#BLESSED ELIMINE PEOPLE ARE STILL HERE

[rynfiles]

love island — aot edition !

✎ᝰ — aot boys on love island

★ — eren, connie, reiner, jean x reader

★ — genre + warnings: fluff + boys being boys, casa amor, connie and reiner are the REAL lover boys and no one can change my mind !!!

★ — a/n: i have a bat boys version on my other blog :)

꒰ EREN JAEGER ꒱

ꔛ everyone’s favorite pretty boy or highkey most hated in america, no in between. I feel like he’ll be either very miguel codex or slightly rob coded, aka either open asf or an “onion”

ꔛ he was quite friendly and engaged himself with everyone, platonically or romantically. he gave like a brotherly vibe or “best friend’s brother” vibe

ꔛ butttt I will say that eren was a bombshell that EVERY girl was swooning for and loved all the attention that he got. he was being indecisive on which girl he’d couple with cause he really wanted to get to know everyone

ꔛ a lot of people in america either disliked the way eren moved in the villa or understood where he was coming from. he honestly has tried multiple connections but it seems like none can click in a way that he wanted, no matter how much he tried :/

ꔛ as days and couplings pass, eren decides on the person that was for him, another new bombshell that everyone loved as well. your aura was radiating soft colors, friendly, kind, and a safe space for eren. ever since then, eren has been nothing but smiles, laughs, and always exuding soft love towards his couple

ꔛ with you, he felt like he could see himself in the end, make your relationship official, and show you off. he’s always smiling after you guy’s chats, talking about the outside world and expressing how much he adores you, slight flirting here and there but that’s typical eren

ꔛ every time you guys recoupled, eren’s speeches were short and sweet. some of them weren’t his best but it was still cute how he tries to express himself for you

ꔛ neowwww casa amor, I fear all his respect flew out the window and he just did his own thing. did he think about his couple from time to time? sort of….but he did excuse himself by saying he was testing yall connection (typical male behavior). though, during the casa recoupling he felt his heart drop when he came back with another girl and saw you standing all by themselves, dolled up and waiting with open arms. just to be embarrassed by this man and the girl who stole all his attention

ꔛ for days, he would try to win you back but he started feeling like there was no going back after casa. he made breakfast, wrote cute notes, talk to your friends, any and everything he tried all he can to win them back. in the end, he accepted his actions, the feelings he hurt, and broke it off with the girl he brought back. even after that, he kept up with the little actions to show how sorry he is and slowly won his way into america’s heart :)

ꔛ in the end, eren got eliminated before the final 4. he wasn’t mad at it, sulked a bit cause he’ll miss his friends and all the amazing people he met but he does understand why he didn’t make it to the end. also gave himself time to enjoy you in the real world and potentially become a real couple

꒰ CONNIE SPRINGER ꒱

ꔛ oh connie, the lover everyone wants in their lives. he’s so kordell coded, it’s actually sick just thinking about it; he’s charming, sweet, patient, and funny asf. he was america’s favorite boy and you can tell he definitely didn’t mind the attention

ꔛ I would say he’s an og and got along well with everyone, however didn’t really have a connection. he was in a couple but that didn’t necessarily work out and it kinda broke him, he thought he was gonna be eliminated and don’t experience the love he deserves :/

ꔛ but God bless, you came in as a bombshell and stole that boy’s heart quickly. the boys teased him about how they can practically see heart eyes in connie’s eyes as you entered, but can you blame him? you were stunning, your outfit fitted you well, and your beauty made his pound, he thought he could it for a second

ꔛ ever since you entered, he was all over you and pulling you into multiple chats. he really wanted to get to know you and beg that there could be something between the two of you and there was! it wasn’t there initially but as time passed, you felt giddy when you saw him :)

ꔛ throughout your time with him, he would rave on about how much he adores you, compliment your appearance and personality, doing everything in his willpower to show how much he genuinely likes you. he didn’t force himself on you, he gave you enough space and let you figure out where you stand with him

ꔛ the first time, y’all coupled together, oh that boy was grinning ear to earrrrrr. your speech wowed him and made him fall for you even more. as he approached you, and spun you around, he just can’t get over you he can’t help it. it feels like bright colors and giddiness as he was around you

ꔛ oh casa amor was his BIGGEST villain. he contemplated on staying but the boys convinced him that this will be like a mini vacation from the villa, trust them!! oh how he wish he didn’t listen…

ꔛ casa was fun and he did enjoy the girls that he met, he kept his distance as well and tried to respect himself for those three days. however this one girl was just temptation in a bikini; batting her eyes, touching him in all the right places, knowing exactly what to say to win cornelius over and I fear it worked….

ꔛ one kiss outside challenges and connie became allured by this girl. his hands on her body, enjoyed being sweet talk by her, being clouded by everything she says and does. well, ‘til the morning after, he wakes up and realizes how great of a mess he made for himself. he kissed another girl which lead him into a slight panic cause he won’t know how you’ll handle the news; his heart dropped to his ass when he realized how much he disrespected you

ꔛ the recoupling after casa wasn’t the prettiest, even when he didn’t walk in with ole girl. he did enough in casa and bringing that girl back would’ve done more collateral damage. however, when he received news that you knew what happened, he knew he couldn’t recover from it. he became apologetic as you stood there with an emotion that was anything but excited or happy to see him

ꔛ he spent, and I mean DAYSSSSS, winning you back. he would try what eren did and he went above and beyond to win you back. cooking you breakfast, apologizing daily, write notes, pull you for a chat and try to explain himself, tell you how much he missed you during casa, and try to convince you how sorry he was. it hurts him extremely that you’re upset with him instead of joking and smiling with him like you guys used to, and he was even more hurt when he found out how much you cried while casa and after casa

ꔛ america screamed at you to please take him back cause he’s trying to prove himself that he does like you and didn’t wanna hurt you like he did. y/n pleaseeeee take him back, he’s been silently sobbing in his bed for four days cause he missed you :(

ꔛ the recoupling where you did forgive him, oh he almost lost it (in a good way). he almost cried when you chose him cause he misses your presence, your chats, your beauty, everything about you and no one could have replaced that for him. he didn’t want any chance to ruin what y’all built AGAIN, no matter how tempting

ꔛ connie made it to the final four and won WOOOOOO!!! america already loved him but the dedication and his authenticity to win you back made the perfect love story to win america over. I mean who doesn’t love male groveling ;) ?

꒰ REINER BRAUN ꒱

ꔛ THE BIG, SOFT BLONDIE <33333. he’s kind, sweet, a great helper, extremely understanding, and always there for others. he grew such great bonds with everyone and everyone in the villa loved him from day one

ꔛ an og in the villa that seems to be the most favorited but can you blame them? plus, he wears his heart on his sleeve and isn’t afraid to express himself with every person he’s interested in. he enjoyed his chats with everyone but he enjoyed yours the most, you bring this sort of energy that reiner can’t point out but adores it so well

ꔛ he instantly clicked with you from day one and expressed how much he’s interested in getting to know you. ever since then, you guys were joint at the hip and barely leaving each other’s side, and everyone in the villa always comment how much you two complement each other as you’re together

ꔛ he held your hand during your chats, let you lay on him, give you his full attention, giving you everything you need to know how much he’s invested in you. small compliments, breakfast with your fave drink, made you fruit bowls for snacks, given massages here and there, gave you small kisses, the list can go on how much reiner did for you

ꔛ every time the guys joked about how down bad reiner is, he just took it and agreed. he doesn’t mind being mister romantic for his couple, even after bombshells would pull him for dates and/or chats. he always found himself running back to you <3

ꔛ america’s lover boy and they couldn’t hate him one bit and the amount of fangirls he got? oh goodness, now everyone wants a reiner in their life

ꔛ oh reiner hated casa amor, he liked that he let himself experience it but one kiss outside challenges made you realize how much he missed you. he missed being your arms, he missed your smile, he missed your presence that brought him an immense amount of comfort and happiness. he could barely bare being without you

ꔛ thankfully, all the casa girls gave up and stopped trying to go after him from how much he sulked about missing you

ꔛ after casa was a bit….off. reiner was a bit anxious to tell you that he kissed someone and was scared that you were gonna leave him, he couldn’t let that happen! he worked up the courage to tell you and was ready to accept any sort of punishment that could come, including being apologetic until he was back on your good graces

ꔛ you and reiner ended up either being runners up or the winners! america couldn’t get enough of this big softie who had so much admiration and respect for his couple. he didn’t mind the results, he was just ready to get out the villa and make everything official with you <3

꒰ JEAN KIRSTEIN ꒱

ꔛ at first, america wasn’t really a fan of jean, just like with eren. came off a bit conceited but that ddin’t stop anyone to explore jean and they very much didn’t regret it

ꔛ I would say jean is also an og who quickly hit it off with the guys. some of the girls, not as quick or not as close as he wished to be. there was one person whom he wished he hit it off but it just couldn’t click for a period of time (you)

ꔛ it kinda hurt jean a bit that you guys didn’t get along romantically but it didn’t stop him from wanting to explore you with every chance he got. he’d pull you for chats, do small, romantic gestures, anything to get you

ꔛ even as he was coupled up, he made it clear that he was still open until the recoupling where the boys chose. oh jean was elated to be ready to pick you, his speech was so pretty and emphasized his growing crush on you

ꔛ as episodes passed on, they realized how much of a sweetheart jean is. his recoupling speeches were always thought out and held nothing back. he also made it a habit to kiss your cheek every time you guys recoupled

ꔛ there was a time where a bombshell stole jean and he did explore her. however, that was short filled and fizzled into just friends, mans was just too stuck on you

ꔛ mannnn, casa amor, oh casa amor. he didn’t mind going to casa, as he approached it with the mindset that he was just testing yall relationship, right? wrong! those three days lead to jean explore in a way that even he didn’t expect out of him. it’s not that he didn’t care about his couple but he sure tricked himself into that he was testing himself and boy did he fail!!!

ꔛ to make things worse than he already is, he brought a girl back like wtf. as you stood there, looking stunning waiting for jean, he brings in a girl and your heart shattered. you thought he genuinely liked you but now it seems to be a different reality of who jean is

ꔛ jean didn’t explain himself, he tried to but every excuse had himself look lousy. he gave up and couldn’t even look in you the eyes. a tear trickled down on his face as he realized the the damage he has done

ꔛ time after casa, he would give you space but still pull you to tell you how sorry he is. at times, he would ditch his chosen casa girl to apologize and show how sorry he is. additionally, he was quick to cut things off with the girl which didn’t end well…

ꔛ you would question if he was being genuine and did he ever think about you during casa. he said he did and he completely regrets casa for even existing. he spent days upon days to show remorse for what he has done. he didn’t need to and shouldn’t have tested yall connection just to prove something to himself, and he knew that

ꔛ he started to lose faith that he might lose you forever, around the villa sulking and being lowly. even as the boys encouraged him, he couldn’t bear to accept their advice and would instead go to your friends to figure out what to do

ꔛ you did take him back after one night where yall sat in soul ties and he explained how heavy his heart felt from potentially losing you, sighs coming out when he saw that your doesn’t light up when you see him, or how you would dump him and be with another man. it was a hefty speech that that included extreme emotions, ‘I miss you’, ‘please take me back’, lengthy explanations on why you’re the one he wants and not the other girl, how he would change for himself and you. he’s saying anything so you could take him back and thankfully it worked in his favor

ꔛ in the end, jean ended up in third place :). he enjoyed his time in the villa and felt like he came out as better person, to himself and to you. after the villa, you guys continued to grow what you had and became official in the way of a beautiful picnic and a heartfelt love letter

𖥻 I miss writing for aot BADDDDDDD. like yall don’t understand how much I miss writing for my babies 😣

𖥻 here’s how I see it. connie is kordell, reiner is kenny but white, and eren is miguel. change my mind !!

𖥻 I wanted to make connie and reiner’s longer but had to stop myself 🧍🏽‍♀️. blame champagne coast by blood orange

𖥻 bye babes, drink your water and I love you MWAH 💕

𝐕𝐎𝐓𝐏 💗: ephesians 3:20-21. glory to be God, I love Him so much

© 𝟤𝟢𝟤𝟦 𝗋𝗒𝗇𝖿𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗌. 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖾𝖽

[ao3topshipsbracket]

honestly I'm kinda disappointed all the popular/well known ships are gone/eliminated

the semis look kinda boring now tbh

(ps: I don't mean to hate on the ships winning. I'm sure they're winning for a reason. it's just they're all kinda unknown/not mainstream)

We're definitely surprised to see some of the highly seeded ships go down early, but personally, I think that makes the remaining matches more exciting, not less! Who doesn't love an upset, after all? But of course, with Bubbline in one half and Destiel in the other, there are definitely some significant heavy hitters still in the running!

That being said, we know we have some underdog semifinalists that people are less familiar with, so here's a brief primer on each of them!

Hualian comes from the Chinese novel Tian Guan Ci Fu, or Heaven Official's Blessing. If you've heard of Wangxian of Mo Dao Zu Shi/The Untamed fame, TGCF comes from the same author. It is a xianxia love story about ghost kings and fallen gods. Here's the plot synopsis from IMDB:

Eight hundred years ago, Xie Lian was the Crown Prince of the Xian Le kingdom. He was loved by his citizens and was considered the darling of the world. He ascended to the Heavens at a young age; however, due to unfortunate circumstances, was quickly banished back to the mortal realm. Years later, he ascends again, only to be banished again a few minutes after his ascension. Now, eight hundred years later, Xie Lian ascends to the Heavens for the third time as the laughing stock among all three realms. On his first task as a god thrice ascended, he meets a mysterious demon who rules the ghosts and terrifies the Heavens, yet, unbeknownst to Xie Lian, this demon king has been paying attention to him for a very, very long time.

At #58 in the Tumblr 2023 top ship list, they're solidly middle of the pack in terms of seeding, but they did take down Buddie at #10, and Davekat of Homestuck infamy: a very impressive showing!

Sulemio hails from the latest installment in the Mobile Suit Gundam anime franchise, The Witch from Mercury; as with all Gundam series, it is a sci-fi military drama featuring giant robots and space warfare. This one happens to also feature heavy inspiration from Revolutionary Girl Utena. Official synopses seem a bit lacking, and I unfortunately don't know enough about the series to summarize it myself, but I'll link this very helpful guide that someone left in our notes!

They're the lowest seeded of our semifinalists, ranking #59 on Tumblr's 2023 top ship list, so the fact that they've taken out the top seed is truly a feat; having a rallying force with @demilypyro has certainly helped their cause (and our very busy activity feed 😅) a great deal!

Regardless of who wins the next rounds, there are very fun underdog journeys present on both sides of the bracket. Plus, it's always good to remember that polls like these are not meant to be indicators of popularity, but of passion.

[matan4il]

Update post:

Most of this will be about the unprecedented attack of the Islamist regime of Iran against Israel, but first I have to take a second to mourn a 14 year old boy, who was murdered in a Palestinian attack on Friday. At around 6 in the morning, teenager Binyamin Achimeir led his sheep herd out of the farm he lives in, but a few hours later, the sheep returned to the farm without him. At first, it was feared that he had some accident, or was dehydrated, and thousands of people voluntarily joined the search for him. On Saturday, at around noon, the IDF found his body, with signs of brutal violence on it. Based on the forensic evidence, he was murdered by several Palestinian terrorists, and he fought back. The army is still hunting down the murderers. May Binyamin's memory be a blessing.

Right, back to the Islamist regime of Iran's attack on Israel. I posted about it as soon as the news started being aired here, in case someone didn't know about it. The news broke past the normal time when people watch news on TV in Israel, I noticed it by chance right before I was about to turn in for the night. I'm physically okay, but I didn't get that much sleep, I had to wake up early to take care of some stuff, so I AM very tired, which is why I'm not going to do the usual thing I do, which is to look for English journalistic sources for everything, but I have no doubt even the stuff I won't look up can all be easily found online.

On a personal note, I can tell you that at 1:43 in the morning I heard the first explosion, but no sirens went off. A few more explosions followed, and only then did we hear the sirens. It was scary, for a moment we couldn't tell whether we're hearing explosions of missiles from neighboring areas, or whether something went wrong with the sirens, and we need to hurry into the bomb shelter. It seems like in Jerusalem specifically there was some issue with the sirens, I heard a reporter mention it. Also, the alert app didn't go off, even though it should have, at the latest when the sirens did.

