his ears, the appendages fluttered under his fingers. “Focus on you. And if I do something you don't like, just tell me, I'll stop. You think too much.”

“I think normally, you're the one who doesn't think enough.” Huffed Mengai, nonetheless he felt reassured by this. His boss didn't seem to expect an answer. He knew he would have to give one eventually but at least he had time to think about it. In truth, Mengai wasn't even sure if his boss knew what a romantic relationship was like. Wukong was a mystery on many things and Mengai long since gave up on understanding him. “Anyway, I should go to sleep.”

Wukong hummed in agreement but didn't release his assistant. His arms were firm around the other's waist, holding him tight, not willing to let even one inch of him go. Mengai looked up at him and sighed. “You're not going to let go, are you?”

“You didn't spend the day with me, so to compensate you have to spend the night with me.” Nothing in this sentence made sense but Mengai knew better than to argue with his boss on this matter. This monkey would create the most unbelievable excuses if it gave him the opportunity to latch on the six-eared macaque. Occasionally, Mengai wondered if the times when Wukong had been nervous about touching him were a figment of his imagination. It seemed like it with how unnervous the other was now.

“Whatever.” Huffed Mengai, he pushed Wukong down the bed and laid at his side, Wukong latched on him, arms snaking around his waist. 

“Are your ears better?” Asked the great sage, his voice was incredibly soft, as if he was suddenly worried about his own loudness. 

“They're fine.” Mumbled the black-furred monkey. “Now shut up and sleep.” Mengai closed his eyes and drifted unconscious, finding the stern face of Zhou Gong in his dreams. 

He was unaware of the sun-kissed eyes closely watching him. Wukong didn't sleep. He spent the night looking at the other, occasionally letting his fingers graze his assistant's ears, making them flutter. He missed him during the day, he didn't want to waste one second he had with him to sleep during the night.

Occasionally, Wukong would lean down and bury his nose in the other's hair, smacking his lips repeatedly. 

***

Mengai woke up in the early morning, the sun was barely peeking from the horizon, its frail light falling upon the quiet lands. This morning felt colder than usual. The sky was bleak, shrouded in milk-white fog. The dew was thicker than normal, ice-cold drops falling from browning leaves. Birds were retreating in their nests, huddled close together for warmth. Mengai huffed and dived deeper in his boss's luscious mane, he buried his nose in the blonde hair, searching for warmth. Wukong's fur was abundant, so much that one could drown in it. It was soft and, most of all, warm. At this point, Mengai was used to his boss's touch, he no longer flinched at being embraced by steady arms, nor did he shy away from heavy caresses. Wukong's body was familiar. Of course, he didn't know every valley and hill of his boss's body, but he knew enough to find comfort in it. 

Wukong's hands were on his waist, holding him tight. His fingers pressed against Mengai, heavy, but not oppressing. The black-furred monkey could easily free himself if he wished to. Wukong was still asleep. His breath softly brushing against the assistant's head. Warm. Smelling of peaches. Mengai didn't mind it, but he did roll his eyes at the smell, not surprised. The black-furred monkey looked up, peeking at his boss through his lashes. Wukong seemed to be in deep slumber. His face completely relaxed. He looked different in his sleep. 

He looked calm. Serene. His cheeks lacked the subtle dimples dug by his large smile. His nose wasn't scrunched up, like it often was when the other thought of troubles to make. He looked quiet. His face, without the trademark spark of mischievousness, looked gentler, softer. Perhaps in a moment of profound disillusion, Mengai could even say that it looked vulnerable. Not vulnerable in the sense of weakness, but in the sense of openness. As if Wukong was letting him see something he didn't like to show. It was a window to the softness locked inside. Mengai wanted to cradle that face, the urge bursted inside of him, encompassing. His fingers twitched in want. But he didn't dare to. Instead he huffed a silent laugh at the line of drool dropping from the other's lips and dived back in the sea of blonde fur. 

He felt his boss's move minutes after. Wukong's body creaked, he tightened his hold on Mengai and woke up with a groan, voice still veiled by drowsiness. The black-furred monkey looked up once more, his boss yawned, sharp teeth on full display. Mengai looked at those thick fangs and couldn't help but frown, not for the first time, he wished his fangs were as long, as dangerous, as beautiful as his boss's. 

“I fell asleep.” Mumbled Wukong, looking as if he was upset that he let sleep get the better of him. 

“Yeah, it's a thing, to fall asleep on beds.” Snorted Mengai. His boss huffed and looked down at him. 

“I didn't want to sleep. I wanted to watch you.”

“That's very creepy.” Grimaced Mengai.

“No, it's normal. I missed you, that's why.” It was in no way normal, but Mengai didn't feel like arguing. He long since knew how odd his boss could be. 

The black-furred monkey slowly removed himself from his boss's embrace and crawled towards his closet, he took his thickest robe and wrapped it over his body. He made sure to hide himself behind the closet's door. Even if Wukong already saw him naked quite a number of times, Mengai was still quite shy about showing himself, especially his manhood. Not that he was ashamed of it but it was embarrassing to expose it like that. Wukong knew about his hangups, so he quietly averted his eyes and offered him a semblance of intimacy. Once Mengai was ready, he opened his door and asked a nearby clone for food. 

“And peaches!” Yelled Wukong from inside the room. The clone flinched at his voice but heeded his order anyway and scrambled away to search for peaches. 

Mengai huffed a laugh. “You're not gonna change?” Wukong looked down at himself, his robe was completely wrinkled, mussed up by his night of sleep. He didn't even have his futou, it probably laid forgotten in his own room. The bimawen slightly straightened it, smoothing the wrinkles with his claws, and nodded, satisfied. The black-furred monkey turned away, hiding the smile invading his lips, he wasn't even surprised by his boss's carelessness. As long as his robe wasn't heavily strained, he wouldn't change it. 

The clones came back with baskets of fruits, Wukong almost threw himself on the peaches, he grabbed the roundest for himself and sunk his fangs in the rosy skin. He had the courtesy to spare the second roundest for Mengai. The assistant graciously took the peach and nipped at it. It wasn't his favorite fruit, but Wukong's orchard was worth it. The fruits there were all blessed by loving sunlight and cradling rain. Once he finished his peach, Mengai picked up his oranges and ate them with a joyous sway of tail. Wukong intently watched him, he noticed how Mengai was enjoying his oranges and tentatively reached for one, seeing Mengai enjoy himself so much tempted him. He tried to pry it open but ended up pressing too hard, the orange's skin exploded, juice flowed. 

Wukong grimaced while Mengai bursted out laughing. The black-furred monkey crouched down by Wukong's side, on the bed. He offered one hand, gesturing for the orange. Wukong grumbled, he gave the orange to Mengai and cleaned himself with a piece of cloth he conjured with his hair. The assistant delicately pried the orange open, it was bruised but still very much edible. Wukong watched him intently, as if fascinated by the measle act of peeling an orange. Once he was finished Mengai handed him his freshly peeled orange, Wukong took one piece and threw it in his mouth. He immediately grimaced. 

“Why did you eat it if you don't like it?” Chuckled Mengai, he ate the rest of the orange, enjoying the fruit's sourness. 

“You looked like you enjoyed it so I wanted to try.” Grumbled the bimawen, he grabbed a peach to wash away the taste of the orange. 

Once their stomachs were round with fruits they headed towards the stable. Mengai immediately began to work, he checked the horses food, noted which one needed grooming and began his shoveling. The dragon horses were long since used to him, they neighed at him in greeting and went back to their own business. On the contrary the heavenly horses were very excited at the sight of him, sniffing him all over when he approached them. For them, he was brand-new, someone they never saw in the stables before. 

Mengai pushed away the snout of one of the heavenly horses, this one was particularly excited, wings fluttering in curiosity. His name was Pea, and he resembled a peacock on all points. Pea hopped his way and sniffed him again, pressing his snout against the monkey's chest. 

“I can't do my job if you're all over me.” Groaned Mengai, he didn't like to be this close to the horses but he long since learned how clingy the heavenly horses were. It was nearly impossible to not be smothered when he entered one of their stalls. Mengai somehow managed to clean the stall despite Pea smothering. He removed the soiled bedding, dumped it in the barrow made for this, and replaced it with a fresh one made of straws and pellets. One clone was charged to empty the barrow once it was full, while another came with barrows full of fresh beddings. It was a familiar come and go. The stables were always busy. 

When he left, the horse neighed pitiful, wanting his company. Mengai awkwardly patted him on the head to comfort him. Pea seemed to be satisfied with the meager act of affection and let Mengai go without any more whines. 

Mengai sighed and removed the feathers stuck in his fur, if he didn't remove them early on he'll have a new coat of feathers by the time he was finished with the stalls cleaning. Of course, Mengai didn't handle all of the stalls, there were hundreds of them, instead he had his own corner that changed every week or so. Once he was finished with all the stalls in his corner for the week, he went to check the equipements. Wukong wasn't fond of saddles, but as a stable they still needed to have them and take care of them properly. He crossed paths with Wukong on the way, the bimawen was checking the food and grooming one heavenly horse’s feathers. The blonde-furred monkey was often in charge of food and grooming. He knew best how to cut the dragon horses sharp claws or how to clean the heavenly horses tender hooves. Mengai was too stressed to even handle the claws sharpener. 

The black-furred monkey entered the equipment room and went to check everything. The room was dim-lighted and quite dry. Humidity and overexposure to sunlight were bad for the equipements. Some clones were already inside, diligently wiping the saddles with a cloth. Mengai joined them. He also checked for any signs of rust on all the metallic parts. It was a repetitive job but Mengai didn't mind it. In fact, he even started to enjoy it, especially since he got better at it. He felt proud of himself when he saw how well he cleaned one saddle. 

As usual, Wukong came for him at the start of the sheep's hour. He always dragged him out to eat when the sun hit midday. 

“Oh you did very well with this saddle.”Praised Wukong, it wasn't odd anymore to receive the bimawen's praises, but no matter how much he received them he still felt as fluttery as the first time. Mengai hummed, tail twitching happily, and followed his boss's outside. The clones watched them leave with smirks on their faces. Teasing. Mengai paid them no mind. 

Wukong dragged him to the river. “Let's eat fish! It's been a while and I haven't had my fill.”

Now that he thought about it, it's been a while since he went fishing in the river. His frequent nightly escapades had been put on hold for nightly freaking outs, first because Wukong wasn't behaving like normal, then because he said he loved him. Huh. It was Wukong's fault if he truly thought about it. This damn mogwai was messing with his head!

“Did you become obsessed with fish or something?” Chuckled Mengai as he rolled up his pants and sleeves, it was quite cold today, he didn't want to be wet. 

Wukong gasped, as if the mere idea was outrageous. “I'm not obsessed! You have just been lacking in your duty of feeding me fishes.” Mengai snorted, so it was a duty then? What was he? The fish catcher? He pictured the proud image of Wukong in his songbird form, acting all proud and mighty, ordering him around with one flap of wing. Cute, but wholly impossible. He wasn't going to be bossed around so easily. Not when he knew how silly his boss truly was. 

Mengai entered the river and crouched down. He signaled for Wukong to shut his mouth, loud shouts would scare the fishes away. The bimawen huffed but obediently obeyed, he wanted his fishes after all. Mengai stopped moving altogether. He hovered over the clear surface of the river without moving an inch. He was like a statue. Eyes narrowed on the water's flow. His ears all turned towards the water, concentrated on its sounds, its feel, its life. Then suddenly a shadow approached, a finicky little thing trying to swim by him. Mengai lurched at the shadow. His hand gripped the slippery body of the fish, clutching it tightly. He teared it from the water and smiled, the carp was fat, its scale glistening under the sun's cold stare. He dropped the fish in the basket Wukong conjured and went back to his hunt. 

