#and its them who have been stepping over us for centuries. have some respect

[latinashepard]

people are being willfully ignorant and xenophobic towards argentines, harassing them and hiding behind the myth perpetuated by the usa that it's a white country so here i am again trying to bring in actual sources to dispute this claim. nevermind that trying to bring in nuance to a discussion on the internet is like talking to a wall

erika edwards is an academic, the only person from usa that i've seen discuss this subject with the respect and the sensibility it deserves. the matter of race in argentina is just as complex as it is anywhere else and deserves to be treated as such.

[blurredcolour]

IV. “I Trust You Know What You’re Doing?”

"Trust" Series Masterlist

John "Bucky" Egan x WAC!Female Reader

Struggling with the forced separation of your transfer and promotion, it does not take long for you and Bucky to plan a trip to London together. But even while you're on leave, the world around you continues to do its best to tear itself apart.

Warnings: Language, Grief, Alcohol Consumption, Angst, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Mature/Explicit Themes [oral - f receiving, implied virginity loss, protected vaginal sex, condoms, unprotected vaginal sex, multiple orgasms] - 18+ ONLY.

Author’s Note: Welcome to this massive installment. I have no excuses, only apologies. Also I only had the fortitude to proof this once, there may be more errors than normal, but I didn't want to delay it any longer - I will correct things as I find them. This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal by the actors in the Apple TV+ series. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within.

ETA: The image descriptions for the letters contain the text within to allow for a screen reader or anyone who cannot read cursive. Click the ‘ALT’ button to access.

Word Count: 8497

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Wycombe Abbey could not have been more different than Thorpe Abbotts if it had tried.

The private, or in a most confusing twist ‘public’ as the Brits called such institutions, girls’ school had begun its life in the 17th century as a manor house before being transformed into a much grander residence near the end of the 19th century. The school had opened in 1896 with only forty students, but that number had swelled to over two hundred by the time the building was requisitioned for use as the Headquarters of the 8th Air Force.

Stained glass windows, stonework, archways, and wood panelling now replaced squat concrete buildings and rough-and-ready Nissen huts. Though everything was just as drafty, so at least the temperature provided some familiar consistency to your new surroundings. As you descended from your quarters tucked away in some forgotten corner of the attic, down a set of precarious servants’ stairs, you nearly took a wrong turn – again. To your credit you had only been here three days and the maze of corridors and rooms further divided into offices for USAAF purposes was nearly unnavigable.

Chiding yourself softly under your breath that your office was to the right and not the left, as though the sharpness of your tone might really drive it home this time, you quickened your steps still hoping to beat to postal clerk to the outgoing mail box that sat on the corner of your desk. It had been more of a challenge than you were expecting to write the letter clutched in your hand, but the daily meetings that senior operations officers held at 1015, 1600, and 2200 were your responsibility to attend and record via frantically scribbled notes to be typed up in a more professional format later.

These were the meetings at which mission targets for the entire 8th were chosen. The strategic value of various locations was discussed alongside weather reports and aligning with the RAF’s Bomber Command for maximum impact against Nazi Germany. After the first meeting, it would be decided if a mission would even be conducted the following day, and each Division, Wing, and Base involved would be put on alert to allow them time to begin planning the operation. By the time the last meeting ended, the target and approach would be finalized, and the official field orders would be issued.

It made for a remarkably long day, even with breaks for meals, and though you were guaranteed every other Friday off because of this, by the time you crawled into bed near midnight, you only had enough energy to add a few lines onto the letter you had begun to Bucky as soon as you arrived. It made for a rather disjointed and rambling piece of correspondence, in your opinion, but you could not bear to keep him waiting any longer – not wanting him to assume you had forgotten to write and not knowing how long the thing would take to reach him regardless.

Dashing into the office you shared with Myrtle, a very stoic young woman with dark hair and thick eyelashes from Rhode Island, you exhaled in relief to see the post still waiting to be collected and added your letter to the pile. Unlocking your desk drawers, you began setting up for the day, hoping it would reach him quickly.

His reply arrived in your inbox just over two weeks later, near the end of September. Sliding it into your brown leather utility bag, you did your utmost to ignore its very existence throughout the first daily meeting, and your subsequent production of the official report thereof. Taking your lunch break a little earlier than usual paid off in that the line was much shorter at that time. You inhaled the mystery stew and rolls, hardly tasting them, before taking your letter outside to read in the rare afternoon sunshine.

It was short, and it was unspeakably adorable that Bucky did not write in cursive, but there was no lack of his personality in his response. It was as though the very essence of him had been distilled into the ink itself and you could not help the broad grin that bore its way into the muscles of your cheeks, making them ache as you read it.

Glancing quickly at your watch, you realized there was still time to send a reply before the second post pick-up but based on the length of time it had taken for this exchange of letters, it was unlikely another would reach him with enough time to plan for October 8 – your next Friday off. Worrying your lip between your teeth as you considered your options, you landed on a rather devious idea, one that quite honestly would have never come to you if not for the deep need to reach Bucky immediately. Vi had a telephone on her desk in the weather office, a number that you had access to given the strategic importance of weather to the senior operations officers.

Myrtle would be on her break for another fifteen minutes…you had not even realized you had made up your mind before your feet began to carry you back inside, up the stairs into the mercifully still-empty office. Digging out the directory, you found the number for Thorpe Abbotts’ weather office and took a shaky breath as you sank into your chair.

‘Keep it brief, keep it free of classified information. Worst you’ll get is a reprimand.’

The devious, deceptive voice in your mind was a new one, fostered, perhaps, by the rather carefree man you found yourself deeply entangled with, but it was not one you were about to disobey. Lifting the handset of your phone from its cradle, you cleared your throat as the operator answered.

“Norfolk 7315, please.” You tried your best to sound calm and collected as the line clicked and began to ring.

“Phillips.” An unexpected voice answered, and you gulped, knowing Ruth would be less likely to participate in some romantic scheme.

You greeted her in kind, trying to ignore the ache of loneliness as she gasped softly.

“I was hoping you might pass along a message for me?”

“To a certain Major?” You could hear the grin in her voice and felt the pressure on your chest ease.

“Indeed. October 8. I will arrange accommodations.”

“Your line should he need to reach you?”

Hesitating a moment, you ultimately decided to provide it as well, wanting to ensure he could in fact contact you if something came up. Or perhaps any of them could – should the worst happen.

‘Don’t think about that.’ You chastised yourself internally.

“You’re well?” Ruth asked and you smiled softly.

“I am, please tell everyone I miss them terribly.”

“Will do, have to go.”

There was a ‘click’ as she hung up and the line went dead but the lightness in your heart could not be extinguished.

Nine days later you found yourself waiting on the platform at Liverpool Street station awaiting the arrival of Bucky’s train from East Anglia. Given the proximity of High Wycombe to London, you had arrived much earlier that morning and checked into the hotel already, dropping off your small bag and come to wait for his train – well you assumed he’d be on the first train of the day, but as the carriages disgorged a sea of humanity and you had yet to spot him, your brows began to furrow in doubt.

You were about to fish the folded schedule you had picked up from the ticket counter to check the next arrival time when he was suddenly wrapping an arm around you, pulling you tight into his chest as you gasped softly in surprise.

“There you are doll.” Bucky sighed, dropping his bag at your feet to slide the other arm around you as he pulled back to nudge your cap out of the way and deliver a breathtakingly thorough kiss that you were not entirely sure was appropriate for the public setting you were in.

Not that you stopped him, you own arms snaking about his midsection to cling to him tightly.

Pulling back, his eyes raked over your features lovingly as you both inhaled deeply to fill your greedy lungs.

“Well, well 1st Lieutenant.” He smirked proudly as he lifted his hand to stroke the chrome insignia you now wore on your lapels courtesy of your promotion, leaving smudges of his thumb print.

“You are leaving my uniform in disarray, Major.” You chided playfully, unable to hold back you grin, even for a moment, to sell the joke.

His forefinger hooked behind the knot in your tie, tugging it out from beneath your jacket and pulling you closer – eliminating the last few inches of space that remained between your bodies.

“Good.” He rumbled against your lips before kissing you deeply, severely undermining the infrastructure of your knees.

The loud racket of the train cars as they shunted into one another jolted the pair of you apart, making you realize you were among the last few remaining on the platform as the now empty train left the station.

“Let’s get you checked in and your bag dropped off.” You murmured, clearing your throat as you unbuttoned your uniform jacket to straighten and re-secure your tie.

His hand slid into yours as the pair of you made your way out of the station and he happily followed you to a hotel you’d found near his station, knowing that he’d be here longer than you and it would be easier for him to find his way back to base this way. Sitting patiently in the lobby as he checked in and ran his bag up, you smiled as he returned to hold his hands out to you.

“C’mon doll, I have a whole plan.”

Taking his hands, you rose to your feet, raising your eyebrows curiously. “A whole plan?”

He leaned in to murmur against your ear, “you’re not the only one involved in planning you know.”

You pulled back quickly, eyes wide with a touch of panic. You were quite certain you had never told him just what your new position entailed, and there was no way he could simply guess it.

“Easy doll, your phone line.” He winked as he maneuvered your arm through his, turning to lead you out the front door.

Slowly exhaling, it clicked into place. Of course. Just as you were able to find Vi’s desk number in a directory, it seemed Bucky had been doing a little research of his own.

“Well, shhh.” You chastened him firmly, laying a finger over your lips, looking very much like an anti-slander campaign poster.

His hearty laugh in response did little to convince you that he took in the message.

“Now, how do we get to Hyde Park…” He murmured, pulling a crumpled leave guide out of his pocket.

“The underground.” You answered easily, leading him back towards the very station he had arrived at but this time down to the tube station entrance where the pair of you purchased your tickets.

His touch rarely left you – even if he was forced to release your hand, you could feel his palm pressed against your lower back as you made your way through the crowded subterranean space. You were glad to have him with you this time, not particularly a fan of this mode of transportation, but it certainly was an efficient way to get around London. Pressed close together on the train, you took the opportunity to simply gaze at him, basking in his presence after nearly a month apart, not missing the way his mouth ticked up at the corner cockily.

“Missed you too, doll.” He winked and ducked a kiss to your ear before guiding you off the train at your stop – once he had confirmed with you it was indeed your stop.

Blinking your way back into the light of day, you pointed at a directional sign guiding the way to Hyde Park.

“Perfect, now apparently there are…sandwiches!” He crowed and tugged you over to a sandwich truck that seemed quite popular based on the line of waiting patrons.

Your face was starting to hurt, driving home how infrequently you had found the opportunity to smile in his absence, making you squeeze his hand fondly. Bucky looked back to you quickly as he joined the queue.

“You really did plan everything.” You gulped quickly and he beamed proudly.

“Anything for my girl. What kind would you like?” He gestured at the menu written on the side of the truck.

By the time you reached the front of the line, Bucky was able to easily place your order, including two bottles of lemonade, insisting on paying. Opening your utility bag, you carefully packed the lunch away, earning a rather damp and enthusiastic kiss on your cheek as he snatched your hand to continue onto the park.

“May I ask what it is about this park in particular?” You inquired as the pair of you dashed across the road.

“You can ask…” His cheeky reply had you scoffing in return as you entered the canopy of trees, following a path further and further away from the traffic of downtown London.

Plenty of men in uniform seemed to be out, enjoying the nice weather with women on their arms. Women who, unlike you, enjoyed the luxury of being allowed to dress as they chose during their leisure time. It had been one of many reasons that nearly twenty-five percent of women had chosen not to remain enlisted during the transition from the WAAC to the WAC, the army requirement to remain in uniform even when off-duty. In all honesty, you had not really missed your civilian clothes until just then.

Watching the sheer femininity of those women as they swirled about in their colorful fabrics only drove home how drably olive and plainly cut your uniform truly was.

“You’re a million miles away, doll.” Bucky’s voice cut through the dark clouds that had gathered in your mind and you looked to him quickly.

“Sorry Bucky, it’s beautiful here. Like another place entirely.” You offered him a smile but by the way his eyebrow lifted slightly he did not seem to be entirely buying it. “Have the leaves started changing around the base yet?” You tried changing the subject.

He shook his head, releasing your hand to slide his arm around your waist instead, pulling you closer. “Seems everything will happen later here than back home.”

You hummed thoughtfully, glancing ahead and gasping a little at the glimpse of a sizeable body of water that seemed to be filled with rowboats.

“That’s why were here.”

You turned back to him to see a broad grin had overtaken his face and laughed in excitement as it was terribly romantic.

“If I had known, Major Egan, I would have brought my parasol.” You grinned and he snorted, squeezing your hip fondly.

“No need to put on airs, 1st Lieutenant,” he smirked, “the ride will be enjoyable all the same.”

“Bucky!” You hissed sharply, slapping his chest as he laughed deeply, ducking your head slightly as more than a few passersby shot glances your way.

“C’mon doll.” He chuckled and led you over to the booth beside the dock, paying the fee for a thirty-minute rental before the pair of you headed down to climb into one of the waiting row boats.

Setting your heavy bag on the floor, you carefully stepped into the rather unstable watercraft, settling on the passenger’s bench – denoted as such by the ornate ironwork arms. Bucky followed, seated across from you at the oars, his knees nearly brushing against yours, legs too long for so small a boat. Unbuttoning and sliding off his jacket, he tossed it and his cap to you before rolling up his sleeves and began to row the pair of you out onto The Serpentine, you now knew the small lake to be called.

“I trust you know what you’re doing?” You asked as he appeared to easily manage the oars, seeming at ease in the small boat.

“Mostly.” He teased with a wink before laughing at your slightly aghast expression. “Grew up on the shore of Lake Michigan, doll. Boats are like planes to me, easily managed.” He soothed.

It was difficult to decide which view to settle your eyes upon, the verdant green of the still-lush trees, the throng of boats around you, or Bucky working up a remarkably attractive sheen of sweat with his forearms on display as he propelled the rowboat through the water. A feathered fan would have been a very useful tool in that moment, to hide behind or cool yourself down, or perhaps both.

Belatedly, you realized that Bucky had been speaking this whole time – about events back at Thorpe Abbotts. Giving you the update about the people you knew, the trouble Meatball had caused with a farmer down the road, but he trailed off when he realized you were staring once more in dumbfounded silence at him.

“Doll, you’re going to give me a big head if you keep looking at me like that.” He winked as he lifted the oars from the water, letting the water sluice from the blades before tucking them into the boat on either side of you.

“Y…you’re good at that.” You replied lamely and shook your head. “Hungry?” Leaning forward for your bag, which was in all honestly a lot closer to his feet in the floor of the boat, you froze as everything tilted precariously in response to your movements.

Bucky lay a gentle hand on your shoulder to steady you. “Allow me.” Bending down slowly, he scooped up your bag and opened the flap to retrieve your sandwich and lemonade. “It’s sure tight in here, how did you even make this all fit?”

He tugged a little harder on the packet containing your lunch and your eyes widened in horror as, while he was triumphant, he also managed to send the three condoms you had tucked into your bag scattering to the floor of the boat. His eyes followed the distinct, square, paper packets and you could see his throat bob as he swallowed viciously.

“Doll…” His voice came out rough as a gravel road as he slowly raised his eyes to meet yours. “…been doing some planning of your own?”

“‘A WAC is always prepared.’” You quoted in a mortified whisper, struggling against the urge to lunge forward and hide the evidence, knowing it would only send both of you over the side and into the lake.

You watched another swallow ripple down Bucky’s throat before he offered your lunch to you, carefully collecting the offending items and returning them to your bag before he retrieved his own food.

“Would you mind,” He spoke after taking a rather ruthless and oversized bite of his sandwich, words muffled between slices of bread and chicken salad before he swallowed to start over. “Would you mind if, instead of following the rest of my plan, after these thirty minutes are up, I take you back to the hotel?”

Taking a thick swallow of your own, you shook your head slowly as you felt your cheeks heat up at the implications of that invitation. “I would not mind, no.” You clarified breathlessly and he nodded sharply, gesturing for your as-yet-unopened bottle of lemonade.

Handing it back to him, you watched silently as he lined the edge of the cap with the metal plate holding the oarlock in place, popping it off the bottle with one sharp blow of the heel of his palm.

“Thank you.” You murmured quietly as he passed you the opened drink, taking a deep sip as he repeated the process with his own, draining nearly half the bottle in one go.

Tilting your head back to take in the feel of the sun on your face, you slid your cap from your hair, adding it to the pile of his neatly folded items on the bench beside you, continuing to enjoy your picnic on the lake.

“You heard about Dye hitting twenty-five?” He broke the silence, sounding much more like himself again and you nodded quickly.

“Big news, everywhere in the 8th. Lucky crew all heading home – how did Lil take it?” You tilted your head curiously, raising your bottle to your lips, his eyes following the motion closely.

“Hm? Oh, she’ll be alright…they’re both good at letters.” He nodded, leaning back a little.

You knocked your knee against his affectionately. “Don’t sell yourself short you sweet man, I thoroughly enjoyed yours.”

