#everyone it loves will be distorted into unrecognizable shapes

[funnywizardname]

[desert-iliad]

ʿ⊹࠭ ⛓️ 𝅄᮫۪ ───    𝐁𝐀𝐒𝐈𝐂 𝐈𝐍𝐅𝐎

Full name﹕Achilles Leviathan Nickname'(s)﹕Levi (Childhood Nickname), Uccellino (By Crocodile) Epithet﹕Mr. All Souls; given to him by Crocodile as a Baroque Works agent

Age﹕20 [pre-ts] ;; 22 [post-ts] Birthday﹕May 6th [Taurus] Gender﹕Trans man [He/Him] Orientation﹕Gay MBTI﹕INFP Country of Origin﹕Skypiea Sea of Origin﹕North Blue Species﹕Skypiean

Affiliation'(s)﹕Donquixote Pirates ;; Baroque Works Occupation﹕Informant

ʿ⊹࠭ ⛓️ 𝅄᮫۪ ───  𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄

Height﹕157cm [5'2"] Weight﹕57kg [125lbs] Skin color﹕Pale with cool undertones, blushes quite brightly and very often, covered in freckles from head to toe Eye color﹕Green Hair color﹕Blonde Hair style﹕Thick curly hair (3A type) doesn't have a haircut Body Type﹕Slightly toned and in good shape, built with soft muscle. His upper body is lean with broad shoulders and wry arms, a small waist and soft stomach. His lower body is fuller and stronger – with round hips and thick thighs and calves, with more prominent muscle rippling under the skin. Handedness﹕Ambidextrous

ʿ⊹࠭ ⛓️ 𝅄᮫۪ ───  𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐏𝐒

Father﹕Langdon Dreagan [35y┇Deceased] Mother﹕Emmeline Leviathan [36y┇Deceased] Friend'(s)﹕Nico Robin [30y┇Alive]

Love interest﹕Sir Crocodile [46y┇Alive] ;; Married Children﹕Luther Crocodile [4m┇Alive]

ʿ⊹࠭ ⛓️ 𝅄᮫۪ ─── 𝐏𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐀𝐁𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐒

Devil Fruit﹕Gensō Gensō No Mi (Illusion-Illusion fruit) Devil Fruit Type﹕Paramecia Appearance﹕The illus Illus Fruit has a glitched and almost transparent appearance, like it's not really there, it's shaped like a pear and colored a deep purple with swirls who are constantly moving and changing positions, the stem is distorted and twisted at a weird angle. Abilities/Powers﹕The Illus-Illus Fruit allows the user to create and manipulate illusions within their vicinity. Illusions the user can create are extremely realistic and are hard to tell apart from what is real. Everything within the user's vicinity can be visually distorted enough to where the area surrounding the fruit user becomes unrecognizable from what it once was. In addition, the user can make illusions waver and move around, creating a dizzying effect for anyone within the field of illusions, His powers can be used to drive his opponents to complete insanity as the illusions become more and more realistic and difficult to resist. Techniques﹕ [Disguise] – The user can disguise themselves in any way they wish to by visualizing it. The user can freely change their appearance, transform into someone else entirely, or simply mend themselves in the background like a chameleon. [Bluff] – The user can cast an illusion to trick their opponents in any way they seem fit, they can make it look like they're holding an object when they're actually empty handed; or make the object they're holding into something else entirely, they can create the illusion of voices and people, they can cast an illusion that completely alters the environment; the possibilities are endless! And just as they can cast illusions to create and change, they can also create illusions to make things disappear, such as people, objects, etc. [Not Truly Alone] – The user can cast a large illusion across an area (maximum of 30 meters) which allows them to cast an illusion on everyone inside. Using this, they can make it appear as if they are alone: making their allies appear invisible, making them appear as bystanders, etc. [Clone Wars] – The user can cast a large illusion across an area (maximum of 30 meters). Using this, they can create clones that scatter across the environment which can be used to confuse their opponent, escape, or get in a sneaky attack. The clones won't actively keep up to date on any damage taken by the user, unless the user is aware of the damage and/or effects done to them and is able to incorporate them into the illusion. [Nightmares come to life] – Using this technique, upon touching their opponent the user immediately gets to know their worst fear, which can be incorporated as an illusion Weaknesses﹕The powers of the fruit have a range limit, it can only affect people in a 30 meter radius, anyone outside of that radius can easily tell the illusions apart from reality, therefore being able to help those who are being affected or attacking from a long distance. Also, those with advanced kenbunshoku haki are immune to the effects as they can also easily tell the illusions from reality, the only way the user can fight someone with Kenbunshoku haki is; either mastering the haki themselves or pray that the haki user is too immersed in the illusions to properly use their power Haki﹕Kenbunshoku Haki Haki Info﹕Achilles was born with Kenbunshoku haki, during the attack of his village he was able to sense the presence of the pirates around him while he hid in the basement and dodge their bullets when he tried to escape. He also uses his ability to sense emotions and understand the feelings of others, Achilles has always been a natural empath, but his haki abilities made his sensing even more intense

ʿ⊹࠭ ⛓️ 𝅄᮫۪ ───  𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓

Achilles is a sweet and gentle soul; however, he's very introverted and socially awkward, it's hard for him to interact with others so he tends to just keep to himself. Achilles is very kind and fiercely devoted to those he cares about once you manage to ease his walls down. Achilles is a very sensitive and emotionally driven person, he's known to be an overthinker and being easily affected by the mood of others around him. His demure and overly silent attitude sometimes throws people off, as he's not prone to engaging with people he's not already close with Achilles is a very helpful person and often offers to take others' problems into his own hands to solve them, he genuinely likes helping people as it brings him joy. Achilles is very intelligent but not very wise, definitely more book smarts than street smarts, his selfless nature often gets in his way of seeing the world around him which makes it extremely difficult for his to put his humanity aside when making important decisions, that's why he chooses to take the role of a follower rather than a leader.

𝐟𝐮𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐨

[land-of-classpects-and-analysis]

Mage of Rage

Have you ever gone out shopping for new clothes? Perhaps the ones you already have don’t fit you anymore, your aesthetic taste has changed, or maybe you just want to expand your wardrobe. The idea may sound fun, but finding that proper size can be so frustrating, no? Sometimes something is too snug and it feels like plastic wrap has been coiled around you, or maybe it’s too small and you can’t fit your legs in the pants or your head through the hole. Maybe it’s too big as you feel that skirt, the one you could have sworn would fit just right, fall to the ground and lay at your ankles, or the rim of the shirt reaches past your knees and covers the entirety of your hands. It can be frustrating, embarrassing, and sometimes downright rage-inducing to repeat this same trial and error over and over again, experiencing more and more discomfort as the hours fly by and the pile of discarded clothes grows. People watch, and you hate it. You want to go home but you refuse to leave until you find the size that fits you best. Now you may be wondering, what does this have to do with being a Mage of Rage? A fair question, and one with an answer that is quite simple. Rather than the clothes being clothes, replace them with something such as false truths, promises, morals, rules, expectations; boxes that society attempts to push us into and keep us locked away in. Think of all the boxes you have shoved into and have broken. 

Does it feel like an ugly Christmas sweater, one that brings embarrassment and is so heavy it threatens to bring you to your knees and drown you in your own sweat? What about a pair of jeans that promises to be the right - no. The perfect size, and yet no matter how much you struggle, you cannot get the jeans on. And everyone is watching, waiting, critiquing you and what you are doing. The clothes don’t fit you, though. They know, though. Who, exactly? Everyone. Society itself knows you do not fit into the uniform that is so clean, pure, and perfect. It knows, and it hates you for it - putting you under a constant gaze of scrutiny. It hates you, so you hate it in return for creating a uniform and a box that does not fit everyone. You don’t just hate society, but you hate everyone that so blindly chooses to follow it and oh-so perfectly fits into the clothes and boxes. You are a Mage of Rage, and rather than constantly fret and worry over the best ways to contort and distort and ruin yourself so that you may fit snugly in these clothes and within that box - that coffin - you instead choose to dedicate yourself to a life of finding other instances of this Rage and how you may hone it as a means of liberation, revolution, and above all else, pure anarchy. Today is a beautiful day, and you are a Mage of Rage.

From the day we are born to the day we die, there will always be a constant, looming threat of judgement from our fellow people. Very few people are so bold as to even dare step out of the factory line that usher us through life, checking off all the boxes of perfect expectations. The Mage of Rage is one of those few to not only think of pulling off such a risky move, but they’ll do it in a way that is unmistakably an act of spite and rebellion. However, the Mage of Rage would need that extra shove to bring them to such a conclusion that this is the way they wish to live - alienated, judged, and to the most dedicated and extreme, outright hated and despised. Whether this be a personal shove wherein they come to the realization that they will never, ever fit into such tightly woven and uncomfortably shaped boxes and clothes, or they witness some of their own people begin to whisper about a world outside of these factory lines and walls; a world where everyone is their own person and there is no hatred, no judgement, no fear. All the Mage of Rage needs is a good enough spark to ignite their own passion and fury against the system they have been placed within.

While their passive counterpart may start out ignorant and take a much longer time to come around to the truth, the Mage of Rage is made well aware of these injustices and society’s false promises from a much earlier age. They are willing to put more thought into the inequalities surrounding them, to question and sometimes even challenge authority, as well as, for the especially daring ones, bring about a little chaos of their own. There are a few ways as to how the Mage of Rage may first acquire the bitter taste of reality and that, in the eyes of authority and society, not everyone is created nor should be treated as equal, all of these most likely occurring when the Mage of Rage is quite young. Ranging from being bullied and having no adult care that they are victim, while someone who experienced the same bullying is coddled and cared for, being known as the “weird” classmate that no one ever understands or even the “good in class, but could do with participating/speaking more” student, to getting in trouble for no reason other than something they did looked “suspicious” despite it being the same thing another child did. Whether it be from their own pondering and observations or another person, most likely an adult that has had similar struggles to them, the Mage of Rage would receive the beginning of their journey at a rather crucial and defining point in their life and development.