Once the basket was filled, Mengai left the river and dried himself up by the fire Wukong put on. He took the knife conjured by his boss and prepared the fishes. He raked the fine blade over their scales, removing them, and cut their bellies open to pull out the guts. He cleaned the fishes, added some salt, and planted them by the fire. Wukong gaze zeroed on the fishes, drool falling from his mouth. Mengai chuckled. This guy was really becoming obsessed with fishes. 

Wukong jumped on the fishes once they were ready, he happily took one and sank his fangs in the white flesh. Mengai ate more cleanly. Meticulously eating his fish while removing any fishbones. 

“By the way, did you finally come up with a name for Bean's foal?” Asked Wukong once he satisfied his hunger. He wiped the crumbs latching on his mouth with one hand. 

“Not yet. It takes time to choose the perfect name.” Hummed Mengai, he knew how important names could be, he didn't want to mess that up. 

“At this rate, the foal will be an adult long before he gets a name.”

“At least he'll have the perfect name.” Huffed Mengai, Wukong bursted out laughing at his comeback. 

Once they were done eating, Wukong dispersed what he conjured with his hair while Mengai put out the fire. But, before he could take the path to the stables, Wukong reached forward and grabbed his wrist. 

“I have something planned for us this afternoon!” Chirped the blonde-furred monkey. Mengai raised an eyebrow, it's not as if he didn't trust his boss, but Wukong's ideas of good plans were admittedly questionable. Like the time he tried to teach Mengai how to ride by slapping the horse on its butt, making it lurge forward. The black-furred monkey still had a bad memory of this moment. Nonetheless, he didn't truly have the heart to refuse and he knew the other would drag him no matter what he said. 

Wukong tugged him along, they dived deeper in the forest, passing beneath the centuries-old trees. The bimawen tentatively let his hand fall off of Mengai’s wrist, brushing against his fingers. Wukong's touch was unsure, too light to be really felt. Mengai wondered what this sudden shyness was all about. The black-furred monkey, annoyed by Wukong's hesitance, grabbed his boss's hand and intertwined their fingers. Wukong's tail twitched happily and his smile widened. Oh. So this is what it was about. Wukong wanted to hold hands. Truly his boss was shy for the oddest of things, he was fine with squeezing the life out of Mengai during a hug but holding hands made him nervous?

Mengai huffed at the lack of logic, ignoring the soft warmth bubbling in his chest. 

Wukong led him to an open meadow hidden within the forest, some wooden staffs were prepared, standing against a rack. The bimawen reluctantly let go of Mengai's hand and gestured to the space with pride. The black-furred monkey didn't fully understand what he was getting at. 

“I did promise to teach you self-defense, didn't I?” Huffed Wukong. “This place is perfect, it's flat and the grass is soft so you won't hurt yourself if you fall!”

“I see. I didn't actually expect you to do it.” Hummed Mengai, he wasn't that excited at the thought of exercising, it sounded terribly tiring. Besides, he wasn't one to fight, he prefered to flee rather than barge in conflicts. 

“Come on.” Wukong put one of his arms on Mengai's shoulders. “Think about it, if you know how to fight, you'll be more confident! Besides, wouldn't it be great to be more powerful~” Wukong breath brushed against the shell of his ears, the appendages fluttered slightly. It sounded tempting… He did like power. “And who knows? Maybe you'll grow to be more powerful than some of the gods?”

The black-furred monkey perked up at the idea. He didn't think it was possible but Wukong said it with so much confidence he was tempted to believe it. “Really?”

“With this mighty bimawen as your teacher, it's not impossible.” Proudly huffed Wukong with a puffed out chest. Mengai snorted at his arrogance, but ultimately he was convinced by it. The thought of being stronger than some of the gods filled him with giddiness. It would be satisfying to see them cower at his feet in fear of his might! Besides, he lost nothing by trying. 

Wukong pushed his assistant towards the rack, he then removed his clothes, that long robe of his wasn't ideal for martial arts, and put on shorter ones he conjured with his hair. Mengai wasn't as embarrassed as before about Wukong's naked body, he saw it enough during their grooming sessions to not be as bashful as he once had been. He did avert his eyes when Wukong shimmied out of his pants, that part of his boss's anatomy was still a bit awkward to stare at. Once Wukong was in more comfortable clothes, he hummed in satisfaction and turned towards Mengai. The black-furred monkey didn't really need to change clothes, his own linen tunic was ample enough to allow movements without being obstructive and he felt quite comfortable in it. 

“I'll teach you my own martial art, created by yours truly.” Proudly huffed the bimawen. Mengai was a bit skeptical about an art created by his boss but, considering how strong Wukong was, his martial art was probably legit. “Let's start with stretching.”

The blonde-furred monkey crouched down and straightened his legs, stretching himself. Mengai imitated him. He bent forward and backward, unfolding limbs one after the other. Once they were both well-stretched, feeling the burn of their own muscles, they rose from the ground. 

“Alright. Let's start with light stances and footworks.” Wukong showed him some of his personal movements, as he called them. Some were easy to replicate, like the so-called “monkey crouch”, others were more challenging to say the least, like the “drunken stance”. 

As they tried different stances, Wukong quickly adjusted in his teaching, abandoning the flasher and quicker moves (for now) and focusing on the easier to make. The bimawen's moves were oddly natural; they mimicked the innate movements carved in monkeys, low crouches close to the ground with sudden shifts. Mengai quickly got used to it. Wukong made him do leaps and rolls, pauses and shifts. The blonde-furred monkey insisted on unpredictability. On being impossible to read. 

“You're doing good.” Praised Wukong, he had this spark in his eyes, as if he was proud. He grabbed one of the wooden staff and threw it to Mengai. The black-furred monkey rushed to catch it, he glared at his boss once he had the staff, why was he throwing it without saying anything beforehand? Wukong chuckled at his frustration. 

Wukong first made him hold the staff, familiarizing him with the weapon. Then the bimawen grabbed a staff of his own and they did basic exercises together. Mengai was actually better when he had someone to copy by his side. When he was acting as a mirror. He was a great imitator after all, even if he struggled to keep up when Wukong's excitement pushed him to do more difficult (but flashier) techniques. 

They attempted a sparring match, it couldn't really be called a match in itself, Wukong moves were slower (to let Mengai see) and weaker than normal. Mengai's goal was to become used to evading quickly. 

“Why aren't you doing this with your own staff?” Asked Mengai, he leaned on the staff to catch his breath, sweat was rolling on his temples. 

“You silly Mengmeng.” Laughed Wukong. “You're a beginner, I'm not gonna use my staff on you. Besides, I don't wanna hurt you.”

Mengai felt grateful for the consideration, warm for the tenderness and a tiny bit insulted for being called weak. They kept going for a few more hours before deciding to stop. Mengai collapsed on the grass and looked up, exhausted. Wukong sat beside him, not a drop of sweat on his face.

“You're good?” Asked the bimawen. Mengai heaved, he brushed aside his boss's concern with a flick of hand. He didn't like to appear weak. “Let's go back to the river.” Hummed Wukong as he offered his assistant a hand, Mengai took it and hauled himself on his feet. They leisurely made their way back to the river. 

The black-furred monkey crouched by the river and cupped a handful of clear fresh water. He drank it whole. The liquid appeased his burning throat, settling inside him like a cooling embrace. He breathed a sigh of relief and collapsed by his boss's side, relishing on the shade provided by the thick foliage of centuries-old trees. Mengai felt his muscles burn, but it wasn't painful, in fact it almost felt good.

“You did good for your first time.” Hummed Wukong, the black-furred monkey managed to act as if the praise didn’t affect him, but he was secretly happy about it. He liked being praised. 

They stayed still for a few moments, relishing in the peaceful atmosphere. At least until Wukong began to tap his fingers against his knee, as if he was incapable of controlling his energy. Mengai frowned, he glanced at the annoying fingers and scowled, the sound was disrupting his peace. 

“Our training didn't tire you enough?” Scoffed the black-furred monkey, he felt better after relaxing, he wasn't as tired as before. 

“Not really…” Sighed Wukong, he was shifting around, as if his body wasn't able to contain his excitement. Then suddenly his face brightened, he turned towards his assistant with sparkling eyes. “Let's play! A good old game of tag.” He proposed as if it was the greatest idea ever. 

“No thank you.” Refused Mengai, he actually quite liked the position he was in right now, he didn't want to move, even less playing. 

Wukong huffed, annoyed at being refused. But then he smiled mischievously. He hopped on his feet and crouched before Mengai, he then pinched his ears. The black-furred monkey yelped and pushed his hand away. He glared at the cackling mogwai while rubbing his reddening ears. Once he was done laughing, Wukong rose and said :

“If you want revenge you'll have to catch me!” He then added teasingly : “Not that you're able to anyway.” Mengai frowned, how dare this mogwai say he wouldn't be able to catch him? He was perfectly able to! Pride wounded, the macaque hopped on his feet and lurched at his boss. Wukong side-stepped, avoiding him, he then scurried away while laughing. 

Mengai ran after him. He wasn't going to let this slide! They ran through the forest, leaping above roots and bushes, uncaring of the fauna scurrying away in their wake. Unfortunately for Mengai, Wukong was a fast opponent. He wouldn't be able to take him down easily. Luckily, Mengai had many tricks up his sleeves. 

“I BET YOU CAN'T SOMERSAULT!” Shouted the black-furred monkey, Wukong ears perked up, he glared at his assistant, offended by the mere idea. Mengai smirked, trying to look as smug as possible, the bimawen fell for it. Hook. Line. Sinker. Wukong stopped running and proudly showed off his ability to somersault. Mengai used the momentum to sprint towards his boss and tackle him down. “And I won.” Cheerfully hummed Mengai as he leaned over the bimawen's surprised face. 

Wukong frowned, but before he could whine about his defeat, he got an idea and transformed into a tiny monkey-tailed mouse. The bimawen easily scurried away from his assistant's grasp, hiding in the forest lush flora. Mengai huffed. This should be considered cheating. But he knew Wukong would never acknowledge that using spells was, in fact, cheating. Instead he'll be smug about his victory for days to come. Mengai couldn't have that! He'd never leave it down. 

The black-furred monkey closed his eyes and concentrated, he was good at transformations, in fact he spent most of his life perfecting his craft at imitations. Granted he never tried to turn into animals before but it couldn't be that different, no? The assistant controlled his breath, his ears fluttered, bringing him scattered words of old lessons lost across time. He tried to shift. The feeling of shedding his skin was familiar, something he did times and times again when he stole others’ appearances. When he opened his eyes, he was closer to the ground. He meowed happily. He successfully turned into a cat! Well… he was pretty certain that his six ears remained but, even if imperfect, he still managed to transform. 

Mengai sniffed his surroundings, his sense of smell was better in this form, it was a bit disorienting to be honest, but he quickly got the hang of it. The six-eared macaque silently crept closer to his prey. His eyes narrowed at the golden mouse leisurely sprawled on a sun-drenched rock. Without hesitation, he pounced. The mouse shrieked, surprised by his attack. Wukong seemed greatly shocked by his new form; he probably didn't expect him to have this ability. Yet Mengai could smell his boss's excitement. After all, the transformations added fun to their game. 

Wukong turned into a snake and slithered away, his skin too slippery to be pinned down by Mengai's paws. The assistant groaned and turned into a six-eared mongoose, he chased after the snake and battled him, quickly avoiding his whips and pinning him down. Wukong managed to free himself by transforming into a tiger, he teasingly pressed his snout against Mengai's mongoose belly (a clear provocation) and ran away cackling. Mengai turned into a cheetah and caught up with his boss, the two felines hissed at each other, circling their opponent. Then Wukong lurched forward, but instead of pouncing on Mengai he turned into an eagle and escaped in the sky. The assistant took the exact same form and chased after his boss's shadow. 

