#however tenuous and strained at times

[cultivating-wildflowers]

Pardon the oozing sentimentality, but some of my "virtual" relationships over the years feel fated, insofar as orchestrated by God, and it's got me kind of misty-eyed today.

I met my writing group upwards of six years ago, and it was all by chance. Six years later, I have most of their addresses. We all watched the livestream of one of their graduations. I'm in another's wedding. Another may be going to the ren fest with me. We've done weekend meetups. We have a prayer request chat. We are real friends, honest friends, indelibly linked.

But the wild one is one friend we almost missed. They almost didn't join the group; a friend (we no longer have regular contact with) pulled them in. And they're a core member of the group now. BUT! I also see their artwork ALL THE TIME because several of my tumblr mutuals reblog it. Two completely different spheres, and they're somehow in both!

I've followed one of my newer mutuals for years because I love her artwork. I've shared her stuff with an "IRL" friend. I've picked up book recs and movie recs from her. And a year or so ago, one of the writing girls sent me her insta because it "looked like something I'd like" and I said "HEY I KNOW HER!"

This even happened with one of the writing gang who are on booktok. She posted a reel and a bit later my brother-in-law sent it to his wife my sister, and my sister said "you're not gonna believe this, but that's my and Phoebe's friend".

And it feels like fate. It's like watching someone tie up a boat, and each loop they toss out is one more link securing it to the dock. It's God working the threads and weaving us together, surely and truly.

I'm clearly on a hormone kick but like??? There is something breathtaking about seeing a username on a screen and going "hey, I know you. I know you."

And for all of the friends who remain a name and a funny icon on the screen, the "mutuals" and the kindred hearts, one day we'll be in Heaven and we'll look across that shining space and get to say "hey, I know you".

[rjthirsty]

Nokto Klein (IkePri AU)

Nokto got to keep her name when I remade the twins. Nokto didn't strike me as a name that couldn't also be used for a woman, so I decided we'd keep it. I just like her name. I also have a few other things I've dropped on her, but we don't need to go into that right now. I'm very much looking forward to writing her story.

I had so much fun designing her, too. I knew what I wanted her to look like and the artist I worked with was amazing with the results. Honestly, she was amazing with all of them so far, so I didn't expect anything less than stellar.

Art by @nakitamelo commissioned by me.

Name: Nokto Klein Gender: Female Age: 26 Birthday: October 9 Appearance: 5'4" (162 cm), Small boned and thin-framed, Silver hair, Red eyes

Nokto Klein is the seventh born in Rhodolite's royal family, often referred to as the Seventh Princess. She is the younger twin to Leni Klein, the last children born at the castle, and last child the former King was aware of. Nokto is a master at manipulation and reading people, preferring to use her talents to negotiate and politically maneuver rather than fight. She is a prolific woman, though that isn't seen as a negative in Rhodolite, and is constantly seeking out bed companions, often mixing business with pleasure. Since Nokto excels in getting people to dance to her tune, she is one of the information gatherers in the family, the other two being Candice Lelouch and Jean Grandet - however, Candice has shown herself to be more adept at sussing out hard to find information, and Jean works in a different faction altogether.

Notes about Nokto:

Nokto's crest is a fox, while Leni's is a wolf despite them being twins and birthed by the same woman. It would seem that crests are chosen rather than given to the children of the King, though there is no indication when this happens, or why.

Nokto only has three fingernails on each hand painted - her thumbs, ring fingers, and middle fingers. She tends to do the shadow-puppet fox sign, using those painted nails as the fox's nose.

Her character and design was highly influenced (for me) by Marie Antoinette. She's an unrivaled, charismatic woman who conducts herself outside of the expected box of prudent, delicate sensibilities. While Rhodolite seems to be more lax than historical fiction set in the same time period, Nokto goes further than that with her numerous flings and sensuous charms.

She doesn't develop close, personal relationships with anyone. Sex does not have to have love, and Nokto doesn't want love to be involved.

Nokto and Leni have a tenuous relationship. They rarely speak to each other and it is strained even when they do.

Leni and Nokto were very close as children. An event drove them apart when they were quite young, and they've never mended the divide since then.

Nokto was assigned male at birth.

[al-astakbar]

hiiii ermmmm…idk if you’re still doing requests or if this is even something you’d write but. thrawn + cockwarming…? 🫣 literally whatever comes to mind. im just feeling a little silly

> title ☆ Stillness

> summary ☆ You and Thrawn enjoy being as close to each other as possible.

> pairing ☆  Thrawn x reader ☆ word count [952] ☆ warnings ☆ cockwarming; PIV sex; Chiss purring; established relationship

> posted on ao3

Thrawn trains you well, trains you to take his cock, all of it, whenever and however pleases him. Trains you to crave it, you’re a bold little thing and it amuses him when you crawl onto his lap all mewling and needy. To see you struggle as you try to fuck yourself on his thick length when just the head barely fits inside you. 

“Good, love,” he urges you, just the slightest hint of strain in his usually cool, modulated voice. “Very good. Just a bit more and then you may rest.”

You’re straddling him, shaking with the effort, and already so turned on you’re dizzy from it. You brace your hand against his chest, it looks so small there on the wide expanse next to his rank plate. With a breathy moan, you sink down as far as you can go.

He strokes his hand down your side, then back up. He likes how soft your skin is, how you shiver at the lightest touch. But right now you only hold half of his attention. He has a datapad in his other hand, tapping every so often to advance to the next screen of whatever he’s reading. 

You try to rise, needing friction, needing to move but Thrawn stops you. You knew he would. He doesn’t want the distraction right now. All he needs is his cock kept warm. He’ll fuck you at his convenience— and no sooner. 

“Ch’acah,” he says admonishingly. He doesn’t look at you. “Be still. If you can’t be still, I’ll have to make do with your mouth. That is not what you want, is it?” 

You shake your head, pouting. Definitely not. When he decides he wants to keep his cock warm in your mouth, it means you stay under his desk, in the dark. For that, he fastens a collar around your neck, attached to a thin silvery chain, and the chain is bolted to the desk so you can’t move far. Then you must kneel, quiet and still, with your lips stretched around his cock. Often for hours, while he studies art or contemplates battle plans. Occasionally stroking his hand through your hair and fucking lazily into the wet heat of your mouth to keep himself hard. 

Desire pulses through you at the thought, giving you away. He feels you clench around him, and he laughs, low and soft, and presses a kiss to your shoulder. “Or perhaps it is.” 

For a while, you settle. You don’t know how long. He answers a few times when he’s hailed on his commlink, giving orders in the same calm, professional tone as he would any other time. As if he doesn’t have you on his lap. As if he doesn’t have to repress a groan at every involuntary flutter of your inner muscles. 

“Thrawn…” you whine. 

Your squirming earns you a slap to the thigh and Thrawn growling your name in warning. His control is tenuous. You can tell, he always gets that low, alien rumble to his voice when his patience is being tested. 

You know better than to ask if you’re allowed to cum yet, but even your quiet cries of please might cross the line. Sometimes, when he’s in a particular mood, you won’t be allowed to cum at all. At those times, your hole is for warming his cock and nothing more. So you do your best not to move, even though arousal is pulsing in your core and you feel so wonderfully slick and full. You drape your arms around his shoulders, rest your cheek against his chest. 

There are things he’s never told you about his species. That low, almost purring sound being one of them-- he won’t say what it is, exactly, or why or how he does it, but these times, when you are close like this, you always hear it, beneath the steady, slow beat of his heart. That sound of warm and safe and happy from deep in his chest. 

Thrawn runs hot, too, maybe another quirk of his species. His higher body temperature and the vibration of his purring always gets you sleepy just sitting there, and you drift in and out, all with his cock still in you. Still hard, still filling you. He bounces his knee when he wants to feel you squeeze around him. Of course, you’re still not permitted to move. After so many hours, your need is a persistent, maddening ache. You’re slick, swollen, oversensitized. You could defy Thrawn and seek relief. It wouldn’t take much. Just a little roll of your hips and you’d come apart.

You sigh and nuzzle closer against his neck. This time with him is a thing to cherish, and it is rare to have so long together uninterrupted. 

With all the demands of his schedule, the responsibilities and burdens of command, he chooses to be here, like this. With you. He craves your touch, needs you as much as you need him. He tells you how much he loves feeling you so hot and wet around him, and the reassuring warmth of your body against his. You can feel, after hours, how his posture relaxes and his tension eases away. 

He inhales. Exhales. You rise and fall upon his chest. He tightens his arm around your waist and pulls you down, starting to absently grind his hips up, up, fucking sweet and slow into your core. 

You give a shuddering, grateful moan. Despite your desperate, edging need, it feels so good. It feels so good to be so close to him, to have his cock thick and heavy inside you, and to have the privilege of being a warm, willing vessel for his pleasure.

☆join tag list☆ <- this is the easiest way to make sure your request is recorded, however anyone is also welcome to dm me if they want to be added

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[primamchorus]

Enemies at the Wall

Relations between Niflheim and Lucis have always been tenuous, and it has been made worse with Niflheim pressing an offensive to Insomnia's borders. The Kingsglaive, wounded by the loss of their homes in Galahd, have sworn themselves to the Crown to protect what they have now as well as each other. It is this that strengthens their drive to protect the Wall — to protect each other.

Word Count: 2,374

FFXV: Reimagined Table of Contents

<- Previous • Next ->

M.E. 756

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“All units move to secure the wall! If they break through, we’re done!” shouted a voice over communications that rang through into all ears of the Kingsglaive that were either fighting out in the sandy fields before the towering wall, or were stationed atop the wall itself. Battle cries roared out from the Glaives as attacking forces from Niflheim only advanced on the perimeter.

On Niflheim’s side were creatures alongside their Magitek Troopers; behemoths, daemons, and other technological monstrosities built by the engineering heads of the Niflheim army. It was a daunting sight to people who mostly considered themselves mortal men with only a smattering of magical power gifted to them by the king of Lucis. Most people would cower in fear before them. Should have cowered before them.

Protection of the Wall, however, was the agreement of those that accepted refuge in Insomnia after Galahd was razed. Asylum in return for their service to the king as magically powered infantry. A fair deal, some might have thought. Some even reveled in it.

Libertus, however? He stood with his back to one of the still standing ruins, breathing deeply to calm himself as he peeked past the edge. MTs were advancing on his location. The sight served as the go ahead he needed before he mustered the magical energies within to create a cloak around himself that rendered his form invisible to the naked eye before running from cover to cover of still standing ruins.