The Mage of Rage is most likely someone who could fall into the fashion of living under the idea of “It’s every man for himself”, especially if they are so often ostracized by their peers and people in general. One of the biggest things that marks a Mage of Rage is how outward they are about their opinions and beliefs, as well, especially if it means getting to spit into the faces of those who believe to be better than them. They are not someone who quietly sits by and allows for false truths and harmful ideologies to be spread around, and if they witness such a thing in person, then there is barely anything that will stop them from bringing about justified chaos. Due to how they act, though, they often don’t try to spend much time looking to form any relationships with people, especially if they may have differing views to the Mage of Rage. However, for them to actively reach out and help another person is often a great sign of trust and respect from the Mage of Rage, but don’t expect a spontaneous love to spark from them because of this. Oftentimes they will try to keep up the mindset that they don’t need anyone, and that they can survive in the world on their own - even if that is not entirely true. To become so aware of the sickening blind obedience surrounding one’s self could become grating on even the most patient of souls, and while some Mages of Rage may have more patience than others of their Classpect, there is most definitely one thing certain: if the Mage of Rage has fallen silent, chances are that they have reached their limit and breaking point.

While this may sound like a Mage of Rage that has come quite far in their journey, one would be sorely mistaken to hear that this is most likely what a young (though not entirely in regards to age) Mage of Rage would act like. Rage-bound are bringers of chaos, after all, and as such strive to bring about as much doubt, confusion, and terror that they can in their wake, if only to those they deem to be ignorant and unworthy of peace. The biggest challenge for the Mage of Rage is to not only survive gaining the knowledge of Rage, or gaining knowledge through it, but to also not allow their Aspect to devour their morality. Which is to say that, while they can see and know all the joy that comes from destroying the base of a corrupt and immoral society, they must learn patience in order to avoid ruining their cause and credibility by lashing out at foes at the most inappropriate of moments. This is one of the biggest sources of struggle for the Mage of Rage, with the source of their suffering being quite obvious to anyone who has ever known a Mage of Rage. The journey for the Mage of Rage, no matter the branch of knowledge they walk upon, is one of loneliness, doubt, and hostility. Let’s finally observe how these branches grow and may splinter off from each other, all while remembering that they all grow from the same tree - the same idea.

There are the Mages of Rage who choose, or are drawn, to journey down the path of gaining knowledge of Rage. They are the ones who have experienced the nature of their Aspect firsthand, but only in a brief and passing moment. Within that moment, something clicked, sparked, or shifted in their minds that brought upon a feeling - a hunger - that they must seek out more examples and situations attached to their Aspect. These Mages of Rage are ones who have very little fear when it comes to adventure. If anything, they see it as a type of thrill-seeking joyous occasion, even if the hunt for Rage leads them to some not-so-friendly groups, individuals, or places. The Mage of Rage does not care, though, so long as they are careful not to become too entangled in whatever uprising or revolution is brewing around them. With the way the Mage of Rage works and travels, it would be dishonest to say that they would remain unrecognizable to the eyes of those around them. No, they most definitely would gain a reputation of sorts, though what that reputation is truly depends on who is being questioned about it. 

Some may say the Mage of Rage is a no-good omen of destruction and anarchy - the broken and beaten husk of a town or organization left in their wake. Others may claim that the Mage of Rage is that of a sign, a blessing, perhaps even a gift, showing that freedom from the shackles of society is soon to come, and the feast upon those who have brought so many people oppression will arrive very shortly. Even if the Mage of Rage were to be made aware of these rumors and opinions about them, they would not care nor see the connection. Any good that comes of the Mage of Rage’s journey is all by coincidence because, as they would most likely say, “[they’re] just looking for opportunities, answers, chaotic fun, and knowledge”. Wherever the Mage of Rage finds themself to be, it is not because they are there to free people or stop an organization, but rather so they can simply gain a better understanding of how truly deep and far-out the roots of their tree are woven beneath the surface. It’s not that the Mage of Rage lacks empathy or sympathy, but rather they know deep down those feelings will only prevent them from making any progress in their journey. They crave immediate action and have the need to constantly be on the go - they rarely stay in one place for long. However, it is this impatience that so often brings them to make more enemies than friends, and as to be expected, the biggest growing obstacle for these Mages of Rage is that, if they are not careful, then they may fall victim to following the path of a Martyr before their journey is anywhere near finished. It is up to them to learn to take their time and be patient, get crafty, and perhaps find a few allies, even if their overall image is presented like that of a monster that stalks the lonely villages at night.

As for the Mages of Rage who so follow the path of gaining knowledge through Rage? Suffice to say, they are quite the chaotic bunch, and not exactly in the most pleasant way. While the former Mages of Rage simply seek out places filled to the brim with chaos, injustice, and in general in need of being liberated, these Mages of Rage are those who thought it would be quicker to gain knowledge and wisdom by allowing Rage to consume them. There is always a chance for redemption for many people, but there are so few Mages of Rage who choose this path that show any promise of climbing out from this hole. They are some of the most morally bankrupt of the Mages, seeing everything and everyone as a tank filled with knowledge that must be cracked open through whatever Rage-filled means possible. While some spread rumors that the former Mages of Rage are omens of chaos or saviors through destruction, most of the latter Mages of Rage are rotten down to their very core. In a way, these Mages of Rage are truly their Classpect at its most extreme and worst. If the Mage of Rage wishes to gain knowledge, then it would be wise to try and avoid them until their hunger has subsided if you want to avoid ending up in their crosshairs.

In the eyes of these Mages of Rage, the more chaos they bring into everyone’s and their own life, the better. They are someone who is not only ready and willing to set ablaze an entire forest in order to grow back something new and more pure, at least within their own vision and definition of such things, but if they find that some people are just as tainted as the forest, chances are that they will make sure those people go down with the rest of those woods. One of the most dangerous things about these Mages of Rage is that no one who knows them can say for certain when they will get these strong cravings for knowledge, which causes many people in the Mage’s life to be almost constantly on edge. However, no matter how cautious they believe themselves to be, very few people are ever capable of avoiding becoming a target for feeding, one way or another. Since Rage-bound are often stubborn in changing their opinions on things, these Mages are often the most stubborn of them all - believing their way to be the correct and purest one, and that anyone who dares challenge them is in for a world of pain, torment, and fear. When the Mage of Rage makes an enemy, it is never certain when they will strike. Perhaps they never will, and instead quietly relish in the fear and anxiety that comes off of their foe; anxiety and fear that gives only more knowledge to feed off of.

Whether the Mage of Rage presents themself to be a benevolent entity, simply appearing in places that need their help the most and acting upon such things, or they are a person deprived of morals and kindness, instead succumbing to their own anger, guilt, and hatred for the sake of knowledge, there is one thing for certain. The Mage of Rage may not seem like the most active threat, especially those who follow the path of gaining knowledge of their Aspect, but do not be fooled. They are still a Rage-bound at heart, and everyone knows how truly capricious they can be at times - especially if they want to play a little dirty. However, they can also be an important ally to have, if only for more inner-group and personal problems than anything else. They could easily be able to sniff out someone who poses a threat to the group, whether it be that person’s own rage, doubt, or fear. As such, they are the best person to put on the job for playing mediator, either between two friends who are having a disagreement or an entire dispute and rift happening within the group. It would be up to the Mage of Rage to discover the roots of these problems and address them appropriately, but that would be the biggest gamble of them all. Only the Mage of Rage knows for certain what plague of bitterness has infected their people, and who it has exactly infected. Considering the fluctuating moods of Mages in general, and then to add on the unpredictable and chaotic nature of Rage-bound, the Mage of Rage could become the best mediator within a group but also be the cause for its downfall - if they so choose to play such a nasty hand.

The Mage of Rage is one who is not afraid to play favorites, and if someone they particularly like turns out to be the cause of a problem or pose a threat to the group, then who is to say whether they will truly “snitch” on their friend for everyone else. After all, what has anyone else done for them? What are the benefits to tattling on someone who actually listens to them and believes the words that they are saying? To a particularly nasty Mage of Rage, there are none. After all, if they truly love to gain knowledge through Rage, they are someone who would rather leave everyone in states of paranoia and mistrust until it tears everyone apart. It would be unwise to not have at least one person keep an eye on the Mage of Rage at almost all times. However, not all Mages of Rage pose such large threats to a group’s integrity, tranquility, and honesty. For the Mages of Rage who have managed to acquire the skill of patience, they can prove themselves to be extremely valuable to the team. With their capability to gain knowledge of Rage, specifically of destruction, they could play an important part in creating large game plans for the team and securing victory with ease. They could pinpoint all of the easiest ways to attack an enemy and smite it. As their power of knowledge grows, so does their capability to take down their opponents swiftly and cleanly, unless they wish for it to be messy. The Mage of Rage is one who saw the truth of the world around them, and after breaking free of the shackles and tossing away the clothes forced upon them, they have found the robes and garbs that best fit them and show who they truly are. The Mage of Rage is someone who can either be someone’s savior, or their reaper. All that truly matters in that judgement is whether they deem you as a blind fool or a pitiful victim to the system. Remember, when the Mage of Rage is quiet, that is when peace has been eliminated from within their mind.