They collided into each other like two unstoppable forces. Flying in an intimate dance of feathers and laughter. Their talons were entangled as they held onto each other. Wukong was still able to free himself and he dived in the river, turning into a fish. Mengai followed after him and they resumed their dance in the water, swimming around the other like the two forces of Yin and Yang embracing one another. The black-furred monkey finally broke their intimate dance, he turned into a heron and caught Wukong in his beak. The fish struggled in his assistant's beak, twisting around, before assuming the form of a deer and kicking the bird away. Mengai shrieked, surprised by the kick, but he quickly regained his spirit and turned into a wolf. He ran after the scurrying deer and pounced on him. They both tumbled on the ground, they laughed so much they broke their spells, returning to monkeys. 

Mengai looked down at his boss and smiled. Wukong was still in the throes of his laughter, unable to calm down. His face was brightened by the frail sunlight, cheeks dug by two lovely subtle dimples, eyes shining with nothing but pure unadulterated joy. The assistant felt warmth bloom in his chest. Something so very soft. So very delicate. As fluttering as a flower petal lost in the wind yet as encompassing as the sea. It cradled his very being. Caressed him with a touch barely there yet so very delicious. It was like falling asleep by the hearthstone in the dead of winter, nestled in cozy blankets. Warm yet not burning. 

Mengai had the sudden urge to dive in his boss's fur, press his nose against his skin and squeeze him tight. He let himself be possessed by the need. He leaned down and hugged Wukong. Diving in his fur. And there, pressed against the familiar warmth of his skin, surrounded by the embrace of his fur, he smacked his lips. He didn't even know why he wanted to do it. He just did. 

Wukong perked up at the sound, he looked down at him with something akin to awe, then he squeezed him so tight he knocked the breath out of his lungs. 

“I love you.” Muttered Wukong as he pressed his head against Mengai's hair. 

The black-furred didn't answer, instead he smacked his lips once more.

+ voc

Incense time : the time it takes to burn an incense stick, around 30 min.

Duke of Zhou : also called the god of dreams, saying we see the face of the Duke of Zhou in our dreams is a metaphor for falling asleep.

Cut-sleeve : slang for homosexual

Concerning the type of martial arts Wukong is teaching our Mengmeng, it's actually the Monkey King Fu (Hou Quan) and the Drunken Monkey style. While both martial arts doesn't properly exist yet at the time the story takes place, they're both inspired by Sun Wukong (the Drunken Monkey boxing being inspired by the time he got wasted on celestial wine) sooo I thought it was the most fitting.

Ch1 / Previous / Next

[kaynanarie]

JourneyTober! Day 12 - Underworld (Stone)

            Things were not going the way Monkey had planned. Arriving at Black Wind Mountain had been challenging, an expectation for the journey ahead. Then everything got complicated when the human showed up.

            The human Tudigong had tasked him with protecting. The human that chattered nonstop in words he couldn’t understand. The human that started following him around like a baby duck with just as much survival instincts. The human that he now watched struggle to even light a basic campfire.

            Whatever flame conjuring twigs she had used the previous nights were now gone. Rubbing sticks together had been her first attempt, quickly growing frustrated and tired in her efforts. Next had been rocks which she smashed together in a poor attempt at fire-starting.

            After nearly an hour, she shouted in frustration and hurled one of the rocks at a nearby tree, pieces scattering as it hit the trunk. Even with limited strength behind the throw, her aim was mildly impressive. She let the other stone fall to the ground before curling up in a ball, arms hugging her legs and face tucked into her knees. The quiet sniffing that followed immediately put Monkey on edge.

            Their first night traveling together she had cried, her quiet sobs nearly masked by the crackling of the fire and the hum of the surrounding forest. Monkey could only listen, unsure what to do, until exhaustion finally pulled her into a fretful sleep. The next morning, she was cheerful and talkative as ever but the shadows under her eyes were testament to her hidden stress. It had taken days but she had reached her breaking point again and this time, Monkey was compelled to do something about it.

            He jumped down from the tree he had been perched in, the human not even reacting to the noise. Shuffling around camp, Monkey scanned the ground, brushing leaves aside and overturning rocks until he found what he was searching for.

            The human was still huddling in on herself when he crouched down beside her, nudging her shoulder till she lifted her head. Her face was red and wet with tears, eyes overflowing as they looked at him curiously. Monkey pried one of her hands loose and placed a stone in it.

            She stared at him, then the stone, then back at him blankly. He huffed, pointing to the kindling and back at the rock. When the human glanced the unlit fire, her tears returned. Equally frustrated and slightly panicked, Monkey took the stone back and grabbed the folding knife she kept in her strange bag. He waved a hand to regain her attention and demonstrated the stone hitting metal before handing both to her.

            Still confused, she took the items and copied his motions, gasping when a tiny spark leapt from the impact. Realization lit up her face and the tiny smile that followed lifted a heaviness from Monkey’s chest. He readjusted her grip, her hands tiny and delicate in his grasp, before aiming the sparks into the nest of kindling. The instant they started to smolder, he blew on them, directing her to do the same and soon, a tiny flame appeared. Small twigs were slowly added and the fire grew, bringing light to the camp just as the sun began to set.

            As they sat side by side, the human muttered something, hands fiddling with the flint stone. Monkey still couldn’t decipher her words but they sounded grateful. He nodded in response, enjoying the warmth that warded off the uncertain darkness and brought the two of them together in comforting peace.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------(Another replacement prompt and another one close to catching up. This one takes place pretty early in the overall narrative. Thanks to anyone that bothers to read. I'm still trying to make these despite not being very good.)

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Journeytober Master List

[emmetverse]

𐲱 HOW TO MAKE KNIFE

Step 1

find a good rock. any rock works but flint or obsidian good. glass also works. bone also works. of course use metal if ytou can sharpen it

Step 2

hit it with n another rock to turn it into a point. be really careful with obsidian or glass because it shatters. with those ones go at the edge with something hard likie bone or a horn to slowly chip away parts from the edge. like press it against the edge and slowly take parts off. or just sand it down if you can do that idc. idk how to do this with metal if i use those i just kinda use a shard and tie it really tight and hope it stays

step 3

do the same but take down the middle. there are two ways you can do this to make it attatch

way 1

take it in from the sides to create an indent to tie with and to keep the head in place

way 2

create a little hole in themiddle. yuo can decide if its better or worse to do it thisway by how fragile the thingy is when you take it down because the really fragile ones will just fuckin shatter if u try to do this to them. only do this if you hve a drill or your using metal so you can melt a hole in there or something

Step 4

make the stick. you can use lots of stuff you can use the horn you used tochip the thing down but then you dot ahve a horn so i dont recommend it. you can either tie it to the side (this fucking sucks) or cut a little line in the thingy to put it into . you wanna justjam it in there super hard so it stays. if you use way 2 above then you wanna drill the hole into the handle also

Step 5

Put some kind of glew in there (you make glew by boiling animal bits like sinew and fat and bone and skin and then skimming all the weird sticky stuff off) you can also make it out of plant sap but its not always as sticky but i like tree sap lots. you can like boil bark to get some if its the wrong time of year for sap because its actaully always the right time of year for sap its just sometimes it doest come out because its cold

then you wanna stick it in there super hard and jam it into the thingy and tie it up. if youcut the slit too big you can force some stuf f into there. squishy pieces work best so like wood. slices of wood or sticks or stuff but do it before the glue dries

i forgot tot ake a picture so heres a drawing

Step 5

this is whhere you want to decide how you wanna tie it. all materials work for both ways above it just changes how you tie it. if you do way 2 you can figure it out yourself because i cant be bothered to make 2 knifes to show you both

materials you can use

- string

- yarn

- vines (can be very chunky try to use smaller ones) (also can be fragile (gragile = breaks easily))

- animal sinew (best)

Step 6

leave it to dry/set

Step 7

knife

[tastydoge]

hiiiiiii I have a fic request :3 How about WX and Wilson exploring the caves, one of them (funnier of the 2 would be WX) dies and has to guide the other through the caves back to the surface, the living one having to use the context clues of a ghost going "OooooOoooOOOOO!!" and quickly moving back and forth in one direction n things like that..

This is totally not based on what literally happened in a DST gaming session between us that ended like 5 minutes ago wdym

Cherry On Top

“Damn it, WX, am I going to the left or the right?!” Shouts a disgruntled Wilson, through the ruckus of seismic rumbling and droplets of rain falling from stalactites.

The floating mass of spectral matter next to him, formally known as the ghost of WX-78, produces a chorus of ghastly noises that equate to a hateful scoff.

“Y-you know I can’t understand you!” Wilson shouts, narrowly avoiding a sharp gem falling from the ceiling. It hits the floor and shatters upon impact.

“OOOO. OOO OO, OOOO OO,” WX-78 says, rather unhelpfully. They slowly float over to a fork in the landscape of narrow trails that make up the cave and begin to follow the left path. Wilson, shaking and side-stepping fallen shards of rocks and nitre, hastily jogs after them. He hoists his backpack up and over his head as a form of protection, briefly hitting himself in the face with his lantern with enough force to start a nosebleed. Of course, he has no time to pay this mind as he jogs to keep up with his companion. Blood drips down his face as he readjusts his grip on the ever-dimming lantern, wary of its low fuel.

“OOO. OO OOOO OO,” WX-78 says once more, beckoning him to follow them through a forest of blue mushrooms.

“Are you sure?” He shouts over the noise of the earthquake. “I remember cutting through the red— Stars and atoms!” He squeaks, flinching away from a Depths Worm that has seemingly sniffed him out and emerged from the damp earth. The beast snaps its jaws on nothing as Wilson sprints away from it, following WX-78’s form.

The earthquake finally ceases just as a sharp piece of flint strikes Wilson’s arm, leaving a weeping gash that forces the lantern from his grasp. It clatters to the ground, the sound reverberating along the walls of the cave. When he picks it back up, the glass on the outside is cracked and splintered, but still in tact.

“OO OOOOO. OO OOOO, OOO,” WX-78 enounces, and despite the language barrier, Wilson can feel the condescension leaking from their unintelligible sentences.

“I. Can't. Understand. You,” Wilson says through his teeth, falling into a walking pace next to the ghost and glancing over his shoulder. He can see the mound of dirt that hides the Depths Worm following him, but if living and dying a thousand times has taught him anything, it’s how to bait and switch anything that wants him dead long enough to make it somewhere safe.

After an uncomfortably slow and long walk through a forest full of spiders (whose nests Wilson disturbs at least seven times), they make it to a grassy clearing that seems like it’ll offer them some peace. Wilson drops his lantern on the ground and pulls a grass suit over his head.

“Time to deal with this thing,” he mumbles, finally taking on the Depths Worm with a crooked, splintering spear.

After he lands his first hit, the glass of the lantern shatters from the reverberation of the Depths Worm retreating into the ground, and he’s left in the dark.

“I can’t— I can’t see!” He shouts, panicked, and narrowly avoids the attack of the Depths Worm based on sound alone. He hears the telltale hissing that only spells doom and closes his eyes, bracing for impact.

Except... it doesn’t come. He opens his eyes to see WX-78 right next to him and sags in relief, realizing that their form radiates just enough light to ward Her off.

“Thank you,” he mumbles, instinctively reaching out to where their shoulder would be but recoiling at the feeling of his hand going through freezing cold nothing. He brushes his hand off on his pants hastily before grinning up at WX-78.

His relief only lasts mere moments as the Depths Worm rears its ugly head once more (literally!) and snaps its jaws two inches from Wilson’s bloody face.

