#feels rather pertinent today

[mayhaps-a-blog]

“The world is changing every day; the only question is, who’s doing it?”

Babylon 5, “And the Rock Cried Out, No Hiding Place”

[vibingvoices]

A speech made at the Academy Awards by Jonathan Glazer, along with the subsequent reactions, sheds light on how people tend to distort others' words to portray themselves as victims and, more concerning, their willingness to reside in a dystopian bubble as long as it doesn't affect them directly.

Rather than idolising Hollywood, I've previously posted about the complexities of my evolving parasocial relationships. But to disregard the influence wielded by these elites would be naive. It's frustrating to witness those in power facing backlash when they attempt to bring attention to pertinent issues.

While the Oscars' prominence in Western pop culture is waning, the ceremony and the fervour surrounding the nominees and winners, especially in the major acting categories, still hold significant sway in film culture and the broader world.

So when such a speech is delivered at the Oscars, it's bound to garner attention:

All our choices were made to reflect and confront us in the present — not to say, “Look what they did then,” rather, “Look what we do now.” Our film shows where dehumanization leads, at its worst. It shaped all of our past and present. Right now we stand here as men who refute their Jewishness and the Holocaust being hijacked by an occupation, which has led to conflict for so many innocent people. Whether the victims of October the — [Applause.] Whether the victims of October the 7th in Israel or the ongoing attack on Gaza, all the victims of this dehumanization, how do we resist? [Applause.] Aleksandra Bystroń-Kołodziejczyk, the girl who glows in the film, as she did in life, chose to. I dedicate this to her memory and her resistance. Thank you.

Glazer highlighted in his speech that victims of the ongoing situation and the last 75 years, whether Palestinian and Israeli, all stem from the occupation and are casualties of entrenched ideologies like Zionism. But when he said this on stage and was immediately misquoted online on social media and by reputable news sources, alleging that he simply renounced his Jewish identity.

He also faced considerable backlash from those indicating a persistent conflation of anti-Zionism with anti-Semitism. It really parallels previous speeches of resistance at the Oscars. Boos rang loud and clear during Michael Moore's opposition to the Iraq war (which we know was a colossal failure by Geroge Bush and the US Government who perpetuated and pardoned multiple war crimes in the region after lying to their own people about evidence of weapons of mass destruction).

There was also Sacheen Littlefeather's advocacy for Native American representation and the direct of attention to the Wounded Knee Occupation, a speech that had bodyguards having to restrain people from getting on the stage and attacking her.

And, of course, Vanessa Redgrave's aim at “a small bunch of Zionist hoodlums whose behaviour is an insult to the stature of Jews all over the world and to their great and heroic record of struggle against fascism and oppression”, which still feels relevant today.

Turning to Glazer's film, I am baffled at those who vehemently objected to it: Did they actually watch it? Because if they had any negative feelings towards Glazer's speech, especially after watching his film, it suggests, to me, a deficiency in critical thinking.

Glazer's film portrays a chilling atmosphere where genocide becomes normalised, echoing real-world situations like the ongoing conflict in Gaza. The film serves as a stark reminder of humanity's ability to coexist with atrocities, often turning a blind eye for the sake of comfort.

The horrors adjacent to the characters' lives evoke contemporary parallels, particularly in regions like Gaza. With over five months of relentless violence, Israel's defiance of international court orders, and Western governments passively reprimanding while fueling the conflict with arms shipments, the spectre of genocide looms ominously. It risks becoming a mundane backdrop to daily existence. It is a stark portrayal of how affluent lifestyles can be linked to neighbouring atrocities, challenging the notion of denial and complicity.

The film doesn't centre around the Holocaust (Glazer's own words), with its specific historical context. Instead, it delves into a more universal theme: humanity's ability to coexist with atrocities and even derive some form of reconciliation or gain from them. The discomforting reflections are on purpose. It prompts us to acknowledge that the threat of annihilation of any people is always closer than we might imagine.

One of the most poignant moments in the film occurs when a package filled with clothing and lingerie pilfered from the prisoners of the camp arrives at the Höss household. The commandant's wife decides that everyone, including the servants, can select one item. She claims a coat for herself and trys on makeup discovered in one of its pockets.

How can the people who are so staunch against Glazer not draw parallels with Israeli soldiers who have recorded themselves rummaging through the lingerie of Palestinian women and slut shaming them? (Why are Israeli soldiers obsessed with Gaza women's underwear?) Or proudly displaying stolen shoes and jewellery for their partners back home (Israeli soldier loots Palestinian homes for his engagement party). Or celebrating International Women's Day with a photo of women soldiers posing for selfies against the backdrop of destruction (How an AP photographer made this image of Israeli soldiers taking a selfie at the Gaza border).

The film is rife with these parallels that it feels like a documentary. It is a grim reality: the potential emergence of the first live-streamed genocide, captured by its very architects.

Gaza doesn't mirror the systematic mass murder machinery of Auschwitz, nor does it approach the scale of Nazi atrocities. However, the entire purpose behind establishing the postwar framework of international humanitarian law was to equip us with the means to collectively recognise practices before history repeats itself on a large scale. And disturbingly, some of these practices – such as the construction of walls, creation of ghettos, mass killings, openly stated intentions of elimination, widespread starvation, plundering, gleeful dehumanisation, and deliberate humiliation – are recurring. And have been long before October 7th.

How do we disrupt the cycle of trivialisation and normalisation? What actions can we take? There are persistent protests and acts of civil disobedience to "uncommitted" votes, disrupting events, organising aid convoys, fundraising for refugees, and creating radical works of art.

And as genocide fades further into the background of our culture, some people grow too desperate for any of these efforts. I am certainly one of them.

Yet, these efforts seem insufficient, particularly when those in positions of power remain indifferent. It's insufficient when I watch a video of a little girl saying that the violence has made her feel less beautiful before she talks about her father being kidnapped by Israeli soldiers or of the orphans visiting their mother's burial spot in the street. It is insufficient when the death toll rises to exceed the daily death toll of any other major conflict of the 21st century.

Perhaps it's unfair of me to prioritise one tragedy over another, given the multitude of suffering in the world – the ones that are in the news cycle and the ones that are not. Yet, my connection to Palestine and its plight feels as personal as it can be without me actually being Palestinian, fostered from childhood teachings and further enriched through my own research. I have loved ones directly impacted by this conflict: friends in the diaspora grappling with survivor's guilt, friends in the West Bank enduring the daily hardships of occupation. And my friends in Gaza are all either dead, dying or being pushed straight into the arms of death.

The realisation that my efforts to help them are insufficient fills me with frustration. I'm angered by the indifference of those in power and by the hostility encountered by those attempting to bring the truth to the forefront.

[devilscastle69]

panic! at the drugstore (j/jk, nanami)

hiiiii @ezynse merry xmas, happy new year, happy day. <3

im ur secret santa. <33 i hope u like this fic. ily. i want u to know the j key on my keyboard is challenged so i wrote "Goo" by accident sm ToT

(sorry for the title i dont even rlly listen to them i- )

please keep this to sneeze kink blogs only! 18+ only!

Summary stuff:

Fandom: J/JK

Characters: Nan//ami, Go/jo, Ijic/hi, Yu/ji,

Pairings: slight nana/go. in the way la croix has flavor

Good future AU (no bad stuff, everyones an adult. set in 2023)

As soon as Nanami detected Gojo’s presence, he should have turned on his heel and left. Instead, he’d gone into the drugstore, reasoning that the necessity of his trip outweighed the aggravation it’d cause. He wasn’t naive enough to hope he’d get out of here without any additional psychic damage but maybe he’d luck out and Gojo would— 

“Nanami!” Gojo sang from a few aisles over. This was starting to play out like one of his nightmares. Verbatim. “Wow, you shop here too?!” 

“Not anymore.” 

Gojo laughed easily and brushed off the obvious rejection with a wave of his hand. “Oh, don’t act like you’re not happy to see your best buddy!”

“I have no such thing.” Nanami sighed and drew out a cough in the process which he managed to muffle into the sleeve of his jacket. Anyone else would have read the room and left him alone, but Gojo continued to chatter on at a volume unfit for the public space they were in. If only he’d move back a few centimeters so Nanami could escape without having to push past him and potentially causing a bigger scene than they’re already causing. He’d already used up his energy—both cursed and otherwise—at work today and he was quickly fading. 

 For the first time, he wished he could focus on the bubblegum pop blasting through the speakers with its sentiments of Sakura blossoms and old times; it would beat trying to follow the embellished story Gojo was telling. He pinched the bridge of his nose. To make matters worse, the temperature change had caused the congestion that had mostly settled by the end of the train ride over here to return with a vengeance. His nose threatened to drip and he risked a small sniffle. Immediately, he recognized it as a mistake when the lingering prickle sharpened and traveled deeper into his nose.

As if he hadn’t sneezed enough today. 

“And after all that I got some wagashi at this great place near the hospital, Great Luck right? And haha it was! Anyway, the point is… I got some stuff for Yuji, but then I got hungry waiting for the car so I figured I’d better make up for it.”

Nanami made a point of checking his watch as a last ditch effort for a polite departure, less for Gojo’s sake and more for the sake of everyone else in this godforsaken store. But most of all for his own sake, considering he’s quickly losing the battle against the pertinent tickle up his right nostril. “I don’t have time to talk,” he said evenly, breath only wavering once he’s gotten the last word out. 

Unfortunately, Gojo clasped his shoulder, refusing to let him leave. “Did you take the train here? We could carpool instead, Ijichi is—”

“ht’KKxt!” Nanami interrupted with a poorly restrained sneeze directed into the sleeve of his jacket. 

“Bless you!” Gojo’s head lolled to the side; he had the decency to release him, but otherwise didn’t move out of his personal space. Nanami nodded and turned away. “Wow, that sounded painful. You okay?”

It was. “hGNXt’ch! h’kKt…chh.” Damnit. “Hh- kmpht’Chhh!” He might not have been able to see Gojo’s eyes, but he sure could feel them on him. This tickle just wasn’t going to quit until he let it out, and he’d rather end this as soon as possible. “h’eSCHh!” 

“Oh bless you.” Gojo, ever uncaring of displaying any decorum, took zero steps away from him. He examined him from a few different angles, tapping his chin as he hovered. “Bet I can guess why you’re here today!”

“Excuse me.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed small circles all the way into the inner corners of his eyes and tried to ignore the heat that had risen to his ears. His head pounded even harder than it had before. 

“Always so formal, huh?”

Always so inappropriately casual, huh? Nanami glanced at Gojo’s basket and its contents: strawberry shampoo, bags of candy, winter apple body wash, face masks, moisturizer, cotton candy flavored lip gloss, and more items he couldn’t quite make out, but surely none of them were essential enough to inconvenience Ijichi in the way Gojo was. Everything he’s learned about Satoru Gojo has been against his will, and now he’s horrified that his brain was wasting the time wondering if he’s one of those people who can’t go to the store and truly buy one item.

“So, how was your—”

“I don’t have time to talk. Excuse me.” Risking a shoulder check, Nanami walked towards the aisles. He tried not to sniffle more than strictly necessary and tried to ignore the extra set of footsteps behind him. Key word was tried.

“Oh wow, you really sound terrible.” Gojo said sympathetically, continuing to haunt Nanami all the way to the cold and flu aisle. “How long have you had that cold?”

Why did it have to be Gojo?

“Stop following me.”

“You forgot your basket, though.” 

So he did. “I don’dt need that much.” It was true, but Nanami accepted the basket anyway from the pouting man. 

“Mm, really? You kinda sound like you’re dying, y’know.” Gojo wandered around the aisle and picked up a box of medicine that he held up to his blindfolded eyes. “No offense.” A man started walking in their direction, took one look at Gojo, and immediately turned around. Nanami released a small forlorn sigh through gritted teeth.

“I’ll be finde.” he said, clearing his throat. He could curb the hoarse quality his voice had taken on, but the congestion was something he’d have to live with for now. “You mentionded Ijichi is waiting?”

“Yeah, so hurry up, Nanami!”

“I will n’dot be ri-ridi’hhgg wih—” He’d gotten distracted and hadn’t noticed that the itch from before had been slowly respawning. Gojo gave a questioning hum as Nanami his knuckle to his nose, sniffled sharply, and cleared his throat again. “I will not be riding with you.”

 “Aw, not with me?” 

Nanami shot him a glare. All of his efforts were in vain because the urge to sneeze returned with a vengeance and demanded his attention in a way that put Gojo’s efforts to shame. The prickle spread like wildfire through his sinuses, and in spite of his efforts in snuffing it out, he’d allowed himself to get distracted enough to give the enemy the advantage. “Hh-!” He inhaled sharply before shoving the back of his wrist up to his nose. “nGhthsCH! hh’NGXTCHh’ueh!” That last one had been particularly loud but had been just as unrelieving as its predecessors. “hehH’TSChhiuh!”

 Gojo patted his back. There was a warmth to his palm that Nanami could feel even through the layers of fabric acting as a buffer between them. “Bless you.” Using only his free hand, he easily broke the seal of a travel pack of tissues on the shelf and nudged a few tissues into Nanami’s palm.

“You’re supposed to pay first.” In spite of the protest, he fixed his glasses that were in danger of falling off his face and accepted the tissues; by noon, his handkerchief had become unusable and he’d already gone through the tissues he’d accepted at the train station this morning, so his options were limited. He turned away for a moment to blow his nose. While his efforts were productive, they did little to kill the taunting buzzing in the back of his nose. He pinched his nostrils shut from behind the tissue and willed the tickle to recede.

“Not yet! Hey if I buy your stuff will you ride with me? Wouldn’t you get back sooner that way? Oh, bless—”

“hh’MPHtchh!”

“—you again!”

He took a moment to massage the bridge of his nose in a silent apology to himself for the poor attempt at stifling before clearing his throat and bringing up sodden tissue to wipe the lingering moisture from the red rims of his nostrils. 

No amount of free cold medicine would make spending his free time with this absolute menace in a small enclosed space worth it, but at the same time it’d be less aggravating for him to just go along with it in the long run. Gojo’s already made it clear he has no intention of leaving him alone. He gave half a nod and picked up the first bottle of cold medicine that he saw and a bag of face masks and took a few steps in the direction of the check out. 

“That’s all you’re buying?” Gojo asked. His lips formed an exaggerated frown and his forehead wrinkled as if he was bewildered by Nanami’s shopping habits.

Nanami was too busy fighting a losing battle against the threat of another sneeze to tell Gojo to stop adding more items to the basket, but he managed to shoot him a pointed glare before his expression crumpled. “Hh- hehhH- …mPHTtshhiuh! Pardon,” he said more out of habit than anything and wiped his nose again, “I have more than enough now.” 

“So frugal.”

He supposed the cough drops, vicks, lotion tissues, vitamins, and nasal spray wouldn’t hurt, especially if accepting them will get Nanami out of here faster. Since he’d already opened the tissues, he figured he might as well put on one of the masks in the pack. His glasses immediately fogged and he tucked them into his inner coat pocket.