[thepetulantpen]

A Coming Of Godhood Story

(in which the Traveler does favors for the Mighty Nein and makes some friends along the way)

Chapter 1

The Raven Queen is accustomed to solitude. She is alone when she wants to be and when she doesn’t want to be, lonely when she is with people and when she is not, by herself before and after Vax.

Before and after any champion at all, even Purvan.

It’s in her nature to be alone. Death is a lonely thing- nobody wants anything to do with it, until it has something to do with them. Which makes it incredibly rare to have an unfamiliar man in her chambers. Nobody comes here without invitation, and nobody gets invited.

Then again, he’s not physically here. The man, if she continues to call it that, is little more than a flicker of green light in the shape of a person. He’s trying to be solid, but the veil’s resistance is fighting him. Attempting to come here directly from the mortal world is a ballsy move- and unhealthy, if he wishes to remain mortal.

“-elp! Rave-“

She’ll never get anything done if all this shouting continues, but she doubts getting up will be much better. Another distorted shout, cut apart and warped so the words are rendered entirely unrecognizable, makes the decision for her. This isn’t what she signed up for, after going through great pains to get her divine position, but the sooner she deals with it, the sooner the noise will stop.

At the very least, there’s potential for this to be amusing. Mortals have only gotten more complicated over the years, and they never seem to stop.

The man must see her stand because he shuffles forward, limbs shattering into particles as he moves. His hand reaches out, vying for anything that could pull him over, make him solid.

She takes his hand and pulls; it takes less effort than she imagined for him to cross over. Once he’s standing at the foot of her throne, as solid as her and standing close enough to touch, she realizes this is no man.

Where the translucent green shape was, now stands a humanoid in a green cloak, hood obscuring all of his face except for a wicked smirk inset on pale skin. The green energy does not disappear, just disperses to outline his shape, sparking and reacting with the dark shadows spread throughout her chambers.

She is used to looking down on humans, and even the longer-lived races, as passing blurs, mere flickers in her eternity. This one is different, his very presence drawing her attention, taking up just a bit more space, a bit more air, a bit more than she’s accustomed to.

It’s familiar, like a mirror of herself long ago. It’s not possible.

And yet here he is. Glowing with something divine and not quite his.

He grins up at the Raven Queen then bows, dramatically. “Matron of Ravens! I seek your council and assistance.”

She rolls her eyes, gone unseen in the shadow of her mask. She’s no fool, she’s seen this type- despite the oddness of his arrival, everyone wants the same thing when they come to her door with a bargain. Settling back on her throne, she takes her usual form, towering over her new guest. The porcelain mask goes still, frozen in the face of strangers, but ready to bend to her will.

“I know what you want.”

The green cloak chuckles and a pair of green eyes peers out of the darkness, piercing through the shadows that conceal the rest of his features. He winks at the Raven Queen then shifts so the hood covers his eyes again, showing only his smirk.

“That makes this considerably easier—“

“I did not say I would give it to you.”

His grin widens at that and he relaxes even further, leaning nonchalantly against the air, as if there was a wall to prop himself up on.

“I thought you’d say that, which is why I’ve brought something to trade you.” A light shines across his teeth, despite the only source being dim torchlight behind the Queen. “A deal you cannot refuse.”

The Raven Queen smiles behind her mask, charmed by the audacity of this young man- young god, rather. It shouldn’t be possible for someone new to come to power now; though, that’s what they said about her, when she ascended. But that was before the books were burned, so the proper rites couldn’t be performed. This doesn’t feel like the atrocity Vecna was. What could be giving one mortal the power of a god, right under their noses?

Enough power to confidently charge into the Raven Queen’s chambers and start demanding a trade- she’d certainly like to see the source of that.

“Is that right? What treasure do you believe matches the worth of a soul, hm?”

Standing straighter, the stranger snaps his fingers and a small object drops into his waiting palm, appearing to the Raven Queen as a brief flash of white. He takes it between his fingers and holds it up for her to see... a bone.

A very important, very lost bone.

“The pinkie bone of Purvan! A little worn down by the sands, but mostly intact—“

The Raven Queen rises from her throne and all the ambient noise in the chamber quiets. The faint sounds of blood dripping and ravens cawing disappear, leaving her ears ringing with silence.

“Where did you find that?

An ordinary man would’ve turned to dust at her tone, but he stands firm, albeit a little intimidated- he knows that she has old power, much older than his. Not a complete idiot, just acting like one.

“Right where it was left, of course.” His eyes are bright with unnatural light, manic alongside his too wide smile. He meets her gaze without flinching, hand absently twirling the ancient bone. “In the rolling, lovely chaos of Pandemonium.”

The Raven Queen sits back down, putting her hand to her temple- an ineffective gesture, given that there’s a barrier of porcelain. Trickster gods, so much more trouble than they’re worth.

“It’s not that simple. They have to want to come back, there are rituals for a reason—"

He cuts her off with a dismissive hand wave that tempts her to violence, something she hasn’t bothered with in decades. She imagines if she could see his face, he’d be raising his eyebrows.

“Do you honestly believe Mollymauk has any qualms about coming back from the dead?”

There’s a sound like rustling feathers, but much louder, and then the Raven Queen is standing behind her intruder, taking a form just a few feet taller than him. He doesn’t startle, but the smugness of his posture fades, replaced by a tense calm- confident but prepared for anything.

She bends forward, close to his ear, and the mask smiles, porcelain animating to her will. “And what do you, young god, want with Mollymauk’s soul?”

His head turns partially towards her and she sees the outline of a face, angular and strange, for a second, before the cloak moves back into place.

“It’s a favor for a friend, of sorts. She wants him back and breathing.”

The Raven Queen hums, the usual protests coming to mind. It’s not right to release a soul without the proper methods, especially not in exchange for her own interests, but Mollymauk is a little too... energetic for his final rest.

Besides, she’s suspected for a while that it wasn’t his time- they’ve gotten it wrong before, after all. This could be fated- in fact, she’s going to assume it’s fated, for the sake of her own sanity. What is fate, really, if not a god showing up and insisting you be brought back to life?

“I suppose this trade would be beneficial for both of us. But,” she sweeps in front of him and stares down, her feathered mantle casting a grim shadow, “nobody else can hear about this. I don’t make exceptions often and don’t intend to give out souls to anyone with a decent artifact.”

It’s not just a decent artifact, they both know that, but it’s best to keep up appearances, even if they’re transparent. He holds out a hand, covered in an emerald green glove, and the Raven Queen takes it, with a quick, formal shake.

“It’s a deal- I won’t tell a soul.”

Smothering a groan, the Raven Queen focuses on summoning the soul in question, bringing it to her hand in the form of a bright purple light. As she concentrates on it, it slowly solidifies into a glowing stone. She holds out her hand for the bone and, as soon as it’s dropped into her palm, hands over Mollymauk’s soul, ready for transport into the mortal realm.

“Thank you for the audience, my lady. I’ll be on my way now.”

With a wave, he begins to disappear, glowing green and turning transparent. The Raven Queen stops him with a firm hand around his wrist, her power easily rivaling his, especially in her own domain.

“You can’t leave without even introducing yourself. What shall I call you?”

His smile floats in the shadow under his cloak, riding the line between creepy, with no face accompanying it, and comforting, serving as a light in the dark.

“The Traveler. You’ll know it soon enough.”

With that, his magic pulls away and the Raven Queen lets him go, shaking her head.

They’ll need to keep an eye on this new god, see that he turns out alright. They say it takes a village- or a pantheon, in this case- and the Raven Queen has a personal curiosity for new divinity. As the newest of the established gods, the last mortal to ascend, she has a vested interest in learning how the Traveler managed to do it and in ensuring the power doesn’t corrupt him. He may be divine, but there’s a lot more to godhood than magic and a handful of followers.

Still, she’ll have to be careful- based on his performance today, she may have been underestimating him. If someone so powerful has stayed out of their sight for this long, he’s likely more clever than he’s been given credit for.

The Traveler could be a wonderful blessing or a terrible curse. They’ll just have to wait and see.

(A snippet of this was previously posted on this account- but the full draft is now complete! This chapter is already on ao3 (same title, same username) and the rest of the chapters will be updated either daily or every few days, depending on my how much schoolwork I have. If there’s any interest, I might post them on here, too.)

[lligkv]

the smartest person who doesn’t do anything

Alison Rose, the daughter of a psychiatrist and a wealthy housewife, was hired as a receptionist at the New Yorker in her 40s—her first “real” job—and ended up writing “Talk of the Town” columns in the 1990s, striking friendships with writers like Renata Adler, Harold Brodkey, and George W. S. Trow along the way. Reading her memoir, Better than Sane, it’s clear it took Rose a long time to really achieve something, to grow beyond what she calls the “ancient feelings of freakishness” that her childhood left her with.

Her father is authoritarian and volatile. He mocks his patients and his family; he’s constantly on the verge of losing his temper with his wife and daughters. He calls them all scathing names. His wife and oldest daughter, Alison’s sister, are Babs I and Babs II, and Alison herself is Babs III, or “Personality Minus,” since she’s so quiet. Alison’s mother is glamorous and removed. She seems to treat Alison’s father as a fact of the world, one she can only accept, as she goes on to do what she likes—for instance, having children with him though he doesn’t really want them. She speaks up for her daughters sometimes, but the protests are fairly mild, in the way they might be when you’ve come to accept that the world is as it is, detaching yourself from it enough to remain sanguine.