Guided only by the light of WX-78’s ghost, Wilson finally, finally kills the beast. He huffs with his hands on his knees and swallows thickly.

“Good heavens,” he mutters, retrieving grass and twigs from his pocket to quickly create and ignite a torch. As an afterthought, he detaches the glow berry from the carcass beneath him and pockets it. He steps away from WX-78, a headache growing from the back of his skull reminding him that it’s only a matter of time before he loses his mind.

A Terrorbeak on top of everything else would be the cherry on top, really, but he’s not one for sweets in the face of mortal danger.

“Where from here?” He asks, turning to WX-78, only to see them halfway across the grassy plains.

“Hey, wait for me!” He shouts, jogging once again to catch up with them. “I’m the one who’s going to revive you, you know,” he mutters, brushing his dusty shirt off from the whole ideal and adjusting his backpack with his free hand.

The walk back to the staircase is relatively silent save for the ominous whispering bouncing along the cave walls, although Wilson is fairly sure that that part is just in his head.

When the pair finally ascends the stairs, they find it to be evening on the surface. Wilson is immediately swarmed by a colony of Batsilisks, and they spook him into dropping his torch down into the sinkhole. He doesn’t dare watch as it falls down the stairs, bouncing noisily along the way.

The Batsilisks circle around him tauntingly, howling with anger at his mere presence. He can’t focus on one long enough to target it, not with the voices in the back of his mind getting stronger with every passing second.

Wilson doesn’t have a moment more to concentrate before the jaws of a Crawling Horror are forcibly clamped around his midsection, eliciting a pained shout from the man. It lets him go and rears up on its back legs, releasing a menacing growl and preparing to strike again.

“Okay, new plan!” He shouts, and books it away from the sinkhole. He may not have known where he was in the caves, but now that he’s on the surface, it’s easier to remember landmarks in the light of day. Even as the sun sets rapidly, he sprints through thickets of trees and weaves between scarcely spaced ponds as he approaches his destination. Eventually, the Batsilisks lose his scent, although the Crawling Horror stalks him relentlessly. He doesn’t slow down despite WX-78 lagging behind, although he briefly glances back to find that the two are going at the same pace.

The sight of the campsite greets Wilson’s view and he nearly drops to his knees in relief.

“OOO! OOO, OOOO OO!” WX-78 cries from far behind him. Just as he turns around to see what they’re trying to communicate to him, darkness envelops his vision once more. He doesn’t have time to pat his pockets down in time to make another torch, nor does WX-78 have time to reach him before the lady of the night rudely thrusts her hand through his body and up his esophagus. She tears through his vital organs and viscera before retracting her hand the same way it entered, coating the grass in slick blood and chunks of flesh.

Wilson flops to his knees uselessly just as WX-78 reaches him. He hoists himself to his knees on his palms, wobbling for a second before looking up at them. Red veins speckle his vision.

He pats down his pockets to pull out the glow berry. He shoves as much of it into his mouth as he can and swallows without chewing, briefly gagging against the sensation of it scraping against his raw throat. The migraine plaguing him becomes borderline unbearable, but he begins to glow nonetheless, regaining vision in a small circle around himself just in time to see a Terrorbeak materialize.

Stars and atoms, does Wilson hate cherries.

He jogs away from it, leaving WX-78 behind in favor of running and trying not to choke on the berry as he eats the rest of it. He can feel his strength waning as he finally reaches the entrance to the camp. From the edge of the fire pit, he sees Willow turn to glance at them and then do a double take. She rushes over to Wilson, torch in hand, just as WX-78 catches up with him.

“What the hell happened to you two?!” Willow shouts at the man in all of his glowing, bloody glory.

“The caves sure are something, huh?” Wilson tries, voice frail and strained. He forces a smile, but Willow just looks horrified. She opens her mouth to say something back, but then looks up behind Wilson and gasps.

“Hey, watch out!” She screeches, flinching away from him. The second he turns around, the Terrorbeak from earlier sinks its teeth into him, practically tearing him in half. Once again, Wilson drops to the ground.

This time, he doesn’t get up. Instead, his consciousness separates from his body and he becomes a ghost, much like WX-78 had.

Willow gawks at the scene for a moment, then turns around and sprints towards the rest of the adults who are situated in the heart of the campsite.

"YOU ARE A MORON," WX-78 says to him. He turns to look at them, finding that he can understand them now that they share the same plane of existence.

"You died first," he says, and although their physical manifestation is unmoving, their form radiates with anger.

"I CANNOT WAIT TO BE REVIVED JUST SO I CAN KILL YOU AGAIN," they growl.

Wilson slowly scoots away from them, noting that he'll need to give them space (and a copious amount of gears) before they'll be on good terms again.

Unfortunately, the only clockworks he knows of currently reside in the Ruins. Of the caves.

Maybe he'll just give them a little extra time.

[balkanradfem]

Since I found the youtube channel of a cool woman who identifies and collects rocks, I've been reading up on rocks, and I gathered some new knowledge! Maybe this is already commonly known but I just discovered it, so I got excited about it!

One of the first rock facts that I find super cool is that many rocks, that can be commonly found outside, are pieces of cooled down lava! Granite, for example, is an igenious rock, which means it was created from lava, and I had no idea, I didn't know I could hold a piece of tamed lava in my hands, it feels powerful and special. Reading more about igenious (lava) rocks led me to the information that 95% of the earth crust is cooled lava, and most of the oceanic crust as well! Floor is literally lava, the children are correct, we are all walking on tons of lava every day, nobody told me this?? Everything under the ocean floor is also lava? I am so close to lava at every point on my life. This is a cool lava planet.

Another cool thing I didn't know is how many awesome rocks you can find outside; I've found out that out of the rocks I've been collecting for fun, a few of them seem to be pieces of quartz! I'm not sure if they are, because I've only started to identify it, but they are white and half-transparent, if you shine a light trough them, you can see inside the rock, sometimes there's brown coloring inside as well. So quartz is cool because it's one of the hardest materials out there (7 on the hardness scale, diamond is 10); you can't scratch it with steel, but it is capable of damaging both iron and steel. To test this, I used a stainless steel pan I found in the river earlier, and I tried to scratch it – the quartz rock stratched it immediately! (don't worry, it wasn't a pan I use). Apparently because of this hardness, quartz can be used as a flint – if you rub it against steel, it will expose the iron inside, iron will react with oxygen, making a spark, and that's how you can start a fire. I've tried this with my pan, but found that the noise was so awful, I stopped before making a spark.

Okay so now that we know about quartz and how cool and transparent it is, nows the time for another very cool info – most of the sand out there is made out of tiny particles of quartz. This, to me, finally solved the mystery of how glass is made, because I knew it was made from melting sand, but that made no sense to me, why would sand become transparent in its melted state? It seemed illogical, BUT, if the sand itself is made from a transparent crystal, then it makes all kinds of sense it would become completely transparent when melted and cleaned out of all impurities. It also means glass is completely natural since it just comes from quartz, I was so happy to know this! Glass is chemically different from quartz, it's not as hard (5.5 on the hardness scale), can be scratched, so it's less cool, but more transparent.

Lots of rocks underground end up under high temperatures and pressure, and sometimes they melt and band together, making 'metamorphic rocks', which sounds made up, but it's what we called them! In specific examples you can actually see layers of different colors, seeing where they melted and banded together, and they're called 'agates', they look colorful, artistic and special. I didn't think you could randomly find something like that outside – turns out you can, if you live in a specific location, or you're close to a river which carries these types of rocks around! I've maybe found one that looks like that, but again, can't identify it for sure, it could be a type of a jasper.

Jasper is a reddish brown type of stone that is also extremely hard, cannot be scratched by steel, and is completely non-transparent, no type of light can shine trough it. It's very common and easy to find! I realized I had a few pieces that are probably jasper, that I liked because of their deep brown color and how smooth they are. If you found a dark brown or red rock on a beach, it could be a jasper. They can also come in dark green, but these are rare! Jasper is also somehow a type of quartz, which just feels wrong.

A cool info I found on youtube was that polishing rocks to make them super shiny and reflective of light, is done by imitating how nature does it; if you find a smooth rock in nature, it's likely been in the river or sea, brushed by the waves and currents against the sand and all of the other rocks, to the point where its surface became smooth and shiny. So people invented a method called 'tumbling', where they put a bunch of rough rocks, sand, water, and some extra material like porcelain in a bucket, close the bucket, then put it in a machine that turns it round and round for about a month! They're taken out every week to be cleaned, then put back into the bucket to get more shine. After they're done tumbling, the rocks become smooth and clean and shiny, looking much more beautiful and satisfying for humans to touch.

One thing I did not know before is that all of the gems that are popular, like amethyst, carnelian, citrine, are all just different types of quartz with some other minerals inside that give them the beautiful color. Quartz really is that cool, she gave us everything.

These are the cool new facts about rocks I now know! If I've said something terminally wrong, please be kind in correcting me, I've learned all this 2 days ago. Incredibly excited to be able to point my finger at a rock outside and say it's name if it happens to be one of the 3 rocks I can now name (jasper, quartz and granite). If you have more cool knowledge about rocks, or know a source to read about it, please give me the link I am drowning on wikipedia.

[echinoid-fossils-on-the-rocks]

Fossil hunting visit 2

I got a lot of few new fossils for todays post. Found another location with lot of stones & rubble. With the ok from the owner of his pile/ surrounding field area to search.

It was an fun time to search for rocks this time. Mostly broken upper and top fragments of flint urchins, nice finds to compare with others.

These are quiet big chunks of echinoid.

Two of them, after washing in my hand are mostly intact ones.

It‘s a shame all years thats pieces like this got lost and destroyed from the shipping for fundamental use or industrial constructions or street underground.

Oh there is no blood, it is the wet red marking of the inner flint core.

20.03.2024 post reupload

[papaver-decervicatus]

Cat/Mouse/Den: Pt. 3, The Cat Returns

After the incident with Mouse in the Alps, König is put into frontline insertions instead of wilderness patrol following his noticeable change in demeanor. Life without Mouse goes on, or does it?

CW: Obsession, stalking, canon typical violence, intrusive thoughts, unsanitary wound care

Authors Note: Again, I am just beside myself with the amount of love and support this silly story of mine is receiving. I will probably update this author's note when it is not 01:00 my time after a date. This chapter is a little longer to make up for the fact that the next chapters may take longer, as we are getting to the end of my stockpiled hoard of writings. Expect shorter, drabble bursts between bigger chapters!

Small note: if you see a rapid switch between the use of Mouse and Maus, it is meant to show that König's sense of ownership and possession of Mouse. In his thoughts, she is distinctly separate from her role as a military contractor, he thinks of her as his. I am sure I messed it up a couple of times, but if you see both it is not a typo!

Cura ut Veleas❣️~ Caedis

PREV | Pt. 3, The Cat Returns | 5k words | König POV | NEXT

It’s sometime in February, and the fighting has moved into a little town somewhere in Italy. They’re gathering intel on SpecGru, trying to figure out something or other. 

König is not an intelligence officer. He is not subtle enough for that. Everyone knows this. 

He’s a battering ram as a human, thick and tall and good at making closed doors open if they don’t fly off their fucking hinges when he hits them. He’s not stupid by any means, but he’s not stealthy the way the position would require. 

He hasn’t seen her in three weeks. He hasn’t been on patrol at all, he’s been on frontline insertion. A place where his Maus is not. 

He misses her voice in his ear. He misses the little things she leaves behind, the leaves she folds into animals, the rocks she arranges into shapes like smiles. His favorite was the piece of flint she knapped into sharp edges all around, into the vague shape of a heart- he reasons that was probably not on purpose but he’s distraught the second he gets it back to base and realizes the fragile thing broke to dust in his pocket. When he cuts himself on the flint shards and doesn’t patch them up, he thinks of it as penance. 