After they’d approached the register Gojo told the cashier they would be paying together and nuzzled his cheek against Nanami’s shoulder in an intimate way. He’d smack him later. 

The cold pierced through Nanami’s coat as soon as they opened the door. As annoying as this situation is, he can’t say he’s upset that he won’t have to walk back to the train station. They turned a corner and Gojo pointed out the car. 

“I know, I know.” Gojo opened the door to the passenger side and abruptly wrapped an arm around Nanami’s shoulder, yanking him into the field of vision as if he’d run away. “That took a little longer than I said, but look who I ran into!”

“Nanamin!” Itadori called out from the back seat with a cheery wave. Nanami is just as surprised to see him, though he’d mostly tuned out Gojo’s story. “No way, what a coincidence!”

Nanami shot Gojo a withering look and gave a slight bow to Itadori. “Itadori-kun…” 

“Think fast!” Gojo called out and threw a bag of candy at Itadori. 

He caught it easily. “Wow, thank you, Gojo-sensei!” 

“Gojo-san, we were meant to be back over a half hour ago—“

“Ijichiiii, you need to relax. Seriously, you’re already getting frown lines, that’s no good. Look, I even got something for you. Tadaaa~” He dropped a pack of instant udon into his lap and a face mask and made himself comfortable in the passenger seat. “Can you drop Nanami Kento-kun off first?”

“Don’t call me that.”

Ijichi sighed and took a moment before he half-heartedly thanked Gojo for the gifts. Then he turns to look at the backseat. “Of course, Nanami-san.” He and Nanami shared a quick glance as the cause of their stress tore into his own pack of candy and ate it noisily. 

“Oh, why are you wearing a mask, Nanamin?” Itadori asked as Nanami sat next to him and put on his seatbelt. “Do you have a cold?”

“It’s alright,” Nanami assured him and cleared his throat, “just a mild one.”

“I dunno if mild is the right word there, Nanamin.” Gojo interjected as Ijichi finally started driving.  

Itadori’s face fell and Nanami sincerely considered kicking the back of Gojo’s chair, though he was too busy pinching his nose shut over the fabric of the mask to stifle a sneeze that had nearly escaped his detection. “hGXxt’chshh!- excuse me.”

“Bless you. I hope you feel better soon.” Itadori frowned and offered him a piece of candy. Nanami shook his head and Itadori shrugged and ate it himself. 

“You’re gonna pop an eardrum like that,” Gojo chastised, clicking his tongue.

All of this was past the point of the nightmare he’d thought he was having earlier and was starting to veer into the fever dream category. Perhaps in more ways than one. Gojo flicked through the radio stations until he found what he was looking for and started singing along with a pop song. Itadori joined him and they pointed at each other while Nanami reflected on his life choices and folded his arms more tightly over his chest.  

Nanami glanced at Ijichi’s GPS. Twenty minutes of this felt like a death sentence. His limbs had started aching a few hours ago and now that the adrenaline was long dead and he was sitting again, he felt it in full force. The sudden urge to lean his temple against the foggy window arose and he indulged in it, ever so slowly pressing his forehead to the window. 

While Gojo was especially pitchy, the noise at least took the focus off of Nanami as he muffled a series of throat-tearing coughs against the crook of his arm. His lungs gave a slight whine as he regained his breath and he could feel the silent attention the other three men were giving him. 

“Can you breathe okay, Nanamin?” Itadori asked, patting his shoulder. If it were anyone else, Nanami would have batted the hand away, but doing that to Itadori would feel like kicking a puppy and it's not like he was heartless. While most people become hardened and jaded after living the life of a jujutsu sorcerer, Itadori remained as kind and genuine as ever over the years. 

Instead he nodded. “Yes. Don’t worry.” 

Itadori gave him a thumbs up. The singing continued and he pitied Ijichi for how long he’s had to put up with Satoru Gojo today. 

To Gojo’s credit, he toned down the singing, but Nanami almost wished he’d go back to his caterwauling, because his nose had chosen that moment to betray him yet again. It itched like mad and putting pressure on the tip of his nose did nothing to chase the feeling away. He did his best to muffle it into his sleeve anyway, hoping the extra layers would do anything to make it less intrusive than he knew it would be. “Hh- hgzt’SChhiuh! heHMPHhshh’ieuh!- pardon me.”

“Aw, bless you,” Gojo chimed in, stretching out his seatbelt as he turned his body around to face him. “Do you want my jacket, Nanamin?” He puckered his lips.

This time he let his shoe dig into the bag of Gojo’s chair. “No.”

Ijichi quietly turned up the heat. “Give him a break, Gojo-san,” he said tiredly. 

The rest of the ride quite literally blurred together as Nanami fought to keep his eyes open. With the heat on, his chills were kept at bay, and it was easy to drift off to sleep. He jolted and shook himself awake at least three times before the familiar building came into view, and the third time, it’d been because Itadori was saying his name to get his attention. Ijichi pulled up closer and stopped the car. Nanami thanked him for the ride and held up a hand to stop Itadori from offering a side hug. 

“Get well soon, Nana—”

Nanami shut the car door and ignored the rest of Gojo’s sentence. Getting into the apartment was a blur, but it wouldn’t be the first time he’d come home in rough shape, relying on autopilot. He immediately hung his jacket and loosened his tie, and then he removed his face mask, cringing as he pinched away the lingering moisture from his nostrils. He’d done his best to avoid rubbing his nose all day, but his efforts seemed to be in vain considering how sore it still was. 

As much as he wanted to just collapse into the couch, his discipline won out and he managed to undress. Though, not without challenge. “huhh…HGSCHh’uh!” He sneezed all over his chest, too slow to cover in his exhausted state. Undeniably, it was a relief to be able to sneeze freely in the privacy of his bedroom. “hh-...hDJtSchh’euh! hhaH’DTzSHhh’ih!” 

He found the tissues from the bag and blew his nose, letting out a slight hum of relief as some of the congestion came free. His eyes still ached and with a quick dose of medicine, he was ready to close them. He laid in bed with the extra throw blanket atop the comforter and waited for the chills to die down so he could sleep.

It  was restful for the first few hours. As he’d anticipated, he woke up in the early hours of the morning coughing, hair clinging to his forehead with sweat, and his mouth bone dry. 

3 AM. 

It was too early for this. He forces himself into the kitchen to fill a tall glass with water and to find a few more items from the bag. He took the cough drops out and put one in his mouth and placed the rest of the bag on the bedside table. 

Somehow knowing that he needed as much sleep as possible hindered him from doing so. He drifted in and out of sleeping for the entire morning, occasionally walking up mumbling something incomprehensible. 

He was finally asleep until his phone went off a few minutes past 6 AM. It wasn’t his alarm, but an obnoxious ding.

Gojo: 

heyyy nanamin~ 

… Nanami clenched his jaw as he watched the animated ellipses bubble and waited to see what could possibly be so important to disturb him.

Gojo:

good morning! 🌞hope u get some rest today hahaha :D you sounded awful 🤒dont go dying </3

Typically jujutsu sorcerers have about as much paid sick leave as he would’ve had at his former company: basically none. What kind of fucked up—

Nanami frowned, realizing he’d missed some other notifications, including the ones canceling his mission for the day. It’s easy to put the pieces together. He had to put the phone down to sneeze a few times, and it continued to ding throughout his fit.

Gojo:

we’ll have to go out when youre better!! next friday?? theres a new barcade i wanna try and then KARAOKE!!!!!! :DDD

Gojo:

Nanamiiiiii D: 

Gojo:

don’t leave me on read

Gojo:

bless youuuuu :3

Gojo:

no i cant hear u im just guessing

Gojo:

was i right?? o.O 

Nanami silenced his phone and went back to sleep, deciding to address the new situation, along with the strange feelings that’d started coming up, later. For now, at least he could relax. 

Nanami:

Thank you.

[chubbychiquita]

Wanted to share a quote that feels pertinent to the b.s. that was in your inbox today:

“Concepts like ‘greed(iness),’ and ‘over-consumption’ are the cages that breed Thinness… Thinness, as a politic, demands that one consume less, desire less, rather than make the demand that we end a World where what one desires would leave others without” (20). Da’Shaun L. Harrison, Belly of The Beast: The Politics of Anti-Fatness as Anti-Blackness

thank you so much for this! 💕

[phillippadgettwrites]

The First Time, Every Time: Fire

Rated X / 3377 Words / Posted on AO3 / Tagging @today-in-fic

Scully’s suggestion that he take her to lunch wasn’t a serious one, but he takes her anyway. He’s too distracted in the wake of Phoebe’s surprise visit to get any work done at this point, and he figures he owes her one after she single handedly solved the case while he was busy being mindfucked by Scotland Yard’s finest. He takes her somewhere just a little bit dingy with a full bar, the kind of place they aren’t likely to run into any of their cohorts from the Bureau. While they’ve never directly discussed it, he’s sure she’s aware there’s some gossip circulating about them, and though it’s entirely baseless, it’s best not to feed the beast in his experience.

He’s a little embarrassed that Scully bore witness to the power Phoebe clearly still has over him. He’s a little embarrassed to learn that, even ten years later, when she says jump he still asks how high, and then tries to double it. The moment she kissed him he felt like that naive college boy again, so starved for affection that he’d take it from the teeth of a snarling dog and then thank it for biting him.

He suspects that Scully only orders a drink so he’ll feel comfortable doing the same, though she reasons that she doesn’t really have anything else that needs finishing today, so it’s not an issue if her afternoon is a total loss. She’s actually a really good friend, now that he’s thinking about it. He’s only ever thought of her as his partner, but she shows up for him outside of work, too. And while he might have expected her to bristle at his moderately unprofessional behavior during the investigation, she’d only rolled her eyes and gently teased him, much like a friend would.

“So,” she says halfway through their second round of drinks. He can tell by the wry smile on her mouth that she’s wading into uncharted territory. “Would I be correct if I guessed that Phoebe ripped your heart to pieces and then told you to clean up the mess?”

Mulder cringes a little, but he’s smiling too. Not because it’s funny, but because she’s right.

“Something like that,” he says, then takes a sip of his drink. “Though I wish I could say it only happened once.”

“Ah,” Scully says knowingly, sitting back in her seat and resting the ankle of one leg on the knee of the other.

They both removed their suit jackets the moment they sat down, and Mulder has since loosened his tie and cuffed his shirtsleeves. Scully is wearing one of those ruffled blouses she seems to have in every color, the ones that have a rather deep V in the neck that’s made modest by all the excess material surrounding it. Sometimes he looks at her in her boxy suits and shoulder pads and thinks about what she looked like in nothing but her bra and panties under candlelight, but he’s careful never to let her see him looking at her that way. The fact that she’s beautiful is filed away in his mind behind more pertinent traits like intelligent, brave, determined, funny, and loyal.

“Pathetic, I know,” he says, looking down at his glass to hide the chagrin on his face. “And she just about looped me in for another round, if I’m being honest.”

“The sex was that good, huh?” she says, and he snaps his head up to be sure that it’s still his consummately professional partner sitting across the table from him.

She’s still there, the skin on her chest flushed pink with booze. She smirks behind her glass, perhaps a bit proud of her locker room talk.

“Depends on your definition of good, I guess,” he answers honestly. “It was pretty wild, and at the tender age of twenty-one, wild was as good as it got.”

Scully’s eyebrows raise curiously and he feels his groin grow just a bit heavy. He’s not sure how explicit of a discussion she’d be open to, but he’s interested in finding out.

“Are we talking ‘group sex’ wild, or ‘masochism’ wild?” she asks, just as casually as if she were asking him what classes he and Phoebe had together at Oxford. Mulder clears his throat.

“I think there was undeniably some masochism involved on my part, but more like high-risk or transgressive.”

“Transgressive,” Scully repeats with interest, her head tilting thoughtfully to the side. She doesn’t ask, but he tells her anyway.

“She, uh…she gave me a blow job on Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s grave once, as an example,” he says, hiding his pride behind sheepishness.

A slow grin breaks out over Scully’s face, and Mulder feels a warm flush all over his body.

“Agent Mulder,” she admonishes him lightly, picking up her nearly empty glass and sucking the last bits of liquid off the bottom. “How disrespectful.”

“Yeah,” he says, looking between her smiling face and the table top. “I think that was kind of the point. It was hardly worth it, though. She broke up with me the next day with no explanation and she was sleeping with one of my friends by the end of the week.”

Scully’s smile fades and she holds her glass up, making eye contact with their waiter and gesturing that they’d like another round.

“Mulder, I’ve known plenty of women like her,” she says, her tone shifting as she uncrosses her legs and leans in. “She hates herself so much that the only thing that brings her any pleasure is to be pursued. She showers men with affection and attention, and then withdraws it as soon as she knows they’re hooked.” She pauses while the waiter drops off fresh drinks and takes away their empty glasses, as well as the remains of their lunch. “Men chasing after her, asking what they did wrong and how they can win her back, is the entire objective. Let me guess, if you ever call her out on it she acts offended that you’d define her character based on a couple little mistakes?”

Now Mulder sits back in his chair, disturbed by such an accurate description of his tumultuous relationship with Phoebe.

“Were you secretly attending Oxford in 1983, Scully?” he asks uncomfortably, then takes a gulp of his drink that burns all the way down his throat.

She smiles, pleased with herself.

“Phoebe isn’t nearly as unique as she’d like you to think, Mulder,” she says, resting her elbows on the table and then her chin on her joined hands.

“Well, she sure pulled one over on me,” he says, feeling embarrassed again. “More times than I care to admit.”

He drags his middle finger through the ring of water left by his glass, drawing slow, contemplative circles on the table top. Scully’s hand appears from his periphery and settles over his own, and she waits until he looks up at her.

“It’s not your fault, Mulder,” she says tenderly. “She saw a vulnerability in you and she took advantage of it. Having been on the receiving end of that myself, I can empathize with the fact that it’s difficult to see it for what it is when you’re in the middle of it.”

“You’re just saying that to make me feel better,” he says lightly, trying to reclaim the playful banter he’d been enjoying a few minutes ago.

Scully withdraws her hand and picks up her glass.

“I wish that I were,” she says wistfully. “Though I can’t say that my own youthful hijinks included oral sex on the gravesites of famed authors. I’m disturbed to learn the origin of your private joke, by the way.”

Mulder laughs, but he also entertains a mental image of Scully spread-eagle on the trampled grass in front of Doyle’s cement headstone, a dark-haired man’s head between her legs.

“Glad to hear you don’t think I’m a total schmuck,” he says.

“No, not a schmuck,” she assures him with a shake of her head. “I will admit to being a bit surprised by how submissive you were towards her, though.”

The comment was clearly offhand, based on her demeanor, but it hits him like an insult.

“Submissive?” he repeats, sitting up a little taller. “What makes you say that?”

She considers him for a moment before answering.

“You deferred to her in every respect,” she explains. “It was quite clear that she was in charge.”

“It was her case,” he shoots back. “Of course she was in charge.”

Scully holds up both her hands, palms facing him, in surrender.

“Forget I said anything,” she says. “We should probably get back to work soon.”