Rose, as the product of a glamorous, abusive, inscrutable sort of childhood, is a master of the weird swerves that come from idiosyncrasy. Early in the book, she’s talking about her childhood friend “Squirrel.” “Before Squirrel’s arrival,” she tells us, “I had three mops as best friends.” “My first love, though,” she adds, “had been my pencil collection,” each member of which she names and comes to treasure. She loves the pencils because they are reliable, faithful, quiet: all the things she’s missing. And when her mother sharpens them—whether it’s by mistake or on purpose, Rose doesn’t say—it’s genuinely affecting:

Their faces were obliterated and unrecognizable. Some of them were a lot shorter, too. It was as if everyone I knew had a different head and face on a now stunted body. I couldn’t look at them anymore, all distorted like that, so I abandoned them. In the years that followed, I would see one of the pencils around the house, by a telephone, vaguely recognizable, but dead.

I came to like Alison for her humility along her halting path to some sort of accomplishment, some sort of wholeness. You could look down on her for looking up to so many famous writers, like Trow and Harold Brodkey, but her childhood left her so deeply pressed into timidity that her attachments to these magnetic figures she’s somehow become so close to is touching. Even Alison’s attachment to a youthful paramour, Billy the Fish, is touching.

Billy is Burt Lancaster’s son, whom Alison dates while she’s living in West Hollywood in the 70s, trying to become an actress. He’s a cool character, with his ironic attitude, his charisma, his “certain air of separateness”—Rose calls him “the Fish” because “it was as if he lived in its own element… [a fish] who came up for other people’s air, curious, but not very often”—and his boredom with the whole world at just twenty-two. “T’s to my E’s,” he says—short for Tears to my eyes—when he’s given a gift; “Cringe,” he says, aloud, when he feels like cringing; the people who love him, he seldom treats well. It would be easy to roll your eyes at him and wonder why Alison stays with him for seven years, on tenterhooks and speed much of the while, if her love for him weren’t so clear and so honest. “My heart liked him,” she says, simply. And the closest she ever got in life to what she calls “normal pie”—“this thing men and women get married about”—was with him.

“All of us,” Rose writes—the people who knew Billy in LA—“loved him, but he couldn’t feel it, I don’t think,” and she isn’t the type to blame him for that; she knows too well what not being able to feel love feels like. She forms deep attachments to charismatic people, the way you do when you’re raised to doubt yourself—and she’s not afraid to talk admiringly about the people who shaped her, those who challenge her notion from childhood that she’s “unsuited for human connection.” And I like that a hell of a lot more than the alternative: saying nothing or being shaped by no one.

What’s more, her self-doubt is belied by the wit she so often demonstrates. For instance, her retort to Brodkey as he calls lovingly out to her in the New Yorker’s hallway:

“My Bride,” Harold calls to me in the corridor.

“My Conscience,” I answer.

Or to Trow as he teases her when Brodkey isn’t around:

“Since Harold’s gone, why not throw a little attention my way?” George asked me that same week.

“I thought you might find it repellent,” I said.

“Not as long as you keep coming up with those snappy answers.”

In still another, more sober moment, Brodkey is trying to convince Alison to find someone other than George to bring to dinner with him and his wife. A real interest. “But Harold,” she says,

“I don’t have an appropriate suitor. You know that.”

“Not a suitor. No one likes you all that much.”

“Maybe that’s true,” I said.

Shit!

He tried to be comforting. “But nobody likes anybody all that much—it’s just moments, you know that.” After a pause, he added, “I’m the one who likes you that much, but if you get to know me better your life will be considerably shorter. Hang up now or I’ll start to cry.”

Seeing moment after moment of such quick wit from Rose, and pure honesty—such willingness to say what’s true and such refusal to sugarcoat—you see why Trow, Brodkey, and Penelope Gilliatt, another writer who often stops by Alison’s desk, like her so much. And why they seem to believe she has talent even when she does not. Anytime Rose says something Trow particularly understands, he tells her: “Darling: Write that down.”

The college-degreed writers in the office call the New Yorker “the magazine”; Alison, out of place as a Californian with no college education or work experience of any kind, calls it “School.” And the name is apt for deeper reasons than the one Alison gives, which is that she gets to write “notes to boys” like Brodkey and Trow. It’s an education. And it’s a second shot at a real life, with people who take pleasure in her mind.

“For nearly four decades,” Rose writes, she struggled with “enemy thinking”:

people deciding that the way I saw things was punishable by exile. Enemy-thinking people seem to have a ceaseless, brutal, active desire to punish; perhaps it made them feel superior and powerful. The writers at this School, who in their context were superior and powerful, were a divine present to me—their ease, which created a freedom from worrying about enemy thinking. The destruction it had done to me so far, like my conviction that I just plain didn’t belong in the world, was gone, or it felt like it.

The narrative rolls on. Alison, whose job performance is always a little erratic, is let go from her receptionist position; Trow—who tells her, in a memorable moment, that she cannot keep being “the smartest person who doesn’t do anything forever”—becomes determined to get her another place at School as a “Talk of the Town” writer; she gets the position and stays there for a while, until she leaves. Better than Sane is a force-of-personality book, and most of the things that happen in it go only elliptically explained.

But there is one narrative driver. The trauma that keeps Alison adrift can’t be gone until she confronts the people who instilled enemy thinking in her in the first place.

In the final chapters, Rose describes returning to her mother’s house in Atherton for her mother’s 90th birthday. Alison’s father drops out of the narrative after its first few chapters, but her mother has recurred throughout, often as a provoking presence in Alison’s life. And at the party, so close to her again, Alison’s character regresses. She becomes very clingy with her dog Puppy Jane, clutching Jane to her so she doesn’t have to be spoken to about anything but the dog. She behaves in alienating ways because she fears being alienated, on-the-outs with her mother and sister; better to fit their perception of her as the “crazy” one.

The crisis doesn’t resolve until Alison and her sister Belinda track down their old housekeeper Nita, now living in neighboring Richmond, to ask her about their childhood. In the conversation they have, Alison’s father returns and again comes to seem like the real enemy: “He was cruel,” Nita says firmly. “Very cruel.” “There was one person,” she tells Alison, “who wasn’t nice to you. Your father. He was real mean and your mother was so nice.”

Is what Nita says true? It’s hard to be sure. It’s certainly plausible, but Alison’s mother is a little too distant and arch for you to get a clear bead on her character, and as you hear her comment on the family’s drama, it’s clear Nita herself sees the family at some distance (which is healthy, for a housekeeper). But it is true that the person who terrifies you, as Alison’s father terrified her and her mother, is a force of nature. You don’t talk about him; you certainly don’t talk to him. Instead, you treat him as a fact of the world. You might harm yourself (or your children) as a result. Or you leave, and you push the person who terrifies you into the past. And usually the damage is still done. The anger that is permitted is the anger you feel toward the ones who are nice to you, at least sometimes, who seem as though they could be convinced and reasoned with and moved to act on your behalf yet refuse to respond to reason or persuasion or pleading or need. At the same time, terror of her father, and her mother’s seeming implacability, leave Alison timid, unable to express any of that anger or feel confidence in herself. So she wanders for years, not doing anything. And it takes Nita telling Alison, “Alis’, it was a crazy house. That’s all” for Alison to realize she can let it all go.

These final chapters—in which Alison, having finally accomplished something with her life, and having been recognized and loved by the writers at School, goes home and learns the truth, that it was her family that was crazy and not her, and is redeemed—do feel a little pat. But Better than Sane was published in 2004, and maybe that was before we all became cynical about the memoir form from seeing the familiar arc (a normal or painful childhood, an experience of crisis and failure, a fall to the depths, an opening to others, a redemption, a happy ending) play out so many times. Or maybe the end feels that much more predictable because the path Alison’s taken to get there has been so unpredictable.

The book did leave me wondering where Rose is now. Better than Sane is her only book. There are quite a few literary Alison Roses out there, but none seem to be her. There really is something “regal” about Rose, as Stacy Schiff put it in her New York Times review of the book—something deeply affecting about her honesty, the plainness of her feeling beneath the elliptical prose, the humility with which she presents herself. If she never writes again that I know of, it’d be a shame.

[inactiive-shit]

In Perpetuum

Fandom: Sanders’ Sides

Title: In Perpetuum

Prompt: ghost story

Warnings: Deceit, mentioning murder/death/ptsd, I swear this is actually sweet

Pairings: romantic DLAMP

Words: 2,192

@sanderssidescelebrations​ yeehaw

They say that you can still hear his voice.

They say shades of purple and black move along walls when the sun goes down. They say stomping footsteps still go up and down the steps. They say shadows dance in windows when there is no light to cast them. They say the warnings are true. They say murder happened there, violently, and his spirit wants revenge. They say he waits for someone he once loved and mourns forever.

They say a lot of things. But the only way to parse the truth from decades of misinformation and rumors is to have been there.

 xxxxxxxxxxxxx 1950s xxxxxxxxxxxxx

 The man is wearing a skirt. Maybe that doesn’t strike you as odd, but it is. (Later, this would come to be a dress and make-up and heels, but he doesn’t know that yet.) The man is also wearing boots from a war zone he prefers not to remember. The man is, in fact, a soldier returned home from the Second World War just years prior. He is anxious, and he struggles, but he is lucky and mostly happy. (Later, this too would be distorted to extreme PTSD and anger and insanity, but that’s as far from the truth as you could feasibly be.) The man is sitting in the bright yellow kitchen watching another man cook breakfast. Also a strange occurrence given the time, but neither man has much of a mind for propriety.