‘It’s now or never, Libertus…time to play the hero. We can’t have them take away our homes again,’ Libertus thought to himself as he ran out from cover toward a group of MTs. The cloak of invisibility wore off as he took his hatchet from its holster and cut down two of the MTs. Turning, he commanded a magical lightning blast toward the remaining ones. Libertus' fingers ran numb with the lingering electrical current.

‘Remember your six!’ rang the words in Libertus’ mind before he turned around. Stretching out one of his hands, he erected a crystalline, honeycombed barrier in a semi-sphere around himself to block incoming fire from the mechanical army still coming in.

Taking steps back whilst keeping the barrier erected, Libertus yelled into his own comms device: “What’s the hold up, Crowe!?”

At this point, Libertus had been expecting offensive magical cover from the Glaive Black Mages stationed on the wall itself.

“Crowe, status!” another voice on the communications channel demanded.

“Almost…there…!” a female’s voice finally responded, her voice masking no shortage of strain.

Looking up briefly, Libertus saw the swirl of dark gray and black clouds forming overhead. A mixture of fire and lightning elemental energy converging with one another to create a fiery maelstrom. However, whatever it was brewing, it seemed like it was taking too long to press with an offensive as missiles rained through the sky from Niflheim’s forces toward the magical Wall.

“I need help! The east wall is going down!” cried a voice over the comms. Libertus could only imagine it was someone stationed at the aforementioned wall that got a better sight of the missiles than he did. Of course, he could only listen in on this plea backup — responding to it was something he could not commit to.

The spider-like akumo daemons were scurrying forth and in Libertus’ direction. He could not be distracted — not now!

Throwing a magic flask filled with fire elemental energy toward his nine, Libertus took care of any nearby akumo that he could fight off. He swung his axe at any spindly legs, hacking them off and throwing the creatures off balance. A few more busts of electrical magic energy from his fingertips was used to stun or fry the other arachnid daemons.

Too many to deal with set forth a problem, however. Libertus was just one man, after all. He was knocked to the ground by a different akumo. As it went in for a fatal blow, Libertus swiped up, cutting off its mandibles before a different voice spoke in his ear: “Watch your back, Libertus! We got more incoming.”

“We ain’t gonna last much longer!” Libertus shouted, blasting the akumo above him with more lightning. He pushed back up onto his feet, and put his free hand to his communications device. He ran the opposite direction of his enemies, looking for any cover.

Libertus ran past a fallen pillar before sidling against a ruined brick wall before yelling out a singular name: “Crowe!”

Libertus could only hope that she was holding her own alongside the other mages within the Glaive.

“All Glaives fall back! I repeat: All Glaives fall back!” The command rang out through their communications devices.

The swirling mass of black clouds, fire, and lightning was finally forming into a deadly, functional tornado that was beginning to suck up any unfortunate to linger within its wake. Akumo, Glaives, behemoths, MTs, and those light enough to get plucked from the sandy grounds into its deadly hold were swept up into it with no remorse.

A rock of grief settled in the pit of Libertus’ stomach as he watched from his cover. Before long, he laid himself flat against the ground and made sure he remained tight against what was left of the structure he hid behind so as not to get sucked up himself. Just when he thought all was leaning in their favor as the battle waged on, the hum of multiple magitek aircrafts filled the skies, humming even louder than the whirling tornado of death that the Glaive mages conjured up.

Chains that followed after each of the aircrafts were attached to something giant — obscured by the billowing of sand, dust, and smoke. However obscured, the thing was obviously another creature that the Niflheim empire had at their beck and call. It was only a matter of time before those chains were let loose, and that giant, monstrous thing of a daemon flailed one of its arms, sending any still-attached airships crashing into the ground.

A sacrifice that the enemy was willing to make if it meant making a bigger dent in Insomnia's defenses…

The massive beast marched forward through the whirling flames of the mages, forcing them to fizzle out into nothing. A sure sign that even the mages could not press an attack against it. As the flames died out, bright red orbs shone through the remaining dust and smoke still shrouding the monstrous creature’s body. Libertus could only assume they were the daemonic red eyes that were evident in most that stemmed from the Starscourge.

Giant maws opened up on what was previously assumed to have been the giant daemon’s shoulders, revealing more red orbs that slowly built up their harrowing glow. The creature then leaned forward as a rattling and popping noise filled the air not unlike fireworks bursting in the sky. The daemon fired projectiles from its two giant maws, the missiles sailing forth from the glowing orbs within.

Not just a few, but tens upon tens, maybe even hundreds upon hundreds of magical missiles that swiveled every which way onto the battlefield. They showered even more death and destruction with each impact they made, the ground shaking and rattling with each hit.

“We can’t take down that daemon…” an authoritative voice said over the communications line. “I’m ordering a full retreat. Get back here alive. That’s an order! For hearth and home!"

Libertus certainly did not have to be told twice about making his way back. Leaving his cover, he spotted other Glaives that were following orders and moved as quickly as he could to catch up. With the massive daemon’s attack, however, some of the nearby spines of the Cavaugh region had been caught in the magical missile crossfire.

The stone spires cracked and crumbled apart, raining down even more danger upon anyone who was unfortunate to still be beneath them.

Unfortunately for Libertus, he made the mistake of looking at the falling rubble as he ran. The sight of one of the boulders falling down made him almost take a tumble…before the boulder rolled into him, catching his leg underneath it and breaking it underneath its weight.

A pained cry came out of Libertus as the searing pain ripped through his leg and through his body like a shock wave.

‘This is it…’ Libertus thought to himself, noticing he was now pinned to the ground with no real way of freeing himself to abide by the order for retreat. ‘This is my payment for serving Insomnia after our home in Galahd was taken from us…’

“All units fall back to the extraction point. Support is inbound.”

A resounding, rhythmic thumping of something large running made Libertus give freeing himself another shot as he pushed himself up into a seated position. He caught the sight of a three headed canine beast, bigger than any dog he had ever seen, and with both glowing eyes and a glowing mouth. The daemon was known as a cerberus, and like most daemons, was not something you would want to face alone. That much he knew very well.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me!” Libertus shouted before a bright blue-white glow warped around his vision. He recognized the deep purple scarf that billowed behind the figure when their body was not entirely cloaked in light. It belonged to only one person: Nyx Ulric.

“What are you, crazy, Nyx!? You’re supposed to be retreating with the others! Don’t you play hero for me…! Gah, idiot…” Libertus managed, groaning with pain. However, it seemed Nyx was barely able to hear anything as he cut through the neck of the daemon. As Nyx distracted the cerberus daemon, Libertus tried to muster as much strength as he could to push the boulder from his leg. With enough wriggling and pushing, Libertus freed himself and started to crawl toward safety. Unfortunately, that meant missing most of Nyx’s heroics until Nyx himself had come back to help Libertus up onto his feet and support him.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! You know I ain’t got the stomach for this crap!” Libertus grunted as he hooked an arm around Nyx’s neck and shoulders. He limped clumsily, trying to suppress any noises of pain from how the pain burned and radiated its sharp, stinging pain along his leg.

“Would you rather walk?” Nyx quipped back as the cerberus seemed to continue to flail and stomp in the background, carrying on at as swift a pace as he could manage with Libertus in tow. “Come on! Just like Galahd Canyon back home!”

The rocky spire that they had been doing battle on had finally started to give. The more that the cerberus thrashed and flailed about in its attempts to snap up either Nyx or Libertus, the more the rocky structure gave way. The cerberus kept up its attempts until, eventually, the spire broke apart. While the cerberus was not so fortunate, both Libertus and Nyx threw their respective weapons before their bodies flared in a blue-white light and warped through to the safety of the sturdier portion of the rocky spine.

Thanks to Nyx, Libertus could live another day.

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“Luche, report,” came the stern command of the Kingsglaive captain, Titus Drautos. He paced forward, hands behind his back as he approached a more wiry-looking man with combed back dirty blond hair donning the Kingsglaive attire.

“The imperial forces look to be withdrawing, sir,” Luche replied, standing at attention with his gaze pointed forward. His own hands were at rest behind his back. His voice was the one that had been on communication channels with other Glaives that were stationed on the higher walls protecting the city of Insomnia: ranged and caster Glaives that did their combat from a distance.

As the captain was busy collecting his intel, Nyx had been walking alongside a stretcher that carried his long-time friend — a brother in all but name — from Galahd, Libertus Ostium. Nyx could really only listen and watch for the time being as Libertus fought off the pain that still seared through his leg.

“Guess I owe you another one,” Libertus finally managed as whatever support was there carried him toward one of the vehicles.

“I’ll put it on your tab,” Nyx started in his typical smart ass way, placing a hand briefly on the edge of the stretcher. He patted it twice before continuing with something a little more genuine: “You just try to get some rest, all right?”

A halfhearted scoff came from Libertus as he was gently loaded into the back of the van. That was about all Nyx saw before he went and took a seat on the back bumper of a different parked vehicle. Despite his cocksure nature out on the field, he had to take a moment to reflect on the fact that he almost lost a friend.

He had to be the hero for them. That was what he told himself, anyway.

“You disobeyed a direct order to retreat.” Titus’ voice cut through Nyx’s thoughts, and he drew near to where Nyx was sitting. It seemed Titus had gotten all the intel he wanted from Luche.

Nyx could only really give a silent, defiant sigh as he rolled his eyes slightly at that moment. Now was not the time he wanted to have some lecture of one kind or another. Not over something that he firmly believed was more right than obeying some retreat. Not when he would have rather saved lives than let them perish on the field of battle.

“For hearth and home, right sir?” Nyx retorted, doing little to mask the slight disdain in his tone as he kept his gaze pointed in a different direction. “As long as I got strength in my body, I obey that order.”

“Don’t fool yourself, Nyx Ulric,” Titus nearly spat, casting his gaze over his shoulder in Nyx's direction. “Whatever strength you have is on loan from the king. You are nothing without him."

Turning on his heel, Titus paused and left Nyx with his last order of the night: “Await details of your reassignment.”

"Great…" Nyx muttered under his breath, shaking his head slightly. Just another thing that had to be taken in stride.

[heliads]

hi!!! i would like to request a zoya nazyalensky x female reader slightly based on mary's song by taylor swift! i don't know if you accept request like this so feel free to write it or not. i just think that the "i dared you to kiss me and ran when you tried", "i was 16 when suddenly i wasn't that little girl you used to see" and especially "said you'd beat me up you were bigger than me but you never did" lines are sooooo zoya coded, so if you also just want to write something using this ones? idk, maybe y/n arrived in the palace a bit after zoya and was also a squaller just a little younger and they made zoya teach her a bit so they know each other since they were little and she has been a pain in zoya's ass since forever well, feel free to choose and write however you want to thanks!

'after all this time, you and i' - zoya nazyalensky

masterlist

Zoya is having a perfectly normal morning until someone finally tells her the news.

