#about their truly appalling command of how the human body works

[swashbucklery]

Okay so I am slowly working through Batwoman S3/making my wife fast forward through the scary parts and like.

Look.

If you have an infectious pathogen that causes MURDER CROCODILE DISEASE, the problem that you have is not “one person in the sewers is eating people.”

The problem that you have is effectively infinite crocodiles, because by their own internal logic the pathogen is a) infectious and b) present in its saliva, which means that every person who was bitten and did not die as well as every person that handled those secretions should also have murder crocodile disease.

[some-messed-up-writing-for-you]

I really liked this prompt by @nuttynutcycle and felt the need to write something with it. Soo, here it is! (NOTE: the story starts before the prompt, so it appears in the middle.)

Warning: none.

~~~~ Flying through the air, Hero held onto Villain's body so hard they swore they could feel their knuckles cracking. All their limbs had tightly wrapped around the other as soon as they jumped out of the burning building, the hero's face buried in the other's shoulder to not inhale the smoke, and also so they wouldn't have to see the destruction around them.

The entire city had fallen into ruin, and the villain's henchmen were everywhere. Hero wasn't aware they had so many people working for them, as their enemy only ever had a couple of men with them. But- But this? This was an army.

Was that all part of the plan? Was Villain sparely using their minions to trick the hero? To make them think they weren't capable of something like this?

To make them think they couldn't possibly take over the capital city? Take over the country?

...

As the villain's boots thumped against solid ground, they loosened their hold on Hero, letting them crumple to the floor and frantically scramble away until their wounds forced them to stop moving. Villain had flown them both over to a nearby rooftop, which building had yet to catch aflame.

From their spot on the ground, the hero shivered under their nemesis' silent stare. As a fire burned brightly in the distance behind the villain, their form became shrouded in shadows, adding to their terrifying aura.

The silence was unbearable, and Hero decided to be the first one to break it.

"Y-You saved me." - The hero trembled like a leaf in the wind, head still swimming from the intensity of the last few minutes. "W-Why?"

Villain, still quiet, slowly approached them, making them tense up in anticipation. Hero's breathing grew shaky as their enemy knelt beside them and gently cradled their face with one hand.

"I want you there when I win." - The villain brushed their cheek softly, a small smile on their face. "Whether it's by my side or at my feet is up to you."

"I- I-" - the hero struggled to answer, stuttering out nonsense as they looked into the other's dark eyes. Villain's smile fell at their hesitance, and they flinched in fright as the criminal let go of their face and stood back at full height, towering over them again.

Taking deep breaths in hopes of calming their racing heart, Hero observed as their nemesis walked to the nearby edge of the rooftop, just a few steps away from their shaking body. Villain looked out over the burning city, one arm neatly held behind their back and the other one resting on the parapet wall protecting them from falling off the building.

Not that it mattered if the villain fell off or not. With how many powers they had, Hero was, at this point, pretty convinced nothing could hurt them.

"That would be the correct assumption to make." - Villain calmly said, still admiring the view.

Confusion decorated Hero's face shortly before they realized what had happened. Telekinesis. You can add that to the endless list of their abilities.

Expression still neutral, the villain asked, "Hero, do you want to know how I managed to pull this off?"

Honestly, the hero just wanted this craziness to end, but they'd be lying if they said that their curiosity wasn't eating away at them. So, like the cat that put his nose where it didn't belong, they replied, "I- I do..."

Slightly turning their head to look at their nemesis, Villain quietly explained, "I became a god."

Worry instantly gripped Hero's chest at the other's answer. What- What was that supposed to mean? They- They were a human! A powerful one, true, but... b-but a god? H-How-

"How could y-you possibly achieve s-something like- like that?"

The villain smiled again, and the hero really wasn't liking the look on their face. It made them feel weak, like they were only prey waiting to get caught.

"You're not like the others, Hero... Surely you've noticed over the years how I became stronger and stronger?"

Hero... Hero had noticed it. The process was gradual, barely visible unless you've been there from the start like they had been. It went from Villain getting shot, going into hiding, and reappearing a few days later fully recovered to Villain conveniently surviving deadly explosions or poisons. Until, eventually, years later, they were straight-up getting their limbs blown off and regrowing them instantly right before the hero's very eyes.

Shakily exhaling, Hero's mind floated to a memory from a few weeks ago, back when this hell had first started. They still remembered the dread that filled them at the sight of their nemesis floating high up in the sky, their voice bellowing across the city as they commanded their army. The sheer amount of power that came off Villain at that moment made the hero's knees nearly give out under them. At that moment, Villain was truly above everyone else in every sense of the word.

"Exactly." - the villain's voice suddenly sounded in their ears, and Hero jumped back as their eyes refocused and recognized that their enemy was suddenly right in their face.

The hero's breath hitched as Villain held their face again, this time with both their hands, as they lowly continued. "I've made myself unkillable, indestructible, invincible."

As a glint of possessiveness shined in the criminal's eyes, Hero's eyebrows furrowed in concern, the villain bringing their faces closer. "And I could- No. I will make you the same, whether you want it or not."

Trembling in the other's grasp, the hero questioned, "B-B-But h-how?"

Resting their foreheads against one another, Villain answered, "The same way I've made myself so powerful... The same way I've made my henchmen so loyal and unbeatable..."

Voice barely above a whisper, they claimed, "I will share my powers with you."

Hero froze, only able to keep listening as the villain caressed their cheek again and continued talking. "Not all of them, of course, but know that... where the hierarchy is concerned... you could be my equal, my partner."

Removing themself from their nemesis yet again, Villain loomed over them ominously. "And this is where my question returns, dear Hero."

Standing tall, arms neatly held behind their back, their mere presence demanded that the hero answer them as their shadow fell over them.

"Do you stand by my side and rule together with me, or... do you go from being the government's dog to being my dog... for all eternity?"

With tears stinging at their eyes, Hero pleaded, "V-Villain, please, just- How?! How c-can you share your-?!"

"It's a power that I stole."

"Wh- What...?"

Eyes shining brighter than the fire, the villain explained once more, "My power... The power that I was born with... Is the ability to steal the powers of others."

As they ranted, they looked off into the distance, for a moment getting lost in the past. "And over the years... I've gathered every power that I'd need and more."

Turning back to the hero, they ignored the fear in the other's eyes. "With time, I've learned how to mutate them, how to combine them to make them even stronger, to make myself stronger."

Done explaining, they squared their shoulders. "Now, answer me." - Villain growled out, odd desperation in their voice. "Will you lay at my side or at my feet?"

Hero stared at them for a long while, battling internally before ultimately, their gaze turned away from them, making them sigh in frustration. Clearly, they had to go about this a different way.

"Hero, you can't deny that we're not so different."

That got the hero's attention again, so the villain continued, "We both want what's best for this country."

Now it was Hero's turn to get upset, their face twisted into an appalled snarl as they demanded, "What's best for the country...?! HOW IS THIS WHAT'S BEST FOR THE COUNTRY?!"

They pointed at the destruction around them, nostrils blaring, as they paid no heed to the pain in their lungs, and Villain had to take a deep breath due to the other's stubbornness. Why did they have to be so difficult?

"Changes needed to be made. The system was broken, and you know it."

"W-Well yes, but-" - Hero faltered, trying to argue back, but their enemy cut them off.

"But what? Have you bothered to make a change, hmm? Bothered to take action?"

Not awaiting a response, Villain answered for them. "No, you didn't. You just followed your little orders, thinking that things would magically turn better."

"How is this better...?" - Hero croaked out, losing hope of winning this argument.

Frustrated, the villain yelled, startling the other. "GAH! JUST TAKE A PROPER LOOK AROUND, HERO!"

The criminal grabbed their nemesis by the arm and effortlessly dragged them over to the edge, making them look at the city, this time not through the lens of fear but the lens of truth.

As they finally took a real look at what was happening, a look not misguided by being down there in the heat of the moment, Hero noticed the way Villain's henchmen weren't attacking the civilians, but rather... escorting them away from the danger...?

They finally saw how the people willingly went with them, how they didn't even look scared of them. No, they only grew frightened when... when the heroes showed up... and... started mindlessly firing in the henchmen's direction..., not caring about the people who would... who would get caught in the crossfire...

...

...

"Do you understand yet, Hero...?" - Villain softly whispered, watching as their henchmen dutifully followed their orders, knocking the heroes out and capturing them, protecting the civilians from the necessary chaos.

"I want peace... I want equality... I want things to be right just as much as you do..."

As the wind softly blew against them, Hero turned to face their... enemy...? and was surprised to see tears spilling from their eyes as they continued.

"...But I can't make things right unless I'm in charge..."

Shaking, Villain questioned, "So tell me, Hero. Are you going to stand in my way? In the way of progress?"

With their fists clenching at their sides, the villain whispered painfully, "I don't want to force you to your knees..., but I will do it if I have to."

The hero looked at them, an array of emotions on their face, their own tears having fallen down their cheeks long ago. They opened their mouth to reply but failed to utter even a word. With conflicted feelings, their face scrunched up in thought, their gaze returning to the city below.

Villain stood beside them silently, awaiting their answer. Their body was more tense than the day they had opened fire upon the city. They didn't want to hurt Hero. They didn't. But... But if they had no other choice...

"Villain..." - the hero's meek voice barely reached their ears, but they stiffened nonetheless. "You..."

Arms suddenly wrapped around the villain's waist as Hero held onto them, muttering into their shoulder with an unsteady voice.

"...You better not make me regret this..."

With hope twinkling in their eyes, Villain asked, "D-Does... Does that mean you...?"

"I'll join you. I'll be at your side."

Relief flooded Villain's entire being at the hero's decision. They returned the embrace, tightly holding onto the other as if they would disappear at any moment.

"Thank you, Hero... And..., I'm sorry..."

Sorry? About what-?

Pain suddenly erupted in Hero's chest, their first thought being betrayal as their entire body burned with agony. They screamed and thrashed, trying to get away, but Villain held onto them with an unyielding grip, their heart aching at the hero's frantic shouts and thoughts.

Luckily, the whole ordeal only lasted about a minute, and Hero fell limp in the other's hold once it was over, breathing shakily, a few sobs escaping them from the unexpected pain and stress. As their heart rate began to slow back down and their mind had managed to calm down, they noticed that something was different and gasped quietly, as they felt something inside of themself.

Power.

So, so much power it made them shudder.

Was... Was this how Villain always...?

No, the villain didn't feel like this; they were stronger. Much stronger. Hero could feel it now, could feel the power thrumming inside their ex-nemesis. And as their mind focused, in the distance, all around them, they could sense Villain's henchmen, and even then, all the henchmens' and Hero's power combined was nothing compared to the villain's.

Villain was so much grander than all of them. They...

They really did become a god.

...

...

The feeling of a hand gently rubbing circles into their back brought the hero back to the present. Their eyes had closed at some point, so they fluttered them open again and lifted themself off the villain's shoulder.

Oh, when had they fallen to the ground? Both of them were on their knees, Hero's legs must've given out, and Villain probably lowered the two of them.

"I'm really sorry about that..." - the villain apologized again, a bit of concern on their face. "How... How do you feel?"

It was then that Hero noticed that they felt... good. Amazing even. They felt better than they ever had before. They were so full of energy, and their wounds had disappeared too.

"I-I'm good." - they eventually responded with a small smile. "And apology accepted."

With a smile of their own, Villain pulled themself to their feet, the hero moving with them. They stood there in silence for a few seconds, softly holding each other's hands. Both their gazes momentarily caught on one another's lips, but no. That could wait. After all, they had all the time in the world now and... some more pressing matters at hand.

Calling forth their power, the villain slowly lifted themself into the air, Hero following suit, listening intently as their partner instructed them on how to use their new powers. Together, they went off, conquering the country and at last making things right.

[rinharu-purple]

Gavin with the Black Queen- An encounter that never happened

SPOILER ALERT!!! DUH! ^_^

One thing keeps bothering me ever since the Black Queen has ceased to exist (as of March 2021). She had various interactions with the other Lis, including Shaw, and yet she was in the same room with Gavin only for a brief moment and neither of them has truly realized the other’s presence. Why was that? Why did PG deliberately refrained from bringing those together? The answer might hide in the behind the curtain chapter.

Behind the curtain final part

Kicking off things with a memory refresh. CH5 of behind the curtain event revolves around the final moments of MC in the black cabin before making her decision and revisiting the piano concert as well as the infinite future era. There, the NW troops under the command of NW717 (Gavin from Infinite Future) enter the venue the BQ was in and cause mayhem by destroying everything in his way “I will destroy all of this!”. MC doesn’t face Gavin, but still got injured by his cutting currents of wind, unable to avoid him completely. 

This encounter happens only in the background. The BQ knows that Gavin is there, but Gavin doesn’t see her. They don’t look each other in the eye, they don’t exchange words. Just a cut on BQs cheek.

This remark at the end is crucial, because the BQ only says this after Gavin’s left the venue. Meaning from this moment on, there is only one future possible. Does that mean a different future would’ve been possible if Gavin hadn’t left? I guess we won’t ever find out.

BlackQueenxNW717 vs. MCxGavin

Another aspect to this question could also be that the only time BQ and Gavin were in the same venue was when the Black Queen already has lost her faith in humanity and Gavin has spend his youth without MC, under the shadow of his father. In a way, the two versions of them meeting at this point are their alternate personalities, which came to be because those two had never met. In my opinion, this is the strongest reason for why PG didn’t put Gavin and the BQ in the same narrative. Black Queen only exists in a world, where she never meets Gavin and Gavin only chooses to join his father after high school because he never gets to know MC’s kindness. The strong bond between them which keeps their faith was never created.

In that case, those who meet in chapter 21 were actually a lost Gavin and a lost MC in the void, because they have never met and therefore weren’t there to catch each other when one of them was falling like they always do in our original timeline.  They have both crashed and scattered into pieces, thus broken. We know for a thing that the BQ is lost because she says this in CH18

See the words she is using? Love and FAITH. Remember CH15... Name of FAITH. Exactly... MC and Gavin would be lost if they didn't have love and faith. Also during the Daybreak Era and Dream edge Gavin is without love and faith, He is in a completely different sprite and mental state then the Gavin we know, love and worship.

Papergames actually put a very subtle comparison to this phenomenon by showing in CH 22 how the dynamic of Gavin and MC works even if only one of them is their original self. In CH 22, MC meets NW717, who has never met MC during high school and yet she succeeds in bringing out the original Gavin hidden deep inside him, at least in fragments, hence preventing a greater destruction or even worse Gavin’s demise (he is utmost self-destructive in this chapter). 

Gavin and MC always manage to bring the best out of each other so if this had happened in the case of MCxNW717, then we can safely assume that this could’ve ended the same way in a GavinxBlackQueen encounter. 

Needless to say, it wouldn’t have been convenient for the plot, so the PG obviously didn’t take this route and it only exists in my head ^_^

Chapter 18: Gavin’s Route?

Taking this into consideration, let’s take a moment to imagine how would CH18 have gone, if it was Gavin accompanying MC instead of Victor in their last stance in the quarantine zone. Let’s assume Gavin didn’t know about the existence of the BQ up to this point, just like Victor, and there she was abruptly standing in front of him. Surely he would be appalled at first, but then he would show her the MC, he has always known, the MC he has always believed in and the MC she genuinely is. I don’t believe that Gavin would reject her identity as the MC like Victor did, because her eyes are different. On the contrary, I believe Gavin would say that he still knows that she is the girl he knows, because he can see it in her eyes. I think that Gavin would accept the fact that MC and the BQ were the same person and therefore would give everything in his might to save her, to save them both, without having to sacrifice any of them. There is no way on earth Gavin could’ve stabbed MC in the heart. Nothing could have ever convinced him that there wasn’t any other way. On a side note, I also don’t think killing her was really the only way and maybe not taking Gavin into consideration was Victor’s flaw in his plan. 

Did MC really had to die? What would’ve happened if after MC and BQs union, MC’s mind has prevailed and both of them stayed in the same body? Thus melting two timelines together? If Gavin was there, then I think that would’ve been the case and I also think that the BQ also knew that. Which is why she deliberately avoided Gavin because he was her weak spot. Gavin would have never killed any of them. It wouldn’t have mattered to him what words had came out of BQs mouth. For him she still would’ve been “his girl”. Plus, Gavin is a person, who has faith in the good heart in everyone. Therefore his choice of action would be to fight for the MC in BQs heart. Remember, these two young women are the one and the same person with different experiences from different timelines.

In CH 18 the BQ even goes to the lengths of using Gavin to lure MC to her side:

It is really uncanny how almost everyone constantly use Gavin and MC against each other. Even the BQ shows Gavin annihilating Perry to convince MC to merge with her. It has happened at least for 6-7 times until now that people use their relationship for their end.

Final battle

In CH 36, when MC and the Black Queen have one last battle did you realize that every single LI is present except for Gavin? Kiro/Helios is there and bravely takes her on directly, Lucien is present with MC, Victor joins the group and even turns back time to allow MC to recuperate. What does Gavin do during this you may ask? He is trying to control the situation in the city as Commander of STF. Again, Gavin and Black Queen don't meet, because Gavin has the duty of saving the world from the other end and ensure the safety of Loveland citizens.

To sum this analysis up, I think there was a purpose for PG keeping Gavin and the Black Queen separate in S1, because Gavin would be the greatest threat to her existence. We see at the end that it was MCs persuasion that has led to BlackQueen leaving voluntarily. At the end she's also decided to believe in her and in the power of love (as cliché as it sounds). So in my opinion, Gavin could've persuaded her way way earlier and we couldn't have enjoyed 37 chapters of angst, drama and romance ;) I would still love to watch them interact with each other and see how the whole thing would unfold. Who knows, maybe she makes a comeback in S2 and perhaps their ways collide this time around.

Masterlist

[moonbeamsung]

CRΣΣKS

Love, a second glance, it is not something that we need.

member: jeno

au: guardian angel in disguise!jeno x gn!reader, guardian angel au

word count: 3.4k

genre: angst

warnings: character death/loss, profanity, no happy ending, mentions of religion, questioning/loss of faith

recommended song: 715 - CRΣΣKS by the nor’easters

author’s note: Please be very careful with volume when listening to the song (above) that inspired this story! But even without reading the lyrics/listening, the fic will still make sense, and happy reading :)

network tags: @kpopscape @neo-constellations @starryktown

The wind is whistling, weaving in and out of the tall river reeds like an invisible needle and thread, stitching itself into each and every crevice of the world’s gift called nature.

Another one of its many gifts is the young boy that’s resting beside a rushing brook, toes dipped into the cool water and face illuminated by the sun as it beats down onto the earth with celestial strength.

Well, a gift from the heavens, that is.

Sent from the endless skies above, Jeno is your guardian angel, assigned with posing as a humble peasant boy in the village, all to keep a watchful eye on you from afar. In his human form, he spends his days wandering the cobblestone roads and narrow alleyways between the quaint buildings, with no family to return home to at dusk. A sunny meadow on the outskirts of town becomes his home, and he takes refuge in the shelter that the overgrown grass provides.

Everything is going smoothly, and he’s doing his job just as he should be. It’s routine now, waking up and rising from his earthen mattress, curtains of copious plant leaves letting in the sun’s rays. He finds you, observes at a comfortable distance, and that’s that. At its core, being a guardian is really an easy job. A predictable one.

A monotonous one.

Until one day you approach him, youthful eagerness in your eyes piercing and nearly painful, even to his invulnerable body. He’s never seen you up close before, only on the near horizon as you’ve gone about your daily chores, tending to the housework just like any obedient child should.

“...Who are you?”

Now, Jeno is faced with a decision more challenging than any that us mortal beings have to make in our entire lives. Engaging with one’s assignment is an extremely dangerous path to take. Unimaginable punishments await, should the guardian make a wrong choice. But Jeno was careless, and he had allowed himself to be discovered by the only human on Earth that the divine forces permit him to be seen by.

He makes the fatal error of answering you, ultimately shattering a future he’ll never get to live out, one that he doesn’t even know he would’ve had. Like a sharp rock being thrown at a church’s stained glass window, the meticulously carved pieces of his worldly existence fall to the ground with a deafening crash, broken beyond repair.

“I’m Jeno,” the strikingly majestic cadence of his words is like that of angel trumpets, the sound ringing in your head and making you dizzy with both fascination and infatuation.

And just like that, in three short syllables, you’re both fated to fall before you can even spread your wings.

From the moment you hear his name tumble from those beautiful lips, you’re hooked, and he knows it. He sees it in the way you look at him, in the way you act, the way you talk. A child experiencing a first and a forbidden love all at once.

It breaks his heart, because he knows it can’t, and shouldn’t last. The churning rapids of the creek nearby weep for him, for they know that in a matter of just a few short years, their waters are destined to mix with the salty tears that will steadily cascade from your trembling chin.

Jeno remembers, although vaguely, the brief amount of time he spent living amongst the clouds, being prepared by the heavenly elders for this expedition of a lifetime, quite literally. He remembers the scriptures, the strictures, and all the times he’s been warned of the severe consequences that come with immorality.

But even the purest of young angels aren’t infallible, still susceptible to compulsions that lead them to sin and defy their creator.

Relishing in the fading daylight, you join him by the water’s edge, listening to his soothing tone as he answers your ceaseless inquiries with harmless little lies as white as heavenly robes and cherub wings.

Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor. The first sin.

It’s interesting, he thinks, that despite looking after you in the endeavors of your youth for quite a while now, he knows next to nothing about who you truly are. Actions may speak louder than words, but how can he know that if he’s never heard your voice to begin with?

As the quiet, languid conversation shifts from his purpose there to yours, Jeno learns that you’re very content with your life, taking pride in helping your family with daily tasks as well as assisting your neighbors in the close-knit village with theirs.

Just then, all the smears of dirt and scattered scratches adorning your face catch his attention, gained after hours of hard work. No amount of water is ever enough to scrub them off of your skin at the end of the day, no matter how hard you try. Sometimes, you feel tears prick your eyes as you try to fall asleep at night, frustrated with your lowly appearance and how it never seems to match your relatively optimistic outlook on life.

But Jeno doesn’t care. You’re breathtaking even in his eyes, the eyes that belong to an actual angel. If that fact alone isn’t enough to boost your confidence, he doesn’t know what else possibly could.

Like a fool, he lets himself drown in your sublimity for a moment, marveling at the ethereal glow of the sun on your smooth, ageless face. The faint noise of wisps of air blowing gently through the meadow and rustling the flora makes him drowsy, but the sight of a pure white heron landing gracefully on the opposite side of the riverbank brings him back to full consciousness in an instant.

The bird, an omen of sorts, had been sent down from Heaven, conjured up from a fleeting idea and into a physical reality, by the holy beings looking down upon the earth, indicating that they’re well aware of the threat he poses and just how close he is to making an irreversible mistake in regards to you, his assignment and assignment only.

The heron abruptly unfurls its delicately feathered wings, as if frightened, before taking off and floating away on the breeze, both of your gazes inexplicably drawn to it as it flies until it’s out of sight altogether.

It warns him of just what he’s messing with, exactly.

This is not a part of the creator’s plan for you, for him. Falling in love with the one an angel is supposed to guard is an appalling crime to commit in the eyes of the elders that inhabit the sky, in the eyes of God. Though it doesn’t explicitly go against a commandment or biblical law, it’s just an understood rule. It’s wrong.

Jeno tells himself this, and continues to do so over the many years that he looks after you, never acting on his emotions, only acknowledging them before sending the less-than-acceptable thoughts into the depths of his conscious mind. He only wishes he had a key to lock them up and forget he even felt them in the first place.

Even as an angel, he ages just like anyone else, the both of you going from kids to teenagers and then nearing the young-adult stage of life, with you remaining blissfully unaware of Jeno’s true identity all the while. It’s a miracle he’s managed to keep his secret for this long, honestly, but like grains of sand in an hourglass, your time together is running out, whether you like it or not.

Not even a year before your entire world, your entire reality comes undone before your very eyes, Jeno feels as if his has already done just that. Because you’ve found someone. And that someone isn’t him.

He hates the feeling of jealousy, despises it with every fiber of his heavenly being. But he can’t shake it, can’t bear the way it clings to him like an unwelcome visitor. An unrecognizable emotion, one so foreign that he can’t even put a name to it, is stirred up at the sight of you in their arms, so pure and so unworthy of this person. Boy, if he didn’t know any better, Jeno would swear that you were the angel.

With each day that passes, he begins to feel the final shreds of both his dignity and his self-control slipping away, lost to the familiar breeze that whips through the village, stronger than ever these days. He can no longer contain it within himself. He wants you.

Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s goods. The second sin.

How ironic that a Sunday, of all days, is when everything falls apart.