This is what the Temple Mount looked like from an Iranian attack that could have easily destroyed the al-Aqsa mosque (it's not in the frame, but it's right next to where this was filmed):

Quick background: Iran is the biggest financier of anti-Israel terrorism for decades now, including funding Hamas, Hezbollah and the Houthis, all of which have been a part of a continuous attack on Israel since Oct 7 as Iran's proxies. Iran has sent its own military seniors to help and instruct those local terrorists, in places like Lebanon, Syria and Iraq. Israel has eliminated them whenever possible, this is not something new. On Apr 1, Israel carried out such a strike, in which it targeted 7 Iranian army seniors in Damascus, Syria's capital. Iran claimed Israel targeted the Iranian consulate in this city, but diplomatic buildings are all publicly listed. Iran has an embassy in Damascus (in a separate location) and no consulates. That's why the magnitude of Iran's response to this has taken Israel by surprise, because the Israeli strike wasn't that out of the ordinary. In fact, the US assassination of Iran's military commander, Qasem Soleimani, back in 2018, was a far graver blow for the Iranian regime, and yet it did not lead to an attack as massive as the one launched against Israel last night.

It is now known that some of the attack waves against Israel were intercepted by other countries, including The US, the UK, France and Jordan. It's been said that there's at least one more Arab country that helped in intercepting Iran's attack, but it can't be publicized. Many countries denounced Iran for attacking Israel.

We don't have numbers regarding the full size of the attack. Out of all the countries who participated in curtailing this attack, we know that the US has intercepted at least 70 suicide drones and 3 cruise missiles, while Israel has intercepted at least 185 suicide drones, 36 cruise missile and 110 ballistic missiles (that last one is the missile type that causes the most damage). Israel's interceptions are said to have been 99% successful, but like I said, no defence system is perfect. A small number of ballistic missiles did land inside Israel. One hit an Israeli air Force base in the south. There's over 30 people who got injured when rushing to the bomb shelter in the middle of the night (elderly people, including Holocaust survivors, have died from such injuries), and over 30 more ended up in hospital due to severe mental health reactions. On top of that, there's a 7 years old Muslim Bedouine girl who was injured by interceptors debris. A friend of her family that I heard being interviewed said the family wanted to go to the communal bomb shelter, but before they even had a chance to make it out of the house, the girl was hit by the debris piercing into their home, and she is suffering from severe head injuries. The hospital is currently fighting for her life.

The estimate of how much it cost Israel to defend its citizens from this one attack last night is 5 BILLION shekels (which is over 1.3 BILLION US dollars). That's for one night.

Israel will respond. According to one reporter I heard, that was decided as soon as it was clear how big the attack is, so this isn't about how much damage Iran caused, it's about how it crossed several red lines. This is the first time Iran itself attacked Israel itself, it's not an attack on an extension of Israel, nor was it done by using proxy terrorists. Israel has had terrorist organizations attacking it continuously since 2001, but this is the first attack from a fellow sovereign country since Iraq (led by tyrant Saddam Hussein) in 1991, so that in itself is crossing a red line. The size of the attack is also considered an escalation on Iran's part. In 2019, Iran launched a smaller scaled suicde drone attack on Saudi Arabia, and the latter's western allies refused to launch a counter attack, which led to these countries being seen as unreliable, and some Middle Eastern countries renewed their ties with Iran. That's why how it would seen in the Middle East if Israel doesn't react to an even bigger attack, and how it might drive more moderate countries to grow closer to Iran, is another consideration in why Israel must respond. Not to mention that launching such a mass attack basically caused a paralysis of the country once the first intel became known. For example, all educational activity (schools, universities, you name it) has been canceled, Israel's air space had to be closed, every single ambulance across the country had to be manned, and so on. That is not something any country can simply shrug off. Not to mention, Israel financially can't afford this reality to become normalized.

Not to mention, Israel tried to contain Hamas, PIJ and Hezbollah's rocket attacks for decades. What we got for it was the invasion and massacre on Oct 7. The lesson for most Israelis is that containing mass attacks on our population only leads to worse ones.

That said, there's also no desire here of getting dragged into a war on another front while we're still in the middle of one in Gaza and with Iran's proxies on several more fronts. So, Israel is looking for a balanced response, one that won't let this mass attack slide, but hopefully doesn't make matters much worse.

(for all of my updates and ask replies regarding Israel, click here)

[syneilesis]

[fic] Pampertime

Pampertime

Love and Deepspace | Xavier (Shen Xinghui) x Main-Character!Reader | Explicit | 6.7k words | ao3 link

Butler Rule No. 1: From the moment you accept the role, be prepared to obey your lady’s every command. The bunny butler outfit makes a grand return. In bed.

Content tags: Established Relationship, PWP, Roleplay, Bunny Butler Xavier, Dom/sub elements, Sub!Xavier, Strip Tease, Hand Jobs, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Cunnilingus, Face-Sitting, Cowgirl Position, Riding, PIV sex, Creampie

A/N: My contribution to the bunny butler Xavier train. Only gave a cursory edit once, so any mistakes still my fault. I'm just glad I'm done, whatever. Divider by @/saradika

One bright and sunny afternoon, Xavier texts you: Emergency can U come up here to help me?

You're in the middle of cleaning your living room, after weeks of neglecting your household responsibilities due to the sudden influx of Wanderers in the neighboring city. The Hunters Association had been scrambling to send out their hunters due to the sudden invasion of Wanderers that resembled bafflingly like corgis—which was both a blessing and a curse, if one were to be asked. Blessing because, well, they were a breed that incited cute aggression and fluffiness, and civilian evacuation had resulted in minimal problems, if one ignores the influx of people into doglike Wanderers. A curse, because—well, they did look like corgis—fluffy like a bread with a cute butt, the kind that you would expect to see in the plushie line sold at Twinkle Toys Store. They're irresistible to drag your hand across their soft coat. A not-inconsiderable number of hunters realized the error of their ways in overlooking the fact that these floof of creatures were still Wanderers, and as a consequence, Linkon hospitals suddenly found themselves busier for a week or two.

Regardless, the corgi Wanderers were easy to take care of, once you saw past their clever ruse. The difficulty lay in the numbers. Like a relentless tsunami flooding the city, they undulate in droves, shaking their butts and bouncing around and generally making an oxymoronically cute menace of themselves.

As one of the hunters dispatched to the area, you valiantly resisted the siren cute-call and eliminated as many as you could. It took you and your team more than a week, and it would have been shorter than that, had Xavier been in the fray. But he had been sent in another region the week before, and was unable to join you in your fluff-filled resistance.

But now it seems that he's back and is in need of your assistance. Flashback to that time when his oven exploded due to his attempt at baking tarts, and you drop everything you're doing and fly outside, towards the elevator, fueled by fear and sheer panic.

When you burst into his apartment, using the spare key he left you, you cry out, “Xavier! Sitrep!”

A cursory survey of the area indicate neither fire nor flood, and his apartment seems undamaged. Fear subsiding, you finally take stock of the situation.

Perhaps it's not a kitchen emergency after all? There’s no smell of something burning, thank heavens for that. You do not want to apologize to his neighbors in his place again.

You call once more, “Xavier?”

“In here.”

His voice is coming from the bedroom, and that makes you waver. Why is he still in his bedroom? Maybe he's stuck in bed? Did he sleep for three days and wake up in an unusual position and in need of assistance to set back his limbs again? Weirder and weirder thoughts spiral in your head, and your lack of response prompts him to speak once more.

“You can go in, if that's what stops you.”

“Why can't you just go out?”

“I ... can't.”

The hesitation captures your attention. Xavier is probably entangled in the bed. You may as well help him.

“All right, I'm coming in then.”

When you open the door, you're expecting some sort of layers and layers of blankets, a sea of them, not just on the bed but also on the floor and other furniture. Xavier might be underneath in any of those blankets, and it's your duty to locate him and fish him out. You're ready to swim against these blankets, fight your way into it. Do your utmost duty as a combat partner.

Except.

Except it's not a sea of blankets that welcome you once you enter the room. It's—different.

So different.

So utterly different that you drop your phone. It clatters muffled against the carpeted floor, where it slightly nudges a gift-wrapped box. And that gift-wrapped box sits next to another gift-wrapped box, and another. And another. Until you lift your widening gaze to see that Xavier's bedroom is littered with a lot of them. And Xavier—

He's on the bed, all right. But he's—

He grins lightly, leaning back from his sprawled position. The pillows behind him sink under his weight.

“Kjalfjdsj?” you say, eloquently.

“I'm glad you came ...” A pregnant pause, before he drops the bomb. “My lady.”

Your brain short-circuits.

Xavier is sprawled on the bed, bunny ears on his head, waistcoat and tie, and—you just know, you can feel it in your bones—bunny tail on behind. It's exactly what he wore when you had your couple's photos back then. The fact that he's wearing it and, judging by the sudden change of interior design of his room, that he's replicated the decoration of the studio—actually, you don't know what you can glean from those points, because you're too busy picking up the remains of your brain matter to form a coherent thought.

He drops another bomb: “Why are you just standing there, my lady?” he says, and going by the quirk of his lips he knows the effect he has on you. Compared with the first time it happened, the shy reluctance is no longer present. “This bunny butler is ready to serve, just say the word.”

Your brain melts.

“Wha—I mean—um, guh—” You studiously reacquaint yourself with the concept of words. “I just—what is going on?”

Xavier blinks, and the bunny ears on top of his head twitch as if they are truly connected to his head. Your fingers twitch themselves in response, that urge to touch and feel them again.

“I just thought,” he begins, slowly at first as if testing the waters, “that you need to relax and get pampered after that difficult mission you've just had.”

The words percolate in your mind and you scrabble for an appropriate reply to that. To be fair to the man, Xavier is sweet thinking of your well-being like that. Or maybe he's guilty that he wasn't there to help during that corgipocalypse of a week. Regardless of his intent, you have to ask:

“You thought I need to relax and your solution is to dress up as a bunny butler?”

He has the gall to think about it at length. “Yes, my lady.”

You don't miss the way he spreads his legs a little wider at that.

And really—you're only human, with wants and needs and desires. It just so happens that the common denominator of those three aspects point to the ridiculous man before you, in that ridiculous bunny butler getup that you secretly love and hope to see again. Which—yeah, it's definitely the perfect solution.

Stomping your hesitation and pride, you stride towards the bed, and Xavier, watching your every step, reclines further, giving you space for you to place your knee on the soft mattress, between his legs.

The bedfoam dips, and he shifts to avoid sinking down the indent your knee makes. Your other knee follows, and you move towards him until the heat of his inner thighs touch the outer sides of yours.

At the proximity between the two of you, Xavier tips forward, and in spite of your positions he doesn't need to tilt his head much upward to meet your deliberating gaze. An anticipatory sharpness falls on his expression and, oh, you realize, he must've wanted this too.

Which is all that you need to fall into this completely.

And it's a transformation: a reshifting of limbs and the straightening of spine, something like a lock unlatching.

“Mr. Bunny Butler,” you begin, low and relishing and shy of being predatory, “bow your head.”

Xavier's nostrils flare at that. After a couple of seconds he complies, and seeing the sliver of his exposed nape opens something within you.

Against your shoulder the bunny ears snag, their length not allowing to fall along Xavier's pose. You bring one hand up to trace an invisible line across an ear, the fur short and soft. Xavier's quiet beneath you, but you can feel him stiffening at your every move. Braced a little behind his sides, his hands clench tightly.

“Can you feel it?” you ask, pinching the colored tip of the ear, pushing it back to observe its make. It's well-made, and you wonder if this one costs more than you'd expect.

Xavier shakes his head. You want to hear him, however, so you tap the back of his head in warning. He exhales loudly; breathes out, “No ...” and then tacking on: “Master.”

Your eyes narrow in pleasure, the flesh of your cheeks bunching from how wide your smile is. “That's my good bunny,” you praise him, caressing the curve of his head. He shivers—whether from the praise or the touch or both, you don't know.

To see him like this—a formidable hunter with centuries of experience, the force of stars pulsing underneath his skin, ready to rupture at his command—head bent low before you, hands closed in restrained fists, the lines of his body intersecting into a show of surrender. Yielding. It heats the core of your belly and your blood, and you can't help but bite your lip as you savor the image.

Leaning back and sitting on your calves, you catch Xavier's downcast stare. His brows furrowed as if concentrating, and when he notices you trained on him, his eyes do something that reminds you of the existence of the concept of puppy dog eyes.

Every time he does that, you think, you want to gobble him up.

Closing in on his face, you raise your left hand and cradle his jaw, tipping it up, gazes never leaving each other. Then you draw nearer, and nearer, until your lips almost brush against his. The sharp sound of his inhale is deafening in this lack of distance. Your eyes never leave his, but his drop down, nearly crossing, as he's distracted by your lips. His breaths are hot on your skin, and finally you aim at the corner of his mouth, and open your own to say:

“Don't move.”

And then you descend, trailing butterfly kisses along the edge of his lips, his cheek, his temple. Xavier goes spine-rigid at the first contact, forgetting to breathe for a second, before slowly exhaling, as if trying to hold himself together. His brows knit again and his eyes flutter closed, the line of his lips sloping downward.

He's controlling himself. And that delights you so much that you shift to kiss his earlobe and tug it once, then whispering directly to his ear, “That's my obedient bunny. Keep this up and I'll reward you.”

You stop to wait, and when nothing happens, you tug his jaw and take a bite at the shell of his ear—he gasps—and continue:

“What do you say?”

Xavier's shoulders lurch. He breathes once, twice, before answering.

“Thank you, my lady.”

“Good boy.”

The first reward: a kiss on the lips. A quick, initial press before you pry him open with tongue, and he welcomes you eagerly from the way he surges to meet you. The hand on his face holds him back, but his own hands fly to your hips and plant themselves there.

You slap them away, he resists. You break the kiss, and he makes a disappointed sound, chasing you, and then realizes what he's done.

“I'm sorry—my lady,” he stumbles, putting his hands back in their previous position. He looks so properly chastised, you love it.

Outwardly, you sigh in disappointment, and he whips his head up, stricken. “After I said that you're obedient, you do this. What shall we do, Mr. Bunny Butler?”

“What—” He swallows. “What do you want me to do, my lady?”

In all the times you've tried to fluster him, Xavier doesn't really redden. At best his skin produces a soft sheen of pink across his cheeks that linger over his ears. Never tomato-red though.

But now, his face glows bright pink that gradiates to a noticeable crimson, ending at the tips of his ears. This is good development, you decide, something that you want more of. So you push further.

“Are you truly sorry, Mr. Bunny Butler?”

He nods meekly.

“Then”—a finger pokes at the center of his forehead and pushes, his head docilely tilting back, exposing his slender, beautiful neck—“don't move this time.”

You slip two fingers under his tie and pull it loose. The unobstructed slide of the silken fabric echoes around the room, punctuated by the hitch of his breath. The bunny ears jerk. To his credit, he's still as a statue, and the giddiness that you've been feeling for a while now mounts to a dull yet insistent ache that pools between your legs.

Then you unbutton his collar, which reveals more of that pretty neck. An alarmed sound forms in his throat, and you call his name in warning. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows whatever he's about to say.

And that Adam's apple becomes your next target: your mouth molds around it, sucking, and Xavier gives a full-body shudder. A groan bursts out of him. He's trembling, his hands—leather-gloved and creaking at the strain of his fists—his thighs, his shoulders. You can see how he wants to turn his head, to retreat from your hot mouth, but thinks himself the better of it.

You place your left hand under his head and kiss him under the angle of his left jaw.

“Ah—”

With your free hand, you trace down the outline of his neck to shoulder. His breath catches, he jolts away, his eyes shoot you a betrayed look.

“My lady—”

You plant another kiss in the dip of his collarbone. “What does Mr. Bunny Butler want?” you ask against his moist skin.

He releases a shuttered exhale. Behind you, his legs move in a way that comes across as avoidant, as if he's hiding something from you. You glance down and realize the reason for his discomfort.

Saliva pools in your mouth.

But you swallow the surging desire ignited by the image of his arousal. It isn't time yet; you want to draw this out as long as you can.

Head still tipped back, Xavier doesn't see your discovery of his want, his eyes half-mast and his focus directed on reining himself in. If you remove yourself from the scene and study him from head to toe, you'd find Xavier the perfect picture of temptation, restrained, controlled on the surface but a collapsing star underneath, gravity pulling you to him and there's no way to escape.