“I’m not submissive, Scully,” he says emphatically, ignoring her previous statement.

“I didn’t mean it pejoratively, Mulder; it’s not a bad thing to be. I was simply saying that I was surprised by it.”

“Well whatever you think you saw, you’re wrong,” he says sternly, trying to catch her eye.

Reluctantly, she makes eye contact and holds it for a beat.

“Whatever you say,” she says, acquiescent but characteristically skeptical.

Mulder clenches his jaw, holding back a tawdry remark. He waves their waiter over and asks for the check, as well as a cab, and then drains his glass. Fifteen minutes later they pile into the back seat of a taxi, buzzed to the point of uselessness as far as work is concerned.

“Where to?” the cabbie asks, meeting Mulder’s eye in the rear-view mirror.

“Alexandria,” he says, and Scully looks over at him.

“No, the J. Edgar Hoover building,” she corrects, and Mulder levels her with a steely stare.

“No, Alexandria,” he says again, and her eyebrows furrow.

“What are you doing?” she asks quietly.

“Where to, folks? Meter’s running,” the cabbie says, annoyed.

“Alexandria,” Mulder repeats, turning to look out the window as the cab pulls away from the curb.

He feels Scully’s eyes on him, but he doesn’t look at her right away. He makes her wait nearly two full blocks before he slowly turns his head and takes in the thoroughly confused expression on her face. Even then, he doesn’t proactively justify his actions like he typically would. He just looks at her, letting his eyes fall to the exposed skin on her chest and then dragging them slowly back up to her face. She opens her mouth and closes it, swallows, then finally turns to look out the window, and he finds himself fighting off a smile. He’s already rendered her speechless and he’s just barely getting started.

The cab deposits them in the parking lot of his apartment building, and after paying the driver he wordlessly heads inside, relying on his reflection in the glass doors to confirm that Scully is following behind him. In the elevator, he again feels her staring him down but does not reward her with eye contact. He behaves as though she isn’t there until the doors open on the fourth floor, at which point he gives her another once-over glance and then says, “After you,” in a tone that tells her it’s a directive, not an offer.

He follows her too-closely down the hall. Not so close that she could rightfully question it, but closer than is socially acceptable. When she arrives in front of apartment forty-two he reaches past her, key in hand, to unlock it, effectively trapping her between his body and the door. She stiffens but doesn’t speak, and when the door swings open he has to touch her back to encourage her inside. She stands in his foyer while he deposits his wallet, keys, and cellphone in their designated places, seemingly waiting to find out what will happen next.

He slips her suit jacket off her shoulders and she lifts her arms out of it, watching him curiously as he hangs it on the billiard ball coat rack near the door. He can feel that her tolerance to continue waiting for the punchline is waning, so he nods toward the dining room table behind her and says, “Have a seat.”

Scully turns to look at each of the three chairs set around the table. One is hosting a stack of books, one a pile of unfolded laundry, and the other a banker’s box full of junk he was planning to donate.

“Where?” she asks flatly, one eyebrow raised.

Mulder steps forward and grabs her by the waist, hoisting her up onto the tabletop. She makes a startled little gasping sound and wraps her hands around his forearms, regarding him with wide eyes.

“What are you doing?” she asks, alarmed.

He pushes even closer, so close that he’s occupying the space between her open legs, his hands still on her waist, and leans down as though he’s going to kiss her. She stays stock still, her eyes open, and at the last second he shifts his head to the side and brushes his lips lightly across her ear.

“Who’s submissive now?” he whispers, and he feels her shiver at the tickle of his breath.

He leans away from her, grinning victoriously and expecting to see something along the lines of embarrassment or irritation on her face, but she looks awestruck. Her lips are slightly parted, her eyes unfocused, and she’s breathing heavily.

“Scully?” he asks hesitantly. Did he take it too far? Did he scare her?

Her hazy eyes take a meandering path up his chest to his face, then narrow a little. Her jaw sets, the corner of her mouth quirks, and she reaches up with one hand to grab hold of the loosened tie still hanging from his neck. He opens his mouth in preparation to apologize, but she tugs hard and his mouth crashes into hers. Suddenly he’s tasting whisky and lipstick, and the heels of her shoes are digging into his ass.

Something he should have guessed about Dana Scully is that she takes no prisoners. The one time he attempts to come up for air with the intention of making sure she’s thought this through, she silences him with her hot little hand down the front of his dockers, and he decides that they’ll just have to learn to lie in the bed they’re making. She pops half the buttons off his shirt when she artlessly tears it open, then rips his undershirt off over his head so violently she just about takes one of his ears with it. She gets him down to his boxers while she’s still perched on the edge of his dining room table, fully dressed, and he realizes that he’s completely ceded control to her.

Her hands are just slipping under the waist of his boxers, preparing to divest him of the last scrap of clothing on his body, when he grabs them and pins them to the table beside her hips on either side. She looks up at him, panting, and smiles.

“Point taken, agent,” he says, his face inches from hers.

“You do realize that brute force isn’t dominance, right?” she playfully chides him, looking at one of her restrained hands and then the other.

She’s so sassy, a trait she normally doles out in bite size pieces, and he’d be a damn liar if he tried to claim he didn’t like it.

“What was your plan here?” he asks, grateful that the bend in his waist necessary to hold her hands against the table is obscuring the fact that he’s half-hard.

“I might ask you the same question,” she retorts haughtily.

A beat passes, and she runs her tongue across her bottom lip nervously. It occurs to him that maybe this isn’t just a prank that’s gone too far.

“Are you drunk, Scully?”

She sighs, her head lolling to the side thoughtfully.

“Maybe a little bit,” she confesses. “Are you?”

“Maybe a little bit,” he agrees. “Am I taking advantage of you?”

She shakes her head slowly. “Not yet,” she says, and something in the tenor of her voice sends blood rushing to his lap.

“Would you like me to?” The words leave his mouth before he’s given them even a split second of consideration, and the resulting flash of adrenaline makes him dizzy.

“Maybe a little bit,” she answers, her chest heaving.

The second he lets go of her hands so he can simultaneously kiss her and get to work unbuttoning her blouse, she pushes his boxers off his hips, leaving him nude. She doesn’t touch him right away, though she makes no attempt to hide her appreciative leering, and the combined pride and desperation bolster his confidence to the point that they quiet the little voice in his head that’s telling him this is a bad idea.

In short order, he fills in the details of her body that were previously hidden beneath white cotton. Her breasts are small but perfectly proportioned, and when she lifts her hips and allows him to divest her of her slacks and panties, he finds a full patch of ginger curls between her legs.

For a moment they just look at each other, her hands on his waist and his resting on the tops of her thighs. When he looks at her face and she meets his eye, he at once realizes the gravity of what’s happening and also that it’s already too late to avoid whatever the consequences will be. Nonetheless, he’s afraid.

Scully smiles demurely and tosses her head to get her hair out of her face.

“You’re not getting submissive on me, are you?” she asks playfully, though he senses that she’s a little afraid too.

He allows himself to get lost in living up to her expectations, almost like he’s playing a role. He’s the man who carries her to his couch and tells her to watch while he tastes the slickness between her legs. He’s the man who holds her hands above her head while he makes her come with his fingers. He’s the man who hands her a—miraculously—unexpired condom and instructs her to put it on him, and then he is the man who bends her over the arm of his couch and tries not to seem too proud when she gasps at the size of him and comes again within a minute.

She moves to sit on the couch, her legs wobbling, and looks skeptically at the condom still snuggly covering his erection, which isn’t waning in the least.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you weren’t finished,” she says breathlessly as she pulls a blanket off the back of his couch to cover her nudity.

He’d hoped she wouldn’t notice. Diana never did. Or she didn’t care enough to say anything about it, anyway.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, tugging the condom off and retrieving his boxers from the floor near the table.

“Are you that drunk?” she asks, mildly alarmed.

“No,” he answers quickly. “It just…doesn’t always happen for me.”

“Hm,” she says thoughtfully, and he wishes she’d stop looking at him like that. Like she might actually listen if he told her about the other ways Phoebe took advantage of his vulnerability. About how difficult it is for him to let go in front of someone else now. About how lonely it makes him feel.

He sits beside her and they talk for a long time. About nothing. About everything. About what they just did and what it means for them. Eventually, he does tell her about Phoebe. She doesn’t make him feel weak or silly, or express surprise that a man could experience that kind of issue. She’s empathetic, and angry on his behalf, and she doesn’t take it personally or claim to know how to fix him like most women do. The booze wears away and a new kind of trust is forged, and he gets the feeling that she might turn out to be the best friend he’s ever had.

When she kisses his cheek and slips her hand under the waist of his boxers, he knows that it’s not out of pity. She doesn’t touch him like he’s broken or treat him like a project, and he doesn’t feel any pressure to perform. She coaxes him to the edge and he trusts that she’ll be there to catch him when he falls.

He lets go.

[askingtheslytherinboys]

The Heir and the Raven

Chapter 3

Tom Riddle x OC

Warnings: Blood

Summary: Tom learns just how powerful the new fifth year is and is desperate to have her by his side. So much so, in fact, that he’s willing to reveal a secret of his own…

— Kai —

I was already awake when my alarm had gone off this morning, reminiscing at my desk over the conversations from the night before and planning the day to come. I never got a chance to ask Theodora further about Tom because she was pulled out of Professor Slughorn’s room by Professor McGonagall. She probably didn’t have much more to say, but it was shocking to me that she didn’t realize the gravity of what she told me. Was she never taught about parseltongue? Maybe it wasn’t as common of a subject as I thought. Perhaps the only reason I knew so much was due to Ambrose’s passion projects. Considering the opinion that some think parseltongue is only spoke by dark wizards, I guess I could see the uneasiness in teaching it. But that’s all it was, an opinion.

I didn’t have much time to think of a plan last night for today, seeing as all my roommates were there when I returned back to my dorm. They were an interesting group, one you wouldn’t expect to all get along together, but they were welcoming all the same. After a couple hours of introductions and small talk, they excused themselves back to the library to continue working on their project. Apparently the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, Professor Merrythought, could be a bit of an overkill when it came to assignments. Thankfully, though, they weren’t going to be too difficult, only tedious.

And speaking of difficult and tedious, my thoughts drifted back to Tom. If he really was a parselmouth, then that would have to mean he’s the heir of Salazar Slytherin. There would be no other reason he could speak parseltongue at such a young age. And since no one else seemed to know that… that would be valuable information to have, and pertinent information for Leviathan and I’s situation. If anyone could help regarding the problem of a snake, the heir of Slytherin could.

Are you sure about this? Leviathan hissed in my mind.

No. But if it’s true, and he hasn’t told anyone, then he’s keeping it secret for a reason. Trading a secret for a secret is our best bet, and the only way I’d feel comfortable telling him ours.

And what if it’s not true? What if he’s not the heir?

I frowned and laid my head in my hands, pausing to consider. Then we will keep trying on our own.

And if he pleads with you to tell him about yesterday?

I ran my hands up through my hair and sighed, mentally screaming at my brother for putting me in this mess. For isolating me like this. Then I will tell him the truth, just not the whole truth.

And that is?

That I got a message from my family when walking the halls and became overwhelmed. I stepped into the closet to clear my head and respond without people staring at me.

Hmm, he considered, I suppose that will do.

We sat at my desk quietly, preparing for the day ahead. I took a few deep breaths to calm myself before standing up and grabbing my enchanted journal for classes.

Kai? Leviathan’s voice murmured softly in my head.

I hummed.

I agree with you. If he’s the heir, he would be a valuable asset.

I smiled and stroked his head on my shoulder. I think that’s the first time you’ve been nice to me.

Don’t get used to it, he boomed before sliding back down to my lower back.

I chuckled and made my way out the door towards my first class of the day, to Professor Merrythought.

— Tom —

Today was the day. He was so looking forward to their private lessons this evening. He had made sure that no one would disturb them in their secluded spot in the library, and he planned on using that to his advantage. It was the perfect opportunity to slither into her mind. If he pushed slowly enough, his intrusion into her thoughts could feel like a headache rather than an excruciating invasion.

Or perhaps he’d simply skip the semantics and use the Imperius curse… But where was the fun in that? He wanted to push her, to test her, to see how much she could take before she crumbled in his fingers and her mind cracked open for him to see. And maybe he wouldn’t even have to push. The memories he snatched from her showed him how alone she truly was, and he could tell yesterday how badly she wanted to confide in someone. He could be so sickly sweet to her until she melted and gave him what he wanted. And he would relish in it, knowing that her desire to be loved would overwhelm her senses, and he could meld her into whatever he wanted her to be. So many choices. He was eager to find out which one it would be.

— Kai —

Her classroom was exactly how I pictured it: dimly lit, with peculiar trinkets and oddities scattered around the room and a giant dragon skeleton hanging above. The only thing I didn’t expect was for the desk and chairs to be pushed to the side, and for a large floating platform to be placed between them.

“Looks like you’ll be starting off your semester with a bang, eh Ravenwood?” I turned and saw one of my roommates, Celeste Lavante, enter the class. She was the most beautiful of the group, and even after staying up all night, she looked just as pristine and proper as she did the day before.

I chuckled in response. “So I assume we’ll be dueling then?”

She smiled and patted my shoulder encouragingly. “I can’t wait to see what you’ve got.”

She strolled over to a desk and slung her satchel down before making her way to the platform, but as I went to follow, that sultry voice that I was beginning to look so forward to hearing spoke out behind me.

“I have to say, I’ve been looking forward to seeing your skills as well.”

My eyes turned to meet his, and as always, he was the picture of perfection. Not a stray hair out of place. I grinned and retorted, “Oh? I thought you saw me knock Everly on his arse yesterday?”

Tom smirked and placed his hand on my lower back, guiding me towards his table rather than Celeste’s. “I wouldn’t really call that a duel. However,” he sat his books down and gestured across the room to the doorway, where a familiar weasel-faced twit was entering. “I think you’ll still get the chance to show him what you’re capable of.”

William made eye contact with me and scowled, but I just gave him a taunting grin. “Oh, I can’t wait.” Tom breathed a laugh and began organizing his things. I watched him for a bit before looking back towards Everly, his face now pale as he glanced between us, but the fury in his eyes still lingered.

“I think he’s afraid you’ll interfere, Tom.”

“Should I need to?” He glanced up inquisitively, offering some sort of challenge.

“No.” I replied confidently, before adding with a slight grin, “Unless you think I’m being too hard on him of course.” His eyes gleamed with something I couldn’t place. Pride? Excitement? Amusement? What a wonderful riddle he was. He opened his mouth to retort but was cut off by the professor.

“Hello, class! As you can see we are going to be going over our dueling lessons today. You will be using some of the spells we’ve gone over these past few weeks along with the spells you’ve already mastered in previous years in order to knock your opponent from the platform. Understood?” The class nodded their heads in unison. “Good. Also, today we will be welcoming a new student into our midst! Miss Kiley Ravenwood. Raise your hand for us dear!” I raised my hand slightly and the professor smiled in earnest. “There you are! So very nice to meet you. Everyone make sure to give her a warm welcome.” A slight scoff echoed across from me and I glanced over to see William looking increasingly annoyed. I smirked.