His eyes flicked to yours quickly as a small smile curled his lips. “Yeah?”

You nodded firmly. “Yeah. Promise to give you more to reply to soon, phone was just necessary to make this happen.”

His hand landed on your thigh gently and he squeezed the flesh through your skirt. “Worth it. Just how long are your days though, doll?”

Your fingers played along the empty glass bottle, and you shrugged. “As long as they need to be.” You replied evasively.

“Mm, I’m going to get a better answer out of you than that.” He threatened playfully as he leaned forward to grasp the oar handles, swinging the blades back into the water and taking the pair of you on a loop around the corner of the lake before returning you to the dock.

Bucky climbed out first, taking his cap and jacket before helping you out easily, kissing you firmly as soon as you were on solid ground. “Let’s take a cab…” He breathed impatiently and you laughed, shaking your head.

“The cost would be astronomical, come on.” You affixed your cap on your head as he rolled down his sleeves and slid his jacket back on before the pair of you made your way back to the Underground.

Bucky’s body was practically pressed against yours the entire trip back to Liverpool Street station, seemingly unable to tolerate any form of separation. As you neared the hotel though, you looked to him slowly. “We should go in as colleagues…I booked us that way.”

He looked at you utterly confused, and you swallowed.

“We’re unwed, there was no way I could book us here together, and they will be none to please if they realize I’ve tricked them. I’ll get my key, you get yours, I’ll come to your room…”

He nodded slowly, arm reluctantly unwinding from around your waist before holding the door open for you to step inside.

“Thank you, Major.” You nodded, sliding your cap from your head as you stepped inside, heading to the counter to fetch your room key as he did the same, the pair of you walking up the stairs to the fifth floor together before parting ways so you could fetch your small overnight bag.

It was rather a waste of money, to book a room knowing you would most likely never sleep in it, but such things were necessary for women like you. Women who chose to go to bed with a man they were not married to in the long light of the afternoon. Taking a steadying breath, you left the perfectly made bed behind, walking down the hall to Bucky’s room and knocking on the door softly.

It promptly swung open to reveal a smiling Bucky, his jacket and cap long gone, along with his necktie, the top few buttons of his shirt undone. He stepped back and gestured for you to enter his much larger room with a small brown paper wrapped packet clasped in his hand. Once the door was closed behind you, you let out the laugh you had been holding.

“I did book this under Major John Egan, I suppose they felt the need to give you a nicer room than a Lieutenant.”

He smirked and kissed your cheek, taking your cap and bag from your hand, then pressing the package into it. “Before I forget, again.”

“Bucky you didn’t have to get me anything, you came to see me…”

“Open it.” His eyes danced with anticipation, and you began to pull at the piece of twine holding the package closed, unfolding the utilitarian paper to reveal a brand-new pair of stockings.

You let out an audible gasp as your jaw fairly fell to the floor.

“To replace the pair that got wrecked when you fell.” He smiled, obviously pleased by your reaction.

“How on earth did you…?!” You trailed off, staring up at him in wonderment.

“A man never reveals his secrets, doll.” He grinned and let out a grunt as you launched yourself into his arms, kissing him fiercely at the thoughtfulness of his gift and in recognition of the sheer determination it must have taken to achieve such a feat in rationed England.

His fingers gently plied the items from your grasp, setting them on the bedside table, freeing your hands to latch onto his arms as he cupped your face gently.

“You sure about this, my beautiful girl?” He whispered and your breath hitched in your throat at the tender look on his face just inches from yours.

“Yes.” You nodded quickly, sliding your fingers into his hair to pull his lips back to yours greedily.

A pleased noise rolled from his throat and across your tongue as he coaxed your mouth open, his fingers shifting to make steady work at the buttons on your jacket before he unwound your hands from his dark curls to slide the garment off, tossing it in the general direction of the chair that held his. You could not help the giggle that bubbled up from your chest at that as you moved to undo the buttons of his shirt one by one.

The tug of his teeth on your lower lip quickly transformed your laughter to shuddering breath as you held tightly to the open sides of his shirt, feeling him tug your tie free from your collar before it joined the pile of clothes somewhere on the plush blue carpet of the hotel room floor. Your shirt and skirt were quick to join it, leaving you in your brassiere and slip, garter belt and underwear still hidden from view.

“You have a remarkable number of layers on, doll.” He huffed as his mouth descended along your throat to suck at the crook of your shoulder, installing a dramatic curve in your spine as you arched against him wantonly with a half-swallowed cry of pleasure.

“Y…you have almost as many…” You protested, tugging the ends of his shirt from his trousers before pushing it from his shoulders only to be met with his undershirt.

The sheer broadness of him had never quite been so very apparent and had you licking your lips as you struggled with the last barrier between you and his torso, your ID tags rasping metallically against his.

“Not nearly as complicated though.” He muttered as his fingers worked at the hook and eye closure of your bra until you felt the band go slack and he leaned back to slide the straps down your arms, making you shiver as your breasts were revealed to his hungry gaze.

Bucky’s heavy exhale fluttered against your collarbone, grown cool by the time it traversed the distance between you, and you shuddered slightly, looking to the side shyly. He leaned in to brush his nose against yours tenderly, pecking your lips.

“Whatcha hiding for, gorgeous?” His tone was gentle and had your eyes slowly sliding to meet his, an action he rewarded with a deep kiss.

He continued to distract you with repeated meetings your lips, each time with growing intensity as his palms slid upwards along your sides to cup your breasts. The meeting of flesh had you inhaling sharply through your nose, hands seeking anchor as your fingers twisted into his beltloops where his trousers hung open around his hips – yet again delaying you in your purpose of undressing him. As his thumbs honed in on your sensitive peaks, Bucky elicited all manner of noises from your throat only to eagerly devour them.

“D’ya have any idea how soft you are doll?” He sighed against your lips as he kneaded your tender flesh. “’Cept right here.” He smirked as he tugged at your nipples and you whined his name, pressing impossibly close against him, realizing he was anything but soft.

Your shimmies and writhes against him seemed to serve as a reminder of the greater purpose at hand and Bucky’s fingers ceased their torment, sliding down to your hips to divest you of your slip before beginning to work at your stockings. Toeing off your shoes, you pushed his trousers from his hips, letting gravity do the rest.

“So many hooks and straps and loops…” He muttered as his mouth dipped to the hollow of your throat, though his fingers seemed more than capable of stripping you down to only your underwear.

Seizing your hips, Bucky guided you back onto the bed, and you could not help the sigh at that flew from your mouth at the feel of a real mattress with springs and a duvet, drawing a broad grin across his face as he crawled over you, coaxing you to lay back.

“Precious women like you should always have luxurious beds like these. None of those stinking Army cots…” His hands slid beneath your spine to half guide, half drag you up to rest on the obnoxious mountain of pillows.

Staring up at him in awe, at a complete loss for words, you settled on pressing up onto your elbows to kiss him firmly, hoping to convey your appreciation physically rather than trying to summon speech. As his lips parted from yours to begin sliding down your body, you let out a slight huff of annoyance, earning a chuckle against your collarbone which rumbled through his chest and into your body. He lifted his head slightly as his fingers wove through the ball chain of your ID tags as he seemed to notice them for the first time.

“I always wondered if you ladies had these.”

You bit your lip to smother your grin as he never hesitated to say what was on his mind, a constant stream of commentary on the world around him, and rather than annoying, you found it utterly adorable.

“Are you laughin’ at me, doll?” He smirked and gave a gentle tug, pulling a genuine laugh from you, to which he responded with a brilliant grin. “Alright then, I’ll give you something to laugh about.” He bowed his head to drag the flat of his tongue across your nipple, your resulting whimper bouncing off the walls as he resumed his teasing of your opposite breast.

“B…Bucky…” Your eyes shot wide as his plush lips sealed around that tender peak, applying a positively euphoric suction that had you burying your fingers in his hair and pressing your body closer to his mouth in silent demand.

With careful precision, his knee slid its way between your thighs, applying coaxing pressure to each in turn until you provided enough room for him to settle between them. The feeling of his hard length slotting against your core with only the thin barrier of your underwear separating your intimate flesh had your jaw dropping open in a silent ‘oh’ – a revelation unto itself despite all the experiences you had enjoyed with him thus far. Undulating your hips against his experimentally, you shuddered at the ragged, abbreviated groan he pressed against your sternum, caught in the midst of traversing your chest. Thoroughly encouraged, you repeated the action, savagely gnawing on your lip as he bit off a curse before his mouth reached its destination and laved at your neglected nipple.

Nestling tighter against you, Bucky began to roll his hips against you in earnest, obliterating your ability to think and scheme against him at the blinding pleasure his combined actions induced. You could feel the smug angle of his lips against your abdomen as his mouth was trailing lower on your body, his fingers curling into the waistband of your underwear to peel it from your body. Shifting back to free the interfering item from your legs, he gazed down at you with almost black eyes, his pupils having nearly devoured his irises in his arousal, before stretching forward onto his stomach.

Blinking rapidly, you raised up on your elbows to watch him hoist one of your legs over a strong shoulder and then the other, shuffling embarrassingly close to the apex of your thighs.

“Bucky?” You squeaked hesitantly.

He raised an eyebrow up at you, his pink tongue darting out the wet his lips, nearly matching the flush that had painted its way across his cheeks and down his neck. “Yes, doll?”

“What…” You swallowed thickly as your throat clenched erratically.

“Making good on a promise.” He replied seriously before stretching forward to deliver a thorough kiss to your folds that fairly sucked the air from your lungs, an odd whistling sound echoing through you as you savagely burrowed your fingers into the bedding.

When his tongue narrowed in on that sensitive bundle of nerves, it was your turn to bite off a curse, slumping back onto the pillows as he hummed against you in what was surely mock sympathy as he most certainly did not let up, his efforts only doubling. As your hips began to jerk and writhe, he slung a heavy forearm across your pelvis to pin you in place, only shifting closer and tracing his forefinger around your entrance teasingly. It was all you could do not to kick and wail as you felt yourself becoming embarrassingly slick, the noises he was making growing ever so obscene and filling the hotel room.

“Fuck!” You whined against your palm as his finger finally sunk into your wet heat, its passage remarkably eased by your arousal, hips bucking hard enough to jar his arm slightly.

“Damn you’re delicious, doll.” He growled against you, lips smacking loudly as he began to suck at your pearl, finger working you open enough to add a second before beginning a demanding rhythm.

“Oh…oh...god…” You cried out in agony, too far gone to remember your desire to be quiet, feeling the tension of pending release growing ever closer under his amorous onslaught.

“I know, I know…” He soothed, only quickening his pace, hooking his fingers towards the front of your body, sending your back into a dramatic curve from the mattress, a tortured moan ripping from your throat. “Oh, I have to see that again.” He rasped and sought that precise spot with a ruthless single-minded precision until he was rewarded with not only the same reaction, but your strangled cry as your orgasm slammed into you with breath-taking force.

As you returned to earth from your visit to the celestial plane, the first sensation you became aware of was tender, damp kisses being pressed to your inner thigh as Bucky murmured soft words of encouragement to you.

“There’s my gorgeous girl, holy hell that was incredible, did you enjoy that half as much as I did?”

You managed a wordless noise in the affirmative that summoned him to your side, his lips feathering kisses up your jaw to your ear, the tickle of his moustache making you laugh breathlessly.

“Good?” He murmured and you nodded quickly, turning to look at his still-expectant face.

“Yes.” You cobbled together a verbal response, and he blessed you with a warm smile which you leaned in to press your lips against in gratitude.

“Good.” He swiped his tongue along your lips before suddenly slipping from the bed, making you raise your head in confusion.

Stalking over to find your utility bag amongst the sea of discard items and clothing, he proudly retrieved the three condoms that had announced your hopes and intentions for you by appearing in the rowboat, unceremoniously shucking off his boxers as he made his way back to you. You had held his length before, stroked it to completion, but that paled in comparison to seeing the full expanse of him in the light of day.

“My gorgeous doll, you might not say a lot, but you sure don’t mind looking at what you like.” He smirked unabashedly as he set two of the paper packets on the night table beside you, unwrapping the third to unroll the protective latex onto his cock.

Rather than letting his teasing words dissuade you, though they did cause your teeth to sink into your lower lip, you chose to allow your eyes to linger on his actions, rather fascinated by the whole process. By the male anatomy as well. Task managed, he was climbing over you once more, blocking the golden light of afternoon that was filtering in through the windows with his body, warmth radiating from his skin. He settled easily between your legs once more, still parted from his early activities as you really had not summoned the wherewithal to move yet, and stroked his length through the lingering slick gathered along your folds.

A broken sigh fell from his lips before they clashed with yours, not quite aligned, but the sentiment was still there, body shuddering as you slid your arms around him to cling to his shoulders. It was difficult to tell just whom Bucky was teasing as he continued to rut against you, the tip of his cock brushing against your overly-sensitive bundle of nerves, both of you huffing through your nostrils until at last he began to sink into you.

Tearing your lips from his, you sucked in gasping breaths at the feel of the foreign intrusion, appreciating the fact that his pace seemed to slow in response to that. Appreciating the pause he afforded you when his pelvis slotted snuggly against yours once he was seated fully inside you. Cracking open your clenched eyes, you gulped tightly as they were immediately met by Bucky’s, crowned by a furrowed brow, but flicking over your features studiously as if awaiting your instruction.

“I’m ok.” You breathed and he nodded, immediately seizing your lips in a kiss once more as he rocked forward, earning a ragged moan as your fingertips dug into the skin of his back.

His familiarity with this sort of activity had always been apparent, but was exceptionally obvious now as he slowly began the rhythmic push and pull to drive you both towards climax. The sheer intimacy of it was too much and yet it was not nearly enough, your body craving ever more, ever faster, with increasing desperation. The rare moments that Bucky’s lips were not on yours, they were filling the room with choked-off moans or statements of the filthiest order.

“God doll, you feel so fucking good around me.”

“So tight. I can feel how wet you are too, even with this rubber on.”

“You’re gonna cum for me, aren’t ya? You’re gripping on me like a…fuck I can’t think when you do that…”

His ability to even speak while experiencing such mind-numbing pleasure, rambling though it was, was fairly awe-inspiring. Your responses were limited to moans and whimpers and cries of his name as his supposition was correct – your orgasm was indeed imminent. All it took was the solicitous stroking of his forefinger against the apex of your pleasure to send you flying over the cliff into paradise, clinging to his body as you cried out in ecstasy.

A string of rasped curses mixed in with several sighs of your name heralded his release as Bucky finished not long after, rocking against you sloppily before sinking down onto your chest with a comforting heaviness. Stroking his back tenderly as he nestled into your neck, you grinned stupidly at the ceiling as you felt quite pleased with your choices.

The pair of you made good use of the rest of the condoms you had brought, with a short break for a meal Bucky procured while you took a bath. He returned with a bottle of brandy as well, finding you still in the bathtub. A lot of water ended up on the floor, a pile of water-logged towels your testament to the attempted clean-up. Eating in bed, you shared stories of your childhoods – Bucky’s about growing up on the shores of Lake Michigan, yours of the small two-storey house with its screen door and front porch from which you had watched your brother play with the neighbourhood boys.

You fell asleep in one another’s arms after the final condom was disposed of, the sun long set, but awoke sometime in the night to the unsettling sound of an air raid siren. Not as common in 1943, yet being as close as you were to Canary Wharves, the Luftwaffe still made the occasional bomb run. Startled to find the bed empty, you sat up sharply to see Bucky sitting in front of the window, completely naked, intermittently illuminated by the flashes of distant explosions and anti-aircraft fire.

“Sorry doll, didn’t mean to wake ya.” He muttered and you shook your head, sliding to the end of the bed.

“You ok?” You tilted your head, blinking into a particularly bright flash.

“Hmmm…” He replied noncommittally, turning back to the scene before him with a frown. “I’ve dropped a lot of those. Done a lot of killing.”

Swallowing tightly, you slid to your feet despite the way your heart was pounding in your throat, padding across the carpet towards him.

“Done your job, Bucky. Done what was asked of you.” You assured him, coming to stand behind him, setting your hands on his shoulders.

“If there’s any balance to all this, my ticket was punched a long time ago.” He muttered sullenly and it was your turn to frown.

Bending down to press a kiss to the crown of his head, you stepped in front of him to block his view, perhaps, hopefully, to block his darker thoughts as you shifted to sit on his thighs.

“Whatcha doin’ doll?” He quirked an eyebrow, mouth falling open in a silent moan as your fingers slid between your bodies to gently stroke his length.

“Lightening up.” You replied, invoking the words of your dead brother’s inscription.

It was impossible to think of a more important piece of advice or a more importance source in that moment. A young man who would never get the chance to spend one more time in his lover’s arms, who knew you better than anyone in the entire world. And you were most certainly going to follow it. You had to be up in less than three hours, to catch the first train to High Wycombe, and you would not pass up this moment with Bucky. The future was unknowable, your brother’s death had certainly taught you that.