He tries not to think too harshly about that. That she gave him her heart and he literally pulverized it. He's resolved that he won’t mention it in the comms. He doesn’t want to hurt her feelings if she did intend to give him a heart-shaped stone. It was the latest thing she’d gifted him and he was starting to think that its destruction was some sort of terrible omen. 

It’s that moment he realizes just how badly he’s had it. Having it. Wanting it. Needing her. Their silly little game is all he lives for these days. It’s pathetic but he can’t stop himself. 

Slicing and dicing and scouting and barging and battering and shooting and whatever else-ing enemies are little consolation for the gap she’s left in his life. He begs and barters and borrows around base for the books she recommended to him. He’s hoarding terrible jokes to tell her when he sees her (hears her?) again. Whenever he gets halfway decent food the first thing he thinks is “I wish I could teach Maus how to make Austrian food.” He thinks about dancing around in the kitchen with her before sharing a hot meal. He sees a particularly sturdy tree and wonders how long it would take her to climb it. When he gets cuts and bruises he thinks about her small, agile, soft hands patching him up instead of the sterile medics. He thinks about laying his head down on her plush thighs as she sighs and reads a book. He thinks about going hiking with her back in Austria, holding her hand the whole way up, then down, the mountain. He thinks about camping with her, kissing the top of her head as they sit by the fire. He fucking aches to make her mewl around his length in a lover's embrace. 

She’s all he thinks about during the day. How to make her happy. How to be closest to her. How to see her again. She’s all he thinks about at night, too. How she might want to be touched. How she’d taste. How to satisfy her so thoroughly she’d never try to find someone else. He cannot stop himself from thinking about her in these ways, and the realization that he simply does not want to either is just as disorienting.

He had been making good progress, inching his way closer and closer to her. Every time he would abandon his post while on patrol and wander around until he found her, she would allow him to get a little closer. He’s no fool, she is a sniper. If she didn’t want him any closer, she would just take him out from far away. But she doesn’t. At first, he thought he was hallucinating the slowly closing distances. It took a full 50 feet of gained ground over a month and four meetings for him to even consider that she was allowing him to get closer. As ridiculous as it is, he refuses to get any closer than first contact, except for… that morning.

He doesn’t like to think of himself as superstitious, he prefers to think of himself as logical. Perhaps too many head injuries, too many kills, and too much war has ruined his complete objectiveness. When he got the transmission about the agent running away with files in his direction, he got a feeling. An instinct? A calling? It was the auspicious nervousness of a near-death encounter, an intrinsic sort of rush that any soldier learns to obey if they want to survive in a war. But this one was different.

His stomach flipped more violently than he’s ever known it and he felt thick lightning throughout his entire body. His vision nearly blanked as he looked down at his peace offering, he knew at once the feeling was not for him. 

He didn’t hesitate to take off running for her position when he got the transmission about a rogue soldier strapped with explosives. 

“Keep moving and I shoot,”  Maus had said. Maybe it was the adrenaline. Maybe it was the obsession he tried so valiantly to deny himself. Maybe it was the scratchiness of the radio feeding him pretty lies, but König couldn’t help but hear a sort of begging desperation in her voice. His heart lurches fast and heavy in his chest as he sprints, fearful energy enveloping his anxious mind. Something is very wrong here, he thinks but how the hell is he supposed to tell her that? Would she trust him? Would he even get there in time? 

“It’s right under you, Liebling,” he rasped out through frantic breaths, so high on genuine concern for her that he could not help the blandishment that he offered her. If only she knew, maybe she’d just let him help her. 

Somehow, miraculously, she listens (Good girl, Maus,) and turns her attention to the adversary gaining ground between the trees. The man is quick, but König is quicker, taking off through the snow like he did as a child. Running with reckless abandon, long legs carrying him faster and further than anyone else when he and his cousins would play capture the flag at his Oma’s house in Gauso. This prize, however, is much more important to him. 

He feels an almost sick sense of vindication when her gun jams, but whatever positive emotion he felt for it is drowned out with a tidal wave of concern and fear when he sees her struggling with her rifle and the man beneath the trees taking aim at her. 

Slicing that man clean between his ribs like a lion strikes a lamb was the second most satisfying experience of his life, greatly eclipsed by the settling of her weight against his chest when she trusted him enough to jump into his arms. 

She looks so fearful beneath his stare and he shrinks away in an attempt to placate her nervousness, equally as fearful that he must have somehow damaged her by simply holding her. He has half the mind to berate himself about touching her, still bloody from the enemy and still a monster beneath it all.

He had never intended to actually give her the birchwood effigy. He originally started carving it on a restless night camping alone after a particularly suggestive series of flirtations over the radio. 

(“Why did the bike fall over, Maus?” 

“Tell me, König.” 

“Because it was two tired.”

 “HA! That’s terrible! You’re so tall, can you even fit on a bike?” 

“Eh, sometimes, but the peddles are not so good.”

 “What does that mean?” 

“They are too small.” 

“...oh. Big feet?”

“Ja.”

“You know what they say about big feet…”

“I do not.”

“Have trouble getting into pants in the morning, too?”

“Was?”

“You big, everywhere? I mean, with hips like those…”

“...” Fuck, bad time to get a boner.

“Oh come on, big guy, don’t get shy on me now~”)

The chunk of wood was too damp for kindling so he started gouging at its sides idly while waiting for his water to sterilize from boiling. He was just whittling with no real purpose until the absent image of a mouse started to appear in the pale material. From that moment of fireside recognition onwards, he’d been chasing a little prayer in her shape. He wouldn’t have considered it ‘done’ when he gave it to her but-

Her warmth was still in his fingers, her beautiful eyes trained on him, her fantastic form somehow devoid of his blood or his filth in his rescue attempt, well. He had been praying, hadn’t he? It’s only right to pay tithing to the thing you worship. He gave her the figure, and he did so with the only real regret being that he couldn’t give her more and that he almost sullied her perfection with his violence.

And to top it all off, when he wrenched himself away from her, heart heavy and entirely certain that she would never, could never, follow- she called him back and reciprocated. Like a siren’s call, he obeyed without prejudice, without regret, without even realizing he was turning backward to meet her. When he caught it in his hands he felt the weight of the world settle onto his shoulders in the shape of a little whetstone in the palm of his hand.

She gave him her lucky charm. She gave him a tool after recognizing his fondness for knives. 

He simply does not have the words for the stringent emotion that thought invokes in him, the fire it ignites. When she apologizes for its quality or lack thereof (It is her charm, the thing that keeps her safe, and she gives it to me? And has to apologize for it? Just her charm? Silly little girl…) he bites back confusion and instead reassures her. The emotion in her eyes when he responds “All the more reason to treasure it,” is his favorite thing he’s ever seen. And yet, he knows he cannot take her with him. If he didn’t leave at that moment, he knows he would have starved to death on the spot waiting for her to follow him. When he turns away it is because his brain cannot comprehend a world in which she walks away with him.

He remembers walking off, dazed and in a trance with the whetstone in his hands, trudging off into some unknown heaven he had never anticipated escaping to. He walks all the way back to base and gets harsh stares and reprimands for returning a whole 5 hours earlier than he should have. He hears confused whispers and concerned words from the medics who give him the all-clear, and he has been placed on Frontline Insertion two patrols following this event as an attempt to cleanse his mind and body from whatever ‘walking sickness,’ Aksel called it, he picked up in the woods. (And in fairness, he would rather die than admit his treachery, not out of any misplaced moral but instead out of precaution for her safety.)

His days are miserably long without Maus and he kicks himself every night and day for unwittingly getting himself separated from her. Every time he gets back to base he cleans the whetstone and prays to see her again.

The KorTac base here is relatively large, he gets his own room in the barracks and he’s never been more thankful for it when on a snowy night, he dreams. 

In the dream, it’s snowing and he wakes up in a car somewhere in the wilderness. The trees are bare but there are so many of them he just tastes cold and sees gray. Then the sudden urge to run overcomes him, and so he does. He sprints, to where? He doesn’t know. Familiarity laps at the corners of his mind, and his feet move on their own, like an animal stalking its way back home. He doesn’t need to be told where to go, he just does. 

Then! He’s tracking the smallest prints in fresh powder snow, keeping up with the tracks as best he can as they get drowned out by new falling chunks of ice. 

He’s burning. He’s burning. He’s burning. He doesn’t slow down. 

Then, he follows the tracks beside a little creek cutting into limestone outcroppings until he sees some smoke in the distance, the tracks go into the creek and come out the other side towards the smoke. 

Then he wades through the creek, it barely comes to his ankles and on the other side of the stream, the tracks are combat boots, not animal tracks. But they’re still small. 

Then he starts running alongside the tracks as they disappear, the smoke gets further and further away until-

He finds a bright red, blood-toned shed. In the shed are recently discarded supplies mixed in with hay and various domestic and agricultural equipment. Something is nesting nearby, and his mouth waters at the prospect of a fresh meal. He rests his own packs there and goes to the house the shed is next to. 

He nearly has to break down the door of the house, and the single room it leads to is impossibly small on the inside from how it looked outside. He looks around for any signs of humans, hostages, or hostiles, he’s got the thrum of battle in his ears. It’s one room, with a ladder leading to a loft space. There are a few cabinets, a sink, a counter, and a wood stove that pipes out to a small chimney. There are two windows, filtering in grey-cloud-toned twilight. That’s it. 

Except- it’s not. The wood stove is burning. Someone’s home. 

The ladder to the loft takes him no time at all to climb and on it, there’s a mattress without a bed frame with blankets piled high. Clothes are leading to the pile and a lit gas lamp is. It’s colder up here than down there. 

There’s a lump on the mattress. It rises and falls, as though it breathes. 

It gets up. 

It turns. 

It’s Mouse. 

The blanket falls from her frame and he sees her in the light of a gas lamp at the foot of the blanket nest. Her neck cranes to look at him and she doesn’t seem surprised to see him. The lamp illuminates her form like a display light in a museum lights up a statue. Her soft skin pebbles into goose flesh and he smells smoke like the house is on fire. She’s naked from the column of her neck down to the exposed divet of her hip. She turns over to face him, breasts on full display, slightly falling into each other as her inviting lips part. 

“I was worried you’d never come,” she says. 

He’s on her in an instant, like a barbarian he doesn’t even bother to take off his shoes, he just kneels at the bed and lifts his hood enough to kiss her. At first, it’s only chaste lips in a fleeting embrace. Like everything, he waits until she signals for something more. When she timidly bites on his bottom lip, asking for more, he more than obliges. He complies with a fervency he chokes backward on in a futile attempt to control himself, terribly mindful that he may hurt her, or worse, scare her. The inside of her mouth is raw from chewing on it idly, she tastes like blood and rainwater and poppyseed. He wagers a guess that she’s twice as addicting as opium, though, when her fingers tangle into his hair underneath his hood and pull him closer, closer, impossibly closer…

Their breaths are hot as they mingle, he swears the line between her and him is fading by the moment and he gets an adrenaline rush to rival that of bloodlust. Her skin is soft and pliant beneath his large, steady hands. She is so small, so perfectly tailored to him, so soft to the rough bits of him that he cannot help but gasp in their embrace. The tantalizing curve of her smile melts into his lips as she giggles at his gasping. 

She is everything like Modanifil, the second she is on his tongue she hits his veins faster and harder than any post-gunshot amphetamine-mimicking pharmaceutical. He hums and huffs into her as he notices that she really is tiny compared to him. She could fit snugly on top of him and not seep to the sheets beneath, he could toss her over a shoulder with ease and carry her miles across any terrain, he could protect the whole of her body with his own and not leave any weak spots. Like dovetail joints, a great carpenter must have made them to fit together. There must be a God, and he must have made her to perfectly fit beside (and dare he hope, inside?) her. 