“Well, everyone,” Professor Merrythought continued. “Let’s get started! Do we have any volunteers?”

William stepped forward and climbed onto the platform. “Mr. Everly how wonderful! Would anyone else like-“

William interrupted, “If you don’t mind, professor, I’d like to choose my opponent myself.”

She nodded, replying, “Alright then,” Before gesturing to the room. “Take your pick.” As expected, his finger landed on me, and my smirk grew into a wicked grin. The professor, however, began shaking her head. “It would probably be best to let her watch a few duels before participating, Mr. Everly. Perhaps you could choose a different opponent?” I made my way to the platform and climbed upon it as WIlliam did before me before replying, “I don’t mind it professor. In fact, I’d love to participate.” A smile lit up her face at my enthusiasm. “Well, alright then! You’ll start by facing each other and bowing. Then, you’ll take your positions and attempt to either disarm your opponent or knock them off the platform. Understood?” I nodded and felt the exhilaration course through my veins. I had always excelled in magical combat during my families training experiments, but no one here knew I had dueling experience under my belt except me. And I was going to have a tremendous amount of fun watching the look on William’s face when he realized it.

We both stepped to the end of the platform, wands out and at the ready, awaiting our signal. Professor Merrythought glanced between us, determining if we were prepared before shouting, “Begin!” We bowed. Well, I bowed. As I predicted, he gave a half bow before quickly casting stupefy, attempting to catch me off guard. A cowards tactic. With my eyes still downcast, I flicked his spell to the side before rising up to see his face red with anger. He cast again.

“Expelliarmus!”

“Protego!” I smirked and twirled my wand through my fingers as I cast my counter. “Transforma!” He blocked the first hit, but by spinning the wand, I cast it again. The look on his face twisted to panic before he shrunk into his true form, a tiny, brown weasel.

“Miss Ravenwood!” Professor Merrythought proclaimed. My attention snapped to her, wondering if I had done something wrong. “We don’t begin teaching human transformation spells until sixth year! You are most certainly ahead of the curb. Absolutely astounding work!” I grinned in triumph as she continued, “However, Mr. Everly is still technically on the platform.” I chuckled and walked over to where William was scurrying around, picking him up with my foot and shaking him off onto the desk beside us. “There you are professor. One weasel off the platform.” She clapped her hands excitedly, motioning for the rest of the class to do the same.

Clapping, laughter, and a few whistles rang out amongst the students as I took a bow, relishing in my opponent’s embarrassment. As I went to step off the platform, professor Merrythought caught my attention. “Miss Ravenwood? Are you capable of transforming him back as well?” I nodded and flicked my wand in his direction. “Transforma!” Williams human form began to swirl back into existence, along with addition of his weasel tail. I snickered. “Well, that’s most of him, Kiley, but I’m afraid he’s still got his tail.” The class around me giggled. “Oh no, professor. That was intentional on my end.” I replied as I put my wand away and sauntered back to my end of the platform, listening as the professor whisked his tail away. I looked over to where Tom was standing and my smile faltered a bit. He seemed deep in thought, his eyes portraying a curious mix of emotions as he stared at the platform ahead. As if sensing my gaze, his eyes flicked up to meet mine, and his internal conflict ceased, leaving me with a slight devious smile from his lips. I returned it, and he stepped forward and extended his hand to help me from the platform.

My heart stuttered as his fingers touched mine. They were cold and rough, and the rings on his fingers were practically freezing, yet he was so gentle when he took my hand. I was entranced as I went to step down into his arms, but abruptly yanked myself backwards and pulled out my wand when I heard the angry snarl from across the platform.

“THAT WASN’T FAIR! HOW DARE YOU USE A SPELL LIKE THAT?!” William was panting and red with rage. “You’re just a stupid little girl that got a cheap shot in! I’ll show you what a real duelist looks like… BOMBARDA!”

I knocked his spell to the side as he sent another one my way.

“CONFRINGO!”

I knocked the second back as well but he wouldn’t relent, wouldn’t give me a chance to counter as he stomped down the aisle at me.

“DIFFENDO! INCENDIO! DEPULSO!”

I was actually impressed at the number of spells he remembered, given how stupid he seemed. And he was using the most damaging spells he was taught. Any one of those would have sent me to the infirmary, not just knocked me off the platform. But if he wanted to play dirty, fine. I could play dirty. I continued deflecting his spells, listening as the professor roared his name to stop, and waited for my opportunity. He took a breath to cast more, but the pause was enough. I disapparated, appearing behind him and kicking him across the platform. His wand went skittering over the edge, and he turned over to face me, disbelief written across his features. But it wasn’t enough. For every girl he pressured, for every snarky comment, and for every entitled pass at me he took, I raised my wand at him and whispered. “Terrorem.”

— Tom —

Everly was screaming, thrashing and seizing on the platform, swiping at something they couldn’t see. What did she cast? He wondered. He could barely hear her spell, but it sounded nothing like any of the spells he’d heard before. Tenarum? Etorem? If he didn’t know any better he’d say she cast Crucio on the stupid boy, with the way he was writhing in terror.

Terror… he pondered. The spell sounded like she said terror… Hmm. How clever. William wasn’t in any pain at all.

Professor Merrythought was panicking, holding William while she interrogated Kai. But the wicked thing simply tucked her wand away and smiled. “It’s alright, professor, he’s not in any pain.” Merrythought furrowed her brows in confusion as she continued. “He’s simply afraid of, well, what is it you’re seeing everywhere, Everly?” The boy was bawling pathetically now, grasping his knees and rocking in place. “CATS! THERE’S CATS EVERYWHERE MAKE IT STOP MAKE THEM GO AWAY!” He continued to cry as Kai bent over with laughter. “Cats?!” She exclaimed, before falling to the floor in hysterics. The rest of the class, now understanding that William was not in any danger, collectively released their breath in relief.

He stepped forward towards Merrythought and attained her attention. “Professor, I believe it’s a spell that resembles a Boggart. He’s not hurt in any way. Though, Kai and I could escort him to the hospital wing if you’d-“

“No, no! Thank you, Tom, but I’ll take him myself.” She looked at Kai with a mix of wonder and apprehension before pulling him up by his arm and ushering him to the door. “Class is dismissed everyone! But Kiley, I’d like a word with you in my office this afternoon.” She turned to walk out the door and he turned to look at Kai. Though the threat of Merrythought lingered, she looked triumphant, pleased with herself. He couldn’t help but think how desirable she looked when she’d won.

— Kai —

The rest of the day went by in a flash as I awaited my visit to professor Merrythought’s office. Transfiguration with Dumbledore was obviously easy, given my advancement on the subject, but I couldn’t help but feel tense. Something about the way that he watched me made me feel restless, but maybe it was just my imagination. Charms was fun, though Professor Bristlecloak wasn’t entirely thrilled with my personal flair on the spells. In my opinion, the only way to see a spells full potential was to experiment with wand technique, but Bristlecloak didn’t seem to share that point of view. I thought History of Magic would be more boring than it was, but it was surprisingly tolerable given the things I heard about it. Thankfully, though, I got to end my schedule with Herbology with Professor Beery. He was quite a character, making one of my favorite subjects even more enjoyable. And I was certainly grateful to have time doing something I liked before going to face the consequences for this morning.

The door creaked beside me, pulling me from my thoughts as Merrythought opened it and invited me inside her office. What I wasn’t expecting was for Dumbledore and Headmaster Dippet to be in there as well. Well this probably isn’t going to be good.

“Kiley, have a seat.” She gestured towards a chair and I begrudgingly sat down. Merrythought took a deep breath to start, but was interrupted by the Headmaster.

“Apparition?! In a classroom?! It’s absolutely outlandish. You don’t even have your license! Why if the Ministry knew about this-“

“The Ministry will not know about this,” Dumbledore interrupted. “Because Kiley didn’t know it was illegal. Correct?”

I furrowed my brows in confusion. “Wait what? Why is it illegal?” Dumbledore looked at the Headmaster as if to say ‘You see?’ But Dippet didn’t look convinced. He paced around the office, frustrated and mumbling. “I knew this girl was going to be trouble. I knew it, but I accepted her anyway. The absolute audacity…” He trailed off to where I couldn’t hear him any longer. Dumbledore cleared his throat before interrupting his rambling. “Now that she is familiar with the law, I’m sure this situation won’t happen again. Right?” He looked to me for an answer and I squinted my eyes in return. “… Right.” I replied.

Dippet sighed. “Fine. Fine! The Ministry will not be informed this time. But mark my words, you better be on your best behavior moving forward Miss Ravenwood!” I nodded, still confused that my apparating was the reason I was here. He checked his watch and headed for the door. “Now I’m late for another staff meeting so if you’ll excuse me…”

“Wait, headmaster just-“ Merrythought called out to him, but he had already left. She ran her hand over her face in irritation. “Sorry about that, Kiley, but he needed to be informed of such a large offense. We didn’t realize you were so advanced in your wizarding work or we would have made the rules a little more clear. However… that’s not the main reason I wanted you to come to my office today.” Ahh, here it is, I thought. She seemed to hesitate before contributing.

Dumbledore stepped forward. “Professor Merrythought advised me of your spell work in class today. Doing a human transformation spell as a fifth year is very impressive. But I think her main concern is this other spell you used. We’ve never seen anything like it.” I perked up a bit. “Oh, it’s a boggart spell, designed to show you your worst fear. But none of it’s real. The things you see can’t actually hurt you.” I explained.

Dumbledore nodded. “I see. And you say designed. Designed by who?”

“Me, of course.”

The two professors exchanged a look before looking back at me. “That’s… very advanced spell craft, Kiley. You created this by yourself?”

I fidgeted. “I mean I suppose my brother helped a bit. But only with ideas not with the technical parts. And I was working off a previous hypothesis from my parents but… for the most part, yes. It was me.”

Merrythought finally spoke up. “It was a… scary spell to witness Miss Ravenwood. I thought something was very wrong with Mr. Everly.”

I frowned. “But he’s fine, right?”

She sighed and continued. “Yes, but… he’s very shaken. And honestly, so was I. It seemed a very… dark spell.”

“But you guys use Boggarts on campus all the time. I don’t understand what the difference is.”

Dumbledore smiled a bit at that. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.” He looked over at Merrythought and back to me. “I think for now, you should stick to spells that are on the curriculum. Leave your personal spells for another time. If you can do that then I believe we can come to an understanding and there’s no reason to continue this meeting.”

Merrythought started. “Dumbledore I-“

“And I will keep a close eye on you and guide you, should you need any help or have any questions.” He continued. Eventually, he motioned for me to get up and walked me out of the room. Merrythought seemed a bit distraught, but allowed us to exit in peace.

I turned to Dumbledore in the hallway. “Thank you, sir. I was allowed to learn what I pleased at my estate so it’s a bit of an adjustment to suddenly have all these rules and restrictions.”

He chuckled. “Understandably so. But with what you’ve achieved so far, you have a bright future ahead of you.”

I grinned. “Thank you. I’m hoping Hogwarts will be a helpful addition to my education.” I looked at the time. “And speaking of that, I actually have some tutoring lessons I need to get to right now. If that’s okay of course?” He tilted his chin in acknowledgement. “Ahh, yes. I heard about your lessons with Tom. He seems to have taken a liking to you.”

I couldn’t help the smile that grew on my lips. “He was just offering his assistance. That’s what any prefect would do I would think.”

Dumbledore hummed. “Tom doesn’t offer his time to many. You must have truly intrigued him.” He turned to face me, placing his hand on my shoulder. “Just…” He seemed to be searching for the right words to say. After a moment he sighed and let my shoulder go. “Good luck, Kiley.”

I couldn’t help but feel like there was another meaning to his words, but I nodded my head in acknowledgement and turned to walk towards the library, where my dark headed prefect awaited.

— Tom —

He sat, tapping his fingers impatiently on his leg, as he waited for her arrival. His thoughts were swirling. What a devious and wicked little creature she is, he mused. He could see that she reveled in embarrassing William earlier, and she clearly enjoyed showing off her skills. She would be an invaluable asset to his army… or a worthy adversary.

Knowing she possessed such advanced skills in multiple areas of magic would normally have been a good thing, but it hindered his plan for the evening. Who knew what tricks she could pull out her sleeve if he attempted to invade her mind? As irritating as it was, he felt it might be better to hold off on his advances. But he could be patient. They say the best things come to those who wait, and Kai Ravenwood was a treasure.

— Kai —

I finally found Tom in a secluded corner between two bookshelves, hidden away from the rest of the library. He looked up when I entered and smiled.

“There you are.” He exclaimed. “How did it go?”

I sighed and slumped down at the table. “Why are there so many rules? Everywhere? It’s completely absurd. I’m not allowed to apparate, I’m not allowed to use my own spells, what can I do?” I scoffed. “How is anyone expected to do anything in this world if there are so many restrictions?”

He snickered. “That bad, huh? Did they call the Ministry?”

I rolled my eyes. “No.” I sighed. “Because I was unaware of the rules I’m not going to be punished in any way, but being forced to stop using my personal spells feels like a prison all on its own.”

He looked thoughtful for a moment. “Perhaps you can practice those spells with me.” He leaned forward. “It can be our little secret.” His eyes darted across my face, reading my features. “I must admit, I was thoroughly impressed with the show today. You’re a very talented little witch.”

My chest swelled from his praise. “Oh?”

He smirked. “I don’t believe I’ve heard of any other students creating such intricate spells at your age. And I’ve never seen the wand techniques that you used. You’ve thoroughly intrigued me.”

I chuckled. “High praise coming from Hogwarts golden boy. If I didn’t know any better I’d say the professors and half the student population are in love with you.”

He raised his eyebrows at that. “Only half?” He joked.

This was it. This was my moment. “Yes.” I replied, tapping my fingers against the desk. “The other half seems to be terrified of you.”

He hummed, leaning back in his chair as he cocked his head to the side. “And why is that?”

“You know, I asked myself the same question.” I sighed, running my hand through my hair. “You were right yesterday. You’ve been nothing but kind and helpful to me… but, I saw the look on William’s face when you stepped into the courtyard. That was terror. And for what? If you’re so nice then there’s no reason to fear you… So I did a little digging, trying to figure out what makes you tick. And I learned that a lot of the reasons people fear you are completely ridiculous and unfounded in truth. However…” I leaned forward towards him, keeping my eyes locked on his. “I did learn one thing of interest.”

His eyes squinted a bit. “And what was that, little witch?”

I tapped my fingers again, contemplating how best to ask the question that was on my mind. “I want to ask you something, and I want you to give me a truthful answer.”

He seemed amused at my attempt to entrap him. “What will I get in return?”

I sighed. “I will tell you why I was in the broom closet yesterday. A truth for a truth.”

His lips twisted up into a wicked smile. “And how will we be sure the other is being honest. You did try to lie to me, after all.”