Bucky’s fingers curled into your hips as his mouth descended onto yours greedily, clearly in agreement with your plan, despite the lack of remaining condoms. Shuffling closer, you guided his now fully hard cock into your body, your soft noises of pleasure colliding with his in the space between your parted lips. Working together, with plenty of guidance from his firm grip, you began to rocking your hips, using his shoulders for leverage. His head fell back to stare up at you in awe, jaw slack, adam’s apple bobbing viciously.

“Christ, I love you…” His face betrayed such vulnerability, lips trembling slightly, that you quickly lifted your hands to cradle his cheeks, even as your lashes grew suddenly damp.

“I love you too, John. So much.” You replied thickly, rather resenting the dramatic wobble in your voice.

The tiniest of smiles pulled at his lips before his face grew serious once more and he lunged forward to kiss you hungrily, hands anchoring your shoulders so he might thrust up into your body with a sudden need. It was all you could do to hang on, though pleasure itself still managed to sweep you away, leaving you only with the vague recognition of him half pulling out mid-release.

It was terribly difficult to leave him in that comfortable, if messy, bed a few hours later. He did not make it easy either, impossible to untangle from your body like an unwieldy piece of seaweed. Yet somehow you managed to make your trains and arrive at your desk at the appointed hour. Focusing on the task at hand with the pleasurable ache between your legs was altogether another challenge, forcing you to sit on first one hip and then the other.

You had just returned after the lunch break when your phone rang, your greeting barely out of your mouth before Bucky’s question came down the line.

“Did you know you know where they played yesterday’s match?” He asked flatly and it took you several seconds to comprehend that he was speaking in code and just what he was getting at.

You swallowed painfully. “Yes, I did sir.”

Of course you did, you were in the room on Thursday night when they had chosen Bremen as the target for yesterday’s mission.

“A lot of our best players struck out, you know. Buck included.”

He sounded utterly unlike himself, cold and distant, not the man you had left just hours ago in that hotel room in London. All the same, your heart broke for him, and for yourself too. You liked Major Cleven – this war was nothing but cruel.

“I’m so sorry B-Major Egan.” You corrected yourself quickly, eyeing Myrtle across the room.

“Well I hope you all pick a better field for tomorrow’s match because I’m pitching.”

You opened your mouth to reply as your heart dropped through the floor, but the sound of the handset slamming into the cradle resounded over the line before it went dead, giving you no opportunity to speak. To wish him luck or, heaven forfend, goodbye. You hung up your phone with a slightly shaking hand as a deep sense of dread threaded its way through your stomach.

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

Read Part Five - "I Trusted You!"

"Trust" Series Masterlist

Tag list: @gretagerwigsmuse, @precious-little-scoundrel, @rubyfruitjungle, @storysimp, @mads-weasley, @xxanaduwrites, @bcon24, @fxxiva, @slowsweetlove, @hockeyboysarehot, @darylas

[azuremosquito]

Gratitude.

It was not a concept with which Astarion had much experience. Two hundred years of seducing people and luring them to their deaths for his master lent itself more to resentment and hatred. But this gratitude thing was rather nice.

Sure, he had saved Halsin for selfish reasons, of course - he had a mindflayer worm in his head and he did not fancy losing his good looks to tentacles, thank you so very much - but in doing so, Astarion and the other survivors of the crashed nautiloid had also cleared the road to Baldur’s Gate for the tiefling refugees and restored peace to the druid’s grove. The refugees had been so elated, they’d insisted on joining the camp for the night and celebrating properly.

Properly, it seemed, included a great deal of wine. The vampire had already had several bottles and mugs thrust into his hands from people who gazed at him like… like… some sort of hero.

At first it had alarmed him, his finely honed self-preservation senses tense and wary. Surely this was some sort of trap or ploy. He mustn’t lower his guard for a moment because that was how people ended up as vampire food. He should know because he’d been very good at it.

But these happy faces around the campfire seemed… genuine. He didn’t know what to make of it. All these innocents smiling at him, unafraid. Old habits urged him to lure them off in secret one by one but… Cazador wasn’t here. Astarion, for the first time in two centuries, was free.

And he had to admit, it felt good to have these people looking up to him. Very good. In fact, he could quite get used to this sort of adoration. He deserved nothing less, if he were being honest with himself. Although, it did admittedly have some downsides. He thought back to Lae’zel’s ‘proposition’ and a shudder squirmed its way down his spine.

While he had been forced to seduce women and men alike to feed Cazador’s insatiable hunger, he had a preference for male companionship, and certainly none that sounded quite so violent as Lae’zel had hinted at.

“You should be out there mingling. Everyone wants to celebrate with you,” a quiet voice spoke somewhere behind and above him.

Astarion felt another tremor through his body. How had a man as big as Halsin managed to sneak up on him in utter silence? Rearranging his face into a flirtatious smirk, the pale elf turned in place and gazed up at the taller man through his eyelashes. “I was looking for you, actually.”

Halsin was a giant of an elf, towering over him (and everyone else, for that matter), with arms like muscled tree trunks; Astarion was fairly certain those arms were bigger around than his waist, and the thought sent a tingling heat to his loins. Halsin was a powerful man who commanded respect, a renowned healer who led with fairness and kindness, not through fear and domination. And yet, Astarion had seen firsthand how ferocious the druid could be in a fight, when something he cared about was threatened.

Here was a valuable ally, if only he could properly ingratiate himself with the gentle giant. Astarion had been flattering Gale previously; what better source of protection than an eminently powerful and skilled wizard, one who had caught the eye of a very goddess? And then the blasted man had gone and revealed that he was a walking bomb, disgraced by said goddess. Astarion had enough problems without adding that to his list.

He purred at Halsin, taking a step closer into the big man’s personal space. “I thought we could find ourselves a little privacy. Get to know each other better.” He waited a beat before dangling the carrot. “Or, perhaps there’s something else you’d rather do besides talking?” The flirting came easily to him, as natural as breathing had once been. A means to make himself useful. A way to protect himself.

He saw interest kindle in the tall druid’s eyes, felt the man take a deep, steadying breath, his snug leather robes creaking around his barrel of a chest. A gentle smile played around the man’s lips as he gazed down at Astarion.

His words, however, were a gentle rebuff.

“Hmm… I’m sure there are. You strike me as extremely… resourceful. But there are many grateful people here who want to spend time with you. I must not keep you all to myself.” Astarion felt a sinking sensation in his gut, until Halsin added, “as enjoyable as that may be.”

Playing hard to get, was he? Astarion generally chose easier marks but something about this massive bear of a man called to him. Certainly, ingratiating himself with Halsin would have many advantages, not the least of which was having his very own resident healer with a great deal of knowledge about these damned illithid tadpoles squirming around in their heads.

No, he could be patient.

In the meantime, he rather thought he could go enjoy being adored.

“Some other time, then.” With a last, lingering glance at the druid, Astarion left the shadows and rejoined those gathered around the campfire in celebration.

[fluffypotatey]

Hcs about shadowpeach reconnecting?

i like to think of it being very slow. to me, shadowpeach is the slowest of all slow burns both when they’re developing a relationship and trying to reconnect.

while i am a sucker for shadowpeach fluff and them being all clingy and cuddley, i still don’t think the two would even get that close for some time (and i mean some time).

lemme see if i can do a little rundown (i fucking lied) of my idea of a shadowpeach reconnection post-s4:

after the scroll and after their battle with the Brotherhood, both are in an agreement of a truce. as in, both acknowledged that neither of them wish to really fight or stay upset with the other because both understand that they never really could

so there’s a truce, a renewed exchange of peaches, that informs the other that while nothing will ever be like before….maybe that’s for the best, maybe they deserve something different and new between them

it doesn’t immediately take away from all their hurt feelings and pettiness. Wukong’s teasing will never hit the same and Macky’s guard is still at full defense

MK will still find them arguing up to the sky about something as trivial as which path leads to which waterfall and “shut up and just follow me, you idiot, this mountain has been my home for over a millennia”

but there are baby steps in the right direction (Pigsy would call it the “babiest of steps” but nobody asked him)

it takes them a year to come to terms that their petty arguing is just petty to be petty (tho they hold out a little longer because neither want to admit that to each other because it could meaning losing the game. what game? neither are exactly sure of what)

but it’s after both take the time to really refrain from that itch to bitch that both actually have a chance to talk with some substance (there may have been an external force that led to this conversation; a curse trapping them in a void space, being separated from the group so it’s just them two, the works)

but then that arguing loses its teeth and resembles something like banter. Wukong and Macky never truly did banter much in the past. not like this. it’s a little freeing. to be able to push and pull against each other without any reserve or need to

and this was their relationship for quite some time after. no physical hugs or touches like Wukong was privy to before or that Macky used to indulge in. you had the occasional glance here and there but not enough for the other to notice (everyone else, of course, noticed)

ironically, it’s Macky who initiates their first hug in ages.

Wukong, over the years, has slowly been building up to it with shoulder bumps, a light punch in the shoulder, and sometimes a bump to the hip.

when asked, Wukong would explain that he’s a physically affectionate guy but knows Mac has his limits and does his best to respect that as much as he can

on his own tho, Wukong personally feels like those touches are the most he will ever be granted to give. that is, until after a fierce battle, skirmish, whatever new daring thing that almost costs the Monkie Kid team, Macky actually pulls Wukong in for a hug

it’s nothing big or grand. well, nothing big for anymore normal since it’s a very short side hug, but it was something big for the both of them.

suffice to say, that was enough permission for Wukong to initiate more physical affection towards Macky

neither of them are really ready to put anything that they’re doing to name. makes it more definite and breakable

hell, they don’t even acknowledge that they’re past the point of tolerable acquaintances until a couple years later

but yeah, a shadowpeach reconnection, in my eyes, will takes years (centuries even) to truly rekindle their relationship. like i said, it’s a slow burn and one both want to tread carefully even if it’s agonizing to watch from the outside (see MK and friends)

[mariacallous]

BERLIN — The latest effort to craft a path to survival for Germany’s beleaguered rabbinical schools is underway — with help from thousands of miles away in California and Jerusalem.

An American Conservative rabbi and an Israeli Reform rabbi have been tapped to lead seminaries associated with the University of Potsdam.

The Los Angeles-based American Jewish University and its Ziegler School of Rabbinic Studies this week announced a “groundbreaking partnership” with the Central Council of Jews in Germany to promote “sustainable” Jewish clergy training at the University of Potsdam.

Rabbi Bradley Shavit Artson, Ziegler’s dean, accepted the Central Council’s invitation as the founding leader of a new German seminary associated with the Masorti or Conservative movement.

“It’s absurd to have an American rabbi running the school,” Artson said he told the Central Council. “The only thing more absurd is not having a school.”

Meanwhile, Rabbi Yehodaya Amir, professor emeritus at the Reform movement’s Hebrew Union College in Jerusalem, will oversee a liberal or Reform seminary being launched at the university.

The new leaders are stepping into a tumultuous situation.

The University of Potsdam has long been home to two rabbinical schools, the liberal/Reform seminary Abraham Geiger College and its Masorti/Conservative sibling, Zacharias Frankel College, founded in 1999 and 2013 respectively by Rabbi Walter Homolka.

But in late 2022, Homolka resigned from all positions in German Jewish institutions following allegations that he had abused his power and created an atmosphere of fear among students and staff. He eventually sold all his shares of Geiger and Frankel for 25,000 euros to the Jewish Community of Berlin, which intended to keep them going.

The organized Jewish community has since struggled to fund the schools, which previously had the Central Council and the German government as their main backers. In the wake of the Homolka scandal, the Central Council had declared it could no longer support the institutions as they stood. It announced plans to revamp rabbinical training so that no one figure would wield too much power.

This month, the council announced a new foundation to support two new schools — a liberal one named for Regina Jonas and a Masorti one named for Abraham Joshua Heschel, both pioneering rabbis in early 20th-century Germany with global and enduring significance. They are also launching a cantorial school under the name of the 19th-century composer of Jewish liturgical music Louis Lewandowski.

Now, the council has made official its chosen partners to operate the schools — and for both it looked outside Germany.

For the Masorti seminary, it turned to Artson, who also served as dean of the Frankel seminary after Homolka cold-called him to ask for his support — a request that he said had conferred a “sacred mission” upon him.

“I thought that this was an opportunity to step up and to help Europeans get the training they would want, to energize the Jewish community,” Artson told JTA. “And that’s really what we’ve done.”

Artson said he anticipated a limited future for his involvement and that of his fellow Ziegler dean, Rabbi Cheryl Peretz.

“We see our role as stepping in and launching this important program, and then at some point getting out of the way so that Europeans can run it without us,” he said.

Current rabbinical and cantorial students were told last week — as eight new rabbis and cantors were ordained — that they will be invited to transfer seamlessly to the new seminaries.

As for what might change for them, Artson said his focus was on “bringing transparency and equal funding and stability” as well as building stronger ties to the global Masorti movement. “This will be a way of organizing a rabbinical school that’s answerable to the public and will be able to last,” he said.

Amir, the HUC professor of Jewish thought who is heading the liberal seminary, said he was heartened by the fact that the Central Conference of American Rabbis, the North American Reform movement’s rabbinical association, was prepared to certify the new program, meaning that its graduates would have the same status in the movement as Geiger’s.

“The fact that the CCAR is considering to grant us such a status by now, before we have even taken our first steps, is a solid and wonderful expression of trust,” Amir told JTA.

Josef Schuster, chair of the Central Council, said support from the two movements augured “a good day for rabbinical and cantor training in Germany and a good day for the Jewish communities in our country.”

The appointments have elicited dissent. The World Union of Progressive Judaism and its European sister organization accused the Central Council of failing to involve them in their plans and of endangering “the unity of the Jewish community.”

And Berlin’s official Jewish community — which, as owner of the original seminaries, has the most to lose — lashed out over the selection of Artson in particular, noting that he has faced allegations of sexism at Ziegler.

Gideon Joffe, the community’s president, accused the Central Council of “conducting a public defamation campaign against the Abraham Geiger College.”

He added in a statement: “Even the appearance of an abuse of power, as is clearly evident in the allegations against Rabbi Artson, is unacceptable for the management of a rabbinical seminary,”

The investigations add to ongoing tumult at AJU and Zeigler, where Artson has worked since 1999. The school recently sold its campus in Los Angeles and slashed tuition in a bid to attract more students.

A third-party investigation of the sexism allegations commissioned by American Jewish University found no systemic misconduct, according to AJU, which did not release the full report. A second inquiry, by the Conservative movement’s Rabbinical Assembly, is underway.

Artson would not comment on the ongoing investigation, except to say it “is wrapping up.” But he noted that the first investigation found “no systemic homophobia or sexism” at Ziegler. “And so I’m really focusing on building the future.”

The statement is “unworthy of them,” Artson said about the Berlin Jewish Community, known by its German nickname Gemeinde, meaning community. “But I understand that in the moment, they’re letting their emotions run things.”

He added, “I think that the Gemeinde does many valuable and important things, and we certainly want to be able to support them in those enterprises, too, just not in this particular instance.”

An irony of the new arrangement is that in seeking to distance rabbinical training as much as possible from Homolka, who chose the Gemeinde as his successor, the Central Council has selected a rabbi who long worked with him. According to a source with knowledge of the situation, Artson had expenses covered but took no salary while working with the Frankel seminary.

For his part, Artson said he remains inspired by Geiger and Frankel, figures who helped make Germany a powerhouse of Jewish innovation in the century prior to the Holocaust.

“I have in my office portraits of both Rabbi Geiger and Rabbi Frankel,” Artson said. “They remain founding figures, even if their names are no longer on the school.”

But the two new namesakes — Heschel, who narrowly escaped Germany in 1940, and Jonas, the first woman to be ordained as a rabbi, who was murdered at Auschwitz — are “also very special,” he said.

[the-tragic-heroine]

死鬼祭 | Shiki Matsuri

fandom: tokyo revengers

characters: kurokawa izana, kakucho, haitani ran, haitani rindou, madarame shion

pairings: tenjiku x female reader

cw: blood, violence, minor character death, supernatural elements, she/her pronouns used for reader

—✧ SUMMARY ✧—

The villagers say that you cursed them all. You believe that they were the ones who cursed you. (Or, in which the circumstances of your unfortunate birth woke a forgotten, slumbering god.)

Very vague depictions of the supernatural here, and a few cameos of specific yokai if you can spot them! Title is based off of a song by KODOKULOVE! More characters may be added as the story progresses.

Read on AO3 Read Chapter One

—✧ CHAPTER 弐 TWO ✧—

As years and decades and centuries passed, Izana watched the village lose its faith—and with it, his blessings. If he had been just a few hundred years younger, perhaps Izana could have had the strength to punish them for this crime, but even a god could not fight against the passage of time nor its fickle memories. Thus, he resigned himself to a deep slumber, along with his small following of lesser spirits.

Until the day a woman died in his abode. 

When he suddenly awoke to the piercing cries of a newborn baby, he thought it to be a cruel dream, but the renewed strength in the depths of his spirit said otherwise. Together, he and his servants emerged from the darkness that shrouded the shrine, approaching the shuddering and twitching body laying crumpled on the floor.