Not that you'd like to escape in the first place.

You repeat your question, this time against his Adam's apple: “What does Mr. Bunny Butler want?”

“My la—” He chokes. Tries again. “Whatever my lady wants.”

Ah. Such a good bunny.

Your hands drift down to the next closed button. His tie is loosened enough that you can remove it in one hard tug. And isn't that a nice thought: one strong pull and he's dragged along by the force, his lips inevitably landing on your lips, a welcome collision.

But you don't follow that path; instead, your hands drop lower, to the last button of his waistcoat. The sides of your hands brush against the seam of his pants, dangerously close to his already obvious bulge, and it dawns on Xavier that you're already aware of his worldly response, if the widening of his eyes is an indication. He whips his head to shoot you a meaningful look, as if begging you to ignore his lapse of control—as if that is an unwelcome development.

Sometimes, you think, Xavier wants to show you a side of him that only exudes assurance, a sharp blade and sturdy shield that envelop you in sidereal protection. Be it from outside forces and his own—and even yours. Physical dangers, most especially, but curiously enough: information. Knowledge. The matters of the past. The matters of the heart. The both of you may have confessed that day, the words of your promises embedded in your heart like an oath under the stars, but there are times when a shadow passes through Xavier's expression, and he seems so far away. Light-years away.

But right now, that thought isn't at the forefront of your mind: it is the way the redness climbs up his neck, his face, his cheeks, painting him a beautiful hue that reminds you of a recently blossomed rose. He truly is gorgeous this way.

One of his hands encloses around yours, stopping your ministrations. Minute tremors hum under his callused palm.

“I'm—” A quick breath. “I'm supposed to serve you, my lady.”

Ah. Truly such a good bunny.

You capitulate, hands retreating from the button of his pants, but not before caressing his trembling hand and squeezing it once. An indulgent smile unfurls in the line of your lips, and you make a snap decision.

The second reward: freedom. Xavier has expressed his desire to serve, to please, and you'll give him the freedom to choose how to enact it—

Under a specific instruction, of course.

“Yes, of course,” you say, tapping his warm cheek fondly with your index finger. “Serve me, then, Mr. Bunny Butler. Strip for me. Slowly.”

He catches that finger quickly with his mouth, bites it lightly, like it's a warning—or a promise. You let him nibble and lick your finger for a couple of seconds, the wetness sending electricity down your spine, and you can't stop the shiver that echoes throughout your body. Xavier narrows his eyes in satisfaction at your response, hints of a smirk around his lips, and that's insubordination if you saw one. So you snatch your finger away from him, and punish him by dragging your wet finger along the column of his neck.

He jumps at the sensation.

“Strip, Xavier,” you repeat firmly. “Make sure it's a good show.”

It just proves how dedicated he is at this roleplay: by this point he should have already ended this little act and would have taken over, but he's holding your critical gaze as his hands settle over the topmost button of his vest.

“I'll try, my lady.” His voice drops to a low, husky murmur, one that summons pinpricks down your nape and the back of your shoulders, crawling in a slow, deliberate tease.

He does try, indeed. He moves back, affording you space to see his torso without having to change your position. One hand to brace his weight, the other deftly maneuvering each button at a comfortable pace. For every button opened, he takes a deep breath, gives you a confident smile, albeit awkward at the edges. But the rhythm of it lulls you, and you find yourself playing with his bunny ears again—a right decision, because he makes a surprised sound, which morphs into a moan.

The returned proximity grants you the ghostly brushes of his knuckles against your clothed stomach when he opens another button. Because of this, the way your stomach contracts every time he brushes you becomes known to him, and Xavier huffs a laugh, and proceeds to be more purposeful with it.

You tug at his bunny ear, hard. “Mr. Bunny Butler,” you warn.

His shrugs his vest off as his reply.

Now, only left with shirt and tie, Xavier stares down at them, thinking about what to do next. You help him by pushing yourself flush against him, making sure that your thigh grazes his cock. He judders, shoving his face on the crook of your neck and groaning. Idly, you continue playing with the furred ears.

“My lady, my lady,” he mutters, and you feel him sighing, “don't tease me.”

You hum. “Then put more effort in your show.”

He peeks up at you under those pretty yet underhanded lashes of his, and you spy hints of a smirk in that mouth.

But before you can question him about it, a hand grabs yours and guides it to his tie, wraps it around the silk fabric, and pulls. Slowly, carefully. From this angle more skin is revealed under your wandering gaze—the tease of a nipple, flashing beneath that white shirt—and you gulp at the flutter in your belly.

Once the necktie is completely off him, he takes it from your hand and, indeed like a show, re-ties it around his neck, a ribboned gift. At this point you're ready to combust—and he's not even naked.

“Do you like it, my lady?”

“Yes,” you rasp, suddenly off-kilter, “very much.”

“Then ...” He resumes undressing, the buttons of his shirt easily extricated, his movements economical, and bit by bit his bare torso opens before your anticipatory eyes.

He stops at the tucked-in part of the shirt. Glances at you, bites his lip, and goes back to pull the front off so the shirt opens just below his shoulders, presenting you such a gorgeous view.

Xavier sinks into the propped-up pillows—and you unconsciously follow—and smiles. “All yours, Master.”

He knows—that little shit—the allure of incomplete nakedness. The gap, the gape, the patches of exposed skin surrounded by fabric. Xavier's using it to his utmost advantage.

By now you could have clawed his clothes away from his body, but somehow, this tastes more delicious, the promise of a tease, the prolonged heat-pulse that thrums in your core, and you're pretty sure, if Xavier's shallow breaths are an indication, that he's into this too.

Well. May as well take advantage of this luxurious present.

One hand descends on the side of his neck, and you see him tamp down the surprised jolt. This hand, light in its touch, ghostly, virtual, traces the edges of the necktie. You can hear Xavier's bated breath, waiting for your next step.

Then down, down, down to his collarbone, the dip of it, your index finger making laps twice, end to end.

Then further: his chest. And this time, it's not only your hand that wants to participate. You brace yourself on his shoulder and bend down to kiss the center of his chest. Xavier lets out a sound, and inhales sharply.

Next: his left nipple, with an additional teasing nip. His hips buck from the sensation.

You stay where you are, lifting your gaze to ascertain his expression. His head is turned away, hiding his face, a hand covering half of it. But it's useless for him to hide, because his ear is in your direct line of vision, and it's a glaring red.

This propels you to indulge more: the hand on his shoulder slides down to pay his other nipple attention. His legs shift, restless. The sounds of his gasps and moans occupy the room. You feast on him, laying your tongue flat on him and dragging it wetly until you hear him stutter your name.

“M-My lady—I—”

You surge forward, and the force topples the stack of pillows behind him. In the midst of this, you reposition your legs so that you're finally straddling Xavier, your skirt bunching up just below your waist, and—teasingly—grind against his straining cock.

He jerks, grabbing at your hips, attempting at more friction, but you remind him who's in charge, and he eventually relents, taking deep breaths to calm himself.

“Sorry about that, my lady. I'm—I'm good now.”

“That's my good bunny.” Then you continue exploring his body with your tongue.

He tastes faintly of sweat but also the scent-taste of his body wash. He's showered just before calling you up. And for some reason, that does you: you rise to kiss him again, and your free hand sneaks itself under him—and grabs his bunny tail.

Xavier yelps, scarlet, shocked at the action, gaping at you and your smug face.

You squeeze the fluffy ball of a tail in response.

“M-My lady...!” he blurts.

“Shame that I didn't get to play with this last time,” you muse, feeling up the soft thing. It twitches under your curious touch. Delighted, you shift around Xavier's torso to lift his hips and study and poke at the tail repeatedly, entranced at the bounce and fuzziness of it. “A wasted opportunity, don't you think so?”

When you check Xavier's reaction, you have to hold back your laugh. He's clearly uncomfortable, but the discomfort is brought upon by embarrassment, as evidenced by his squirming and the persistence of his blush.

Words have left him, so he just averts your leery gaze, bury his face into the nearest pillow, and groans.

Taking pity on him, you release his tail—but not without giving it one last flick; he jolts—and slide your hands around the waistband of his pants. You're fumbling for the button and then the zipper when two gloved hands hinder your actions.

Xavier's face is rearranged into an indulgent yet mischievous smile. “My lady can enjoy me as long as you like. There's no need to hurry.”

But that's the thing, isn't it? You have already enjoyed him so much and enough that at one point things are bound to snap. He as your focal point of your want, the desire that thrums alongside your veins, almost like blood.

“But Mr. Bunny Butler,” you start, adopting a light, airy voice and tilting your head up at him, “there are a lot of things to enjoy from you. I'm not sure if one evening would do.”

Before Xavier can even get a word edgewise, you tear his pants open and yank his boxers down, freeing his cock.

“My la—”

His cock is a firm, solid weight on your hand, and Xavier bucks at the first contact, a halfway gasp ripping out of him. You watch his reactions as you stroke him slowly—painfully slowly, tantalizingly slowly—as your other hand crawl up his waist, flat palm spanning his side.

You know, intellectually and objectively, that Xavier is pretty. Gunmetal-grey hair that shimmers under the starry night sky. His smooth, unlined skin that you're harboring unholy envy for, soft under your curious fingers, almost pristine, untouched all his life. The column of his neck, strong bones underneath the layer of skin and muscle, the prominence of his Adam's apple. The outline of his body—even and proportioned, balanced like a finely crafted sword. And most of all: his eyes, the most expressive part of all of him. The color of an unperturbed sky, always clear and never lost. A steady glister in the darkness.

Right now, though, he's different altogether. Almost otherworldly in the way he's unraveling under your clever fingers. A shift of pressure and he's biting down the meat of his hand in a poor attempt to muffle his groans. A fleeting trail across the slit of his cock and his eyes flutter shut, his hips jumping off the mattress. He thrashes in chase of the pressure and pleasure you're providing him in crumbs, your need to see him lose that frustrating control of his. You keep stroking him and watching him blossom before you, petal by petal, limb by limb, nerve by nerve.

“My lady—” He's panting, running out of breath, his voice gaining that frenzied quality. It's music to your ears. “Master—Master, haa—”

He's coming, you can feel it. You can see it through his quickening breaths, the flush of his skin all over his body, the white-knuckled fist of his hands, the throb of his cock.

“My lady, I'm co—”

You release him, and the slow transformation of his face is such a fascinating phenomenon. From the crunch of pleasure, then crumpling into confusion. He raises his head to see you leaning back, hands away from him, his hazy eyes taking in what's happening—or its lack of. Then they widen, his mouth dropping open to release a sound of distress, round and full and cracking.

“Why did you ...”

You tug at the ends of the ribbon-necktie. He clicks his mouth shut.

“You said I can enjoy you as long as I like. There's no need to hurry.”

His gaze finally clears, and he gulps, nodding. Near your hips, Xavier's cock leaks.

“Then ...” You lay on top of him, chest to chest, thigh to thigh, your belly pressing against his pulsing cock (he freezes at this, and then continues to freeze), and place your arms on the sides of his head so your hands can reach the bunny ears. They still react delightfully under your roaming touch. “I'm going to enjoy these a little more. Don't move too much, okay?”

The room becomes pinched with quiet, and while you're intent on the furry ears atop Xavier's head, you can sense in your periphery his eyes on you. He's careful not to jostle you, the air he breathes catching on your skin, and you feel his arms snaking around your waist, settling on the small of your back.

“You really like the costume that much, huh.”

You hum in acknowledgment, rubbing the area where accessory meets scalp. You scratch it with your light fingernails, and Xavier sighs at the feeling.

When you leave the ears, you turn your attention to Xavier's expression next. He's still observing you, his flush now pale but enduringly distinct across his cheeks, and that entices you to meet his lips in a slow, patient kiss.

“It's nice, seeing you go through such effort to make me happy,” you answer him after you separate, punctuating the statement with a pleased, narrow-eyed smile.

A thought takes over Xavier, with the way his brows knit. Moments pass, you regard him, until he finally opens his mouth to articulate whatever has occupied him.

“My lady,” he begins, hesitant at first, but each word gains confidence, “there's something I want to do for you.”

“Speak.”

“I want you to”—and here his stare morphs into that puppy dog eyes again—“sit on my face. Please.”

You're stunned. The room continues to be quiet, and you're stunned. Xavier doesn't add anything after that; just waiting for your response. He's probably not sensing how you've finally shut down. You, felled by nine words, the last one an imperative period that brooked no refusal.

When he calls you, his face and his voice are tinted with uncertainty.

“Stars, Xavier.” You scramble up to reposition yourselves in accordance to his request. During this transitory moment, Xavier removes his gloves with his teeth. Now bare, both his hands come up to hold your thighs from behind, adjusting their spread and angle. You want to whine self-consciously, but glimpsing Xavier's eager expression as you move towards his head, you stamp that part in your mind. “Okay down there?”

He doesn't reply—instead he just goes for it.

Your hands shoot for the headboard, a surprised cry shocked out of you. Is this Xavier's way of revenge for denying his orgasm earlier? The way he confronts you is not unlike a battle, with his single-minded focus on his goal and his preciseness. He parts your folds with his tongue, pays attention to your clit first: sucks it lightly before dialing it up. You convulse, your hips digging down, and he moans, the vibration thrumming your flesh.

“Xavier,” you sob, “Xavier. Xavier.”

He laps around your clit like a thirsty man, hands kneading your thighs. He must've been thinking about this for a while now, with how methodical he's going by it, strategized to push you into becoming a complete and utter wreck. He kisses your clit then mouths it, moves his tongue in lateral glides that have you thrashing on your position. You grind against him, and he welcomes it wholeheartedly, and behind you his hips thrust helplessly in air, his stubbornly hard cock drooling with pre-come.

One hand nudges you forward and you follow, until his tongue enters inside you—you gasp and shiver at the slick intrusion—drinks you with such loudness that you wouldn't be surprised if his neighbors overhear what the two of you have been doing.

He knows how to prolong the barrage of pleasure, that heat and swell around your core, your undulating hips, sustained until you buckle and collapse from the force of it, your orgasm torrential like a storm.

When Xavier emerges between your legs, his face shines from your slick and his saliva. A fond smile slips out of you, and a finger traces the length of his lips; then your entire hand, cupping the side of his face, a tender caress. A smile of his own appears and he nuzzles your hand, kisses the center of your palm, eyes closed and sated.

“Good boy,” you praise, and he sighs happily. “So good for me. Have to reward you, don't I?”

The third reward: release. You move back to pull his pants and boxers off him completely, and Xavier just watches you with anticipation, breaths in quick bursts.

“You know the drill: don't move.” You underline this order with a tease of his cock, a line-trail from the tip to the base and then a quick squeeze of his balls.

When you align yourself above him and begin to sink down, Xavier goes rigid-stiff, daring not to breathe, careful not to move. You pause from your progress, and send him a worried look.

“Xavier?”

“I—I'm—” He bites his lip, exhales through his nose. “I'm okay, I just. I'm just trying not to react too much.”

“Why?”

He casts you a helpless gaze. “Because, my lady, I'm afraid that my control would slip, and I would have my selfish way with you.”

You falter at that. To be honest that's not such a bad idea at all, but Xavier knows that this is for you and your needs, and what you need right now—and what you want, if one were to ask—is him under you, at your mercy. Just as he is right now.

So you move lower, feeling the head of his cock open you up, slowly. And you can hear the hitching breaths unwittingly made by him, his eyes shut and his whole expression folded inward, as if he couldn't handle the pleasure descending over him.

A groan tumbles out of his lips, low at first, quick and fleeting, but as you inch lower and lower, the feel of his cock molding you inside, the wanton sounds he makes lengthens, gets louder, until he parts those glistening lips and vocalizes his satisfaction.

“My lady—you feel so—”

“Good, I hope.”

He doesn't wait until you bottom out; he bucks his hips to sheathe himself inside you completely in one smooth motion. You cry out from his action, his cock pulsing against your walls, and the feeling of him pulls you in further bliss that your eyes flutter closed and your back arches as the pleasure spreads throughout your body.

“The best, my lady.”

He gasps when you clench around him, your wetness dripping between your joined bodies.