I smirked. “I thought you might ask, and considering I’m not entirely sure you’ll tell me the truth either, I brought options.” I reached into my pockets and pulled out a needle and a vial. “The first option is a variation of a Blood pact. We swear that we will tell the truth and speak of this to no one else. It’s a little more painful, a little more complicated, but it will ensure secrecy.” I pointed to the vial. “The second option is Veritaserum. Less complicated, less painful, but leaves us vulnerable to saying more than we’d like with no protection afterwards.”

His eyebrows raised at the options. “Veritaserum is hard to come by.” He advised as he eyed the bottle.

I shrugged. “Perks of being a Ravenwood.”

He stared in my eyes before glancing between the two options again. “Must be some secret if you’re willing to go to such lengths.”

My shoulders dropped and I leaned back into my chair. “I just want security for the both of us. This will ensure that. Now, what would you prefer?”

— Tom —

He hadn’t expected her to pull this card out of her sleeve. A secret for a secret. A truth for a truth. What could she possibly want to know about him that would warrant her to make a blood pact or use Veritaserum? He grimaced as he considered the options… But this was an opportunity to learn more about her. His pretty little raven. And a blood pact would ensure her silence about whatever she asked… So what harm could it do? If spilling a secret meant gaining her trust, gaining her loyalty, he could take the risk.

— Kai —

He nodded his head to the needle and I put the serum back in my pocket. “Figured you’d pick that one. Have a symbol you like?” He raised his eyebrows in question. “It will make a small tattoo on us rather than us have to carry around a vial of blood.” I answered, glancing up at him teasingly. “Unless you’re into that sort of thing.”

His lip twitched upward. “Tattoo is fine. How about… a raven?”

His answer made me pause for a moment, my heart lurching in my chest. He had a mischievous glint in his eye, one that tugged at me, but I continued setting up the spell. “A raven it is.”

Finally, I laid everything out and held my hand out for his. “Let me see your hand.” He extended it out to me and I grasped it, reveling once again in his cool touch. “Okay. I’m going to prick your finger.” He nodded and I pricked the needle into his fingertip as I whispered the spell. He didn’t even flinch. I then pricked the needle into my own and placed our two fingertips together. “Now say, ‘I swear to tell the truth, and not another soul.’”

He smirked. “I swear to tell the truth, and not another soul.” With both our vows made, our fingers began to glow, and each drop of our blood slithered down the other persons finger to rest on our knuckles. Suddenly, the blood turned white hot and a searing pain began to take over. When the pain subsided, a tiny raven, no larger than the end of a pen, took the blood drops place. I pulled my hand away from his and examined it. “Curious…” I whispered, eyeing the new addition to my flesh.

He hummed in agreement as he inspected his hand before once again meeting my gaze. “Alright, Kai. Now that that’s taken care of, what do you wish to ask me?”

I stared at him and took a deep breath, praying that my deductions were correct, praying that I wouldn’t have to do this myself any longer. C’mon, Tom, please say yes.

“Tom… are you the Heir of Slytherin?”

[thehill-rpg]

Episode 2: Whispers on The Hill Part: 1/??

The quiet shuffle of bare feet on the gravel courtyard fills the air, accompanied by the faint squeak of a rusty pool gate reluctantly opening. With a pair of composed steps, a slender figure, tall yet delicate, makes her way towards an ageing pool chair. As she reclines on its worn surface, the chair emits a soft groan of protest, bearing witness to both its own well-worn years and the age of its current resting place: Palm’s Motor Hotel. Donning a pair of Ray Bans, she settles in, clad in a casual ensemble of a Washington Nationals' tank top and a worn pair of denim short shorts. In her hand, she opens a well-read copy of Cosmo, its pages gently fluttering in the breeze. Tucked between them is a torn clipping from yesterday’s issue of The Hill, resting over an article titled ‘The Secret to Finding Your Soulmate: Date Your Alter Ego.’ A good article, offering the kind of advice you could only get out of a drunk best friend, yet not the one currently capturing her attention.

Chelsea Dalton reclines beside a pool that seems questionably operational (was that the smell of an impending bacteria infection?), her gaze fixed on the familiar words. She reads it again, for what feels like the hundredth time, each word etched into her memory. She knows every line by heart. It’s beautiful.

It’s also months of dedication, collaboration, and hopefully, justice. Sure, it’s a departure from her usual flair, and while, yes, she’d normally sell her soul for this kind of traffic on her blog, she knew there was no way her posting this story would get it the attention it deserved. Hence, her email to Violet Shard, almost three months ago. She’d been hesitant at first. Sure, she was a fan, but this was something that needed to be handled with care. She was too close to her own source. She couldn’t risk being named. However, Violet had assured her of anonymity and a series of follow-ups that wouldn’t brush any pertinent details under the proverbial rug of Washington D.C. political justice. That's why she had agreed, and why she now found herself just outside the District, technically in Maryland, waiting for said blonde journalist. 

Where was she?

As she waited for Violet’s late arrival (had her trusty Saab finally coughed its last puff of exhaust?), she let her thoughts drift over to Gray, and the party she would have been at if the news she’d just leaked to The Hill, hadn’t implicated his father. She’d probably have been in some uncomfortable sundress right now, watching as Gray loosened a tie, only for his mother to promptly tighten it again, while she discreetly passed another crab puff to Mac. Of course, she hated every second of it, but even without her mom’s urging, she hadn’t missed one since she’d moved in next door to his family at six. What could she say? She had a thing for fish paste covered Hors d'Oeuvres. And tortured artists… She’d let the last one remain unsaid, stubbornly resisting even her subconscious attempts to divert her down that worn-out, oh so familiar road. Not today, Bucko! 

Just as she was attempting to shift her focus, fate intervened with the unceremonious thud of a bottle of sunscreen hitting her thigh, yanking her back to the realm of the living—or, more accurately, a realm that didn't revolve around pining over her best-friend of twenty-seven years. “Slip, slop, slap…” She glared over her glasses at a man holding a faded beach towel and a copy of The Hill. 

While quick judgments were usually her forte, she decided to withhold hers until he extended his hands to offer assistance. She leaned towards labelling him as the "concerned dad" type rather than a creepy motel lifer. "Uh, thanks, but— Is that the latest copy of The Hill?" She hadn’t been able to pick up a copy before she’d left her house in order to get here in time and she was keen to see how Violet had followed up. “Sure, kiddo. It’s yours.” She dropped her guard, leaning over to take the paper from his outstretched hand, “Are you moving in?” She’d have answered if the headline story hadn’t caught her attention. Violet Shard, facing charges of defamation and harassment, for her latest story on Congressman Whitman and Harris. “Uh, sorry, do you mind if I–” She was already up, picking up her copy of cosmo and hurrying out of the pool area and back towards her day room and her burner. FUCK. Voicemail. “Violet, call me. I— What can I do?” 

Well, she knew one thing she could do…  

She hastily opened her laptop, disregarding the unread emails clamouring for her attention with their requests for her usual freelance work. Instead, she navigated to her blog and swiftly crafted a new post.

Ms. Whisper here, emerging from the shadows with a scoop hotter than the Capitol's political inferno. It appears our esteemed journalist, Violet Shard, finds herself in the clutches of controversy. But this isn't your run-of-the-mill scandal, my darlings—oh no, it's a tale of truth-telling and the ruthless consequences that follow. Violet dared to shine a light on the dark dealings of Congressman Whitlock and Harris, revealing their insidious involvement in the war-torn realm of Matamba. Yet, instead of accolades, she's met with handcuffs and accusations of defamation and harassment. But fear not, dear readers, for Ms. Whisper is always on the case, ready to peel back the layers of deception and hold the powerful to account. In this cutthroat world of political intrigue, even the bravest truth-seekers like Violet Shard aren't safe from the claws of injustice. So, keep your ears to the ground and your eyes peeled, because when it comes to unravelling the truth, there's no hiding from the relentless pursuit of Ms. Whisper. #StandWithViolet

Her phone buzzed—an SOS. She shot a text back that she’d be there soon. Though even with her foot planted to the floor of her beemer she knew she’d never break an hour. Hastily rummaging through her overnight bag, she retrieved a somewhat acceptable dress (she didn’t own many); though the party might've been cancelled, she was certain Gray's mom wouldn't want the reminder. Hastily, she made her way over to the shower, and tried her best to find the password to get the hot water working longer than two seconds.

She did her best to keep her hair from getting wet, as she washed her nervous sweat from under her armpits. Chelsea hadn't seen this coming without a fight, but nabbing a journalist? This wasn't just a hiccup; it was the kind of move that had First Amendment lawyers rubbing their hands with glee.

She gave up trying to tune the shower into submission and let the cold water run down her back, as she wracked her brain for a way to assist Violet beyond mere page views. Nothing. Nothing.

When it came down to taking action, what good was being Ms. Whisper if all she had in her arsenal were a sharp tongue and a quick wit? That certainly didn't grant innocent journalists a Get Out of Jail Free card, did it?

After a quick drying session (as evidenced by her dress clinging to her back and making it a challenge to slide down over her thighs), Chelsea grappled with her wayward curls, victims of the fierce heat akin to the Battle of Waterloo. With her belongings in tow, she checked out of the motel, conceding that, for the time being, there was little she could do for Violet. As for Gray, a sense of obligation stirred within her to mitigate the unintended turmoil she had caused him. Nonetheless, she refrained from assuming full culpability, acknowledging that the root of this mess lay primarily with his father. All she’d done was overhear a phone call, sneak into his office at night, and make a few dozen or so copies of a report that she only wished now had more than just Congressman Harris’ name to it.

Pulling up to Gray’s house, adjacent to her own, Chelsea switched off the ignition and discreetly covered her overnight bag with one of Mac’s car seat covers in the backseat before stepping out and making her way inside. The atmosphere was sullen, with white chairs being shuffled in and out from the patio to a van parked out front. From a distance, Chelsea observed Nora overseeing the operation with an overflowing wine glass in hand. She couldn't shake the feeling of responsibility for the sombre mood, knowing she had played a part in it, at least partially.

Following the faint strumming of a bass, Chelsea ascended the stairs, purposefully bypassing Mr. Whitlock’s study. She had been instructed to call him Brody, but it just didn't sit right with her. Instead, she made her way down to Gray’s room at the end of the second floor. Her fingers brushed against the wooden door as she announced herself before slipping inside.

"So, on a scale from six-pack therapy to a spa retreat in the German highlands, how concerned should I be about you?" She offered a tentative smile. However, the instant she caught the strains of "Darn The Dream" by Ron Carter, being plucked, she realised she was entering yodelling territory.

[louisaland]

PSOLC vignette « Grades »

OK, so this is inspired by the amazing @themetaphorgirl ‘s PSOLC ( Criminal Minds AU) as we discussed a situation with Hotch and Emily in the same class and she gets a better grade than him, though he put in way more effort. I haven’t written in aaaaaages, so 1m super rusty, but I had fun and feel like I nailed Strauss’s character

“ Did you hand in your essay OK, Bubba?” Alex asked Hotch as she sat down at the table, deftly readjusting Spencer’s tray once she had put hers down too.

“Yeah, thanks Birdie. Once you looked through it for me I typed it up and printed it, then I handed it in last week.” he replied, stirring raisins into his oatmeal.

Emily’s head jerked up, eyes wide and her spoon halfway to her mouth. She quickly regained her composure.

“Uh, Hotch, what’s today’s date?” she asked.

“It’s the 22nd, Emily. And yes, it is the date our 2000-word  essays are due in for Strauss. The essays she assigned us last month that are worth 40% of the semester’s grade.” he replied, shaking his head and frowning at his classmate’s disorganisation.

“Oh, I knew that, I do actually listen in class sometimes, Hotchner! And it’s no biggie! I’ll write it in French and Chapel.” Emily responded nonchalantly, her eyes reflecting her panic and stress. «  We’re studying the present indicative of first group verbs and adjective agreements, which is obviously very difficult, but I’ll make it work » she announced, trying hard to sound convincing but failing miserably.

“Alexandra Catherine Miller, room-mate extraordinaire,  what can you tell me about the leitmotifs in To Kill A Mockingbird? Just asking for a friend!” she asked Alex, eyes wide, fluttering her eyelashes and smiling, tilting her head to the side.

“Oh, that’s easy! I read it when I was 7, but the main themes are…”, Spencer interjected, gesticulating wildly, his eyes shining with excitement, as Alex placed a finger on his lips to quieten him.

“Sorry, Emily, but I really can’t help you now. I asked you if you wanted help when Hotch asked me to look through his first draft, and you told me you had ‘almost started it’, so you’re just going to have to face the consequences” Alex answered, a sympathetic look on her face. 

« But if I don’t get an A, I’m going to fail! And Strauss offers no make up tests or extra credit! I hope you’ll come to my funeral as Strauss is going to eviscerate me. » she replied, biting her lip as she realised just how much of a challenge she had to face.

Hotch muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “you made your bed, now lie in it”.

Penelope looked aghast.

« Well, I am so glad I only have Strauss for debate. She sounds like the kind of person who has a favourite child! » she shared, shuddering at the thought of having more classes with her most terrifying teachers. 

Just before the bell for second period rang, Emily dashed into class, almost tripping over Chris Callahan’s legs and narrowly avoiding crashing into Kate Carter’s  neighbouring desk before flinging herself into her assigned seat towards the back of the class, clutching several sheets of rather crumpled notebook paper. 

Ashley Seaver smiled sympathetically at her before resuming her chat with Jordan Todd about the new crime series with the hot male lead that they were both obsessed with.

The final bell rang, cutting their conversation short. The class fell silent immediately.

“ Pass your essays up to the front now. Some of you have already handed them in, but I needn’t remind you that is no guarantee of a good or even a passing grade. “ Strauss announced, shooting a pertinent look at Hotch.

“Miss Carter and Mr Callahan, how many times  have I told you that there’s no PDA in my classroom?” she scolded, glaring at the offending students, who were holding hands.

“And no, don’t answer that, it’s rhetorical! Get out your grammar books, page 82 and complete the sentence parsing that we started last class. There is no need to talk.” she announced, having gathered all the students’ work in a pile on her desk.

The class got to work and their teacher turned her attention to the papers in front of her, scowling at some and shaking her head at others, that she liberally annotated with her red pen.

Two weeks later

“ Well, on the whole, I was disappointed with your essays. As Juniors, you really should have mastered these basic concepts by now. You do realise, if you go to college, your professors will make me look like a Disney princess. I have a feeling that college might not be the right fit for everyone here” Strauss declared, casting a disapproving look around the class.

“However, there was one standout essay that I gave an A to. I had to take some points off for presentation, but the student in question provided some excellent analysis. It’s the only A I have given so far this semester. Emily Prentiss, I did not expect work of such caliber from you. » she continued.

She then proceeded to return work by grade.

«  A valiant attempt. Mr Hotchner, but you should definitely ask Miss Prentiss for some pointers for the next assignment » she said, handing Hotch his paper that had a big red B+ on it. 

He shot Emily a dark, murderous  look, but she just grinned and thumbsed up when their eyes met.