“Gods, please hear me,” she whispered, voice so soft it was as if each breath expelled yet another part of her departing soul. “Take my life, if only to spare my child.”

Izana allowed himself to appear before her. He crouched down into the inky blackness of blood blooming beneath her body, a hand sweeping sweaty locks from her forehead. Her eyes lit up in one last, brief moment of joyful clarity, a smile spreading across her face. 

“Thank you,” she said, and died.

When you too ended up in his arms, he found that you looked just like her.

—✧—

“I must thank you,” Izana murmured from where he sat by your futon. “I watched as you rebuilt my shrine, piece-by-piece, until you also rebuilt my form.”

Though he had healed your physical injuries, the mental scarring had left you confined in bed for some days. You could only nod mutely and stare at your hands, still trembling on your lap.

“I have nothing else,” you admitted. “I think it was just my way of paying respects to the mother that I never knew… and also giving myself a reason to live, in spite of everything.” 

“You are strong,” he said. “Because of your strength, we have regained ours.”

“I’m glad,” you sighed, closing your eyes.

“You can ask anything of me and I will grant it.” Though his voice was as soft and lilting as the day he saved you, the small smile on Izana’s face was tight-lipped and empty. “Do you perhaps wish revenge on the village who had forsaken you ever since the day of your birth?”

You froze, a myriad of thoughts swirling about in your head. Suddenly, everything hurt all over again. “I…”

Sending your distress, Izana rose to his feet and padded to the door. From over his shoulder, he said, “You do not have to decide immediately. Karma will find its way to those who have wronged you, in one way or another. In the meantime, I will continue my work to restore this place to its former glory.”

He pushed the fusama open and stepped through. “Until then, do as you like, little one.”

The door slid shut, leaving you in silence.

—✧—

Ever since that day, the strange entities that had always danced along your peripherals crawled to the surface of your vision. The spirits were everywhere, you realised, and in all shapes and sizes. Some were like a steadily creeping fog in the woods, others like tiny insects that jumped and played in your garden as you picked vegetables for dinner. None were malevolent, and it soothed your soul ever so slightly to know that though you had always thought yourself alone, it seemed that you never truly were.

“Shall I accompany you to the market?”

Kakucho, Izana’s right-hand man as you came to know him, materialized by your side at the front door where you had been putting on your sandals. It had been about a week since you finally gathered up the courage to set foot back in civilization, although it was also a byproduct of necessity, having run out of a few ingredients at home. 

“Can they see you?” you asked, after a brief pause.

“Not if I want them to,” he replied, offering a reassuring smile.

“Okay. Well, I guess it couldn’t hurt, then. Where is Izana?”

“He told me he has some business to take care of. I’m to look after you in his stead today.”

You nodded. Taking a deep breath, you straightened your shoulders, adjusting your grip on your basket. “Alright, let’s go.”

Though you had initially considered telling Kakucho to stay home—you were a big girl who could take care of herself, after all—you couldn’t have been more glad he came along. The moment you emerged from the brush and stepped within the boundaries of the village, you stopped right in your tracks. Though the morning was fairly warm, the sweat beading along your brow quickly ran cold.

“Kakucho,” you breathed out. “What is this?”

Tall and looming dark shapes draped themselves over rooftops, peered out from between houses, and crawled across the ground, trailing after giggling oblivious children. They dripped and oozed like tar as they melted in and out of walls, the sticky black gloop clinging onto any human who walked past. Unlike the spirits back at the shrine whose mere presence brought comfort—none of whom were to be seen nearby, you realised—the shadows haunting the village reeked of something truly evil.

“No one has cleansed this place in a long time,” Kakucho said, striding forward to stand in front of you. An inky blob the size of a dog was wriggling across the dirt in your direction. With one stomp, the thing screeched and dissipated. “This infestation has been growing for hundreds of years, all while Izana and the rest of us slept. If you hadn’t revived the shrine, I don’t think this village would have survived for much longer.” 

“Oh,” was the only thing you could think to say. Kakucho glanced over at you, expression softening. 

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll be right by your side. None of them will touch you.”

“…Okay,” you said, but before you could even walk a few more steps into the village, a shout turned both of your heads.

“It’s the demon child,” a middle-aged woman screeched, her face white as she pointed one shaky finger at you. “She has risen from the dead!”

All of a sudden, all eyes were on you—including those of all the surrounding malevolent entities. Frozen in both shock and confusion, you barely heard Kakucho curse under his breath.

Huh?

Voices raised into a crescendo from every single direction.

“I thought she was burned!” 

“How come she’s alive?”

“It’s an omen! Drive her out!”

“N-No,” you whimpered, eyes wide. “There’s been a mistake, I was never—“

The shadows were creeping closer, the villagers’ shouts growing louder. You didn’t even realize you were backing away until you hit a tree trunk. Amidst the chaos, your eyes zeroed in on the woman from before, pushing her way to the front of the crowd, angry tears streaming down her face.

“Because of you, my son won’t wake up,” she cried, shaking off those who tried to hold her back. “My son just went to visit your godforsaken shrine with his friends—and they all returned injured and near death!” 

What?

“I-I,” you stammered. “That can’t be right—“

“How dare you!” she shrieked, her accusations punctuated with sobs. “My boy, my only son… Wicked girl, what did you do to them?”

What did they do?

“I didn’t,” you whispered, head spinning. “They broke in— tried to kill—“

“Enough!” The woman crouched, bending to pick up something off the ground—and when she straightened back up, a rock was clutched in her shaking hand. Everything in your mind stuttered to a halt.

A rock, tossed up and down. A flame, pressed against your eyes.

“Get out,” the woman hissed with so much venom you felt it pierce through your skin. “Get out, and don’t come back!”

The rock sailed through the air in slow motion. The spirits laughed and jeered, rushing forward. A whoosh, the rumbling of robes flying through the air, and then… silence. You dared to crack open your eyes that you hadn’t even realised you shut.

“My apologies.” Kakucho’s quiet, deep voice cut through the air. It was only then you registered the familiar loud trill of cicadas that usually buzzed right outside your window. “I should not have allowed her to go to the village today.”

You blinked a few times. When your vision stabilized, you realised that you were indeed safely inside of your own room at the shrine, laid carefully upon your futon.

“No,” Izana said smoothly, and from the tone of his voice you could tell he was smiling. “It would have happened eventually.” As he spoke, his hand glided over your hair, like one would stroke a pet. In spite of yourself, your shoulders began to relax, your heart rate slowing.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, leaning over your form. “That must have been frightening. Don’t worry, you’ll be safe here from now on. If there is anything you need, I will send my men in your stead.”

“Don’t,” you blurted out before you could stop yourself. “Don’t kill them.”

Izana’s smile dropped as a darkness appeared to pass over his purple eyes. Your breath caught in your throat, but by the time you blinked, that placid, gentle smile was back on his face.

“If you insist,” he said. “Kakucho.”

“Yes.”

 “Tend to her. I have left Shion and the Haitani brothers to guard the shrine. For now, I have to return to my duties.”

“Yes.”

With that, he was gone.

“Are you alright?” Kakucho asked after a brief pause to watch Izana leave, touching your hand. His calloused fingers carefully unfolded your clenched fists, and it was only then you felt a stinging in your palms, your fingernails wet with blood from how hard they had dug into the flesh.

Instead of answering, you asked your own question. “What did you do?”

“Hm?”

“The kids,” you elaborated, swallowing down the lump in your throat. “What did you do to them?”

Kakucho’s jaw tightened a fraction and the jagged scar slashing over his face seemed to pulse. Still, he continued bandaging both of your palms. “Don’t concern yourself with them. It’s not your problem anymore.”

“It is,” you protested, sitting upright. Tears began to prickle at the corners of your eyes. “Because of me—“

“No.” He cut you off, eyes flashing. “Don’t say that. None of it was because of you.”

“I…”

He stood abruptly. “I’ll be making your dinner until your hands heal. Rest for a bit. I’ll let you know once it’s done.”

—✧—

“He really didn’t tell you, huh?” Madarame Shion cackled, throwing his head back as he laughed. “For the big boss’s right hand man and loyal killing machine, he sure is a fuckin’ softie.”

You flinched, grip tightening on your broom only to be rewarded with a dull, throbbing reminder of what had happened a few days prior. Though the cuts on your hands had mostly healed, the phantom pain lingered.

With all men away from the shrine today, you were left in Shion’s care. Perhaps you would have appreciated it more, had you still lived alone—but having already been spoiled by a diligent, responsible man like Kakucho? You sighed heavily, glaring from the corner of your eyes at where Shion lay sprawled on the floor you had just swept. As if on cue, he let out an exaggerated yawn, one hand sweeping messy blond hair out of his eyes. Above him, shrine lanterns blinked and laughed.

“Shut up,” he snapped at them. They giggled, eyes winking shut and vanishing from sight.

“Be nice,” you chided, nudging at his torso with one foot. “And please get up.”

“Don’t wanna,” he drawled.

“If Izana makes us do more housework cuz of your lazy ass, I’ll kill ya.” A voice drifted indoors and you turned your head just in time to see Haitani Ran’s tall figure ducking inside, his brother Rindou following close behind. The two crossed the engawa in a single long stride, entering the hall and stopping in front of Shion. Ran clicked his tongue and without missing a beat, Rindou delivered a swift kick to Shion’s side.

“Ow!”

“Get up, ya fatass.”

“Who’re ya callin’ fat?!”

“I’m leaving,” you grumbled, turning around.

“No, no, come back,” Shion called, finally scrambling to his feet and stretching obscenely. “I still didn’t get to tell ya about what we did. You wanted to hear, right?”

Ran hummed in interest. “Kakucho didn’t tell her?”

“Of course he didn’t,” Rindou scoffed. “The guy’s weak to girls, whaddya expect.”

Suddenly, you weren’t quite sure you wanted to know anymore.

“Izana told us about what happened at the village,” Ran said, faux sympathy dripping from each word. He sidled up to where you stood, still pathetically gripping your broom. One large hand closed over your own, the other tearing away the broom and tossing it aside with a clatter. “How easily children can lie to adults—and how easily adults can lie to themselves.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” you gritted out, but you couldn’t hide the way your voice wobbled. Ran smiled.

“We’ll tell you what happened,” he said like he were doing you a favour, index finger tracing the outline of your jaw. Behind him, Shion and Rindou laughed. “From the very beginning.”

[female-malice]

Opinion | Women are leading a revolution in Iran. When will Western feminists help?

By Masih Alinejad

A new popular uprising is taking place in Iran, and this time women are in the lead. It’s incredibly inspiring to see — for the first time I can remember — unveiled women marching at the front. They have overcome fear and are challenging one of the main pillars of the Islamic Republic of Iran: compulsory hijab.

These women are marching shoulder to shoulder with men, chanting against the whole regime. They are facing guns and bullets and demanding an end to a system of gender apartheid.

Mahsa Amini was only 22 years old. She wasn’t uncovered; only a few strands of her hair showed. And yet she was arrested by the so-called “morality police” and packed off to jail. Three days later she was dead. Many Iranians are convinced she was killed —a belief reinforced by countless individual experiences with the brutality of the security services.

The news of her death has triggered outrage throughout Iran. Tens of thousands of demonstrators are defying security forces to ask why an innocent young woman lost her life to religious radicals who merely wanted to show off their militant male power. The compulsory hijab is not just a small piece of cloth for Iranian women; it is the most visible symbol of how we are oppressed by a tyrannical theocracy. Now, by drawing attention to that injustice, Mahsa’s death has the potential to serve as a new turning point for Iranian women.

They deserve the support of their Western counterparts. Yet so far we see little evidence that women in Europe or North America are willing to take to the streets to show their solidarity for a women’s revolution in Iran.

Recent experience has been discouraging. Over the past decade, we’ve seen female politicians from democratic countries — including Ségolène Royal from France, Catherine Ashton from the United Kingdom, and Federica Mogherini from Italy — don hijab on their visits to Iran. All these female politicians are quick to assert their feminist credentials in their own societies — but when it comes to Iran they go out of their way to show deference to the men who have elevated misogyny to a state principle. A regime that abuses and harasses millions of women each year does not deserve our respect. To do so makes a mockery of all our talk of universal human rights.

When the Women’s March took place in Washington, D.C., in 2017, I was happy to join. Along with the rest I chanted: “My body, my choice.” Some women might well choose to veil their faces and bodies in accordance with their religious or cultural beliefs — but that should be a matter of their own choice, not a rule imposed by the whips and clubs of men. Yet Western women seem only too happy to succumb to the standards dictated by the male tyrants in countries such as Afghanistan and Iran.

I don’t consider such feminists to be true advocates of women’s rights. The true feminists and women’s rights activists are those in Afghanistan and Iran who are stepping forward, at great cost, to resist the Taliban and Islamic republic. They are the true feminist leaders of the 21st century, risking their lives by facing guns and bullets. They will go on fighting against the regimes, and we who have the privilege to live in free countries should actively amplify their voices. This is the moment for women in the West to stand with Iran’s mothers, daughters and sisters.

I will not remain silent. I will continue to speak out until compulsory hijab laws are abolished. Like the women now taking to the streets in my home country, I, too, have been targeted by the regime. I have chosen to speak up despite that regime’s attacks on my family, and its attempts to have me abducted or killed. In this, I feel deep solitary with the thousands of women protesting in Iran. I will continue to do what I can to support their struggle, to help them achieve their rights.

My wish is for all of us to be louder than the tyrants. I call on the free world to join the protesters in calling for an end to the murderous regime of the ayatollahs. Iranian women are fighting to recover our dignity and exercise our personal freedoms — so that, one day, all Iranians can finally choose our government in free and fair elections. We shouldn’t be afraid of the religious fanatics and the jihadists. They are the ones who are frightened. It is why they seek to keep women down. Women in the streets are paying with their lives for change. But too many in the outside world are shaking hands with our murderers.

I am asking all Western feminists to speak up. Join us. Make a video. Cut your hair. Burn a headscarf. Share it on social media and boost Iranian voices. Use your freedom to say her name. Her name was Mahsa Amini.

[softquietsteadylove]

Hello! Wanted to ask you if you could write another Thenamesh AU in Kievan-Rus?

Maybe some interaction with Olga and Thena?

"A word?"

All of the Eternals turned, but the Queen's eyes were on the Warrior Eternal. Thena raised her brows. They were always to respect the rule of the humans of the land. Not that she was always the best at that.

"Please," the Queen offered more humbly, imploring Thena closer, "Warrior Eternal."

Thena looked at the others, who gave the Queen varying degrees of bows before taking their leave. Thena remained on the carpet rolled out over the frigid stone floors of the throne room.

Olga's eyes flicked to the far corner of the room before returning to Thena, "I understand you are no subject of mine."

Thena let her continue. She knew why her eyes had drifted; she could feel Gilgamesh lingering in the room. If she focused she could hear all of his little movements; the shuffling of his feet, his hands fidgeting, even his breathing.

"But I have watched you fight those demonic creatures," Olga held her head high. "Nightmares I thought only existed in legends."

Thena merely nodded. Deviants were getting harder and harder to explain to humans in that sense. But all the better that they became legends and myths and stories used to scare children.

"You are one of the fighters of Lady Ajak's," Olga surmised. Thena never considered a Fighter for Ajak. Although she wasn't even sure she considered herself a Fighter for Arishem. She simply...fought. "The best, in my view."

Thena needed no lavish praise. She had gotten plenty of it over the centuries. Still she bowed her head.

"I would like your counsel," Olga proposed, sitting taller in the massive throne, second only for the one meant for the King. "If you see fit."

"Counsel?" Thena raised a sleek eyebrow. For all she had been revered as a Goddess of War and Wisdom, she had grown rather tired of it.

"On matters of battle," Olga confirmed, now rising from the throne and walking closer to Thena below her. She descended the platform and steps keeping the thrones separate from the rest of the room. Her guards tensed but she dismissed them with a wave of her hand. "Matters of war, if you prefer."

Thena merely looked at the woman, far, far younger than she. And even then, Olga was still young in many ways. "No one prefers war, your majesty."

"It would not be wise to," Olga agreed in not so many words. The two women - equally guarded - stared at each other. "But I think your views on the subject align with mine."

"Do they?"

Olga smiled, and it seemed rather unlike she did when she was sitting on that throne. Olga actually managed much of her husband's ruling, he rather focusing on territory and its expansion. Their partnership was a fine match.

Olga twitched her head, gesturing to the man floating around listlessly, pretending to admire the tapestries hung around the room. "He is yours?"

Thena looked back at Gilgamesh with permission to do so. She smiled; he was very obviously listening in on them. "He is."

"I have seen you two fight," Olga said more gently, speaking less like a queen and more the way one friend might speak to another. "The way you protect each other. I find it rather admirable. Our way of combat is...more brutal."

Yes, the human warriors of this region were some of the most intense and brutal they had come across. They had Thena's full support and admiration for that.