The only thing older than war to mankind is intimacy. You need soldiers for war, you need men for soldiers, and you need love to make those men. Battle is a cruel Rube-Goldberg machine of “if this, then that,” and it's all König has ever known. The rigid structure that bends and breaks for no one, the absolute rule of power and intellect even at a material disadvantage, the vain hope that you make a positive difference when in reality your life is worth a few millimeters of ballpoint pen ink as it scribbles out K and I and A. 

War is all König has ever known, it's the only thing he has ever taken comfort in besides alienation and purposeful seclusion.

At this moment, he understands something older than war. He feels the most primal form of empathy and community and he fucking craves it. For the first time in his life, the hum of blood in his ears is welcome and he doesn’t mind the idea of surrender. War is nothing compared to this, compared to her. He is remembering how to be human, to be a man and not a soldier, and he smiles back into her mouth.

He spends a blissful eternity licking into her mouth, mapping the soft tissue with his tongue. He drinks the occasional squeak of surprise she lets out when he does something just right. Her exploration is reciprocal, careful, and agile just like she is on the field. Her hands grasp each other behind his head and he distantly hopes she never has to move them. One of his hands cradles the back of her neck and the other strokes her cheek. He pauses only long enough to bring her slender neck to his lips for a fleeting kiss— a silent signal that he wants more if she’ll give it—  and he inhales like she is oxygen before continuing to worship her mouth with his. She smells like cinnamon and he’s desperate to get a taste. 

He breaks away when she pushes him slightly. Before he can even think about having offended her, her thumb strokes the scar between his left nostril and the corner of his mouth like a honey salve in reassurance. She glances down to his hand on her cheek and he follows her implicit orders like a good little soldier attempting to impress his commanding officer. He raises his gloved hands to her mouth and she keeps them in her teeth to pull them off. Before his hands can go anywhere, as if she knows right where they’re going, she kisses his digits and suckles on his fingers. His unoccupied hand goes back to her cheek as she works at the other one. She hums and moans when he presses them in a little more, then a little more, then a little more, then-

She gently chokes and with tears in her eyes, she pants around them. 

He could kill her. Now. He could slam her head back and choke her. Gut her with the knife in his waistband. Or worse, he could have his way with her. He could let feeble cries of God, no more! die on her tongue as he takes what he has wanted so badly. He could prove that he really is a monster.

The intrusive thought is ripped away by the overwhelming urge to do the exact opposite as her throat constricts around his fingers. 

All this time, she hasn’t refused them. She doesn’t refuse them. She doesn’t refuse him. 

She is giving him total control. Complete power and without hesitation. In her teary eyes, he sees a soldier’s trust, firm and unwavering. Ever faithful. Unquestioningly and genuinely she believes the man she’s at the mercy of will make her need no mercy. 

She’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

He’s the one that takes the fingers out of her mouth. He is hellbent on rewarding this fidelity, his own pleasure be damned. 

“König,” her eyes glaze over with worry. It’s a dangerous game they’re playing and they both know it. “Are you sure you want me?” She whispers, lips meeting the shell of his ear, he feels her fever pitch skin even through the fabric of his mask. His heart aches and he’s so angry with himself that she could even ask that. As if there were ever any questions. As if he has ever wanted anything else in his life like he wants this. As if there is anything else to want. As if there is anything else. 

“Always, Maus,” he says instead of the million things he wants to because he cannot wait. She is right there. She has asked for him. This is all he wants. He kisses her perfect lips just once more and grunts once he tears their flesh apart. He’s too impatient to prove himself any longer to be bothered with waiting. He has nothing of worth for her, except the fragile hope that if he can keep her physically satisfied in ardent service this angel may let a pitiful man worship her a little longer. 

Her desperate question and the obscene amount of her spit on his fingers are all the invitation he needs to dive between her thighs. He keeps one hand on her hip and the other at her left breast- and he sighs when his flesh meets and yields to his palm- and before he can latch onto her center and give her all the attention she so deserves-

“I knew you’d fall for it,” she says. Her thighs grab his head and twist. 

His neck snaps. 

When he wakes up in his cold barracks, decidedly alone and not in between her thighs, he pounds the bed in frustration. The bed that his Mäuschen isn’t in, the bed that’s not in the loft of some secret mountain hideaway, the bed that he sleeps in alone. The bed he considers leaving forever, leaving KorTac, running into the night, and taking her from her own quarters at SpecGru.

He’s thought about that. Long, long ago someone told him a story. In the story, spartan warriors would kidnap the women they wanted and have sex with them in the barracks. It was to claim their marriage rights because they couldn’t get married while in the military but had to be in the military. They were supposed to kidnap the women to prove they deserved them. It was just what they did. Not so dissimilar to the bride-stealing traditions his Oma had told him about as a boy.

He’s not sure if he believes that, but that night when he fucks his hand in frustration and bites his pillow to shreds, he lives in that fantasy. 

Where he finds Maus sleeping in her barracks. He steals her away in the dead of night. In his fantasy, she’s willing. She whispers “I was worried you’d never come,” when he wakes her up. She throws her arms around his neck and he lifts her out of her bed and they run. They just run. Until they find a cabin. Or a tent. Or something. She lets him do whatever he wants to her and he asks for nothing in return. He’s waited for her for so long and he’d wait longer if he could just find the proving ground of the heat between her thighs and claim his rightful spot as the winner of her- then, and only then, he’d worry about his own satisfaction. 

In the end, however, he cannot convince himself into escaping to her. The fantasy of her is potent and life-consuming, but he is also viscerally aware that it is just that. A fantasy.

It is not real and despite his choking desire to be with her, he is not entirely sure she wants him. In fact, he is quite assured of the opposite, that she would reject him without a second thought. That she does not want him, that there is nothing to want because he is just hulking gore covered in scars and a hood. He is less than human, maybe even less than animal, he enjoys war and his comrades consistently remind him that that is so far into abnormality he may as well not even be animate. His long etched scars and sins burn across his forehead, cheeks, and lips in a phantom pain when he pictures her own face. There is nothing for her in him and all the dreaming in the world isn’t going to change that innocent little mice don’t fall in love with things like him.

He wants so desperately to just be a fucking person for her. A person allowed weakness, a person allowed good-morning kisses, a person allowed terrible flirting, a person allowed to sit in the same room, a person allowed to touch and savor and make better another human. Allowed to heal, not harm. Allowed to save, not slaughter.

But he is a soldier, he’s not a person, and he’s not sure he ever really was a person in the first place.

He wants her. Wanting is an unusual sensation for him, long dormant and now suddenly hotter than hellfire. He wishes he could stop burning himself but every time he sees the flickering flame he gets a little closer, convinced this time he will walk away unscathed or better yet cleansed of original and perpetual sin. She could be his funeral pyre and most of what he’d think of that is “God, she’s pretty. I’m glad it was her.”

He could just take her, he is more than capable of it. If he really wanted to he could just reach out and sink his teeth in and have his way with her just like a Spartan King. But, then he would really and truly be a monster. He might not deserve better than ire and hate, but she certainly does. 

The only thing he wants more than to have her is for her to want him. That hope is a delusion deeper than the ravine they met at, he’s sure. Even still, he cannot run the risk of scaring her off or going against her wishes. 

So, König stays. In his cold bed, harsh snow beating against a rotting window sill, his only company the images of Maus he makes up in his mind and the perverse and shameful noise of wet-skin slapping.

He finishes twice in his hand that night, hot and pissed, and halfway to desertion when he finally falls into a dreamless sleep. He’s so exhausted and uncomfortable in his own skin and brain that he doesn’t even have the shame of being embarrassed about the ways he imagines her. His fantasy is punctuated by the all-consuming settle of her weight upon his chest somewhere warm and dry. He feels no shame when he wraps his arms around the bunched comforter on his chest, imagining it’s a slight body he faithfully cradles.

When he wakes up, however, that shame drowns him when he prepares to meet for orders in the morning. What kind of a man does that? Now he’s sure she will never want him. If she knew how obsessed he’s become that he cannot help himself from having dreams about her and cannot help himself from getting off to the idea that she killed him with her fucking thighs she would hate him and she would have every right to. He nearly claws his eyes out when he washes his face with cold water. He asks the mirror if he’s a monster, his clear and evident scarring from a lifetime of abuse and war does not need to answer in the affirmative for him to know it to be true. 

Even more so than usual, those around him give him a wide enough berth that he does not need to do so much as walk in a straight line for others to scurry out of the way. He only half hears his orders in the morning briefing, he only glances at his map when he is sent out.

He tucks the whetstone into his right pocket when he goes on his patrol, beneath the familiar weight of his beloved field knife. His right hand burns from healing flint cuts and getting bucked into for hours, the rough whetstone doesn’t help but he still caresses it in his pocket like a prayer. 

Once he’s in the woods his radio receives a message. 

“I was worried you’d never come,” it calls to him, full like fresh dirt of relief over a buried urn of anxiety. His throat catches on the tone, the static hides none of its desperation.

He finds her in her tree. 

He falls. He knows it’s fatal. He cannot recover. 

There’s nothing he can do and nowhere he can go. 

He’s in love. 

“Always, Maus.” He says back.

He’s always in her sights.

Sometimes he wishes she would just pull the trigger.

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[cosmickoshi]

to the bone ━━━ a six of crows one-shot.

spoiler warning: this is not a safe space for fans who have only watched the show and do not want to have wylan's story spoiled for them in case we get the spin-off. this one-shot is based off a scene that is referenced in six of crows, and contains heavy spoilers for wylan's backstory which hasn't yet been explored in the showverse (I say "yet" because I'm holding onto hope that we'll get that spin-off asdfghjkl).

summary: ever since jan van eck had hired him for the mission at the ice court, kaz intended to use wylan as leverage against his father. but wylan had known from the start, from the moment that kaz had told him that he'd be excellent at hostage, that that wouldn't be effective. not when he'd been nothing but a disappointment to his father. not when van eck was hellbent on forgetting that he ever had a son. wylan couldn't keep it hidden anymore. kaz needed to know the truth. (or: the scene where wylan tells kaz about his disability.)

author's note: this work is a submission for grishaverse disability pride day by @gvdisabledpride that will also be available on ao3, so if you also see this work there... that's why :)

content warning: descriptions of ableism, mentions of past child abuse, ptsd

ABOARD THE FEROLIND after the battle at the Djerholm harbour, Wylan lay curled up in his cot below deck, waiting for the moment the sway of the ship would lull him to sleep.

Except he knew it probably wouldn't. He'd been lying in his cot for what felt like hours, tossing and turning, desperately trying to silence his racing thoughts and just fall asleep. He tried to focus on the sound of the sea muffled by the hull of the Ferolind, on the sway of the ship as it journeyed closer and closer to Ketterdam — but the freezing cold wasn't doing him any favours, and neither was that anxious gnawing in his gut.

The mission had been, considerably, a success: they'd escaped the Ice Court in one piece, with Kuwei Yul-Bo stashed away in one of the other cabins and the promise of thirty million kruge awaiting them back in Ketterdam. Wylan would get his share and leave this life behind. He'd journey somewhere far away, never having to speak the name Van Eck again.

Van Eck…

Wylan swallowed the bile rising up inside him. Kaz had intended to use him as leverage against his father, lest the plan go awry and Van Eck was suddenly uncooperative. “Wylan isn’t just good with the flint and fuss,” he'd announced that first day on the Ferolind, right before he'd revealed Wylan's true identity to the rest of the crew. “He's our insurance.” 