You really think the best position Xavier has ever been is here right now: underneath you, helpless to your demands, seized by pleasure that you're giving him and taking from him. The way his face doesn't know what to do in the undulating waves of pressure as you begin to move above him, your hips lifting and then slamming back down; the film of sweat coating his skin all over, moistening the sheets beneath the two of you. The severe grip of his hands, bunching up the blankets in their deathly clutch. His rapid heartbeat under your palm as you support your weight by bracing yourself on his chest. His moans, his filthy, filthy moans—his moans that you will remember until your dying day because they are so far out of his cultivated normalcy—open-mouthed, slack-jawed moans that come from the core of his abdomen, surging upwards, frantic, crazed, melodiously and sublimely wanton.

“Look at you, Xavier,” you pant, and one of Xavier's legs kicks out. “Look at my bunny butler.”

“Master—Master—”

“What do you want, darling?” you ask, shakily tracing the side of his face. When your fingers near his mouth he turns his head to place a kiss at your fingertips, then drags his tongue out to lick at their length. Your index and middle fingers press flat at his tongue, and he groans around them. His puffs of breath beat in time with the movement of your hips.

One hand crawls towards your thigh, haltingly slides upwards, up to the junction of your hips, where it disappears under the spill of your skirt. Then it reaches behind to squeeze at the meat of your ass, and you gasp, stuttering your pace.

You take out your fingers so he can answer you, but Xavier grabs your wrist with his other hand and brings it back to his lips, trails kisses on each finger, murmurs nonsensical things against your saliva-coated skin until, louder, he tells you—

“Everything you can give me, my lovely Master.”

And, oh, isn't that a wonderful thing to hear? That readiness of his—be it in battle or in bed, he rolls with everything you throw at him, as though there's nothing that can taint you in his eyes, no betrayal to feel forsaken by. As though all that he's done, all that he's doing, is in service to you.

And it's because of this that you use the same hand to cup at his jaw and jerk it in your direction, bowing down to kiss him, bite his lower lip, thrust your tongue inside, lick the roof of his mouth, suck his own tongue—devour him fully and utterly.

He meets your intent with his own, just as intense, just as parched and hungry as you are for him. Every exhale is accompanied by a soft sigh, and you swallow his every sound—that lovely and soothing voice that lingers in your mind and haunts the edges of your dreams. His reaction just drives you to speed up your pace.

He's trembling all over, and tries to shift the angle from which you're riding him. Doing so affords his cock to hit something inside you, lighting up your body, starburst behind your eyelids, and you jolt, a whimper tearing out of your throat that Xavier drinks greedily. His hand on your ass traverses to your clit and plays with it, intensifying the blast of sensations on your lower body.

Obstructed by your mouth, Xavier tries: “My lady, I think—I'm close.”

“Me too, I'm—don't hold back—”

He doesn't. And he doubles his efforts in relentlessly stroking your clit and pounding up inside you, and the pleasure crests and crests and crests until you pulse and clench and come, sobbing at the white-hot crash flooding your nerves, collapsing on top of Xavier, mouths still connected.

And he doesn't stop. This time both his hands bracket your hips; grinds you down as he pushes deeper and deeper inside you. You're oversensitive but you don't stop him, just clinging to him and whimpering, and he begins to assail your ear, his panting tangible and hot against your skin.

“My lady, my lady,” he chants, voice shattering like glass. “My lady—Master—”

His orgasm feels like an echo of your own release, his spend filling inside you. Xavier gives a few more thrusts before slowing down and stopping. A self-satisfied sigh ripples over his relaxed body, and his hands climb to your back, guide you to pillow your head on his chest, embracing you as you melt on top of him.

Minutes pass, and his breathing evens; you expected him to fall asleep after, but when you look up his eyes are emphatically open.

“Aren't you sleeping?”

He glances down at you. Quirks a smile. “No, not yet.”

“Oh ...”

“We're not finished, my lady.”

“Huh?”

“You've had your fill, Master.” He smirks. Then flips you over, reversing your positions so he's now on top of you. He starts unbuttoning your shirt. “Now let me have mine.”

[wishcamper]

Cassian Appreciation Week Day Two: Hair

Happy @cassianappreciationweek! Here is my first offering for Day Two: Hair. You can read it here or on ao3.

Enjoy!

My Sweetest Downfall

A Nessian re-telling of the biblical story of Samson and Delilah, set during the first war for human liberation.

CW: consensual sexual content, reference to sex trafficking

Art by Terry Strickland

Oh, we couldn't bring the columns down Yeah, we couldn't destroy a single one And the history books forgot about us And the Bible didn't mention us, not even once "Samson”, Regina Spektor

She was the most beautiful female Cassian had ever seen.

Woman, rather - the rounded edge of her ear had been what caught his eye, entranced by the freshness of her face, the self-possession of this human woman weaving through the sea of fae in the lower markets of Adriata. All visions of using his shore leave to drown himself in wine, blow all his wages at the tables, and bed as many females as possible vacated his mind the moment her blue-gray eyes met his over the heads of the crowd, the exact color of an Illyrian sunrise.

She belonged to one of the pleasure houses, as evidenced by the copper bands at her wrists and throat, likely one of the more expensive ones gives the fine silk of her gown, the glint of her golden brown hair braided about her head like a crown. He searched for days until he found the right one, coming across her at last at the Golden Thread. He wasn’t even really sure what he wanted, just to be near her, to feel the heat of her body, the thrum of mortality under her skin.

More than anything, he wanted to understand that tug in his chest, the pull that urged him to crash himself to the ground for her, even if it reduced him to rubble.

—

He was a force of nature, wild as a winter wind yet gentle as the crush of petals under bare feet, a mountain of a male whose waters ran deep and smooth.

And in spite of it all, she still had to break him.

She pushed down her guilt, her disgust at the task before her. They’d been all over each other for a week, stealing moments in hidden coves, remote beaches, even once behind a corner stall in the market when the vendor was away. Despite having paid for her, and handsomely, he seemed to want only what she gave freely of her time, her body. What he wanted lay beneath, he said, a chance to listen to the symphony of her human heart for however long she’d allow.

That same human heart condemned her, left her helpless to the forces of power and control that bound her tighter than any ropes ever could.

The stories of him in battle had spread across Prythian long before his arrival in the great Summer city, of the Illyrian foot soldier who razed armies with his deadly dance, blessed by the Mother herself. Enalius reborn, they called him, and the Lord of Spring wanted him eliminated in neutral territory if they were to have a chance at winning the war. Ten thousand gold marks they'd promised to her if she could find the source of his power.

She knew she condemned herself with this cursed bargain, much less her people, but there was no way around it. She’d never make enough with her body to free her family, to protect them from the ravages of the fae without the riches they dangled in front of her.

And so when he slipped through the lavender curtains of the Golden Thread, she hoped to hate him. Prayed he’d be despicable, possessive and brutish like the other males, head swollen large enough so just a single pinprick could deflate it. Instead, that first night he came to her plush, dark chambers she found a tenderness that stunned her and knew this would be so much more damning than she’d ever imagined.

He was willing to sacrifice everything for human freedom, he told her in the wake of their joining, dark curls clinging to his brow. The shame consumed her knowing he’d fulfill that promise, even if his martyrdom would come not on the daybright battlefield as he imagined, but rather with the breathless gasp of a knife in the night.

For the next week he worshiped her body in their beachside bungalow, ran his fingers over and under the copper cuffs as if he’d rip them off with his bare hands.

“And how would one shackle you, Lord of Bloodshed?”

“No bonds can hold me, sweetheart, save for those given by the Mother.”

He promised to smuggle her out between presses of his lips against her skin, or else to buy her freedom, to win the whole damn war by himself if that’s what it took. She only smiled and called them beautiful words, nothing less, nothing more. At night when he slept, she lay awake tracing the fresh scar cleaving his eyebrow, the lines of tattoos swirling over his chest and arms.

Make a bargain with me, he said, hazel eyes sparkling with something too painful to look at for more than a moment, like staring into the sun. Tell me what makes you so strong, she said, tell me what gives you the power of ten males, a hundred. She watched her warrior spar with his own heart, and though he denied her in the end she felt a relief in it, that they could have one more day, one more night with none to witness what bloomed save for the stars, the moonlit sea.

She’d ask him twice more, she told him, and he grinned in a way that broke something in her, something she could never repair.

In the cradle of seclusion, long-buried hurts began to emerge, the throes of pleasure giving way to tears that flowed like wine. He held her pain like a bird in his hand, stroking her jagged edges gently. Unafraid of what lay within her, the blink of her mortal life.

Why do you touch me so?, she asked, and he ran a hand up her thigh to the crook of her waist, following the path his mouth had blazed before they’d collapsed in satiety. 

She asked him the second time in the cove off the beach, the one he’d flown her to on those resplendent wings. The white sand floor glowed under turquoise water, casting his body in an unearthly light, their echoing moans giving way to laughter that ricocheted off the rock, through her chest. He told her of his days training, the foolish arrogance of his youth before it was shattered by the war. She shared a memory of stealing sweets from a shop when she was a child, the rush of her first taste of sugar, of the successful con.

“And is victory always sweet for you, siren?”

Mostly not, she told him, and a challenge sparkled in his eyes, one that made her blood go hot. She forgot for a moment why she was there, the trap at the center of the maze, and let him fly the long way home, skimming the waves with her fingertips as they chased a pod of dolphins playing in the surf.

When they returned, he disappeared for a short time while she bathed, stepping back through the leaning door frame as she was toweling off, arms laden with gifts from the market. That night she claimed her victory in all the ways she wanted to, the Lord of Bloodshed under command of his interim queen.

“Please,” she begged the Spring lord through the mirror he’d given her, the forget-me-nots in his golden hair either a cruel jest or devastating providence. “Please spare him. Take his power but do not take his life.”

The High Lord laughed in answer, and the guilt stretched her to the point of breaking, her skin a dull hide drying in the sun. “It seems the hearts of human sluts are as open as their legs.”

She knew he felt her sadness, her fear when he returned from a swim in the ocean, salt glittering on his wings like diamonds in the sunset glow. He lifted her into his arms and retreated to the bathing chamber, showed her where to touch them to bring him to his knees, to make him fall apart with her name on his lips.

Ask me, he said, ask me once more.

“No.”

“Why not? Have you given up on me, sweetheart?”

He couldn’t want everything that came with her, she told him, wouldn’t desire her if he knew the wickedness of her heart, the crumbling ruins of her soul.

“How can I prove it to you?”

Her fingers clutched at his shirtfront, begging him to stay, to run, to see the deception at her core.

“Tell me the source of your strength. Tell me what gives you the power of ten males, of a hundred. Show me your weakness and I shall show you mine.”

Her faithful lover brought his forehead down to hers, resting it lightly, drew her hand up to bury it in the soft curls at the nape of his neck.

“If my hair is cut, I lose my strength. I am as weak as any other until it grows long again.”

She grabbed a handful of it in her fist, pulling his head back sharply. But he only looked at her with that sun-bright devotion, the passages of his heart open to her to walk through as she pleased. She decided to leave a footprint there, the barest trace. Hoped it was enough for him to remember.

“I have a daughter to the south. She does not know what I am. All I do is for her.”

Something like understanding passed through him then, but she didn’t get the chance to question it for he captured her mouth with his own, sinking her down into the deep waters where only they lived, borne along by the current.

Moonlight glinted off the shears where she hovered over him hours later, praying for him to wake. To grab her wrists and throw her against the wall, or else to kiss her desperately and fly her as far as those wings could take them, past the edge of the world.

But he did not wake, and instead she cut each lock from his head, the thread in her chest ripping violently with each traitorous snip.

—

They paraded him through the temple in chains, the jeers and taunts hitting his back like a volley of arrows. The warrior god shackled like the slaves he so foolishly defended, reduced to the bastard-born nobody he feared lived at his core.

He found her at once among the crowd assembled, her beautiful face broken with agony, and even though he knew he should hate her the space where his anger lived felt hollow. The absence of her was more devastating than any of the whips that lashed at his back, the blunt blows to his chest, his legs.

His power gone, the feeble call of it sluggish in his veins, he could only watch as they brought the ropes forth. They lashed him to the great column at the center that held up the ceiling, painted with scenes of resplendent High Fae, their faces cold and cruel. He tried to tell her to go, to run, but he was too weak to speak, knew from the way she clutched the collar at her throat she’d never leave while he was still alive. He only hoped she’d be far enough away to miss the worst of it.

I’m sorry, he said as best he could, feeling the imprint of her body on his skin, in his bones. I’m sorry I couldn’t save us from this. I’m sorry I didn’t know until it was too late.

Hazel eyes lifted skyward, a prayer to the Mother on his dry, cracked lips. With a great heave he twisted, rammed his bound fists into the pillar he leaned against, ripping apart the world.

Stone rained down and there was screaming everywhere, thick dust pouring into his lungs and he waited for the crush, the flash of pain before it all went quiet and still. In the long tunnel of time he hoped to return as a tree somewhere in a quiet wood, to feel her sit in his shade, or else to be a clear pool she drank from, the splash of him over her face washing her clean.

And all at once he was shoved aside, a great boom echoing somewhere overhead, soft hair tickling his face, soothing his heated cheeks.

He opened his eyes to find her body splayed over him, taking the blow of the stone that would’ve been his death. A shimmer of gold disappeared into the dust engulfing the ruined temple, and he felt the pull in his chest begin to break, ever-reaching and grasping at the building darkness.

“Don’t go, sweetheart. I didn’t get enough. I want more. We should’ve had more.”

This brave human woman, his mate, her body broken and bleeding, reached a hand up and touched his face lightly, pain and love in her dawn-colored eyes.

“I’ll find you in the next world, the next life. I promise. And we will have time.”

A fierce, burning pain seared along his scalp. He heard someone shouting, felt a wave of night-dark power sweep over him before oblivion dragged him under, stealing the only thing he wanted, one last memory of her face.

But all he was left with were the spikes of an eight-pointed star on the crown of his head, the only remnant of her final words, his failures. Their future snatched away by the greed of death, the indifference of fate.

Five hundred years passed, and Cassian searched every face for hers, heart leaping at every flash of golden brown hair, every knowing grin in a crowded market. He’d almost given up the day he stepped into the Archeron manor when he saw her glaring across the room at him, when that thread in his chest yanked so violently he thought he’d been shot by an arrow, straight through. She didn’t remember him, of course, but he could’ve sworn a flicker of recognition passed through her, the past lingering in the core of their bones, woven into their skin.

And he knew in that moment, more than he’d ever known anything, that he’d rip every hair from his head for her. That no matter what war he had to win or building he had to shatter, he’d free her from the shackles of the world, from those in her heart, her mind. 

That they would have time.

---

Thank you if you got this far! I'm pretty proud of this one so I hope you enjoyed aka it didn't hurt too much. Shoutout to all the other awesome creators putting out amazing work this week. There is so much more to come!

[nerdygaymormon]

Hello! Do you mind providing me a link to the most current version of the handbook and just noting which sections have the changes about trans policies? I'm having trouble finding it to show my dad.

Some of the changes people are talking about are contained in a supplement to the Handbook, this is the first time such a "supplement" has been issued containing specific rules. It includes rules limiting a trans person to only attending meetings & activities which align with their gender assigned at birth, forbids trans youth and young single adults from overnight activities, restricts trans members from almost all callings, and has specific rules about under what circumstances a trans person may use the restroom.

As for the Handbook itself, right at the very beginning of the Handbook is a page summarizing the recent changes. However, the amount of changes regarding trans members is so extensive they didn't give a summary, they simply provided links to the sections which were changed.

This makes it difficult to know what was changed unless you were familiar with what was there before. Here's a link to the Handbook as it existed in April 2022

For starters, the Handbook section 38.6.23 used to be called "Transgender Individuals" and now it says "Individuals Who Identify as Transgender." The section also says "members who feel their inner sense of gender does not align with their biological sex at birth" instead of "transgender person."

The Handbook used to say: "Most Church participation and some priesthood ordinances are gender neutral. Transgender persons may be baptized and confirmed as outlined in 38.2.3.14. They may also partake of the sacrament and receive priesthood blessings. However, priesthood ordination and temple ordinances are received according to birth sex."

Now it says, "The ordinances of salvation and exaltation are received according to a person’s biological sex at birth." It also suggests that the ways a trans person can participate in the church is by family history and service to others.

The Handbook used to say "A transgender person may be baptized and confirmed if he or she is not pursuing elective medical or surgical intervention to attempt to transition to the opposite of his or her biological sex at birth (“sex reassignment”)."