As the bell for lunch went, Hotch uncharacteristically shoved his books and papers haphazardly into his backpack, pushed his chair against his desk with more force than necessary and stomped out.

Emily was smiling broadly at their usual lunch table, chatting to Penelope about hairstyles as Hotch arrived, slamming his tray down.

Alex looked over at him with a concerned look, but he just prodded his mystery meat violently, eyebrows knitted tightly together.

«  Hi Hotch! Are you still hung up over your grade from Strauss? I’m sure I can help you do better next time » she said sweetly.

«  Just how did you get an A? » he questioned angrily.

Rossi looked up from his mashed potatoes, intrigue written all over his face.

«  Emily! How did you do it? Strauss hardly ever gives A’s! Please teach me your ways, you… witch! » he exclaimed.

«  I’ m just naturally brilliant, I guess. Perhaps I should request a transfer into the AP class. And don’t ‘Emily’ me! » she replied smugly.

« That’s a great plan, Emily. Except a) there are no places left in the AP class, and b) your last grade was a C minus, I believe? » Hotch declared.

She sighed and returned her attention to her plate of food.

Hotch would hopefully get over it by the time they graduated, she mused.

[solitaireships]

Dear Andromeda,

One must admit that this is unfamiliar territory for one. Typically, one would prefer to show the depths of one's affections for you through action rather than the written word. But… the act of writing one's feelings down counts as an action in it's own way.

Regardless, one would like to wish you a happy Valentine's day. If you're not opposed, perhaps we could spend the day together. And since you are more familiar with this holiday, one will allow you to choose whatever we shall do today.

One will be waiting for your response.

-Xianyun

(P.S. One thought it pertinent to actually write it down so you may reread it at your leisure. I love you, Andromeda. Don't forget that.)

[attached to the letter is a small bouquet of silk flowers and qingxin blossoms]

[hiya, sophia!! I hope you had a good valentine's day!! <3 -- april]

Aww, thank you for the flowers, pretty bird! And I'd of course love to spend Valentine's with you. There are a couple of restaurants in Liyue I've been meaning to check out, so maybe we could go to one of them for dinner? And then we can maybe go on a walk or something like that. We'll have to stop by my place at some point, though- I have a gift for you. It's nothing big, but still. Happy Valentine's day, Xianyun, I love you too

(Thank you so much, April! I was smiling reading this, it's so sweet and cute)

[blooms-in-sleep]

Walking in Circles, Ch. 1

Alan, a thoughtful but joyless Sydney businessman, navigates a changing world. One shared by humans and leather-clad aliens with inscrutable - and tantalising - plans for humanity.

My first attempt at writing original mind control erotica! This chapter is somewhat SFW, but I hope it gets the tone I’m going for across. There’s more to come, so stay tuned!

Stepping out of my apartment building on a cold, blue Monday morning, I was almost slammed into on the street. Just a minute ago, I had been fiddling with my tie on the way to the elevator, thankful that there seemed to be far less people in the corridors these days. I didn’t need anyone seeing me having to run around in my work suit, huffing and puffing. Why had I taken so long plucking my damn eyebrows? 

Trying to keep a lid on my stress, I picked myself up from the wall I had fallen on, looking at my oblivious assailant through the corner of my eye. I had been practically handed the interview this morning, and I could feel it slipping away again. I should just say goodbye to my flat now, I thought. “Watch out!” I grumbled, not really meaning to be heard. The person who’d nearly walked into me slowed to a stop up the street, to my left. They looked like they’d been caught up in daydreams as well. I felt a pang of shame for my outburst.

It was then that I saw the outfit, and the stunningly muscular, long-legged build of the one wearing it. A Walker. It turned to face me. Or rather, the black visor of its helmet faced me. Like all Walkers, this one was around seven feet tall, towering over me, and wore a mottled brown bodysuit, which drank in the sunlight like leather. At its left breast was a row of shapes: two green circles and a blue diamond, dyed somehow onto the material. Not a micron of skin or hair showed. 

The suit joined seamlessly to the Walker’s helmet, which was strong-jawed but otherwise quite sleek and form-fitting. The visor was completely opaque, square, and extended from the forehead to the upper lip. Beneath it was a recessed grille in the fabric. It was this that vibrated when the Walker gave its reply, its voice even and normal-sounding, except for a tinny, modulated edge.

“Goodness, I’m so sorry,” the Walker said, “are you alright?” It was stepping closer on leather hooves, like a pair of sneakers swallowed up by the suit. I waved, and it stopped about a metre from me. “Yes, I’m fine,” I replied, trying to smooth out my jacket. Giving the looming spaceman a curt nod, I turned left and started off. Unfortunately, the Walker caught up with me. Having already deployed The Nod, I refused to look at it unless it addressed me first.

“Where are you going?” it asked when we stopped at a pedestrian crossing. Taking a second to steel myself, I turned to see its visor tilted towards me. I pressed the call button once. “Mascot station,” I said, “I have an interview with a security firm today.” “That’s good. I was helping a friend, now I’m walking back to my vehicle.” It pointed across the road and on the other side of the street, at a silver sports car parked in front of some more apartments. I raised my eyebrow. “Can you… fit in there?” “The driver’s seat of my vehicle is customised for my size, if that’s what you mean.” I nodded again. It occurred to me that the Walker had never asked my name. The light at the crossing turned green, and we both walked forward.

When we got to the other side, the Walker stopped at the corner again. I had to go a different direction now, but the urgency of the interview wasn’t so pertinent as the theory I was developing. “I’m Alan,” I said, looking slyly at the giant alien. Its head twitched to the side. “Alan Chung,” I added. The Walker hesitated. “I’m sorry, Alan-Chung,” it said my name almost like one word, “I can’t tell you my name. It would be unfortunate.” 

So that’s why it hadn’t asked. “Alright, tell me about your friend.” “He’s doing well.” The light changed to green, and the Walker hastened to cross the street. “Goodbye.” As I started off towards the station again, I watched the Walker climb into its car. It didn’t appear to have been locked. The windows were tinted, reflecting the parked cars, row of trees, and crammed-together buildings on my side of the street. Maybe it had more “friends” in there with it. I turned away before the Walker drove off.

Why had I done that? I wondered, sitting on the train – the next train after the one I’d wanted and had missed – as we rode through a long tunnel. Not only would I have to rush to my interview, but I’d also gone and bothered a Walker. I guess I was just too curious. I’d wager that everyone in Sydney glimpsed a Walker about once a day, but you rarely caught them alone, or in a talking mood. They were also hardly ever seen in each other’s company. 

Since appearing on Earth thirty years ago, the millions of Walkers had scattered across the globe. They had invented, and given to almost every nation, a few advanced technologies in exchange for asylum. Among the gifts was the Process. Our government cutely termed it the PUP, or “Protocol for Unusual Persuasion.” It was a method by which a human being could be irreversibly broken into a complete and willing slave.

As I was thinking, the train slowed to a stop at Town Hall station. I did my best to hurry to the ticket gates without pushing. I rose through a criss-crossing mass of escalators and emerged in the tiled atrium, getting in line to leave. Once I was at the gate, I held out my arm, and after half a second, the automated plastic doors swung aside, the appropriate transaction made. The person in front of me in the queue had made the same motion, as did everyone else going through. 

Sometimes I felt like I could feel the bio-chip under the skin of my wrist humming and buzzing as it worked. Never mind how the thing was the size of a grain of sand. Considering it was a Walker invention, I chalked it up to paranoia. I emerged onto the sunlit footpath of the Sydney CBD, the tram line winding between rows of skyscrapers. I hastened through the crowds towards one of them, its concrete walls and glass windows turned blue in its own shadow. There were no Walkers in sight, but I still wished I didn’t feel so small.

...

With thoughts of a cluttered CV and my empty apartment playing through my mind, I eyed my pineapple margarita, unthirsty. Cantina Tempo, a favourite of Maggio Systems middle management, hummed quietly around our booth. Pink and red neon glowed overhead, combining with the brick walls to make the place feel hotter than it was, more alive. Fiesta music wafted down from speakers in the rafters. We had ordered a plastic basket of pork crackling, which sat in the centre of the booth’s wooden table, enclosed by a crescent-shaped lounge. On my left, Dina Sheridan took another swig of her own drink. The other two there, Nick Worsley and Arnold Sá, chatted brightly over a candy margarita and something covered in a spiral of sugary foam. Those nutjobs.

“Oh, Alan,” Dina turned to me, “how’d that interview with HutSafe go? I don’t believe I’ve asked, sorry.” Her blue eyes were calm, but still intense, like they’ve always been. I waved away her concern, likewise, politely. “No need to apologise, I’m sure you’ve got a lot on your mind.” “Here’s to that!” Nick interjected, chuckling. Arnold gestured at wiping sweat off his tan forehead. Clicking my tongue at Nick, which made him lift his hands in surrender, I continued, “I’ve yet to hear back from Mr. Jarvis, but he was very impressed with my credentials.” “He’d be crazy not to be,” Arnold said. “What do you say to a toast, eh, Dina?”

Despite my best efforts, I was cajoled into clinking my glass with theirs, giving an anaemic cheer to accompany Arnold’s, “To eight years at Maggio, and to everyone else you’ll work with!” Dina took the longest to set down her cocktail. She was the only person there older than me, but only an inch taller, which was gratifying. It made working under her for six years, since the old head of marketing at Maggio retired, easier. That guy was a giant, and a giant racist. 

Her hair was blond, straight and cut with a sleek fringe. Arnold and Nick had similar, surfer-good looks, but Nick was tanned instead of naturally darker-skinned, and his hairstyle closer-cropped than Arnold’s, almost a buzz cut. We all wore our work suits. I didn’t think anyone else there was single – not that I would’ve asked any of them out, of course. If it was possible to find a woman at thirty-seven I could build a new life with, I would...

Motion towards the back of the bar made me look up from the basket of crackling. A sleek, bent surface rose like an iceberg from the sea. Red and pink played across a broad back, covered in leather. “A Walker?” I exclaimed. Everyone in the booth suddenly looked at me. Before I could apologise, they followed my gaze to the now-fully upright figure. “Huh,” Arnold whispered, “I didn’t think they drank.” “Of course they don’t,” Dina said back, “there’s no glass for it on the table. Only one for...” she bit her lip. 

Seated across from the Walker’s spot in the booth was a young man. There was nothing strictly wrong with his black pants and check suit, his slightly pudgy, freckled face, or his light brown, curly hair. His eyes, upturned and watery in a look of total admiration and trust, were what stood out. In front of him was a tiny cocktail glass, empty. He sat with his hands together on his lap. He hadn’t been told to move, clearly, so he wouldn’t.

This Walker – stockier than the one I met on my way into the city yesterday, with a chest like the prow of a battleship – strode up to the front and produced its arm. The bartender scanned its bio-chip. “Thank you, friend,” we heard it buzz to him. Then, it walked back over to where its... companion was sitting, looking around the bar in polite disinterest. Once the Walker strode back into his view, his eyes twitched open wider. “This is a good place.” “I’m glad you think so, sir,” the man replied. At that point, Arnold turned towards us looking like his drink had turned to lemon juice. Nick knocked him on the shoulder, and he rolled his eyes and relaxed a little bit. Dina and I continued pretending we weren’t staring. The Walker helped the man to his feet, and the two left the restaurant, the alien guiding him with a hand rested on his back.

“See that, Nick?” Arnold said, once the two were gone, “this is what I was talking about.” Nick sighed, grumbling, “Arnold, we can’t judge PUP-people for how they act. He’s not thinking like a normal person anymore.” Arnold opened his mouth to reply. “Why do they bring the people they’ve turned into pets out in public? It’s messed up! They –” he was cut off. “Guys,” Dina said, pinching the bridge of her nose, “let’s not let it bother us. We’re all adults here, we can manage that, I hope.”

“I agree,” I said to Nick and Arnold, “the Walkers have done a lot of good for the world, and the only PUP-people we see agreed to it, so it’s not like they’ve hurt anyone.” I hoped they couldn’t tell I was recycling what I’d heard activists say on the radio. “Well said, Alan,” Dina replied, which I accepted with a nod. It wasn’t like I was happy they turned people into slaves, but I wasn’t about to make a scene in front of my boss. Even if I was leaving the company, it was a matter of respect, something Arnold could stand to learn a thing or two about.

After another round of drinks in that booth, we split the bill and left Cantina Tempo behind, the cheerful lighting and music fading to the darkness of the city. We all tried not to look too cold as we walked along. Dina fidgeted with her gold watch to take her mind off it, as she walked along silently, leading the way. It had been a present from her husband, a few years before her husband... well. She never went anywhere without it. She didn’t look at it; just ran her finger and thumb over its rim. 

I’d always looked up to her, I suddenly realised. I would miss her at HutSafe. We turned left, and joined the ever-present flow of the city, heading towards the station. Another train, and then another sleep, and then another day. The pattern of my life for as long as I could remember. Maybe I should get a new bio-chip soon, just in case. It wouldn’t do to miss work just because it broke.

[beardedmrbean]

FARMINGTON, N.M. — An 18-year-old gunman who killed three people and injured six others, including two police officers, used at least three firearms in a rampage through a northwestern New Mexico community, shooting randomly at cars and houses, authorities said Monday.

Officers began receiving reports of gunshots at about 10:57 a.m. in Farmington, New Mexico, a city of more than 45,000 people about 200 miles north of Albuquerque. In a video released late Monday, Farmington Police Chief Steve Hebbe said the gunman fired three weapons, including an AR-style rifle.

The shooting was "honestly one of the most horrific and difficult days that Farmington has ever had as a community," he said, adding that investigators are searching for a motive for the attack, including talking to the shooter’s family.

"But at this point it appears to be purely random, that there was no schools, no churches and no individuals targeted," Hebbe said. "During the course of the event, the suspect roamed throughout the neighborhood up to a quarter of a mile. At least six houses and three cars were shot in the course of the event, as the suspect randomly fired at whatever entered his head to shoot at."

The shooting led to "preventative lockdowns" of the Farmington Municipal Schools at the request of police, the school district said. The lockdowns were lifted Monday afternoon.

San Juan Regional Medical Center, where victims were taken for medical care, was also locked down during the "crisis," according to statement from the hospital, as an incident command center was put in place to organize the facility's response.

"We worked closely with law enforcement to ensure the safety of our patients and caregivers," said Laura Werbner, public relations coordinator for San Juan Regional Medical Center.

Authorities investigate motive

Deputy Chief Baric Crum said the investigation would continue with a look at the "several blocks of this crime scene to see what actually happened." Hebbe later confirmed that six homes and three vehicles were shot as the gunman fired at whatever entered his head to shoot at."

Officers from the Farmington Police Department, San Juan County Sheriff’s Office, and the New Mexico State Police are investigating the shooting. The Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives tweeted that agents from Phoenix were responding to Farmington to assist in the investigation.

Authorities are asking for anyone with information to come forward.

"What we now need from our community is anybody that has any additional information, whether that be eyewitness information or video information or whatever it may be, if you feel it’s pertinent," Crum said.