Wylan shut his eyes, curled up tighter in his cot. His heart was starting to beat a little faster, a hummingbird trapped inside a cage, and he forced his breath slowly through his chest — a deep breath through his nose, shattering the silence that had thickened around him. Kaz had kept him close to use him as leverage against Van Eck, but one thing the older boy wasn't aware of was that Wylan couldn't be their insurance. Not when his father wanted him to disappear. Not when he was attempting to forget he ever had a son. Not when his new wife, Alys, was bearing the heir of the Van Eck empire — a proper hier, not the defective one he’d received in Wylan. Not the one who’d turn the Van Eck name into a laughingstock.

I have to tell Kaz.

Instinctively, his fingers reached up to touch his neck. He could still feel Prior's meaty hands clasped tightly around it, his grip firm and relentless as Wylan grew dizzy and black spots slowly filled his vision. He sat up, hoping the feeling would subside if he got up and let more air fill his lungs — and yet, the feeling of his throat constricting persisted, and a suffocating, uncontrollable panic welled up in him.

He hugged his knees to his chest and slowly rocked himself back and forth with his head buried in his arms, horrified by how his breath was coming out in short, shallow whimpers as the memories came flooding back, by how the tears prickled the corners of his eyes as his father's voice echoed in his ears.

A child half your age can effortlessly do what you cannot.

I've tried everything I possibly could. I've tried tutors, specialists, I've tried forcing that stubbornness out of you and yet you refuse to be taught.

You can't be sent anywhere because your defect might be revealed.

“Get out of my head,” Wylan whimpered, grabbing fistfuls of his hair as he continued to rock himself back and forth. “Get out of my head.”

Once you reveal yourself to be defective, they'll turn your back on you. They'll leave you as you were: the wayward son of one of the richest men in Ketterdam.

“Get… Get out of my head.”

But the voice was persistent, unwelcome. You worthless fool. You soft-pated idiot.

He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, blinking back the tears that formed a painful lump in his throat. He swallowed, trying to force it down to no avail, and a fresh flare of panic swelled within him. Someone could walk into his cabin at any moment and see him in this state: rocking back and forth with his head in his hands, chest shuddering over and over as he gasped for air, begging the voice in his head to lapse into silence. And yet, there was nothing he could do about it. He felt detached from his own body, as though he were watching himself from the perspective of an outsider, helpless against the wave of shame overcoming him.

He stayed like that until the jittery feeling coursing through him had subsided enough for him to think rationally again. Above that irrefutable voice in the back of his mind, he once again thought about revealing his greatest shame to Kaz. What would happen if he just stayed there on his cot, if he never told Kaz that he couldn't be used as leverage against his father? And what would happen if Van Eck double-crossed them, and there wasn't any good enough insurance to ensure that the six of them would get their money? Their efforts would have been futile, and none of them would get what they'd initially sought — and it might as well be his fault.

His body starting to tremble, Wylan forced himself to stand up from his cot. Just do one thing at a time. Just like his tutor had taught him in order to stop him from getting overwhelmed by the page. Stand up. He slid off the edge of the cot, straightened as his feet touched the ground. Take a deep breath. He closed his eyes, took another deep breath through his nose. Open your eyes. He opened his eyes and forced himself to walk. Go find Kaz. He assumed Kaz would be in his own cabin, scheming away, concocting backup plans for their backup plans in case anything went wrong.

He quietly left his cabin, making his way down the Ferolind's lower deck to find Kaz. He found the older boy sitting on the cot in his own cabin, staring intently at the floor with one hand gripping the crow head of his cane.

“Kaz?” Wylan swallowed frantically, his skin burning hot as he fought the words to come through. “I… I won't be leverage enough against my father. I know I'm supposed to be your… insurance, but I can't be. It won't be enough.”

Kaz sat up straighter, his free hand curling over the head of his cane as he looked up at Wylan. “And why is that?”

Something about Kaz's cold glare, his rock-salt rasp as he asked the question, sent a chill rippling over every inch of Wylan's skin. He wanted to scream. He wanted to bolt back to his cabin, hide beneath the paper-thin covers until he vanished completely. He wanted the floor to open up beneath him, to be dragged by the rolling waves into the depths of the sea. He wanted to disappear, just like his father wanted him to.

I have to tell him.

“I…” The roar of blood in his ears was deafening, drowning out the murmur of the waves outside the Ferolind's hull. That shameful helplessness was taut in his belly, a knot incapable of coming unravelled.

You just have to say it. You just have to say you can't read.

His father's taunts reverberated in his mind. Defective. Imbecile. Worthless. Broken. Disgraceful. Idiot. Useless. He was choking on them. They pressed against his throat like Prior's iron grip closing around it all those months ago, dirty fingernails digging into the skin of his neck. His cheeks burnt with shame despite the cold sweat that had broken out over every part of his body. His heart was a war drum beneath his ribs, his chest too tight, his breath too short and shallow. Take a deep breath. He couldn't. His clothes felt tight around his body — too tight, as though they stuck to him.

“I… I have an affliction.” Uttering those words aloud was enough to send a violent roil through Wylan's stomach, and he had to stop himself from throwing up. This was it. There was no taking back those words: he was halfway there.

Kaz merely sat there, looking rather impatient with his gloved hands folded over the crow's head of his cane. Wylan couldn't imagine what he looked like in this moment: red-faced, a trembling hand near his lips as if he were about to bite his nails, his eyes not meeting Kaz's.

It felt like the walls of the cabin were closing in on him, Prior's hands tightening around his throat as the latter half of his confession choked him. The waters he'd leapt into all those months ago were rising around him, filling his lungs and numbing his limbs with its icy grasp. He tried to fight against it, but the water was weighing him down, his limbs useless against the tide as he drowned in the murky waters of the Ketterdam harbour.

He drew another deep, shuddering breath.

Spit it out.

“I… I can't read,” he finally gasped, and the water receded.

There. He'd said it. He'd revealed his shame to Kaz, his voice barely above a whisper lest the sea around them carry his shame across its rolling waves and let the whole world know about Jan Van Eck's defective child.

Kaz's piercing glare was still on him, as if expecting him to say more. His expression remained as cold and calculating as ever — had he known about this too, just as he'd known about Wylan's true identity? Did Wylan have any tells that gave away his shame — his face growing pale at the sight of the tangled scrawl of words across a page, staring at it for too long hoping that he'd recognise the shapes of the words? Or had Kaz been surprised? Had this been the one thing he hadn't seen coming? His gaze was piercing and unreadable, but Wylan sucked in another breath and continued, trying to keep his voice steady.

“It's not that no one tried to teach me, lots of people did. But I just can't do it. It's like something in me refuses to do it.” That was what his father used to drill into him throughout his childhood, and the memory filled him with a sickening dread.

“I'm…” Wylan moistened his lips thoughtfully, trying to phrase his next words carefully without having the entire shameful story out in the open. The story of his father sending him away, supposedly to study music in Belendt. Of his Miggson and Prior trying to kill him, of him leaping into the murky canal with nothing but his satchel, fake enrolment papers and a soaked-through stash of kruge. “To him, I'm not worth losing. You can't use me as leverage if I'm not good enough insurance. There has to be another way around this, because this won't work. I know it won't.”

Kaz averted his gaze thoughtfully, then shrugged before standing up, leaning on his cane. That was his only response — a shrug. Had Wylan not been so afraid, so shaken by that shameful helplessness, he would have burst out laughing: he'd just revealed his defect to Kaz Brekker — the Bastard of the Barrel, the boy they called Dirtyhands in the grimy streets of the Barrel — and he'd merely shrugged. Shouldn't he be concerned with what to do with Wylan, now that he'd found out that his demolitions expert was just a useless fool evicted from his father's home?

“We'll have to work around that, then,” Kaz responded in that low, raspy voice. His eyes met Wylan's, boring into him as though searching for some semblance of worth within him, something that would compensate for his other failings. A pinprick of discomfort shot up Wylan's spine at the prolonged eye contact, but Kaz's eyes left his as he scanned Wylan from the top of his head down to the tips of his toes and back up again.

Wylan just stood there, completely stunned. He'd expected Kaz to sneer at him, or laugh at his affliction and refuse to give him his share of their reward once they'd reached Ketterdam. He'd expected the knot in his stomach to tighten, the shame growing, but he felt it loosen ever so slightly with the odd sense of relief and liberation that came with revealing his condition to Kaz.

“And how do you suppose we do that?” Wylan asked, his voice a low croak. “What other leverage could we possibly use?” 

Kaz looked towards the door of his cabin, then back at Wylan. Kaz Brekker saw the world as though it were a puzzle, and he studied Wylan like he was a piece of that puzzle that didn't fit where he'd thought it would — but now, it seemed, he'd found another place he could slot that piece into without having to tear the entire project apart. “Lest Van Eck double-crosses us, we'll have to stop him from getting what he wants.”

Wylan's brow furrowed. “And how, exactly, would we do that?”

“Nina's a passable Tailor at best — but, under the influence of parem, she could achieve something that shouldn't be possible. Not even in the hands of the most gifted Tailor.” Wylan swallowed thickly as Kaz continued. “We'll have her tailor you to look like Kuwei, and hand you off to your father.”

Wylan's heart stuttered at that. He was no stranger to Kaz's elaborate and unbelievable schemes — after all, they'd stolen a tank from a high-security prison — but this was different. This was absurd. Wylan agreeing to be tailored to look like Kuwei was a death wish: the Shu boy was valuable, certainly with large bounties on his head. He held the secret to the world's greatest threat, one that could wreak havoc if it fell into the wrong hands. Wylan could have refused — he should have refused, if he wanted to make it back to Ketterdam alive. Instead, he cleared his throat and responded with an assertive, “I'll do it.”

For a split second, a surprised look flashed in Kaz's eyes, but disappeared as quickly as it came. He expected me to refuse, Wylan thought as his cheeks heated with embarrassment once again.

“It may be permanent,” Kaz warned him.

Wylan shook his head. “I need to know. Once and for all, I need to know what my father really thinks of me.”

Kaz cast him an almost pitying look. “Surely Van Eck would have some qualms about ending your life—”

“He wouldn't,” Wylan asserted, picking at the skin of his lip, that ill feeling returning as the reality dawned on him. Van Eck had tried to kill him once, what would stop him from trying again? “I'll bet you that.”

“How much?”

“Ten kruge.”

Kaz's lip curled in a grin. “Surely your father wouldn't be so callous.”

Wylan shrugged. “You'd be surprised.”

“Nothing surprises me, merchling. That's why I'm still alive.” Kaz walked past Wylan and made his way to the cabin's entrance. “I'm going to fill Nina in on the plan. Go to her cabin within the hour.”

Wylan nodded as Kaz left the cabin, leaving Wylan alone with nothing but his own racing thoughts. When he'd finally gotten himself to move, he walked back to his own cabin and propped himself down on his cot, his body still trembling with the aftermath of confessing his greatest shame to Kaz. His fingers itched the way they always did whenever he yearned to play his flute or the piano in the music room of his father's house. Ghezen and his works, he wanted nothing more than to snatch his satchel up from the foot of his cot and grab his flute. He wanted to close his eyes and bring the instrument to his lips, letting the world disappear around him as the notes wrapped him in his own story — one free of the shame and fear he'd carried for so long, one that made his heart flutter with joy as the music flooded a soothing warmth through him. But he couldn't bring himself to even glance in the direction of his satchel.

He thought back to Kaz's unchanged expression at his admission, the light, dismissive shrug of his shoulders. The shame still gnawed at Wylan, but there was also the strange relief of getting something off his chest despite it, as though telling Kaz had freed something in him — something that had been encased in the chains of his father's contempt for as long as he could remember.