"But of all our current war advisors," Olga slid her eyes in a way that made Thena think she maybe wanted to roll them. "Their views do not...align."

Thena tilted her head, asking for elaboration.

Olga openly admired Thena's hair sitting loosely around her shoulders. "Ferocity need not come from a place of malice, I believe. I much prefer to think of it as a byproduct of love."

Thena smiled. This human woman understood the necessity of force--that sometimes there was no better way to ensure the protection of certain things. Certain people.

"Some think our methods of expansion are aggressive," Olga resumed her more royal demeanour, "but I consider it necessary to keep our enemies mindful of who we are--of what we are capable."

"Yes," Thena murmured.

"To possess more is to lose more," Olga tipped her chin up at Thena, "and I do not intend to lose what I hold dear."

"I understand," Thena agreed.

"I believe you do," Olga's smile grew. She looked over at Gilgamesh again, catching him looking at them this time. His head snapped away. "It's quite all right."

Gil made a face like a child in trouble as he turned again. "Sorry, your majesty."

Olga eyed them as he drifted closer slowly until he was within reach of Thena again. "You are the Warrior Eternal's partner."

"Uh," Gil blushed, as if shyness suited a being of his size and stature, "I guess you could say that."

Thena ran her finger down his arm (she liked flustering him), "in more ways than one."

"You are a fine match," Olga complimented, regarding them as softly as she would her own family. "You, perhaps, remind me of myself and my dear husband."

Gil slipped his hand to the small of Thena's back, gathering that no one was going to gasp in horror or try to order him to remove it. Not that he would listen to that. "Then he's a lucky man."

Olga smiled more fully, looking more like the young woman she truly was. "I certainly like to think so."

Thena leaned into Gil, as if the few minutes spent half a room apart had taxed her.

"I hope I can count on your counsel in the future, Warrior Eternal," Olga nodded, which Thena returned. She wasn't much for bowing. "As a royal War Advisor, you have certain liberties. The royal grounds are open to you, and should you need anything, no one is to deny you."

"We'll keep that in mind, your majesty," Gil did bow to her, much more adept at the manners of any time period.

"Very well," Olga picked up her skirts, ready to return to her massive golden throne.

"Oh!"

She turned partway in her journey, truly a sign of respect and fondness that she would let anyone but the King call out to her in such a way. "Yes?"

"Uh," Gil shrank back, offering a sheepish smile. He held Thena's hand. "Maybe some extra blankets or something?--for her, I mean."

Thena looked at him with love radiating from her. So sweet, her Strongest Eternal.

"She gets cold easily," Gil concluded shyly, remembering to dip at the waist, "your majesty."

"I shall see to it," Olga nodded before settling herself in her throne again. "You will find all you need in your chambers by nightfall."

"Thank you," Thena offered to Olga before turning to Gil. She slid their fingers together, "you didn't have to."

"Of course I did," he countered immediately, pulling their joined hands up so he could kiss each tip of her fingers as they left. "I can't have my poor Thena walking around shivering."

"I am getting better," she argued, pursing her lips at him.

He just grinned at her (like it was so cute or something). He moved his head closer, touching the tip of his nose to hers, "hm, still feels cold to me."

She burst into a laugh.

He pulled her to the side of the corridor, not that there was anyone to witness their affections. He held her by the waist, "I just don't want you to be cold if you don't have to be."

"That's what I have you for, no?" she purred, letting herself melt into him.

"Sure," he chuckled, running a hand over her hair as he held her, "but the trip from your room to my room can be chilly."

[voidtouched-blue]

@taleswritten semi-plotted starter for Dean Winchester

"Oh my gods! I love your costume! Can we take a picture with you?"

It took a lot of effort for the Imp to not wiggle her ears in delight of that admiring question. She looked up from the map in her hands to see three young human adults standing excitedly next to one another. Her starlit eyes glimmered in joy at their enthusiastic approach, a toothy grin spread across her lips in reply.

"But of course you may!" She folded up the map, flourishing her movements with a humbled bow as she stood up straight. "It would be my honest pleasure to become part of your living tapestry, noble lords and lady!"

The manner of speech akin to that of earlier ages came easy to the woman. After all, she was immortal to a degree. Cyra had lived during the very same ages that the modern peoples had tried so hard to replicate for entertainment such as this. Which is why the Pennsylvania Renaissance Faire had taken her interest in the first place. Between the many events that peppered the waking hours of the faire's working time, and the scores of unique merchants that had managed to replicate and improve the methods of their ancestors had always been such a treat to witness and observe. While the magic that some of these 'metaphysical' traders claimed to possess had been nothing more than a room full of sneezed pixie dust, it was the marvel of the patrons that warmed her little fae heart.

The supernatural being tucked the map into her belt, holding her arms out beside her for the two who wanted her photograph to join her in the image. She rested those clawed fingers on their respective shoulders, held her pose and smile while the third grinned and tapped at their device. A few shared laughs and compliments, and the group had stepped away to continue their weekend adventure into the rest of the faire.

Every time she had showed up to these events, there were always a handful of curious humans who asked about her costume, how she was able to make the horns look so realistic, how her ears moved and felt like they were real, and a few other inquiries made in awe of her authenticity. Cyra was no stranger to the marvels of modern technology. While she didn't have these objects of electric convenience for herself, she did make a point to learn what they were used for, and to understand the basics in the event that she had been required to use a 'cell phone'.

Of course, it would be foolish for her to tell any of those passersby that everything she wore had either been an authentic relic of the past, or something she had been able to barter for from the various vendors at previous faires she'd visited. Of course, leather could be enchanted and made to last far longer without decay than if it had survived through the ages without her interference, but cloth would not be so lucky. It was to her great fortune that the choice to do pop-up vendors on occasion made her enough of that modern currency to keep her wardrobe well stocked for the next century. She had no doubt in her mind that this revelry of the past would continue well beyond its' amused relevance in current years.

Yet she had been drawn specifically to this venue in particular. Being born of one of the oldest Gods in human history, Cyra felt particularly connected to these events that held reverence for the slumbering deities that awaited their reawakening with the renewed human worship. While her service to Cernunnos had no longer held any sort of obligatory action on her part, it warmed her heart to know that there were some who still believed in the swarming mass of monotheistic believers. Gods only had power if they had prayers from the devoted. The only thing keeping them alive in their stasis was the natural human need to preserve their history. Of the many traits mankind had, this one was her favorite.

Cyra pulled the map back out from her belt, unfolding it and flipping it over to observe the list of events for that weekend in particular. It was interesting to see it mentioned that there would be a welcoming ceremony for the season of Fall, which- in itself wasn't peculiar as every faire had their own way to celebrate the change of seasons, but it was the rites mentioned that caught her attention. Born of the will of the Horned God, it would have been remiss of her to not to observe. After all, it wasn't often that humans even elected to offer worship freely to a God of Eld, much less one that represented mankind's harmony with nature. Yet it was the name of the ritual welcoming that had been incorrect in accordance with her own knowledge. Had this meant to be true to the annual traditions of their respective time, then there would not have been Latin in the summary of the event.

Without direct access to one of those portable world wide web devices, there was little she could find of the individuals responsible for organizing the event. Her role in this was merely meant to correct and educate the hosts on their level of authenticity. She could easily approach as an expert on the matter, albeit costumed. Perhaps she could get away with appearing as an interested party enthusiastic in playing her "role" appropriately as any good Imp would.

Where to start...now that is a good question!

The thought made her smile.

She turned the unfolded sheet over in her hands, returning to the enormous map of the faire grounds to see if she might arrive at the stage early and find it's organizers present. It was her hope that they would be open to receiving expert criticism of their rather lackluster choice to include Latin phrases in their chant. It was with a gentle nod, a silent approval for her resolve, that she folded the pamphlet back up and returned it to be tucked into her belt. Grabbing the staff that had been leaned up against the tree, she set off away from the food stalls that lined the dusted walkway towards the more wooded paths of the faire. Her tail flicked and swayed behind her for just a few seconds before she schooled it back into submission.

If she was going to appear as just an enthusiastic LARP-er, then her very real appendages needed to at least feel the part, too.

[ayliamc]

Italia

Day 6 - On the Arno

Steps walked: 18,216

Flights climbed: 12

Vehicles ridden: 1

Points of interest visited: 3

Leonardos spotted: 3, depending on whom you ask

We woke in Venezia this morning to the sound we fell asleep to last night: a canal beginning to stir with the signs of life. Both of us were so tired so getting out of bed was a bit of a chore. But we were the first to breakfast at our hotel and our benevolent host greeted us as joyfully as ever, making us a cup of tea and a double espresso (for me and Dan respectively) while we put together a full and yummy breakfast.

We bid our host adieu and — after some deliberation about whether or not to take a water taxi to the train station, barely faster but more for the novelty of it — ultimately walked to the train station. We tried again at the coffee shop that reportedly had some vegan croissants and were early enough to snag a few for the train before they ran out. It ended up being a delightful midday snack on the train as we approached Firenze, some of the lucky few on the train who didn’t have someone sitting next to them.

‘Twas after lunch and we’d had the croissants (Italian croissants all have filling in them; there’s no such thing as a plain croissant here) to keep us from getting grumpy, but lunch was a priority. On the way we happened upon a cool old church. We took a picture with it and moved on. More on this later.

Here I am, unimpressed.

We had found a vegan restaurant kinda on the way to our Airbnb. (Now we’re in real cities, I will only patronize VEGAN RESTAURANTS!) So we trudged to Nirvana, a vegan restaurant close to the Arno, the river that runs through the heart of Florence. Florence’s Thames or Seine, if you will. I finally got to order the ravioli that I’ve been craving and Dan got a big plate with some kind of plant-based meat and some of the best potatoes I’ve ever had. Simple but so good.

Sated, we walked the rest of the way to our room, which proved to be a picturesque walk along the Arno where I could imagine that what I was seeing had once been seen by Leonardo himself. Many of the buildings certainly look old enough to have been here when he was.

Firenze is similar to Venezia in that feels fake, like a toy town or something from a movie or storybook. But they’re different in that Venezia has a kind of wrongness to it. That sounds more harsh than I mean it. But I don’t exactly know how to explain it. (Side note: i do feel kind of guilty as I imagine my friend Sean reading this and my thoughts about his dream city are that it shouldn’t be real.) But Firenze feels more like I’ve been transported back in time. But so have a LOT of other people. Other people from my time. So we’re all just a bunch of 2023 people walking around the 16th century.

I marveled at a bridge we had to cross in that there were literally apartments built onto the bridge itself, only to shortly thereafter discover that our rented room was one of those apartments! We are literally suspended over the Arno, on the Ponte Vecchio. We can see the Galleria Uffizi from our bedroom window, just down the riverbank. We later tried to identify which window is ours from the Uffizi.

So yeah, great location but it has a price: namely the shower (more on that later) and the wifi (whose connection is so bad they’re forcing my blog posts to come late because there’s literally not enough bandwidth to upload them).

The Galleria totally caught me by surprise, in terms of its existence and the items inside. For some reason I became very anxious and irritating (yeah, you read that right; irritating, not “irritable”) and I feel bad for Dan. Honey if you’re reading this, I’m sorry. Thanks for putting up with me. But we got our tickets around 3:30, got a little lost and ultimately found our way, despite the museums inexplicable lack of paper maps in lieu of digital maps you can only access online, but there’s no wifi. (A docent shared in my exasperation at this. She said, and I quote, “Don’t expect things to make sense in Italy.”) Turns out this gallery holds a lot of awesome stuff. About a million and a half Roman statues, plus the mother-flippin’ Birth of Venus!

Two works from Verrocchio’s workshop that Leonardo had a hand in! (Though they straight up credited Leonardo for one of them in its entirety. They’ll really slap his name on anything now if it helps them.) And one unfinished Leonardo (that I think also had been painted in part by others)!

A Rembrandt and a Michelangelo and Caravaggio’s Medusa and a Melzi. Melzi was likely a sort of apprentice to Leonardo, and a kind of adopted son. I also learned the etymology of the word “hermaphrodite” which as soon as I learned it seemed so obvious I felt stupid.*

Here I am with the Melzi.

After the first floor (which was actually the second floor) Dan announced, “That was fun, wanna go to a cafe?” To which I replied, “That was only the first floor!” But it was indeed the second floor. You can see the confusion. In any case we spent about two hours in the museum before slowly meandering around the Uffizi square and looking at all the sculptures before walking to another vegan restaurant for dinner. Universo Vegano, this time. More good food, and we could see the Duomo down the street. (The Firenze Duomo, not the Milano Duomo.) We also took advantage of the superior wifi here (over what was offered at our apartment) so we looked up a few more points of interest and discovered that the random fancy church we passed earlier houses some tombs of note. We’ll be sure to go visit it properly tomorrow.

After dinner (with stuffed croissants in hand for breakfast) we walked by the Duomo, the one where David was originally meant to be displayed before being declared too magnificent. (We’re seeing that tomorrow.) Cool building to be sure.

A quick stop in a nearby market so we could pick up a few breakfast and snack foods** and then back for an early night over the Arno. We got to relish in the challenges of showering in an old building where the water took 5 minutes to get hot, stayed hot for about four minutes, then got cold again and stayed cold. There was a brief war as we shut out the lights when I heard a mosquito buzzing around. We tried in vain to remove her but alas. ‘Twas a comic failure. I’ve already been bitten a bunch while we’ve been here and don’t relish waking up to more welts.

Our apartment also has a window that opens down onto the Ponte and it doesn’t close — I think it’s for ventilation — so we went to bed to the sounds of a live musical performance at the bar below us and the hourly chimes of a nearby church before the city joined us in sleep.

*Hermes and Aphrodite had a child who was born both male and female. Their name? Hermaphrodite. As in Hermes + Aphrodite. You get it. So do I.

**Dan wanted to buy a bottle of wine or beer, but it was all sealed off in the market because of a soccer game… all sales of alcohol in glass or aluminum containers were forbidden in Firenze’s historical district until 7am the following day. Crazy.

[the-al-chemist]

Artemis Hexley and the Return to the Riddles

Chapter 23: The Truth

A/N: with Dumbledore’s help, Artemis uses her mother’s gift to help her find the answers she seeks, but they may not be the answers she wants… Warnings: This one gets dark. Very dark. Scenes and mentions of intrigue, violence, death, murder, child endangerment, child neglect.

Green flames engulfed Artemis as she and Professor Dumbledore stepped into one of the gilded fireplaces on the right side of the atrium of the Ministry of Magic. Once the flames had died down, the room outside had changed; she was back at Hogwarts, in the headmaster’s office. 

Dumbledore stepped out of the fireplace and across the office to a tall cabinet. He opened its doors to reveal a wide, shallow stone dish engraved with runic symbols and filled with a silvery liquid. A blue-ish glow radiated from it and illuminated his face.

"You have seen this before, if I remember correctly," Dumbledore said. Artemis nodded her head, her hand still gripped tightly around the vial she had thrown into the fountain almost a year previously.

"It's your Penseive. You use it to help you with all your thoughts."

"Precisely. A Pensieve allows you to deposit and keep hold of memories and streams of consciousness, to review and organise at your will. This particular Pensieve is not simply mine, however. It is the property of the Headmaster or Headmistress of Hogwarts, and has therefore belonged to every witch or wizard who has held this position, and every witch or wizard who ever shall. It contains centuries' worth of collective wisdom and knowledge." Dumbledore's eyes caught the light of the Pensieve, looking bluer than ever before. He smiled before continuing, "Between this, Kingsley Shacklebolt's investigation, and the research of both your brother and Madam Rakepick, I daresay that I have been privy to more information than almost anyone about the Cursed Vaults and the group that calls themselves…"

"R."

"R, The Ronde, the cabal. They are all the same, as you know. I believe that by now, you must also know who created the Cursed Vaults."

"Morgan Le Fay," answered Artemis. "I learnt that from the centaurs and from Merlin's portrait. She discovered a great power, and made the Vaults to keep it safe, but then she turned to dark magic. That's why she added all the curses. But-"

"And you also know of Madame Fortinbras, the professor who created the Ronde and was their first leader?" Artemis nodded and opened her mouth to speak, but Dumbledore hadn't finished with his questions. "Artemis, do you know who was the most recent leader of the Ronde?"

"Merula's aunt. Madam Buckthorn. She stopped us by the lake."

Dumbledore shook his head.

"No," he said. "Madam Buckthorn may have been the director of R, but rather than being its leader, she acted more as the caretaker of the group in the absence of a leader."

"Oh, yeah. They wanted me to lead them because of the prophecy, the one Charlie and I stole from the Department of Mysteries." Artemis bit her lip and turned to Dumbledore to add, "Um, can you forget that I said that last part?"

"I'm afraid that my hearing is not what it once was, Miss Hexley, and I did not quite catch the last few words of what you said," said Dumbledore, but his lips twitched as if he had indeed heard and was amused by it. "Was it only you that the prophecy spoke of?"