Crum said the investigation would continue with a look at the "several blocks of this crime scene to see what actually happened."

"We're grateful for the response we received from our agencies partners in the area," Crum said.

Witnesses describe the attack

Hank Shirley who lives near the scene of the shooting, said he was home watching television when he heard a series of gunshots around 11 a.m. which he described as a prolonged gun battle. Shirley said he did not see what happened but rather identified the distinctive pops as gunfire.

"When I heard that, I told my daughter to get down in the basement and get the baby down in the basement," Shirley told the Farmington Daily Times, part of the USA TODAY Network.

About four minutes after the gunfire ceased, he said he heard sirens and saw emergency vehicles approaching.

Joseph Robledo, a 32-year-old tree trimmer, said he rushed home after learning that his wife and 1-year-old daughter had sought shelter in the laundry room when gunshots rang out. A bullet went through his daughter’s window and room, without hitting anyone.

Robledo jumped a fence to get in through the back door. Out front, he found an older woman in the street who had been wounded while driving by. She appeared to have fallen out of her car, which kept rolling without her, he said.

“I went out to see because the lady was just lying in the road, and to figure just what the heck was going on,” Robledo said. He and others began to administer first aid as neighbors directed an arriving police officer toward the suspect.

"We were telling (the officer), 'He’s down there.' … The cop just went straight into action," Robledo said.

Robledo’s own family car was perforated with bullets.

"We’ve been doing yard work all last week. I just thank God that nobody was outside in front,” he said. “… Obviously, elderly people — he didn’t have no sympathy for them. Who’s to say he would have sympathy for a little kid."

[macarensesangles]

this is not really relevant to the subject matter of this blog but this is kind of the place i usually feel more comfortable being weird and emotional so ✌️

for whatever reason today my mind got back on system discourse and i ended up checking out the tag. Super relieved that i no longer interact with that kind of dead end community and subject matter where it’s just the same like 12 people having the same highly charged stressful arguments in perpetuity.

it’s honestly stressful for me to even think about as subject matter bc every part of it is so fraught (this is one reason i have a pretty hard line about no endo stuff anywhere near me). it’s hard enough to have DID & come to terms with that on its own in totally like psych and trauma-focused spaces; it gets even harder when you are also exposed to a community that has something superficially similar to your issue except to them it’s fun and positive and your conflicts about your disability are entirely due to an internalized -ism vis a vis plural identity rather than like. bc your disability causes you suffering by the nature of the thing.

and i’ve definitely cooled down on it a lot now that i’m away from it. like, obviously everyone has the right to live and identify in ways i don’t get. there’s nothing wrong with claiming an experience that other people may not understand or believe. i think the only wrong part is when medical misinformation comes into the picture and when people with such identities try to pull CDDs into that umbrella (bc some people are ok with this but some are really not) or try to push themselves/that stuff into spaces solely for CDDs.

and i know some complexities arise bc some people with CDDs also have some investment in this stuff or feel they’re both but like. To me that’s why it’s important not to “cross the beams.” and i admittedly have a huge grudge bc for a long time I did not have access to good information about what was happening to me — the only explanations i could come up with were either like, tulpa/soulbonding shit or schizophrenia, neither of which were true and neither of which served to do anything but prolong the amount of time i didn’t have any way to tackle the real problem. which was that i was traumatized and didn’t recognize it or remember all of what happened.

it’s frustrating to me that it comes down to this idea of like, sort of a “who’s valid” thing for so many people. i don’t care whether non-trauma systems (and i don’t like this use of the term system, due to its basis in medical language, but that cat is way out of the bag) are Valid and ultimately can’t speak to that. not my job to dictate others’ experiences, hope they live their lives happily & safely. but the way they interact with plural identity is not particularly helpful or safe when applied to me as a traumatized person with a medical condition, and my conflicts and shame around my experience make it very fraught for me to even see this wildly disparate outlook in practice, so sharing spaces is just not safe. and on top of that, in the past these communities have in part contributed to further denial and confusion for me in providing this sort of “buffer” that allowed me to cling to that explanation. which is not entirely on them, but it was damaging enough that i need entirely away from it so that i can center myself in what is healthy & pertinent and not, like, denial of the problem.

it’s all pointless to mention anyway bc no matter what anyone says this particular discourse will probably keep going until the sun burns itself out, and as long as i simply don’t look at it and avoid spaces in which it’s likely to come up it pretty much ceases to be relevant to my life (i’m glad I got out!). but god sometimes the whole thing is frustrating to remember. what an absolute hellish mire. what a nightmare for everyone on every side, but ESPECIALLY for the people involved who are heavily traumatized.

[callofthxvoid]

And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

TW: death, blood, gore

Dahlia was going into the last hours of her night shift, the early morning light pouring through the station windows, when the phone rang. It wasn’t the first time that she had answered a call from someone reporting that a door had been found wide open. It probably wouldn’t be the last. But as she talked to the concerned neighbour on the other end, jotting down the pertinent details and waving her co-captain over to get the ambulance ready, she felt a cold chill run through her entire body when she was told which house it was.

No. No, it couldn’t be. She had literally talked to Evora last night, a few casual messages exchanged as she was clocking in for her shift, and her friend was leaving the Huntsville Daily. They were meant to be having drinks later. And besides, Evora would never, ever forget to lock the door behind them.

She simply wouldn’t.

Hanging up the phone, she took a deep breath before turning toward Phoenix. “I should be fine,” she reassured him, drawing from the years of experience she had learning how to compartmentalise her feelings in order to do her job. Dahlia, for all of her rational levelheadedness, did not actually enjoy being cool and collected and detached from her emotions, but being a paramedic meant that she had to be. Her job meant frequently sitting with people in the last moments of their life. It meant meeting their loved ones on the worst day of theirs.

Today, she was both a paramedic and a loved one. Today, more than ever, she had to keep it together.

“I should be fine,” the paramedic captain repeated as she climbed into the passager seat of the ambulance, letting Phoenix drive so that she could spend the journey mentally and emotionally steeling herself. She took another deep breath as they pulled out of the station and began driving toward Evora’s house. “But I appreciate the backup. And the moral support.”

It was never easy stepping into the scene of a potential massacre. But as she braced herself for what was to come, Dahlia discovered that it was much harder to bring herself to walk inside when she knew that what she might be walking in on was the gruesome death of one of her friends. Or rather, she tried to brace herself for what was to come, but no amount of experience dealing with death could have prepared her for what this would feel like.

She had never actually lost someone close to her before.

As soon as Dahlia stepped into the living room, seeing the bodies of Evora and her roommate on the floor with both of their ribcages ripped open and several organs missing, she immediately gasped and turned around. Covering her mouth, she took a moment to choke down a sob before rapidly blinking away the tears that had pooled in the corners of her eyes. After a few deep breaths, she pulled herself together as best as she could before turning back around, reaching for her radio as she stepped closer. “Sheriff Browne, Deputy Sheriff Alson, this is Paramedic Captain Cruz-Dutton,” she started, staring at Evora’s lifeless face as she spoke. “We’ve got two bodies here. Door was wide open when we arrived. At first glance, it looks like the monsters got them, but…”

When she was finally able to tear her gaze from her friend, Dahlia turned her head to carefully study the scene around them, her eyebrows furrowing when she discovered the discrepancies between what she had experienced in the past and what she was seeing now. “Something feels off. I don’t know what it is, but it's too… Clean. There isn’t nearly enough blood splatter. Or blood in general. The bodies...” She paused to collect herself. “The bodies are too... Too neat. It almost looks staged to me. But I'll wait to confer with the officers when they arrive on the scene.”

After she called it in, the rest of the morning passed by in a blur. It was as if Dahlia was operating on autopilot. She could remember helping Phoenix brief in the people from the Sheriff’s Office when they arrived, she could remember supervising the bodies as they were moved into the ambulance for transportation; she could even remember hearing Phoenix speaking to Jay, asking her to pick up the twins, and then to DJ, asking him to come over. But it didn’t quite feel like it was her. She was already watching the ambulance drive away toward the funeral home when she realised that she had escalated from compartmentalisation into full disassociation.

Excusing herself from the scene, she found herself taking deeper and deeper breaths as she walked down the street, steadily picking up the pace until she was practically sprinting. Rounding the corner, Dahlia leaned against the wall and let out a painful, strangled sob before covering her face. Sinking down into a pile on the sidewalk, she finally allowed herself to cry as the grief that she had been keeping at bay all morning came pouring out of her.

I’m sorry, Evora. I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you.

[inventors-fair]

Ordinarily, today would be the day I would show off example cards to help guide those requiring additional inspiration. Unfortunately, I don’t feel that that makes much sense for this week. While I am more than okay with receiving multiple designs operating on similar axes, having a sample design possibly intersect with someone’s submission feels uniquely awful enough that I’ve elected to take a different approach. Today I intend to talk about mechanic design, the philosophy behind my word choices, and how I might approach designing around each of them:

There is a phrase I used in the main post that I feel is worth digging a bit deeper into, specifically “could reasonably inform the identity of a premier set.” While this may suggest some great level of mechanic density, I feel that isn’t quite the whole of it. You don’t need a high concentration of cards with a certain mechanic to have an impact on a draft environment: Just look at Tempest, a set which contains a rather mammoth 350 cards, only twelve of which feature the buyback mechanic. Despite being only 3.5% of the entire set, the cards show up frequently enough and have enough of an impact on the board that cards like Rats of Rath were created specifically to provide counterplay to their otherwise stifling presence. So long as your mechanic makes a baseline amount of sense as a mechanic (I.E. It contributes something to the hypothetical environment it is in, and can be used on more than like, three cards) then you’re probably doing fine. Just make sure to at least briefly consider the hypothetical environment these cards might exist in. I realize you’re only submitting one card, but it helps to have a vague idea of where this card might exist in a space it was designed for, rather than strictly in a Fair-shaped vacuum.

As for the mechanics themselves, they were selected primarily for flexibility. I know Magic generally opts for stronger, more evocative names for its mechanics, but for the purposes of this contest that seemed suboptimal. If I asked y’all to design, say, Quadruple strike, I imagine I’d get a lot of very similar submissions. So instead we are left with four words, each capable of being A Thing or An Action (or, as the experts call them, Nouns and Verbs), and each carrying at least a degree of resonance with them, ideally not the kind of resonance that already has heavy mechanical connotations in Magic. This assemblage of words was actually surprisingly difficult to cultivate, so I made sure to give y’all plenty of options, and hopefully you will find something worthwhile in at least one of them.

Anyway, on to the mechanics themselves:

Brew: Nounwise, it is a concoction, a potion, an ale. Some kind of beverage, possibly magical? Brew also has the extant Magic connotation of Creative Deck Construction, but that felt slang-y enough that I didn’t consider it too overbearing, though I would not discount it as a flavor direction to head in. Verb-wise, it generally refers to the construction of said beverages and creative blends. The strengths of this name, I think, definitely lie in its relatively concrete flavor hook. It may be somewhat inflexible, but magical potions are, I feel, not an especially deeply mined mechanical vein, and there's possibly a decent well of space to explore there.

Focus: Focus-the-verb is very much, well, focused. A lot of heavily-directed thought or energy or attention, given to a certain object or action or point. Focus as a noun is also pertinent as a sort of ritualistic object to aid in the conduction of magics, or as a particular pursuit. There are many angles one could approach this from, but a key thread to all of these definitions is this sort of concentration. Fortunately, there are enough things one can concentrate on, and ways one can concentrate, that I don’t think you need to be especially subversive with this one. This is definitely among the strongest words in the pool for this reason, I think.

Order: And now we come to the big one. Order stuck out to me because it can go in so many different directions, so much so that I didn’t especially care that the word itself felt somewhat white-mana-aligned. Certainly, they do all generally involve some amount of structure and hierarchy, but orders can range from instructions to organizational methods to religious factions. Heck, there’s even some math in there. Not sure how much math one could feasibly fit in a fantasy card game, but, well, Quandrix exists, so maybe you could do something with that. If I were to construct a card with Order, and I craved self-imposed restrictions beyond the scope of the prompt (as I often do), I would definitely try to figure out how to make an Order which makes sense outside of white. By no means are you required to do this, but if you are looking for some further constraint-based direction, that’s probably what I would go for.

Sketch: And then, at last, we come to the wild card. I’ll be honest, if I were forced to remove a word from this list, I would probably axe this one, as I had pretty much no idea what people would do with it going into this contest, but I figured I’d leave it anyway just in case someone wanted a bit of a challenge. It definitely strays a bit further from what we’ve seen from Magic, generally, but it does have a very strong flavor leaning, and extrapolating that into an Actual Magic Mechanic strikes me as an interesting challenge. Definitionally, it refers to rough, unfinished drawings, and the creation thereof. I would probably hone in on the idea of something which has not yet been fully constructed, though I have seen others play around in the Discord with designs more focused on the actual act of writing something down, which strikes me as an equally interesting and valid vein of design, and I’m quite excited to see where y’all might go with it.

I hope this vague ramble helped to shine at least a little light on my thought processes behind the curtain, and possibly even gave you some potential perspective on the mechanics that you may not have yet considered. Regardless, I wish you the best of luck in navigating this admittedly arduous contest.

- @starch255

[chlocxli]

What is a Legacy?

Li Ruì’s Journal, as found in the Talbot Archives. A selection of entries that feel pertinent to Chloe as she reads through them alongside Lilith, trying to make sense of where this family history comes from.

For years, Li family Seers have been tasked with keeping Journals of their time as the family Seer. Li Ruì has been a mystery for many years as her journal mysteriously went “missing” after the family’s cross country move from Las Vegas to New England. Some stories had been brought down from generation to generation, but all seemed to stop before they reached Chloe. She’s none the wiser to any connection the Midnight Underground or how her family ties into the world she felt as if she had blindly stumbled into. 

June 2nd, 1905

We moved to Las Vegas today. The town has something special, I can feel it in my finger tips. Baba thinks it was all his idea, but I’ve been hinting for weeks to convince him of such. The town has such potential that he had no choice but to say yes, but moreso, it feels so incredibly special to me. Having been to many places across the west coast, it holds an energy that none of my family can't quite place, but I know it’s right, whatever this feeling is. 

I’ll become a school teacher soon. I’ve never been quite so excited for a new chapter in life as I have this one. It’s a funny feeling, to be an Oracle such as I am, I’ve never seen my own future before my eyes, but I know it’s going to be something special. I can feel it in the pit of my stomach, and Zumu promised me that a gut feeling could be just as powerful as the sight we are given by Jiǎngjiě yuán. I have no choice but to trust it! I can only hope things continue to improve for us throughout life to come. 

June 30th, 1905

Cicerone appeared to me today. It was unexpected, I never thought I would see her with my own undeserving eyes. However, she insisted that our family have been good to her. That we were destined for great things. Insisted she wanted me to have that power, even. I didn’t know what to say, but I very well couldn’t say no! 

She placed a hand over mine, and swore to me that my family would be powerful seers again. Revered like we were before we left for America. I know she’ll make good on her word.