The man cooking breakfast has never gone to war. His eyesight is too bad and he has epilepsy to boot. The government hadn’t wanted him, and he is more than fine with that. (Later, he would be distraught he couldn’t serve his country, torn apart by guilt at his in-action, but he hasn’t been told that yet.) He is making omelets because they are his favorite and the man sitting on the kitchen stool needs more healthy food. They can’t survive off chocolate, coffee, and cigarettes no matter how much they both may want to. (Later, this would translate to the dissention that plagued their house, the reason so many terrible things happened, but it’s not bothering anyone now.)

Upstairs, another man is sleeping in the master bedroom. He’s exhausted after a full night of working, but he will get up in a while to come to breakfast so he can see everyone else, and then he will go back to bed for tonight’s shift. (Later, he is the man the husband was cheating on his wife with. He is the reason the house is haunted. But he doesn’t know about all of that, and he’s pretty content where he is.) There is another man sitting at the desk in the master bedroom, writing quickly with minimal light glinting off his glasses so as not to wake his companion before he must. This man doesn’t really feel like a man, and while transgender was a word whispered only in gay bars and around campfires, that doesn’t really fit either. In fact, he doesn’t have the language to describe what he is, so for now he’s decided to stick with man. It is not unbearable. (Later, this gender dissonance will be the reason he was thrown out, the reason he was so alone. He’s never once felt alone, though.)

The last man in the house is smoking on the back porch, scratching absently at the eczema on his face. The flaky skin and heterochromia don’t really bother him anymore because he’s had years to come to terms with it. And in the army, it didn’t matter to anybody. They respected him once he proved himself, and nothing terrible ever came from it after that. (Later, the man’s face will be the reason people claim an inhuman creature descended on the house to bestow their untimely fates. Depending on who’s telling the story, though, he is the man the wife is cheating on her husband with.) He can smell the food cooking inside and he knows it will be done soon. He can’t wait to taste whatever his favorite cook has made this time.

“L?” the one is the skirt asks, eyes focused anywhere but the newspaper laying callously on the table. He hasn’t looked at one since he got sent home because the after-effects of the war and other forms of violence usually encompass the first page. He doesn’t like to be reminded of what he went through for a country that won’t let him exist. (Later, this is resentment and mental illness, rolled into one incurable ball of rage. It is not entirely wrong, though it is less rage than despair.)

“Yes?” the cooking one asks. (Later, the cook is the wife who cheats on her faithless husband. They will debate: can it be cheating if he did it first? There is no satisfactory answer.) In public, he would never accept being called anything but Mr. Abbott. He has the glasses and tie, the indisputable look of self-assured confidence on his face that keep anyone from questioning his decisions. It is a must in their society. (Later, he is called ‘stone-hearted bastard’ and ‘ice queen’, though many then thought the same of him. It is decidedly not true.) Here, he smiles at the other and sweeps the paper off the counter as he realizes his slip. He doesn’t want to hurt this man he loves so dearly with something so mindless.

“Should I go get the others…?” His question trails off like more words should follow. None are forthcoming, and the cook knows that his mind probably just stepped out for a moment. It’s unsettlingly common, but they haven’t found a way to help it yet.

“Yes, dear,” he says. “I think that would be best. The omelettes are almost done.” The once-soldier nods and heads up the stairs. He still walks with a kind of sharp precision he wishes he didn’t have; it is so different from the undisciplined kid he was when he left. He often wishes things hadn’t changed. More often he wouldn’t trade all his bad experiences that lead to this perfect present for the world. (Later, somehow, this is twisted into an unrecognizable shape, some malformed loathing for the people he lives with, the people who do not have those same awful memories. This has never been true. When he hears it, years down the line, he wants to score the walls with his anger at being so misremembered. He would not ask them to take these memories from him for anything.)

He knocks on the door to the master bedroom and sticks his head in. “Hello, sweetheart,” the one at the writing desk whispers.

“Hey, Patty,” he says back, watching the sliver of morning sun sparkle in his eyes. “L’s just about done with breakfast. You want to wake The Prince or should I?”

“I can get him,” Patty says, and he giggles quietly as a snore sounds across the room. “I’m sure Lo will need your help to fend off Dee, the fiend.” He slips out of the room and goes back to the kitchen. Sure enough, Dee is doing his best to steal food whenever their beloved cook has his back turned.

“If you must insist on nicking my food before it is all done,” L says, the hint of a smile playing around his lips, “the least you could do is have some manners and wash your hands first.” He thwaps the back of the man’s hands with his spatula, so the ex-soldier who served with the food thief crosses the room and wraps his arms around his waist. He’s about six inches taller than Dee, so it’s no challenge to pick him up and carry him across the room like a particularly rowdy sack of flour. (Later, this is aggressive, domineering behavior that strikes fear into anyone who witnesses it.)

“I thought L told you to stop grabbing food,” he mutters, nuzzling the other’s hair.

“He did,” agrees Dee. “But I am so incredibly starved, Virgil. I feel like we’re trying to live off rations again. I haven’t eaten a morsel in hours.” Virgil blows a heavy breath onto the other’s head and he shrieks out a laugh, trying to get away.

“You’ll live, snake. You ought to let that last meal digest before you begin trying to inhale something new.” He sets Dee down on one stool and then climbs onto the other himself. They always eat at the table, their perfect little family, but Virgil likes when his feet can’t touch the ground. He likes scuffing the plain wooden bar with his shoes to leave something behind in this house that can’t be easily wiped away. (Later, those marks are said to be friends and family being thrown into the furniture in a blind rage. Nobody knows that yet. They won’t know it for a long, long time.)

“Morning, love,” says the newly-awoken man, wrapping warm arms around Dee. He smiles as the warmth settles into his cold skin and work away the chill.

“Hello, darling,” Dee responds. He wonders how many times you have to refer to someone with love until it becomes a part of their name. He knows he’ll do it as many times as he needs to find out, and he’ll do it many more after that. (Later, this is possession, this is greed, this is ownership. It is made to be something sharp and hard, not all like it is.) “Did you sleep well?”

“Well enough.” He kisses Dee’s head and leans against him.

“To the table, all of you,” Lo says, hands loaded with plates. “It is time for breakfast.”

“At precisely seven fifteen,” agrees Patty. “You’re always so punctual, Lolo.” He twines his fingers with Virgil’s and pulls him to the table. Logan sends around the plates and takes his own seat. Their table is simple, pretty wood, circular so that no one can sit at ‘the head of the table’. It seems an outdated ordeal, and there are five of them besides; none of them want to sit alone.

“Roman, you can’t have my coffee,” Patty says, pushing Roman’s hands back. “You’re going to sleep in an hour, the last thing you need is to be kept awake.” Roman grumbles in protest and collapses onto Patty’s shoulder. Virgil hooks his left ankle with Roman’s under the table, and he links his right arm with Logan’s. Dee holds Patty’s hand with the one that’s not holding his fork, and he kicks one leg up into Logan’s lap as he laughs at the defeated look on Roman’s face. 

“Darling,” Dee says, “could you pass me the chocolate syrup?”

“Are you going to put it on your omelette?” Logan asks.

“Of course not,” Dee says, affronted. Logan raises an eyebrow. “Fine, fine. Only a little bit. But I feel like deserve chocolate.”

“I second that,” Virgil says and slides the bottle across the table to him. It is only then that Logan realizes Virgil has already smothered his own food in chocolate. He takes a sip of coffee and smiles. Logan sighs through his nose.

“Thank you, lovely,” Dee says. He blows a kiss to Virgil and then drowns the egg and vegetables in a chocolate tsunami. Patty confiscates the bottle a few seconds in. Dee pouts, but Patty is and always has been the master of puppy eyes; he’s been granted immunity.

They eat the best they can, all linked together like a human chain, and it’s peaceful. It is peaceful and nice and loving and wonderful. The omelettes are delicious, the coffee is strong, and the contact is comforting. They are warm and happy and so, so safe.

Roman presses a kiss to Patty’s coffee-stained lips, then extracts himself from their gentle tangle and heads into the other room for a moment. The remaining four look at each other curiously, but they stay relaxed around the table, content to wait.

The first strains of Sam Cooke’s You Send Me float through the kitchen. Roman comes back in and takes Virgil’s hand, pulling him up. They begin to sway slowly back and forth as Sam Cooke croons softly in the background.

“Darling, you send me

I know you send me

Darling, you send me

Honest you do, honest you do

Honest you do, whoa,” Roman sings in Virgil’s ear. Logan reaches across their table and takes Patton’s hand, and their spouses are bathed in soft, golden sunlight. Dee rests his head against Logan’s shoulder, and it is a moment in perpetuum.

 xxxxxxxxxxxxx 2019 xxxxxxxxxxxxx

 Like most ghost stories, it is twisted and corrupted and tainted. There are many versions of events that never transpired, breathing life into something unreal. The real story is one of love, of happiness, of unashamed living. The world may never know what truths it has lost, but the ghosts of the past will never forget what they have.

And if you look closely enough, watch the curtains just as the sun lights the sky, you may see the silhouette of two men swaying slowly to unheard music and three more sitting at the table, happy and in love.

[righteoussoldier]

HURT

INFORMATION: Character: Alastor Moody Faceclaim: Joe Manganiello World: Harry Potter Verse: Marauders Era Trigger Warnings: Smut, Death, War Author’s Notes:  A song prompt/oneshot written for an old RP.