The sun is hanging low in the sky, just barely grazing the horizon with its bright beams of warmth as it steadily rises, bathing the world in a soft yellow glow. You can also see the moon leftover from the night that ended not so long ago, fading fast but visible nonetheless. Two complete opposites, so close but prevented by the laws of nature for coexisting in the same space, at the same time.

Maybe, just maybe, if you knew just how much you had in common with the celestial objects above, you would have clutched the hand of Jeno a bit tighter yesterday, intertwined your fingers a little more closely with those of someone who had become the closest thing to a best friend that you had ever known. You admit that you wish he could be something more, but you know better than to push your limits.

You got tired of waiting to see if he felt the same way, choosing to fill the void with someone else that you liked, yes, but who just wasn’t the same as the boy who had always been there, waiting in the meadow every morning without fail. Still, your emotions are ever-alert and always searching for any sign of reciprocation within Jeno.

He’s nowhere to be found when you reach the water’s edge, the edge of the creek where you wasted away endless summer days and frosty winter nights, colorful spring afternoons and brisk autumn evenings.

This morning would seem no different than the rest if not for his absence. The knot in your heart loosens, but not by much, when you spot him at the forest’s edge, looking weary.

Jeno notices you and calls out your name with a smile, but something about it isn’t genuine. It’s pained, desperate, like he wants to hold onto this moment forever, unwilling to carry out the plan he’s already regretting. It’s too late now, he thinks to himself, but he’s wrong.

It’s been too late for years.

“Jeno?”

“This way!” He chokes out. It’s somewhere between a sob and a plea, but there’s no time to figure out which is the more appropriate term. He disappears between the trees and amidst their mossy branches, blending in with the shadows cast by the thick canopy of leaves, and you break into a sprint, afraid of losing him to the merciless wilderness and what lies within.

Thankfully, he’s not too far gone. A small clearing greets you less than a dozen strides in, and in the very center of it stands a glass gazebo, run-down and covered in so many twisting vines to the point where the small structure is almost fully consumed by the nature surrounding it.

The scene is beautiful, so much so that it makes you uneasy. What’s going on? Why did he bring you here? Why does he seem so sad? Jeno is never sad, maybe he could be described as brooding or solemn on the rarest of occasions, but never this melancholy, never so utterly hopeless in his expressions and his aura.

None of these questions are answered, even as he takes your hands in his own and leads you inside of the gazebo, its see-through panels catching the light with elegance and ease.

“I need to tell you something.” Just like it did the first time you heard it, his voice still shocks you like a bolt of electricity, your blood pressure and heart rate skyrocketing. All of this is heightened, though, by grim tone he’s speaking to you with.

“What is it, Jen?” There it is. The nickname you made up for him that, although simple, makes him feel like he’s on top of the world. Actually, scratch that: it makes him feel like he’s floating in the sky, up past the clouds and even further away from this cruel planet than the heavens are from Hell.

You’re only making this harder for him. He might as well just spit it out, because all this waiting is agonizing for the both of you.

“We... we can’t be together.”

The sentence that leaves his lips is two declarations wrapped up in one singular statement, the first being that he wants to be with you in the same way you want to be with him. It’s much too hopeful, misleading your emotions down a path of elation instead of dread. The second is unpleasant, a bitter taste lingering on his tongue once he says the words.

“...Yes, yes we can, Jen, because I don’t really love them and all this time it’s been you—”

“You don’t understand,” he tries to stop the confession spilling out from your heart before it overflows, drowns you. “I’m not who you think I am.”

Stunned to silence, he gives you a moment to drink in the implications of his words. “...I’ve known you for over half of my entire life, and you’re trying to tell me I have no idea who you really are? Not a chance,” you laugh softly, shaking your head and glancing down at the wooden gazebo floor, old white paint peeling under your feet.

“But haven’t you ever wondered why I’m always there by the creek every morning? How I turn up throughout your day at the perfect time? How I’m suddenly right by your side when you need me the most?”

You have wondered. Many times, in fact. But the possibility of him being anything other than human was not at the top of your very rational list.

“...Don’t you see? I’m your guardian angel.”

He sees you blink, realization dawning on your face like the sun and stretching your features. “There are laws—” He begins, but your reaction is not the one he anticipated you would have to that information.

Too overwhelmed, you can’t respond with anything other than physical actions, no matter how unreasonable, and you press your dry lips to his soft ones, sealing your fate. Standing there, with beams of golden light infiltrating the space and illuminating your unsteady figures, Jeno is petrified not by your kiss, but by the fact that he doesn’t push you away, and his hands hold onto yours even tighter than before. Nothing has ever felt so right in his entire life. Not when he was in Heaven, and not in all the years he’s spent on Earth, either.

You’re his Heaven, this moment is his eternity. Jeno has endured enough temptation, the undeniable thrill that a deliberate sin promises has become too much for him. If he pulls away now, everything would still be okay, you could both go back to normal and pretend this never happened. But alas, he was doomed to kiss you back from the beginning, and so he does, and you have no idea what the universe has in store when you feel his lips finally respond to yours in the most unholy way possible. For the first and last time, you indulge in each other’s touch and taste, and it does not please the ones watching from above.

The third and final sin, one sin too many for him to remain in this world without consequence.

Several things happen all at once. A clap of thunder sounds overhead, though there are no clouds in sight. Jeno is painfully ripped from your grasp and thrown out of the gazebo by some invisible force of nature, into the grass and dirt on the forest floor.

And inside of you, a piece of your soul is torn from your being, bile rising up in your throat as you comprehend the excruciating sensation that racks your body with pained whimpers.

Stumbling to his feet, Jeno heaves, hunched over and close to tears. Suppressing the agony you still feel, you hurry over to him only for the boy to charge away, heading back towards the open meadow. With a broken shout of his name, you follow.

You didn’t notice before, but now the blinding light reveals the condition he’s in. He looks almost normal, but the edges of his form are becoming fainter by the minute, blurring with the rest of the world around him. He’s fading away before your eyes, and it’s all your fault.

It’s a torturous experience, watching him slowly meld with the emptiness of the air. Making him disappear into thin air in an instant would have been an act of mercy, a mercy that’s apparently beyond the capabilities of the spectators in the sky.

Struggling to maintain your composure, you force a question out. “What’s happening?” You ask, though you know he doesn’t have an answer himself.

He’s obviously panicked, though he tries not to show it. “I... I don’t know, I knew that it was forbidden for us to fall in love but I didn’t think I’d be robbed of my existence like this...”

“What?! No, Jeno, please don’t go...” You beg the gods and angels above, if any exist. You don’t know anymore.

If there is a God, how can he be good if he’s taking Jeno away from you like this, depriving you of the one constant source of joy and comfort in your life?

It’s far too cruel to bestow such a kind and generous heart upon someone who isn’t allowed to love in the first place.

Even Jeno’s touch is faint, making you feel like he’s not there at all. You just barely detect the pads of his fingers smoothing over your cheeks, trying to stop the water spilling from your eyes. He smiles sadly, “Don’t cry for me. I’m not worth the tears.”

“You’re everything to me, Jeno. You’re worth every drop.”

“Remember me like this, okay? By the creek,” he gestures to the turbulent waters a short distance away. Walking slowly, he begins to take steps in its direction, but as he speeds up you’re no longer able to match his pace. “Jeno, turn around...”

Glancing back at you for the final time, he whispers a goodbye that the breeze carries away with it, the sound something only the two of you would hear, one that could never be replicated.

“Goddamnit, Jeno, don’t you dare leave me!” But you know you can’t hold on, you’re not strong enough. A greater force wants you two apart, unable to be overpowered by one human, a relatively insignificant being in the grand scheme of the universe. He vanishes completely.

You fall to your knees, the pain from the pebbles digging into your legs and feet underneath the surface of the creek numbed by your sorrow. The water drenches your clothes, splashing up onto your skin and becoming one with your relentless tears. You’re left all alone, with only the cattails to keep you company. You wish the waves would just swallow you whole so you don’t have to feel this suffocating isolation.

In an unnecessarily harsh trick of the light combined with the dancing shadows generated by the water, you swear that you see Jeno again for a second, sitting on the riverbank like always. You sob louder.

It takes forever for you to find the strength to stand up again, water running over your soaked shoes and threatening to topple you over. You wouldn’t mind if it succeeds.

Inconsolable even to your closest friends and family, you reluctantly return to the village, unwilling to leave behind what you’ve just been through and unable to explain just why you’re crying so hard. Maybe if you stay there forever, spending each day and night waiting among the reeds and the flowers and the grass, he’ll come back someday, but no. He’ll never return, but you simply can’t bring yourself to accept this fact.

You’re never quite the same after that. Part of the curse that haunts you for the rest of your life is this: no matter how hard you try to retain your memories, you’re destined to forget Jeno eventually, leaving vast gaps in your brain when it comes to the years of your youth.

You’re left with only a feeling of inexplicable nostalgia at the sight of the meadow and the creek running through it, the waters still as violent as they were on the day you lost him.

[tenmillionwhumperflies]

Cloudwalker Series Part 29

Alright, part 29 is done, and you can have some cheeky Rhix whump.

Warnings: Mentions/brief descriptions of murder, brief part on previous eye whump and descriptions of it, mentions of nsfw and a non-con assumption, but it does not happen.

Approx WC: 3500

Taglist: @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi, @thegreathowdini Seeing the castle of Everblood come into view, the enormous towers and mighty walls, the ragged eerie flags that hung lifelessly in the cold air, seeing the old battle scars where the castle had survived attack after attack didn't quite give Avizon the comfort he'd expected it to have despite longing to return- and it wasn't because he was out in the open. He didn't feel like he could be safe anymore. He feared an attack from unseen enemies at any moment. He willed the metal gates to open until he was through and then slam shut behind him. He doubted it would be enough anymore. Maybe Orrien was right; he'd become too dependent on walls and stone despite his claims he was the most powerful in the land.

He set to work on unloading the supplies and tending to Secret, brushing her coat, feeding her and getting her settled for the evening. He smiled at his birds once the work was done and let them do as they wished for a while until dinner. He'd hunted some rabbit along the way so their dinners were sorted. He didn't really feel like eating after killing that man. He'd deserved it for causing such pain, but Avizon still felt like a monster, he still felt out of control. He did wish he could give up his power, but he just didn't have the courage. He knew what he was with that power, but what would he be without it...

He sighed, thinking back to the time where he'd returned to this castle years ago after his wounds eventually healed, after he'd lost Ro and been found after weeks of torture. He'd kidnapped the king with ease, teleporting in, grabbing him from his bed, and teleporting out. It had been that simple. He'd forced him down on the stone altar despite his cowardly begging and pleading.

Oh, the riches and powers he had promised him, wealth beyond measure, the ability to pick any man in the land to replace Ro and Halve would make sure he was able to have him as he wished, fine steeds, castles and servants to command. As if Ro was some cheap toy! As if everything he'd suffered through was so quickly washed away. He'd stared him in the eyes and stabbed him clean through the heart, giving him the sacrifice he'd needed to be able to inherit the dark powers that had soon controlled him.

That had been the easy part, but the sacrifice he had to personally give in exchange had been his eye. That pain had been unlike anything he'd ever felt, the heavy rotting, burning sensation. He didn't like taking off his patch. He hated seeing his eye, how it was black as coal, weepy and so painful whenever light reached it. It did nothing to stop him feeling like a monster. Sometimes it still hurt, the heavy burning withering feeling returned and nothing could ease the pain…

He'd taken over the palace in a rage after that. He'd given the innocents the chance to leave, Orrien helped see to that. Avizon had been left with the scum, and their screams still echoed in his mind. He didn't fully regret what he'd done. Especially to the princess. Eriona had deserved it and so much more. Not just because of what she did to him, but to her two cloudwalkers. Fluffy and Flutter had suffered just as much as he had, perhaps worse at times.

He wanted to find them as soon as he could. Now he was finding himself again, he wanted to give them a chance at happiness. He should have remembered them, he should have cared more. He'd remembered to save Rhix before he drowned in darkness, but he hadn't been able to remember the birds. Back then he was a different man and didn't view them as well as he should have. He'd hated their suffering of course, but he hadn't considered them to be so human… but things were different now.

If they were out there. He would find them and give them the chance to be safe from harm.

Avizon sighed, thoughts wandering to Rhix. Rhix had been a good friend before he'd taken over the castle. Avizon had been the only one Rhix had dared tell about how the King, Kellis, treated him, how he suffered and was constantly being humiliated, treated like some common entertainer. His castle had been almost as bad as Avizon's. Avizon had saved him from that, giving him the chance to grow into a more confident young man. He'd saved him, and it hurt to think all the circle saw him as a truly evil. But Orrien's words gave him hope. Maybe Rhix hadn't completely given up on him…

-----

Avizon struggled within his own skin as he sat on the throne in the gallery. Sometimes twirling a small parchment around in his fingers, other times scrunching it up, waiting impatiently for his 'guests' to arrive. He'd sent a message days ago, a message to the neighboring kingdom where Rhix 'served'. In his hand he held their cowardly answer.

Surrender your sorcerer, Rhixius, to me, alive and well. If you do not bring him, your kingdom will be next to fall. It is my one and only demand.

It was no surprise when a message had been returned quickly. They'd given him up, without even thinking about the possibilities of what Avizon could do with dark magic and a sorcerer with containment talent. Fortunately for them he wasn't interested in that, though the darkness inside certainly was. For now Avizon could only wait for them to bring him. He'd managed to fight the dark part of him that wanted to tell the king he knew his secrets, how they treated Rhix, and send all his rage at him. But he feared that they would harm him for telling someone. Avizon wanted Rhix alive and well and there was no point in risking that.

He felt the presence of men in his domain. He could feel Rhix was with them, but his powers were… weak, incredibly so. As if he'd been sapped of all his energy. He crushed the paper in his hand. If they'd leeched him then so help him…

The men carefully made their way to the throne room. Avizon barely managed to tuck away his shock. He'd expected for Rhix to have resisted, to be bound, but this was different.

Rhixius had been a pitiful sight, his hands were bound in front of him with rough ropes and he was shirtless, covered with shining jewelry and silky baggy pants. His body was littered in bruises and scratches. Avizon wondered how much he'd struggled on the way here. They really thought he wanted Rhix as a partner. No doubt Rhix was terrified. He didn't suppress the growl that rose in his throat, seeing Rhix's pale skin, the old scars and signs of torment, new and old.

He'd been gagged and blindfolded, and was so unaware of what was going on around him. He swayed, but Avizon wasn't sure if that was because of the blindfold or not. Rhix whimpered when they forced him to a halt and shoved him down on his knees. He groaned and struggled not to fall forward. A hand in his hair ensured he couldn't.

"We brought your whore," one man sneered. Avizon brought fire to his hands and glared. "Repeat those words." The man gulped and let go of Rhix, backing away and bowing. "I… I.I thought that you- I didn't- I beg your forgiveness-"

Avizon had already hurdled a ball of fire at him, hitting him hard in the shoulder. The man screamed and rolled around the floor, trying to put out the flames. The flames tore through the clothes quickly and chewed at his skin until he managed to put the last if it out, panting, sobbing. Avizon didn't care.

Rhix tensed up, bracing for pain. Avizon saw how he ducked his head down, trying to seem as small as possible. Avizon didn't want to scare him too. He'd clearly been through enough. The others deserved to suffer. He clenched his fists.

"Do not speak of this man as though he were nothing," Avizon snarled. "One word from him seeking revenge and I will destroy every last brick of your kingdom!” "B.but we have your word you will not attack our kingdom or any other?" The leader spoke up carefully.

"It's true I have what I wanted. But I will not deny Rhixius the chance of revenge if his heart desires. You'd best pray he is far more forgiving than I. If I am left alone and Rhixius chooses peace, then you've nothing to fear. But if I ever hear-" Avizon summoned a wave of dark magic, the deepest he could feel at the time which engulfed the room in darkness.

From the shadows, hands reached out and grabbed all the men, restraining them. He brought fire to his hands and approached the leader slowly, bringing the fire closer and closer to his sweating face. "-that the king is using another man and hurts him as he did Rhix I will not hesitate." Avizon clenched his fists again to put the fire out, ignoring how his hands went numb for now.

"I… I will inform him of your conditions, my Lord." The men bowed, fear radiated off their bodies. Avizon stood and snatched the rope from him that was connected to a collar around Rhix's neck. He let the magic disappear in the blink of an eye and his body felt so heavy from it. His eye throbbed, but he let the pain fuel his anger for now.

"Out."

That had been enough for them to flee, as if they'd never even been there.

Avizon's attention turned to Rhixius. He struggled with his dark side, he could feel it churning inside him. He circled his trembling form. Part of him wanted to savour the sight, but the rest of him was appalled at the thought, yet unable to stop himself. He felt like a puppet. He grabbed Rhix by the chin and made him look up. Rhixius whimpered. Avizon groaned trying to beat his urges back. He let go and Rhix's head dropped forward limply.

He wanted him. He wanted a pet, a servant, something to be dependent on him and to have complete control over. Rhix would be perfect- He was able to break out of it when he saw Rhix sway badly. He slumped forward with a groan and Avizon's body acted without his mind. He caught him and pulled him close to his chest protectively. No. Rhix was a friend. He would not hurt him! He had to protect him, even from himself.

Avizon was stunned at just how cold he was. He reached for his blindfold. Rhix yelped and flinched away. "Shhh, be at ease." Avizon continued, sliding the white material up, revealing what really were beautiful iridescent eyes. Rhix blinked hard to adjust before he stared up in shock. Avizon ignored him and carefully eased the gag out of his mouth. He cupped his cheek to support his jaw.

"There… I always swore to you that I would save you from that place. I have done so."

"A.Avizon… why…" tears shone in his eyes. "Why did you turn to the shadows… y.you were free…" "Because I wasn't strong enough," his voice harsh like sandpaper. "I couldn't protect him."

"Ro? Avizon, that wasn't your fault…" Avizon shook his head. "I don't expect you to understand. I'm not important. Where is your power?.. Did they use a leech?" "N.No… I. I breathed in powder… they found a way of blocking it for hours at a time… I… I don't know how it's made."

Avizon took a deep breath. He felt better, being closer to him, closer to light magic. It was easier to think clearly, but it made his eye hurt more. Avizon hissed and covered it with a hand.

"Let's get you a bath, a meal, and bed," he managed.

Avizon started to free his hands but Rhix whimpered "Is that why I'm here? What the other man said, what they've all been saying…"

"No." His voice was firm. Solid. "I swore I would free you and I found a way of doing so. It's true that I… I want you to stay, as a friend, so I can protect you but… I already know you wouldn't want that. I'm dangerous now, and the best way to keep you safe would be if you weren't here. Once your powers have returned, I can only beg of you to go to the spire. They should be able to do what I cannot."

Rhix's expression was hard to read. Relief, worry, shock. Avizon gave up trying to understand it. He sighed. "Can you walk?" Rhixius nodded hesitantly. "I think so?"

Avizon managed to put his own pain aside and carefully helped him up, teleporting him upstairs. Using his powers, keeping the darkness flowing, made it easier to control the urges. He sat Rhix down on the side of a bed for now. Rhix only frowned and reached up slowly for Avizon's face. "What happened to your eye?"

Avizon turned his face away. "It… was sacrificed, let's say. It's not a pretty sight. Hopefully time will ease the pain." "May I see? Perhaps I can help?" "I doubt it…"

He let Rhix reach up with trembling fingers and ease the eyepatch away. He winced at the sight. It was dark magic for sure. The eye was pitch black, weepy, and looked almost like stone or charred wood. The surrounding skin was practically purple as the darkness had made its way into the surrounding capillaries. It was a terrible mess, and Avizon despised it.

"Avizon…" but words would not come to him. "Please let go of this magic before it's too late. Let go of it a.and I'll stay. I swear it. You'll have enough power to stay safe with me. You don't need it."

Avizon shook his head and moved Rhix's hands away, feeling another wave of darkness. "I can't. I am sorry…" "But it could kill-"

Avizon's mind slipped. He grabbed Rhix by the throat before he could stop himself. Rhix tried to bring magic to his hands on instinct, but nothing happened. Fear glowed in his eyes. 

"The magic stays," Avizon hissed. "Unless you care for a share of it too? We could rule together, be unstoppable, and reshape the world in our image."

Rhix brought his elbow down hard to force Avizon to let go. He coughed hard and shook his head. "I. I don't want that. Take a look at yourself! You can't control it! It's not meant to be controlled. Avizon, please do not go down this path, I'll do anything. Let me help you, let me at least stop it from destroying my friend!" Tears pooled in his eyes.

Avizon groaned and fell back against the wall, clutching his head. He looked up at him and whimpered. "I am so sorry. I.I'll go before I really hurt you… I'm sorry, Rhix. I never wanted this." Avizon rushed away, keeping his hands close to his body. What had he done?!

---

Avizon wished he'd taken Rhix up on that offer. Maybe he'd have been happy with a friend by his side, but there was no point thinking about it. He'd made his decision and had been miserable and alone.

Avizon finished up at the stables and found Dyan's dreamcatcher still hanging up in the cart where he'd first stored it. He'd have to put it up for him before night fell. He sighed, took it down, and went to the birds' room.

He found Dyan laying glumly in bed. He sighed softly. "What's wrong, Dyan?" "Nothing really. Just… I miss Blue. This place is so big that it makes me feel more lonely…" "I understand that feeling all too well. You can stay in the tower today with me if you like?"

Dyan nodded and rubbed his eyes. He watched Avizon put the dreamcatcher up in the window. "There, that ought to help you," Avizon smiled.

"Thank you, master, for doing so much for me a.and buying me nice things. I'm the luckiest cloudwalker in the world to be by your side." That caught Avizon off guard a little. He smiled softly and ruffled his hair. "Thank you, Dyan. Now let's get going. I need to study the venom I collected from Tashka."

Dyan sat sleepily beside Avizon, resting against his knee, drifting off to sleep with his head against him. Avizon smiled and left him to rest, for now focusing on his work. He needed to know what had happened, to know just what Borgurk was planning. Tashka had certainly been right. The magic he could feel in the venom certainly belonged to Borgurk. That scum had lingered in the shadows unsupervised for far too long, ever since Avizon had fought him. In truth, Avizon wished and had even thought him dead. It scared him to know he could come back. He had loved ones he could lose again…

He was still working when Dyan woke up from his rather long nap. He startled awake with a loud cheep before flopping back down against his master's leg. "It's alright, little bird. Bad dream?" "I'm not sure.. I think I was being chased."

"Are you well enough for me to ask for a little of your venom, for comparison?"

Dyan gulped but nodded and got up on his knees. He opened his mouth and waited. Avizon was patient as he massaged behind his ear, sometimes a little rougher than what was relaxing, but it worked. Venom dripped and Avizon collected it. Avizon had what he needed. He patted Dyan's hair and invited him to lie down again.

Dyan peeked over the top of the table to see what his master was doing. He was surprised by all the bottles and tools and devices.

"I don't like this at all…" Avizon mumbled. "Borgurk's up to something terrible… Dyan, I don't want you or Ihuka leaving the magic circle that surrounds this castle, you understand? Something dark and dangerous is afoot."

"Yes, master."

Avizon wished he knew what but until Borgurk played his hand he feared he wouldn't know. Of course he realised Borgurk was interfering with cloudwalker magic, probably to make himself stronger but… Then what? Did he have a target in mind? A goal? That's where he was less sure. He needed to prepare, take measures to protect everyone…

"Master?" Dyan said softly, breaking Avizon out of his thoughts. "Are… are you alright? Can I help?..." Avizon looked down and smiled at him. He stroked his hair lovingly. "You already are helping. Good bird. Are you feeling better?"

Dyan nodded and decided to hug Avizon's leg.

"I wonder where Ihuka wandered off to… its almost dinner time. This can wait a little while, I need time to think. Come, let's go find him." Dyan let go and waited for his master to stand before he rose up off the floor. "Maybe he's at his favourite window?"

"You go search there and then your room. I'll wander until I can sense him."

And so he wandered, Dyan returned without Ihuka and Avizon frowned in mild confusion. He knew Ihuka was still in the grounds. He wasn't worried, just curious.

He didn't expect to find him sitting at the top of one of the towers, looking out at the immense view, hugging his knees with the stuffed toy Avizon had bought him.

Avizon approached noisily so as to not startle him. Ihuka turned quickly, likely not sure if he was in trouble or not. "Good bird," Avizon said softly, hoping to ease that anxiety as soon as he could. Ihuka visibly relaxed and went back to looking at the view.

"It's dinner time… Ihuka? Anyone in there?" Ihuka seemed lost in thought, in emotion. He stared out into the world and… longed? Grieved perhaps?

Ihuka flinched when Avizon carefully touched his shoulder. "You miss your brother?" "Sorry, master," Ihuka said quickly. Avizon hushed him softly. "We'll find him. Let's get you fed now, alright? Dinner time."