Normalcy is hard to come by at the Little Palace. It’s hard to come by when you live in Ravka, when you are a Grisha, when your closest friends are kings with demons and girls without all of their eyes. One’s even a Sun Saint. So yes, Zoya’s definition of normalcy is a little strained. Defining this morning as normal purely means that no one has yet lit any buildings on fire.

Even this tenuous thread of normalcy, though, will not stand forever. Zoya has hardly been awake for a couple of hours before all of that comes crashing down again. Luckily for her, it’s not even bad. It’s just different, that’s all. Zoya knows it’s going to be different the same way she knows when everything else changes around here:  gossip. The entire Little Palace is ablaze with it.

Zoya does her best to ignore the whispers as long as she can. Whatever new trouble has arrived to Os Alta will become her problem soon enough, but if she can push off the inevitable for as long as possible, that just means she won’t have to worry for quite as long. It’ll do her constantly furrowed brow some good, at least, if it can have a chance to rest every now and then.

She’s not too proud to admit that she’s definitely doubled back down corridors to avoid large crowds of over excited Grisha, nor that every time she sees someone who looks like they’re just bursting with information that must get out at once, she comes up with some nonexistent task that she just has to get to. If it’s a serious threat, someone would have come for her already. Zoya doesn’t want to hear about run-of-the mill calamities. Only the finest of disasters can be allowed to ruin her morning.

Genya Safin, in the end, is the one who has to break the news. This is also possibly because Genya is the bravest, or just the only Grisha around save for perhaps David who is capable of talking to Zoya without wishing the ground would open up beneath their feet and swallow them whole. Given that David is likely holed up in his lab somewhere, tinkering on gadgets and gizmos until Genya drags him off to meals, Genya herself is the one who must bear this morning’s news.

Even Zoya’s friendship with the Tailor cannot protect Genya from receiving a few haughty stares. Genya emerges from the shadow of a room as Zoya walks past, matching Zoya’s strides within moments despite Zoya’s repeated attempts to speed up and shake her.

At last, Zoya sighs and gives in, slowing down enough that they can walk comfortably. “What’s gone wrong?”

Genya laughs. “Couldn’t I just be talking to you because I felt like it?”

Zoya arches a cold brow. “Are you?”

“Partially,” Genya admits. “Also, there’s something you need to know.”

“Figures,” Zoya says. “What disaster do I have to avert now?”

“No disaster, actually,” Genya answers her. “I just wanted you to know that an old friend will be returning to the Little Palace.”

Zoya eyes her cautiously. “I don’t have old friends. Everyone I know is either here or dead.”

Genya closes her eyes faintly as if searching for patience within the confines of her mind. “Zoya, I know you’re never a sweetheart, but would it kill you to practice optimism every now and then? Just one day without making me listen to something incredibly depressing or cutting, that’s all I ask.”

“You ask for too much,” Zoya says crisply. “So? Who’s coming?”

Genya manages a smile in the midst of her consternation. “Y/N L/N.”

Zoya Nazyalensky is not much given to surprise. She has done her best to remove that unreliable element from her very existence. On the battlefield, you can’t afford for something to take you by surprise. Everything should be expected. If there is something Zoya does not understand, a battle plan or tactical maneuver she doesn’t anticipate, countless lives will be lost. Shock is simply not in her vocabulary.

However, all this being true, upon hearing that Y/N L/N will be back in Os Alta, back here, Zoya actually stops dead in her tracks in surprise. She breathes in and out deliberately, trying to regain her footing. “Y/N?” She asks at last. “You’re sure of it?”

“Positive,” Genya chirps. “I got word from her just this morning. She’ll be arriving later today with news from Shu Han.”

Zoya shakes her head slowly. “That’s impossible. I thought the crown sent her out there for five years. Has something gone wrong? Why is she back early?”

“She’s not back early,” Genya says softly. “It’s been five years to the day. Her assignment is up and so she’s coming home. You’re not unhappy, are you? I thought you’d be pleased to hear the news.”

“I am pleased,” Zoya says, but her mind is already a whirlwind of thoughts and memories, so it’s difficult to focus on the conversation anymore. All of the space in her brain has been taken up with that one idea, that one confounded, blessed, insane idea, that after all of this time, Y/N L/N might be back in Os Alta. Back with Zoya. Back home.

It’s been a long time since Zoya saw Y/N. Well, five years, if one wanted to be specific. Zoya usually likes dealing with specifics. Keeping to the rigid lines and absolute details is the only way that a person can guarantee they will be right. With Y/N, though, Zoya for some reason has difficulty sticking to the impartial. Perhaps it’s just because it’s been so long. Yes, that must be it.

Zoya met Y/N many years ago. Just about when Zoya arrived at the Little Palace, actually, they were both children. Zoya was first and Y/N was second, but only by a handful of months. They were only off in age by a year or two, but Zoya, being older and far more of a perfectionist, had convinced herself that she was infinitely more reasonable and advanced.

Both of them being Squallers, Zoya saw Y/N the most out of anyone in the Little Palace, or so it seemed. The younger girl was always hanging off of Zoya’s shoulder, talking her ear off or following her around from class to class. It used to drive Zoya mad during the early days, but over time she’d gotten used to it. It was a common sight back in the first years; there was Zoya, striding briskly across the grounds of the Little Palace, and then her shadow in a matching blue kefta, Y/N, never far behind.

During the first few years, Zoya had done everything she could to get rid of the girl. She’d threatened to use her gifts to drop her off of the tallest tower around, or beat her up in one of Botkin’s rigorous combat classes, but no matter what Zoya said, Y/N never listened. She’d just show up the next day or the next hour, beaming cheekily, and utterly, utterly immune to any of Zoya’s snarls or poor temper.

That was the beginning, though, and then it had been sort of nice to have someone always there for her. Zoya wasn’t immune to the idolatry of being older and more advanced in her practice of the Small Science. By the end of it, she was kind of fond of it, actually. Having Y/N there beside her was something to be taken for granted, a promise that would never be broken.

Just when she was starting to appreciate it, word got out that the crown was sending Y/N away to Shu Han for five years. Five. Zoya was immediately horror struck, then pretended that she was not affected at all, because why would she be hurt by something like this? Why would she find herself weeping silent tears at midnight because of the thought that where there was once a smiling, laughing girl, someone who had seen Zoya for years and genuinely still wanted her, there would soon be absolute silence?

Zoya had attempted to brush it all off like it didn’t matter. She hadn’t even hugged Y/N goodbye like the other girls, trying too hard to act stiff and unapproachable. She’d been there, though, when the horses rode off. She’d waved. She’d felt her whole world collapse.

Zoya had found a way to carry on, though, and over time she had convinced herself that she was just being nostalgic, that’s all. Goodbyes are always difficult when you’re a child. You think parting from someone once means you’ll lose them forever. It’s true sometimes, but not always. Sometimes, they come back to you. Sometimes, they sneak up on you one busy morning, and you’re left wondering how to open up their place in your heart after you locked it off for so long.

Zoya bids Genya a hasty goodbye before retreating back to her room again. She ends up pacing for quite a long time indeed, running through all manner of scenarios before deciding that she'd been thinking too much about the whole affair and needs to give it a rest. Y/N will come back. She’ll have plenty to talk about and plenty of people to talk to. It will be fine.

Zoya hears a general clamor erupt from outside the hall. The horses are here now, apparently, and everyone’s just dying to see their favorite girl after such a long absence. After taking one last moment to contain herself, Zoya steps out into the chaos, joining the other Grisha in streaming out the doors and into the bright sunshine of the afternoon.

There are too many people to get a good view of anything, so Zoya hangs back near the entrance of the Little Palace. If there are horses and riders, they’ve been swarmed by the other Grisha vying for stories and hellos and everything else. Zoya bides her time and watches everyone else go to and fro as if their lives depend on it.

There’s a slow, vague parting of the crowd as people shift to accommodate movement in the mass. Zoya tilts her head to the side, trying to see but also trying not to look as if she’s trying too hard. The grooms are moving away first, leading exhausted horses back to the stable. There are the soldiers that were sent to protect such a valuable negotiator, but then–

Someone shouts that she’s coming around the bend now, and Zoya shades her eyes with her hand to see properly, but she can’t find the girl anywhere. Zoya knows what Y/N looks like, remember it from when she was a child, but the only person there is a young woman who’s too tall and bright to be–

Oh, Saints. Oh, no. She’s beautiful.

It’s foolish to be thinking like this. More foolish still to watch the woman who must be Y/N striding confidently across the courtyard of the Little Palace, heels striking the cobblestones evenly. The blue of her kefta compliments her eyes perfectly, which flash with mischief as Y/N strolls up to Zoya and says briskly, “If it isn’t my favorite Squaller. It’s been a while, hasn’t it, Nazyalensky?”

Zoya would like to know when they reverted to a last name basis, but more than that, she’d like to know why she feels incapable of speaking without stammering. “Five years to be precise, L/N.”

Y/N’s face splits in a broad grin. “Oh, don’t be cold. I know you’ve missed me, haven’t you?”

Again, Zoya is struck by what five years can do to a girl. Before, Y/N had never dared to be so open. She never would have insisted on what Zoya could or could not feel, but now, she does it easily. She’s not that little girl Zoya used to see around the Little Palace grounds anymore, that’s for certain.

(Privately, Zoya wonders if that might not be for the best. If there might not be a reason Zoya wants her to be bright and tall and free-willed. If there is not something she can get out of the girl now that she hadn’t seen when they were both kids.)

“I did,” Zoya admits, surprising not just herself but likely both of them.

Y/N wavers on her heels for a second, evidently not expecting raw honesty from Zoya this early into her return, but then her smile returns in full force and she wraps her arms around Zoya in a warm embrace. “I missed you too,” she whispers against Zoya’s hair, and perhaps it’s just wishful thinking but Zoya swears the voice is more sly than it ever has been before.

Zoya can do sly, though. Zoya can handle conniving and planning and desperate secrets. So, she pulls away slowly, then slips an arm around Y/N’s waist, casually tugging her closer as they walk back to the Little Palace.

“You’re different,” Zoya says casually. “It’s good for you, I think. You had better tell me all about it.”