She wore the clothes of a debutant, frills and beautiful pastel colors adorning her body. Though, I suppose it’s not her true form if what others tell me are true. No mortal could see her as her true self without consequence. But, she has deemed me worthy of her knowledge. All I can do is prove that she was right to choose our family.

October 17th, 1905

I’ve met so many people here like us. Not Seers, but those misunderstood who have felt the need to hide until they’ve come here. Vampires, Werewolves, and Wizards alike have all flocked to this town, drawn in by the same power that drew us. It feels comfortable. As if we’ve wandered lost with a shroud drawn over our eyes until this moment where we’ve all found each other. 

Moira Devlin, a Vampire, seems to be a great leader. She takes great care to display her power, and rightfully so as a woman in all of this. I admire her a great deal. She seems to recognize the power I have, though I have not disclosed the blessing given to me. However, I take her appreciation of the power I have as a blessing. Not many have in recent years, and it feels right to be recognized. 

Then there is the Talbot family, a Werewolf pack. Their leader is Samuel Talbot, I quite like him! Not romantically of course, he’s spoken for, but he’s charming and has a good sense of humor. We get along well, though we do have our differences, they don’t seem to matter as much as they could! I hope this is something that persists through our time together. This is quite a special friendship.

July 16th, 1906

The visions have been getting difficult to manage over the last year. They’re more vivid, and leave lingering side effects that I haven’t had before. And much more important, too. Rather than seeing the mundane, I see the dangerous facts. Violence, pain, death, and more all seem to become a part of my readings in some respect now. They were something I was no stranger to before, but I worry that the once vivacious nature of visions is fading into something that may be used against me in time. Or, may this not come true, against my family. 

Samuel assures me that it’s not all bad. Power is met with responsibility as he’s learned as he’s led his pack. I’m helping those that I see, too, warning them of what could be, and giving them a chance to be vigilant and in control of their futures. A power not so easily bestowed, but I feel as if he doesn’t understand why I feel the way that I do about these things. I am one young woman, and holding this responsibility in my hands doesn’t feel fair. 

April 17th, 1907

I marry in a few weeks. Sometimes I think Samuel is more excited than I for the occasion. He’s been close since I spoke with him about my fears with my visions last year, and I thank him for that constantly. He insists it’s what he’s meant to do as a leader, strong and solid. However, I tell him often that those are not the only qualities that make up leadership. Least of all his leadership. I’ve watched him lead with a heavy hand, but I know him to be gentle and kind as well. A soft and open heart ready to appreciate the hearts of those around him. 

He tells me I discredit him with such comments, but I see him smile while he says it. I know he knows me to be truthful, I’ve never been less than truthful with him at least. And, he says he appreciates that. Too many people are willing to lie to him, and he doesn’t know how to handle that. It’s much easier to deal with my ‘brutal honesty’ as he puts it. 

We agreed today that we would be Best Friends. More than that, we agreed our Children would be best friends when the time came, too. They will inevitably be as joined at the hip as we are, and I look forward to the adventures our families will share in the years to come. We insist that we will always be connected somehow, and that brings me an indescribable joy. 

December 15th, 1909

The visions only seem to be getting worse. Maybe it’s this place, and the chaos that it’s been slowly brewing, but all that I seem to note are the horrors people will face. Including Samuel. Poor Samuel. It wasn’t even a purposeful reading, he says he doesn't ever want one of mine after all that I’ve seen. Blissful ignorance is safer. But feeling a bullet rip through one of the people I hold most dear requires me to say something. I couldn’t keep it from him even if it was what he would have preferred. I told him all that I saw, though it wasn’t much to create a mental picture with. 

Wherever it was, it was incredibly dark, almost blurry. It was as if an arm extended from the shadow, and a gun fired so loud I thought my ears would ring for days. And then there was this sharp pain that seemed to rip through my entire body, and there I stood helpless, feeling the way life seemed to siphon from my body with no chance of recovery. Though I don’t know for sure, it must have been a silver bullet to cause such concrete damage. Samuel has told me time and time again that silver is the only thing that can do him true damage.

I couldn’t quite gauge his reaction the way I wish I could have. I begged him to speak with me about it in the hopes we could come up with a solution, but he seemed far too accepting of a fate I do not wish to see befall him. I’ve never had such pushback from him on a matter before. I don’t know how to feel about all of this, and he’s the only person I wish to discuss it with, though I feel as if I can’t speak to him on the matter. 

January 7th, 1910

As if the issue with Samuel is not enough, I had another vision today off someone by mistake. I didn’t know him well, but I knew him to be a family man. A human at that. His entire family is slated to die if he isn’t careful, and worst of all, he will involve himself in this world through a deal with a demon. He’s to become Tainted like so many before him. There’s nothing I can do if he refuses to believe me which seems to be the case. 

I told him then and there that the danger was apparent, written in the strings of fate already. He reacted so poorly, I couldn’t explain it as well as I hoped to, but I’ve done my job. I’ve told him what I saw, and there’s nothing else I can do. As I’ve learned, time and time again, there is no way to make someone believe the truth. A lesson learned is the only way for one to learn the truth.

I wish him well. I hope I’m wrong. 

February 12th, 1910

I tried to speak with Samuel again. I wanted to know if he had taken any sort of protective measures or if he even knew of anyone we could question about an incident like this. Shooting the Alpha of a Talbot pack was no small atrocity, and one that I am sure more than myself would like to see never come to pass. All it did was upset him, and I can tell he’s been upset with me for quite some time. He of all people should know that I don’t choose what I see, and that I do not wish him ill. But, it doesn’t seem like enough to temper his anger. 

He yelled at me in a way that I’ve never heard him do before, and I didn’t know what to do but to yell back. It just continued to escalate from there, and when I insisted that I couldn’t sit by and watch all of these horrible things continue to come to pass anymore, he said that maybe I shouldn’t remain in the Underground anymore.

And, like a fool, I agreed. 

Moving away has been in the back of my head for weeks now, but I didn’t want it to be like this. Las Vegas still feels like home, but I can’t live like this anymore. I can’t subject my Daughter to this life. Still, it feels as if Samuel has forced my hand when I wanted this to be something we planned together. Perhaps moving just far enough that it was only a day trip by train when one of us worked up the fare. 

But, now all I want is to be as far from any reminder of this place as possible. I can get a job on the east coast somewhere, I’m almost certain of that fact. And, the distance will be good for my family. I don’t want this place to stain us any longer.

Maybe one day we’ll be cut out for this life. Maybe one day we can return to the Underground when we’re stronger. But my place is not here. And, I don’t want it to be some mission by our future Seers to claim their place here by sheer dumb will alone. This Journal will be lost with the rest of our life here. I’ll leave it with Samuel’s wife, kept safe and away from my own family. I trust her with it, as I’ve trusted both her and Samuel with my life.

If, one day, someone reads through this Journal again, know that I’m sorry I couldn’t be stronger. I know this power is a blessing, but it comes with a heavy weight to carry as with any power. It was not a weight I was ready for. One day, someone will be strong enough. Someone in our family has always found strength in the face of adversity, and I know that the promise that we were given by our God will come true. What I wouldn’t give to see it be true.

[wild-houseplant]

It is a ridiculously quiet day today, so the upside of that is that I have finally (FINALLY!! :D :D) got the time to send those asks for cousin Tank and their squad of loved people. If that's too many people (which I conpletely understand), I am most interested in Tank and Isabela, but feel free to pick loved ones as you'd like. Long story short, these are my questions:

8. What are their most prominent memories of each other?

24. Is their any moment that happens between them that you know happens and just makes you melt? 

31. Share anything you would like about the couple!

As always, take as long as you'd like and feel free to skip questions ^^ Hope you are having an absolutely spectacular day! :D :D

HEYOOOOOOOO HI! 8D 8D 8D Ooh I had to think a bit for ol' Cousin Tank- not as fleshed out as they could be, poor sod, but we're getting there! Also, sorry for the delay, but now I have answers for you! Tank and Isabela, coming right up! Under the cut, naturally, because I do tend to waffle.

I'll start with 31, sharing anything I'd like about the couple, because this may be pertinent given the nature of this particular ask game: Isabela, in my world state, is aromantic, and her flavour of aromanticism is total apathy to it, maybe a little 'good for you!' if it's someone she likes. So Tank's and her relationship is very much a 'kiss kiss, fall in friendship' sort of dynamic. But when I say fall I mean fall hard. The longer they spend in each other's company, the more certain they are that they're one hell of a good pair. Peas in a pod, two halves of a whole, all that good stuff. Isabela (and Tank, too) are the happiest they've ever been in the Kirkwall polycule. Isabela's surrounded by people she cares about and naturally enjoys herself with, and so is Tank. Everything (rather, everyone) they could have wanted for themselves is living in the Amell mansion, and by golly they're happy as clams in high tide about it. Now for 8, their most prominent memories of each other. For Isabela, it was... well, a bit of a wall incoming for this one, I think. I'm going to say, for safety's sake, that I find the DA2 timeline a bit... messy. I've rearranged it to suit myself, so if anything seems too rushed or out of order on my part, it absolutely is. x) With that disclaimer out of the way, on we go. To set the scene: we're a few months after All That Remains. I hc that Leandra survives (Tank intercepted the vivisection bit and used a lot of horrific blood magic in the process of restoring Leandra’s body into something liveable, before it could completely expire). After receiving Tank’s letter informing them of what happened, Leandra's cousin (Rhod's mother) Revka, along with Aurelio and four of the offspring, break their vow to never return to Kirkwall. They make for the hellhole (affectionate & derogatory) with all due urgency to both support the family and magically assist in any further healing where possible (Evander, younger of the twins, has proven himself to be quite a prolific healer mage, and having had five kids, Aurelio’s not too shabby, himself).

A day or two after their arrival, Rhodri has finished Warden-Commander duties and done the most unceremonious dump-and-run since the Tevinters ditched Ferelden. She's now in Kirkwall, too, stopping only because exhaustion from constant travel forced her to. By the luckiest hap, Tank has Rhodri come along with them and co. after Nuncio puts in an order for a certain Antivan to be delivered into his hands, so we can imagine how that turns out.

That afternoon, a celebration takes place with this cluster of traumatised, overjoyed people who simply cannot believe their luck, all held at the (other) Amell estate where Revka’s branch of the family lived. 

The thing with Isabela is that with all the romantic affections Tank gets from Fenris and Varric, she feels terribly (unduly) worried that somehow her own love for them isn’t enough to sustain any long-term interest in a very intimate sense. She doesn’t really get a chance to see much of the platonic kind, because friends are few and far between (or they end up Tank’s partners), and their immediate family is inclined to be rather toxic at times.

But here, at this ecstatic, careworn party, she gets to see the people who Tank grew up with, all revelling in them. Revka mellows Leandra out a lot, so the toxic criticism falls away and it's nothing but praise, praise, praise. Carver's smiling (genuinely!) and slinging an arm around Tank as Auntie Revka talks about Tank spending hours making little Rube-Goldberg contraptions for him that dispensed his favourite snacks. Uncle Aurelio laughs himself to tears recalling how his delightful niece accidentally blew up a hill. The youngest cousin, Bethann, who doesn't do well at parties and is frequently leaving the room to decompress, signs "I love you" to Tank every time she passes them on the way in and out. Other cousins (and sibling! Bethany's alive and kickin'!) are falling over themselves to snare some of Tank's time and attention. (And of course, Rhodri is praising and adoring her cousin to high heaven, amid light hosting duties and trying not to lose her shit about getting Zevran back and seeing her family.) 

Isabela watches on with her heart fit to bursting as Tank drinks all this in like a sponge, positively exulting in it-- especially the affection coming from the relatives who were consistently good to them (mostly the aunt/uncle side of the family). Naturally, it’s not quite the same sort of love as Isabela’s (they’re sleeping together, after all). It’s familial platonic. All the same, sitting there and watching this is the wake-up call Isabela needs to see the way Tank is just as moved, just as fulfilled, just as deeply involved in a love that isn’t romantic in nature. By the time the party’s over, Isabela’s been adoring Tank as much as anyone else, and has been adored back twofold. That’s happiness and true love right there. Now, after that enormous wall, for Tank: I have to say, for Tanky Wanky, it’s not so much one single memory of Isabela that stands out for them, but rather a cluster of them that revolve around doing one thing together repeatedly.  Tank is a dab hand at mechanics. Inventing, fixing, pulling apart and putting back together for shiggles, high-tech pranks: they’re the one you want to see about it. They’re pretty good at magic, especially blood magic (much to their chagrin), but their true interest and talent lies in building things. 

When the money from the Deep Roads exploration came in and Tank was able to buy back the main Amell estate, they immediately installed a workshop out the back so they could fiddle and faddle to their heart’s content. 

Like Rhodri, Tank loves company, but nobody ever wanted to come to the workshop with them. Leandra and the siblings weren’t interested, Fenris got uneasy around too many sharp tools ( ;_; ) and Varric couldn’t stand to be around that kind of stuff after Bianca. Nobody wanted to be there.

Except Isabela.

She was happy to sit in there with a bottle of plonk between them until all hours, making conversation with Tank while they worked away. She knew a bit about the art from carrying out basic repairs on her own ship, and was curious enough to ask a few questions here and there. Sometimes she was a spare pair of hands, or a rubber ducky like programmers have, but most of the time she was good company. 

It ended up happening so frequently that Tank built a special, comfortable recliner for her that took up half the free space in that cramped little box of a workshop. It’s their little Thing They Do. They still do it. Well, that was another wall.  But we made it to 28! Is there any moment that happens between them that you know happens and just makes you melt? Ugh their friendship makes me into a puddle on the reg, I have to say. They’re meant for each other in a way I can’t quite describe, aside from that very hackneyed ‘on the same wavelength’ claim. But it’s the same wave, at the same point in the wave. Just a perfect match, with just enough differences to keep it interesting.  They were meandering past a bakery in Lowtown a couple months into the FWB scheme, still long before either of them had much money to their name. Both of them having a sweet tooth, they looked at the window display. “Those cream puffs look a bit of all right, don’t they?” breathes Tank. Isabela nods. “They do, don’t they? I’m quite partial to those, myself.”

Because of course they both like the same confectionery.

They share a shrug and make for the Hanged Man, where they eat dinner and sleep the night in Isabela’s room. In the morning, Isabela wakes first and slips out with her money bag in hand, making for the bakery to buy as many cream puffs for Tank as her funds will allow. 

Tank wakes not long after Isabela leaves, and slips out with their money bag in hand, ALSO making for the bakery to buy as many cream puffs for Isabela as their funds will allow.

Isabela returns to the Hanged Man victorious and penniless, clutching a small box with three cream puffs. She makes her way to her room only to find it empty, but Tank’s things are still in there. After checking the facilities and finding them empty, she’s about to leave on a search-and-rescue mission when she catches Tank creeping into her room, victorious and penniless and-- you guessed it-- clutching a box with three cream puffs inside.

A lot of pointing and exclaiming follows, after which the boxes are exchanged, and the cream puffs are devoured with relish and silent adoration.