"Well, not exactly. It just said Hexley on it, so it could've been about me or Jacob. But I picked it up, and Olivia Green said only the person a prophecy is about can do that, so it must have been about me and not Jacob all along."

"Yes and no. I'm afraid that while you are correct in some respects, you are entirely wrong in others."

"What do you mean?"

"Prophecies are fickle and endlessly cryptic things, Miss Hexley. The one of which you speak may have been about you or Jacob - or indeed, several others over the course of the centuries - but by the time you came to pick it up, certain events had occurred and created the circumstances by which the prophecy became about you," Dumbledore told Artemis, who was no less mystified than before. "The prophecy speaks of an heir, one descended from Morgan Le Fay herself, and born at the start of a new season. Professor Fortinbras thought herself the heir described in the prophecy, but it could have been any other person who meets these two criteria. The most recent leader of the Ronde thought that they themselves might be the one, until your brother came along."

"I don't-"

"You will understand once you have seen the contents of that vial you hold in your hand. You see, that bottle contains memories. The memories of two people who were at one time very closely connected with the leader of the Ronde."

Artemis frowned. "But my mother said that what was inside this was half mine."

"It is. But we will revisit your memories later. First, you must go back further." Dumbledore gestured from the vial to Pensieve and told her, "Go on. Take a look."

Not really sure what she was expecting to happen, Artemis pulled the stopper from the vial and tipped its contents into the Pensieve, which began to swirl faster and glow more brightly than before. As it did so, she could see something moving inside, a shadow or a person, and she rose onto her tiptoes and leaned forward to take a closer look. 

She must have leaned too far, however, because a moment later, the ground beneath her gave a sudden lurch and she found herself falling - or perhaps being pulled - down into the Pensieve, which was far darker and colder than she had imagined it would be.

When she stopped falling, she found herself standing not in Dumbledore's office, but another room entirely. Like the office, the room had high ceilings and walls lined with books, but it was rectangular and far larger than the headmaster's office. It was filled with people, most of whom were reading or writing quietly, and all of whom were around her age or younger. It was a school library, she realised, but not that of Hogwarts, for the walls were of red brick rather than sandstone, and the students wore uniforms of blue and burgundy, not black.

"Excuse me," Artemis said to one of the students, who did not respond. She spoke louder. "Hello? Where is this?"

But the student clearly couldn't hear her, even though the library was silent. Almost silent, anyway. Two girls her own age were giggling quietly as they took books from one of the shelves and pretended to read them, all the while watching a wizard in the far corner of the room who was sitting at a desk all alone, and not wearing a uniform. Artemis wandered over to them so she could hear their hushed conversation.

"Whatever he's working on must be awfully important," said one of the girls, in an accent Artemis recognised as being American. "I've only ever seen him in the library. He's never once eaten in the hall - I'm not even sure he does eat - or anywhere else around the grounds, either. He just stays in here."

"Maybe he can't leave. Perhaps he's a vampire," whispered the second girl, and the first gasped quietly.

"Or maybe he's working on something so top secret and important that he's not even permitted to leave his desk even to have a meal."

Behind them, a third girl with her back to them shook her head, her long dark hair brushing the small of her back as it moved from side to side. She turned away from the bookshelf and joined them, a daring smile playing on her face, which was pretty and somehow familiar to Artemis, though she was not sure how.

"If you're so intrigued, why don't you go over there and ask him?" suggested the girl, raising a single eyebrow at her peers, who both blushed and shook their heads. She rolled her large hazel eyes dramatically. "Fine, then. If you two are too chicken, I'll go over and talk to him."

"But he never speaks to anyone!"

"Well, maybe he'll speak to me."

With an air of confidence, the girl pushed her dark hair back behind her shoulders and looked determinedly at the wizard on the far side of the library. Artemis frowned. She really did look familiar, as if she ought to recognise her. It was only once the girl started to walk away from her friends and straight past Artemis as if she hadn't even seen her standing there that she realised who she was.

"Ma?"

The girl who looked so much and yet not at all like Sara Hexley strode across the library in the direction of the lone wizard, Artemis following behind her, unseen and uncomprehending. As they reached the wizard, Artemis' mother leant against his desk next to him and cleared her throat. The wizard looked up at her. Now that Artemis could see his face, it was clear that he was a few years older than the students in the library. He had untidily cropped brown hair, brown eyes with a distinct ring of green around the pupil, and a face that again was distantly recognisable.

"Dad?"

"May I help you?" asked the wizard Artemis assumed must be her father, his clipped voice so contrasting with those of the girls she had listened to on the other side of the library.

"Actually, yes," Artemis' mother answered, before Artemis had a chance to speak. "My friends over there were just wondering who you are and what it is you're studying so hard that none of us have ever seen you outside of the library since you first showed up here."

"If your friends are so curious to know, why didn't they come here and ask me themselves?"

"They're  too nervous."

"I see," Leander Hexley raised his eyebrows. "You're less easily scared."

Sara shrugged. "I was junior state champion for duelling last year. It takes a lot more than some Brit with a pile of textbooks to scare me. No offence."

"None taken," said Artemis' father. "My name is Leander Hexley. I work for the British Ministry of Magic, in the Department of Mysteries."

"So, you're an international man of mystery, huh?"

"I suppose that I am."

"And what brings you to Ilvermorny Academy?"

"I'm afraid that I'm not actually allowed to talk about my work."

"Even if I promise to keep a secret?"

"You just said that your friends sent you over here to find out."

"I can make something up to tell them," Sara smiled sweetly, tilting her head to one side. "Go on. Your secret's safe with me."

As if he could tell that it was pointless to argue, Leander sighed. "Very well. I'm conducting research into Wampus cats."

"Why?"

"Too help us gain more insight into the process of thought, particularly in respect to the skill - or art, depending how you look at it - of Legilimency." Sara scowled at Leander's words, and he frowned before asking her, "You take offence at the idea?"

"You would too if your mother was a Legilimens," said Sara, and Leander's eyebrows shot upwards. She exhaled softly through her nose, her scowl softening. "Natural born, and no, I didn't inherit it. Apparently it can skip a generation or something."

"So I've heard. That must be frustrating."

"It can be. Means I've gotten pretty good at Occlumency, though." Sara shrugged again. "Hey, you know, I don't mind helping out with anything, if you..."

Leander Hexley bowed his head, smiling to himself. "That's very kind of you... Ah. What did you say your name was?"

"I didn't. But it's Sara. Sara Kowalski. But most people just call me Sally."

The library began to swirl around Artemis, and the scenery shifted. She was now standing outside in the sunshine, in a garden that she immediately recognised as that of her great-aunt and uncle in Dorset. Leander was sporting dress robes, his arm around Sara's waist. She was smiling broadly, her spare hand resting on the gentle bulge of her stomach that was poorly hidden below her white dress.

The world swirled again, and Artemis was now standing in the hallway of  the dark narrow house in Lovelace Crescent, her mother at her side. Sara was leaning against the frame of the door that led into the sitting room, where Leander was kneeling beside a small dark-haired boy, whose eyebrows were deeply furrowed in confusion.

"That puzzle is too hard for him," said Sara, folding her arms across her chest. "He's not even nine years old yet, Leander."

"He's advanced for his age," her husband replied, not looking up from the parchment he held in front of his son. "He needs to be challenged. We're raising a genius, Sally. Just think, in few years time he'll be off to school, and they won't won't know what's hit them."

He ruffled Jacob's hair and handed him the parchment, before standing up and walking across to his wife and daughter, though he behaved as if Artemis was not even there. Sara uncrossed her arms and wrapped them around him, leaning her head against his chest as she continued to watch her son.

"It'll be so quiet when he goes," she murmured. She turned her face up to her husband and told him: "We should have another one."

"We don't need another one."

"Who said anything about needing? I want another one."

More swirling, another scene, another room. Artemis’ mother's room. The scene was altogether more familiar; Sara Hexley sitting in her bed, alone. Except, she wasn't alone, for in her arms she held a baby, her forehead resting against its crown, murmuring softly to it. Artemis swallowed and stepped closer. Was that...

The bedroom door burst open, and little Jacob Hexley ran into the room, leaping up onto the bed and landing right next to his mother.

"Careful," said Sara. "You don't want to hurt your sister."

"But I wanted a brother."

"You don't get to choose," Sara laughed. "Here. You can hold her if you like." She passed the baby to Jacob and put her arm around him, repositioning his arms with her now free hands. "Jacob, this is Artemis."

Jacob blinked at the baby Artemis in his arms. "She's so little."

"I know, that's why you have to be careful. You have to look after babies, be good to them and protect them. You can do that, can't you?"

"I think so."

"I think so, too. You're clever and strong, like a big brother should be."

The baby who would eventually become Artemis herself reached up, and Artemis watched her mother place her brother's little finger into her palm. Jacob smiled and nodded his head.

"You're right. I am both of those things," he said, and Sara laughed as she placed a kiss on both her children's heads.

Artemis stepped forward, longing to join the three of them, but as she did, the scene shifted once more. Sara held a slightly older baby Artemis on her lap, reading from an open book. From outside the room came the sound of raised voices, and she paused frowning. She closed the book, and stood up, still holding her daughter, and walked towards the study, from which Jacob ran out, his face red with anger and wet with tears.

"I hate you!" he shouted back into the room. 

"Hey," said Sara, bouncing the now crying Artemis on her hip in what seemed like a pointless attempt to soothe her. "Don't say things like that."

Jacob slammed the door and ran up the stairs.

"Jacob! Come back down here and apologise to your father."

But Jacob kept running, both he and his sister clearly inconsolable.

The world shifted once more, and Artemis was no longer in the house at all, but standing on the platform of  a train station. The air around her was smoky and filled with the sound of children shouting and owls screeching, and a red engine stood waiting on the tracks. Sara, Jacob, and a little dark-haired girl who looked far more like herself than the baby from the previous memories were gathered on the platform. 

"I'm sorry your father couldn't come to say goodbye," Sara said as she released her son from a tight embrace. Jacob shook his head.

"I didn't want him to come anyway."

"Jacob..."

"It's true, Ma. I don't want him here, or anywhere near us." He exhaled, and looked around himself before pulling his mother back into another hug, whispering into her ear. Artemis leaned in closer to hear what he was saying. "Ma, you don't know him. You can't trust him, you mustn't trust him. Not with yourself, and definitely not with Missy."

"Honey, you're-"

"I mean it, Ma. Please, be careful," said Jacob. He bent down to hug the smaller Artemis, whose eyes were filled with tears. He ruffled her hair. "There's no point telling you to be careful, is there?" He crouched down as a tear rolled down Artemis' face. "I'll be back at Christmas, and I'll write to you every week until then."

"Why can't I come with you? I want to go, too."

"You will one day, Missy. Take care of mum while I'm gone."

With one last pointed look at his mother, Jacob stood up and walked away down the platform. As the train whistle blew, the scene in front of Artemis dissolved into the steam and faded to black. She felt herself turn in the air, and when her feet hit the ground, she was standing back in the headmaster's office, with Dumbledore at her side.

"What.. What was that?" she stammered.

"Memories," replied Dumbledore. "Your mother's memories."

"But why?"

"Clearly, she thought that you deserved to know the truth as much as I do."

"The truth about what?" Artemis looked at the pensieve, her eyebrows furrowing deeply. "Jacob... He said she couldn't trust our Dad."

"He did."

"And our dad... He'd be a direct descendant of Morgan le Fay too, wouldn't he?

"He would."

"He was the leader of R, wasn't he? Before he died?"

"He was," Dumbledore inclined his head. "However, he must have at some point discovered that he was not the heir of which the prophecy speaks. Whether that occurred before or after he journeyed to America, I am not sure. However, I suspect it was his interest in the Vaults that caused him to journey overseas. He said himself that he was researching Legilimency. It is my theory that he was looking for a way to open the Buried Vault. In doing so, he found your mother, the daughter of a natural-born Legilimens. The skill skipped a generation, as she said it often does, and so when Jacob and you were born, you both had the innate ability."

"Which meant we could open the Vaults, and not our dad," Artemis said. "That was why he used to do all those puzzles. It was practice for the Vaults. He was training us."

"That would be my suspicion."

"So it should've been Jacob. He always was good at the puzzles and riddles and things. Much better than I was."

"Perhaps, but as you just saw, Jacob did not trust your father, nor did he want anything to do with him and his plans," said Dumbledore, his face growing serious. "The prophecy tells of the person who will lead the way to the Cursed Vaults. It also speaks of a sacrifice."

"A life."

"Not just any life. The life of the person most dear to the one who will open the final Vault. Jacob, naturally, was not prepared to sacrifice that life. He was determined to keep the person he loved most safe."

"But the Cabal had Duncan killed anyway."

"They did. Duncan's death was an immeasurable tragedy, made even more devastating for the simple reason that it was a great waste," Dumbledore sighed sadly. "Duncan Ashe is not the person I speak of. The person Jacob loved most in the world was you." Artemis' eyes widened, and Dumbledore placed one hand on her shoulder, the other resting on the edge of the Pensieve dish. "I must warn you, Artemis, that the next memories are yours, and you will most likely be upset by them. The truth is never easy, but it is important that you know it."

Artemis shrugged. "They're just memories, Professor. I've seen them before."

"In a way, I suppose that you're right."

Before she could ask Dumbledore what he meant, the Pensieve began to swirl again, and she felt herself plummeting down through it once more. When she stopped falling, she found herself in a small, dark room with a sloping attic ceiling. Her own bedroom. In the bed, a small child was sleeping.

The door opened a little, and a narrow strip of light entered the room, shining onto the child's face. As the child squinted and rubbed her eyes, Artemis recognised her younger self. Footsteps behind her made her aware of a second person entering the room, and she turned to see her father walking across to crouch beside the bed.

"Artemis. Wake up," he said, shaking her gently. "It's time to get up."

"Is it morning already?" 

"Not yet, princess. It's still night time, but I need your help with something."

"What?" asked the younger Artemis, her head tilting and nose wrinkling in the half-light.

"Oh, I can't tell you that. It's a surprise. Do you want to help?"

The darkened room swirled, and shifted into yet another. This one, too, Artemis recognised. She had been standing in it just an hour before, and not just in a memory. 

She watched her father lead her younger self across the black tiled entrance chamber of the Department of Mysteries and through one of the identical black doors. She followed them through the door, and found herself in the great stone-stepped room with the central archway. This time, however, the veil in the arch was missing, and the room was eerily silent.

"I don't like it," said the smaller Artemis, staring at the archway with her hazel eyes narrowed in suspicion. Her father chuckled softly.

"You're not scared are you?"

"No," Artemis watched herself stick her chin out stubbornly, though there was an undeniable waver in her voice. "I'm not scared of it, I just don't like it."

"That's okay, then," said Leander. He knelt down and placed his hands on his daughters shoulders. "Because this is what I need help with. I need you to run - as fast as you can - down all these steps and through that archway. Do you think you can do that?" 

The younger Artemis nodded her head, and her father hugged her tight to his chest. "I knew you'd be good at helping, because you are really, really special. We all love you very much. You know that, don't you?" Another nod of the little girl's head, and Leander let go of her completely. "Good. Now, run."

Artemis' blood ran cold as she watched her own face split into a broad smile, and saw herself begin to run. Her dark hair was in disarray, her feet clad in slippers, her pyjamas partly covered by a knitted jumper adorned with a pattern of blue Kneazles. She scampered down the steps, running as fast as her little legs could carry her towards the daïs with its crumbling stone arch.

"ARTEMIS, NO!"

At first, she thought that she had shouted the words herself, but the voice that cried out was not hers. Both Artemises stopped and turned to see who the voice belonged to.

Sara Hexley, her face white and filled with horror, stood in the doorway.

But not for long. She ran straight past her husband and down the steps to her daughter, placing her palms to the smaller Artemis' face, her arms, her hands, her torso.

"Are you okay, honey? Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine."

Sara Hexley was apparently unconvinced, for the colour did not return to her cheeks and she continued to run her eyes over her child, pushing her sleeves up and hair back from her face as if looking for signs of damage. Sighing as if bored by this display of maternal concern, Leander made his way down the stone steps towards them.

"You." Sara pushed her daughter behind her as she turned towards her approaching husband, her voice shaking with rage and disgust. "Jacob said... I didn't believe him. I couldn't believe him." She blinked as if forcing back tears, and asked, "It's true, isn't it? These Cursed Vaults, these people who want them... You're one of them."

"We don't want the Vaults, Sally, we want what's inside them," said Leander. "We all have wanted it for so long, needed it, and now we finally have the key to getting it. Jacob is the key, he's the one. Our son can do what no one else has done for centuries."

"And our daughter?"

"She is important, too. She has her own part to play."

Leander's eyes drifted to the stone archway, and following them, Sara's own widened to perfect circles.

"No," she said, her voice weak. "No, you can't..."

"I have to."

"I won't let you."

"You don't have a choice," Leander sighed. "Either it happens now, like this, or later, in another way. The prophecy is very clear-"

"I don't give a damn about any prophecy," Sara snapped. "This is our daughter."