A returning grin from Y/N, and Zoya knows at last that they’re on the same page. Time can change us, yes. But it can also return us to the people we were always meant to be. For once, Zoya thinks that growing up might not always be a bad thing.

grishaverse tag list: @rogueanschel, @deadreaderssociety, @cameronsails, @mxltifxnd0m, @story-scribbler, @retvenkos, @mayfieldss, @eclliipsed, @gods-fools-heroes, @bl606dy, @auggie2000, @baju69, @crazyhearttragedy, @budugu, @aoi-targaryen

all tags list: @wordsarelife

[innocentcurse]

Walking through the picturesque streets of Cardinal Hill, you find Haruyuki 'Happy' Kaneshiro the 25 year old high school coach originally from Boston, MA. Living alongside them in such a small town, you know that they're nurturing and playful, but what you might not know is that they are a witch, and that they’re hiding something… ― Nico Hiraga, bisexual, man, and he/him.

Content warnings - infidelity, death.

Basics -

Full name: Haruyuki Kaneshiro

Nickname/s: Happy

Preferred name/s: Happy is preferred, but he also likes Haruyuki

Gender: Man

Pronouns: He/him

Age: Twenty-five

Birthday: December 18th

Zodiac: Sagittarius

Magic status: Magical, a witch

Sexuality: Bisexual

Relationship status: Single

Occupation: Coach at Cardinal High

Hometown: Boston, MA

Familiar: Barney, the chocolate labrador

Backstory -

Haruyuki 'Happy' Kaneshiro is a 4th-generation Japanese American, born as the result of an affair between his father, a powerful businessman, and his mother, his father’s fifth wife.

His parents married when Happy was 6 years old, and his best friend, Tsubame, moved in with them.

It was revealed that Tsubame, the girl his father had organized playdates for him with since near birth, was actually his half-sister.

Despite the unconventional family dynamics, Happy had a generally good upbringing, with his father being strict and hard on him, but Tsubame always around to offer comfort.

At 9 years old, Tsubame was sent to a prestigious boarding school in Japan as part of the family tradition. Two years later, at age 11, Happy was sent to the same school.

He wasn’t the greatest student and often got into trouble for minor infractions, though it was never anything serious.

His father, however, took these incidents very seriously, which led to a strained relationship as he became more critical and demanding of Happy.

After graduating from senior school, Happy moved back to Boston and began working in his father's company, Kaneshiro Enterprises.

He struggled in the corporate environment and was asked to leave less than a year later, further damaging his already tenuous relationship with his father.

For a period, Happy bounced between various jobs and locations, searching for his place and trying to find himself.

He eventually settled in Cardinal Hill, Washington, drawn to the town’s welcoming community for both witches and humans.

Upon moving there, Happy met a woman who also moved to Cardinal Hill at the same time, and they began a relationship.

He found work as a high school coach, focusing on football due to his athletic talent and knowledge of sports.

At 25, Happy’s partner became pregnant, but their relationship was already on shaky ground. The pregnancy marked the end of their relationship, as his partner realized she wasn’t ready for such commitment.

She gave birth to their daughter, Keiko, and then left, moving back to her hometown and cutting all contact with Happy and the town of Cardinal Hill.

Rumours suggest that his partner passed away, but Happy refuses to speak about her, keeping the details of that part of his life private.

Now a single father, Happy is dedicated to raising Keiko on his own while continuing his life in Cardinal Hill.

Personality & more -

Happy is calm and easy going, with a relaxed attitude that contrasts with the tension in his family history and his past relationships.

He’s independent, having learned to handle things on his own after the breakdown of his relationship and his struggles with his father.

Resilient, Happy bounces back from setbacks, always finding a way to keep moving forward despite the challenges he faces; his daughter helps with this greatly

Though friendly, he is emotionally guarded and doesn’t let people get too close, especially when it comes to his past and personal struggles.

He’s supportive, particularly in his role as a high school coach, where he mentors the kids he works with, offering guidance both on and off the field.

Happy is deeply committed to being the best father he can be to his daughter, Keiko, and is determined to provide for her despite the difficulties.

Happy is selective about what he shares with others and keeps details about his past, especially his ex-partner and the breakup, to himself.

With a dry sense of humor, Happy often uses wit or sarcasm to deflect serious conversations or difficult emotions, keeping things light when he’s uncomfortable.

Physically fit, Happy has always been athletic, particularly skilled in football, and his physicality remains a core part of his identity.

As a witch, Happy uses his powers for practical purposes but more often he uses them for fun and entertainment - particularly for Keiko.

He’s still a romantic at heart, despite his disillusionment from his past relationship, and hasn’t completely closed himself off to the idea of love again.

Fatherhood is the most challenging and rewarding part of his life. He is committed to raising Keiko with love and care, even if he’s still figuring out how to balance it all.

He values the sense of community in Cardinal Hill, appreciating the town’s welcoming nature, especially the way both witches and humans coexist peacefully.

[marveldcnerdys]

Toxin Symbiote: A Tale of Power, Legacy, and Duality

The Marvel Universe is home to a diverse array of symbiotic entities that have captivated readers with their compelling storylines and dynamic relationships with their hosts. Among these entities, the Toxin symbiote stands out as a complex and powerful character, representing the next evolutionary step in the lineage of alien symbiotes. With a fascinating backstory, unique abilities, and a host of moral dilemmas, Toxin has carved a niche for itself in the Marvel Universe, balancing the chaotic tendencies of its symbiotic relatives with the potential for heroism.

The Birth of Toxin: A Legacy of Carnage and Venom

Toxin is the 1000th spawn of the infamous Venom symbiote. Its lineage alone sets it apart, as symbiotes tend to evolve with each new generation, inheriting traits and gaining new abilities. Toxin’s creation came about during a pivotal moment in the ongoing battle between its predecessors, Venom and Carnage.

Origins in Chaos: Carnage, the offspring of Venom and one of the most violent symbiotes in existence, viewed its spawn as a potential threat due to the natural increase in strength and adaptability with each new symbiotic generation. Fearing that Toxin could one day overpower it, Carnage initially sought to destroy the symbiote before it could bond with a host.

Unexpected Host: In a twist of fate, the Toxin symbiote bonded with Patrick Mulligan, a young and idealistic New York City police officer. This pairing created a unique dynamic, as Mulligan’s strong moral compass contrasted sharply with the symbiote's inherent chaotic tendencies. Their relationship would become the foundation for Toxin's complex narrative, exploring themes of power, responsibility, and inner conflict.

Patrick Mulligan: The First Host

Patrick Mulligan's role as the first host of Toxin brought a new dimension to the Marvel symbiote saga. Unlike Eddie Brock or Cletus Kasady, whose bonds with their respective symbiotes leaned heavily toward darkness, Mulligan attempted to channel Toxin’s powers for good.

A Reluctant Partnership: Initially, Mulligan struggled to control the symbiote, which exhibited a volatile and unpredictable nature. Toxin’s overwhelming strength and hunger for violence often clashed with Mulligan’s sense of duty and justice as a police officer.

Seeking Balance: Over time, Mulligan and Toxin developed a fragile understanding. Mulligan sought to guide the symbiote toward heroic actions, using its abilities to fight crime and protect innocents. However, this balance was tenuous at best, with Toxin’s darker impulses constantly threatening to surface.

Family Struggles: Mulligan’s bond with Toxin placed a significant strain on his personal life. As a husband and father, he faced the challenge of keeping his symbiotic identity a secret while grappling with the fear of endangering his loved ones. This added a layer of emotional depth to Toxin’s story, making it a tale not just of power but of sacrifice and responsibility.

Toxin’s Unique Abilities

Toxin stands out among the symbiotes not only because of its fascinating lineage but also due to its extraordinary abilities that make it one of the most powerful entities in the Marvel Universe. As the 1000th spawn in the symbiotic family tree, Toxin inherited and amplified traits from both Venom and Carnage, while also developing unique capabilities that set it apart. These abilities reflect Toxin’s potential as an evolutionary leap within its species and make it a force to be reckoned with in both combat and survival.

Superhuman Strength and Durability

Toxin’s physical strength is unmatched among symbiotes, surpassing both Venom and Carnage. This tremendous strength allows it to overpower almost any opponent, including seasoned Marvel heavyweights. Whether tearing through reinforced structures or engaging in hand-to-hand combat, Toxin demonstrates a physical prowess that cements its status as an apex predator.

Resilience in Combat: Toxin's durability is equally impressive. It can withstand intense physical attacks, explosions, and extreme conditions that would incapacitate most other symbiotes. This resilience makes it a formidable opponent in battle, able to endure prolonged fights without faltering.

Shape-Shifting and Weapon Creation

Like other symbiotes, Toxin possesses the ability to manipulate its physical form. However, Toxin’s shape-shifting capabilities are more advanced, allowing for greater creativity and versatility in combat.

Lethal Weaponry: Toxin can morph parts of its body into a wide array of weapons, including blades, spikes, tendrils, and shields. These weapons are incredibly durable and capable of inflicting significant damage, giving Toxin a strategic edge in close-quarters combat.

Camouflage: Toxin’s shape-shifting extends beyond weapon creation; it can alter its appearance to blend into its surroundings or create disguises, making it an excellent stealth operative.

Regenerative Healing

One of Toxin’s most valuable abilities is its advanced regenerative healing factor. This allows both the symbiote and its host to recover from injuries that would be fatal to normal humans.

Host Survival: Toxin’s healing capabilities extend to its host, repairing wounds, broken bones, and even life-threatening damage in a matter of moments. This regenerative ability ensures that its host can endure battles that push them to their physical and mental limits.

Symbiotic Longevity: The symbiote itself is remarkably resilient, capable of surviving injuries that would destroy lesser symbiotes. This ensures that Toxin remains a constant presence, even in the face of overwhelming odds.

Enhanced Senses and Tracking

Toxin boasts heightened sensory abilities that surpass those of its predecessors. These enhancements make it an unparalleled tracker and combatant.

Danger Detection: Toxin can sense threats from incredible distances, giving its host a significant advantage in anticipating and avoiding danger. This ability functions similarly to Spider-Man’s iconic “spider-sense,” but on a far greater scale.

Pheromone Tracking: One of Toxin’s most unique traits is its ability to detect and track pheromones. This makes it an exceptional tracker, capable of locating individuals with pinpoint accuracy, even in dense urban environments or across vast distances.

Web-Slinging and Wall-Crawling

As part of the Venom lineage, Toxin shares the iconic web-slinging and wall-crawling abilities that made Spider-Man and Venom famous.

Agile Mobility: Toxin’s ability to generate organic webbing allows it to traverse urban landscapes with incredible speed and agility. Combined with its wall-crawling capability, Toxin can navigate almost any environment, whether pursuing foes or evading capture.

Combat Versatility: The symbiote’s webbing can also be used in combat, creating restraints, traps, or projectiles to subdue opponents.

Immunity to Traditional Symbiote Weaknesses

One of Toxin’s most defining traits is its enhanced resistance to the weaknesses that typically plague symbiotes, such as sonic attacks and extreme heat.