___________________________________________________

I hurt myself today, to see if I still feel I focus on the pain, the only thing that’s real The needle tears a hole, the old familiar sting

Flashes of light rushed past Moody’s head as his agile body twisted to deflect the blast. The rush around him, the commotion of others entirely overwhelming. Throwing up defensive spells and flinging out counter curses were second nature to him now, and not just because of his work in the ministry. Ever since he and Albus had started the Order of the Pheonix, the world became a hell of a lot more gruesome.

Working the Order’s missions took him deeper into the rebellion than he’d ever thought he’d go. When the red tape is lifted and all bets were off, you saw the ugly side of evil front and center. Images of pain and turmoil, of injured women and children, of Death Eater’s wretched actions burned into your brain so profoundly and your own actions to protect the muggles and civilians so horrible, there was no way to ever cleanse your soul. No hope for retribution.  

When the firefight was done, the enemy having retreated from a lone Auror who dared face off against them- there was nothing left but the smoke and ashes. The landscape before him utterly barren, except for one shape. Laying haphazard across the ground, casting shadows against the light of the moon. With a rush, Alastor sunk to his knees beside the body, taking a moment to steel himself away before rolling it over….

Try to kill it all away, but I remember everything What have I become, my sweetest friend Everyone I know goes away, in the end

Lifeless eyes met his own, the white haze that arrived only when death had turned a body cold clouded what was once such a brilliant blue. A sob choked out of him, pain filling his chest and blinding him to his surroundings. To anything other than the young man who lay dead beside him. Moody had failed his mission, failed to protect the innocent muggle-born wizard who had been captured.

Blood streaked his pale face, the skin brutalized to a level that made him almost unrecognizable. He’d been tasked to find him, to save him….and instead, he’d failed. The Death Eater’s doing more to his body than what was required of standard Rebellion Questioning. More than spells had been used, his fingernails missing, cuts and bruises distorting his features, ugly words etched into him marring skin…The choking intensified until it became a scream, echoing through the night, deafening to his own ears.

Clinging the boy’s body to himself so tightly, Alastor could no longer feel a thing. So numb to his own pain, he didn’t hear the crack that rang out against the void around him. He didn’t see Kingsley take the boy from his arms and disappear, didn’t feel Minerva’s dainty figure as she wrapped him in a soft embrace. Not until the world shifted in a blur and his eyes opened to his safe house. The one separate from the Order’s Head Quarters, the one few knew about at all…

And you could have it all, my empire of dirt I will let you down, I will make you hurt I wear this crown of thorns upon my liar’s chair

When the fog thick in his mind lifted, and he realized who had brought him home, his heart threatened to break all over again. He couldn’t let her see him like this, he tried to walk away, to run and hide like the coward he had become. A man didn’t break in front of another, especially not in front of her. Pain tore through him, cut deep into his soul as he stumbled backward, only for Minerva to follow him, to hold him in place. Trapping him on the spot, stuck between how he felt and how he should act.

“There are no walls here, Alastor.” Her voice was grave, heavy with the weight of the war, of what they’d seen. Closing his eyes, he tried to will it all away, to change the course of events that brought them to this moment. “How did you find me?” He finally asked. His voice so unlike his own. Ruined, not broken. “I will always find you.” The words a promise, a vow…and he didn’t doubt them, but that scared him even more…

“I can’t do this anymore”

And by this, he meant so much more than the fight against the Dark Lord. He couldn’t do this, with her, he couldn’t love her. He could lose her. The way she looked at him, with warriors eyes along with the gravity of their situation weighing so hard on him, he feared he may fall and never get back up again. “I know” she replied, and the Auror knew that she understood all of it. Understood why he’d never committed himself to her in the way a couple should. Because Minerva felt the same, and that’s why they worked. “I will not love you either, Alastor.” Her reply to his unspoken thoughts solidified their link further…the truth was, they were both lying- it was too late.

Full of broken thoughts, I cannot repair Beneath the stains of time, the feelings disappear You are someone else, I am still right here

Without another word, like she knew what he needed like she always did, her hands tugged his face down to her level. Soft lips pressed against him in a hard surge, as if she was giving him permission to let go, to release the pain and take it out of her willing body. Alastor wasted no time, he clicked his fingers and her robes had vanished, leaving behind the supply body of his greatest love. His own, too… and suddenly, primal need took over. His primary instinct was to bury himself in what she was offering him…and god help him, he would.

When their bodies met once more, it was with intense force. His large hands slid down her sides and locked on her thighs, picking her up and cradling that petite form against his chest. Minerva’s legs wrapped around his torso, heels digging into his lower back as he surged forward, not stopping until her back hit the wall and hard. His cock was already hard, immediately awoken by her courage and it was the work of a moment for him to find home; deep inside her.

Her screams replaced the sound that still rang in his ears, a different kind of white noise as his hips thrust against her own. Fucking her with a kind of raw desire that no woman had ever been able to elicit from him before. Fingers locked tight in his hair as she begged him to move harder, faster, deeper…and he so willingly obliged. Her sex tight around him as he moved.

If I could start again, a million miles away I would keep myself, I would find a way

When they orgasmed, it was together. The kind that rocked the ship, that made them blind to the world afterward. Their skin slick from the exertion, breathing ragged as he gazed at her, still deep inside. The connection was what he needed the most, she was what grounded him to this earth, what kept him alive on the harshest of nights. He needed her in the way fire needed oxygen to stabilize and gain ground.

“Stay…” she whispered, almost pleading as she bit her lower lip. Her hair was a mess, cheeks flushed pink from their efforts and in that moment, he loved her even more. He was still hard inside her and with legs still wrapped around him, Alastor moved from the wall leaving behind a crack on its surface…not stopping until legs hit the bed and he collapsed on top of it, on top of her, before he began to move once more. Hips rocking between her own, taking the wild beauty with long and slow strokes. A deeper desire to pour his h e a r t into her, rather than the pain of his mind.

And as she moaned, the sound breathed life into his chest. Nails raking down his back, leaving deep red marks that bled into his soul. The stain of who they were something he hoped would never be removed. Lips locked onto her own, and his thick arms moved either side of her head, caging her against him, closing her off to the world, to anything other than the way their bodies moved as one…

If only he could say it, just once. If only he could tell her what she meant to him, how she made him feel…if only he could find a way.

[lenfaz]

Sea Squad, Ch. 11 (11/14)

Summary: Killian Jones has always managed tough spots in his con life… but never like this one. His brother is out of jail and convinced the only way to win his name back is to heist the casino of a major Vegas mogul, leaving Killian to do the planning. He now has to deal with a half-brother desperate to gain a name of his own, an ex-fling that carries her own torch against the casino mogul, his brother losing his mind over his ex-wife,  his former mentor’s depression and the one woman he can’t get out of his mind giving him chase. Ocean’s Eleven AU

Rating: M

Content warnings: semi-explicit sexual content, law-breaking (they are thieves, liars and con men), mild violence (someone will get punched), mention of former relationships (for the main pair) and cheating (but not for the main pair)

Banner (link to banner post) and art by the amazing @clockadile Go check her art tag for the fic here!

This fic would never exist without the wonderful @sambethe who convinced me to do over hot chocolate on one cold Chicago afternoon and virtually held my hand and betaed this fic for months. thank you SO much for everything you do.

A/N: A long time ago there was talk about Hook & his sea friends and a few collective posts shaped the idea of a Sea Squad. This fic is the attempt to bring that creativity to life. Tagging @queen-mabs-revenge   @thesschesthair   and @jvosketches as they were part of that initial thinking back in the day. If a few things sound familiar, it’s because they are based on the movie.

Link to  FFnet & AO3

on tumblr: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8  9 10

Chapter 11

Mayhem. Total and complete mayhem.

The darkness surrounded Emma and her hand went directly to the taser she carried at her lower back. She positioned herself closer to Belle and one thought repeated through her mind as the seconds ticked by.

How the fuck had Killian pulled this one off?

The lights came back on suddenly, their brightness blinding for a brief moment. She reached for Belle, ensuring she was still standing next to her.

And then chaos erupted.

In the ring, the two boxers were fighting, their people trying to pull them apart as tempers ran high. The violence spread to the audience and Emma could only imagine what the casino floor would be like. The lights out, all those chips within reach, everyone blind and no one to put a stop to it. It would be too big a temptation for most people.

She was sure it wasn’t pretty on the floor.

Moving into action, she instructed Belle to grab her coat and stood next to her as they exited the arena with Gold. The man’s face was twisted into a grimace, his eyes flashing bright and his posture rigid. A man like him didn’t like losing control and that was exactly what was happening, and on a night that required him to take extra precaution. If Killian had wanted to put the man on edge, he sure picked the exact thing to do just that.

Emma’s hand twitched at her side as she remembered that Killian was currently being held somewhere in this building, at the mercy of Gold and the thugs that made up his ‘security’ team. But before she could follow those thoughts to their natural conclusion, her jacket pocket vibrated and an unknown ringtone blared through the air around them. Shaking her head in confusion, she reached inside her pocket as Gold and Belle halted.

She looked down to find a burner phone, the display flashing with an incoming call from an unknown number.

“Are you going to answer, Miss Swan?” Gold’s voice was flat and curt, a man obviously annoyed by another interruption to his already hectic evening.

“This isn’t mine,” Emma stated before she swiped the screen and answered the call. “Hello?”

“Can I speak with Mr. Gold, please.” The voice on the other side was distorted, and not by static. Something was masking the voice to make it unrecognizable.

The hairs on the nape of her neck rose in an instant, but she tamped it down. Panicking right now would solve nothing. Keeping her voice calm and even, she handed the phone over to Gold. “They are requesting to speak with you.”

With a huff, Gold grabbed the phone from her hand and put it in his ear. “Who is this?”