"You cannot prevent the inevitable, Sally. It is prophecised, it will come to pass. At least this way, we can control how."

Sara Hexley stared at her husband. Her face began to soften, and her eyes glazed over, her face becoming unreadable. Slowly, she nodded and turned back to her daughter, holding her close and whispering into her hair. Watching on, Artemis heard her words as clearly as if she were the one being spoken to.

"Artemis, honey, I want you to show me how fast you can run, okay? When I let you go, you go run back to that door and back up the stairs. Go as far as you can, and if you find somewhere to hide, you hide. Understand?"

As she stood back up straight, Sara kept one hand on Artemis' shoulder, the other reaching for her wand.

"Go!"

The silent chamber became full of noise and movement. As her mother had instructed, the younger Artemis darted back up the stone steps, her father lunging to catch her. But Artemis had always been fast, and somehow, Sara was even faster. Quick as a flash, her wand was pointed at Leander, her feet springing into an offensive duelling position, her arm moving as she hurled spells at him with more feeling, force, and skill than Artemis had even known she possessed. Leander, now having to defend himself against his wife, had no choice but to let the younger Artemis run away. 

Meanwhile, the older Artemis stayed put, watching the duel with her mouth half-open with shock and awe as her parents continued to fight. Her mother's technique was flawless, and every spell she cast was with furious intent. Leander, even though he was defending himself both with and without his wand, was clearly no match for her.

Artemis would have stayed and watched them duel for longer, but the chamber and the lights began to swirl, spinning around her and not stopping, even as the stone steps turned into black walls and doors. In the centre of the spinning room was her younger self, eyes screwed shut and little body trembling in her blue Kneazle jumper. 

"It's okay," Artemis told herself, even though she knew that she wouldn't be able to hear. "You're going to be okay. Don't be scared."

But the younger Artemis was scared. She was terrified. Artemis tried to hug her, but her arms went straight through her. 

The doors stopped spinning and one opened. Both Artemises flinched, but the person who opened the door was Sara. she wrapped her arms around the little girl the way Artemis had tried to. 

"Where's Daddy? Why were you fighting?"

"We just had a bit of argument, that’s all. He'll come home later."

Sara led little Artemis away, and the room spun again, this time settling to form the hallway at Lovelace Crescent once more. Artemis was sitting with herself at the bottom of the staircase, and the door to the sitting room was ajar. Through it, she could hear a pair of voices.

"She's scared of me, Jacob," her mother was saying, her voice choked with tears. "I can see it, every time she looks at me."

"That's why we have to do it." 

In the doorway, Artemis could see the back of her mother's head move from side to side. Beyond her, Jacob looked through the open door and sighed before making his way over to the stairs. He hugged the younger Artemis and lifted her up, carrying her across the hallway and into the sitting room, the older Artemis following behind her.

"We can't let her remember this, Ma," he whispered, and a single tear fell down Sara Hexley's cheek as she nodded her head, just once. Jacob placed the younger Artemis down, and removed his wand from his robes.

"Ma?" said the younger Artemis, and Sara Hexley closed her eyes. "Jacob?"

Artemis watched Jacob put the tip of his wand to her younger self's temple, and everything turned black. 

[arcanarix]

The Plot Thickens! // CONTESTSHIPPING / SHUUKURA

AO3 || FFN 

Harley taps onto the mic and cringes from the sharp feedback. “Testing, 1, 2, 3! Testing, 1, 2, 3! Ugh! This sounds awful! Someone fix–!” 

–his wish is granted, as the sound check folks do their jobs. One of them casts a thumbs up as a queue for him to start over.

He clears his throat, eyes scanning the impressive size of the crowd. If he has to guess, the amount of people who have arrived for this heist may fill up the entirety of the Indigo League stadium up to five times! Might he be exaggerating–he often is–he doesn’t really know or really care. This is not just a publicity stunt, you see. As always, there are ulterior motives in the world of Harley Davidson. 

“Excellent!” For emphasis, he clears his throat once more, shielding his mouth with a balled fist. “Welcome to the Slateport Grand Heist! I know the Ribbon Cup season has ended for the Hoenn region yet again, and things have gotten far too quiet to our liking. So let me set the scene–you are all cordially encouraged to embark on a scavenger hunt for a rare breed of a shiny Zorua. Its beauty is unmatched, and it’s a perfect addition to your team if you’re needing a new teammate! Not only are you going to win that Zorua to add to your party, you also win a delicious sum of cash! Don’t miss out! Sign up here! And please welcome my dear sponsor, Maybella Maple!” 

He gestures wide, loud, and proud to her as she steps onto the podium. Behind her, a huge projection screen to showcase her true ethereal beauty. She has grown well into herself in the last decade, establishing herself as a five-time Ribbon Cup winner and even upstaging Soledad and Drew! In this moment, she looks like a Queen gazing down at her subjects with a softness in her eyes, and a twinkle of that fiery, lively energy she has always possessed in her soul.

She has never dimmed in her light–not even when Harley tried to before.

Harley can’t help but respect that now.

May beams at the crowd as they roar and cheer, even earning a few wolf whistles which makes her blush just a bit from embarrassment. She lowers the mic to her level. 

“Hi everybody! If you do decide to enter this exciting heist, then we’d be more than honored to have you here! This Heist is also here to help fund for future Ribbon Cup seasons and local Pokemon Centers in the region. We hope to enhance the experience for new and old coordinators and the care which is provided in Pokemon Centers which has helped us for centuries! This is a great cause, and we wholeheartedly accept any additional donations!” 

As she steps away, Harley takes the spotlight once more, not without mouthing a ‘thank you’ to her as she gives him the space he requires to spread his arms out wide, like he’s giving the crowd a big bear hug for showing up for them. 

“We sure hope you’re ready! Sign up ends at 5PM sharp! The scavenger hunt for the Zorua begins tomorrow morning at 7AM sharp! Don’t miss out on the fun! Toodles~!” 

Harley steps away and takes in the applause, as he’s always lived for it. That’s the whole reason behind becoming a coordinator for him–the applause! The adoration! The admiration! The fame! It’s all important to him to a certain extent. It’s not as prominent of a desire now, but he still loves to gloat and showboat whenever he gets a chance to soak it all up like a sponge.

The roaring of the crowd dies down and soon they are dismissed to take care of sign ups and registration, which are held at the Pokemon Center here in Slateport. It’s good to be home. He’s forgotten what peace and relaxation is like. But he’s reminded every time he relaxes at the local beaches here. 

Harley and May retire to the back of the stadium, where they share some of the confection foods available. 

“Thanks for doing this for me, sugarplum,” he says from the bottom of his heart. This time, his sincerity is genuine. Well it has been for a long time. They’re no longer enemies or frenemies or whatever the heck people call it. “I can’t believe people actually showed up.”

“Well, why not? You’re a hot shot,” May teases, “It’s not like you to play humble.”

It’s not like her to be that observant . . . Harley only hopes she hasn’t figured out another underlying scheme of his. He may have spread a little rumor to the male identifying coordinators that winning the Zorua and the money also includes a date with this four course meal and dessert just before his eyes. If she isn’t going to date Weed Hair, then he may as well try to up the ante a little by forcing them into a little tight spot. Drew has refused to confess his feelings for the last decade or so of them all knowing each other and Harley’s grown exhausted from all of the dancing around the rosy bushes between them or whatever.

He’s had to take matters into his own hands. This time as a friend and not as some insecure POS who can’t accept there’s always going to be someone better or more talented than he is. Yes, he friggin’ says it! Leave him friggin’ be. 

Bringing a powdered donut to his lips, he hums in agreement. “No kiddin’. I’m not! So who do you think will be joining the heist?” 

“Probably everyone and their mothers,” May laughs earnestly. “It seems so fun too. I kind of wish I could enter to win that Zorua, but that doesn’t seem right since I’m helping to sponsor this event.”

“You’ve already got a golden team, hon. But I can always find a way to get another one of those Zoruas from a breeder if that’s what you want.”

“You don’t have to, but I appreciate the offer.” May sighs, bringing her glass of water to her lips. “I can’t believe how far we’ve come together. I’m really glad we became friends, Harley.” 

Harley lifts his own drink, offering a toast. “To us, hon.”

She giggles, raising her glass as well. “To us.”

Their drinkwares join together and clink, the sound seemingly reverberating through the room like a windchime. Maybe a spell has been casted–a blessing. This friendship is a blessing to them both.

Drew does learn of this Heist Harley’s hosting. He has to admit his interest is piqued. If not for any other reason, than the fact that it’s someone like Harley hosting it. 

Anything involving Harley is often a prescription for disaster in Drew’s world. He doesn’t trust that someone like him can change. Call him a skeptic. Call him a hard-ass. He doesn’t give a single crap. He’s always going to have May’s and Soledad’s back, and he’s always going to keep Harley at something much longer than an arm’s length. But no amount of space between them will ever be enough. 

Anyway, what leads him to sign up is because he’s been brought to light by an underlying motive in Harley organizing this event. Because that’s how he’s always operated before, and he’ll continue to operate that way for the rest of his life. Drew’s been raised on the philosophy of trusting patterns of behavior over someone’s words. 

Words themselves don’t sell someone’s character, after all. Anyone can say anything they want. 

Everyone with even the teensiest bit of critical thinking ability can come up with that conclusion on their own. 

Unfortunately, upon learning May is assisting him in sponsoring this event, and given May’s history of often giving Harley the benefit of the doubt in spite of knowing better . . . no one can blame Drew for wishing to investigate this event further. He’s putting on that tin hat. There’s never a pure reason behind Harley’s intentions, and those suspicions have been confirmed on his way to the Slateport Pokemon Center!

“I can’t believe Harley admitted we can ask May on a date if we win,” one contestant exclaims as he walks with his group of friends, just within earshot of Drew, who happens to be scrolling through his news feed. 

‘Old habits die hard,’ he thinks, scowling. Does he really have to rescue May AGAIN?

“Yeah, it’s not an official event but who cares? Gal’s single, gal’s famous, gal’s hot . . . “ Jackass #2 numbers off the merits of dating someone like May with those grimy probably oily as fuck disgusting fingers of his, and Drew can’t help stewing in pure agony at the thought of someone OTHER than him dating May. 

Especially if they don’t know how to treat her or appreciate her! 

“Whatever helps advertise the heist, I guess,” Jackass #3 comments, “I might decline, if I win, though.”

May not be that much of a jackass, with a little inkling of common sense and dignity! 

“Hello Drew. Good to see you again. Are you here to register?” Nurse Joy greets upon approaching the counter. 

“Yes, I’d like to enter the Slateport Heist.”

“Excellent. I have you all set up. If you’re looking for your friends, they are staying here, so you’ll run into them soon.”

Drew nods. “Thanks.”

He accepts his token and retires to his cabin. 

Yes, let the games begin, indeed. 

7 A. M. the following day comes along, and everyone’s gathered around the small stadium the city put together for Harley’s event. In the center, a medieval inspired gong, which Harley strikes to initiate the beginning of something either grand or something anticlimactic. 

Watching the contestants scramble around like headless chickens for the Zorua has been nothing short of entertaining for the Cacturne trainer, and he sits back and enjoys the show while May’s fucked off elsewhere for the time being. She monitors other areas of the city to make sure no one’s up to mischief. 

Speaking of May, she’s giggling at the prospect of all these younger trainers arguing over who deserves that Zorua. With its perfect IVs and fully trained EVs, its shiny new color, its cloaking ability . . . Zorua’s likely hiding in plain sight and these trainers are too busy arguing to see what’s right in front of them. 

She strolls through one of Slateport’s main streets and swears under her breath when she catches a familiar flash of green. A particular mossy shade of green. 

Approaching him from behind, she addresses him. 

“ . . . Drew?” 

Whipping around, Drew’s eyes widen for a brief moment before they soften immediately upon realizing that it’s her. Perfect. Just the girl he’s been looking for all of this time since the heist began. 

He needs to get her away from Harley’s scheming, grimy hands! 

“I take it you’re here because you really want that Zorua.” 

“An excellent guess, but no,” he replies, and May can’t help picking up on how his usually tense expression fades into one of pure softness. For her? Why, though? “I’m actually here for you.”

“Me?” May’s tone indicates incredulousness. Even after all of this time!? “What do I owe the pleasure?” 

“Um, why are you working on this with Harley?” 

May frowns. “We’ve established that we’ve outgrown that weird frenemy stage we had. We’re really good friends now, Drew. What’s going on?” 

Drew sighs, deciding against telling her the truth. Collaborating with Harley–or even being within Harley’s proximity–is never any good. He offers her a rose from seemingly thin air, which May graciously accepts.

“Never mind. Anyway, what’s in it for you?” 

“Nothing! It just seemed like a fun way to raise money for the Ribbon Cup.”

Things fall silent between them, but it’s comfortable. They decide to look for that Zorua together. 

They find themselves near the Slateport beach, close to where they first met. Drew looks off at the private beach area where he found May, and he can’t help but chuckle to himself. 

“What’s so funny?” May then picks up on it. “Oh. You’re thinking about how we met, huh?” 

“Yeah. On this very beach,” he says, “Hard to believe how far we’ve come.”

“Hard to believe we can stand to breathe the same air as each other.” 

Drew splutters, “I more than can just tolerate breathing the same air as you.” 

In fact, he dearly wishes to be with her for the rest of his life. He’s damn sure of it. He’s not going to admit that to her yet because he doesn’t want to scare her off.

A splash of salty water on him catches him off-guard. He turns to ese May with a mischievous grin on her face, and Drew shakes his head. 

“You rascal,” Drew teases as he joins her by the water, splashing her back. 

Suddenly, in the sand, Zorua pops out from hiding under it. Once he notices it, Drew’s mouth falls open. 

“Oh! There’s the gorgeous Zorua!” 

Zorua hops right into Drew’s arms upon recognizing him. 

Drew and May exchange a look. 

“Uh . . . do we go back to the stadium, then?” May inquires. Drew nods and they walk off, ignoring the icky wetness of their damp clothes. 

Eh. They’re going to dry off, they think. 

When they arrive back at the stadium, Harley’s relaxing on a lounge chair and enjoying the sun shining down on him. His goal must be a tan, as he’s angling a mirror to have the sun hit on his body. 

He hears the rustling of their footsteps, and he raises himself from his seat, resting his sunglasses over his head to get a view of them. 

“Oh! Excellent! Just as planned, Randy, you found Zorua!” Harley exclaims. “Well, I should say Zorua found you guys. I told it not to appear to anyone else except Drew. No one was going to be able to find Zorua by the end of the event.”

“Huh?” May cuts in, placing her hands on her hips. “Then what was the purpose of this heist anyway?” 

“Yeah,” Drew adds, “Why were you getting the male winners the opportunity to ask May out if they won?” 

“What?” May glares at Harley. “You conveniently left out that little detail! What in the world?!” 

“Sounding a bit envious there, Randy,” Harley snorts, “If you must know, I knew you were going to sign up for this heist if I put May in a jeopardizing situation. Of course nothing life-threatening. She’s just been single for too long after that jackass Brendan dated her. Lo and behold, you do enter the hunt, and not only do you earn the Zorua and the money, but you’re the one getting to ask May out on a date.”

“What were you going to do if the winner was a girl? This wasn’t well thought out,” May says, “Which is a first, coming from you.” 

Harley steps back, striking a defensive pose. His tone does indicate some sincerity but there’s no telling with Harley quite literally ever. 

He shakes his head as he vehemently disagrees. 

“I only told the men about that little addition. No girl was going to ask you out. And by the way, it wasn’t going to be a bunch of random guys, just the winner of the heist,  and I orchestrated everything so that Drew would win anyways. Like I already said, Zorua was not going to be found. Not easily. Zorua’s great at keeping itself hidden. Everything’s worked out in favor of you two finally biting the bullet and just going out already. We’re sick of you two dancing around the bush.” 

“I–!” Drew can’t even begin to express himself at that moment. He has to admit–he’s been fooled. Maybe Harley has changed for the better, in some aspects. In others, that’s still up for debate. 

Despite this, Drew may never completely warm up to Harley. 

Not even the fact that he’s dating Soledad. 

“So, Randrew Gayden, aren’t you going to finally roll for initiative like this is DND and finally give May the lovin’ on she deserves?” 

“Uhhhh . . . “ Drew’s brain may have short-circuited at that point. Picking up on that little brain fart of Drew’s, a rare moment for him indeed, May takes charge like the woman she always is because she always feels like she has something to prove. 

“Drew,” she begins, twiddling the rose he gifted her just moments prior to this interaction. “Will you take me to dinner?” 

Yep. That brain fart then escalates to a complete meltdown. His circuitry is failing him. There’s probably steam out of his ears from that system overload. 

System overload! 

May’s forehead creases. “. . . Drew? Do I have to do everything around here, or do I have to drag you to the nicest restaurant in this region?” 

“No! No, I, uh . . .” Taking a deep stabilizing breath, he finds that confidence he works so hard to fake the majority of the time. Yeah, you hear him right–fake. He’s not the sauviest of the suave, he has come to accept that. 