Sonic Resistance: While most symbiotes are highly vulnerable to high-frequency sonic waves, Toxin has developed a remarkable tolerance to such attacks. This makes it less susceptible to traditional symbiote-hunting methods.

Heat Resistance: Toxin also demonstrates a higher resistance to intense heat and fire, another common vulnerability for symbiotes. This adaptation further solidifies its status as an evolutionary advancement in the symbiotic hierarchy.

Adaptability and Evolution

Toxin represents the next stage in symbiote evolution, possessing a level of adaptability that surpasses that of its predecessors.

Rapid Learning: Toxin’s ability to learn and adapt quickly in battle makes it an unpredictable and highly effective combatant. It can analyze its opponents’ strategies and adjust its tactics in real-time.

Potential for Growth: As the 1000th spawn, Toxin is believed to have untapped potential for further growth and development. Its abilities may continue to evolve, unlocking new powers and traits that could redefine the limits of symbiotic capabilities.

Symbiotic Communication and Bonding

Toxin’s connection with its hosts goes beyond the physical; it forms a deep psychological bond that allows for unique forms of communication and interaction.

Shared Awareness: The symbiote and its host share thoughts and emotions, enabling them to work as a seamless unit. This bond allows the host to tap into Toxin’s full potential while maintaining a degree of control.

Dual Perspectives: The bond creates an internal dialogue, where the host and symbiote can discuss decisions and strategies. This dynamic adds a layer of complexity to Toxin’s relationships with its hosts, highlighting themes of trust, cooperation, and conflict.

Toxin’s unique abilities make it one of the most formidable symbiotes in the Marvel Universe. Its strength, adaptability, and resilience set it apart from Venom, Carnage, and other symbiotes, while its enhanced sensory and regenerative powers make it an invaluable ally—or a terrifying adversary. These traits, combined with its moral ambiguity and the dynamic relationships it forms with its hosts, ensure that Toxin remains a compelling and multifaceted character in Marvel’s symbiotic saga.

Toxin’s Hosts: From Patrick Mulligan to Eddie Brock

After Patrick Mulligan, the Toxin symbiote experienced a turbulent journey, eventually bonding with Eddie Brock, one of Marvel’s most iconic symbiotic hosts.

Patrick Mulligan’s Sacrifice: Mulligan’s time as Toxin’s host ended tragically when he was killed by Blackheart, the son of Mephisto. The symbiote was left without a host, leading to its capture and subsequent transfer to Eddie Brock.

Eddie Brock’s Transformation: Brock’s bond with Toxin marked a significant shift in the symbiote’s character. Having previously bonded with Venom, Brock brought a darker, more aggressive influence to Toxin. This change reflected Brock’s ongoing struggles with his own morality and the influence of the symbiotes he hosted.

The transition between hosts highlighted the symbiote's adaptability and its ability to reflect the personality and intentions of its host, whether noble or sinister.

Toxin’s Role in the Marvel Universe

Toxin’s journey in the Marvel Universe has been one of duality, straddling the line between heroism and chaos. Its relationships with other symbiotes and Marvel heroes have added depth to its story, cementing its place as a complex and multifaceted character.

A Symbiotic Power Struggle: Toxin’s presence has often been a source of conflict among symbiotes, with Venom and Carnage representing opposing ideologies. Venom sees Toxin as a potential ally, while Carnage views it as a threat to be eliminated. This dynamic has resulted in some of the most intense and memorable battles in the symbiote saga.

Allies and Enemies: Toxin’s interactions with other Marvel characters have been equally compelling. From teaming up with Spider-Man to facing off against supervillains, Toxin’s unpredictable nature makes it a wild card in any scenario. Its moral ambiguity adds an element of suspense, leaving readers wondering whether it will act as a hero or a monster.

Themes of Power and Responsibility

The story of the Toxin symbiote is steeped in the timeless Marvel theme of power and responsibility, a motif most famously associated with Spider-Man but also deeply resonant in Toxin’s narrative. Toxin’s journey, along with its interactions with its hosts, explores the consequences of wielding immense power and the challenges of maintaining moral integrity in the face of temptation and chaos.

The Struggle for Control

At its heart, the bond between the Toxin symbiote and its hosts reflects an internal battle between humanity’s higher ideals and primal instincts. Unlike its predecessors, Venom and Carnage, Toxin occupies a precarious middle ground. While its immense power could be used for noble causes, its violent symbiotic nature frequently pushes it toward destruction. This conflict mirrors the struggles faced by its hosts, particularly Patrick Mulligan, who embodies the dichotomy of law enforcement and the chaos of the symbiote.

Mulligan’s role as a police officer placed him in a position where he was already wielding authority over others. When bonded with Toxin, his newfound strength amplified his ability to protect and serve, but it also heightened the stakes. The symbiote's thirst for violence often clashed with Mulligan’s moral compass, forcing him to wrestle with the temptation to take justice into his own hands. This dynamic highlights the challenges of controlling overwhelming power and the constant vigilance required to prevent it from corrupting the wielder.

Balancing Heroism and Instinct

Toxin’s journey illustrates the fine line between heroism and monstrosity. While its predecessors have often succumbed to their darker urges, Toxin stands as a symbol of potential redemption. However, the symbiote’s violent instincts often test its hosts, creating a tension-filled dynamic where every decision carries the risk of spiraling into chaos.

Patrick Mulligan’s struggle to channel Toxin’s powers for good is a metaphor for humanity’s ongoing effort to suppress destructive impulses in favor of constructive action. As a police officer, Mulligan already operated in a world of moral ambiguity, where the line between right and wrong could blur. The addition of the symbiote heightened these challenges, forcing him to confront his darkest instincts while striving to uphold his sense of justice.

Similarly, Eddie Brock’s later bond with Toxin brought a different perspective to this theme. Already a complicated figure due to his history with the Venom symbiote, Brock’s connection with Toxin highlighted the symbiote’s potential to evolve alongside its host. In Brock, Toxin found a partner who understood the allure of power and the responsibility required to wield it. This partnership underscored the importance of learning from past mistakes and striving to rise above them.

The Weight of Legacy

As the spawn of Carnage and the grandchild of Venom, Toxin carries the weight of its lineage. Symbiotes inherit not only the physical traits of their predecessors but also their legacies. In Toxin’s case, this meant inheriting Carnage’s violent tendencies and Venom’s conflicted sense of purpose. This legacy acts as both a burden and an opportunity, forcing Toxin to decide whether it will follow in the destructive footsteps of its predecessors or carve out a new path.

For its hosts, the responsibility of guiding Toxin toward heroism is a reflection of the broader theme of legacy. Patrick Mulligan, as the first host, bore the weight of shaping Toxin’s identity and proving that it could be more than just a harbinger of destruction. Eddie Brock, with his extensive experience as Venom, brought a seasoned perspective to this role, further emphasizing the idea that legacy is not destiny—it can be redefined through conscious choices.

Redemption Through Responsibility

Toxin’s narrative is also one of redemption, both for the symbiote and its hosts. The bond between Toxin and Mulligan demonstrated the transformative power of responsibility. By choosing to channel Toxin’s abilities for good, Mulligan set an example of how even the most chaotic forces can be guided toward constructive purposes. This theme resonates deeply with readers, as it reflects the universal struggle to rise above one’s flaws and limitations to create a positive impact.

Eddie Brock’s time as Toxin’s host further underscored this theme. Having been both a villain and an anti-hero as Venom, Brock’s bond with Toxin represented an opportunity for growth and redemption. Together, they explored what it means to wield power responsibly, even when burdened by a troubled past.

The Duality of Power

Toxin’s story encapsulates the duality of power—its potential to destroy or uplift. The symbiote’s immense strength and adaptability make it a force to be reckoned with, but its true impact depends on the intentions of its host. This duality reflects the broader human experience, where individuals must constantly navigate the tension between their baser instincts and their aspirations for greatness.

In Toxin’s case, the symbiote’s ability to amplify its host’s physical and emotional traits serves as both a blessing and a curse. For Patrick Mulligan, it meant heightened vigilance and a stronger drive to protect others, but it also brought increased aggression and volatility. This dynamic emphasizes the importance of self-awareness and discipline when dealing with great power, reinforcing the Marvel mantra that “with great power comes great responsibility.”

The Moral Complexity of the Symbiotic Bond

Unlike traditional superheroes, who often have clear moral compasses, Toxin’s story delves into the gray areas of morality. The symbiote’s influence forces its hosts to confront their darkest impulses while also providing them with the tools to act as protectors. This complexity makes Toxin a compelling character, as it challenges readers to consider the ethical dilemmas inherent in wielding extraordinary power.

The relationship between Toxin and its hosts reflects the struggles many people face in reconciling their inner conflicts. Whether it’s balancing personal ambition with altruism or resisting the temptation to misuse authority, Toxin’s narrative serves as a metaphor for the choices that define us as individuals.

A Universal Lesson

Ultimately, Toxin’s journey is a universal story about the struggle to control power and use it responsibly. Whether bonded with a well-meaning police officer or a seasoned anti-hero, Toxin embodies the idea that true strength lies not in raw power but in the ability to channel it toward meaningful and constructive purposes. It reminds us that everyone, regardless of their past or their nature, has the capacity for growth and redemption when guided by a strong sense of responsibility.

Toxin in Popular Media

Though Toxin’s appearances in comics have been relatively limited compared to Venom and Carnage, the character has left a lasting impression on fans.

Comic Book Appearances: Toxin debuted in Venom vs. Carnage #2 in 2004, written by Peter Milligan and illustrated by Clayton Crain. Its storyline has since expanded through various Marvel titles, showcasing its evolution and relationships with other symbiotes.

Potential in Other Media: Fans have speculated about Toxin’s potential inclusion in films and television series, particularly within the Sony Pictures Universe of Marvel Characters. Its complex narrative and striking visual design make it a strong candidate for adaptation.

Conclusion

The Toxin symbiote is a remarkable entity in the Marvel Universe, representing both the immense potential for evolution within the symbiote lineage and the complexity of the relationships between these alien organisms and their human hosts. Its narrative is steeped in themes of conflict, redemption, and moral ambiguity, making Toxin a character that resonates with audiences who appreciate stories about duality and inner struggle.

Toxin’s journey is not just a tale of power and chaos but also one of hope and responsibility. As the offspring of two of the most dangerous symbiotes, Toxin had every reason to fall into the same cycle of destruction and violence as its predecessors. However, through its bond with Patrick Mulligan and later Eddie Brock, Toxin has demonstrated that even in the shadow of darkness, there is room for light. These hosts brought their own unique struggles, shaping Toxin's identity and proving that redemption is possible, even for a creature born from chaos.