Avizon ruffled his hair gently and then made his way down for a meal. Ihuka hugged Dyan when he saw him sitting at the table. Avizon was glad they had each other since they couldn't find much comfort with him. He really did wish he could do more, but as Orrien said, they needed time.

He hoped giving them some time back home away from everything would help all three of them. He knew fate was in motion, conflict was nearing and they needed the time to rest. If it didn't work, he didn't know what else he could do. 

[creative-hanyou-girl]

The Witch’s Daughter (Pt.2)

Now with a cover!!!!

Disclaimer: I do not own InuYasha/Yahahime or any of its characters. All InuYasha characters belong to Rumiko Takahashi, Sunrise, and Viz media.

Genre: Family/Romance/Angst

Rated: Teen (for some cussing and depictions of violence)

A/N: First off, I want to give a big fat “Thank You” to all of you guys who left likes and reviews and for reblogging the 1st chapter of The Witch’s Daughter! I am so sorry for the long wait. A lot of stuff happened over the holidays and beyond that, and college has kept me pretty busy too. I hope you guys enjoy this chapter, and I’ll try to be quicker with the next one!!!

I should also say that while Touga holds both these titles in the story, in this universe, the title of Emperor is not the same as the title of Inu no Taisho.

Emperor: Ruler over the people, responsible for governing the country; Sesshomaru to be successor.

Inu no Taisho: Commander and General of all armed forces, literally translating to “Great Dog General”; InuYasha to be successor.

(trust me, knowing the difference is important.)

Chapter One 

FF.Net 

With that said, on with Chapter Two!

Chapter Two

Swinging the sword in his grip at a downward angle, Lord and General InuYasha huffed in satisfaction. His sparring partner and friend, Miroku, had his own weapon knocked out of his hands as a result of the half dog-demon’s offensive maneuver, the force of the technique even toppling the human man over to land on his butt.

Scenting the approaching threat from behind, InuYasha whirled around smoothly, his blade clashing thunderously with the sword that was about to come down on him. 

This time facing off against his rival and soldier, a wolf-demon named Kouga, the two demons went at each other fiercely, weapons clashing and clanging loudly and violently at speeds that’d be impossible for a human to achieve no matter how skilled a swordsman they were. Sparks flew as the two sparring men met each other’s attacks with vigour.

Miroku, seeing an opening, grabbed his own sword and went to attack the young dog-eared general. Rushing at his seemingly unsuspecting target, Miroku’s blue eyes widened in alarm when InuYasha ducked, hunching his broad shoulders and back forward to avoid Kouga’s blade coming at him from the side. The human soldier couldn’t stop himself fast enough, resulting in him barreling atop his Lord’s back, only for said Lord to adjust his movements in order to have Miroku’s slightly smaller frame roll over the curve of his spine. 

Kouga had no time to react before his fellow soldier rammed into his stomach, losing his grip on his own sword as both he and Miroku toppled over in a heap not too gently on the marble floor. 

The two soldiers looked up at their General as he aimed his trusty blade, the Tessaiga, to be level with their eyes.

InuYasha smirked triumphantly down at his fallen comrades, his golden amber eyes dancing with victory, before swiftly shelving Tessaiga in its sheath and offering a clawed hand out to Miroku. 

Grinning and shaking his head, the human male accepted, the two friends collapsing hands as the demon lord pulled the dark-haired man up before collapsing his shoulder good-naturedly. 

Kouga grouchily climbed to his own feet once Miroku was off him, crossing his arms as he scowled at his rival, “How the Hell do you always manage to one-up us every time, dog-turd? Call me crazy, but I’d think you were playin’ dirty!”

InuYasha glared right back, “There ain’t no such thing as playing dirty on the battlefield, wolf-boy. You know that as well as I do; when you're out there facing a shit-ton of soldiers tryin’ ta lop your head off, ya don’t got the luxury of playin’ fair!”  

“Yeah well the wolf tribes know to fight with honor, unlike you and your sad excuse of an army, General,” Kouga retorted, emphasizing the word ‘general’ in a demeaning, sarcastic tone.

The aforementioned general growled, shoving his snarling face into Kouga’s, his large, clawed hand cracking as he stretched the tendons in a threatening gesture. 

He and Kouga had never gotten along ever since the wolf-demon was enlisted to serve under the Inu no Taisho’s armed forces, only to be surprised and furious when he found that the Emperor’s youngest son, a half-breed, had already taken charge of many of the imperial forces, as he was set to succeed his father in becoming the next Inu no Taisho. Under that position, he’d serve under the next Emperor, his brother, as the commander of all of their Empire’s armed forces, leading himself and his men into the battlefields while the Emperor governs the rest of the country.   

Kouga was angered to be placed in one of InuYasha’s troops three years ago when he enlisted to be under the command of the current Inu no Taisho and Emperor, Touga.

He made it very clear to InuYasha from the get-go that he was displeased to be bossed around by an ‘honorless half-bred mutt’, though he knew better than to say as such around the Emperor and his family. 

That didn’t stop the wolf-demon from expressing his disdain for his general with his fellow soldiers, many of whom also shared his bias, and to InuYasha himself when the imperial family wasn’t around. 

The feelings were mutual, as InuYasha hated the wolf’s stench and despised his high and mighty attitude. But while the half-demon lord loathed to admit it, as his father had pointed out when the two of them were overseeing recruit training, Kouga was a strong and resilient fighter, quick on his feet and great at tracking scents from miles away.

“Almost as good as you,” his father had commented.

Almost. 

Keh!

At the end of the day, InuYasha knew he’d be a fool not to enlist the canine demon just because Kouga held a prejudice against him.

Didn’t mean he had to like it though.

“Well we ain’t in the wolf tribes now, are we ya scrawny wolf!” InuYasha exclaimed back in the present.

The two canine demons continued to snarl and bark back-and-forth, until a previously forgotten Miroku shoved his way in-between the two feuding men, breaking them up after some struggle as his human body was much weaker compared to those of his demonic comrades.

“I believe it’d be wise to step away from each other for a while. We did just return from a five-month trip in the North, after all. Perhaps now’s the time to relax and take a breather after all our hard work, do you not agree?” the human male reasoned, his tone soothing and placating. 

Kouga continued to glare as he looked between the two human and half-demon men, before huffing haughtily and stomping out of the in-door combat training room.

InuYasha watched him go before snorting and going over where he stashed his red cloak and armor, stepping next to the large water basin to wash his face of the sweat and grime he’d accumulated from the return journey and the sparring match that he had just won. All the while, Miroku walked along with him, washing his face and grabbing his own gear.

As the two friends strapped back on their heavy armor over their under garments, Miroku looked over at his companion.

“You know Kouga says that stuff at this point just to get a rise out of you, right?” he asked, locking the straps for his armor to his right arm.

“Pfft. Whatever, not like it matters,” the general mumbled, clipping on his ragged and torn up cape.

“Just take a break from him and other troops, InuYasha. Use this time to spend with your family for at least a few hours! Nobody will blame you, and who knows when we’ll be sent out to fight more battles again.”

“Ain’t that simple, Miro. I ain’t no ordinary, run-of-the-mill soldier like you; I’m gonna have to become the Inu no Taisho after my father. I have ta be on my toes all. The damn. Time. Add to the fact that I’m a half-demon, and that makes my job ten times more difficult since more and more people are questioning my authority and capability to lead them into battle. I don’t got time for a break, not yet anyways,” InuYasha argued, a hint of bitterness seeping into his tone.

It had become such a sore spot for him, being a half-breed. A mutt. When he was young, while there might’ve been a whisper here and a distrustful glare there, InuYasha had been fortunate to not have had to face too much discrimination for his mixed blood, but he now knew that was due to his status in the royal family. It was only when he snuck out at age thirteen in commoner clothing that he experienced first-hand how half-demons are really treated by the outside world when they have no status of nobility or royalty.

It was horrible; he returned home hiding the bruises and scars under his clothes before they healed by themselves. He never told either of his parents.

The incident still didn’t stop him from sneaking out to explore, though.

And then he was announced to be the next Great Dog General, the Inu no Taisho, after his father when he turned sixteen, and that news shocked and appalled many in the Emperor’s court and beyond that. Everyone had expected, nay, hoped that Touga would’ve named his eldest, pure demon son Sesshomaru as both the future Emperor and Inu no Taisho, seeing as Touga himself held both titles. No one had anticipated that his younger, impure half-bred son would’ve been named as Touga’s successor to anything!

If he was being honest, InuYasha was shocked too, but he didn’t want the role. 

He’d never told his family, since he knew it’d hurt them, but the then teenage InuYasha had always hoped for a life outside of the castle walls. Even after the incident that happened when he was thirteen, the half dog-demon still wanted to go out in the world where nobody knew who he was, and explore with no obligations or responsibilities to anyone. The brief experience with the outside world when he was thirteen had opened his eyes to how fake court-life truly was, and he hated it. 

Still, seeing everybody who didn’t even know him, already doubting and questioning his capabilities in such a rigorous, brutal, and powerful position just on the basis of him being a half-demon motivated him to take up the mantle he had previously tried to avoid. 

He’d prove to them, all of them, that he was the man for the job, and that his mixed blood didn’t matter.

That was his motivation that still drove him even now.

“Enough about that. Whatta ‘bout you? S’not like your working to become General; Why dontcha go see Sango and the kids. Bet they’ve been missing their old man,” Present InuYasha said, intentionally driving the conversation away from himself.

Miroku suddenly grinned dreamily at the mention of his wife and kids, and InuYasha still couldn’t believe this was the same perverted seventeen-year-old soldier he’d met all those years ago.

They’d met when Miroku joined InuYasha when he had taken charge of overseeing his first troop of soldiers. When he wasn’t giving them orders or training them, InuYasha kept his distance from everyone in his troop as much as possible, just as everyone had kept their distance from him. 

That all changed when Miroku approached him one night when they were traveling along the Eastern borders. The human had grinned mischievously, but no less kindly with a jug of sake and had asked to talk with him.

“Just want to get to know our fearless new general, is all,” is what he had said.

From there, their friendship grew, though it took months for InuYasha to start warming up to Miroku. It didn’t help either that the young soldier had the bad habit of rubbing up along any pretty woman’s ass and asking them to “bare his children” for him, whether the woman was human or demon.

And then Miroku met Sango, a female soldier and the only woman who knew how to put him in his place. From that moment on, the perverted soldier only had eyes for the no-nonsense woman, and InuYasha watched as his two only friends grew closer and closer for the next few years, eventually getting married and having a shit-ton of kids.

Now they were awaiting baby number...eleven? Twelve? The half-demon had honestly lost count. All he knew was that they were expecting yet again, and Sango was pissed not being allowed into the troops again until the pup was born.

The kids adored InuYasha, or ‘Uncle Inu’ as the little ones and even the oldest three, Kin’u, Gyokuto, and Hisui, liked to call him, and InuYasha, in turn, adored them all right back.

 An old, but familiar lump settled in his throat. 

 He was happy for his friends. He really was, but InuYasha couldn’t help the feeling of jealousy and longing to swell up to the surface.

He wanted what they had.

He wanted love.

He wanted children.

But he’d never have any of it.

Because he was a half-breed, and half-breeds, royalty or not, never find love, real love, let alone have children.

“My Lord! My Lord InuYasha!!!” cried the familiar, but no less annoying voice of his brother’s servant, Jaken.

 The aforementioned lord sighed in aggravation as both he and Miroku turned at the squawking cry, just in time to see the small imp-demon come barreling in only to trip over himself in his haste.

“Lord InuYasha! It is important, your father needs to speak with you at this very moment! It is urgent!!!” Jaken continued on.

Both half-demon and human arched their brows in confusion, exchanging concerned looks.

“You go on back to your family, Miroku. I’ll deal with this,” InuYasha said.

“You sure?” Miroku asked, still concerned.

InuYasha simply nodded.

With that, the future Inu no Taisho with his armor fully on once more, turned and followed the panicky little demon out of the training room without another word.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Making their way through the halls leading to the throne room, InuYasha contemplated the matter Jaken had frantically informed him his father wanted to discuss.

It wasn’t unusual for Jaken to overreact over certain matters, but the half-demon had never seen the servant as panicky as he was at that moment, even during the times he’d displeased Sesshomaru. 

When he first followed after the imp-demon to the throne room where his family was stationed, the young general had briefly feared it was another marriage proposition his father had arranged for him. There had been quite a few of those over the years, all of which didn’t work out as they should have. It wasn’t necessarily that all the women the Emperor picked for him were bad choices (although there were some who were stuck-up bitches who only wanted him for the rise in status and wealth), but none of them ever seemed to...click, with him.

He could never explain it, but being with them just felt wrong.

Like he was betraying someone by doing so.

Someone who haunted him in his dreams the few times he slept, but could never identify by face or scent.

Someone he didn’t know.

Or perhaps….someone he didn’t remember.

As they got closer to their destination however, the less InuYasha began to believe the situation to be about something as trivial as matrimony. Jaken wouldn’t be reacting the way he was if it was simply about him being offered the hand of a noble woman.

The more he thought about it, the more apprehension and dread he felt in the pit of his stomach at the unknown situation that awaited him.

Stopping in front of the sliding doors separating him from the unknown, InuYasha glanced down at Jaken, who bowed in understanding at staying put outside the room. The demon lord and general huffed and slid the doors open, expecting but unprepared for the worst.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“How’s that feel, sweetheart? Is it too tight?” Kagome asked gently, wrapping the young girl’s injured arm in gauze.

Her silent patient nodded hesitantly, staring at the pretty woman treating her wound and glancing at the silent quarter-demon girl who’d saved her.

Kagome finished wrapping her up and patted the child assuringly on her back, “You're going to be just fine, little one. Now why don’t you take one of the beddings we have here and get some rest, hmm? In the morning, Moroha and I will take you back home, okay?”

The little girl hesitated for just a moment.

“...Th-Thank y-you.” she stuttered in a soft voice, averting her brown eyes shyly when the mother and daughter pair blinked in surprise.

The experienced spell-caster smiled pleasantly, nodding her head.

“You are very welcome, my dear. That’s what we’re here for, and I’m glad that you are okay.”

The child blushed, then glanced at the teenage girl still staring at her in shock, before bowing towards the teen in gratitude, which only served to shock the poor quarter-demon even more.

“...And th-thank you, too. F-for rescuing me from th-those big men,” the human girl said, keeping her upper body lowered in a bow of respect.

Moroha was beyond surprised; She was flabbergasted. Never before had anybody who wasn’t her mother thank her, much less genuinely. She was more used to people belittling and repaying her and her mother’s kindness with cruel words and actions. Yet, here this young human child was, wholeheartedly and genuinely showing them, showing her, gratitude for saving and treating her, knowing or at least suspecting very well who they were, what they were. 

The young spell-caster blushed, flustered, “K-Keh! It wasn’t a big deal; I was just passing through!” she explained, defensive.

“Yes...just passing through.”

Moroha froze at the deadly calm tone. Cringing, the teen glanced slowly at her mother, flinching at the angered glare the older woman was shooting her.

Oh crap.

Turning back towards her slightly confused patient, Kagome adapted a cheery smile and clapping her hands together.

“Well, I believe that’s enough for now! Why don’t you go and get some rest, dear, and then we’ll get up bright and early tomorrow to take you home! That sound good?” the woman asked, her tone motherly and upbeat.

The girl nodded, getting up and taking a few steps towards one of the beddings close by. Before she got there though, the young brunette turned her head to look back at her temporary caretakers.

“Miss Pretty Lady, Miss Demon Lady? Really, thank you for saving me. I was really scared,” the child thanked them for the hundredth time, her words more confident and assured.

Moroha’s eyebrow twitched in annoyance, “Demon Lady?”

“Hey kid! We have names!” the spell-casting quarter-demon exclaimed, aggravated. 

“Moroha!” Kagome scolded, her message clear.

Don’t dig yourself deeper into the hole you're already in, missy.

Understanding the silent threat, said ‘missy’ gulped and shut her mouth, not daring to utter another word that could get her in even more trouble than she already was.

Huffing, Kagome once again smiled kindly towards the younger girl.

“Please excuse her, she can be a bit brash. She’s right though; we haven’t introduced ourselves yet, have we? My name’s Kagome Higurashi, and that troublemaker over there is my daughter, Moroha. What is your name?” she asked.

The girl, again, hesitated. Only for a split second, though, as she soon opened her mouth and answered.

“My name is Rin.”

Kagome nodded, standing up and leading her previously unnamed charge over to the bedding, a gentle hand on the small of the brunette girl’s back.

“Well Rin, it's late, and you must be exhausted, so go to sleep and we’ll get you up in the morning. I’m certain your family misses you terribly and won’t be too pleased if you come back to them dead-on-your-feet tired, now will they?” 

Rin shook her head as Kagome tucked her in. Unsurprisingly, the young girl was out within seconds, the craziness from the day catching up to her.

Once she was sure her charge was fast asleep, the spell-caster turned back to her nervous daughter, arms on her hips as she frowned at the teenager.

“Mama, I-” 

Kagome put a hand up, abruptly cutting off her child’s excuse before it could begin, “Come with me over here. Now.”

Moroha shivered at the serious, deadpanned tone. Her mother only used that tone when she was about to give her a tongue-lashing. No doubt about it, she was in trouble.

Deep trouble.

The mother and daughter pair strode over towards the treeline that surrounded their camp. It was far enough away to where they could talk in private and not disturb their sleeping guest, but close enough so that they could still see and check in on the child if any danger invaded their camp. 

Sighing and rubbing her temples, Kagome started, “Moroha, what were you thinking! I told you to not go any farther than you absolutely had to to deliver that medicine, and then you come back with bruises and scratches, blood on your clothes, and an injured child in your arms, telling me there was a mob riot in the village!? And that you used magic to eviscerate a demon’s arm!? Do you know what kind of danger you put yourself in!?” 

Moroha winced, trying to keep the bruises on her neck hidden from her mother’s sight. When she had burst through the treeline back into their camp, carrying Rin who’s arm wound was still sluggishly bleeding out onto her and her clothes, her mother took one look at the injured child and sprang into action, having to clean and then stitch up the wound before it could get infected. So focused on ensuring the child be taken care of, Kagome had only noticed in passing the light bruises and few scrapes on her own child’s arms and legs, but they were superficial and were already healing, so Kagome and Moroha paid them no mind. Not when they had a much more serious, much more human injury, to be taken care of. 

The demon girl was grateful that Kagome had been more focused on the human child as soon as she saw her. Otherwise, the dark, yellow and purple bruises on her neck from where the demon had a tight hold on her would have instantly been spotted on the older woman’s ‘Mom Radar’, as she liked to call it. 

Moroha hadn’t wanted to cause her mother any more worry, so as soon as she was sure Kagome was too preoccupied with the human child to pay any mind to her, Moroha had taken the scarf she wore around her neck and readjusted it to hide the bruises that were still there. With how tight the demon had clutched onto her, the bruises were quite nasty looking, and would take longer for her demonic healing to get rid of them completely. 

Of course, this act of secrecy equated to not telling her mother exactly why she’d had to eviscerate that demon’s arm with her magic. She still wasn’t so sure telling the truth about that was a good idea, but she had to say something!  

“He gave me no choice, Mama! I had to use magic!” the teen defended, hoping her mother wouldn’t press the issue from there.

“And why was that, Moroha? What did he do to make you blow your cover and the cloaking spell to destroy his arm using magic?” 

And of course, her mother pushed the issue.

“Uh…” was all that came out of her mouth, her mind running double-time to come up with a valid, but less severe explanation than what had actually happened.

Unfortunately, the world seemed to be out to get her that day. While Moroha fumbled, trying to make up a random excuse, Kagome had finally noticed the unusual way her daughter’s red scarf covered the quarter-demon’s neck, and had reached her hands out to remove the scarf.

“Wait! Mama, don’t-” Moroha panicked once she felt her mother’s hands moving the scarf.

“Moroha!!! What on Earth happened to your neck!?”

Too late.

Moroha winced when Kagome gently poked and prodded the darkened, abnormally large fingerprint marks on her neck. They weren’t as sore as they were hours ago, telling the inexperienced spell-caster that the healing process was already underway, but with how dark and severe the bruises were, it’d take longer for the bruises to completely vanish from her skin. 

Prying her mother’s hands away from her injured flesh, Moroha cringed even more at the panicked expression, as well as the unshed tears, that she could see in her eyes and face.

She hated making her mama look like that. 

“These were why I had to use magic; he had me by the neck,” Moroha swallowed, figuring there was no point in lying or trying to come up with another excuse anymore. 

The older magic-user stared at the marks that dared to mar her baby’s lightly tanned skin before pulling the demon girl tightly into her arms, embracing her most precious treasure like a life-line, her anger completely forgotten. 

Surprised at first, Moroha quickly regained her composure and wrapped her arms around her mother’s waist, embracing her just as tightly as the severity and exhaustion from the day finally caught up with her, and she buried her head into her mother’s shoulder as her small frame shook from her emotional turmoil.

For the first time in a long while, Moroha was desperate for her mother’s comfort.

She didn’t cry, but it finally hit Moroha just how much danger she put herself in that day, and how scared the whole ordeal made her, though she’d never admit it out loud.

Even so, the partial-demon couldn’t find it within herself to regret stepping in to help a child in need, and she expressed that sentiment to her mother, her voice muffled slightly from her face still being buried in her mama’s shoulder. 

Kagome sighed and pulled herself and her daughter out of each other’s arms, though she still had a grip on the much more petite girl’s shoulders. Her face was resigned, but understanding as she addressed Moroha.

“I understand, sweetheart, and I would’ve done the exact same thing if I were you. But I’m your mother, and I just worry for you is all. I know you can take care of yourself, and I know you did what you thought was right, but I just can’t help it; I want you to be safe. You’ll understand one day when your a mother,”

Kagome grinned when Moroha blushed at the last part.

Moroha coughed awkwardly, shuffling her feet as she looked away from her mother’s grinning face, and Kagome had to stifle a giggle at just how familiar Moroha’s countenance was.

“She’s truly her father’s daughter, that’s for sure…”

“So, um...are we good?” Moroha asked, nervous despite herself.

Taking pity on her poor child, Kagome smiled and looped an arm around her daughter’s shoulder as they walked back away from the trees and led her to their own beddings for the night.

“Yup, we’re good.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“You wished to speak with me, Father?” InuYasha asked, bowing respectfully before the Emperor and the rest of his family.

The second he entered the room, InuYasha sensed the tension in the air. His family all had grim expressions upon their faces, save for his mother who had a clearly worried look upon her soft features.

The feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach only intensified when he noticed Sesshomaru and his twin daughters clenching their clawed hands into fists, enough to draw rivlets of blood from all three of them. Sesshomaru’s eyes were also bleeding a light pink, telling InuYasha that whatever the issue was, it was enough to rile up the normally stoic demon lord that he was holding back from transforming.

But the most telling, and ultimately the most concerning, indicator was the absence of his young, cheerful adoptive niece. 

InuYasha’s mouth went dry.

“Where’s Rin?” he asked, fear creeping into his heart.

“Missing,” his father simply stated.

A reverberating growl from the Emperor's eldest son rent the air in the room at the word.

“We need you, Sestuna, and Kouga to go and search for her; try to scent her out,” Touga continued, his tone authoritative and resolute like the leader he was.

InuYasha, stone-faced, kneeled on one knee before his father and family, head bowed as he addressed them.

“I will not rest until she is found and safe, Your Highness.” the half-demon general vowed, determination clear in his voice.

The current Emperor and Inu no Taisho nodded, eyeing his Setsuna imploringly. Catching her grandfather’s gaze, the half-demon princess nodded back and stood up, taking her naginata with her as she stepped off the raised platform to her uncle’s side.

“I have already sent a messenger to retrieve Kouga; he will meet you at the front gate. Now go,” the Emperor commanded firmly, to which both general and princess nodded sagely.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  “InuYasha!”

InuYasha and Setsuna turned at the call, seeing his half-brother striding up to him with a serious glare.

“Father, what is it?” Setsuna asked, her tone deadpanned like her father’s often was. 

The future Emperor stopped before his daughter and brother, his gaze steady but no less imposing.

“I urge you, little brother, to not be your stupid, impulsive self with this matter. It does, afterall, concern my daughter,”

Normally, such a reminder would cause InuYasha to roll his eyes and respond with a smartass retort.

But this time, InuYasha knew the severity of the situation, and he could easily spot the worry in his half-brother’s golden eyes.

They were the eyes of a father, worried for the whereabouts of his child.

Something InuYasha was sure he was never going to experience.