The reply came loud and clear through the speaker. “The man who’s robbing you.”

Emma turned around, her eyes scanning the place as she reached for her taser. There were multiple incidents going on around them, but nothing security wasn’t already handling. Gold seemed to have done the same, because his reply came back a second later.

“I don’t see anything going on in my casino that my team is not already taking care of.”

“You might want to take a closer look, Mr. Gold.”

/-/

The trek to the security room was a short one, and while neither of them ran, they sure put some speed in their steps. Muting the phone, Gold entered the room, his eyes scanning the monitors.

“Is there something out of order on any of the floors? The vault? The library?!?”

The security guards sat with their backs straight, all of them leaning in to study their monitors. “Everything looks fine, sir. We had a couple of incidents on the floor, but nothing that our team doesn’t now have under control.”

Just as they finished speaking, a few of the monitors blinked, their images suddenly changing. Emma’s eyes widened as she walked towards the monitors, what she saw on them making her gasp out loud despite herself. Three masked men were in the vault, tossing stacks of cash onto bags that laid on the floor. The three guards charged to protect the vault were lying bound and unconscious in the corridor, their submachine guns pushed well out of reach.

Gold was being robbed. And she knew exactly by whom.

Emma turned to find Gold clenching his jaw, and the hand that wasn’t holding the phone morphed into a fist at his side. “Find out how much money we have in there tonight.”

The room erupted into a buzz of activity, the noise making hard for Emma to concentrate on anything other than the masked figures moving around unhindered the best-guarded vault in Las Vegas.

The ice in Gold’s voice broke her from her thoughts. “Alright, dearie. You've broken into my vault. Congratulations, you're a dead man.”

“There’s no need for threats, Robert.”

Gold looked like he wanted to punch something. Or someone. “Here’s a non-threat for you: good luck trying to exit my vault - or my casino for that matter - unscathed. You’re trapped down there.”

“Mhmmm. Perhaps. Perhaps I’ll simply have you carry the money out of the vault for me. By now your records have told you that you have a little over 160 million in that vault, you know, with it being fight night and all. Now, take a closer look.”

Everyone in the room - Gold, Emma, Belle, the security personnel - leaned closer to the monitors. Next to the bags being packed sat a stack of money in the middle of the floor, carefully bound with a few packs resting on top

“Are you watching? That there is half of your money, being held hostage and booby-trapped.”

Gold closed his eyes and punched the console next to the video feed. Time seemed to stretch for an eternity, but it had to have been no more than a minute or two. When he opened his eyes, he stared directly at Emma. “Miss Swan, please escort Belle to her suite and keep her safe.”

“But Robert, I -” Belle started, but Gold waived his hand in dismissal.

“I need to deal with this, Belle.”

He turned his back on them without another word, completely focused on talking to his security people. Belle’s face crumpled for a second, the hint of a few tears coming to her eyes. Before Emma could reach out to offer support, she shook her head, turned around, and stormed out of the room. Emma hurried after her, trying to keep up with Belle’s furious steps.

“Belle, wait!” she called after her.

Without warning, Belle came to a halt and Emma almost ran into her. As she took a step back, she looked over Belle’s shoulder to see what had caused her to freeze in her tracks.

A familiar back dressed in white shirt.

A familiar head of black hair.

And a very familiar voice speaking over the phone.

“You let half of the money go, and you get to keep your eighty. That's the deal. You try to stop us, we'll blow everything up. You’ll lose it all.”

He slowly turned around, Emma was faced with a smirking Killian Jones giving both her and Belle a once over. Biting his lower lip, he tilted his head and spoke again. “Gold, you can choose to secretly lose eighty million dollars tonight or you can lose a hundred sixty million publicly. It's your decision. I’ll even give you five minutes to think about it, but at the end of that time, I’ll need to know... Do we have a deal?”

Putting the phone on mute, he lifted his chin towards them. “Hello, love. Did you miss me?”

/-/

“Killian how did you-?”

“Escape?” The bastard cut her off, a smug grin sliding across his face. “It cost me a few million, but nothing I can’t afford if this goes through. Which it will.”

The ass had the nerve to wink at her with that last one.

If Killian thought Gold would fold that easily, he was deluding himself. “Gold is not going to fall for this trick, Killian.” She wasn’t sure why she was saying anything at all, she should be calling Gold’s security and having Killian escorted to one of their holding rooms. Again.

She should. Gold had hired her. She worked for the man and needed this night to go smoothly so she could finally have the answers she’d been looking for.

As if reading her mind, Killian smug smile faded, his eyes filling with concern. “Gold was never going to help you. He’ll find a loophole in the deal and back out. Or he’ll find some way to string you along, promises of just one more job before he delivers on what he’s promised. Deep inside, you know it. You know I’m right.” He caressed her cheek, and she wanted nothing more than to lean into it and forget the world outside of them existed. He moved his arm, holding the phone back as he leaned in, his forehead almost touching hers. “I have the answers you seek, Emma.”

His confession took the air from her lungs. He couldn’t know, could he? Emma searched his eyes looking for the lie, for any hint that his words were just an attempt to con her. But there was nothing but truth swimming in the blue of his eyes and the broken way he whispered fervently. “Come with me. Your career is in shambles. You know he was behind several bad deals gone wrong. You know none of his promises matter. Come with me, love."

She hesitated, her heart beating frantically against her chest, her thoughts racing through her head. She wanted two seconds, just two seconds to breathe and think this through.

Belle’s voice brought both of them back from their own little world. “Wait a minute…” She looked between the two of them. Realization dawned in her eyes. “This is her? She’s the one from Tuscany?” She swatted at Killian’s arm. “I can’t believe you, Killian Jones.”

Chuckling, he pulled away from Emma. “You can’t believe what? The lengths we would go to get the girl?” His eyes glinted with mischief. “Think again, Belle, and while you’re at it, think about where your husband might be right now.”

Belle stomped her foot on the floor. “That idiot!” Turning around, she quickly darted down the hallway with a stream of expletives flying from her mouth.

Emma started to go after her. “Belle…”

Killian, though, caught her arm and brought her back to him. “Let her go, Swan. This was not their first fight and it won’t be their last.” Bringing his attention back to the phone, he motioned for her to remain silent. “I’m glad we see eye to eye, Mr. Gold. This is how this is going to work. Ten minutes from now, the men in the vault are going to deposit six bags in the vault elevator. I’ll wait until you find someone to write this down.”

Cupping the phone again, his eyes searched hers. “Looks like Gold just bit the bait and I really need to get going. So I need to know: are you in or are you out, Swan?”

It was a decision she needed to make in a split second. Though, she wasn’t sure she really needed even that. She knew she shouldn’t, she really shouldn’t, but crashing her lips to his, Emma decided to take a leap of faith. When she finally broke the kiss, they were both breathless. “You better deliver, Jones.”

He smiled and reached out to seal his lips over hers one more time. “You know I will. Now wait for me. Pretend like you still care about the security of this place or something, and keep Belle safe. Please.”

Killian returned to giving directions over the phone while Emma turned and chased after Belle. She wasn’t sure that she’d made the right call, but it was too late to back out now.

[servingkarmalikecake]

Blow Your Mind

James Potter has always been a selfish person.

For two whole years he was the perfect specimen that he was always destined to be; the Golden Child, the first born, and he had all of the attention to himself. It didn’t matter to James that he couldn’t even remember those two years, he knew they existed and that they were fucking brilliant.

But then tragedy struck.

The first time James laid eyes on his brother’s wrinkly, odd-shaped head he knew that this tiny smelly creature had just fucked up his perfect life. Simply for existing. Oh, James loved his brother, there was no doubt, particularly as they aged, but that resentment was always there, like an underlying infection trapped beneath his skin. Everything that Albus had, James wanted more and better of and this would be the theme of their entire lives. Albus had a shiny toy broom while James was stuck riding his old worn-out one? That wasn’t going to fly. Literally. Considering that James broke Albus’ broom and made him cry. Somehow, despite all of James’ efforts, his little brother never put up much of a fight, which stoked the embers of James’ tiny little ego, feeding that flame until it was massively out of control. Harry and Ginny Potter, for all their efforts at trying to raise a semi-sane family, never managed to curb that thirst in James and as the years wore on, Albus became the butt of all of James’ very best jokes.

Again for two years, James was the king of the world. He had two entire years at Hogwarts before Albus came and ruined that, too. James was older now, wiser, and although he and his brother were on good terms, neither boy was under any pretense that James wasn’t going to make Albus’ first year extra special.  James had had two years to learn the castle and cement his status and it was going to be Totally Awesome! (lol, couldn’t help myself)

Except, Albus went and found himself a friend and seemed to forget James even existed.

At first James tried to ignore it. It was easy, considering they were in different houses. James dove headfirst into dominating the Gryffindor Quidditch team and life moved on. He was (in his mind at least) the most popular bloke in school, star of the team, loved by pretty much everyone (again, in his mind at least). He had it all and managed to soar through his yeas at school with very little effort on his part.  

If James were lying to himself, he would say that he couldn’t remember how it had started. Except James never lies to himself and he could clearly remember the exact moment that old familiar feeling had bubbled inside of him. He had been running drills after practice on the pitch, staying long after the rest of the team, until the sun was nearly set. By the time his feet were back on the ground he was sweaty and flushed and grinning from ear to ear. Quidditch was in his blood and it was perhaps the only thing that he truly cared about. James had thought he’d imagined it at first, that tiny tinkle of laughter that sounded like it had been carried on a breeze.  He was just locking up the broom closet when he heard it once again, louder, and coming from somewhere beneath the stands. James didn’t have to search long before he spotted a pair of heads hovering close together between the wooden slats that crisscrossed along the bottom of the seats. Albus and Scorpius were huddled together and having a good laugh about something that James couldn’t see and he watched them for a long moment, undetected. Albus looked annoyingly happy, but it wasn’t his brother, that had James’ attention. It was the other one. The bestie – the one thing that James did not have.