The character’s appeal lies in its unpredictability and potential for growth. Toxin is not just another powerful symbiote; it is a symbol of evolution and change within the symbiotic species. Its complex relationships with Venom, Carnage, and other Marvel characters highlight its unique position in the Marvel Universe—caught between its heritage of violence and its potential for heroism.

Moreover, Toxin’s journey reflects a universal human struggle: the battle to reconcile our baser instincts with our higher ideals. Through its hosts, Toxin illustrates the challenges of wielding great power while resisting the temptations of corruption and violence. These struggles mirror real-world dilemmas, making Toxin’s story both fantastical and profoundly relatable.

As Toxin continues to evolve in Marvel's vast storytelling tapestry, it holds the promise of even more exciting and intricate narratives. Whether it emerges as a definitive hero, a fearsome anti-hero, or something entirely new, Toxin’s legacy is bound to grow. The character’s relatively limited appearances leave room for further exploration in comics, movies, and television, making it a prime candidate for future development.

The allure of the Toxin symbiote lies not just in its raw power or striking design but in its deep, character-driven narrative. By embodying the struggle between light and darkness, chaos and order, Toxin represents the complexity of human nature itself. As readers and fans, we are drawn to characters like Toxin because they remind us of the endless potential within all of us to rise above our circumstances and strive for something greater.

In the end, Toxin’s story is a testament to Marvel’s ability to craft characters that are as emotionally resonant as they are visually dynamic. Whether it’s battling villains, confronting its symbiotic family, or wrestling with its own identity, Toxin remains one of the most intriguing and multifaceted symbiotes in Marvel’s roster. Its legacy is a powerful reminder that even the most chaotic beginnings can lead to something extraordinary.

[valiantvillain]

It's here. It's done. Chapter 2 of Duty, Diligence, Devotion.

The truth came stalking into Miraz’s tent the very next evening. 

Her suspicions about Astarion’s likely tenuous relationship to life had ascended to their peak. The pale elf had made no mention of the night before, gave no inclination that he had heard a paladin’s poor excuse for stealth creeping out of her tent. Nothing but let himself be caught watching her movements a breath too long, always providing the perfect opportunity to smile at her with more than friendly fascination. Indeed, his attentions seemed to have only grown bolder: taking his time brushing past her, touches lingering upon her arm and shoulder even when she had donned her armor and could scarcely feel his touch through the chainmail, sidling up next to her a little too casually. All too intimately. With every sarcastic retort she issued, the more readily she could expect another instance of flirtation,a thread of strain in his smile and his movements marred by the undercurrent of a sudden nervous energy that had not been there the previous day. 

Then there had been the boar. Or rather the exsanguinated corpse of one. Against Astarion’s dismissive protest, Miraz had knelt to investigate. It had borne no obvious injury, not even a trickle of blood staining the ground. As though death had come to the beast on the wings of natural causes. Perhaps a disease that had worn away the defenses of a young and healthy boar, its bristly coat shining with the luster of youth still. But the edges of bloodless flesh and the two needle-like puncture in its throat told a different story. An icy finger of dread trailed down her spine as she fought the urge to cut an accusing glare towards the elf peering over her shoulder. 

Had he been perturbed, had his voice wavered with the alarm of yet another danger to prey upon them in the night, she might have granted him some benefit of the doubt, however meager. Might have allowed herself yet another shred of it, despite all the misgivings. Instead, his words dripped with annoyance, knowledgeable as though reciting words he had memorized from a well-read book. It was too easy, too nonchalant, too practiced. As if he had rehearsed the lines a thousand times before in preparation for this very moment. Yet all Miraz could see when she got to her feet was the jagged edges of an old wound that bore too many similarities to those of the boar peeking out from beneath the lace of his collar. Instinct and reflexes tightened her grip on her hammer as his airy assurances that he would keep watch from vampires sailed past her ears, his chill touch light as feathers as he reached to place a hand on her shoulder. Practically protective. 

If Astarion had detected anything unusual about her, any stiffening of her limbs, any particular flintiness in her gaze when they returned to camp that evening, he gave no indication. But maybe that too was part of the charade. The pretense of unsuspecting normalcy. 

If she had wanted to play mind games she would have stayed in Baldur’s Gate. Stayed her grandfather’s pet bastard and submitted herself to his endless tests. Years of practice had made them practically second nature, instilled in her an inherent paranoia that saw fit to underscore every interaction, analyzing every word and expression for a whiff of intrigue or insult. It had made her clever, as grandfather had so loved to remind her, made it easy for her to sniff out a lie like a dead body beneath the floorboards. The powers of a paladin had only honed the keenness of her nose to that of a hunting hound. It was exhausting, to always be alert, always rigid and detecting, unable to cease pricking her ears for the merest hint of deception. Only ever able to relax in the presence of her friends, a handful of children once left on the steps of Baldur’s Gate’s temples. 

Astarion, she noted, had elected to seat himself beside her with an air of familiarity. All cheeky grins and fluid flattery as he all but reclined against her side. The smell of rosemary and brandy that came with the elf being too close eked its way past the woodsmoke of the fire and the spices of a potato soup. For all the good the meal did Astarion, for his eyes gleamed hungrier than ever. 

There she lay then in her tent, struggling to succumb to sleep on her bedroll yet again. Victim to a fitful mind and a sense of grim expectation. She lay still, willing her eyes to remain closed, her hands to remain idle and wrapped around her pillow instead of her weapon. Yet behind her eyelids, a sliver of pale light sliced through the shadows, the flutter of canvas sounding in her ears. 

Then the footsteps. Light and cautious with the barest rasp of shifting gravel. Drawing nearer and nearer. Right towards her. Her heart quickened, pounded in her ears as every muscle in her body tensed, bracing for an attack. A moment to strike. Even as she tried not to let on that she was indeed awake. Awake and very much aware of the eyes raking the length of her body like a voyeur’s salacious stare, could feel them like a wandering hand. Revulsion threatened to twist her mouth into a scowl and give her away.

Go away and I won’t have to hurt you, she silently warned, hoping the intruder did not notice her fingers cautiously stir beneath the blankets. Her unwelcome visitor knelt beside her, its breath fanning across her face while a cool hand swept her hair away from her neck. Her eye twitched. She heard a swallow, a deep shuddering breath. The hand wove gracefully through the tangles in her hair to plant itself beside her head. Then it bore down upon her. 

Rosemary and bergamot swarmed her flared nostrils. 

Miraz had known it. She had been right all along. 

[egittae]

Dimitri still remained uncertain of what to make of the man's presence - they had spent some time together, now, had even perhaps come to be what one might have seen as friendly, but there was a tension that lingered that Dimitri could not shake. Not a strain, but a lack that left his mind wanting, searching.

He could not have framed it in any way that slotted into the bounds of logic, and he could not help but remain suspicious but...

The man was family, regardless of proximity. Main or branch house, or even some farflung bastard...Professor Lambert was Blaiddyd, and there remained few enough of them on this earth.

Even if he was unfriendly, even if the casual affection and the laidback manner did not put Dimitri at his ease, he would pay his dues to the blood that came before him, and would treasure the bond, however tenuous.

"Professor Lambert! It is a surprise and a pleasure to see you've attended this...well, I suppose it is not a mission nor a seminar in truth. But I am pleased to see you with us regardless." He approached with an extended hand, the appropriate greeting, he thought.

Then, a laugh. "Oh - you've already begun turning quite red. I'm afraid that's probably our lot as northern men isn't it! I hope that this is the extent of our suffering during our time here."

Meant in jest, but Dimitri still had a long way to go when it came to humor.

The pieces of cloth made it easy enough to spot who belonged to each team. By now he had already managed to spot all of his companions, flying the green banner of…the rat, which was quite the choice for an animal to represent them, but at this point the professor was no longer surprised by it, much less offended. If anything he found it a tad amusing, even more so when he was so used to seeing specific students and faculty wearing colors much different from the ones that signaled their allegiances back at the academy. His own Wolves included.

And one that seemed to undergo that color change was the prince of Faerghus, Dimitri. A sash of red contrasted with the blues of the kingdom in the boy’s summer outfit, the sight odd but at the same time intriguing enough to earn a small curious smile from the professor. “Dimitri! You seem to be in good spirits, that is great to see. Indeed, I too was pulled into this event…as a participant, which caught me off guard, admittedly.” He thought he’d be a staff member or something- as he was usually placed with the faculty. “But I shall not complain. We should simply wait and see what comes to fruition.”

He shook the offered hand without hesitation, his smile growing slightly more fond before a hearty laugh made its way out of it. “Ah…unfortunately there is not much that can be done to hide it, though thankfully a good friend of mine granted me mercy by applying some ointment to my skin to at least ease the burns.” Morion’s help did make things better- Lambert could only hope the sun didn’t fry him any more. 

“Haha, even if worse comes to take place I honestly think it will be more manageable than fighting against the Goddess’ light itself! This body of mine is doing its best to not become that of a fried shrimp.”

[strings0fcontrol]

Hannigram – Post-Fall (9)

Will emerged from the depths of a void. It felt as though the world had collapsed in on itself, a clue in itself. He had fallen into a wordless silence, a manifestation of the strain that often overcame him when life's pressures grew too immense. And at this moment, the weight upon his shoulders was overwhelming.

He found himself in unfamiliar terrain, an uncharted expanse. Like his mind. Abandoned. Being marooned on an island, a place with no escape save for a fragile and tenuous connection to the outside world—a sensation he had known all too well.

This was the sensation he often wrestled with, and it was precisely why he harbored a penchant for building boats. Boats were his means of escape from those desolate islands.

He narrowed his eyes in contemplation.

For too long, he had wriggled and writhed, avoiding the label, fearing that it would confine him to a narrow box. But he couldn't deny it any longer—being autistic was an integral part of who he was, no matter how fervently he had tried to cast it aside and affix that mask to his face.

He was a chameleon, assuming the guise of others, but how much longer could he maintain this masquerade before his genuine form inevitably caught up to him? And just how nightmarish was this true self, the one he had always striven to repress?

Now that the alternate reality had dissipated, he found himself confronting the one he didn't recognize, the one that felt alien. His inner world stood in stark contrast to the exterior, a realm only he could truly fathom. What others beheld was merely a facade, shaped by their own unique perspective and the angle of their reality.

Perspectives. Angles.