Now it says, "Baptism and confirmation are received according to a person’s biological sex at birth. Worthy individuals who do not pursue surgical, medical, or social transition away from their biological sex at birth may be baptized and confirmed."

It used to say, "Some children, youth, and adults are prescribed hormone therapy by a licensed medical professional to ease gender dysphoria or reduce suicidal thoughts. Before a person begins such therapy, it is important that he or she (and the parents of a minor) understands the potential risks and benefits. If these members are not attempting to transition to the opposite gender and are worthy, they may receive Church callings, temple recommends, and temple ordinances.

Now this carve out for someone to receive hormone therapy under medical supervision for their mental well being and still be considered worthy has been eliminated.

————————————————

The Handbook says "These individuals often face complex challenges. They—and their family and friends—should be treated with sensitivity, kindness, compassion, and Christlike love. All are children of God and have divine worth." Do these changes seem like they're sensitive, kind, compassionate and full of love?

What they've actually done is indirectly say there is no such thing as a transgender person and anyone who feels they are needs to repent. Basically, we don't want you around our children, we don't trust you to even go to the bathroom, if you feel like we don't want you here, please know we're telling you this "with love and respect."

In the October 2020 General Conference, President Nelson delivered a talk titled "Let God Prevail" in which he said, "Today I call upon our members everywhere to lead out in abandoning attitudes and actions of prejudice. I plead with you to promote respect for all of God’s children." I wish the church truly strove to follow this admonition.

[jiao-ming]

Aventurine

From: Honkai Star Rail

Theme: Fluff?

(Photo from Pinterest)

——— ☆ • ♧ • ♤ • ♧ • ☆ ———

You never really saw a reason to live, all life was is a circle of meaningless. The things you knew about life was that it was better to be feared than be loved.

Ever since you could remember, your life was filled with misfortune. Each time you meet someone, they'll either kill you on site or kill you later on. If you think it'll be different, it wasn't...I wouldn't...

You had a wonderful gift of power, if it was even called a gift. It gives you more of a curse then blessings, everytime someone founds out about them you'll be in danger. So you eliminate the danger as soon as possible, even if you thought they'll be different...

But something stranged happened one day...

You were just chilling on a rooftop of a building in the middle of the night. Then you heard the rooftop door open, you were ready to kill the person but they spoke up to you.

"The rumors say that you'd be in the tallest darkest building in the city..."

You turn your head and face the masculine voice, you saw it was a man who wore expensive clothing. The clothes he wore had designs like of different gambling games, it caught your attention by his bold style.

"What do you want from me."

You said coldy to the male, you didn't want to be here any longer. If he tries to stop you, you'll kill him.

"It's not want, more like a need."

The male says smirking at you as his eyes shine with excitement. This made you confused by his choice of words. Your guard was up, what is he up to.

"Who are you...?"

You said confused with wariness, you already had your gun ready if he tried something.

"I'm Aventurine, part of the IPC—"

You immediately cut him off by shooting him by the side of his head. His eyes widen by the sudden violence.

"IPC huh...I don't associate with any of you people..."

Your eyes glare at him as you spoke harshly towards him, you never liked the IPC. The organization is just pure evil with no good side to you, maybe the way you think about them was because of all your encounters with them. They all acted hostile and violent to you, with the fact of them having a terrible image in the galaxy.

"Come on now, I heard some of my associates were troubled some to you. But I assure you I'm not like them, I communicate other than fighting."

Even after Aventurine said that you still had your guard up, you held your gun up to him if he tries anything. Even the slightest movement will cause Aventurine his life with you, but all he did was smile to this.

"Doesn't matter, you all are the same. If you want something you'll take it by force."

After you said does words Aventurine laughs at it, this made you confused. Why was he so careless of showing his reactions, what was his plan.

"What if I tell you I'll help you find a reason to live."

This caught your attention, why does he know this! How does he know this! Your eyes glare at him harshly, you didn't like what this situation was turning to.

"What do you want in return..."

You said knowing this wouldn't come for free, everything has to come in a price. No matter how big or small it is, you learn it the hard way...

"What I need in return is for you to be part of the IPC,—"

That didn't surprise you, it would make sense on why he would want you to work for the IPC. With your power it would be handy to have someone like you. But the next part of his sentence caught you off guard and left you speechless.

"—and also be my bodyguard."

You look at him like he was a mad man, it wasn't like he was the first person to ask the question of you working for them. But for him to ask you to be his bodyguard!? Now that was new...

"Pardon—What?"

"You heard me! Be my bodyguard and I'll help you find a reason to live."

Was he stupid of something...No he couldn't be! Why would he ask you! Knowing how you're a so called wicked beast who is filled with sin! A known demon among citizens! He could just have hired you to do the dirty work! But he asked you to be his bodyguard! So why!?

"Why, have you heard of me?"

"Of course I did, why wouldn't I ask you to be my bodyguard if I didn't heard the rumors."

So he does know...Then why did he want you still!? Did he have a death wish or something!? Is he a mad man!? Was he manic!? Questions keep flooding your head, but you soon snap out of it when Aventurine spoke out.

"So? What do you say?"

He says with a smirk as he held his hand out for you to shake to agree to the proposal. You stare down at his short height and then to his hand, will it be worth it? Almost everytime someone ask you to work for them you decline them, and if they threaten you, you'd kill them. But now...

"Fine, I accept..."

You said as you walk towards him and shook his hand, this was something that might go terribly wrong. But then again maybe terribly right...Aventurine smirks at your decision, he then pulls out a pin. It's design was similar to his ascetic and a piece of paper, he then hands it to you.

"You'll be under me now, hope you can start work tomorrow."

He says walking away from you while waving, you look at your hand and stare at the paper. It had an address and a number, must be his address and number. You let out a sigh, you wonder if this was a good idea. But what can you do now? What is done is done, now you just have to wait for the out come...

——— ☆ • ♧ • ♤ • ♧ • ☆ ———

Sorry if I got some spelling wrong...

English isn'y first language ╥﹏╥

If you want part 2 ask me!

I'll be happy to write it :3

[notoneopinion]

10 Ways I Soothe Anxiety

Hello. I have anxiety.

I have anxiety, but I have also managed to somehow keep a pretty good life for myself through it all. Getting out of bed when you have a paralysing fear of the world is not an easy task, but there are a few things I have found that make it that little bit easier, life that little bit smoother. And because we certainly don't gatekeep here, I thought I'd share the ten main ways I soothe anxiety. Basically, ten things I do to switch off and remove myself from my brain.

1. Turn your phone off.

An obvious one, but probably one of the most important. It's insane how clogged a person's brain will get when they spend their day glued to a phone screen. For me, it's not even just social media that sets me off, though that is a massive trigger for me and many other people; it's the phone in general. I could be playing Angry Birds for twenty-four hours and still finish the day feeling gross and anxious and guilty. The screen itself just makes me feel groggy, which in turn leaves me feeling anxious by the time I'm getting into bed that night. There are some days I will wake up, and just turn my phone off completely - usually days when I know I'm going to be at home all day, but still. That extended break from screen time is a life saver.

2. Fidget toys.

Okay, so I may also have autism.

But!!!! Fidget toys are miracle workers for all kinds of mental illnesses and uncomfortable feelings, so don't think you can't invest in some just because you're not on the spectrum. Fidget toys are literally made to soothe anxiety, so get yourself some!! I have one called a Tangle that I keep on me at all times, and I just mess with it in my pocket when I'm in a social situation and I don't know what to do with my hands, or I start feeling a little overwhelmed. It brings my fight or flight right down. I don't know the science behind it, but I honestly don't even care. Give me fidget toys, or give me death.

3. Model making, eg Legos, 3D puzzles.

Legos and 3D puzzles are another thing that has changed the game for me when it comes to anxiety. Like fidget toys, they are the perfect way to keep your hands busy, but they have the added bonus of keeping your mind busy, too. These are, of course, more of a relaxation technique, something you come home to after a stressful day rather than something to eliminate anxiety on the spot, but we'll take what we can get. These also keep you relaxed and distracted for hours, because there is hours worth of work to be put into them. Plus, they're very addictive - once you start on a Lego set, or a puzzle, you don't want to stop until it's finished. I've sat for eleven hours straight doing a Lego set just because I wanted to see the finished product as soon as possible, and during those eleven hours, my anxiety was non-existent. I was just enjoying myself the entire time.

4. Have a nap.

Very self explanatory, and yet controversial???

But genuinely, just go to sleep??? If you're having a gruesome day, and your mind is bullying you, and you're exhausted, just lay down and go to sleep. Fuck what other people say. There is nothing wrong with clocking out from the horrors of the real world for a few hours. As long as you get back up, all refreshed and ready to tackle another day, who cares??

5. Talk to a loved one.

I am very blessed that I can put this on the list. I know this can be a very difficult coping mechanism for a lot of people - trust me, I know. Growing up, my anxiety was my own, and not once did it ever occur to me to share that problem with anyone else. However, after meeting the right people, and understanding that nobody is going to be annoyed about hearing my problems, talking to people became one of the best and most useful coping mechanisms I've got. It can be as simple as sending your best friend a text telling them how you're feeling, or you can go all out and sit your Mum down with a cup of tea and bawl your eyes out. Getting those feelings out will give you a physical relief as well as a mental relief; the weight you've been carrying, a weight you probably don't even notice any more, will be gone in a matter of minutes. I promise you.

6. Exercise.

I know. I was shocked too. All those scientists that told us exercise and moving your body is good for your mental health were right. Bastards.

Just go on a walk. That's what I mean when I say 'exercise.' If you want to go to the gym and lift weights, or run a marathon, you go right ahead. More power to you. But by 'exercise' I just mean. . . move your body. Take the dog on a walk! Walk to the shop instead of driving! Get a bike! The tiniest bit of movement in a day can do wonders, whether we want to admit it or not.

7. Blast happy, sing-in-the-car music.

There's a playlist of Spotify that I highly recommend when it comes to wanting to escape reality and just have a good time. It's literally called Songs to Sing in the Car, and it's one of those playlists Spotify make themselves, just full of songs that you can sing at the top of your lungs, or blast through your headphones, and just have a real good time for a little while. I know it's easy sometimes to just go straight to that playlist full of sad songs that you can relate to in that moment, but try and go for a different approach - go find old bangers that you used to jump around to as a kid. It's a breath of fresh air.

8. Do chores.

Two in one baby!

A good chunk of the time, our anxiety is stemming from our to-do list, even if we're not thinking about it. All around us is evidence of all the unfinished tasks we've got to do, and that can really stress you out. Personally, whenever I'm anxious, I become almost camotose; I will just sit on the sofa and stare at the wall, feeling everything all at once. However, I've found that using this time to do little tasks around the house actually makes me feel better. I'm not saying I go and do a full massive clean; I might push myself just a bit to wash one or two dishes, or the whole sink if I can manage it. I'll hoover the living room floor. I'll go upstairs and put my clothes away. Just tiny jobs, only as much as I can push myself to do. A lot of the time, one job turns into two, and then two turns to three, and soon my house is spotless, and you know what they say - clean space, clear mind!

9. Take up knitting/ crocheting.

This one is pretty self-explanatory. I only discovered this as a coping mechanism when I was suffering from really bad insomnia and I couldn't sleep; I somehow found myself watching YouTube tutorials on knitting, and I was overcome with this intense urge to learn. It was literally one in the morning, and I drove to my Mum's house (dragged my fiance out of bed to come with me, too, sorry babe <3) and grabbed knitting needles and some yarn. I was up knitting for about an hour, and I felt so relaxed that I actually managed to go to sleep! For the first time in days! So not only can you make really cute clothes and nick-nacks and learn a new skill, you're also relaxing that anxious brain of yours for a little bit.

10. Have a good cry.

Yeah. Just this.

[literallyjustanerd]

At Sunset In Summer - I

Omega is ready to join The Rebellion. Hunter is not.

This was a really fun piece, and I'm actually pretty proud of how it turned out :) Enjoy 7k words of Hunter failing to talk about his feelings.

Thanks @saradika for the divider! And thanks @morphofan for the inspiration for the last chapter. Your post hurt me and I hope to do the same :)

Next Chapter

Chapter One - Autumn

The sun is still warm, though the wind carries a slight chill. Just enough to nip at Hunter's fingertips, an omen of the coming winter. Still, he keeps the window open for the view. Pabu is ablaze with reds and yellows, the changing leaves incandescent under the setting sun. 

He’s enjoying the warmth on his face when Omega enters, laden with a heavy basket of produce from the market.

“Careful with those. You look like you’re about to tip over,” Hunter chuckles, only briefly glancing up from the filleted fish on the cutting board.

“Lyana says it's a good harvest this year,” Omega replies brightly. She sets the basket down next to the fish with a barely-disguised grunt, and hops up to sit on the counter. “Even the meilooruns are cheaper than usual.”

“Don't tell Wrecker, they'll be gone in a day,” Hunter jokes. “Now what did I say about sitting on the bench? Get down from there and help me with dinner.”

Hunter had never thought of himself as someone who could enjoy routine, let alone thrive on it. But in the years since they had found their peace on Pabu, he has been lulled by the simple, easy rhythms of daily life, and found comfort in the small rituals they create. He rises early in the morning. He works, he tends the garden. He sews patches in his family's worn clothes. And he's never been happier. 

Omega hops off the bench and pulls out a pot to start on the vegetables. As she does, she flicks on the subspace radio on the windowsill and tunes it to her usual station. The music puts a bounce in her step as she peels and slices the tubers, and Hunter can't help but smile. It’s a familiar song, a tawdry pop tune Hunter had always found overloud and irritating. It’s a favourite of Omega’s, though, and she hums along as they work side by side. The moment is mundane, like so many thousands over the last five years. They have never stopped feeling like blessings. 

“Wrecker and Cross should be back from the docks soon,” Omega says, giving the pot a shake. “Think they were going to help Shep repair some of the ships after their haul.”

Hunter adds the first fish to the pot as the song fades out. It's replaced by a news bulletin, read in a strong, stern voice. 

At the first mention of Ryloth, the sun's warmth is stolen from the room. Hunter glances to the side: Omega's hand has tightened on the pot handle, frozen in place. There's an anxious flutter in Hunter's ear: her pulse has quickened. The radio speaks of the smothered rebellion on Ryloth as a cause for celebration. The newsreader espouses the joy of a coming peace, of unity within The Empire's broad embrace. Under the flowery language, Hunter can hear the Twi’leks’ desperate struggle for freedom.

“Rebel extremists have attempted to retake the system's capital, though losses have been minimal. Sources say Imperial casualties are far outweighed by those of the insurgents.”

“I've been speaking to Hera.”

Omega's words bring a lump to Hunter’s throat. She's not looking at him, not even facing him. Her words are icy around the edges. “It's getting really bad out there.” 

He can't say he hasn't been expecting this for some time. But not now. Please, not now. He's not ready. 

“Omega—”

“They need pilots. The Rebellion are doing what they can, but people are still suffering.”

“The Rebellion will find its volunteers. People will go. Your place is here,” Hunter says, his tone clipped. The scrape of his knife against the fishscale grates against his nerves. It only drives his hand harder on the blade. 

“Imperial reports predict that the rebel terrorists on Ryloth will be eliminated within the month.”

“People are losing their homes, their families. They’re giving their lives. How am I supposed to sit here when I know I should be helping?”

The sun through the window is losing its battle against the horizon. The room has begun to dim, the light turning cold and blue. 

“It's not safe for you out there.”

“I know it's not! That's the point, I—”

“I said no, Omega!” Hunter’s knife spears the cutting board, cleaving the fish's head from its body. His words are harsh, a barking command, and it feels discordant, out of place. Hunter hasn't used that voice in years. Not since the battlefield. As much as he instantly regrets the outburst, it still has its desired effect: Omega falls silent, her protests all but dried up in her throat. 

For longer than Hunter can bear to count, neither of them move, neither speak. His jaw is tight, his nerves frayed against the jagged silence. The sharp staccato of Omega’s heartbeat hammers in his ear. She inhales softly, trying to smother it, but still Hunter can hear how her breath trembles. Outside, the last dregs of warmth have abandoned them. The sun drowns slowly in the black ocean below. Hunter wants to apologise. He wants to explain. He wants to take his little girl in his arms and hold her so close to him, have her bury her head in his chest like she used to after a nightmare, trusting him, asking him to keep her safe.