He nodded, his face grave and resolute.

“You have my word, Sesshomaru, that I will find your daughter and bring her home,” 

The young lord glanced over at Setsuna, his niece catching his gaze.

“Both of them,” InuYasha concluded.

The older demon stared down at his brother, as though assessing the half-demon’s sincerity of his promise, before giving a single nod of acceptance.

With that, the two half-demons turned and made their way to the front gate, set and determined to bring back their loved one.

To be Continued....

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: Hope you guys enjoyed it! 

Tagging: @misteria247 @loveanime89 @xfangheartx @keichanz @holi-holy @jgomz92 @lostinfantasyworlds @born-for-eachother @littlestuffstohide @nat-the-cat-123 @cnderpaws @mymidnightnightmare @butterflyhufflepuff @bluehawaiicat @pinkweirdsunsets @sangoslays @disneysooner @blairex @shinidamachu @thisisthebesticando @squeep123 @redflamesofpassion @lavendertwilight89 @sailorbabydoll92

Let me know if I missed anybody or you want to jump on the tag train for any of my InuYasha fanfictions!

[thanksjro]

More Than Meets the Eye #13- Swerve Doesn’t Have Any Friends

Okay, let’s go ahead and get this out of the way.

It’s a FUCKING SPORTS BRA AND RUNNING SHORTS ALEX.

And don’t think I don’t see that friggin’ cleavage alien back there. You ain’t slick.

I’m going to make it a law that all comic book artists learn how to draw clothes that don’t vacuum-seal themselves to women’s bodies. Milne gets six months for this infraction alone, and Roche gets a year for the initial bra crime he committed back in Last Stand. Learn how women’s underwear works, you ninnies.

Our issue opens up with Swerve stretching his radio personality muscles.

Oh, Guido Guidi, whisk me away to flights of fancy!

Our artist for this issue is none other than Guido Guidi, ascended from fanwork to deliver us from evil with his near-superhuman ability to emulate other artists’ styles and just make things look really pretty. He was responsible for the mythos pages in the 2012 Annual, AKA the best part. He also filled in on some of the art for Last Stand of the Wreckers, not that I really noticed because he’s just that good.

Swerve lets Blurr know that while it might have looked like the Lost Light had exploded, thus killing everyone onboard back in issue #1, that isn’t actually what happened. I’m glad someone filled in the Cybertronian populace on that.

I was never great at math, but those speech bubbles might be phoning it in a bit.

Swerve says that he’s having a great time on the quest, despite all the hiccups, and we get an explanation for why this long-range communications system hasn’t been seen prior to this point. It’s been broken for a while- most likely due to the quantum jump that started the series off with a bang- but Blaster managed to get it running again. Good job, Blaster. With this little setup for our framing device out of the way, we get into the meat of the story.

Swerve is being nosey about things that weren’t any of his business, happening in a closed off room, when Drift drags him down the hall and hid him away for safety. Swerve doesn’t much appreciate being manhandled, but there’s a method to the madness here.

Drift’s nose has vacated the premises once again, so we’re just going to have to deal with that. And how shapely does one have to be to be known as “the guy with the legs”? I mean, Drift is RIGHT THERE.

Drift uses his own powerful legs to kick down the door to Cyclonus and Tailgate’s room. It turns out that the horrific screaming wasn’t the sound of a murder or sexual relations taking place, but rather that of Cyclonus singing in Old Cybertronian.

My god, he’s completely enamored with this unrepentant murder machine.

We are just all up in Cyclonus’ grill for this panel. Nothing but lips. Was this specified in the script? Because it feels like it might have been specified in the script.

Old Cybertronian, or the Primal Vernacular as some might call it, was last seen in general when Rodimus channeled the will of the trapped Titan all across Tailgate’s chest. It was last seen spoken when we met Vos, the terrible murder gremlin who turns into a gun and uses his face to cause puncture trauma.

Comic books are wild, y’all.

Now that we’ve established that no one’s being killed, Drift goes back to what he was doing earlier, with Swerve deciding to tag along because he’s horrifically lonely. He invites Drift to come room up with him, because I guess if you’re going to sell off your comatose roommate’s bed out from under him, you might as well go for the guy who’s third in command,  is probably one of the hottest guys on the ship, and slices people into chunky salsa if they try anything funny.

Drift politely declines, and awkwardly removes himself from the conversation when Swerve doesn’t take the hint, returning to his sword lesson with Rodimus.

Oh thank god, the obnoxiously pink room is back.

Ultra Magnus bursts into the room, appalled by the actions of his fellow crew members. Some of his concerns are well-placed. Others, well…

Is- is that another friggin’ retainer on those lower teeth? Why does this design choice keep showing up?

So Magnus has imprisoned roughly a third of the ship at this point, and Rodimus suggests he take a chill pill. Magnus doesn’t even know what a chill pill even is, so we’re forced to make use of our most dangerous weapon- the threat of a good time, courtesy of Swerve.

The fact that Ultra Magnus hasn’t reduced Swerve to an oil stain on the floor is genuinely astounding. The guy has zero respect for bureaucracy or proper business management. It has been MONTHS, you dinky little man, get your act together as a business owner.

Swerve takes the bribe, and soon everyone’s shipping off to Hedonia, where the drinks are plentiful and the women… well, most of the Lost Lighters don’t even know what a woman is, so that aspect doesn’t really come into play. Thanks, Furman.

Also, Rung’s back to normal. Don’t worry about it, not a big deal.

Swerve isn’t having much luck on his Roommate Quest, as Tailgate spurns his advances, stating that he’s good kicking it with Cyclonus, mainly because they’re both old as shit.

I see we haven’t quite hit the threshold on the “Cyclonus is allowed to have friends now” meter. Give it a few more issues, I’m sure we’ll get there.

Man, zero for two for Swerve on trying to get a hot roommate. Maybe third time’s a charm?

Rodimus pops into the back of the shuttle to remind everyone that their entire race is more or less despised by the entire galaxy, and to play it safe by using their holomatter avatars.

The revamp by Brainstorm and Rung is truly a blessing, because the avatars in IDW were awful to look at up to this point.

Y’all, that is HOT ROD. Jesus wept.

Getting back to Tailgate’s questionable taste in companionship, Tailgate asks if Swerve and Blurr connected right away. Swerve gives him an affirmative, then starts listing off the guy’s racing stats until Ultra Magnus plops down between the two of them, drawn in by the melodious sound of statistics.

Magnus is having a hard time relaxing, but he’s giving it his best, and I think that’s very commendable of him. It’s hard trying new things.

On the surface of Hedonia, it would appear the B-Movies are having a Pride event in the entertainment district.

Okay, moment of truth- show us those avatars!

Oh thank god, they aren’t totally hideous. Though, isn’t Rewind old as shit? I guess youth is a state of mind. Still, I can’t believe we missed out on silver fox Rewind.

Rung’s line is in response to folks at the time claiming that Rung was a self-insert character, which is interesting, because we’ve already seen what a self-insert looks like when it’s Roberts doing the inserting, and we’ve also seen his Mary Sues.

Rung, while an original character who had appeared in Roberts’ pre-professional works (a single line of text in Eugenesis, where he was a psychiatry play-on-words), he isn’t what I’d consider a Mary Sue. Mary Sues are usually stunningly beautiful, beloved by their peers, insanely talented in ways that no other character is, and typically have some sort of connection to another character that more or less forces them into the story despite not needing to exist.

Mary Sues don’t get their friggin’ heads exploded, or exist in a constantly-forgettable state. Sure, he’s the only therapist we’ve ever seen in the Transformers franchise, but there was kind of a massive need for that sort of character to be created, seeing as all of these sons of guns have PTSD and clinical depression. And, as we’ve seen in previous issues and will continue to see later on, he’s really not even that great at it.

That isn’t to say that he doesn’t have certain traits befitting such a characterization, merely that they don’t add up to equal that sort of whole by issue #13. Transformers (2009)-era Drift is way closer to a true Mary Sue than Rung is.

Anyway, where the hell did Tailgate get to?

They really just let Frodo Baggins in this bar all babybjörned up, huh? Does Tailgate even know what a baby even is at this point? Does he just think he’s a very small person? How much human media has he consumed? We haven’t gotten into the reproductive process for the continuity yet, but fresh Cybertronians aren’t exactly a one-to-one to human infants. Damn it, Roberts, what the fuck am I supposed to make of Babygate?

Whirl’s off in the corner, disguised as a 12-year old girl who’s fucking STRAPPED. Magnus has disappeared, but Rewind locates him pretty easily as Rung makes a comment about Magnus needing to make an appointment with him.

Oh hey, Verity. Been a minute. Careful, ol’ six-eyes over there is leering at you.

The fellas come back to the bar as they truly are, and sit down for a round of drinks. Whirl gets Ultra Magnus a drink that sounds disturbingly like a Cybertronian equivalent to Milk Coke, and we get a little anatomy lesson. Transformers have something called a Fuel Intake Moderation chip, something that keeps them from getting drunk on pretty much the only thing they can consume. Swerve suggests Magnus turn his off so he can have a good time- which I don’t personally agree with, but this is Captain Stick-in-the-Mud we’re talking about here. Magnus gives it a shot.

And that’s a series wrap on Ultra Magnus!

No, the man’s just got no tolerance and has been knocked the hell out by his drink. Things begin devolving. Tailgate is crying. Skids has found out that Whirl didn’t give Magnus Milk Coke at all, but instead the equivalent of liquid cocaine. Swerve is convinced he’s going to prison. Rewind is filming the whole thing.

Nobody actually checks to see if Magnus is actually dead, until Rung gets around to it. Swerve, you’re a doctor by original trade, what the hell are you doing?

The boys sit Magnus at the table to wait out his nap. Hours later, nothing’s changed, except that they’ve started up the nemesis game, and Whirl’s decided he’s going to be rude about monoformers being monoformers. Rung gives a non-answer, because that’s just who he is as a person. Skids names Misfire as his worst enemy, only because he’s still missing a good chunk of memory and can’t remember if he had a worst enemy, but still wants to contribute to the conversation.

Rung, don’t be a dick, he did his best. You were right on top of Fort Max, it was a tricky shot.

Ultra Magnus finally starts waking up, and that’s the point where everyone decides to foot Swerve with the bill for the emotional labor he’s going to have to perform by explaining just what the friggity-frack happened.

Magnus starts laughing, then crying, then offloads his troubles onto Swerve. Magnus feels like he just doesn’t fit in on the Lost Light. He’s just trying to do his job and everyone makes fun of him, or disrespects his authority. He’s trying, he really is, but he’s just not built for post-war life. He’s actually tried to leave his position on the Lost Light, but they just keep pulling him back in.

Probably doesn’t help that Rodimus seems more interested in Drift’s opinion on matters than his own SIC half the time.

Oh no, he’s making digs at the things Swerve’s sensitive about. Where is Rung?

Magnus just wants to be understood, y’know? He’s a fully realized creation. He’s got interests. Like music! And the fact that Swerve is missing his Autobot badge!

This was the point where MTMTE was still bouncing back and forth on whether it wanted to commit to the crotch badge. It was a tumultuous time for everyone, very dark days.

WHERE THE FUCK IS RUNG

Magnus, having had enough of sharing his feelings, takes another sip of his cocaine and slips back into unconsciousness. Swerve admits to his limp body that people don’t actually like him, but rather only stick around because of what he can offer- namely, a good time.

The rest of the Swerve posse comes back, with Cyclones having joined the party. Rung shows off his new model ship, which gets Rewind started on his movie collection. He pulls up the opening ceremony for the Ark 1. Y’know, the Ark 1, that ship that Cyclonus was on that disappeared into the Dead Universe for six million years. The Ark 1 that Tailgate was supposed to be on.

Before we can get started however, someone throws the model at Rewind’s head.

That someone is none other than Cyclonus, who proceeds to fly into a rage, throwing tables and shoving the still-unconscious Ultra Magnus to the floor. My word, what a reaction! What could possibly be setting him off so much? Does he not like being reminded of his fated trip to the stars? Is this a manifestation of trauma from that event?

Who knows? No time for questions, Skids is too busy punching him in the face.

Tailgate intervenes, explaining that because Cyclonus and himself are so goddamn old, the engex Cyclonus consumed is wreaking havoc on his body. He tells the rest of them to go on while he tries to calm Cyclonus down. Interesting that Rewind doesn’t have any sort of input on this, given that he is also super fucking old, but there’s no time for questions! We’ve got to get Ultra Magnus back on the shuttle in the next 20 minutes, or else they’ll be stuck on Hedonia FOREVER.

They start throwing Magnus on the floor repeatedly, trying to get his t-cog to spin up. No dice, however.

It’s 4AM. Do you know where your Domey is? Because Rewind sure as hell doesn’t.

Okay, time for Plan B.

I’m guessing not, Rung. I’m guessing not.

Using Magnus as a trampoline does the trick, and the boys are rewarded with the sight of Magnus’ alt-mode… resting on its roof, upside down. They get him sorted, pile in the cab- Rewind is driving, which leads me to believe he at least has some experience handling a vehicle. Chromedome does turn into a car…

I don’t even know what that sort of activity implies for a Transformer. We won’t go any further down this line of thought.

The boys manage to get Ultra Magnus to the shuttle in time, and all’s well that ends well!

This is about the time that Blaster knocks on the glass at Swerve to wrap things up, seeing as he’s been at this for over nine hours now. There’s one last little aside before we’re done with our story, however, and it involves just what happened in the bar after everyone else left.

Cyclonus calmed down almost immediately after the rest of the guys left, paying for what he broke and inviting Tailgate to have a seat.

Well, I say invite, but it’s really more of an order.

If you’d already figured out at this point that this jumpy little marshmallow was lying about being the biggest badass who ever lived, a gold star for you! It turns out, dear Tailgate has been crafting a fabrication, spinning a yarn, telling a tall tale since Day One on the Lost Light. The story has been feeding us a steady diet of fish the whole time!

Red herring!

Red herring!

Red herring of Tailgate’s own design! Autopedia’s mods are a friggin’ joke.

Tailgate was supposed to be a the Ark 1 launch, but it was because he was on the cleanup crew. Boy’s a sluicer, and his arm SHOULD say "waste disposal”. Through a cunning use of his wits and cold reading, Tailgate faked his way through the dismantling of the bomb on Temptoria. A smart boy, he is, if not a bit self-centered.

Which brings us to why exactly Cyclonus freaked out in the bar: he wasn’t having an episode, but rather faking a reaction to prevent Tailgate’s lie from being exposed. He still thinks that Tailgate should come clean about this whole thing, before things get really messy, but it wouldn’t be an issue of MTMTE without some raw-ass emotions getting thrown about.

Cyclonus, who hasn’t allowed himself to feel anything other than simmering rage or national pride for over six million years, is beginning to feel something for Tailgate.

That feeling is sympathy, and maybe a little pity.

He offers to teach Tailgate a song to help him feel better, because that’s what he does when he has feelings.

And given that Cyclonus seems to sing often enough that Tailgate’s gotten used to the horrific sound, it might be that Cyclonus has feelings a hell of a lot more often than he lets on.

Roberts, how many times are you going to make Tailgate cry? How much pain are you going to subject him to before you’re satisfied?

The scene closes out on the two of them getting their karaoke on in the empty bar, in the god-awful language that is Old Cybertronian. I can only imagine that they get kicked out of the bar pretty quickly after this.

Getting back to the present, Swerve has finally, finally finished his story, closing out with an invitation for Blurr to come visit Swerve’s.

Blaster gets ready to shoot one hell of a voice message at Blurr, but there’s a problem; the number Swerve has isn’t long enough to be a personal hailing frequency.

Yeah, turns out that Tailgate isn’t the only liar on board the Lost Light.

Four million years ago, Swerve met Blurr at a publicity event, got way too friendly with a celebrity, pestered the guy until he gave him a fake number, and has convinced himself that he made a life-long friend to this very day.

Big oof.

Later, back at Swerve’s, Swerve is busy cleaning the glassware when Ultra Magnus comes in, sober and having just gotten out of surgery to fix his fuel tanks. Guess that second sip of Nucleon really wasn’t a good idea.

Swerve tries to tell a lie about what happened the night before, only to have the dawning horror that Magnus remembered the entire night, as he’s presented with a new badge. Swerve, bolstered by the fact that, while Magnus didn’t enjoy the previous evening, he appreciated having company, begins to ask Magnus if he’d want to room with him.

Wow, zero for three! That’s rough, buddy.

Kind of a bummer end to this whole issue, but it was still decently light, tone-wise, for MTMTE. A great deal of fun was had, in between all the mortifying reveals of our characters inner demons.

...Well, shit.

[aurora-the-kunoichi]

Ruined By Raphael

Warning: Dubious Non-Con you have been warned

Raphael and Karai

Karai awoke to darkness and the thick musty odor of rotting wood and as luck would have it, her hands bound above her head. Great, how did she end up in this mess? The last thing she remembered was trying to procure a shipment for her master and then a fight, a bloody drawn out brawl with the big one, Raphael.

By her current situation it did not end in her favor which angered her even more, bested by those beasts. The red one had been alone and separated her from her ninja. His fighting style was different then Leonardo’s. Leo’s had more finesse, light, like a dance but the brute’s was more hands on. Close quarters, it was difficult to avoid getting his hands on her. Always bringing her body to his, pressing into her whispering his sarcastic comments with flirtatious intent.

She would have found it appalling but the bass in his voice had a certain roughness to it, raw and gritty. She hadn’t noticed it before, but it had pulled at something deep within her belly, something that she didn’t know was there; a forbidden fire she had concealed. Karai had to grind her thighs together to quell the ache he had created. That had to be the reason she was strung up like a piece of meat at the moment. He had distracted her with his, wiles, his rugged charm, whatever it was she was fucking livid.

“Come out beast!” she screamed into the void of darkness. “I know you’re there.”

It took a few seconds but a flame erupted into a warm dancing light as a large figure set a torch a glow. Another followed across the room too quick for a normal humans speed but that of a ninja was possible. For being so bulky Raphael was fast, she had to give him that.  

“What do you want?” she hissed yanking at the ropes that bound her wrists finding the fibers soft and non abrasive. It was as if he was trying to keep her comfortable but yet tight enough to hinder her escape.

A dark rumbling laughter came from the beast as he came into the light. He was massive, intimidating and dear god he was impressive. His green skin seemed to glisten in the flames light and his honey green eyes flashed with something she hadn’t seen before.

“I think the question is, what do you want Foot Princess? You see I’d like to consider myself an observant kinda guy. Always aware of my surrounding which is a must for this line of work I’m in, bustin’ bad guy’s heads and protectin’ this city from scum like you and your old man. But now I want you to remember something, I’m part animal, I can smell things you humans can’t. Like the scent of arousal, thick and inviting like a burst of heady flavor when it hits the taste buds. I smelt ya back at the docks when I had you pressed up against the wall. There was no mistaking it.”

Karai snapped her teeth in protest trying to deny his ridiculous accusations. “You must be brainless then you bothersome creature. To think I would have any inkling of attraction for you, you……brute. Why the very site of you makes me sick!”  

He was so close now, so fucking close and she could smell him, damn he was quick. She expected the putrid aroma of sewage but it was leather and cedar with a light hint of grease that took over her senses. Did he work with machines with the genius, good with his hands? And the heat, now that they weren’t fighting she could feel the heat that was radiating from his massive frame. It was dizzying.

“Back away!” she squeaked as his mouth come within inches of her throat. What was happening?

His nostrils flared as he took in a long pull of her scent and his chest fucking vibrated. She could feel the waves of it hit her skin, she had never heard them make that sound before.

“I don’t think that’s what you truly want.” His large mitts rested on Karai’s hips gripping tightly, just enough to cause slight discomfort gaining a gasp from his prey. “I think you’re curious about us, with a thing for a little bit of pain…. aren’t you foot brat?”

“Fuck you! Release me!”

Another dark chuckle came from the brute as the tips of his callous fingers hooked under the fabric of her pants pulling them down to expose the black lace of her panties. “Oh I plan on giving you release. But not until you beg me for it.”

“You think I will beg for you to defile my body?! Not l-likey..” the last bit came out more breathy then she intended as the large mutant sunk to his knees his smiling beak now in line with the apex of her thighs. Raphael pulled the rest of her pants down and off her body making her suddenly aware her legs were free. She had been too distracted by Raphael to know her lower half was free for attack.

She tried to bring her right leg around to knock at the brute from her person and fumbled as he anticipated her move. Which in turn only brought her leg up and over his wide shoulder subsequently bringing his beak to the sopping fabric of her underwear. His breath was molten against her core and his tongue snuck out running the broad appendage along the slender line of her sex. Just that little tease made her arch up gasping back at the moan that threatened to crawl up her throat.

It was beginning to eat at her how much she was enjoying this. Don’t let him know you enjoyed that you stuck up little bitch, how would daddy react to you with his mortal enemy between your thighs?

“You’ll die for that.” Her voice wasn’t her own, a whiney mess that resembled someone weak not the confident second in command of the Foot Clan, the daughter of Oruko Saki.

“Empty promises Karai.” His hot tongue returned pressing into the fabric coming more in contact with the hidden bead. His wide beak enclosed around the mound blowing hot air into the aching flesh beneath as his tongue pressed harder making quick little circles.

“NAhh-st---aahh-fuc—kk-k!”

“I’m sorry, what was that? I couldn’t make that out.”

“What are y-you doing to me?” her breathe was coming in quick short bursts and her hand clenched and unclenched trying to regain some composer but he gave no reprieve. This time, oh god this time his finger pulled the thin black fabric to the side exposing her absolutely dripping cunt to his mouth. God what he did with a barrier what could he do with full access.  She should be fighting him, she should be, but the turtle was right, she had always been curious about them.

They were formidable enemies on the battle field, determined, focused and their brute strength unparalleled to anything they had ever seen. What were they like as lovers? She imagined Leo a very dedicated lover, focused on his partners pleasure, knowing exactly where to touch, where to kiss and taking his time making every second count ending in a shared orgasm. Michelangelo would a fun and pliant partner, both submissive with a kinky side that left his lover on a perpetual high. Donatello would no doubt a perfectionist in bed, with years of research under his belt. He would know just how to work the human body guaranteeing an explosive end each time. But Raphael, he was made of anger and strength, a perfect solider and a very physical lover. Hands on, and able to use his force for all the right reasons. He could inflict pain and pleasure at the same time. Intense would be a good word for Raphael.

Suddenly he was there, his lips, his tongue, devouring her like she was the last thing there was to eat on this plant and he was starving. His hand hooked under her other leg bringing it up to rest on his other board shoulder and she was helpless to resist. His tongue swirled over the throbbing bud before sucking the tiny flesh into his mouth pulling an inhuman cry from deep within her lungs. She would have been embarrassed the way she mewled and screamed as the brute worked her cunt. Raphael was everything he was in battle as he was as a partner (if you called it that at this moment); relentless, skilled and as his hands came up to her bottom sinking his digits into the plump flesh he held her firmly to his exploring mouth, he showed his strength. He held her up like she weighted nothing mouth covering her folds his tongue delving into the warm heat of her body.

“Y-you fool! I’ll have your head on my mantel after this! Jesus f-f-uucking Christ!” She felt his tongue dive deep stretching pulling the start of her orgasm as it raced with warm undertones until her skin was on fire and her belly was in pleasant knots. As she began to topple over the peak the rush was cool air and the loss of his oh so talented mouth Karai howled in frustration.

“Savage! Insolent insect! I’ll fucking kill you!”

Raphael’s mouth glistened with her essence and the white of his teeth appeared in the dark as his devilish smile widened. “I love it when you talk dirty. If I was mistaken the way your thighs pulled me in closer I would think you were enjoying this.”

“I-I would never…”

His tongue darted out again teasing her throbbing flesh, so close to the end so fucking close.

“Do you want me to stop?” he whispered pressing his lips to her inner thigh before sinking his teeth down.

“Argghh I want….”

“You what?” his mouth enclosed around her again pushing his tongue deep into her body bringing the ach of her climax back to the surface once again. He worked with fervor making wet sounds against her soaked core until she was just at her peak. The heat rolled up and up, her throat tightened as it swarmed her and the insufferable beast was gone again along with her climax.

“What do you want Karai?” the expanse of his board tongue swiped up through her folds making her mewl in aggravation again. “Do you want me to make you cum?”

Karai’s eyes were wild with hate, lust and murder. Each breath was labored as her shoulders heaved this mutant was infuriating and irresistible all at the same time! Her whole body was throbbing with two unspent climaxes and she needed the release.

“Or maybe you want something else, maybe something bigger, thicker? Something that will ruin you for every other human.” Raphael pressed another kiss to both of her inner thighs before slipping her quaking thighs from his shoulders. He stepped back a little and cupped the massive bulge in his shorts rubbing his trapped cock until he was groaning from the friction.