It's not too late to decline, pressed that voice in the back of his mind.

He shook his head assertively — if this is what had to be done to ensure the crew got their money, then so be it. And yet… he was terrified and horribly anxious.

He looked down at his hands, his eyes tracing over the creases of his slender fingers, the little scars with no clear origin along his skin, the crescent outlines on his palms from digging his nails into them. Within the hour, they weren't going to be his hands anymore — they'd be Kuwei's. Slowly, he buried his face in his hands, sighing deeply as his fingers raked through the tufts of hair that brushed his forehead. The face in his hands wouldn't be his anymore, and neither would the hair between his fingers. With Nina's power, he'd soon become the most valuable person in the world. He was terrified, but that wouldn't stop him from doing what he needed to. From ensuring that he and the rest of this crew got their money.

From finally learning what his father truly thought of him.

Van Eck had made it clear as Wylan grew up that there was no space for his son in his household. He'd made it clear that he wanted Wylan disappear for as long as it took him to forget that he ever had a son. And yet, a part of him hoped that maybe he'd misunderstood everything. That his father did indeed love him unconditionally just as any father loved his child.

Wylan lifted his head from his hands and started gnawing at his thumbnail. He wouldn't know for certain until the rest of Kaz's plan was carried out, when his face and name were no longer his.

[gorgon-goddess-of-chaos]

If you're taking requests maybe do a yandere necromancer mark x a gender neutral reader character, Like the readers a daring adventurer and stuff who wanders into his forest n he becomes absolutely infatuated w em if that's ok (sfw if you need the specification)

Eyes

A fellow Necromancer enjoyer, I appreciate you. You have brilliant taste. And yandere? Is it my birthday?

Necromancer x GN!Reader, TW: yandere, stalking, death mention, fire mention Words: 801

As soon as you step into the Forest of Fear, you sense something is off. More than just the overwhelming dread that settles into the pit of your stomach, but like you’re being watched. The dark trees hang over your head, leaves long fallen and rotted away years ago as the dead trunks and branches block the sky from your view. A shiver runs up your spine as you keep walking, pulling your cloak tighter around your shoulders and chest. 

His eyes follow you as you walk the path, trying not to slip on the wet rocks and sticks that lie underfoot. It had rained recently, encouraging the rare plants that take root here to bloom. He needed a few of them for potion ingredients, coaxing him out quite a ways from home. He doesn’t like people, finds them cumbersome and annoying. The only real benefit they offer is a new guard for his skeleton army. He enjoys perhaps a little too much hearing the rattling of the bones of the newest foolish adventurer sent to kill him. 

But you’re not the average adventurer walking down the path, you look too fragile, lost even. A grin spreads across his face, his claws digging into the bark of the nearest tree as he pushes himself up. His foot falls silent on the forest floor, years of evasion and stealth killings lending themselves well to his intrigue in you. Your hood of your cloak falls, and he stops in his tracks, taken aback by the utter beauty before him. He watches as your eyes dart around, captivating him in them. His heart pounds as he wishes for you to look up at him with those eyes, and only him. 

“Where are you going, your highness~?”

He growls under his breath, the wind howling around you and drowning out his voice before it can even attempt to reach your ears. The air is chilling, forcing you to take cover under a larger tree from the wind attempting to tip you over. Looking around, you realize in a panic that you’re losing light quickly, and you are not one to want to see what roams the forest at night. Your lantern emerges from under your cloak, attempting to use your flint and steel to light it. Sparks prove pointless as the wind snuffs them out immediately, and your anxiety is far too high to try and readjust yourself. With all the dead plants around you, knowing the whole forest could go ablaze if you’re not careful.

His grin droops into a frown as he watches you shake and shiver at the base of the tree, failing to light your lantern. Usually he’d just relish in watching you struggle, but there’s something inside him that needs to see you safe. That needs to make you his. He snaps his fingers, hand blazing into a brilliance of green flame. It catches your eye as he approaches, causing you to scramble backwards up onto your feet. You’re not stupid, you know who the necromancer is, and the damage he can do. Your heart is beating out of your chest as he gets closer, before he kneels down in front of you.

“Hello, my dear. Are you in need of assistance?” He can’t help but be enamored by how wide your eyes are, how the fire reflects in them. All you can manage is a nod, and he chuckles as he rises to his feet.

“Here, I will not harm you. You have my word that you will make it out of this forest alive, and in one piece. Such a face would be wasted on a skeleton grunt. No, you will sit with me in my main chamber.”

Your hand is taken in his, and while everything in your is telling you to run, you know better than to fight him and run off into the dark. He leads you at your own pace, making sure that you’re alright as he looks you up and down, taking in your form. You don’t quite realize what you have gotten yourself into, but at least you’re alive for now. And for a man that stays out in the middle of nowhere for centuries, he is quite the conversationalist. His heart grins sinisterly as you start to relax around him, getting comfortable with him. The way that your eyes twinkle when you laugh, makes his hardened heart melt, and he so desperately wants to hold onto that feeling.  “Careful, my dear. Can’t let you get hurt now. Not that I’m here now.”

He lifts you up to prevent another tripping, keeping his grip on you firm but affectionate. He has found a perfect present for him in the woods, and he is not letting you go now that he’s found you.

[thewisaaaaad]

Hey, I'm back.

so i found out that my last post wasn't seen by many. Also that i forgot to write like half of the post. so uh

HAPPY LATE PIRATE DAY EVERYONE

part one is here. It talks about the Lambs crew, minus three of them. Also about how Flintlocks work in this world (Its magic :))

Anyway, here's the missing three members! They are, obviously, post Captains, so keep that in mind.

First, we have Yarlen! Everyone calls them Stinky, though. They insist its a "cool pirate name". William humors him, with much disappointment.

He has an unnatural lucky streak, having managed to find William's ship in nothing but a rowboat after traveling miles in a random direction. They have also never lost a game of nucklebones, despite only having a vague grasp of the rules.

He works as a mate, helping with everything around the ship that needs it. His preferred weapon is a spear, although they haven't had to do much mono a mono combat, due to the rest of the crew having much more experience.

Then we got Jalala! She traveled from far away, much like her brother, guided by a letter that was bound to a messenger bird that Yarlen somehow found.

Their trip was a lot more eventful, having the ship they were abord crash into Pilgrims Rock, and then meeting Rinor and sailing through the seas of the Old Crew, running into THREE separate primordial entities that only seem to interact with people who have a strong tie to the fate of the world. They also (unlike cannon) managed to catch a glimpse of ???, or The Thing in The Moon, before being captured by Old Crew and then rescued by William Kidd.

They serve as a talented cartographer aboard the Iron Veil, their keen eyes able to accurately measure the distance between islands and also having intimate knowledge of star charts, making them indispensable for navigation.

Jalala is a non-combatant aboard the ship. The crew likes her, despite her nervousness.

Rinor is a capable deckhand, knowing how ships work very well, as well as being able to tie a mean knot. For a weapon, she wields one of the boats iron cleats (the pins you tie rope to) despite also technically being a non-combatant.

They had sailed the sea as a fisher before joining the crew along with Jalala.

Finally, we can get to the crew's friends and... acquaintances. These will be rapid fire, so here we go.

Forneus is a large cat woman who plies her trade on the seas. How does she get her goods? No one knows, especially considering she never takes payment of any kind, and her gifts are all perfectly suited to their recipients. She seems wise even beyond her years, and has somehow evaded the Old Crews notice entirely, despite constantly praising the Red Captain.

(Narinder granted her eternal life after the unwilling sacrifice of her children, as long as she remained on the sea. Shamura got no blessing from him.)

Midas is a problem. He runs a Flint mining operation on a far flung bit of the volcano god, using his gift to control gold to mine it without any consequences. Hes still a jerk, but is the only source of Flint that the crew have.

Rakshasa is a traveling food vendor of the sea. Think Barati from one piece but with a snail theme, and you have it. They are known to deal with the Iron Veil, but they are allowed to operate because they charge William's crew extra (like one gold, but still).

Plimbo is a trader, still. He supplies the crew of The Old Rust-bucket with all sorts of trinkets and goodies between raids.

The fox is not called the Fox. They are instead called The Jackal, The Skull in the End. They are a demon of Death in this world, considering the position was left vacant by Narinder. They have much more tempting deals, too- A life for a life.

Who would you give up for the ones you love?

[rock-swag-tournament]

Rock Swag Tournament Round 1: Igneous Rocks Part 12

So many of your here may know of obsidian. I haven't a clue why.

For those of you unfamiliar, obsidian is a form of volcanic glass, but it is not the only one! Tachylite is obsidian's much less well-known sibling.

Now, I'm going to go against everything I talked about in earlier posts, because while obsidian is black (or sometimes a reddish-brown) it is FELSIC! That babey has very few of those dark mafic minerals, but the little bit of iron and magnesium combined with the quick cooling (and therefore lack of individual crystals) gives obsidian this dark color.

Tachylite on the other hand is mafic! It, like obsidian is a volcanic glass that cools very quickly and lacks mineral grains, but it does contain all those dark mafic minerals at the top of Bowen's Reaction Series.

Also, I wanted to take the time to correct a small misconception in that post about obsidian weaponry. And I'm not here to spoil the fun, don't worry. I do adore that post and it makes me laugh whenever I see it. This is instead, a bit of an archaeology lesson. More under the cut.

While the geologist in question argues that an obsidian knife would make a poor weapon because it volcanic glass, I am here to say that obsidian was actually frequently used for weaponry and tools (and that ended up being a very good thing for archaeologists)!

Now, I will admit that these obsidian artifacts are often on a smaller scale: things like arrowheads and small blades and not long knives. One form of weaponry, the macuahuitl, was made by embedding small obsidian blades into a club!

The reason obsidian is actually an effective weapon is because it is easy to work with and very sharp. While it is certainly more prone to breakage than metal when banged against hard objects, it makes for an extremely sharp and effective blade when used for slicing, rather than to cause blunt force trauma. In fact, a freshly broken piece of obsidian can be sharper than a steel blade. So it certainly isn't out of the question to make an use an obsidian knife. You just might have to be a bit more careful when swinging it around near hard surfaces.

I should also note that these artifacts were made through a process called knapping, wherein someone strategically chips away at a piece of material (often flint, obsidian, or some other material that has conchoidal fracture, or fractures in a way that shows concentric lines similar to growth lines on a shell) to form a shaped tool, weapon, blade, etc.

Here's an obsidian arrowhead. It has been shaped to have notches where it could be affixed to the shaft of an arrow, a pointed tip, and sharp, thin edges that would cut through the hide of the creature being hunted.

So, obsidian was used for tools and weapons that necessitated slicing more than banging. And an obsidian sword probably wouldn't be very effective. If you bang it against the stone battlement by accident, it'll break. And I could believe that the force needed to stab someone clean through with a sword would cause an obsidian blade to break. I haven't tested this theory. But when used as a small cutting blade affixed to something like a club or an arrow, its pretty effective! If they weren't effective, people wouldn't have used them so much throughout history.

And that brings me to why obsidian artifacts are so important for archaeology! Volcanoes have their own unique geochemical signatures, which means we can trace pieces of obsidian back to the volcano from which it erupted.

This is incredibly helpful for archaeologists who want to learn about things like trade and travel between ancient peoples. If you find an obsidian arrowhead a thousand miles from the volcano from which that obsidian came, you know that a person had to travel a thousand miles to move that piece of obsidian. Volcanic rocks don't really move a thousand miles from their source without a little human intervention. A real person at some point in time had to help that rock out! It's endlessly fascinating, that least to me.

Anyway, if this rant proves anything, it is that I, too, would be prone to getting hit by a baseball bat while I rant about obsidian blades in a somewhat more archaeologically-informed way!