But many seasons have passed since she had last needed him for that kind of comfort. And now when she hugs him, her head reaches higher than his. 

He means to apologise. He does. But the words don't come. They're smothered, crushed between the weight of the past at his back and the future ahead. His mind swims, a sordid mess of tangled thoughts and feelings he can't hope to decode into anything logical. So instead, he reaches up with unsteady hands, and closes the windows against the creeping chill. He switches off the murmuring radio. He continues slicing fish. Over his shoulder, he hears Omega move. She bends to the bottom cupboard to pull out plates and cups, and, stoic and wordless, with eyes downturned, she begins setting the table for dinner. 

For all his guilt, Hunter can't help but feel relieved that the conversation is over.

[rayshippouuchiha]

Au with Ichigo as a pretty amazing ASMR YouTuber and the local serial killer is the fan that loves him

Perhaps not exactly what you had in mind but this is what the void spat forth so here we go:

Kisuke's never been fond of the term psychopath.

Or, to be more accurate, he's never been fond of having the label attached to himself.

He's self-aware and intelligent enough to understand why so many people enjoy attempting to attach that particular tag to his name after spending any real amount of time with him.

Kisuke knows that, he's aware, and so it's honestly completely understandable when people reach that conclusion.

It's just that he's just never actually agreed with the pseudo-diagnosis so many like to sling in his direction.

Because Kisuke knows himself better than anyone else and he knows that he is not a psychopath.

Is he manipulative? Yes, of course. Is he violent? Obviously.

But Kisuke has never lacked empathy, has never lacked remorse or anything of the like.

His emotions are and have always been firmly intact.

So, contrary to popular belief, Kisuke is not a psychopath.

Instead, he's simply blessed with a particular talent for pragmatism.

Or perhaps an overabundance of it, depending on who one asks.

For all that Kisuke has always enjoyed learning and experimenting and generally broadening his intellectual horizons, it's a passion that had, ultimately, been born from practicality.

He'd grown up destitute, just another Kabukichō bastard. He'd been born to a mother who'd worked in whatever shady "host club" that would take her and who had simply stopped coming back to the matchbox apartment they'd lived in by the time Kisuke was eight.

She'd left for work one evening, heels on, cheap perfume lingering in the air around them, with an absently affectionate kiss to the top of his messy hair and Kisuke had simply never seen her again.

Kisuke had been on the streets, scrapping and stealing and learning to be vicious just to survive, by the time he was nine.

Every single move he'd made back then had been guided by practicality, with the only real goal in mind being that of his own survival.

His first kill had been much the same.

There'd been a shatei of one of the local yakuza Clans who liked to linger in Kisuke's preferred areas of operation.

A yakuza little brother with a taste for little brothers of his own.

And he was particularly fond of Kisuke with his exotic blond hair and his captivating eyes.

He'd tried to come across as friendly, as fun and harmless.

But Kisuke had seen through him. Had seen through that intense sort of friendliness he'd exuded and right down to the hungry sort of emptiness that lived beneath it.

He'd seen through it but he'd still allowed himself to be lured in. Had taken the food and the snacks, the money and the headpats that made Kisuke's teeth itch. Had allowed himself to be pulled in closer and closer.

And then, when the time was right, Kisuke had struck.

Like a spider finally pulling on the razor-silk threads he'd woven, trapping prey that had firmly believed itself to be the only predator in the room.

Killing the man had been equal parts work and luck for Kisuke. For all of his planning, he had been only ten and whipcord lean with hunger at the time. But he'd also been quick and clever and had possessed a survival instinct that his year on the streets had done nothing but sharpen to a razor's edge.

So he'd been just a bit battered at the end but he'd gotten the job done, leaving the man limp and empty-eyed on the bed of the back alley love hotel he'd finally "coaxed" Kisuke into visiting with him.

Emotionally? Mentally? Killing that yakuza had just made sense to Kisuke. He'd been eliminating a threat. Disposing of a danger to himself and the other kids who roamed the back streets and alleyways.

Stealing his wallet and knife as well as anything useful out of the room itself but leaving the man's recognizable, identifiable, jewelry behind had all been practical choices.

Come to find out, killing pedophiles and other sexual predators that haunted Kabukichō ended up being fairly lucrative as well.

So, in Kisuke's opinion, it was only practical that he kept doing it.

~~~

Kisuke had operated like that for years, doing what he needed to do to survive, practicing his particular brand of pragmatism, right up until Yoruichi-sama had found him mid-kill and, instead of turning him in, had chosen to take him under her wing.

Yoruichi-sama had cared for him, had fed his mind as well as his body, and had allowed him to flourish and grow.

And she'd taught him how to refine his skills and then how to put them to use for the benefit of herself and for the Shihōin Clan as a whole.

He'd stayed by her side, had killed and heeled at her command like the loyal dog he was, for years.

Right up until he'd finally overstepped.

~~~

Hirako-sama had demanded Kisuke's head for what he'd done but Yoruichi had managed to talk him down to banishment and stripping of all Shihōin Clan protections.

Kisuke likely could have avoided such a thing if he'd agreed to Yoruichi-sama's suggestion to perform yubitsume but he'd refused.

Kisuke was more than capable of feeling regret and remorse no matter what the majority of the Shihōin, and Yoruichi-sama's little bee in particular, liked to whisper about him.

The fact of the matter was that he simply didn't regret killing Aizen Sosuke.

Kisuke had been one of the rare few who'd disliked the accountant, who'd never been drawn in by his charming smiles and his soft, slightly bookish persona that was somewhat of a rarity in their world.

Kisuke had known better.

Aizen had been a threat. Just another empty-eyed predator of a breed that Kisuke had no patience to deal with.

Kisuke had been content to keep a watch on him but to mostly ignore him, had managed to do so for years as a matter of fact.

Until he'd happened to see Aizen interact with young Hinamori Momo.

It had only been practical for Kisuke to do what he'd done after that.

Performing yubitsume and losing a pinky finger in remorse would have been an entirely empty gesture that Kisuke had no interest in.

In the end, Kisuke had chosen banishment instead, unwilling to have Yoruichi-sama fight for him any more than she already had.

He'd packed up what little he owned, taken his accounts and the hefty deposit Yoruichi had refused to take back (a severance package she'd said with that wry tilt to her mouth) had left.

~~~

He'd wandered for a while. Spent some time in Okinawa and Yokohama alike. He'd drifted from place to place and had even, for a brief while, considered making his way to the mainland.

But then, when he'd been spending some time in Kyoto and contemplating his next move, Kisuke had run across something that had changed everything.

He'd been sprawled out on a futon in the private suite of the inn he was staying in, scrolling through his phone and enjoying the calmness and solitude that came hand in hand with it being the off-season for tourism, and lamenting his inability to sleep.

Insomnia was truly one of his oldest companions. It had been born from the days when sleeping, when letting his guard down that far on the streets, wasn't safe and it had stuck with him throughout the rest of his life, coming and going in random spurts as he grew older.

Finally, just a bit frustrated, he'd dropped his phone onto his chest, autoplay turned onto the ASMR he normally used. It, like most other ASMR videos he'd tried over the years since he'd been introduced to the concept, only worked about 33% of the time but it was better than nothing.

If all else fails he can meditate for a while and contemplate his next move. He'd just arrived at this inn the night before but he was already feeling restless. He hadn't been able to stay in one place for longer than a few days since he left the Shihōin. Nowhere had felt right, had felt secure and comfortable enough to settle down in for longer than that.

The video that he was listening to, a soft murmuring voice reading from one of the latest scientific journals Kisuke enjoys, ended and there was a moment of silence as the next loaded.

"Top 10 Most Romantic Shakespeare Sonnets," an unfamiliar warm and husky voice murmured from Kisuke's phone then. "Sonnet 18. Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temper-"

Kisuke abruptly went rigid, hair standing on end and senses electrified.

"Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May," the voice continued softly, soothingly. "And summer’s lease hath all too short a date."

And then, just as quickly as the tension came, Kisuke's spine abruptly melts.

By the time the voice has made it through the first seven sonnets Kisuke is deeply asleep.

~~~

Kisuke wakes up the next morning feeling more refreshed than he can remember feeling in years, if ever, with his phone dead and that voice still somehow ringing in his ears.

He only lets his phone charge enough to be able to turn it back on before he's pulling up his account and going through his history to get back to that video.

He likes it and even goes ahead and subscribes to the account that posted it. StrawberryProtector is kind of a cutesy name for an ASMR account with such a voice but Kisuke's absolutely seen weirder.

It might have been a fluke but Kisuke's enough of a lover of science that he's willing to give the channel a try tonight as well.

~~~

Only no, as it turns out, it's not a fluke.

Kisuke's gotten the best sleep of his life this week and it's all thanks to StrawberryProtector's absolutely delicious voice.

No matter what the content of the video is, from more Shakespeare to Takajo to various other poets and once even a cookbook, Kisuke finds himself relaxed and drowsy within ten minutes.

He's more than a little obsessed.

And it's not like he has much else to do these days.

So it's only practical that Kisuke pull out his laptop and do a little bit of digging.

~~~

An hour and a half later with Kurosaki Ichigo's life spread out on the screen in front of him, Kisuke knows that he's in love.

Looks like his next stop is going to end up being Karakura Town.

[theladyofbloodshed]

SJM Romance Week - Day 5 - Favourite Tropes

@sjmromanceweek

Forced Proximity x Injury Recovery meets Sister Act

Two years. Two long years since Nesta had been given sanctuary by the priestesses in Itica after running from her life from Hybern’s beasts.

Even now, days before the anniversary of hammering on the doors with her bloodied hands, she remembered the thundering of her heart as she was herded by monsters. Remembered the soul-wrenching fear that kept her bare feet pounding across the rough stone even as it tore open her skin. She bore the scars from that day. Her feet had been in ruins. Her hands even worse.

On that night, her slumber had come to an abrupt end. A soft voice had whispered that she must open her eyes and when she did, a knife was plunging for her chest. If she’d not stamped on her instincts year after year, her magic would have flared out of her. It had spent too long locked away, so like a beaten animal, it was too afraid to emerge. Nesta had wrapped her hands around the blade, its kiss agonising. She didn’t know how many soldiers had burnt their way through the village, how many lives they’d ended. Nesta had leapt from the window, bones cracking on the impact and ran. Ran and ran and ran.

The Mother had always favoured her, people said. They were comments that she’d laughed at. Everybody wanted to be favoured by the Mother but it was another thing to truly be blessed by her. But that night, Nesta did not know how she could have survived without a soft, maternal hand pushing her along.

In two years, she hadn’t become a believer. Despite the gratitude she felt towards the priestesses and the acolytes for granting her sanctuary, despite whatever kindness the Mother had offered her, Nesta wasn’t moved by religion. She wore their garb - pristine white robes with a hood that covered her hair - and joined them for prayers as was expected of her, but Nesta still couldn’t muster her faith.

It couldn’t go on like this, she knew, hiding forever amongst the priestesses. One day, the world would remember Nesta Archeron, the girl who stole from the Cauldron and come looking for her to tear her heart from her chest and repair what was taken.

***

Another dead end. From the whispers and foreign tongues that they had managed to gather across the centuries, the feet of the Cauldron were hidden in temples.

Azriel and Rhys had sat with Amren for hours, collating information, trying to narrow down the search. Prythian was littered with temples. As was the Continent. And Hybern. They ruled out temples that had been built since the war, which only eliminated a handful. It was Azriel’s task to sweep through as many as they could, starting with ones they had associations with, no matter how weak they were. The words were too precious to put in a letter. Every night, he’d winnow to a new location then return at dawn to cross it off on their map. Each night, their disappointment grew.

‘Where to next?’

Amren drummed her painted fingernails on the table. ‘Hybern. It would make sense if all three feet were on a different piece of land. One for the Continent. One for Prythian. One for Hybern.’

Azriel raised his brows. ‘Are you sentencing me to my death?’

‘Don’t get caught, Spymaster.’

Once darkness fell, Azriel was away. A different tactic was needed for Hybern. He’d hit up as many temples as he could in an area lest word spread that he was spotted flying there night after night.

It was bitterly cold in Itica. Snow had already blanketed the craggy ground before winter had truly arrived. He tread lightly, flying as often as he could despite the pummel of wind. The first temple did not allow him entry because he was male. The second was made up of only males but when Azriel made excuses that he wanted to pray, he was followed. If the feet were here, his shadows would be trailed by the priests. The third and fourth temple were also a bust, but more and more attention was being shown to him although it was late into the night.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end even before he’d winnowed to the fifth temple of the night. If Azriel hadn’t been so committed to finding the feet, he’d have listened to his instincts and not bothered going.

As soon as he landed, the armed guards stood on the brass doors of the temple outside moved.

At the same moment his shadows enveloped him again, an arrow hit him in the wing. He felt the sting of ash sear through his blood. He could only get a short distance away and the guards were coming. Again, he winnowed. Again, another arrow sailed through the black sky, this time piercing his leg. Amongst a volley of arrows, his shadows swooped around him, taking him as far as they could whilst his magic was nullified. Another hit him, sinking deep into the flesh of his shoulder. In the distance, he could just make out another temple carved into stone. His wings and his shadows did all they could to get him there despite the pain racking his body.

***

Poppea’s rough wake up left Nesta shaking. It had brought back too many memories of that night.

‘Come. Quickly.’

Nesta donned her garb, pulling the hood up and over her hair. It was still pitch-black outside so it had to be an emergency. That was not good news. She dreaded running again. She’d spent so much of her life running.

The temple was quiet. A peaceful sort of quiet. The great, metal basin at its centre remained blazing with more candles flickering in their silver candelabras around the prayer room.

At a statue to the Mother which was veiled, Poppea paused.

‘There is a male here.’

‘He cannot be,’ replied Nesta, well-accustomed to their sacred vows even if she had never said them.

‘He is a male I recognise – a good male. Yasmeen has used what little healing power she has to stabilise him, but you are more learned in such matters.’

‘Healing?’

Poppea frowned, the deep etchings of her face worsening from the motion. ‘Males.’

At that, Nesta’s own brows drew together. Poppea had made it clear that Nesta's rude, uncouth behaviour had no business in her temple over the last two years. Often, she'd been sent to bed without supper for snorting during prayer or for cursing when she dropped an item. Now she was flaunting Nesta's history.

The high priestess cleared her throat. ‘Many of these females have never known a life beyond these walls. They have few memories of the fathers that gave them away. Many have vivid memories of the males that hurt them.’ Poppea rested a hand on Nesta’s shoulder. ‘The Mother brought you here for a purpose. Perhaps this is it.’

With support from the other acolytes present during the night, Nesta was ushered into the tunnel running beneath the statue armed with supplies. Yasmeen offered strict instructions on how to take care of the male. As the statue was moved back into place, she followed the glow of lights at the bottom of the sloping stairs to find her way. Nesta knew the route well. She had spent three weeks beneath the ground when she had first arrived because it was the only place that could guarantee protection and privacy.

On one of the beds, a male with massive, leathery wings was asleep although the slumber did not seem peaceful. Sweat beaded his brow despite the relatively cool temperature under the ground. Blood stained his skin. A hole was punctured into his right wing. His clothes had been cut away by Yasmeen and an arrow removed from his shoulder. It would scar through the intricate whorls of obsidian ink on his upper body. Yasmeen seemed to have balked at removing his trousers so had sliced up the length, leaving them flapping open all the way to his thigh where another arrow had likely hit him.  

Nesta knelt down beside him and pushed his sweat-soaked dark hair from his tan skin. The moment she looked at him, she felt like she’d found something that had been lost forever, like he had been missing from her life until that moment.

‘Who are you?’

She ran a thumb over his brow, the skin burning beneath.

Whilst following Yasmeen’s instructions to clean and bind the wounds on his body, the judder of boots above her head had Nesta stilling. She remembered this moment. The absolute soul-gripping fear of discovery. How the gentle priestesses had the courage to look Hybern’s soldiers in the eyes and lie would always amaze her. For now, they hadn’t crossed that line in sieging a temple because their fear of the Mother held them back.

The male jerked away, hand reaching for his sheath which was now empty of its blade. Despite the pain, his eyes fixed on Nesta. Hurriedly, she bared her palms to him then pointed to the ceiling where the rough, low voices of the males seeped through. She pressed a finger to her lips.