Karai watched him finally push his shorts to the floor allowing his engorged cock spring free. It bobbed heavy between his legs the tip already moist from his excitement. It was huge, the biggest she had ever seen and god it was glorious. Despite the green color fading to a pinkish tan at the tip and the apparent mouth watering size it looked like a normal human cock. He even had two tight green globes hanging just under the heavy rod of flesh.

She squeezed her thighs together again, god she wanted to see what it was like. But she couldn’t say it out loud, she couldn’t, she wouldn’t give this smug son of a bitch the satisfaction. If anyone found out at foot head quarters she allowed Raphael to fuck her she would die.

Raphael was there again but this time we had Karai against the wall and urging her legs around his waist. He was so warm and his smell was overwhelming her senses dulling them until she was shaking against the large mutant with need. His beak pressed into her neck breathing into her heated flesh while his hand gripped the base of his throbbing cock. “I promise it will only hurt for a few moments. You’re pretty little cunt will adjust to the size quickly.” Pressing forward the red banded terrapin glided the glistening tip threw her folders circling around her hidden jewel.

Karai squeezed her eyes shut drinking in the warmth of the helm of his length as it passed so close to its destination. Then his mouth descended to her pulse point sucking at the skin rocking his hips forward giving them both a bit of much needed friction.

“You’re so wet Karai, I bet it would slip inside without any resistance.” He brought the tip to the tight channel and circled the opening without entering. His smile grew wide along her throat as the princess of the foot clan’s hips rocked forward trying to gain some of him. “Nuh uhh princess, you need to ask for it before I oblige you.”

“Beast….”

“That’s not asking for it Karai. Tell Raphael what you want.”

“Never, I’ll never….shhit—aghfu-ah.”

Raphael let the tip of himself slip just into her heat giving Karai a taste of it, what it was like to have a mutant inside her. “Say it nice. If you do maybe I’ll let it hurt a little. I know you like a little pain with your pleasure.”

Karai couldn’t think, every part of her was screaming at her to allow it to happen. The sweet tingling pressure of just the tip was enough to make her body involuntarily start to shake. He was so big, so warm and she could feel the throb of it.

When she felt the flesh begin to recede she cried out, “Stop!”

“Yes?” Raphael’s face came level with hers his eyes boring into her very soul and his mouth millimeters from her lips. Even his breath was pleasant. Fuck him! Fuck him!

“Please……”

“Please what?”

“I want…I want you inside me, I have to know…god help me….please.”

Raphael’s smile grew with each syllable she pleaded in breathless want and gave her exactly what she wanted. Pressing forward Raphael sheathed himself within her body inch by inch stretching her core to its near breaking point.

Karai hissed at the dull pain and rocked forward to take the brute into her body. The slide was slow and sweet and ever ridge and vein that adorned his beautiful cock could be felt as he glided inside. It was painful, overwhelming and god it felt like heaven.

As he bottomed out his lower plastron came flush with her body with a grunt. Gripping her hips Raph leaned further in making sure every inch was incased and he was balls deep. He even pulsed the embedded flesh for good measure hearing the foot brat gasp at the flex.

“Oh fuck.” Her eyes were wide and mouth open taking in deep heavy breaths adjusting to the massive intrusion. She had never felt to full, so wide open like this, it was nothing she had ever experienced. The pain was a low steady ache but when the mutant started to withdraw, it soon ebbed away to an electric wave of pleasure.  Then, oh god then he slammed forward and every ounce of oxygen in her lungs expelled with an undignified moan. More, she needed more and with what voice she had left she let him know.

“M-more.”

Another withdrawal and brutal snap forward the brute growled into the shell of her ear. “Louder.”

“MORE!”

“That’s my girl.”

The next drive was straight and true and Raphael buried himself to the hilt and Karai arched and screamed. “Oh god! Fuck me you god damn beast!”

He obliged, using the strength in his thighs and his ass he rammed into her body starting a rhythm only he could maintain. The lost climaxes she was denied came back with a vengeance and rushed through her spine like a freight train overtaking every cell with an explosive fire. It started at the very tips of her toes; heat crackling and rolled up and up until her belly was clenching and screaming. The force of it hit and her mouth opened to scream to release the energy that came crashing over her but nothing came out. The pent up climax stayed and erupted blinding her. She felt like ice and fire and Karai tensed up as he continued to rut into her fucking Karai through her climax and into the long crawl to the next.

The sounds coming from the mutant were just as exhilarating, his grunts and rumbling only heightened this weird fucked up experience. His mouth moved over her collar bone nipping and kissing leaving wet trails of his saliva as he feasted upon her flesh. Through the haze of her fading euphoria she could hear him talking.

“Gonna make you so fucking messy inside.” He moaned after a particularly brutal snap of his hips. “You’re gonna smell like me for weeks so daddy knows whose fucking claimed his princess.”

She should have been pissed at his lust filled rambling but the truth was she was feeding off of it. The thought of getting caught, disobeying father was taboo, thrilling. Suddenly the beast hooked his arms under her knees and brought her legs over his shoulder folding her in half all the while not missing a beat.

This new angle allowed the spongy head to drive directly into the roof of her heat striking the bundled nerves dead on. The sensation was all new and sent Karai’s body into over drive. The steady rise of her next climax intensified and she keened and thrashed against the mutant with each battering strike to her cervix. No man had ever given her what Raphael was currently subjecting her body too. Every cell in her being felt like it was being torn apart and sewn back together all at the same time while being burned with this all consuming fire. The obscene sounds of their bodies colliding reverberated through the hollow space, echoing high into the rafters.

The crest of her orgasm raced her down as her body rocked against the wall and by the way his breathing shuttered against her throat Raphael was close as well. His grip tightened and a low dark sound came from deep within his chest.

“Y-you’re gonna crave me.” He voice was rough and dark. “No one else is gonna be able to satisfy this pretty little cunt of yours.” His breath caught in his throat as his rhythm faltered. “I’m gonna fill you so fucking full of me.”

She could feel his cock swell and then he was looking at her, his pupils were blown wide and his mouth parted struggling to breath. “If you want this again.” He punctuated his words as he drove forward with brute strength. “If you want this again you’ll scream my name when you cum on this cock.”

The rush of heat came quickly washing over her body as she peaked and peaked hard. Her back arched nearly snapping her spine as she came undone around him. Everything went white and Karai felt her body die and come back to life. She could feel him, feel him as he erupted inside her body, his cock pulsing each load of white hot steams of his seed bathing her inside with his essence.

The heat of his release, the weight of him as he brought their bodies as close as he could as his filled her to the very brim until she felt him spill down her backside, she let go, let him in. “Ra-RAPH-EAL!!!!!!!”

The last thing she remembered was his mouth crushed against her, kissing her, his tongue moving with hers as he emptied himself into her womb. For a mutant even his talent for kissing left her breathless.

With a start Karai lurched forward sitting up on the cot she was perched upon. The morning light was trickling through the broken windows of what looked like to be an abandoned church. She was free and very much alone. The dull ache of her wrists brought her back to the night before. She was now dressed but the soreness between her legs made her very aware that it wasn’t a dream. Even now she could Raphael him spilling from her body.

Slowly a smile graced her feminine features as she rose to her feet wincing at the remembrance of being stretched by the brute. He had been right, he had ruined her, the thought of coupling with another human man gave her no joy. The only thought was Raphael and how she would mange getting him alone again. But the next time would be different, the next time she would be the one in control.

 @imthegreenfairy88​ @waterstar2016​ @hollybunch95​

[gulfportofficial]

Anyway, here’s some more WIP GP (I think some of you may have seen bits of this before? I told you it was taking me forever).

I loved how he looked when he woke up. Cranky and rumpled and soft all at the same time, his black hair messy and his skin warm from the bedclothes. It seemed to take him a minute or two to hear me well enough to respond to me. How human he was, still, that even now with his impossible strength, he woke up groggy. I climbed onto the bed, and then onto him, and kissed him on the mouth.

He smiled against it. He put his arms around me. “Has the paper come?”

Typical, I thought of saying, but did not. I wasn’t really annoyed by it. That clever little occupation of his, that too, was part of his sweetness too. “Yes,” I said, “and I’ve got the Picayune.”

Louis shuffled up and arranged his pillows fussily, so he could lean back onto them. “You’re very good to me,” he said. “Was it a nice walk?”

“Entirely uneventful,” I said. “Kiss me again and I’ll let you read your papers.”

He did. “Will you tell me the shape of the evening so that I know how long I have to read them?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, did your mother mention what time she was arriving? Do we need to go out before she comes?” he asked. “I don’t mind doing that.”

It would be entirely wrong to say that I had forgotten she was coming. I had thought about nothing else since her call. I had thought about it in my sleep and upon waking and during my walk and while he was kissing me. But I thought about it so hard it didn’t seem to be present in my real life. I swallowed, and Louis looked at me strangely.

“I don’t know,” I said. “She might want to go out together.” “It’s a shame you just can’t call her to check,” Louis said.

I didn’t bother to answer that. Such a pointless dig. Was that the shape of the evening then, something structured by Louis’ painful and barbed asides catching at my flesh? I rolled off him and fished out my laptop computer. I took my notebook and glasses from the bedside table. He didn’t comment.

There wasn’t much for me to attend to on the internet. A few emails. Facebook nonsense. I had been tagged in some photographs and proceeded to vet them. I do like candid photographs, but there are limits.

Louis had picked up the Press-Register. “Why don’t we go out just in case,” he said. “If she wants to, we can go again.”

I don’t think he was thinking this through. As a general rule, we do not hunt so close to where we live, unless we can truly be sure it is a little drink only and nothing more. We didn’t have time to go far enough afield. At least I felt we didn’t have time. He was right that I couldn’t call to check.

“You go,” I said. “I’ll wait.”

“That’s alright. If you want to wait, we’ll wait. I’ll survive.”

“Won’t it drive you mad?” I said. I’d opened up my Notes document and begin to transcribe.

“You forget to whom it is you’re speaking,” Louis said, and I was about to tell him off, but he was right. Anyone who could live on rats for as long as he had could skip a night. Just one though, allowing for the precedent of the consequences of his doing that.

“How’s the Gulf?” I asked, deliberately.

Louis gave me a look, but it worked, as I knew it would. “Thad Allen’s leaving,” he said.

“I don’t know who that is.”

“The Coastguard National Incident Commander. He actually stepped down moths ago but…”

I sighed. “Unlike you, Louis, I have better things to do than read everything about the fucking oil spill, so obviously I don’t know what that is either. When you tell a story like this you must structure in a referent or two so I am able to orient myself.”

I regretted saying that. I regretted saying anything that could stop him from focusing on the spill instead of my mother. “It’s called glossing,” I said, hastily. “One should gloss.”

I wonder if he took pity on me then, because he went on with only the slightest air of annoyance. “Admiral Allen,” Louis said, “is a Coast Guard official and the man appointed by President Obama to oversee responses to the disaster. He has a most distinguished career, actually, and…”

“What did he do?”

“Many things, but…”

“No, I mean, why is he stepping down? What did he do? Did he get caught taking a bribe or something else scandalous?”

“I think he’s just retiring.”

“Oh,” I said. “That’s dull.”

“He’s responsible for most of the online mapping.”

“The what?”

“I showed you,” Louis said. “The computer map of the spill and how it was spreading. On the internet. That was his idea, to make that map public.”  

“Oh yes, I remember,” I said. I didn’t. I was bored with the internet now anyway. I hopped out of bed, and started to flick through my wardrobe. I’d shower and dress, I felt better equipped to face the evening showered and dressed. I felt the need to cement things with a lot of ritual. Prayer. I thought I might do something to my face and slipped into the bathroom.

“What’s that on your face?” Louis asked when I slipped out. “Supernatural late stage leprosy?”

“Shut up,” I said, then I read off the jar for him, “it’s a Green Clay Masque with Rice Enzyme.”

Louis opened his mouth to say something, then seemed to think better of it. I supposed I knew what it was – you don’t need that, it will have absolutely no effect on you – but I wondered why he decided not to lecture me. Perhaps he couldn’t be bothered.

He could think what he liked anyway. I felt the stuff drying on my face and I liked the sensation of it, it felt redeeming in some manner. I set the jar down and sat back on the bed and pulled out my laptop again. Nothing on Facebook had changed and it was all still boring. I trawled through it anyway. One feels obligated, or else compulsion. That,too, is like a naturalized little prayer against disaster.

Louis ran a gentle, distracted-seeming hand up and down on my back as I did. “My mother…” he said. I looked up.

I wasn’t sure if he’d trailed off out of discomfort, or simply because he didn’t intend to keep speaking. “What, Louis?”

“When my brother died…” Louis said, and that was surprising enough that I had to actually turn around to look at him. He never spoke about this. Never. And it didn’t precisely seem buried, not on his face now, nor in the fact that he’d stuttered himself out of speaking. Once turned around I held perfectly still.

He began again. “When my brother died,” Louis said, “well, you probably remember my telling you this, but we’d argued. Almost immediately before. Moments before. And my mother blamed me.”

“That’s not kind,” I said. “And it’s not true. Brothers exchange harsh words sometimes.”

“No, you’ve misunderstood,” Louis said. “I mean that she believed I’d committed the act. She asked the police to question me.”

Oh, Louis, I wanted to say. How horrible. How cruel. “Is that why you can’t understand a mother caring for you, or being your friend or being intimate?”

“Perhaps it is,” Louis said. “My mother and I were never particularly at odds before then, but we weren’t close either. I don’t know. I don’t know what she thought.”

“Why didn’t you ask her?”

“You’re correct that we didn’t have that sort of intimacy. I don’t recall ever asking her much of anything.”

How quickly I regretted this Green Clay Masque with Rice Enzyme. It had already started to itch and I wanted it off me, but I could not move to interrupt what Louis was saying. My heart wouldn’t let me do that.

“I don’t think my family in general liked me very much,” Louis said, his solemn white face still and his eyes far away. “Furthermore, I’m not sure I deserved being liked, since I don’t recall I was very kind to them. My father died and I focused on management, and I don’t wonder if that’s all I did. My sister said as much, after… well, after you and I… after I sent her to the city.”

“Did she really just announce that to you,” I said. “That she didn’t like you? That’s an awfully rude thing to say to the person funding your lifestyle.”

Louis raised an eyebrow at me. I took the point. However, there was strangely little malice in his expression considering how much room in it for malice there was. That was curious and I waited for him to continue.

“Yes she did,” he said. “She and I did become close then. When I visited her, we did talk, and with a great deal of frankness and intimacy, and she said very directly that I had become kinder and that she had begun to understand and to like me. So perhaps my mother simply knew an unkind person.”

But the real you must have shone through, I wanted to say. It seemed impossible to me that anyone could have met Louis and not instantly fallen as fatally in love as I, even, if not especially, his mother. Someone so beautiful, so passionate, so gentle and particular and odd, you’d need a heart of stone not to love him. But perhaps all of his reservations with me had come from this. Perhaps like all of us, Louis had been irreparably shaped by the first person ever to hold his vulnerable mortal body as it came into this world, forever formed by whatever definition of love was taught to him.

“Your mother was crazed with grief, chéri,” I said. “That’s all it was. You didn’t deserve that.”

“Well,” he said. He opened the paper again. His face was flat now. He’d finished. Any grief of his own that lingered, he wouldn’t show me.

I tried, subtly, to scratch my face, but I stopped before he looked at me. If he noticed he’d say something pointedly right about the masque and I didn’t want him to do that. “Whatever happened to that man your sister married,” I said. “She married that… I forget, but there was something about him…”

It was desperate. But I hoped it at least sounded conversational.

“There was nothing about him,” Louis said. “Unless you mean the fact that he was profoundly inbred, which yes, I suppose, is notable from a certain point of view.”

I snorted. “You’re a snob, chaton.”

“I’m nothing of the sort. It’s your kind who inbreed. The middle classes marry out.”

“You are…” I said, but I didn’t know what he was. Terrible, at least, I wanted to say. Absolutely appalling. I felt myself smiling, preparing to tease.

“Listen, Monsieur,” Louis said, and I stopped. He said it firmly, a stately little command, and it worked on me instantly. I listened, I waited.

“Listen, Monsieur,” he said, again. “I intend to be an asset to you in this, not a obstacle.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“That’s all,” he said. “Go on. Go on about your strange ablutions. I’m going to finish these papers.”

[bishwonathpaudel999]

In simple terms the body has two very different and complex systems of energy producing sources. As energy is vital to the very existence of human activity and survival the two energy style depend on each other for support. This post will shows you what foods give you the most energy.

It occurs so very frequently - we resolve to go on with a health and physical fitness program with zest and likely much fanfare too;

however in the first week of going into the plan, everything peters out.

Why is it that we don’t stick with the diet plans, the morning jogging plans, the physical exercise plans that we make?

And what may we do to ensure we keep going with these plans, for our own sake and for the sake of the individuals that are dependent on us?

Are you eating simply to satisfy your appetite or to make your taste buds happy? Or are you eating in order to take better command of your life? In this post, we see how you are able to make your life much more optimal simply by making a point that you eat correctly.

Eating Healthy

All The Info On Eating For A Healthy Life

Chapter 1:The Basics

Energy is needed for the various functions like maintenance of growth, daily activities, exercise and many other movements or functions that are often taken for granted. These are shared between the two energy systems.

In today’s world, seldom do any health and fitness plans work. What’s the reason for their alarming rate of failure?

The world is a lot less healthful than it was two decades ago. Much

this is attributed to the altered food habits of individuals.

The Basics:

The primary and first to be used energy system is the aerobic system. This system uses oxygen for the function of the muscles

and does demand quite a lot from the general body system.

This demand usually increases the rate and depth of breathing and

blood supply mainly because of the corresponding increase of the heart rate.

When the body requires more energy which cannot be met due to the elevated need for more oxygen then the body system automatically switched to the anaerobic energy system. This system is able to produce energy without the need to use oxygen.

All this energy is generated through the suitable or correct consumption of foods. The foods consumed dictate the types of energy levels each individual is capable of producing.

Muscle fatigue usually occurs when all the energy sources are exhausted which can be attributed to a variety of reasons; the most

compelling one depends very much on the types of foods consumed.

There are several categories of foods that produce various

beneficial elements for the human body system and noting the ones that create or enhance the energy generating sources is

definitely useful to know. Therefore this knowledge should help the individual choose the right types of foods.

The aerobic system works by breaking down the carbohydrates,

fatty acids and amino acids in the foods consumed while the anaerobic system releases energy from the foods stored in the

body, usually during intense activity bouts.

If we hear about the failure of diets or gym plans all around us,

commonly it isn’t their fault. Commonly it is the fault of the

individuals who started with much commotion about going

through these plans, telling all their acquaintances and co-workers

about it, and then didn't abide by those programs.

The individuals who abandon the exercise or diet halfway do not

see the advantages, naturally, and everybody blames the plan.

What the world needs nowadays isn’t a fresh health or fitness

program or a diet, but it requires motivation. It needs the correct

sort of mind-set to follow through with whatever plan they have chosen to the very end.

If they can do that, most of the health issues that are related to life-

style situations will get to be outmoded. And we don’t have to visit

the corners of the earth to discover this motivation. The motivation

lies right here, inside us; we simply need to search it out and utilize it.

One generation ago, individuals wouldn't dream of picking up

whatever junk food they could get in order to feed their faces.

Nowadays, we do that so very casually. “I'm hungry” commonly

means “I want a burger or a hot dog, likely with chips on the side

and some cola.” And, “I am on a diet” means “I am on a chemically

ridden pill which will defeat my hunger and deprive my body of vitamins.” It's genuinely no wonder that we are facing so many health issues today.

Our health is an indicator of what we consume. The sorry condition that we're living in isn't an individual problem; it's a global issue. The world as a whole is eating incorrectly. Six in every

ten individuals in the US is overweight, and the number is going to be eight in every ten individuals by the time we hit 2015. Are we truly thinking about this? We aren’t. Even as you're studying this post, you likely have a packet of chips on the side.

Do you know that what you spent on that package, which is filling your stomach with some of the most toxic chemicals known to humanity, could instead have fed an emaciated youngster in Ruanda?

But it’s not simply about being philanthropic. It’s about ourselves

too. Yes, we have to be selfish. With such appalling health figures, aren’t we heading for doom? We're definitely not eating right.

Whatever excess baggage that brings - obesity and the assorted ill

health in its wake - we have to be prepared for it.

So the next time you see that a program has failed or is receiving a

lot of criticism, remember that the criticism isn’t probably because

the program stands on shaky ground. In most cases, it is because

people began with great intentions and then did not follow the

program as they should have.

Chapter 2:The Way You Think About Food

The most crucial thing that you need to keep your health and fitness

program alive - even more crucial than an instructor or a doctor - is your own motive.

You have to be determined to scrutinize the situation. So, you're

overweight and are looking at casting off a few pounds. No gym

instructor from anyplace in the world will help you if you don’t take

adequate measures to have the right diet and to stick to your routine

exercise.

Even if you're sick and are looking at treatment, no physician will

help if you aren’t determined in following the treatment platform,

whether it's taking the medication at the correct time or abstaining from some foods.

[kinetic-elaboration]

September 25: 1x16 The Galileo Seven

I took a half day off today and had a three hour nap in the afternoon. Now I’m feeling, I think, better?? Perhaps?

Anyway, today’s ep is The Galileo Seven, aka capitalizing on Spock’s popularity time.

Hmm, a vague and undefined phenomenon perfect for scientific study--Spock will love this. (Aka Kirk’s real reason for investigating the quasar. Just a little gift for the bf.)

Yeah Shuttlecraft Galileo! I love the shuttlecrafts; I think they’re adorable.

New Paris Colony.

The Commissioner isn’t wrong, though, like this probably isn’t the time to go on a random exploratory mission. Ah, yes, this weird space anomaly full of unknown dangers--let’s launch our most important officers right into the center of it while we have time sensitive supplies onboard. I mean come on, there’s a plague going on!

Love the shaky movements of the shuttle as it flies through space.

Hmm they’re exploring an unknown weird space thing and something goes wrong? Who could have predicted that? Other than Boma, who’s like ‘this is actually really normal though?’

Kirk’s sigh right before the credits lol.

Uhura taking over for Spock.

Those doors looked awfully, um... not metal when they opened. But I still like the design.

This is a good episode for understanding what ‘logic’ means to Spock. Like people, including people in this ep, talk about it as if it were just being emotionless and not caring about others but it’s a whole philosophy/value system and he adheres to it pretty well.

Shuttlecraft Columbus.

Kirk has such a big headache right now. He hates having someone step on his command toes.

I love this Bones and Spock conversation. “This is your chance for command.” “I am a logical man.”

Those pants really are terrible. Everyone always on about the skirts but no one ever talks shit about those horrendous pants.

Spock gets to show off his legs standing in a V like that though lol.

Philosophy 101: The Trolley Problem.

“My choice [of who to leave behind] will be a logical one.” Stop bullshitting, Spock lol. “Idk man... logic?”

Well his decision just got easier by about 1/3.

It’s Pauna! Oh wait wrong show. Thank God.

Spock is talking about how this spear looks like something Native American but lbr it looks like a Vulcan spear and he should know. He’s the bitch with the ancient weaponry hanging on the walls of his quarters.

Spock could move the body way more efficiently, I mean he’s 3x stronger than these other fools. Look at the way he throws the spear as if it were made of cardboard. Which it is definitely, definitely not lol.

That quadrant name would make a good wifi password.

The commissioner truly has NO purpose here other than to be a human clock.

I understand Spock not wanting to waste time with the ceremonial duties of command or with burying a person while he could be working to save the people who are still alive...but I don’t believe for one moment he doesn’t know elaborate funeral services. The Vulcans love their rituals.

“We have no fuel! What alternatives?” Yeah lol that is pretty bad.

“Sensitive Vulcan ears.”

He literally just said they’re not tribal, Boma, are you not listening at all?

“I’m frequently appalled by the low regard you Earthmen have for life.”

Like Kirk always says, this isn’t a democracy.

Honestly this insubordination kinda seems like xenophobia to me in that I feel like everyone thinks it’s okay to be disrespectful to Spock because he’s an alien, because their human morality and philosophy is inherently right and Spock not following it is deserving of ire, even though he’s in command.

They’re on Spock’s back when he doesn’t seem to respect life enough and when he respects life too much like he cannot win.

Our duties to other life forms.

At least the reboots got Spock’s sass right.