The universe, at its core, bore the signature of mathematics, a cosmic symphony where countless entities pulsed in harmonic rhythms, much like our radiant stars. The flickering we perceived held the potential for a translation—those fleeting luminous moments might, in truth, be akin to primal screams. It hinted at the possibility that the universe itself was nothing but an immense vocal tract, engaged in a colossal song, and perhaps, we were the ethereal notes in perpetual motion. Similar brain regions served as the fertile ground for processing linguistics, mathematics, and music, their connections intricate and profound. While the world often anticipated the manifestation of autistic aptitude within the realm of mathematics, it didn't always unfold there. At times, it blossomed within the realm of music, at other times in the intricate web of linguistics. And, on occasion, it manifested as a singular and profound philosophical understanding of the world, painted in the vivid hues of beautifully intricate metaphors. The contours of hyper-empathy formed a bewildering shape—an understanding of the world that, in its own right, bordered on sheer madness. It came in various shapes and flavors, each one distinct from the other, with no two ever being entirely alike.

His inner compass made yet another subtle mental recalibration, propelling him forward to the next thought. His unconscious mind embarked on leaps, and he observed its journey with intrigue.

The world around him resembled a celestial archipelago, islands suspended in the heavens. While others constructed bridges to span the chasms between them, step by deliberate step, his reality diverged.

To convey a fitting analogy, one might liken it to a frog navigating lily pads. However, these pads floated high above the earth, and any misjudgment in his leaps would plunge him into an abyss, symbolic of his aversion to failure and the unknown. He possessed no safety nets, and no bridges to traverse. He was compelled to leap. His thoughts were fiercely competitive, akin to a frenetic race where numerous frogs vied for supremacy, cannibalizing one another for the position of dominance.

With time, some frogs grew familiar with the racecourse, etching the locations of those pads into memory. Consequently, he commenced making leaps that defied explanation, appearing as if he vaulted into the void, for others couldn't perceive the pads shrouded within the clouds. Yet, he needed no visual confirmation; an intuitive understanding guided him. After traversing the track extensively, he developed an innate awareness of the pad's concealed positions and began to devise shortcuts, navigating his surreal world with unmatched proficiency. His psyche adapted to the frenzied pace of this high-speed race, becoming inured to its relentless stakes.

Consequently, when these two worlds converged and the frogs found themselves upon the drifting islands, which moved at a considerably more languid tempo than their nimble lily pads, he retained the ability to make his leaps. Meanwhile, others stood puzzled, their brows furrowed as they grappled with the perplexing task of constructing the bridges.

Neither approach was inherently flawed; both modes of traversing these islands were effective, yet fundamentally divergent. Bridging the gap between these two worlds, explaining one to the other, became a linguistic tightrope suspended between the realms of comprehension.

This difference rendered him not only an alien in foreign realms but also an outsider to their inhabitants.

Hence, socializing proved utterly draining. The endeavor to collaborate with individuals who communicated through a divergent lens, grasping the world with a grounded and leisurely perspective diametrically opposed to his high-speed, anxiety-fueled existence, felt profoundly exhausting.

This only compounded his anxiety, for he frequently found himself shouldering the consequences of any mutual communication mishaps. Being the autistic one, juxtaposed with the perceived 'normality' of others, seemed to invariably cast him in the role of the scapegoat. Even when it wasn't his doing, he bore the brunt of it.

His understanding of things leaned toward the literal. For instance, when it came to rolling his eyes, he truly  rolled  them. Apparently, neurotypicals merely glanced  upward  to 'roll their eyes,' rather than executing the full, actual eye-roll as he did. The punishments he had found himself in for looking upward while lost in thought left him utterly perplexed as a child. He did not understand. Until many years later.

The same puzzlement applied to the matter of eye contact. To him, eye contact, in the truest sense, meant individuals locking gazes, peering directly into each other's eyes. Yet, apparently, it encompassed a broader spectrum, a comprehensive scrutiny of the entire face in a way he struggled to articulate, whereas he had simply been earnestly staring into people's eyes. This realization shed light on why such interactions had been overwhelmingly intense for him. Why was it termed ‘eye contact’ when, in reality, it should be called ‘face contact’? Or perhaps it was the eye making contact with the other person's face? And why was it that staring at someone was not only expected but also made it nearly impossible to concentrate on what was being said? Did they desire to be heard, or were they seeking to be scrutinized? He could only engage in one of these actions at a time. Eye contact was one of his earliest tells. He shied away from looking into others' eyes, fearing what he might discover there.

For an individual who had spent a lifetime honing the craft of observation, all in the pursuit of understanding the human expression, someone like him possessed eyes that transcended the mere surface of words, a skill born of necessity to integrate into their world without the threat of discovery, prompting him to scrutinize every word ever spoken to his face. Unfortunately, the truth remained that most people were utterly  inept   at the art of deception. When a person's visage narrated a story divergent from the one their lips uttered, he felt a disconcerting twist in his stomach—the telltale sensation that eroded hope from his soul. It was a form of betrayal he chose to shield himself from, for when his gaze detected it, it carried away not only the illusion but also any remnants of trust.

People lied incessantly, driven by various motivations, sometimes even with noble intentions, he comprehended that much, but it remained a painful experience. Especially with someone so deeply scarred and predisposed to rejection, it was a feeling he dreaded .

When words and facial expressions diverged, it left him torn between two paths, uncertain which signal to heed: the spoken language or the emotions he had glimpsed behind the words.

It was an incredibly taxing ordeal. Some might argue that he could 'simply' switch it off or disregard it, but how does one accomplish that with a mind that refuses to cease its operation? A mind that instinctively hones in on such intricacies without conscious intent. A mind meticulously trained to scrutinize every syllable, every subtle furrow, every shift in pitch and tone, all in an effort to decipher the telltale  click   beneath his very feet?

His body, well-practiced in concealing its torment, engaged in subtle self-soothing gestures—his hands gently stroking his thighs, his upper arms receiving loving caresses—as if his body sought to empathize with his overwhelmed mind, for no one else would. In those understated acts of self-comfort, a keen observer could discern his disquiet, yet the world remained oblivious to his silent turmoil.

He exerted himself tirelessly, yet it seemed that every endeavor to truly connect with others was fated to end in failure.

Essentially, this meant he had to navigate two distinct linguistic terrains. He could fluently converse in the language of his own mind, yet when it came to speaking the language of others, he bore a discernible accent. It was akin to immersing himself in a metaphorical foreign culture and attempting to pass as a native.

While his mind grappled with things in a direct and unadorned fashion, other minds appeared to subtly skew the significance of their words, not quite veering into outright deceit, but rather employing language that danced with a deliberate obliqueness, diverging from their literal intent.

To them, this rendered him strikingly blunt and forthright, while they, in turn, came across as enigmatic and cryptic in his eyes. Navigating this facet of social interactions was akin to traversing a treacherous minefield. His knowledge of its hazardous nature offered little solace, for he remained clueless about the mines' concealed locations. Only the ominous, silent  click  would signal that it had become too late—a damning reaction before his impending doom.

These others, they possessed the ability to dance around the mines, as if they could discern their hidden presence, a skill that eluded him entirely. Thus, all he could do was mimic their dances, without knowing what they meant, and tread in their carefully chosen paths, hoping that through imitation, he might glean the elusive knowledge needed to survive this perilous terrain.

Picture a blind man waltzing across a minefield—what do you imagine the outcome would be?

Occasionally, he stumbled upon a hidden mine, and in those moments, chaos erupted. And he found himself grappling to comprehend the misstep that had led to such disarray.

Yet, no one took the time to teach him the proper steps, nor did they share in the dance. Instead, they regarded him with such abject horror that it cut him to the core.

This constant scrutiny left him perpetually on edge. Every word he uttered, every step he ventured, carried the weight of potentially being slightly off-beat—a fear that gnawed at him, threatening to unravel him with each breath. What heightened the pain was the inherent malice others ascribed to his actions, as though he intentionally conducted them to taunt and amuse himself at their expense. Did he appear so malicious? Was the underlying, well-intentioned motive of his actions of no consequence?

There always seemed to be a distortion between him and others, as if they gazed at him through frosted glass, perceiving not a fellow human being but a ghastly silhouette.

It was a chilling sensation, gradually nipping at his soul.

Falsehoods or fabrications held no intrinsic value to him unless they served the purpose of self-preservation or a greater cause. This was why he made no effort to conceal his disdain for the things he despised, just as he openly expressed his admiration for the things he held dear. He saw no reason to don a mask and pretend to be something he wasn't. 

Or, at least, that's how it had been in the past. Over time, through trial and error, he acquired the skill of speaking as sparingly as possible, withholding his passionate convictions from the world. He delivered only the most succinct and necessary information, maintaining an almost motionless demeanor. He keenly observed others to discern the precise comportment required to evade their anger and retribution. Through this astute observation, he fashioned a mask, a carefully tailored performance designed to align with their expectations, preventing outright rejection if he mastered the act well enough. He had diminished himself, carving away fragments of his being, until he had all but lost sight of his original form.

It was a prevailing theme in his surroundings, where people constantly strove to shine brighter than their neighbor, engaging in a ceaseless competition of masquerades instead of embracing their innate beauty. Money, undoubtedly, held its importance, but he understood that there existed a point where one could accumulate so much wealth that it ceased to hold allure. The abundance itself became monotonous, a fleeting burst of excitement after a lifetime of pursuit. It seemed as if this relentless quest for wealth was humanity's singular purpose—a climb towards the pinnacle of the hierarchy, almost a desperate reach for the divine.

However, as he observed this recurring pattern, he couldn't help but notice that those who had indeed reached the zenith often appeared profoundly desolate and isolated. Furthermore, paranoia set in, for as they had achieved this newfound clarity at the steep cost of their souls, others had not followed the same path. These hungry souls still coveted the mound of golden coins, poised to snatch away the final vestiges of what had been the culmination of a lifetime's toil. Trust was a rare commodity, for no one could be relied upon to remain authentic once that pinnacle had been scaled. It was often the cost of getting there, after all. They felt compelled to either appease others or engage in constant battles, twisting their very essence until it became unrecognizable even to themselves. It was an undeniably exasperating ordeal. So much energy funneled into maintaining a fragile facade, while the inner self withered, neglected. He wondered if others, too, experienced a similar sense of isolation, albeit through different means.

The world appeared to be an exceedingly lonely realm, irrespective of the masks we adorned, for humanity had forsaken the art of kindling warmth among themselves, opting instead to incinerate one another. Is it not more exquisite to share warmth than to wrest it from others?

Nourishing the soul demanded more than a mere pile of golden coins. It entailed the ultimate act of bravery—a journey inward to discover one's true self, to discern the flavors that truly satisfied the appetite of the roaring beast within us. So many squandered their precious time on the ascent, failing to appreciate the breathtaking panorama all around them.

But his dream was far simpler. He didn’t want to climb mountains. It was a life of tranquility and contentment—a home, a family, a boat, and a couple of loyal dogs. These were the essentials for his happiness, where solitude and cherished moments held more allure than any riches. To him, nothing felt more heavenly than an authentic connection.