He glanced down at the bandages she’d been winding around his thigh then relaxed slightly, recognising that she was not a threat. In a terse silence, Nesta continued Yasmeen’s instruction while they both listened keenly to any shift in the conversation above.

***

This female was enchanting.

Azriel had lost blood. Could still feel the ash coursing through his body. He ought to have been terrified of being found, of bringing death to this temple, but all thoughts emptied at the sight of this beautiful female dabbing the wound on his shoulder, silver eyes focused on his injury. She had an elegant, classic beauty – one that seemed criminal to hide away in a temple.

She grazed her knuckle along the bone of his wing and that motion had him biting down on the flesh of his palm.

‘Painful?’

Azriel shook his head. ‘Sensitive.’

‘I need to clean the wound.’ She added, ‘I’ll be gentle.’

That was almost worse, he thought. Azriel could feel every languid touch, every soft breath as she leaned close to the membrane. Her concentration had her lips pursing slightly, making her all the more enticing to look at.

Once the noise had died down, Azriel tried to stand but the female pressed a hand against his bare chest to keep him on the mattress. She was more forward, more physical than he knew acolytes to be when it came to males.

When she had finished, she carried a basket over to the bed. Inside were robes of differing sizes, all pristine white, and Truth-Teller rested on top. He felt better knowing the blade’s location.

‘How long must I remain here?’

She shrugged. ‘The priestesses risked their lives to keep you safe.’

Azriel bowed his head. ‘I’m grateful.’

‘Good,’ she replied, fighting a smirk from her lips. ‘And to answer your question, I was down here for three weeks when I arrived.’

Three fucking weeks?

Azriel doubted he’d make to morning before he was climbing the walls. Already, he was shaking his uninjured leg as the realisation that he was trapped in here settled in.

‘Are you going to do that all night?’

The female was staring at his jiggling leg, disgust curling her upper lip.

‘Who are you?’

‘Company for the foreseeable future,’ she replied. ‘There’s a small alcove back here with food for emergencies. Take what you need. There’s also a bucket that will be emptied when its safe for somebody up there to move the statue.’ She sucked in a breath. ‘Since you’ve bloodied up that bed, I will sleep in this one.’

Was he supposed to just fall asleep after being shot at by Hybern’s soldiers? Trust that these priestesses wouldn’t betray him or the soldiers wouldn’t come back and slaughter their way through the temple? The ash was still suffocating his magic preventing winnowing, preventing Rhys from reaching out with his mind.

‘What’s your name?’ The female was sizing him up like an apex predator.

‘Azriel.’

She gave a slow nod in response. ‘Poppea recognised you.’

The name wasn’t familiar. Azriel gave a shrug. ‘Where I live, we have a sanctuary for females who have been injured – similar to this temple. I help females find their way there.’

‘A hero,’ she said, not hiding her sarcasm.

Fine. That line had worked numerous times, but not on a priestess it seemed.

‘Your name?’

‘Nesta.’

As soon as she said it, her expression froze. A misspeak. She smiled tightly, the light not meeting her eyes.

‘Well, I was woken to be your nursemaid. I shall return to sleep.’

***

It took some tossing and turning, but Nesta eventually fell asleep. She had been hyperaware of the male definitely not sleeping in the bed opposite. There had been a lot of grunting from pain as he sloped off to the pantry then she’d spied him in the largest white robes they had to offer, with slashes in the back to force his wings through.

It was Azriel who woke her with his pacing like a caged beast. He dragged his injured leg across the floor and his wings rustled as he fought to keep them upright with the injury to his shoulder.

‘You need to rest your leg,’ she snapped.

‘I can’t be in here.’

Nesta sat up in the bed, her hood discarded in favour of comfort. ‘You have no choice. Get in the bed.’

If this male had a tail, it would be lashing. He stood at the foot of the stairs, staring up at the darkened tunnel.

Gritting her teeth to keep from yelling – her prickly nature never quashed by soft prayer – Nesta stormed across the room and dragged him by the hand back into bed. The skin beneath her fingers was odd, deeply set in some places or smooth in others. In the dim light, she could not make it out fully. She released his hand and pointed to the bed. ‘In there.’

‘Have they sent the most ferocious priestess to guard me?’

No, Nesta was on her final warning. She refused to say her vows, refused to commit herself to the Mother until her dying moments because she had to believe there could be more to her life. She’d not kerbed her bad habits; she still cursed, still blasphemed, still drifted elsewhere during services when the others sang. Poppea had made it very clear that staying was a curtsey if she was to remain a guest and it could be easily taken away.

‘Yes, I’ll smother you if you wake me up for a third time tonight,’ she replied shortly, before climbing back into her own bed.

‘It’s difficult for me to be here,’ Azriel said.

Nesta gave a short laugh. ‘Do you think any of us would choose to be here?’

Few of these females had dreamed of being the unwanted daughter given to the Mother because they served no other purpose or saying holy vows that committed them to the temple for eternity because they had nowhere else to go.

‘It’s different.’ Azriel eased himself back into bed with a groan. ‘I spent my childhood locked in a dungeon. I never planned to be locked up again.’

‘Nobody does,’ replied Nesta as she pulled the blankets up and over her shoulders. ‘I’m sorry that happened to you, but the females in this temple have risked their lives to keep you here. As soon as the soldiers aren’t watching the doors – and when your magic allows – nobody will stop you from leaving.’

In the morning, he was in a deep sleep. Nesta could hear his low snore as she opened her eyes. When she moved from her bed, he did not stir. She idled her time reading the book of prayers kept in the bunker for lost souls, not believing much of it. Faith was a strange concept to her. She’d grown up amongst mortals, her mother one, and they didn’t set much store in higher powers, not when the fae ruled their lives. Her sire – whoever he was – had to be fae for Nesta’s powers to be so great. They’d flared out of her one day when the soldiers came to the village to capture more slaves to be chattel for their army. Nesta couldn’t take the screams. Her magic had erupted in cold, silver flames that devoured. Since that day, Nesta spent her whole life running, never staying in a place more than a moon.

She perched on the edge of the bed near the male who was blanketed by shadows. They parted for her to press a hand to his forehead. The skin beneath burnt fiery. An infection had settled into his body during the night and she had slept through everything.

When the statue was removed for fresh water and food, she called for Yasmeen.

‘She is afraid to be here,’ replied Athilea. ‘You know what happened to her.’

‘This male is unconscious.’

Yasmeen would not go below again, but provided more tinctures and fresh muslin cloth to rebind his wounds.

‘The soldiers?’

Athilea nodded. ‘Still there. Still waiting.’

The male’s sleep was uninterrupted by the exchange. When Nesta returned to Azriel, shadows coiled around her wrist as she worked. It was wasteful to cut away his robes but she didn’t know how else to reach his shoulder. At Azriel’s nudity, she averted her eyes upwards and adjusted the thick, woollen blanket across his lower body. Nesta had seen males before. It was one of the hardest parts to give up when she entered the temple.

The wound on his shoulder was angry and swollen, the skin red around the entry. As she cleaned it, he stirred slightly with an incomprehensible murmur then a hand landed on her thigh.

Nesta spoke to him softly, explaining what she was doing in case a part of him could hear. His shadows were happy to curl onto her shoulders like little birds observing too.

For longer than she should, Nesta remained wedged onto a sliver of the mattress with him, a hand stroking against his black hair as she sang the few hymns she’d learned during her time in the temple. He was handsome, she decided. Too handsome. The sort of face she’d have made hers in a dingy tavern. The kind of face she’d want to wrap her thighs around.

Azriel blinked himself into consciousness, eyes adjusting to the dim light Nesta’s bobbing faelight offered. Could he have sensed those thoughts she’d just had? Surely not.

‘You were unwell,’ she stammered to explain why she cradled his head and had been caressing his soft hair for the last hour.

Azriel pushed an elbow against the bed to lift himself, teeth clenching together from the pain. ‘Were you singing?’

His shadows snapped between them, hiding her blushes. He waved a hand through the blockade, scattering them. ‘They don’t usually do that.’

‘I don’t usually sing,’ she countered.

‘Must be the effect I have on you.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I mean, I’m a shadowsinger.’

‘I gathered,’ she replied, pressing her lips together. It was fairly obvious from the blanket of shadows that stayed with him, but she’d let him keep his mystique. ‘You have an infection. It will require regular cleaning.’

‘Am I naked?’

Her blush deepened, turning the apples of her cheek crimson. Nesta tried and failed to speak, her tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth. No man had ever found issue with her undressing him before.

A brow rose. ‘A nude male doesn’t affect the gentle disposition of a priestess?’

It had been a long, long time since Nesta had seen a naked male but not a single one had looked like this male with his face carved by the Mother’s hands or his powerful body. And those wings. It had been such an effort to keep her hands from those but she’d seen the effects they’d had on him yesterday when she cleaned the blood away.

She flicked his cheek, sending him back down onto the mattress. ‘I’m not a priestess. I haven’t said any vows. I was like you once with no place to go but the Mother’s arms. Your nudity is no cause for alarm.’

***

This female had to have been sent by the Mother herself. She was gentle with his wounds, diligent and compassionate, but she had a sharp tongue which was at odds with that gorgeous face. The notion that she had not yet committed herself to a lifetime of servitude to religion sparked something in his chest that he was trying to extinguish. Nesta did not need him panting after her. But gazing at her provided an alternative to spiralling in worry about being beneath the ground with no escape route.

As the days wore on, they became more companionable with each other. Still, his wounds needed tending to thanks to the ash making them heal as if he was mortal. Nesta was devoted in this. She cared for him as though it was her calling in life. Day and night his wounds were left to air in between bandage changes and she’d clean each one before. It could have been his imagination but Azriel was sure her fingers lingered longer than they needed to on his thigh. Once, she even ran a tender finger against the whorl of his tattoo. It had been damaged from the arrow but it could be re-inked in Illyria. Nesta enquired about their origins then listened intently as he spoke of Illyria.

'You came from there, but they aren't your people?'

Azriel swallowed, the knot in his throat pulling tighter. He wanted to tell her everything - about his beginning, his father, his mother, learning to fly - but Nesta was a stranger. A stranger who felt as familiar to him as his reflection.

'No. I have family but we aren't bonded by blood.'

There was no news from Rhysand. He had to hope it was due to the nullifying effects of the ash. Either that or they thought him dead or in enemy’s clutches so had gone silent.

There were still soldiers making the rounds but not as frequent so as soon as his magic returned, Azriel could leave. They'd strike when a blind eye was turned to the temple so he could pass the threshold and winnow. Ancient magic was imbued into the building's foundations preventing winnowing inside the walls.

He almost didn’t want to leave. What would his evenings be without Nesta dragging her bed close to his and playing cards or word games to pass the time? She had no fear around him – almost seemed to relish his company despite spending her life in this temple. The females that he’d ushered into the library were reluctant to be around him, their fear of males deeply rooted. This one had moved her bed alongside his for their games then ended up sleeping just inches from him ever since. Each night, Azriel wanted to close the gap and reach out for her slender hand. Sometimes Nesta's reached out to the end of the bed, daring him to hold it.

‘I think you’re cheating,’ she murmured, peering at her hand of cards. Nesta was cross-legged on the bed, hood pulled down. They wore the same virginal white robes but they suited her. Cassian would laugh himself hoarse if he could see Azriel in his.

Azriel let out a low chuckle. ‘It’s my shadows. I didn’t ask them to spy.’

Nesta dropped her cards on his lap. ‘Dirty cheaters.’

‘You dealt a dodgy hand yesterday, bending the aces. I saw you.’

She shrugged both shoulders. ‘No idea what you’re talking about. False accusations.’ She pressed her hands together in prayer. 'I am a devotee of the Mother.'

‘How does a soon-to-be-priestess know so many card games – and how to cheat?’

‘I told you,’ she replied, ‘I’m not a priestess. I had a life before but I was given shelter here two years ago and never left. I've visited enough taverns to know how to play and how to cheat.’ Nesta held out a hand for a shadow to sit upon. ‘I spent my whole life running. I could catch my breath here, but it’s not my forever. I just don’t know where to go next.’

‘What are you running from?’

‘The King of Hybern.’ Nesta swept her hair away from the top of her ears. They were curved like his, but he’d have sworn she was high fae. ‘My mother was mortal. I was raised by mortals. But I wasn’t like them.’ With her free hand, she let silver flames crawl across it. Azriel flinched, expecting heat, but could only feel a seeping coldness. ‘I escaped his dungeon and have been running ever since.’

The flames died out, sputtering with sparks as Nesta banked her power. He couldn’t imagine looking over a shoulder all the time, never settling, never building bonds. Azriel didn't want to think about what she'd endured at the King's hands. Hell, how had she even escaped?

This was a female who’d had her choices taken from her. She’d chosen safety over desire but that need to be immersed in life still blazed within.

Azriel didn’t know if it was the right thing, but he said, ‘I know a place you could go. A library. It’s safe and secret.’

‘I’d have to be there forever?’

No. He imagined her dancing with him at Starfall on the roof beneath a sky of stars falling for only them. Cheating at cards alongside him to drive Cassian wild. Shopping with Mor as they explored the boutiques of Velaris and showing him what she’d bought. Curling her head against his chest at Solstice when they were full of food and joy. Mostly, Azriel imagined her beside him like they were here, beneath the ground.

‘You can be in my city. It would be safe. Hybern would never find you.’

From her expression, Azriel knew she doubted him. He clutched her hand, the shadow scarpering. ‘I promise you this: I would keep you safe.’

‘You arrived here with three arrows sticking out of you,’ she reminded him.

‘Trust me.’

‘I don’t know you,’ she said, voice dropping to a whisper.

Azriel pressed her hand to his heart to feel the steady beating of it beneath. ‘You have the rest of your life to know me.’

[ddarker-dreams]

HWR question!!!! I’m curious what the dynamic was between Victor Avalor and Anastasia’s mom when HWR reader was growing up. Was it an arranged marriage situation? Did they genuinely love or at least like each other? Maybe it was one sided??! I must know 🙏

blessed anon ,, i'm grateful for the chance to talk about victor and dinara. their dynamic goes on to majorly influence the type of people estella, HWR reader, and become. for better or for worse. mostly the latter. i intended to reveal more about their history in bloodlines, but since that series is on a hiatus, i'll go into it here.

for some background: victor was the second son of leonid avalor, the obdurate patriarch who shaped much of survosia's future. leonid focused his attention on his first son, who, by birthright, would be leonid's true heir. victor silently simmered in resentment during his early years. he had a keen mind for business, politics, and management. what he lacked was charisma, an area his brother excelled at.

he was able to stomach perpetually living in his brother's shadow until he met dinara in his early 20s. dinara was a singer of recent renown. she accrued notoriety following the release of a single, and at the height of her popularity, was a household name throughout the country. she performed at a soirée victor happened to be attending. her velvety voice, beauty, and demure personality had him enamored. he chased every opportunity to interact with her. she took kindly to his affections. the only person within her entourage who discouraged the relationship was her bodyguard, xue ya, who left meteor city in search of a better life overseas.

leonid refused to endorse their relationship, much less a marriage. it was at that point victor realized what he subconsciously knew all along. if he ever wanted his ambitions fully realized, he'd need to be the only living person holding the avalor name. no one would hold any authority over him.

and so a 'terrible tragedy' was orchestrated that eliminated his father, mother, and eldest brother from the picture.

dinara continued to discount xue ya's warnings. getting involved with the avalor family meant entering a life she wasn't raised for. she wasn't a fighter and didn't have a strong constitution to begin with. she didn't learn this until much later, but it's possible for those who have corrupted blood, even in an inactive state, to suffer the harmful effects. a strong affinity for nen helps prevent this slow bodily deterioration. when dinara used her hatsu, she lacked the mastery necessary to simultaneously suppress corruption and maintain her aura.

their marriage wasn't perfect. dinara couldn't have possibly fathomed the full extent of the avalor family's malfeasance. spying, subterfuge, blackmail, racketeering, murder; the list went on and on. the six major families were always locked in a power struggle. victor managed to claw his way up over a mountain of corpses. still, he never did his wife harm, but didn't make an effort to hide his immorality either. especially when it came to his designs for their children. the first born would be raised to win the hearts of the nation; the family's face. a star that shines blindingly bright. and in its shadow would be the second born, the family’s executioner, who’d dirty their hands.

instead of stoking tension between them as his parents had, victor wanted to instill an unshakeable bond between the two. the birth of their third child — ash — was actually unplanned. hence ash being less involved in the family’s affairs.

in short, they did love one another, although there were times they wish they didn’t.