I feel like Spock’s logical and emotionless responses are helpful though because I would be a straight up anxious mess. It just seems so clear to me, all the places where being unemotional is allowing him to act and keep control where a scared and confused person ruled by emotions would not be. I mean they’re all Officers and it’s not like McCoy and Boma are wandering around weeping or anything but still. Not all of Spock’s decisions are right but I’d be soothed by his attitude.

“Luck may be the only tool we have that works” reminds me of “Captain, you almost make me believe in luck.”

Kirk also makes a lot of command decisions here and it’s interesting to compare his style with Spock’s.

Loving the creature design and this is not a sarcastic comment.

“Certain scientific curiosity” about whether the crewman is dead. Sure okay.

See, I was right, he can lift and carry a grown man by himself.

That spear very much hit him lol.

Spock is upset. He lost a crewman. And logic isn’t working like it’s supposed to. I love that “They should have respected us” bit. He is a little arrogant, and for someone who’s spent most of his adult life around aliens, rather set in his idea that rational responses are the only responses.

He’s really having some revelations here. I bet he can’t wait to discuss all this with Jim.

I’ve seen that shot of Scotty just shoving a wrench in the wall and making sparks fly used in memes. Out of context it is quite hilarious.

Ugh, this is such a tightly constructed narrative. Love it.

Yeah, Boma, back off. This is just crossing a line.

“You will have your burial, provided the creatures permit it.”

Poor creatures honestly. These weird aliens keep showing up and bothering them.

This Captain’s chair is pretty wide too but Kirk manages to sit in it and look cool @ cpine.

Noooo you can’t leave them behind!

Uhura posing behind the Captain’s chair and looking at the screen like google earth always taking pictures.

Lol, space normal speed. (You’d think the Commissioner would show up at this point to be like bUt ThE pLaGuE but actually we never see him again.)

Those creatures aren’t even AIMING the spears they’re literally just throwing them parallel.

“Get us off, Scott.”

“Yes.... my first command.” Oh, Spock. I love him.

Love that Scotty’s really, genuinely proud of him. Scotty’s so Unproblematic. He really is just here to do his job and he’s never mean or causing trouble of any sort.

Jim will see the flares because he loves you!!

This poor actress playing the Yeoman has nothing to do. “Oh, it’s hot!”

Really living for Kirk’s face journey as he thinks all hope is lost and then realizes they’re (mostly) okay.

I want to hear what Kirk and McCoy are saying at the beginning of the last scene. I bet they’re talking about Spock.

Everyone gently making fun of Spock but in a ‘we love you buddy way.’ And Kirk using this, their one scene together all ep, to lay on the flirting extra thick. “Mr. Spock, you’re a stubborn man” is really pushing the flirtation meter off the charts.

They’re mocking him for making an impulsive decision but he was totally right AND he was totally logical imo? Like “you reasoned that it was time for an emotional outburst” is certainly one way to put it but another way is “the only possible chance we have of being detected AT ALL is to make a big scene and if it doesn’t work we’ll just die faster than we would have anyway” which is logical, and in fact, I think someone too caught up in their emotions might hesitate to do it. I mean, I’d probably hesitate--I think the emotional response to the situation is to want to stay alive as long as possible, even if you know--logically--that the difference between living another 6 minutes and another 26 minutes is nothing. You’d be better off giving away the chance for 20 extra minutes in exchange for a better chance of not dying at all. That’s logic bitches!

Kirk sees some hope for himself here. “Oh, Spock can follow his heart??? Perhaps... to me??”

I am not a fan of these fake laughter endings. They are so overdone lol. Uhura is literally pointing and laughing in the background. It’s not THAT funny guys.

That said if Beyond had ended with some fake laughter it probably would have improved the film substantially.

And that’s it! An excellently plotted episode, really well done on the level of craft. I really get off on that kind of thing. I know a lot of shows that can write entertaining episodes/seasons/multi-season plots but don’t have any, well, real logic to them and that’s not necessarily the worst but then when you see something that’s really just well made, it... well for me it triggers a very certain satisfaction.

Also this is easily a top 3 Spock episode. Great character stuff.

Next up is the Squire of Gothos, which I think is one of the weaker S1 episodes. Not bad, just not Classic level like almost every other ep.

[talpup]

I’m gonna request #49. “You think I’m jealous? Trust me, buttercup, you haven’t even seen jealousy.” With Shouta and Anna. NSFW if possible and you can just surprise me with the rest. 😁

FYI, I changed the ‘buttercup’ to Kitten.  Thanks for the request!  If anyone else wants to make a request, I’ll still take them.

Note: This scene happens after Abril’s death and before Shouta leaves hell, about six month after the remembered scene in chapter 10.

**Smut starts after keep reading.**

Hawks landed in the castles courtyard, hurrying up the steps and entering the main hall.

“Anna, I’m back!”  The Archangel called loudly.

“My Lord, doesn’t need to yell.”  Scolded a stern looking woman.

“Luna. May I remind you this isn’t your castle, you only work here.” Hawks said, effectively telling the Chief Maid that he could do as he pleased.

“You also don’t need to fly and land in the courtyard like that.” The woman went on.  “It scares the dogs and horses.”

“Don’t know why we even have dogs and horses around.”

“Because, some of us can’t fly and require regular meals.”  The Witch said, pointedly.

Hawks feigned appalled shock.  “You ride the dogs and eat the horses!” Honestly he wouldn’t be surprised if the woman ate horses or dogs, she was a Witch and witches were known to be disgusting.

“I’ll set those dogs to hunt you.”  Luna threatened.  “The Mistress asked me to make this place seem as regular as possible, so the peasantry don’t amass and storm the place thinking witches and demons live here.  Though you ruin all my efforts by flying about the way you do.”

He understood why Reyanna ordered Luna to make the place seem normal. Concealing such a vast structure would be an unnecessary hassle and peak the interest of heaven, hell, and Thirds who would be able to see past such spells.  It was far easier to let the humans think that they were just regular people in a regular castle, and focus on wardings that kept the Host, hell-spawn, and Thirds out.

“Humans can’t see my wings, or see me when I fly.”  Hawks dismissed.

Luna crossed her arms.  “I see you fly and your gaudy wings.”

Hawks glared.  His wings were one of his best features.  They were not gaudy.

“You’re a witch.  Where’s your Mistress?”

“My Lady is entertaining a visitor.”  Luna answered, concerned disapproval supplanting her usual astringent tone.

“Visitor?”

“That dark Daimon she’s so fond of.”  Luna elaborated, sniffing in displeasure.

Hawks’ wings bristled at that.  Aside from Lucifer, Toshinori, and Kai, Aizawa was the greatest threat to Reyanna in his opinion.  Yet Reyanna always left a way open for the Daimon to get through the properties barriers.

“I don’t care one lick for you, but at least you’re not connected to hell and bringing all sorts of risks and dangerous every time you come around.”  Luna declared.

Hawks lived here, but he understood what the woman meant.  If Aizawa really wanted Reyanna safe, as he claimed. If he truly loved her, as he professed. Then the Daimon should stay away.

“At least your attempts at playing Lord and Master don’t threaten this place and my Lady.”  She went on.

Hawks turned, feathers puffing out.  Did the Witch just say he liked to play house with Reyanna?  Though she wasn’t entirely wrong, that was beside the point.  He spun around and made for the stairs, Luna chasing after him.

“My Lady said she didn’t want to be disturbed!”

Luna’s words just made Hawks’ feet move faster.

“I’m sure she did.”  He grumbled.

“My Lord!  You can’t just go barging in!”

That made Hawks pause, Luna bumping into him.  He continued climbing. Should he dare?  Enter Reyanna’s chambers without knocking?  Surely the door would be locked.  There was little doubt what he would see. The idea both enticing and distasteful considering who she’s with

Hawks reached Reyanna’s chamber door and banged on it.  “Anna, I’m back!”

Shouta lifted his head and slowly turned to the closed door, a snarl curling his lip.

Reyanna jumped at the sudden knock.  Damn it! She had told Luna she didn’t want to be disturbed.  The woman might not approve of her accepting Shouta’s irregular calls to the castle; but Luna’s unique interpretation of a servants code of service had her strictly adhering to any direct orders.

“Tell him to go away, before I make him go away for good.”  Shouta growled out, turning to face her.

Reyanna swallowed, wiggling in the air, her Lover’s deep, gruff voice doing things to her.  She would have placed a calming hand to his bare chest if her hands weren’t tied behind her back.

There was no need for Reyanna to call out anything.  The two heard some harsh, heated words whispered back a forth between Luna and Hawks, followed by the sound of the Archangel and Witch departing.

“Sorry.”  Reyanna apologized.  She shivered at the fiery possessiveness shining in the Daimon’s dark eyes.  “I told her I didn’t–”

“Stop squirming.”  Shouta commanded, sharply.

Reyanna fell silent and forced herself to be still.  She hadn’t even realized she was wiggling nervously in her bonds; but the way she swayed from the beam she hung from, her toes barely brushing the floor, told her she had been.

“Do you know how much planning and risk goes into getting away from hell and meeting you like this?”  Shouta asked, circling around her, his fingertips grazing her naked body as he did so.

“Yes.  That’s why–”

“That was rhetorical.  Hush.”  Shouta silenced.

Reyanna pressed her lips together, keenly aware Shouta was angry and she was at his mercy.  Of course she could get out of such simple, non-spelled, ties if she really wanted to, and Shouta would never truly hurt her; but that knowledge didn’t mean much where her body’s reaction was concerned.  Once again she unconsciously started squirming, her hips dancing, legs squeezing together.

Shouta’s gaze panned over her, smirking internally at the display.  Though the thought of how Hawks had disturbed them.  How Hawks had presumed to bang on his Love’s door and inform her he was back, as if the Archangel’s insignificant presence mattered one speck to his Kitten, made him frown.

Their time together was precious, sporadic, and never long enough, and yet the Archangel that lived with her had interrupted their time together.  The Archangel that lived with her…

Shouta ground his teeth.  Just because Hawks watched over and protected Reyanna when he or Hizashi couldn’t, didn’t mean that Shouta was grateful.  If anything, he hated Hawks all the more for the Archangel’s free, unattached ability to look after his Love.  It made Shouta want to remain and drive Hawks away, so he could see to Reyanna’s safe keeping himself.  But he couldn’t leave hell yet.  Not until he had some certainty that she was safe from Lucifer and Kai.

“Our time together is short enough as it is.  I won’t abide disturbances.

“I said, sorry!”  Reyanna sassed.

“I don’t want your apology.  I want to hear that it won’t ever happen again.”

Something about his tone and behavior was turning her on and making her mad at the same time.  Because of this she snipped.  “I can’t control what other people do.”

Shouta smacked her bare ass, making her jump.  Cute, he thought seeing the way her legs squeezed together at the spank.

“Someone seems to have forgotten the way of things.”  He said, voice lightly scolding.  His hand smoothed over where he struck, though the spank had barely been hard enough to pink-en the skin.  “When I tell you to do something, you obey.”

“That was back in hell, when you were my Instructor.  I do what I want now–”  She yipped, another slap hitting her ass, this one harder.

“No doubt a great many things have changed for you in the two years since you left hell.  This isn’t one of them.  You will obey me, same as you ever did, and will continue to do so for the rest of our days.  Am I understood?”

Reyanna glared at him, her bratty pout ruining the fearsome image and making Shouta internally fawn over her.

His expression remaining as unaffected as ever, Shouta questioned.  “Do I need to remind you what happens when you don’t obey?”

“What?”  Reyanna asked, sourly.  “You gonna give me extra lessons?”

Shouta pressed his aching cock against her hip.  “Oh, I’ll give you a lesson alright Kitten.”

Her breath caught, eyes lowering to the tented black fabric.  She had somehow forgotten he still had his pants on, which strangely made her feel all the more helpless in her bound, nakedness.

Suddenly he stood back and spun her around.  She was tied in such a way that the pull of the twisting cord that she hung from tightened but didn’t become uncomfortable.

“Shouta!”  Reyanna squealed, legs flailing before stretching down in attempt to stop herself from spinning.

All she managed to do was slow herself down, as her toes brushed the floor.  She began to turn in the opposite direction and cursed.

“Shouta.”

The Daimon chuckled.  His eyes roved over her.  She looked like the finest of treats hung up and on display, just asking to be enjoyed and savored.  His mouth watered.  Licking his lips he hummed, finding that remnants of her arousal still clung to them.  Her taste drove his thirst for her all the higher.

Stepping back to her, he gripped her hips, and stopped her spinning.

“Where were we?”  He asked, returning to his knees.

All ire at her Lover’s treatment left the instant Shouta licked a long stripe up her swollen folds.  Reyanna sucked in a breath when his fingers spread her lower lips, exposing her completely to him.

“So pretty.”  Shouta murmured, taking in the sight of her wet heat.

“Shouta.”  Her tone completely different from the stern, scolding of before.

Shouta grinned up at her.  “What’s the matter Anna?  All that stubborn pride and willfulness suddenly gone?”

“You said it yourself, our time together is short.  It would be illogical to see it wasted over petty grievances.”

He arched an eyebrow, thumb pressing lightly against her clit.

“True.”  He agreed.  “But I will take the time to show you just how dependent you are on me.  Give you a refresher lesson on who you belong to.  That way when that crimson feather bird brain knocks on your door, you don’t hesitate to send him away.”

What?  Was she actually in trouble and going to be punished for something that wasn’t her fault?  She had told—pleasure made her mind go blank.

Shouta smirked around her clit, humming in response to her moan.  Damn.  He love how vocal she could be.  Loved her sweet taste and heady smell.  He gave a light suck before moving to tease her entrance with his tongue.

Reyanna whined, Shouta’s tender sucks and light lapping tongue far more teasing than purposeful.  It was more like he was licking the honey off a treat.  Sampling instead of feasting.

When he finally pushed his tongue inside her, it nearly took her breathe away.

Reyanna bit her lip, swallowing the thank you that almost slipped out of her mouth.  She would be damned if she was going to feed his already inflated ego.

Shouta felt her begin to flutter and clamp down of his invading tongue.  His eyes flicked open to stare up at her.  Damn. She was beautiful.  Her musical moans, quivering body, and cute scrunch of her sweet face almost made him give in and let her have her orgasm. But he had said he was going to remind her who she belonged to.  Show her just how dependent she was on him.

Reyanna gave a whining growl of frustrated disappoint when Shouta pulled back, leaving her at the edge of her peak.

“Shouta.”  She said, her voice once again stern and scolding.

Shouta licked her juices from his lips.  “I told you.  You’re getting a lesson.”

“What happened to our time together being short?”

Shouta’s smile showed too many teeth.  “Short as it is, I’ll always take the time to savor you, Kitten.”

Seeing the smile she loved so much made Reyanna’s heart flutter.  She would do anything.  Tolerate and suffer anything.  Just to see him smile like that at her.

She groaned, hips swaying as his thumbs rubbed circles into them.  She needed him to touch her; and though he technically was, it wasn’t in the way she wanted.

He put his mouth to her once more, alternating between licking and thrusting his tongue into her.  He brought her to the edge again, and pulled back just before she went over.

“Shouta!”  She thrashed in her bindings.

“What’s the matter Anna?  Do you want to cum?”

“You know I do.  Why are you being mean and teasing me?”

Usually he did it for the fun and control of it, but this time there was a clear purpose behind it.

“I told you.”

“So you want me to know that I’m yours and only you can please me.  Fine!  Consider me reminded.”

Shouta slowly rose to his feet, his eyes never once leaving hers.  “You got the reasoning of it, but aren’t anywhere close to showing you know and accept those facts.”

His heated gaze and low, stern voice had Reyanna showing the first signs of breaking.  “Just tell me what you want.  I’ll do it…so long as it’s reasonable.”

Proud, willful Kitten, Shouta thought.  If only she hadn’t added that end tag, he might have ignored the lack of pleading in her tone and shown mercy, telling her.  Instead she earned herself another edging, this time with his thick fingers.

“Shouta please!”  Reyanna whined when he pulled away again.  “I want to cum.  Tell me what you want!”

“So close.”  Shouta tisked.

His Love was still making demands.  Still carried an edge of authority to her voice, like she was the one in control here.

“I may end up drawing this out just because you’re being so difficult.” Shouta said, his deep, rumbling voice feeding the heated arousal in her core.

“How is saying, tell me what you want and I’ll do it, being difficult?  If anyone’s being difficult it’s you.”

“Clearly this is a lesson you were in dire need of revisiting.”  Shouta sighed.  “I’m almost glad Hawks disturbed us.”

“Hawks?”  Reyanna questioned, her needy, deprived system making her forget how Shouta had brought up and called the Archangel a crimson feathered bird brain near the start of this torment.  “What does this have to do with Hawk–”

“Don’t say his name.”  Shouta snapped as he spanked her sharply, his jealously making his hand come down harder than intended.

Reyanna squeaked at the stinging burst and blooming heat that followed.  The slap hadn’t been more than she could take, but the surprise and force of it had her squirming.  The slight pain adding to her hungry pleasure, making her writhe.

Recovering, Shouta’s hand caressed her heated butt cheek.

“You don’t say his name.  Not while we’re together like this.  Understood.”

She blinked at him, understanding finally dawning.  “You’re jealous.”

“Jealous?”  Shouta huffed.  “You think I’m jealous?  Trust me, Kitten, you haven’t even seen jealousy.”

Before she could say anything else, his fingers dipped back into her.

When he pulled away again, leaving her literally and sexually hanging, Reyanna knew exactly what she had to say to get her way.

“Shouta please!  I’m sorry!”  She begged, far to desperate for release to care how pathetic she sounded.  “I know I’m yours.  Everyone in the estate knows I’m yours.  There’s no one else I’d rather belong to than you. It’s you who loves me and protects me.  Who makes me feel like no one else ever could.”

His lip curled slightly at that.

“Not that they’d ever get a chance to try.”  She hurried to add.  “I’d never let them.  Cause, I love you.  There will never be anyone else for me.  I was yours long before our first time together.”

Shouta blinked at that.  “You were.”

“Yes.”  Reyanna said firmly, all stress and pleading gone for her voice.  “I gave myself to you long before you claimed me.”

Shouta doubted that, but she was talking about his claiming her during their first time together.

“I love you, Shou.  It kills me being away from you.  I hate it when you leave.”  She huffed.  “Luna chastises me for weeks after, telling me to stop sulking.”

“It breaks me, having to leave you.”  He told, his hand moving to tug at the knots that held her secure.

With a couple pulls she was free of her bonds, though still unable to touch the floor.  She wrapped her legs around his waist, arms wrapping around his neck.

“Then stay.  Please.”

Shouta growled.  “I can’t.  You know–”

She kissed him, not wanting to waste any more time on an argument she had lost countless times already.

He carried her over to the bed, lowering her down, and climbing over her.

“You’re not going to tease me anymore, are you?”

“No.”  Shouta answered, the look in his eyes filled with predatory hunger.  “I’m going to give you exactly what you want, till you’re begging me to stop.”

[philosopherking1887]

Kol Nidrei (a Good Omens fic)

I’m back on my bullshit. @iscariotsss knows what I mean.

Word count: 2130 (including “footnotes”)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Aziraphale liked going to houses of worship because it made him feel closer to God. He realized that this must seem foolish or paradoxical: he was, after all, a being suffused with God’s love and grace; and if he went through the right procedures, he could even (in theory) make direct contact with the Almighty. But calls to the Court of God’s Power through such channels—it had recently been made brutally, devastatingly clear to him—in fact went through a spokes-angel (no, not the wheeled kind), a mere mouthpiece who claimed to listen and speak on behalf of God. Speaking to God as an angel, using the capabilities and privileges his angelic nature afforded him, he had only ever reached a Glorified secretary.

Humans, though, when they prayed—it was possible that God truly listened. Angels listened, too, and sometimes took it upon themselves to answer; God was not in principle opposed to delegating, and angels were permitted a certain amount of latitude in how they executed the Divine Will, broadly understood. But sometimes miracles occurred, or moments of mystical inspiration, or improbable causal nudges, that could not be accounted for, even with all the Heavenly Bureaucracy’s scrupulous record-keeping. Then the angels had to wonder whether God Herself had heard and answered a prayer that Her agents had passed over. One of the Archangels would make a note by the observation of the anomalous event: “Divine intervention?” Always with a question mark, for God’s ways were known to none but God.

Aziraphale felt closer to God among humans praying than in the blessed Light of Heaven, or in his own grace-filled solitude, because he knew that their voices actually had a chance of being heard. Especially when they prayed in community, because although God did sometimes attend to solitary prayers (which might pierce through the noise because of the devoutness or holiness or strong personality of the pray-er), a group of people all speaking or meditating on the same message reinforce each other in a way that is not simply a matter of additive volume, but of resonance.

Because Aziraphale was at heart (and in body) an aesthete, he preferred places and modes of worship with a certain amount of pomp and ceremony. He could not abide the slick commercial atmosphere of ‘evangelical’ megachurches or the adaptation of modern popular musical styles to the purpose of worship; the mere presence of a guitar would send him out the door as quickly as consecrated ground did most demons. Nor was he much attracted to the simplest of gatherings, the mostly silent Quaker Circles, the unadorned meeting-houses that remained true to the Calvinist tradition (and, arguably, the original tradition of Christ and the first Apostles). No, he preferred the lushness of Catholic and Orthodox churches, their sparkling mosaics and glowing stained-glass masterpieces, the Masses and Liturgies composed by Europe’s greatest creative geniuses for sumptuous choirs and virtuosos playing thundering organs (Aziraphale found that of all artists, he had an especial rapport with organists). And if sometimes such fare was too rich even for him, he felt comfortably at home in the stolid, dignified (or as Crowley would say, stuffy and pompous) tradition of the Church of England. The Elgar and Britten anthems were not quite your Bach Mass or Verdi Requiem; but not even Aziraphale could eat lobster and venison every day.

So when the Jewish High Holidays came round and one felt compelled to put in an appearance (‘one’ referring not only to Heaven’s representatives on Earth, but to the Jewish worshipers as well), Aziraphale tended toward a certain style of Reform-to-Conservative congregation that favoured tastefully ornate architecture and a choir, accompanied by a piano or (in rare cases) an organ, singing nineteenth-century settings of the prayers and psalms much in the style of Mendelssohn,* or perhaps mid-twentieth-century arrangements taking inspiration from some combination of Rachmaninoff, Vaughan Williams, and dramatic film scores. Aziraphale was especially attached to the melancholy cello solo playing Bruch’s setting of the Kol Nidrei melody with which such congregations habitually began the Yom Kippur evening service.

On a mild, damp early autumn evening forty days after the world failed to end, Aziraphale went alone to the synagogue whose Kol Nidrei services he had been attending for the past twenty years or so (he was a creature of habit as much as, if not more than, a creature of love). He closed his eyes and let the cello’s plaintive voice set his chest to sweetly aching and was desperately grateful that he still had this—this salmon and crème fraîche omelette instead of the ‘eggs without salt’ of eternal celestial harmonies (stop thinking in food metaphors on a fast day!, he scolded himself, hurriedly directing his thoughts away from his stomach).

The cello’s final tremulous notes faded away and the cantor (who had classical operatic training; there was a reason Aziraphale preferred the services here) began singing the words of the Kol Nidrei. Aziraphale’s French or his Tibetan might sometimes grow rusty, but Hebrew and Aramaic always came back to him like riding a velocipede (or so they said; not that he would know).

“All vows,” the cantor sang (joined at musically appropriate points by the choir), “self-prohibitions, consecrations, bonds, promises, obligations, and oaths that we have vowed, sworn, consecrated, and taken as prohibitions upon ourselves from this Yom Kippur until the next—may it come to us for good—we regret and renounce them all; may they all be absolved, forgiven, cancelled, and rendered null and void; they shall have no force, and shall not endure. Let our vows not be vows, our prohibitions not be prohibitions, our oaths not be oaths.”

There was a widespread belief that the custom of making this declaration originated among the Iberian Jews who were forced to publicly convert to Christianity but who continued to practice their Judaism in secret—who insincerely forswore their faith in the sight of God and men, but wished to retract these false oaths in God’s sight alone. Among those who knew the text was older, the story was that it came out of an earlier time of persecution and conversions on pain of death. Aziraphale (who had witnessed the whole painful, arduous, improbable history of this people) knew that it came out of nothing of the sort: it was just that the Jews had an unfortunate habit, which caused their priests and rabbis no end of intestinal distress, of making solemn vows at the drop of a hat. There was even a significant commandment not to make vain oaths in the name of the Lord, but the habit persisted. So a formal ritual of renunciation was introduced in the hope that God could be persuaded not to take such utterances so terribly seriously. But it took on a darker, weightier significance in the face of the forced conversions that became a recurring theme in the history of the Jews. God’s Providence works in unexpected ways: a tradition that arose for one purpose might later prove even more essential for another.