This. This is how it starts.

With the Marauder’s Map in his possession, nothing or no one was off limits to James. He started subtle. Turning up in places when Scorpius was conveniently not attached to his brother. Scorpius would be sitting out by the lake reading or doing classwork in the Library and suddenly James would be there, reading over his shoulder and not so subtly transfiguring the blond’s carefully written lines into nonsense phrases. It was fun. James thought it was terrible fun and it wasn’t until much later that he realized that this – all of this – had never been just about childish jealousy.

For his part, Scorpius didn’t exactly make it easy. He seemed to be one of the few actual people that genuinely loathed James. Which James found amusing and interesting; like a caged animal that he couldn’t help but poke at. James pretended not to notice when their visits slowly began to lengthen. Maybe Scorpius was building up a tolerance. Maybe James’ charming personality was finally wearing him down. Whatever it was, by the time James was in his final year at the school, he no longer needed to find Scorpius on the map because he already knew where the blond would be.

Like clockwork.

It’s late when he slips out of Gryffindor tower and creeps through a shadowy castle, map in hand. James wastes no time in making his way down the stairs and out of the castle, slipping through the front doors and breathing in the chilly night air. He paused at the top of the stone stairs, glancing back and forth before he quickly descended them and cut across a gravel path towards the lake. He eyed the map in his hand one more time before he stuffed it into his back pocket, tugging the hood of his jacket up over his head and stuffing his hands into his pockets. He reached a coppice of massive boulders near the far side of the lake and took in another deep breath, his eyes falling on Scorpius, who was leaning against a rock that was bigger than he was.

Color flooded his cheeks as he closed the distance between them, moving right up to the blond and pressing up against him, effectively sandwiching his body between James and the boulder. “How much time do we have?” he asked, gaze flicking to the swell of Scorpius’ mouth before returning to meet his eyes. His pulse was already thudding beneath his skin as his fingers smoothed along the blond’s firm lines, curling into sharply carved hipbones that were hidden beneath layers of clothing. His insides ached as he purposely drew out their reunion, a mischievous smirk curling the corner of his mouth. When he can’t stand it a moment more, James leans forward and kisses the blond and everything else disappears.

Somehow, someway, their little game had turned into something bigger; growing and distorting until it was something ugly and beautiful and completely unrecognizable. They both had their reasons for keeping these impromptu meetings to themselves, but those reasons never seemed to be enough to keep them apart. James knew that Scorpius lied to his brother about where he went when he was with James, which only fed his ego further. He had no issue with being a dirty little secret – reveled in it, even.

(Mwah.)

[oltnews]

Kim Kardashian seems unrecognizable in 2008 with Vanessa Lachey and Carmen ElectraBy Dailymail.com Reporter Posted: 15:06, April 22, 2020 | Update: 5:31 PM, April 22, 2020 Kim Kardashian has changed a lot over the years.The reality star looked like a completely different person in a vintage photo that Vanessa Lachey just shared to celebrate Carmen Electra's birthday.The photos from 2008 were quite the throwback, showing the trio of bombs when recording MTV's favorite Total Request Live. things change: Kim Kardashian looked very different in a return in 2008 published by Vanessa Lachey in honor of the birthday of Carmen Electra Yesterday and now: Kim, seen on the left in another photo taken during the MTV 2008 event and on the right, in February of this year "Happy birthday (yesterday) @carmenelectra ...." wrote Vanessa, hostess of Love Is Blind, in the caption. 'This #TRLtuesday is dedicated to this period of 2008 when you and @kimkardashian were promoting our film!'Kim, Carmen and Vanessa were all in the popular action disaster film.Lachey did a double duty, as she was also one of the hosts of TRL.It was hard to believe that the girl on the far left was Kim.Kardashian was dressed for the time, dressed in a silky pearly blouse with a long waistcoat and blue jeans. The high boots offered another touch of the time. The sexy look was almost a 180 from Kim's current uniform.The other girls also looked like something from a time capsule. Carmen opted for the chic of the late 2000s in a pair of white jeans and a vintage T-shirt. Meanwhile, Vanessa opted for a turquoise dress and reenactment queen hair. Former star dance candidate Vanessa continued her legend with a “fun fact” about Carmen and her husband Nick."Fun fact: Carmen went to the same high school for performing arts as @nicklachey," she writes. `` She played Tiger Lily at Peter Pan and Nick was one of the lost boys. Late 2000s fashion: Kim, whose husband Kanye West now carefully organizes his wardrobe, wore a silky blouse with a long jacket and blue bootleg jeans B-film: Kim, Carmen and Vanessa were all in the action disaster film Thank you! Carmen commented back, but Kim didn't see to get the memo"Challenge: find me these photos !!!" she joked before ending with a "happiest birthday, baby!" for the old Playboy pin-up.Carmen commented back, saying 'Yeeeee [high five] good time [heart] thank you 4 the cry of the day and remember fun times [fire.]"But Kim didn't seem to have a memo, forgetting to leave a comment on the old photo.The budding lawyer has long been adamant: she has never had plastic surgery, but relies only on thick makeup to shape her face.Speaking of her nose to her longtime makeup artist, Mario Dedivanovic, she said: `` I have never had my nose done."Everyone thought I did, and I said wait until you have kids because your real features come out.She also said that some photos completely distorted the appearance of her face."The photos, I swear, I look at them and I said to myself:" Wow, the bump is so much bigger in some photos than in others. "'Before that, she tackled the surgery problem in 2012, telling Harper's Bazaar, `` Everyone still thinks I had my nose or my lips done or just something on my face like Botox, which is not for me plastic surgery.`` People always say that I snapped and that they will use before and after photos, but the photo after is really taken before. It's so funny, it just depends on how your nose is contoured.Over the years, Kim's style has also undergone a great transformation.Although partial for the younger and trendy pieces when it first started, everything changed when she started dating Kanye West, who then resumed her style choices. Share or comment on this article: https://oltnews.com/kim-kardashian-seems-unrecognizable-in-2008-with-vanessa-lachey-and-carmen-electra?_unique_id=5ea0724d349b6

[mirberry-blog1]

Mom Posts Viral Message to Disenchanted Parents Everywhere: “Your Souls Deserve More”

Melissa Fenton is a mom who has been through the trenches of raising four boys. Yes ma’am, she has been there and done that. But that didn’t stop the seasoned mother, writer, and part-time librarian from reminiscing on the early days at a recent check-up at her OB/GYN’s office. Although Fenton wasn’t there for a prenatal check-up (those years are long gone, she assures us), she heard the “most magical sound in the world” coming from the exam room — a baby’s heartbeat, beating loud and strong all the way to the waiting room. Hearing the steady rhythm, Fenton was transported back to when she heard her own baby’s heartbeat some 20 years ago. Listening to the “thump, thump” that represented a future full of hope and happiness to the parents-to-be, Fenton couldn’t help but remember how that sound had once filled her own soul with “instant and immeasurable joy.” Fenton sat there smiling dreamily at the sound of the baby’s heartbeat — until, that is, she remembered what was in store for the new parents and her smile quickly turned upside down. In a Facebook post that has now been shared over 3.5K times, Fenton wrote how she was troubled to consider how those happy expectant parents would soon be facing a whole lot of “soul crushing” under the microscope of modern-day parenthood. “[That��s] how raising a child these days [is],” wrote Fenton. “Days full of sanctimonious social media and ever vigilant mom shaming — of being under the scrutinizing and suffocating microscope of anyone and everyone — is going to crush her spirit and her soul.” The disenchanted mom went on to name literally every single aspect of motherhood and how they can become so twisted and distorted and ugly that they become unrecognizable sources of stress to parents, stealing the joy of their children right from underneath them. Everything from pregnancy weight gain to mac ‘n cheese (the chemicals!) to college choices (community college? Ugh, why even bother?). Reading Fenton’s words, I found myself nodding right along, wanting to shout, “YES! Those things have taken my joy of mothering from me!” It’s not that I’m a bad mother or that my kids are bad or that it was all a trap from the very beginning, but it’s the ridiculous expectations and pressures we put on ourselves and each other that crush us until we’re so burdened by their weight we can’t stand up again. But Fenton also has a solution. She ended her post with a plea to all the different types of mothers out there: from the first-time mom just hearing her baby’s heartbeat to the mom with a house full of toddlers, to the mom sending a kid off to college. She urged us all to think back to the first time we heard our own baby’s heartbeat and to hold on to that sound for one reason and one reason only — because it is our baby’s. We get to shape our children and love our children and raise them how we want to raise them — and to hell with what society thinks. “It’s time to get your mothering joy back, deep in your souls. Start now … let’s all get our joy back. One thump at a time.” Amen to that. Related Post This Is Why We Need to Stop Body-Shaming Ourselves in Front of Our Daughters The post Mom Posts Viral Message to Disenchanted Parents Everywhere: “Your Souls Deserve More” appeared first on Babble. Powered by WPeMatico The post Mom Posts Viral Message to Disenchanted Parents Everywhere: “Your Souls Deserve More” appeared first on Baby Based. http://babybased.com/mom-posts-viral-message-to-disenchanted-parents-everywhere-your-souls-deserve-more/