[matan4il]

Update post:

The International Court of Justice has rejected the request of South Africa to stop any future Israeli military activity in Rafah. The provisional measures that were given less than a month ago still stand, and the ICJ determined for now, they're enough, while also saying Israel does have to comply with them (I think it's funny to say Israel has to do something it was already doing, but okay).

After Israeli Minister of Defense presented the names of, and info on, 12 UNRWA workers who were a part of the Hamas massacre, he also shared that at least 30 more UNRWA workers were personally involved in assissting the massacre or participating in post-massacre terrorist activity (such as kidnapping living or murdered Israelis, keeping the hostages imprisoned, or moving them from one hiding place to another). You can find more info on the extensive ties of UNRWA workers with Palestinian terrorist organizations in my UNRWA tag.

In continuation to this, a video was published showing an UNRWA worker, called Faisal Ali Musalam Naami, with the help of another Hamas terrorist, kidnapping the body of a murdered Israeli to Gaza. Israel has indicated that Naami was a social worker, and was eliminated by the IDF on Oct 16. BTW, I saw the vid first airing on Israeli TV before they realized they hadn't blurred the body. I can't even explain what it was like watching it, something about seeing the sagging limbs being dragged just made the whole thing even more inhumane, so the impact is different than if you only watch the blurred vid, as much as I know it was done to preserve the dignity of that murdered man, and as much as I agree with that.

I mentioned the other day that the IDF has arrested at least 60 terrorists from among the people coming out of the Nasser hospital in Khan Younis. This number has now been updated to 100 terrorists. Among them, the Palestinian reporters have claimed that the Nasser hospital director was arrested as well, but the IDF has denied this. In comparison, the IDF announced it officially on Nov 23 when it did arrest the director of the Shifa hospital director due to his collaboration with Hamas.

In addition to IDF soldiers finding a copy of Hitler's Mein Kampf among the possessions of a Hamas terrorist in Gaza, we have now been presented with another antisemitic conspircay book found there. This time, it's a book called (in Arabic) 'End of the Jews' and it was written by Hamas' co-founder, who is also the former Foreign Minister of the Palestinian Authority.

The book's cover is described as showing "swords and daggers piercing through Stars of David, and Jews drowning in blood."

As antisemitism continues to rise all around the world, at the same time that people deny its very nature, the Jewish Book Council has launched an initiative to track down antisemitic incidents targeting Jewish authors, both those who are pro-Israel and those who are accused of it in spite of being silent about the Jewish state, or targeting the Jewish visitors at book events.

In Israel's northern community of Margaliot, a chicken coop was attacked by Hezbollah fire, and an entire flock was killed. In an interview, the coop owner said he doesn't believe the place can be restored. The on going attacks by Hamas on Israel's southern agricultural communities, and by Hezbollah on Israel's northern ones, when taken together, is a real threat to the food security of all 9.8 million Israeli citizens.

This is 35 years old Matan Lior.

He provided the sound, illumination and electricity infrastructure at the Nova music festival. Because of his job there, he was among the last to leave the scene, guiding others to evacuate. When they found his corpse, it was in a car, bending over another women, trying to protect her with his own body. May his memory be a blessing.

(for all of my updates and ask replies regarding Israel, click here)

[aita-blorbos]

AITA for trying to protect humanity, despite what they did to my people?

Greetings. I (ancient, F) am the leader of a religious organization dedicated to following the teachings of the goddess of our continent. For full transparency’s sake, I must confess that not everything my church teaches is the full truth, but I feel that it is for a good reason. Simply put, I am member of a long-lived species that once occupied the continent I call home. Sadly, I am one of the very last of my kind, and as such have had a great deal of responsibility thrust upon me in the wake of the tragedy that destroyed my people and my homeland. I do not wish to be in charge, but I fear what may happen if I were to relinquish power to someone else.

My people were not killed by an act of divine punishment or natural disaster, or any other such indirect means. We were slaughtered en-masse by the humans who also live here on this continent, with my fellows having their hearts stolen, their blood drained and their very bones ripped out and shaped into weapons of death and destruction. They even managed to kill my mother, the progenitor of my species who I miss dearly and I believe is most fit to oversee the goings-on of our society. I, as well as a handful of others of my kind, managed to escape the fate that befell the rest of our species and later joined forces with another group of humans to eliminate the vile group who committed such horrendous acts. Finally, my mother and the others of my kind who were slaughtered could rest in peace.

However… rebuilding after this dark period was difficult. The humans who drank the blood stolen from my people gained powers that were heritable, and highly coveted as a symbol of power. I began to fear for the lives of myself and my few remaining family members, and saw it necessary to obfuscate who we were and pretend to be human in order to prevent any new greedy and vile people from seeking us out. This necessitated a complicated web of lies, some of which I greatly regret to this day due to their lasting consequences… though I truly saw no other option in order to protect us and allow what body parts of my people I was able to secure to rest in peace.

My attempt to placate all sides was to lean into the powers stolen from my people as being divine gifts, hiding what they really were behind a veil of blessings rather than the dark truth. I saw no other way… but I know it has caused much suffering. Humans have such short lives, and so even back when the war ended many who had those powers were completely innocent to their ancestor’s original sin. Telling the truth would’ve surely meant my family’s death, and the only other way I could see would be to slaughter all of those who had these powers to remove their influence from the world permanently. But that wouldn’t have been right…. At least, I do not think so. Despite what some have done to me, I do not hate humanity. I love humans, and the majority I think are good and just and I wish to protect them, even if it means I must make hard decisions. It is…. Difficult, living so long and so alone with so much burden to shoulder, so I am looking for some perspective, please. Am I in the wrong for refusing to punish all of humanity for the actions of a few, while still protecting myself and those I hold dear?

[dailycharacteroption]

Jinyiwei (Investigator Archetype)

In the real world, the Jinyiwei, or “Embroidered Uniform Guard” was a secret police organization founded in the 14th century by the Hongwu Emperor in order to root out corruption and insurrection from within, able to overturn and ignore the judicial proceedings to arrest, interrogate, and punish anyone in the kingdom, including nobility and even the emperor’s own relatives.

Ostensibly this body would help preserve the empire with only the Emperor themselves to answer to, able to arrest and prosecute politically untouchable figures should they become enemies of the state.

Buuuuut if you’ve ever heard the term “secret police” in regards to world history before, you probably know how this goes. At best, the Jinyiwei were used as assassins to eliminate rivals, and at worse, were just as corrupt and capable of abusing their own power.

Who knew a paramilitary group answerable to literally only one man would be a bad idea for everyone?

However, for all it’s real faults, the Jinyiwei we’re describing today is a bit different than the real thing. For one, the Mandate of Heaven is actually real with gods and divine dragons granting power and authority to rule empires.

However, corruption remains, and the Jinyiwei of the Lung Wa empire was created to counteract and root out this corruption that drove the bureaucracy of the nation into the dirt, but in the end they failed, falling to corruption itself until the empire fractured and crumbled, robbing them of any authority.

But why the original Lung Wa Jinyiwei are long gone, there are those across Tian Xia that take inspiration from them, and seek to emulate them as they stand against the corruption that poisons governments and ruins nations.

Such dedication grants these investigators a bit of divine power, which they use alongside their keen minds to bring justice to the land, even if they aren’t quite as unimpeachable as their ancient predecessors.

The result is a sort of fusion of investigator and inquisitor, as we’ll soon see.

Careful consideration and insight, as well as the blessing of the divine is what fuels these investigators. As such, their inspiration is powered by their wisdom rather than intelligence, and instead of using alchemy they cast spells, drawing magic from the same arsenal as inquisitors.

Like the Jinyiwei of old, they understand that corruption and deception can be anywhere, and are especially skilled at noticing lies, forgeries, and disguises, as well as that which is hidden, be it a person or secret containers and doors.

Their suspicion also guards them against the magics of deception, enchantments and illusions, helping them avoid falling under their sway and pierce the false reality they create.

Finally, their divine mandate goes so far as to allow them to unleash divine judgement as inquisitors do, albeit somewhat less skillfully.

With the combination of the inquisitor spell list, geared towards information gathering, buffing, debuffing, and divine wrath; as well as their knack for discovering all types of deception, this archetype plays a bit more of a support and combat role than the vanilla inquisitor before even taking talents into account. As such, A combat build seems like a good choice here, one that can learn about the enemy and set up spells and tactics beforehand to take them down.

As written, the lore states that these individuals are not part of an organization, extrajudicial or otherwise. As such, their desire to follow such a path and endorse such ideals may be considered a relic of the past, and what that means will vary by nation and by individuals. Some may mock them as deluded fools clinging to ideals and a nation that no longer exists, others may honor them as a symbol of better days, or revile them as echoes of a past that needed to burn or as the shadow of a threat to the new order. Or, you know, in your setting their organization may still exist, and may or may not a blight upon the people in the way that secret police tend to be.

Through terrible coincidence and just bad luck, the party has accidentally slain one of the sacred white-antlered deer that only the emperor may hunt, and now they are on the run, chased by the mask-wearing secret order that answers only to His Holy Eminence.

A chance encounter can change your life, and so it was with Jinga, a monkey goblin who stumbled upon an aging old hermit on his island home who taught him about the great empire and how he was once one of it’s secret guardians, blessed by the gods. Jinga looked up to him so much that he studied his ways and received the divine blessing, leaving home to offer his services. He never fully understood, however, that the empire had fallen long ago.

The nation is on the verge of falling, consumed from within, all at the hands of those who should have been it’s protectors. Indeed, the Talisman Police, named for the divine tokens of their role they wear, have been corrupted from within and seek to usurp control. Is their leader a fiend in disguise? Merely power-hungry? It matters not. All that matters is that they must be stopped.

[ansbobcar]

EP 15. Remember your brother

WORD COUNT. 1256

Link to overview

_ _ _

Swivelling in his chair, the recent graduate spun to face him. “Why don’t you just beat the crap out of him? People tend to listen with enough force. Oh! Or even court!?” She held her pointer up with a cheeky smile. Her knack for deducing details was uncanny as he put down a report on the desk. 

“The amount of connections and leverage my father has against others is what made us reputable,” he began. “Even with our powerful position, destroying my father would mean destroying half of our people as well. It’s inefficient and incurs too much loss.”

“What a partypooper.” He readjusted his glassed as she took off her shoes and put her feet on the seat.

“Plus isn’t court a bit too extreme?” 

“How young is your brother then?” She twirled a lock of her ashy brown hair. “Wait-wait! Lemme guess! He’s… 5 years younger than you so that means… he’s 17! Easton too?” 

He only nodded, to which she squealed. “He’s still a minor like you. I can’t grab a hold of custody over him if he goes to jail. Plus my mother’s just as bad,” reorganising the paperwork.  “And I can’t take over their duties if I’m working here, Alex.”

“AND FINALLY, FROM THE LANG HOUSE WE HAVE… WIRTH MADL!!” Cheers roared at the sight of the Magia Lupus’ 3rd Fang as he watched from behind the headmaster’s seat. Since he decided to take the extremely difficult honours roll exam, he wondered how he had the energy to do the Candidate Exam. Let alone start arguing with that girl of all people.

“And the first elimination round is… the 5-legged riddle race!” 

‘This one,’ he remembered it being played a few years back. When Rinka was a 2nd year at Easton.

“In your groups of 3, we’ll magically bind your legs together and you must acquire the given object written in this card!” the MC of the Candidate Exam began to explain how the race worked. “Reach the finish line with your object and team intact and you pass onto the next round!” 

Typically, the first object to get broken will result in other teams surviving (after passing the finish line). But nearly 7 years ago, it was the first showcase of the Blood Cane’s versatility in spells. Her team had their object broken near the finish line by an opposing team but she had managed to restore her team's object in order to pass. ‘It wasn't against the rules after all.' It's just that the passing condition is to finish the race with an unbroken object.

Thus, the sight of what seemed to be an extremely competitive yet incompetently cooperative trio seemed to reduce his hope in their passing. It’s less about your speed and more about destroying objects after all. It’s more common for this game to be used as the only elimination round since nobody other than Rinka Onoji was able able to utilise a restoration spell.

“There will be a time limit of 30 minutes! All the best candidates!”

‘I guess… all the best,’ he looked towards the rafflesian mirror as the competition began. Each group opened their cards and immediately, Darren Randel, that recent transfer student, declared with absolute certainty.

“It’s a stamp! A stamp!”

The two boys were dumbfounded. And without another moment to lose, they blitzed atop a large golden sword, towards the pile of objects in the middle of the forest and engulfed the large stamp in mud, pulling it towards them. 

Who the hell shouts out their team’s object? It was definitely unplanned. Otherwise, why would there be so much haste in their actions as they sped over to the finish line within mere minutes. Their unappreciative combination was almost a blessing in disguise.

To have Mr. Ames cruise them to the finish line, out of reach from the opposing teams whilst Ms. Randel simply dispelled incoming attacks was strategic. His brother holding onto their object and stabilising all of them on the blade didn’t go unnoticed by him.

“This round seems oddly entertaining,” Wahlberg mused to the two of them.

“I must agree with you,” the Flame Cane replied. “Especially, compared to last year.”

“What do you think, Orter?” the headmaster asked. Yet he only focused on how his brother seemed to move with vigour. Ready to throw his fist towards his teammate for the round.

It’s unusual to see his brother hold a face without fear. Without burden. What has he missed out on since then?

_ _ _

The first round ended up eliminating half of the participants leading to the final duels instead and with what seemed to be the gods cursing them as the clouds slowly darkened, Wirth Madl was up against Rayne Ames.

It’s a losing battle. But with what seemed to be a desperate drive to win against the odds, the Lang student readied himself to drown the his opponent in quagmire and inhibited his eyesight. Restraint. That’s probably all their father has ever instilled into them. He watched as the dulled boy overpowered him with a simple kick to the gut and pulled himself out of the pit before sending a barrage of swords without another moment to spare. And with that, “Wirth Madl has been knocked out! The victor is… Rayne Ames!”

The cheers of the crowd heightened at this sentiment whilst he pooled with bitterness. But bitterness for what? He wasn’t mad or disappointed in his brother. It couldn’t be helped. It was like that time too.

“I couldn’t care less about your perfect score in language,” that man uttered from across the door. The sound of paper smacked against skin cleanly. “You’ve proven yourself to be worthless again. Even if you get into the Bureau of Magic, it will mean nothing if your magic isn’t on par. Your brother’s already becoming a Magic Police Officer, is there really nothing left for you to do?”

It was the summer, one of the only times he could visit the family. But the look filled with hollow envy that plagued his eyes as they briefly looked at each other.

“Don’t bother looking back, Orter.”

As if disobeying his own habit, he took out his wand and cleaned his dirtied clothes even amidst the tears and apprehension the younger Madl had, it felt odd. Unsettling even as he sat. “Please don’t tell him,” he uttered barely above a whisper. Wirth Madl can’t bear it. He can’t go home. Not like this.

"I can take your place during the upcoming winter break if you want. I'll just tell father you'll be busy with internships then." although it seemed to be out of sympathy, it only caused the 2nd year to continue crying and reach out to bury his head into his chest. “M’sorry…”

He should comfort him, slowly patting his back. “You fought well.”

These words only won’t fix anything. But it’s worth a shot to start.

_ _ _

The Blood Cane spat out her drink at the older man’s words. Her eyes held more than mere disgust and doubt. “You’re kidding me.”

“What do you mean I have to interview Darren Randel? You should do it!” She pointed at the honey-freak. “I’m gonna plan a coup on your honey stock with Sophie. You better watch out, you fucking prick.”

“Why the hell am I here again?” Renatus yawned. “You’ll be interviewing the remaining 2 Easton candidates. Only allow one of them to pass.”

“‘Kay. Wake me up in 10 minutes, Inky.”

_ _ _

I'm questioning if I should incorporate a short miscommunication arc... genuinely speaking. But at the same time I feel like it's a bit late to incorporate it? Like it serves no narrative purpose except for fueling the romance drama. And there's already a lot. Especially with the upcoming winter ball arc that I have in the works before ending part 1/act 1. I genuinely want to end this act before ep 30 lol so chapters might get longerrr.