Especially if he can’t ask the most beautiful girl in the world out and she has to make the move first! 

He clears his throat, and meets her eyes, careful not to get too lost admiring how much those sapphire eyes resemble the deepest depths of the sea. 

“Yes, I’ll take you to dinner. Only if you let me spoil you rotten.”

Harley grimaces. “Damn, you really are living up to the name, Randy.” 

“Stop calling me that,” Drew counters.

“Over my dead body!” Harley then approaches May. “Don’t I get a thank you, hon?” 

“I’m not sure if I should thank you or slap you, but I’ll let you get away with it this time. Thanks, Harley. Now if you’ll excuse us, this is long overdue.”

“Of course, of course! Have fun ye hooligans! Farewell now!” 

Drew hooks May’s arm around his. “Where to? We’ll take a ride on Flygon.”

“I can go for something exotic and new, so surprise me, Mr Fancy Pants.”

“Anything for you.” Drew casts a dirty look at Harley over his shoulder, as if to say, ‘I’ll deal with you later.’ 

For now, he’s going to enjoy a wonderful date with a wonderful girl. 

[j-hauke]

So I finally have the courage to share this, it’s a couple years old and won’t be finished but I think it’s decent (ish)

Creation and Destruction

I have existed since the beginning. I have been here since the start and I will be here till the end (if such a thing exists). I have seen the first living being, the creation and destruction of worlds. I have watched many flourish and grow while others wither and die. Many call me the end, others a new beginning. Nothing can evade me, many have tried (I punish those). Some respect me, others fear me. I don’t know why I exist, who was I created by? Was I created by the universe? My older sister so believes in. It doesn’t matter, at least not anymore.

I was happy for a time with what I was and what I could do. It did not last, I started to feel jealous of my sister. My sister is Light while I am Darkness, she is kind and merciful, while I am cruel and hateful. Jealousy is new to me, it feels like cold chains wrapped tightly around my chest. My sister came to me with an idea, she said ‘let's make something and give them love and hate, beauty and ugly. Let's make them look like us’ I wanted to create, to bring life. I wanted to watch life grow, instead of leaving.

My sister created four beings similar in many ways yet fundamentally different. She turned to me and asked me ‘How are they?’ All I could do was stare in wonder at what she created. She must have seen it on my ever changing face and simply smiles at me. She indicates that I should move closer, I move slowly as if my presence would destroy what my dear sister had created. I inch closer and stop next to my sister and stare at what she had made. I look over at her and see her nod to me, so I walk over to the four beings and lightly tap each of their chests. I feel a slight drain of my power as my blessing takes hold.

I blessed them, though bless wouldn’t be the right word, it's more like cursed. Their features turned twisted and dark. I step back and look on in horror at what I had done, the once beautiful beings become something monstrous. The first one looked similar to me, its eyes sunk into its head and turned pitch black. It seemed to shrink up and became rail thin with skin barely stretched over it’s bones, the skin became pale white not unlike mine. The second one had its skin start peeling off and became pale with red blotches. The whites of its eyes turned a light red and the veins stuck out against its pale peeling skin. The third grew horns as Its skin color changed to a dark red and got bigger. The last one One became thin and its eyes dulled, it looked like it was soon to join my domain.

I turn to my sister and see her smile sadly at what I had done, she looks at me opening her mouth to speak before I cut her off by melting into darkness and return to my domain to hide for the rest of time. Over time I feel my sister try to draw me out but I refuse to show myself to her, eventually she gives up and returns to creating. She expands her domain and in doing so beats mine back into the far parts of the universe, I give it up willingly and hide away. Time moves on and I feel a presence not unlike mine enter my domain, I move after centuries of hiding as I make my way to the presence I ponder on what it could be as I cut myself off from making anything ever again. I stop in front of the presence and see the first being I had blessed before I had run away. It looks at me and simply says ‘Hello father.’

[angara-mfrp]

What is a Direction? A Prospective Member's Explanation

So, you're thinking of joining Angara Death Zone, but you're wanting an in-depth explanation of one of its fundamental mechanics? We've got you covered! After all, your muse's Direction serves as something of a jumping-off point for finding new friends and allies.

If you're short on time and would like to peruse this post later, we've got you covered there too. But first, a quick explanation about us!

Angara Death Zone, a multi-fandom Discord roleplay group that takes a less traditional approach to the post-apocalyptic genre (arguably, it should be called "post-post-apocalyptic), with a healthy does of mystery. It's a story of those in search of lost history, set in an underground city nestled within wetlands. Strange characters, creatures, and truths abound. Our group has no member cap, nor do we have an immediate plans to implement one, so reserves are always open!

We have more details for you under the cut, but if you're short on time, here are some quick links!

PREMISE | RULES | FAQ | MASTERLIST | REQUESTED CHARACTERS | LOCATIONS | RANKUP SYSTEM | CONTACT

Over a century before your muse's unceremonious drop into the Angara region's heart-shaped lake, the leaders of the Cache, a massive underground city, decided to create a system of community after a cultural exchange with society on the outside. Each community would be split into five groups, each group headed by an Advocate, a respected community member embodying the group's typical traits. These groups would be called Directions, and they are still in place all these years later.

For locals, Direction is decided when a baby is able to crawl and choose for themselves. However, for your muse, it seems as though someone else has decided it for you...and they're right. On an OOC basis, you would take a quiz and answer as your muse would answer to find out where they belong.

The five Directions are North, South, East, West, and Center. What makes each one distinct? Well, it's a combination of traits, values, and motivations.

Muses who are determined, loyal, and inclined to lead will find themselves in the North, led by funeral director Vera Graves. These individuals can find themselves at odds even with each other, as their opinions and convictions are strong and don't allow for much wiggle room for compromise. Some negative traits found among Northies, as they've been nicknamed, are stubbornness, quick tempers, and inclination to get involved in fights if there's a perceived injustice. However, if you win the trust of a Northie, they'll always have your back...unless, of course, you do something that betrays them. And even if squabbles break out among them, at the end of the day, they're still likely to respect each other.

Under Vera's leadership, you can expect to always have a good listener when something's troubling you. Her funeral home has a calming atmosphere for the recently bereaved, but it's an enjoyable place to sit and have a cup of tea while petting her black cats, Mortimer and Bella. If you do something to cause her trouble, though? Watch out, because she can be a little scary when she's mad!

Muses who are cunning, logical, and ambitious will find themselves in the South, led by ranger Mikaves Bell. These individuals are known to be aloof or intimidating, and while they may be open about their deeds, they are extremely guarded with their innermost thoughts and emotions. Some negative traits among Southies, as they've been nicknamed, are ruthlessness, callousness, and vindictiveness. However, while the Southies may cause some people to be wary, they can be an asset in times of great peril, as they will often be able to step back and look at things from a logical perspective. Also, if they like you enough, they may be willing to kill someone for you...allegedly.

Under Mikaves' leadership, you'll find that he has a relatively hands-off approach, which suits most of the Southies just fine. He is, of course, a very busy man, handling pest control within the Cache and studying the ecology of Angara. As beautiful as his home is, you'll probably want to avoid going into his office unless you want to be scolded for wasting his time. So if your Southie muse needs to meet with their Advocate, it had better be important!

Muses who are spontaneous, creative, and gregarious will find themselves in the East, led by historian and professor Erin Olivier Alpin. Easygoing and often endearingly honest, these individuals love to laugh, socialize, and generally have a good time. Some negative traits among Easties, as they've been nicknamed, are noisiness, obnoxiousness, and being overly-familiar. However, they tend to be so genuine and well-meaning that even the most cantankerous individuals have a hard time staying annoyed with them for too long. Plus, when an Eastie throws a party, you'll not only have a good time, but your presence will be embraced.

Under Erin's leadership, you might find that you need to reach out to her directly, as she's generally preoccupied with her studies, but also with online gaming and raising her sullen teenage daughter. As the oldest of the current Advocates, Erin likes to take something of a motherly role to her Easties, reminding them to rest, drink water, and eat their veggies, even if she won't take her own advice. She has a particular interest in memes, and you may find yourself in a full-body cringe at her clumsy use of hashtags.

Muses who are introspective, introverted, and curious will find themselves in the West, led by veterinarian and animal researcher Ethan Keye. These individuals can, at times, be seen as similar to the South, as they share a somewhat reserved nature. Those in the West, by contrast, are usually doing so not out of dislike for others, but because they prefer to observe from a distance. Some negative traits among Westies, as they've been nicknamed, are willingness to self-deprecate, tendency to suffer in silence, and clumsiness in social interactions. However, these frequently shy people are trying their best, and their limited social interaction can often mean that they simply don't know how best to express themselves. In fact, they are often very deeply kind.

Under Ethan's leadership, you can expect a caring Advocate who is always eager and patient in explaining things, even if he can be a bit anxious at times. He was born a human, but experienced non-lethal mutations after being scratched by an animal carrying an unknown malady, so don't be concerned by the scratching posts in his office. He truly wants to do his part in making the Cache run well, and helping others can stave off his self-doubt.

Muses who are compassionate, generous, and family-oriented will find themselves in the Center, led by zoo director Susie Winters. These individuals are known for being friendly and interested in what others have to say, and they're able to quickly bond with others over shared hobbies and interests, usually cozier in nature. Some negative traits among Centies, as they've been nicknamed, are constantly putting others before themselves, worrying about those close to them, and being unable to say no to those in need. However, these negative traits tend to take a toll only on themselves, and their kindness can be used to appeal to their emotions. After all, they'd hate to make a friend or loved one sad!

Under Susie's leadership, you'll find a helpful, caring leader who will often go out of her way to make sure her Centies are happy and comfortable in their lives. You can expect to become fast friends if you're interested in animals! Don't expect her kindness to mean she's a doormat, though. Susie can take charge when the need arises, and she won't hesitate to call for backup if it's more than what she can handle personally.

So, what do you think of the Cache's leaders? Can you see your muse befriending any of them? If you're curious, be sure to check out our Direction quiz, especially if you're thinking about joining! ADZ answers asks on Tuesday, Friday, and Sunday, and we can also be reached via Tumblr or Twitter DMs if you have any additional questions.

Good luck to our prospective otherworlders, and we hope to see you soon!

[pashterlengkap]

Keep your Thanks: Here’s the justice queer Native Americans really hunger for

The “first Thanksgiving” of 1621 between the Mashpee Wampanoag tribe and English Pilgrims at Plymouth, Massachusetts wasn’t as friendly as people think. In fact, many Native Americans feel that the occasion marked the start of 400 years of colonization and oppression. Some choose instead to observe the Friday after Thanksgiving as Native American Heritage Day, a day for recognizing Indigenous communities and their contributions to the nation. Many present-day queer and Two-Spirit Native American activists are working to reclaim Indigenous lands, rituals, culture, and mental health. While some public events have begun reciting “land acknowledgments” — defined by NPR as “formal statements recognizing Indigenous communities’ rights to territories seized by colonial powers” — some see such statements as a well-intentioned but empty gesture, while others see them as a necessary first step towards restorative justice. On that road to justice, however, here are some of the political goals sought by Indigenous activists: Related: Watch this adorable gay Native American couple break barriers with a pow wow dance The couple, who met on the pow wow circuit, have performed couples “sweetheart” dances, and are in awe of the warm responses they have received. Legal recognition by federal and state governments Get the Daily Brief The news you care about, reported on by the people who care about you: Subscribe to our Newsletter Some tribes were forced into reservation territory and allowed sovereignty to oversee its land, businesses, and governance. But other tribes haven’t been legally recognized at all — something that severely limits tribe members’ ability to claim ancestral lands and receive financial restitution. The federal government didn’t legally recognize the aforementioned Mashpee Wampanoag tribe until 2007, even though the tribe had existed for 12,000 years beforehand. Others continue to fight for legal recognition, even though their existence may already be well documented in historical records. Restoring ancestral lands Many tribes desire sovereignty over the lands that their ancestors once inhabited. This includes the Lakota Sioux, whose ancestors lived in the Black Hills, an area that now contains Mount Rushmore. The tribe oversaw the hills until the U.S. government violated a treaty, massacred their tribe members at Wounded Knee, and then carved the faces of four former U.S. presidents into the mountainside. Predictably, many state and federal governments oppose restoring tribal lands, but it can be done. In 2015, the federal government pledged to restore 300 acres to the aforementioned Mashpee Wampanoag tribe, though former President Donald Trump’s Department of the Interior reversed the decision in 2018. In 2009, the Wiyot people of California’s northern coast raised $106,000 to buy 1.5 acres on their ancestral land of Duluwat Island. The Eureka City Council voted to give the tribe 240 additional acres of island that the city had controlled. Around 2020, a United Methodist Church in Ohio also returned some land to the Wyandotte Nation. This restoration can neither completely restore the ecological damage nor the lost relationships the tribes once had to their lands. But for many, it’s an important way to ensure that tribe members have a home and community dedicated to preserving their culture. Preserving Indigenous knowledge Although Indigenous communities only comprise an estimated 5% of the world’s population, they safeguard an estimated 80% of the planet’s biodiversity, according to the World Wildlife Federation. This safeguarding includes centuries-old practices of hunting, agriculture, and preservation that foster a respectful, reciprocal relationship with the land while providing sustainable alternatives to widespread deforestation, fossil fuel use, industrial over-farming, and species’ extinction. These are particularly important considering the increased natural disasters that have… http://dlvr.it/SzHt8r

[kulturra]

Mano Po: Prominent Cultural Values of the Philippines

Culture has an influence on the aspects of our daily lives as it shapes the citizens’ individuality and defines who we are. This is where our current customs depend on, making our cultures and traditions rich even back in centuries where they originated and developed over the course of time. Global modernization brought about significant cultural change, for better or worse, in various nations. However, some of them, particularly the elderly, strive to preserve these practices alive by encouraging future generations to carry them on. Being Filipinos, it is our responsibility to maintain these cultures and how we can promote them.

Undoubtedly, humans across the planet are constantly creating novel innovations as a means to improve and make their daily activities smoother.  With its assistance, anything is achievable with a single click. We, the younger generations, are valuable to society to the extent that we are capable of disseminating information since we are proficient at exploiting modern devices like the internet and social media. Employing different platforms to promote the Philippines’ cultural values is a step toward maintaining our uniqueness. 

Our homeland, the Philippines, is renowned as Asia's pearl of the Orient for the beauty of its landscape. It is the site of modern museums, historical forts, turn-of-the-century houses, and centuries-old churches. The Philippines is an archipelago comprising 7,100 islands. The most notable aspect of its culture is its richness, which arises from the incorporation of the customs of our ancestors with those of the colonizers who reigned our land for 333 years. 

What are the Cultural Values the Philippines has? 

Filipinos truly stand out from other countries when it comes to our certain values. But today, we are only tackling the two values that define us as Filipinos: hospitality and respect for elders. 

Hospitality

Even back in the decades, the Philippines has been recognized for its hospitality, or "magiliw na pagtanggap," which essentially describes the friendly and accommodating attitude of the Filipino people toward their visitors. The Philippines has a strong cultural tradition of treating guests with the highest regard and generosity. It also embodies the friendliness and warmth of the Filipino people. Therefore, you can expect to encounter the kindness of Filipinos in their houses, restaurants, and other public areas whether you're a foreigner or a local.

This trait of the Filipinos towards their visitors is undeniably exceptional. The Philippines has an impressive history of providing hospitality and humanitarian aid to foreign nationals in need. This country has offered safety and refuge to displaced people and refugees from all over the world, including Jews, Vietnamese, and Syrians. 

For Filipinos, it is a pleasure and an honor for the nation to embrace visitors from abroad, even refugees, and to develop sincere friendships and relationships with them. Indeed, the hallmark of Filipinos is their hospitality.

Respect for Elders

“Mano po lolo’t lola” Is this familiar to you? A simple form of phrase yet holds a lot of respect. Young Filipinos often demonstrate their respect for the elderly by making the "pagmamano" gesture. To accomplish this, lightly tap the young person's forehead with the elder's right hand. Typically, the elder will say "Kaawaan ka ng Diyos," (May God have mercy on you), especially in the provinces. 

By giving the mano, one submits to the elders and accepts their blessing and knowledge. In the Philippines, it is traditional to respect one's elders. When visiting an elder's home or seeing them at a gathering, it is customary in the Philippines to perform it. Failure to do so is deemed impolite. We refer to it as being ill-mannered, rude, or "bastos." One tradition that sets the Philippines apart from other nations is this one. 

The significance of family in Filipino culture contributes to respect for elders. Filipinos are devoted to their families and value elder respect because they consider them to be extremely knowledgeable.  Furthermore, it is because of them that we are able to exist and thrive here on Earth.

As Filipinos, we are born carrying these values and along with others, imprinted on our souls and running throughout our veins, reflecting who we are, the cultures, and customs that sculpt what makes us special. In any way possible, we have to honor our ancestors and show respect for what they created and fought for by continuing taking care of what we have. This could serve as a reminder of our origins and a cause for pride in our Filipino heritage.