When Aziraphale recited the formula with this congregation, it was always for the original reason for which it had been instituted. He, like the early Hebrews, had a shameful habit of making promises to God that he should have known he wouldn’t be able to keep. He promised he wouldn’t use frivolous miracles; he promised he wouldn’t eat and drink so lavishly; he promised he would be paying more attention next time, so that maybe he could stop or at least mitigate the next horror that the humans visited upon themselves—unless, of course, Michael or Gabriel told him it was part of the Divine Plan, in which case he would smile uncomfortably and wonder whether he should be praying that they were right or that they were wrong.

Above all, he promised to set aside his feelings for Crowley. He didn’t promise not to see him anymore—he had to keep an eye on Hell’s agent in his sector of the Earth, didn’t he?—but after every time they met, when he departed with a hollowness in his stomach that could not be filled by any amount of oysters or brioche, he promised that he would give no thought to the demon except in regard to thwarting him. He promised he would tell Crowley the Arrangement was over (of course, he never did… not until the second-to-last day of the world, when Crowley threatened to make him face up to what Heaven really was, and what they really were). He promised he would stay away, except to watch his counterpart’s movements, and perhaps to confront him directly if there was no other way of stopping his machinations. And he kept that promise for a whole century between 1862 and 1967—their encounter in 1941 had been entirely on Crowley’s initiative!—but during that century of separation, and especially after its unplanned interruption, he had been even more abysmal at keeping his promise not to think of Crowley in anything but his professional capacity.

Now Aziraphale was facing the first full year since the world had not been made anew, but somehow his world had; and he realized that he no longer needed to ask preemptive absolution for his usual vain promises to God. No one would be keeping track of Aziraphale’s “frivolous miracles,” much less sending him nasty letters about them. And though Aziraphale himself would never say it, he quite agreed with Crowley that Gabriel could shove his self-righteous comments about Aziraphale’s “gut” right up his tightly-clenched arse, along with that appalling tracksuit (he wasn’t entirely sure what Crowley had meant by calling him “basic,” but he gathered that it wasn’t good). Crowley liked him soft (he made a very good body-pillow, he was told), so Aziraphale liked himself that way, too.

As to preventing the horrors of human history… he wasn’t sure that he had any right to interfere, except by showing and encouraging kindness, where he could. As a Heavenly agent on Earth, he was retired, but he would remain a being of love until… well, until Heaven succeeded in destroying him, or God decided he deserved to Fall. But even then, he wasn’t sure: Crowley had Fallen (or “sauntered vaguely downwards,” as he liked to insist), but Aziraphale suspected that he was still a being of love, in spite of everything.

Most importantly, the primary impetus for Aziraphale’s empty vows, self-prohibitions, promises, and oaths no longer obtained. From this year on, there would be no vows not to think of Crowley, work with him, seek out his company. “For centuries I regretted and renounced those vows because I feared I couldn’t keep them,” Aziraphale said silently to God; he wasn’t sure whether or not he hoped She was actually listening. “Now I regret and renounce them because I should never have made them in the first place. I should never have wanted to be able to keep them.”

“Let our oaths not be oaths,” the choir was singing as the elaborate Romantic-style arrangement drew toward its dramatic close, the cantor’s voice rising in an impressive final cadenza. “Let our oaths not be oaths.”

“Ush’vuatana la sh’vuot,” Aziraphale whispered in time with the singers. All his foolish oaths had already been annulled,** most of them before he even made them; he could not now go back and retract them for the right reason. Well, he would probably come up with some new vain oaths, maybe about being less of a bastard to unwitting would-be customers in his bookshop.

There were some other vows he had it in mind to make where Crowley was concerned, but those would not be made only to God, and he had every intention of keeping them.

* “It sounds like bloody Gilbert and Sullivan,” Crowley had muttered to Aziraphale once when he had been invited to accompany him for a lark (the ground of synagogues did not burn his feet), and Aziraphale had had to bite the inside of his cheek to maintain his disapproving expression and stifle a laugh. “Listen, it’s the chorus of sisters, cousins, and aunts.”

** With the exception of those made during a year late in the eleventh century just before the change of tense instituted by Rabbi Meïr ben Shmuel, applying the renunciation to the year ahead rather than the year just past, had reached the synagogue in Paris where Aziraphale had been spending the Days of Awe for several years. Aziraphale panicked about it for a good six months, and indeed whenever he thought about it (with diminishing frequency) thereafter, not least because he and Crowley had first embarked on the Arrangement earlier that century and Aziraphale had spent decades regularly resolving to back out and never following through.

[miyiee]

“Red Strings --of Fate” 〆

“Red Strings --of Fate” 〆(The one-way red thread of fate)

{Warning! Emotional BB} Please do not copy any of my work, if you are planning to use, please remember to credit me! ^^

Original by: star25623 & 倉橋一平 〴Watch〴 inspired by…..

自主作成アニメーション「いと恋し」

Written by: Miyie〴                  

"You made flowers grow in my lungs.

Although they are beautiful.

I can't breathe anymore." 

Ichi, ni, san, yon(shi), go, roku, nana(shichi), hachi(jachi), kyu(kiu), juu(jiu)

“What are you doing?” someone once asked.

“Reading.”

“There’s this one Old Folktale Story, that had stood out to me…”

“What was it about?” 

Well,   The story goes, that there was this once a young boy who read about his fate,... he was going to die in a few days. 

And so it went on and he asked the black raven bird “Why?” The raven then replied, “It cannot be helped boy, it is your fate.” To his dismay, he cried…. “Please, I would do anything.” He begged. “I am sorry but this my job, I cannot break it for I am the gate beholden of death.” “But… I will make an exception boy if you find me these three ingredients I will allow you to live. In a world where anything is possible, you are god.“A g-god?!?!” “Indeed, A fake world. “Ingredients:1.Red gemstone2. A feather from the golden-bird3.Black-hearted stone(from hell)“SURE!” He replied…. without any hesitation. And so, he went on to find the three ingredients. Traveling in a great distance. It took him weeks to complete his task. Until the final day had come….“Very well, boy!” Here is the key..  Go on… walk.  But the young boy only stayed still. Not walking any forward. He asked, “I do not know why.” “Oh, you must be scared right? Oh please, it is only normal for humans.” Then the boy realized the significance of his words and decided to live in this world, the real one… to where he is now today. 

Amongst the soldiers in the Great War, there lived a legend. At first, it was thought to be merely an absurd rumor, though with popular word and time fear spread more rapidly than wildfire and hovered in the atmosphere like a contagious fog.     

Friend and foe alike lived in terror of this illusive creature of nightmares, and as five long, wretched years wore on the innominate, faceless character plagued the morality of the battlefield. He was hailed as a battalion of ludicrous names, namely a vengeful ghost, then a murderous ghoul, and finally a phantasmagorical-robotic-apparitional thing conjured by hallucinations of the imagination.     

But no one truly knew who he was. No one knew where he had come from, or to whom this abhorrent monstrosity belonged. Those who had encountered him were never the same. Not that there were many who survived the ordeal if the aforementioned misfortune were to befall them. He was said to be no older than an adolescent boy of fifteen or sixteen years, always clothed in ethereal white. Rather than the traditional rifle or bayonet, he carried a peculiar weapon :a bilateral, double-ended kind of sword, twice as long as the average human being. Apparently, he could annihilate entire factions in a matter of minutes, and without so much as a single variation in his facile demeanor.     

But what evoked the greatest terror of all was his eyes. Allegedly, they were at all times concealed with wrapped layers of white bandages, obscuring the top half of his face. And on the occasion that those linen bindings were unwound.... None who saw them lived to tell what exactly they had seen behind his irises before their souls were torn from their bodies and a ghastly death greeted them at the gates of Hell.      

Perhaps the heavens condemned this war, and so they had sent such an appalling emissary to convey this disapprobation. As time went on, the grim reaper in white was at last given a name. The strikingly beautiful paragon of carnage and bloodshed that was lovely like a seraph, and yet heartless like the devil. The very personification of Death himself.

“A black-haired boy with large amber eyes closed the book, and then he spoke,

A black-haired girl laid on his lap.. whispering back- “Well looks like you’ve already fallen asleep.”

There’s nowhere my heart can embark….. “Please take me away.” she pleaded.

But the black-haired boy only stared at her. She already had a feeling, That this boy had only ‘pitied her, That’s why he had no special power, The only thing he only carried was a knife, That was his ‘true’ weapon. And that’s why he had helped.

“If you wish, 

You can draw a world,

Picture it, 

Engrave it, 

In your mind.

If it meant to save you from death, 

If it meant pure flaked happiness

Would you like to live, 

In that world, away from reality?”

One day, 4 months ago… she woke up, Sitting on her bed. She was bedridden. “It’s me.” She quietly spoke. “I-I wished…. To go back..” although she let those words slipped. “Your wish is my very command.”  he continued- the boy that looked so much- idenitcal to the other one... was he his twin perhaps? “Very well..but you have a time limit.”

“Wait- but I didn’t mean it… “ the girl now realizing her words.

“A wish is a wish, it is my job. That is not what your heart says. You must hurry.” he responsed back. Which has only caused such a slight fright to the girl. She took in a deep sigh. “Very well.” Yes, it was true, there was nothing more I wanted than to just go back, to fix all my mistakes….

“To go back...” she repeated. “I-I need to kill her, that girl….”

“But that girl is yourself… Is it not?” the voice spoke.

“Shut up!” 

“Why do you wish to kill yourself?”

“I should’ve died…...”

“It’s been 4 months since I was first checked in the hospital, right? I can’t get out of bed, so each day is unbelievably long, I wonder when I could check out….”

-“Well, …. I probably can’t, huh?”-You already knew from the first time I checked in right? The time I have left is slowly running out……” To put it bluntly, I am going to die soon. My body is still so weak, I had so many things I wanted…I wanted to go to college, earn tons of money, be successful, and become happy..

But..,

How could I wish upon such useless things? When I didn’t need any of those? The only thing I wanted most right now is,

I wished,                                        “ to change fate..”

“I just wanted to live.” instead.       

Standing above her, her weak fragile body lies. Standing over ‘me’,... with a knife.. Suddenly she pushed me over. “Why are you doing this? I am only trying to save you!”, I shouted.“You are future me, are you not?”, the girl laughed. “Isn’t it that girl, she hasn’t ever left her bed?”“It’s very rare to see her outside..” “Poor girl.” 

“Look, at all the tasty food, this place has! Isn’t it?” She shoved one in my mouth, it was delicious….She dragged me along with her.. Happily running around..the hospital...Then, I remembered...“Stop it, I don’t have time for this!” Time is slowly running out..  “But even so…” She turned away from me. “I’m sorry, but no.. I don’t want to die, no, not just yet.”

So if you could, please grant my wish… oh- spirit ?

“Well, I guess it can’t be helped, right?”, he smiled at me. The past me. 

“Wait- Wait! What about my wish’!?! There were a clear line between the two wishes.--”No..Stop it…. 

… I don’t need your pity,

.. I don’t need your kindness….

“How can you still smile at me, like that?”

The girl flinched, as the boy tried to hold her in his arms, trembling from the shock a red string appeared attached,   

“Wha-..”

“Shhh….”

“Everything’s going to be okay.” A finger over his lips...with a creepy smile. Was what he had told me. Wish upon a star. “Ah... looks like you’ve ran out of time.”

“I’ve. lost.. It. time.” Acid, tears ran over her delicate face. There was no possible way to turn back. correct?”

“Hey…...”   Like reading strings that hold our bonds, never touching, or he’ll fade away someday. “What is it that you what from me?” “Your heart.” he answered back.

“Why? I cannot allow you to.”

Wasn’t it the world that was breaking?

Wasn’t it the world that made a mistake?

You really are an idiot,

                               For forgetting the blueness of the sky.

                               You’re the one who had made a mistake, 

                                You’re the one that was breaking...

 And... you were the very one that was waiting.

About a month ago on April 23rd, just past 2 pm. Two hikers picking mountain vegetables..found a man’s body here at Tauka Swamp. Because he had been stabbed in the chest with a sharp knife, they ruled his death a murder. However, despite a few days passing since he was murdered, and him having no cellphone or ID, They were able to identify him immediately. Yoshihara Hiroo, 35- year old. Who worked for a large construction firm. Eventually, a 30-year-old woman was arrested as a suspect. Tinai Ao. 

“It was me.” In which they have gotten a confession from her. While many unanswered questions remained. They are still working mainly in gathering the evidence needed right now. An open and shut case. They assumed she threw the body into the swamp to hide it, or to perhaps delay its discovery. 

The girl asked, to prove her point…..

I must get a statement that I am satisfied with….

The incident was about a woman who had murdered her ex-boyfriend’s coworker and had dumped a body in a swamp up the mountains in the large pond. Apparently her coworker “Hashira '' had a dispute with her ex-boyfriend about the company. He planned out Kuji’s death by suicide with his current wife, where they could’ve died together, in love. Before, this though, his former wife, when he had asked to die together, left him. Kuji always had a problem with his job, he had hardships. He believed that this was caused by the incident 5 years ago and called

Kuji’s brother, but he didn't pick up. He knows where Kuji’s former wife lived and came into contact with her to apologize 5 years ago. But, instead of the first approach must’ve caused the women to be paralyzed. Killed him, because she felt that Kuji’s was correct…  The women were quick to confine in her murder. And told them she threw the body in there for a man-eating girl spirt to eat.  

Why would she not have placed any weight on the dead body, if she had tried to hide it? 

She did it for you, for the spirit girl to find and eat it... 

That explanation is still unclear, many left unsaid….Why must she say “I really hope they find you.” 

Of course… 

5 years ago, there was a legend, a legend about the ‘goddess’ of rain…she is usually seen by the river, sitting alone, in a white yukata with black short straight hair, bangs, with no eyes, since they were gouged out. There are two ways you could ask for the ‘rain’. She, the goddess of rain, despite her name, she had no control over the waters. One was to pray. The other is an offering, to offer a body, a corpse for the spirit girl to eat, but this legend was disputed, as the girl no longer eats humans, they tasted terrible to her. But, there was a set back to this, to offer a dead corpse, it must be in good condition, a young girl rather than an old middle-aged man. Instead, the women dumped the corpse of an old middle-age man in the river. Her coworker came over to admitted he had killed Kuji and his wife, 

Why would there be rain?

Yes, indeed… 

My lady, you are quick to deny your claims…

There should’ve been something really precious left from her former husband but after he had moved on with another woman she had moved out of her house and job in the city into her family home alongside where the spirit lived. She had moved to destroy all her relations and items from Kuji. Yes, it is possible for some to have kept a few gifts. 

She called Kuji’s brother over, afraid of Hashirama's wrongfulness. Afraid of this, the middle-aged coworker came over. Where Kuji’s brother had met face to face with his brother’s killer. Out of anger, he had openly pulled out a knife and stabbed the co-worker. In realization of this, the woman could not bring herself to accused Kuji’s brother of his murder. She felt this was the only way she could repay him. And so, the brother flawed and she was left with the corpse, where she carried him into a halogen and carried him up the mountains at night. To throw his body down. 

There would be no way, young women would go through the hardships of carrying a dead corpse up to the mountains, why would she speak of to find it over wards? The women’s relations to him, no mere someone would?

She had to get rid of any traces of his dead body in her home, she cleaned everywhere, every inch of her house, but, what about the outside? She had realized there was no way to clean the outside, rain... She needed rain.  

The rain had caused people to not have discovered the corpse sooner for a few past 2 days. During those rainy days, the women must’ve come to check, only to find that the body has not been eaten, she figured that they wouldn’t have liked to eat metal or any accessible trash left behind beside the flesh so she removed his cellphone and ID, which she could’ve possibly buried back in her home.

This was where you were enraged...and it started to rain…

The woman, she spoke that she had thrown a murder weapon in the river. For the spirit to eat, there was no guarantee, by saying this, this made the police cover her sanity still more, leading in discovery in finding the weapon. That weapon was no mere weapon, instead, it was a fetus from her former husband. In realization of this in the past 4 years ago, that she was pregnant with his child, she made an attempt to dispose of the baby, she handled this all by herself, it was time when she had gone into labor, blood on her hands everywhere. All by herself, she threw the body down the river, that was until she had found out that her former husband was innocent… but it was already too late, she threw their child away. She tried to look for it, the sad corpse of her child. Although it has been 4 years already, her feelings are overweening. 

That is yet why she had said: “I really hoped they find you.” 

It was not the body that she wanted to find. 

A single fetus corpse is yet too small to be found, adding that it was 4 years ago…. One person wouldn’t have found this body all herself, so instead, she used the same idea, taking this chance, she disposes of his body into the river. For an investigation.  

Keeling down… I highly doubt that they would find the fetus underground... 

 “Very well, case closed. 

You are really a spirit of worthy…. Riyin”

“Humans… 

They really are such undoubtedly foolish but pitiful creatures, aren’t they?”

Dressed in a white yukata, with black strings thrown around the dress of the sleeves. A white spirit's symbol on her head. White triangle. And, on her left cheek, a covered up bandage. Straight short black hair with bangs.

she smiled and let out a small chuckle…..

“Of course, We’ve used to be one too..”

I felt something soft intertwined in my hands, I looked down, and he did too. Our hands clasped together,…. “

Hey… let’s stay together… forever..”

qwq

Looking up at the bright lights of the crownless night, we laughed.

Red string, red thread, will stay.

Surely,.... It will… ,right? 

It was one of those moments again. One where he didn't know if he were fantasizing or awake, nor if reality was real or imaginary. He couldn't tell if time flowed or not, because this innocuous world of imperishable oblivion seemed perpetual and ephemeral all at once.      

"I'll-I'll find it! The green string!?I promise!"

No truth, no lies.  No beginnings, no endings. The world was colorless, as always. He was standing upon a desolate sandhill beside the ocean, where the sea of nothingness melted seamlessly into the dreary sky and they were one and the other. Gray waters reflected pale clouds, mirroring the vapid gray fog that smothered the air. 

It took him a moment to realize that the miasma was a plume of smoke, an ominous pillar of darkness surging towards the ashen sky above. 

A single spark of color ignited the monotonous world, and the acrid aroma of scorching charcoal became nearly suffocating. Something was burning. 

The water had become fire. 

Somewhere in the near distance, someone —— no, many people, were screaming, crying, pleading. He couldn't tell exactly where, decipher exactly why.     He winced to make it stop.     

Instead, the hellish cacophony became louder, closer, deafening. Then, through the thick fog, he saw her. Standing atop an ebony rock with her back turned where fiery seas met calm, stagnant gray waters, oblivious to the morbid scene unfolding before him.

She spoke to herself, her voice soft as it gradually fallen, pouring down like hails from the sky,... “Hey….. promise me… that , you won’t leave me alone.. In this world? in a distance from him.

Could you do me this one favor??” She’d asked. Was she mad, angry perhaps?

Ah- but where are you going to find it? There is no such thing as the

Yellow, Blue, or Green string,

It was all a lie, 

. . .!    

There is only red, 

Red string."𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒕," 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒈𝒉𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒔𝒂𝒚𝒔. "𝑾𝒉𝒂𝒕?" "𝑾𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒇𝒐𝒓. 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒈𝒐 𝒃𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒕. 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒈𝒐 𝒃𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝒕𝒐 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒃𝒆𝒈𝒂𝒏. 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒐𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒉𝒂𝒅. 𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒈𝒆𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆, 𝒃𝒆𝒄𝒂𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒊𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒇𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒕, 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒃𝒆 𝒅𝒊𝒇𝒇𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒏𝒕. 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒅, 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒋𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒚 𝒂𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒆, 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒂𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆, 𝒊𝒇 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒆𝒍𝒔𝒆. 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒎𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒊𝒕 𝒃𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝒕𝒐 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒃𝒆𝒈𝒂𝒏, 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒐𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒄𝒍𝒊𝒎𝒃 𝒂𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒏 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒑𝒊𝒓𝒂𝒍 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒓. 𝑭𝒐𝒓𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓."

“I am tired… Of running In a circle.”       

“The weather’s nice today as well, we gather around and stare up at the clouds.”

My soft vocals echoed through the silent park. I occupied the bench, swinging my legs back and forth. My eyes averted to many things; the tiny pile of snow, the green grass, the trees.  

"These lazy days it's hard to tell, we close our eyes and fall down to the ground."  The birds chirped along with the tune. The trees remind me of a certain person. Trees are natural. They stay still and strong against the cold. I let out a faint giggle. 

"A distant blurry memory, those days long gone seem so hard to recall,"  My eyes shifted back to the ground. I thoroughly scanned it. My eyes glistened. Spring has started a few days ago and this is the first flower I see. I got up from my seat and approached it.  

"'Cause time goes on relentlessly, we've grown too old to see it all."  I stopped walking. The scene in front of me was a blue morpho landing on the flower. I silently took a step back. If I get any closer, I will end up disturbing it.  

"We played with fake maturity, made secret plans just to burn out the day."  After a while, the butterfly flew away. I rushed to the flower and picked it up. I walked back to the bench and took a seat.  

"'We fight this war eternally,' and join our hands just to find our own way."  An idea sparked in my mind. I plucked each petal along with the beat: 

"He loves me... he loves me not... he loves me... he loves me not..." After a while of plucking, I ended with a; "He loves me not." My happiness level lowered. I let out a sigh.  

Suddenly,.... I heard someone

"Hey..." I felt a hand land on my shoulder. I flinched. I swiftly turned and slapped the hand off me. I met eyes with one of my few friends, Xeiv. 

"S-Sorry about that..." I apologized. 

"There's no need to apologize. I would probably do the same thing." He sat down beside me. 

"So what are you doing out here alone?"  

"It's early spring. I'd rather be one of the first people to see spring without the falling petals." I answered as I fiddled with the flower's stem. 

He gave me a small smile.  

"That's oddly specific." He commented. 

"W-Well, what brings you out...?" I felt myself tremble. 

"I needed to blow off some steam after what happened to... Satoru... and I heard singing. Normally I would ignore it, but it sounded an awful lot like you." I let out a nervous chuckle to his answer. 

My nails were piercing into the flower stem. He looked down at it. "What's that for?" My face transitioned into a light shade of red.  

"Oh, it's..." My voice began to trail off. "Well, do you know that game where you take off a petal one by one?" He nodded his head. 

"Well, I was doing that." I was trying to be honest with him. After all, he doesn't seem like a person who would care to dig deep.  

"Oh really? What are the results?"  

"The feelings haven't returned." My face saddened. 

"That sucks... but it is just a game. You can't just simply rely on it."  

"That's true..." My face changed to a darker shade of red. It appears that another idea popped up in my mind. 

"Hey... can I do something real quick?" 

He looked puzzled. "Umm... sure?" 

I scooted a little bit closer and pecked his cheek.  "I-I'm sorry..." I apologized as I covered my brick-red face. 

"I-It's perfectly fine..." Judging by his voice, he was losing his composure. I felt his hands hesitantly removing my palms that covered my face.  

"Was that supposed to be a confession?" He interrogated. I slowly nodded my head. I felt his arm wrap around my waist. It pulled me closer to him. I heard him softly spoke, "Then I accept."

We watch together as beautiful flowers began to wither.

--Author’s note: “when red string gets entangled” is a novel mainly based on the term ‘love’ interest] Also if you are unable to understand what has happened over these text, yes, it is delierberatly meant to make no sense at all, but that is- the beauty within words. These were cases that were solved by my two characters 'Riyin’ and Xiev who were pulling these strings. As always, Thanks for reading!

[tenshiscientia]

Goddess’s Gift

"When the war of the beasts brings about the worlds end,

The Goddess descends from the sky.

Wings of light and dark spread afar.

She guides us to bliss,

Her 'Gift' everlasting."

LOVELESS Prologue

"Genesis, come on, the entire lab is about to go up! Let's get the heck out of here!" yelled Angeal as he grabbed the back of his best friends leather duster and gave a firm yank.

"Get the hell off, Angeal! I'm not leaving without the girl!" Genesis yelled back, ripping the duster out of his friends grasp.

"She's not worth die-mmph..." Angeal raised a hand to the side of his face and tenderly rubbed his jaw.

Though they were best friends, Genesis had only truly decked him like that once before, and that was when he was truly, seriously pissed. Dark anger dripped in Genesis' voice as his eyes glowed with Mako-infused power.

"Never say that again, Angeal! That girl is a "Gift" from the Goddess, I know it! I'm not going to let Hojo corrupt her with his filthy ways!" he growled.

Genesis spun on his heel and ran back into the lab. Looking around the room, he searched, almost frantically for his Goddess' "Gift". After a few minutes of searching from room to room, he spotted her. What he saw absolutely appalled him, but shouldn't have surprised him at the same time. She was enclosed and locked in a glass case, circular in shape, with not even enough room to stand up. She was curled against the far side of it in fear, her arms drawn up over her head, eyes shut tight.

Her body was enclosed in a thin, skin-tight black bodysuit and was visibly trembling. Genesis all but flew to the case and summoned Rapier to his hand. He pressed a gloved hand against the glass case, then rapped sharply on it, trying to catch the girls attention and it worked. She looked up and their eyes met for the first time. Genesis' breath caught in his chest. Her eyes were catlike, as his bestfriends Sephiroth's were, but they held a icy blue that could even freeze winter over a second time.

A large crash to the side brought them both back to reality, causing Genesis to jump and the girl to merely snap her head in the direction of the crash. Genesis rapped on the case again, bringing the girls attention back to him. He pointed to Rapier and then at the case she was in.

"I hope you can hear me or at least understand me cause I don't have time to repeat this. I'm breaking the case and getting the both of us out of here. Get ready, the glass is going everywhere!" he yelled.

The girls eyes brightened a little bit, but she didn't move except to cover her head again as another piece of equipment came crashing down. Genesis didn't know if the glass was thin enough so that she had heard him, but as he had said; he didn't have time to repeat. He raised Rapier high above his head and brought the gleaming crimson and silver sword down hard upon the case. He heard the case shatter, then heard the girl scream. Looking back to the case, he saw it was now shattered into millions of pieces, however many had showered down onto the girl.

'No!' Genesis' mind screamed at him, believing that the girl could possibly be cut, though he could see no blood.

He rushed into what was left of the case and to the girl, kneeling down in front of her. Genesis reached out and gently touched the girls black-clad arm, brushing some of the glass off it.

"Are you alright? Did you get cu-" he began.

The girls arms uncovered her head and her snowy tresses fluffed around her shoulders as she shook herself off and her hair settled around her face.

She smiled sweetly up at him and shook her head as if saying, 'It's alright. I'm fine.'

Genesis smiled himself in return and raised a red gloved hand to brush gently across a cream-colored cheek.

"Thank Gaia..." he whispered softly to himself, glad he hadn't lost the trust he hadn't yet known he'd gained.

The girl leaned into the touch, closing her icy blue, catlike eyes and slowly lifted a hand to slip inside his. Suddenly an explosion behind Genesis rained down the heated metal on both of them. Genesis' leather duster kept him protected, the girl did not fair as well. The metal landed on barely concealed skin and burned through the suit like it wasn't even there. Then the metal seared itself into the girls flesh, causing the girl to jerk away from Genesis in pain, curling around her arm in a desperate attempt to stop the torturous sensation.

Genesis' eyes instantly snapped to the cover-up she was wearing.

"She has no protection from any of this in that thing Hojo has her wearing..." he muttered to himself.

Genesis looked around them, trying to find something - anything to cover her with. Unfortunately, everything within reach was burning or wouldn't provide any protection. Then he had an idea. He hated taking his beloved duster off, he was much more vulnerable that way, but she was more important than he was. Genesis didn't care how injured he became so long as this "Gift" remained unharmed.

He'd already allowed her to be burned, nothing more would happen to her. Genesis lowered Rapier to the ground and pulled the red leather duster off his body and swung it around her, hastily tucking her arms into the sleeves, apologizing for his roughness as he went. He picked up Rapier and sent the crimson blade away with a small mental command, he was going to need both arms to carry the girl. Genesis swiftly scooped her up into his arms and held her diagonally across his chest. She was just barely small enough for him to manage this, thank the Goddess for small things.

The girl squirmed against him, obviously not used to this kind of physical contact with another human, at least not without negative repercussions. Genesis stood and just held her tighter to his chest as he began to run.

"Please forgive me, I swear I won't hurt you, but I have to do this..." his words stopped momentarily as he dodged a piece of falling equipment, "...It's just until we get out of here..." a dodged explosion, "...bear with me until then, please."

The girl seemed to understand and stopped her movements as Genesis rounded a corner and spotted the door to the lab.

'Yes, freedom in sight!' he thought to himself.

He began to sprint for the door and the two were almost out when there was a large explosion. As a result, a piece of equipment over the door was knocked loose and fell, effectively blocking the door. Genesis skidded to a stop just short of running into the equipment and backed up a few steps.

"Damn..." he muttered to himself, looking around, "...Trapped..."

The girls eyes peered out from within the confines of the red leather duster, wide with alarm and fear. She shivered violently in Genesis' arms and he heard a loud whimper. His arms tightened around her a little. He wasn't going to lose this gift. Calling Rapier back to his hand, he raised it high and brought the blade down hard in a diagonal splash, then again, sent it away.

Raising his hand, he called upon his abilities within himself to activate the orb of Materia housed within the bangle on his arm. The green orb of Materia began to glow, and red and black flames swirled around his hand. Genesis called up the most powerful Fire spell that he knew. Casting Dark Firega, a ball of dark fire flew from his hand and smashed into the fallen equipment. It exploded in shards of red and black and Genesis turned his back to it, further shielding the girl and shielding himself as well.

Looking over his shoulder, Genesis turned and checked his work. The equipment was gone. With one last look down at the girl, he ran out of the lab door.

[neo-losangeles]

Something like a sonnet for Phillis Wheatley by June Jordan

It was not natural. And she was the first. Come from a country of many tongues tortured by rupture, by theft, by travel like mismatched clothing packed down into the cargo hold of evil ships sailing, irreversible, into slavery. Come to a country to be docile and dumb, to be big and breeding, easily, to be turkey/horse/cow, to be cook/carpenter/plow, to be 5’6” 140 lbs., in good condition and answering to the name of Tom or Mary: to be bed bait: to be legally spread legs for rape by the master/the master’s son/the master’s overseer/the master’s visiting nephew: to be nothing human nothing family nothing from nowhere nothing that screams nothing that weeps nothing that dreams nothing that keeps anything/anyone deep in your heart: to live forcibly illiterate, forcibly itinerant: to live eyes lowered head bowed: to be worked without rest, to be worked without pay, to be worked without thanks, to be worked day up to nightfall: to be three-fifths of a human being at best: to be this valuable/this hated thing among strangers who purchased your life and then cursed it unceasingly: to be a slave: to be a slave. Come to this country a slave and how should you sing? After the flogging the lynch rope the general terror and weariness what should you know of a lyrical life? How could you, belonging to no one, but property to those despising the smiles of your soul, how could you dare to create yourself: a poet? A poet can read. A poet can write. A poet is African in Africa, or Irish in Ireland, or French on the left bank of Paris, or white in Wisconsin. A poet writes in her own language. A poet writes of her own people, her own history, her own vision, her own room, her own house where she sits at her own table quietly placing one word after another word until she builds a line and a movement and an image and a meaning that somersaults all of these into the singing, the absolutely individual voice of the poet: at liberty. A poet is somebody free. A poet is someone at home. How should there be Black poets in America? It was not natural. And she was the first. It was 1761—so far back before the revolution that produced these United States, so far back before the concept of freedom disturbed the insolent crimes of this continent—in 1761, when seven year old Phillis stood, as she must, when she stood nearly naked, as small as a seven year old, by herself, standing on land at last, at last after the long, annihilating horrors of the Middle Passage. Phillis, standing on the auctioneer’s rude platform: Phillis For Sale. Was it a nice day? Does it matter? Should she muse on the sky or remember the sea? Until then Phillis had been somebody’s child. Now she was about to become somebody’s slave. Suzannah and John Wheatley finished their breakfast and ordered the carriage brought ‘round. They would ride to the auction. This would be an important outing. They planned to buy yet another human being to help with the happiness of the comfortable life in Boston. You don’t buy a human being, you don’t purchase a slave, without thinking ahead. So they had planned this excursion. They were dressed for the occasion, and excited, probably. And experienced, certainly. The Wheatleys already owned several slaves. They had done this before; the transaction would not startle or confound or embarrass or appall either one of them. Was it a nice day? When the Wheatleys arrived at the auction they greeted their neighbors, they enjoyed this business of mingling with other townsfolk politely shifting about the platform, politely adjusting positions for gain of a better view of the bodies for sale. The Wheatleys were good people. They were kind people. They were openminded and thoughtful. They looked at the bodies for sale. They looked and they looked. This one could be useful for that. That one might be useful for this. But then they looked at that child, that Black child standing nearly naked, by herself. Seven or eight years old, at the most, and frail. Now that was a different proposal! Not a strong body, not a grown set of shoulders, not a promising wide set of hips, but a little body, a delicate body, a young, surely terrified face! John Wheatley agreed to the whim of his wife, Suzannah. He put in his bid. He put down his cash. He called out the numbers. He competed successfully. He had a good time. He got what he wanted. He purchased yet another slave. He bought that Black girl standing on the platform, nearly naked. He gave this new slave to his wife and Suzannah Wheatley was delighted. She and her husband went home. They rode there by carriage. They took that new slave with them. An old slave commanded the horses that pulled the carriage that carried the Wheatleys home, along with the new slave, that little girl they named Phillis. Why did they give her that name? Was it a nice day? Does it matter? It was not natural. And she was the first: Phillis Miracle: Phillis Miracle Wheatley: the first Black human being to be published in America. She was the second female to be published in America. And the miracle begins in Africa. It was there that a bitterly anonymous man and a woman conjoined to create this genius, this lost child of such prodigious aptitude and such beguiling attributes that she very soon interposed the reality of her particular, dear life between the Wheatleys’ notions about slaves and the predictable outcome of such usual blasphemies against Black human beings. Seven year old Phillis changed the slaveholding Wheatleys. She altered their minds. She entered their hearts. She made them see her and when they truly saw her, Phillis, darkly amazing them with the sweetness of her spirit and the alacrity of her forbidden, strange intelligence, they, in their own way, loved her as a prodigy, as a girl mysterious but godly. Sixteen months after her entry into the Wheatley household Phillis was talking the language of her owners. Phillis was fluently reading the Scriptures. At eight and a half years of age, this Black child, or “Africa’s Muse,” as she would later describe herself, was fully literate in the language of this slaveholding land. She was competent and eagerly asking for more: more books, more and more information. And Suzannah Wheatley loved this child of her whimsical good luck. It pleased her to teach and to train and to tutor this Black girl, this Black darling of God. And so Phillis delved into kitchen studies commensurate, finally, to a classical education available to young white men at Harvard. She was nine years old. What did she read? What did she memorize? What did the Wheatleys give to this African child? Of course, it was white, all of it: white. It was English, most of it, from England. It was written, all of it, by white men taking their pleasure, their walks, their pipes, their pens and their paper, rather seriously, while somebody else cleaned the house, washed the clothes, cooked the food, watched the children: probably not slaves, but possibly a servant, or, commonly, a wife. It was written, this white man’s literature of England, while somebody else did the other things that have to be done. And that was the literature absorbed by the slave, Phillis Wheatley. That was the writing, the thoughts, the nostalgia, the lust, the conceits, the ambitions, the mannerisms, the games, the illusions, the discoveries, the filth and the flowers that filled up the mind of the African child. At fourteen, Phillis published her first poem, “To the University of Cambridge”: not a brief limerick or desultory teenager’s verse, but thirty-two lines of blank verse telling those fellows what for and whereas, according to their own strict Christian codes of behavior. It is in that poem that Phillis describes the miracle of her own Black poetry in America:

While an intrinsic ardor bids me write the muse doth promise to assist my pen

She says that her poetry results from “an intrinsic ardor,” not to dismiss the extraordinary kindness of the Wheatleys, and not to diminish the wealth of white men’s literature with which she found herself quite saturated, but it was none of these extrinsic factors that compelled the labors of her poetry. It was she who created herself a poet, notwithstanding and in despite of everything around her. Two years later, Phillis Wheatley, at the age of sixteen, had composed three additional, noteworthy poems. This is one of them, “On Being Brought from Africa to America”:

Twas mercy brought me from my Pagan land, Taught my benighted soul to understand That there’s a God, that there’s a Savior too: Once I redemption neither sought nor knew Some view our sable race with scornful eye, “Their color is a diabolic die.” Remember, Christians, Negroes, black as Cain, May be refin’d, and join the angelic train.

Where did Phillis get these ideas? It’s simple enough to track the nonsense about herself “benighted”: benightedmeans surrounded and preyed upon by darkness. That clearly reverses what had happened to that African child, surrounded by and captured by the greed of white men. Nor should we find puzzling her depiction of Africa as “Pagan” versus somewhere “refined.” Even her bizarre interpretation of slavery’s theft of Black life as a merciful rescue should not bewilder anyone. These are regular kinds of iniquitous nonsense found in white literature, the literature that Phillis Wheatley assimilated, with no choice in the matter. But here, in this surprising poem, this first Black poet presents us with something wholly her own, something entirely new. It is her matter of fact assertion that, “Once I redemption neither sought nor knew,” as in: once I existed beyond and without these terms under consideration. Once I existed on other than your terms. And, she says, but since we are talking your talk about good and evil/redemption and damnation, let me tell you something you had better understand. I am Black as Cain and I may very well be an angel of the Lord. Take care not to offend the Lord! Where did that thought come to Phillis Wheatley? Was it a nice day? Does it matter? Following her “intrinsic ardor,” and attuned to the core of her own person, this girl, the first Black poet in America, had dared to redefine herself from house slave to, possibly, an angel of the Almighty. She was making herself at home. And, depending whether you estimated that nearly naked Black girl on the auction block to be seven or eight years old, in 1761, by the time she was eighteen or nineteen, she had published her first book of poetry, Poems on Various Subjects Religious and Moral. It was published in London, in 1773, and the American edition appeared, years later, in 1786. Here are some examples from the poems of Phillis Wheatley: From “On the Death of Rev. Dr. Sewell”:

Come let us all behold with wishful eyes The saint ascending to his native skies.

From “On the Death of the Rev. Mr. George Whitefield”:

Take him, ye Africans, he longs for you, Impartial Savior is his title due, Washed in the fountain of redeeming blood, You shall be sons and kings, and priest to God.

Here is an especially graceful and musical couplet, penned by the first Black poet in America:

But, see the softly stealing tears apace, Pursue each other down the mourner’s face;

This is an especially awful, virtually absurd set of lines by Ms. Wheatley:

“Go Thebons! Great nations will obey And pious tribute to her altars pay: With rights divine, the goddess be implor’d, Nor be her sacred offspring nor ador’d.” Thus Manto spoke. The Thebon maids obey, And pious tribute to the goddess pay.

Awful, yes. Virtually absurd; well, yes, except, consider what it took for that young African to undertake such personal abstraction and mythologies a million million miles remote from her own ancestry, and her own darkly formulating face! Consider what might meet her laborings, as poet, should she, instead, invent a vernacular precise to Senegal, precise to slavery, and, therefore, accurate to the secret wishings of her lost and secret heart? If she, this genius teenager, should, instead of writing verse to comfort a white man upon the death of his wife, or a white woman upon the death of her husband, or verse commemorating weirdly fabled white characters bereft of children diabolically dispersed; if she, instead composed a poetry to speak her pain, to say her grief, to find her parents, or to stir her people into insurrection, what would we now know about God’s darling girl, that Phillis? Who would publish that poetry, then? But Phillis Miracle, she managed, nonetheless, to write, sometimes, towards the personal truth of her experience. For example, we find in a monumental poem entitled “Thoughts on the Works of Providence,” these five provocative lines, confirming every suspicion that most of the published Phillis Wheatley represents a meager portion of her concerns and inclinations:

As reason’s pow’rs by day our God disclose, So we may trace him in the night’s repose. Say what is sleep? And dreams how passing strange! When action ceases, and ideas range Licentious and unbounded o’er the plains.

And, concluding this long work, there are these lines:

Infinite love, whene’er we turn our eyes Appears: this ev’ry creature’s wants supplies This most is heard in Nature’s constant voice, This makes the morn, and this the eve rejoice, This bids the fost’ring rains and dews descend, To nourish all, to serve one gen’ral end, The good of man: Yet man ungrateful pays But little homage, and but little praise.

Now and again and again these surviving works of the genius Phillis Wheatley veer incisive and unmistakable, completely away from the verse of good girl Phillis ever compassionate upon the death of someone else’s beloved, pious Phillis modestly enraptured by the glorious trials of virtue on the road to Christ, arcane Phillis intent upon an “Ode to Neptune,” or patriotic Phillis penning an encomium to General George Washington (“Thee, first in peace and honor”). Then do we find that “Ethiop,” as she once called herself, that “Africa’s muse,” knowledgeable, but succinct, on “dreams how passing strange!/When action ceases, and ideas range/Licentious and unbounded o’er the plains.” Phillis Licentious Wheatley? Phillis Miracle Wheatley in contemplation of love and want of love? Was it a nice day? It was not natural. And she was the first. Repeatedly singing for liberty, singing against the tyrannical, repeatedly avid in her trusting support of the American Revolution (how could men want freedom enough to die for it but then want slavery enough to die for that?) repeatedly lifting witness to the righteous and the kindly factors of her days, this was no ordinary teenaged poet, male or female, Black or white. Indeed, the insistently concrete content of her tribute to the revolutionaries who would forge America, an independent nation state, indeed the specific daily substance of her poetry establishes Phillis Wheatley as the first decidedly American poet on this continent, Black or white, male or female. Nor did she only love the ones who purchased her, a slave, those ones who loved her, yes, but with astonishment. Her lifelong friend was a young Black woman, Obour Tanner, who lived in Newport, Rhode Island, and one of her few poems dedicated to a living person, neither morbid nor ethereal, was written to the young Black visual artist Scipio Moorhead, himself a slave. It is he who crafted the portrait of Phillis that serves as her frontispiece profile in her book of poems. Here are the opening lines from her poem, “To S.M., A Young African Painter, On Seeing His Works.”

To show the lab’ring bosom’s deep intent, And thought in living characters to paint. When first thy pencil did those beauties give, And breathing figures learnt from thee to live, How did those prospects give my soul delight, A new creation rushing on my sight? Still, wondrous youth! each noble path pursue, On deathless glories fix thine ardent view: Still may the painter's and the poet's fire To aid thy pencil, and thy verse conspire! And many the charms of each seraphic theme Conduct thy footsteps to immortal fame!

Remember that the poet so generously addressing the "wondrous youth" is certainly no older than eighteen, herself) And this, years before the American Revolution, and how many many years before the 1960s! This is the first Black poet of America addressing her Brother Artist not as so-and-so's Boy, but as "Scipio Moorhead, A Young African Painter." Where did Phillis Miracle acquire this consciousness? Was it a nice day? It was not natural. And she was the first. But did she—we may persevere, critical from the ease of the 1980s—did she love, did she need, freedom? In the poem (typically titled at such length and in such deferential rectitude as to discourage most readers from scanning what follows), in the poem titled "To the Right Honorable William, Earl of Dartmouth, His Majesty's Principal Secretary of State for North America, etc.," Phillis Miracle has written these irresistible, authentic, felt lines:

No more America in mournful strain Of wrongs, and grievance unredress'd complain, No longer shalt Thou dread the iron chain, Which wanton tyranny with lawless head Had made, and with it meant t' enslave the land. Should you, my Lord, while you peruse my song, Wonder from whence my love of Freedom sprung, Whence flow these wishes for the common good, By feeling hearts alone best understood, I, young in life, by seeming cruel of fate Was snatch'd from Afric's fancy'd happy seat. What pangs excruciating must molest What sorrows labour in my parent's breast? Steel’d was that soul and by no misery mov’d That from a father seized his babe belov’d Such, such my case. And can I then but pray Others may never feel tyrannic sway?

So did the darling girl of God compose her thoughts, prior to 1776. And then. And then her poetry, these poems, were published in London. And then, during her twenty-first year, Suzannah Wheatley, the white woman slaveholder who had been changed into the white mother, the white mentor, the white protector of Phillis, died. Without that white indulgence, that white love, without that white sponsorship, what happened to the young African daughter, the young African poet? No one knows for sure. With the death of Mrs. Wheatley, Phillis came of age, a Black slave in America. Where did she live? How did she eat? No one knows for sure. But four years later she met and married a Black man, John Peters. Mr. Peters apparently thought well of himself, and of his people. He comported himself with dignity, studied law, argued for the liberation of Black people, and earned the everyday dislike of white folks. His wife bore him three children; all of them died. His wife continued to be Phillis Miracle. His wife continued to obey the “intrinsic ardor” of her calling and she never ceased the practice of her poetry. She hoped, in fact, to publish a second volume of her verse. This would be the poetry of Phillis the lover of John, Phillis the woman, Phillis the wife of a Black man pragmatically premature in his defiant self-respect, Phillis giving birth to three children, Phillis, the mother, who must bury the three children she delivered into American life. None of these poems was ever published. This would have been the poetry of someone who had chosen herself, free, and brave to be free in a land of slavery. When she was thirty-one years old, in 1784, Phillis Wheatley, the first Black poet in America, she died. Her husband, John Peters, advertised and begged that the manuscript of her poems she had given to someone, please be returned. But no one returned them. And I believe we would not have seen them, anyway. I believe no one would have published the poetry of Black Phillis Wheatley, that grown woman who stayed with her chosen Black man. I believe that the death of Suzannah Wheatley, coincident with the African poet's twenty-first birthday, signalled, decisively, the end of her status as a child, as a dependent. From there we would hear from an independent Black woman poet in America. Can you imagine that, in 1775? Can you imagine that, today? America has long been tolerant of Black children, compared to its reception of independent Black men and Black women. She died in 1784. Was it a nice day? It was not natural. And she was the first. Last week, as the final judge for this year's Loft McKnight Awards in creative writing, awards distributed in Minneapolis, Minnesota, I read through sixteen manuscripts of rather fine poetry. These are the terms, the lexical items, that I encountered there:

Rock, moon, star, roses, chimney, Prague, elms, lilac, railroad tracks, lake, lilies, snow geese, crow, mountain, arrow feathers, ear of corn, marsh, sandstone, rabbit-bush, gulley, pumpkins, eagle, tundra, dwarf willow, dipper-bird, brown creek, lizards, sycamores, glacier, canteen, skate eggs, birch, spruce, pumphandle

Is anything about that listing odd? I didn't suppose so. These are the terms, the lexical items accurate to the specific white Minnesota daily life of those white poets. And so I did not reject these poems, I did not despise them saying, "How is this possible? Sixteen different manuscripts of poetry written in 1985 and not one of them uses the terms of my own Black life! Not one of them writes about the police murder of Eleanor Bumpurs or the Bernard Goetz shooting of four Black boys or apartheid in South Africa, or unemployment, or famine in Ethiopia, or rape, or fire escapes, or cruise missiles in the New York harbor, or medicare, or alleyways, or napalm, or $4.00 an hour, and no time off for lunch. I did not and I would not presume to impose my urgencies upon white poets writing in America. But the miracle of Black poetry in America, the difficultmiracle of Black poetry in America, is that we have been rejected and we are frequently dismissed as “political” or “topical” or “sloganeering” and “crude” and ‘insignificant” because, like Phillis Wheatley, we have persisted for freedom. We will write against South Africa and we will seldom pen a poem about wild geese flying over Prague, or grizzlies at the rain barrel under the dwarf willow trees. We will write, published or not, however we may, like Phillis Wheatley, of the terror and the hungering and the quandaries of our African lives on this North American soil. And as long as we study white literature, as long as we assimilate the English language and its implicit English values, as long as we allude and defer to gods we “neither sought nor knew,” as long as we, Black poets in America, remain the children of slavery, as long as we do not come of age and attempt, then to speak the truth of our difficult maturity in an alien place, then we will be beloved, and sheltered, and published. But not otherwise. And yet we persist. And it was not natural. And she was the first. This is the difficult miracle of Black poetry in America: that we persist, published or not, and loved or unloved: we persist. And this is: “Something Like A Sonnet for Phillis Miracle Wheatley”: -

Girl from the realm of birds florid and fleet flying full feather in far or near weather Who fell to a dollar lust coffled like meat Captured by avarice and hate spit together Trembling asthmatic alone on the slave block built by a savagery travelling by carriage viewed like a species of flaw in the livestock A child without safety of mother or marriage Chosen by whimsy but born to surprise They taught you to read but you learned how to write Begging the universe into your eyes: They dressed you in light but you dreamed with the night. From Africa singing of justice and grace, Your early verse sweetens the fame of our Race.

And because we Black people in North America persist in an irony profound, Black poetry persists in this way:

Like the trees of winter and like the snow which has no power makes very little sound but comes and collects itself edible light on the black trees The tall black trees of winter lifting up a poetry of snow so that we may be astounded by the poems of Black trees inside a cold environment

From the book Some of Us Did Not Die: New and Selected Essays by June Jordan. Copyright 2002 by June Jordan. Reprinted by arrangement with Basic Civitas Books, a member of the Perseus Books Group (www.perseusbooks.com). All rights reserved.

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/articles/68628/the-difficult-miracle-of-black-poetry-in-america