Nevertheless, people regarded him as though he were deranged for harboring such dreams.

Societal norms demanded that he abandon his authentic self to conform, much like everyone else did. However, that was their blueprint, not his. He had no desire to scale the mountains; he found contentment on solid ground. Bending and stifling his true self, it may have worked for a brief period, but when solitude embraced him, he would liberate himself from the suffocating mask, allowing his soul to breathe once more. Within that secluded realm, an oasis of his own making, impervious to intrusion, he discovered genuine solace.

In his modest house, which, during nocturnal strolls through the fields, appeared as though it were adrift upon a tranquil lake. In his little garage, where he diligently constructed a boat, driven by an insatiable curiosity to explore the unknown beyond.

To explore the unknown beyond. That's precisely why he embarked on its construction. His gaze flickered upward, brows furrowing in contemplation.

In his mind, that boat had not yet taken form .

The only void he felt was the absence of his faithful dogs, left behind in his quest for Hannibal. Abandoned, much like the fear of abandonment that had haunted him.

This elucidated why he found himself in complete solitude here.

As he distanced himself from his physical form and allowed his thoughts to expand, he began to vividly visualize the process.

The next mental landing point emerged on the horizon, and his thoughts, unhesitatingly, aligned themselves for a graceful descent to claim it.

Initially, he had perceived Hannibal as a grotesque, stag-like creature, akin to a Wendigo. Gradually, the distorted image gave way to a clearer view, allowing him to see Hannibal for what he truly was.

His lungs weighed down as if each breath became a laborious endeavor. See? His jaw moved with a subtle twitch, as though it sought to elude an uncomfortable mental connection that loomed in the shadows. Nevertheless, he remained resolute. Yes. He saw. In an instant, he found himself steady, assured, and firmly in command. He had embraced a fragment of himself without rejection, and in response, reality refrained from warping; it steadied, and the tempo of his thoughts quickened. He breathed in the rhythm, eyes closed, body swaying to its pulse, a complete surrender to his thoughts, their wings extending farther than any boat ever could.

It was in this very realm that he sought his authentic perspective—a viewpoint uniquely his own, one that resonated with a sensation akin to a cascade of electric currents running down his spine. It was in those moments that he truly felt his mind come alive, the lifeblood of his consciousness coursing through rapid thoughts like a bustling data highway. These thoughts left behind beautiful, azure streaks of contemplation that unfurled behind his inner eyes, reminiscent of the rhythmic ebb and flow of tides. The very tides he observed with near-hypnotic fascination when he stood outside.

The things we often encountered, he realized, were but curious wavelengths. Sound waves intertwined with light waves, each capable of transmutation into the other.

Will embraced the richness of his finely attuned senses, unfettered by judgment, free from the burden of performance, and released from the relentless expectations that perpetually shadowed him. No matter how often he demonstrated his brilliance, it was as if people were insatiable, always demanding more than he could possibly provide.

He recklessly consumed his own flame to provide warmth for others. His gift manifested in sporadic bursts, resembling a peculiar ailment, or so he sometimes mused. These episodes arrived in intervals, like a rhythmic cadence. Yet, once he found himself immersed in that unique rhythm, he sensed his true self emerging—neither an affliction nor a malady, but a distinct entity that defied the world's limited attempts at labeling him. Revealing his autistic nature often elicited binary reactions—either people recoiled with disdain or regarded him with twisted awe. Some would approach cautiously, observing him like a lab specimen, a bit akin to Alana. Others would draw comparisons to their own 5-year-old autistic nephew, branding him as merely quirky, or using more derogatory labels. The most cruel category of individuals regarded him as a living affliction, a malady in need of remedy. However, such a ‘cure’ would necessitate his demise, for his very brain was inherently distinct, and not even a drastic lobotomy could transmute a dog into a cat. On the opposite end were individuals like Jack, who sought miracles, oblivious to the toll it took on him to continuously maintain that lofty performance. After all, he wasn't a manifestation of ‘Rain Man.’ The media had sculpted a distorted external image of autism, elevating it to heavenly heights or plunging it into the depths of hell. People remained ensnared by these antiquated misconceptions. They anticipated a living miracle or something otherworldly, but seldom did they anticipate encountering a fellow human being.

He saw himself as someone who simply disliked intrusive eye contact and found social interactions disconcerting. And he harbored a preference for the company of animals, where he didn't have to perpetually engage in guessing games about their intentions.

Strangely, this proved to be an exceedingly challenging concept for some individuals to grasp. It served as a compelling justification for his steadfast refusal to divulge the inner workings of his mind through any form of publication. ‘Madness’ was the succinct reply he offered, as everyone seemed poised to dissect his thoughts as though they possessed an inherent entitlement to do so. Chilton. Lounds. He harbored a bitter resentment for the way they perceived him. He refused to be reduced to the status of a monstrous specimen, laid upon their examination table to be dissected at will. That’s not how he treated others. And he saw no reason why he should accept such dehumanizing treatment.

Alana had made an effort to steer clear of delving too deeply into his mind, a gesture he appreciated. It was conceived with the best of intentions. However, paradoxically, this very restraint had created a sense of distance between them. He could sense the subtle withdrawal, a quiet form of rejection, as if she had abandoned him even before he had the opportunity to demonstrate his humanity.

Jack regarded him as nothing more than a tool, a mindless scalpel wielded to excise the sickness from the world. Oddly enough, that was perhaps the least inhumane treatment among the various iterations he had encountered. Though Jack didn't quite view him as fully human, he refrained from outright rejection. He acknowledged what he was and saw utility in precisely that capacity. In a peculiar twist, Crawford had inadvertently nudged him closer to the truth all along, drawing him into proximity with Hannibal. Will served as the lure, Hannibal the catch, and Jack wielded the rod.

The image grew sharper and more distinct.

Du Maurier occupied a peculiar role, acting as a bridge between them, akin to a marker or interpreter, illuminating essential fragments of information that bound Will and Hannibal. In her own way, she often beheld a more comprehensive view of the entire picture, a broader perspective, and astutely unveiled her insights to those around her. Or, at the very least, she possessed the decency to lay it out plainly for him. In a strange, contradictory way, he both held contempt for and admired her. While she held him in disdain and fear, she also viewed him with fascination, considering him a worthy adversary. In her spite, Bedelia was brutally honest with him, more honest than most people had ever been in his life. That's why being honest with her came naturally.

‘Could he daily feel a stab of hunger for you, and find nourishment at the very sight of you? Yes. But do you ache for him?’ As her words reached him, a sensation of lightness filled his chest, so profound that tears threatened to well up in his eyes. He had always felt a deeper connection to Hannibal than he had with anyone else—an inexplicable warmth and tranquility whenever they were in close proximity, coupled with moments of electric tension that bordered on the unbearable. Yet, he struggled to translate these sensations into distinct emotions. He possessed only partial comprehension, aware that assumptions were precarious ground to tread upon, far less dependable than the certainty he craved. He had long forsaken his trust in the reliability of his own judgment, given that the world seemed perpetually primed to admonish his actions right from the start. Consequently, he matured with a pervasive self-doubt. Therefore, unless something was unequivocally confirmed, he refrained from acting on his perceptions of others, unless those perceptions directly posed a threat to him. His mind had always craved a thorough understanding of every facet of a concept, necessitating the complete consumption of it. This way, what took shape within his mind was a creation he could be confident in, having been meticulously scrutinized and fashioned with his most genuine intentions. Anything less would leave him dissatisfied, for it would not have received his full commitment. And perhaps, because a piece remained absent, he found himself adrift in a sea of uncertainty even now.

Will’s skin tingled, ablaze with goosebumps. His inner eye had fixed upon a target, plunging headlong in pursuit. It was Bedelia Du Maurier who had finally decoded the elusive piece of information that had lingered just beyond his grasp. Hannibal was in love with him. Utterly. Obsessively. In love with him.

He would never forsake him.

Despite his successful escape to Italy, the creation of an entirely new persona, and the forging of a different life and identity, he had willingly abandoned it all just so that Will would be aware of his whereabouts and have the opportunity to reunite with him. That's how Will had ensnared him. He had seized upon that partial assumption and taken a calculated risk.

Hannibal had endured three long years of yearning, patiently awaiting the chance to feel his touch once more, all for this precious moment. It left him pondering: had there been more that he should have been aware of? Was this his method to examine Hannibal's commitment, akin to God testing Job by stripping away all his lavish gifts to ascertain if his faith would endure?

Will's vision suddenly blurred, and he felt the cold touch of tears tracing down his cheeks, his breath nearly reduced to a whisper.

Hannibal would never leave him.

The absence of Hannibal in this realm was a reflection of the sense of abandonment Will had experienced.

But Hannibal enveloped him completely, manifesting in every thought, every brushstroke of his mental canvas, and every breath he took.

His eyes shifted, chasing another thought. He was beginning to fathom the expanse of his own mind, a realm far vaster than he had ever perceived. Rising to his feet to step outdoors, Will surveyed the island before him. It wasn't just an island; it served as his current point of entrapment. This entire domain, encompassing not only the land but also the boundless sea, was, in essence, an extension of his own mind.

His thoughts had been molded by the teachings of others.

He wasn't operating in alignment with his innate nature. This explained his complete lack of control over this domain. And why it persistently spurned him.

For behaving as his true self had always been met with reprimand.

His worth was conditional, predicated on his ability to conform to the expectations of humanity, as dictated by the labels of others.

There had never been a space for his wings to unfurl. Instead, they withered and became deformed, casualties of his relentless efforts to bend and twist himself into the mold that others had imposed upon him.

Hannibal himself might not possess a full understanding of what lay within Will, not to the extent that Will himself seemed to be discovering. Yet Hannibal loved him unconditionally, cherishing him for exactly who he was, for every peculiar and intricate mosaic piece that constituted his mind. He saw him as was. He didn't view him through the lens of a diagnosis, nor did he see him solely as a human or a vulnerable child. To Hannibal, Will was something entirely distinct—an entity of singular beauty and authenticity.

Will didn't need to conceal any facet of himself, regardless of how disconcerting it might be. He could freely unlock the depths of his being, peeling away layer after layer of the meticulously constructed mask, in the hope of uncovering his true self buried beneath it all.

Yet, what if beneath that mask lay something horrifying, something distorted and unrecognizably human? If Hannibal could love that aspect of him, then so could Will, and he cared not for the judgment of the rest of the world.

The pieces started to rearrange themselves, and his gaze became fixed upon the grass as he further retreated into the shadows of his own mind. All along, he had been searching for an escape route to the outside, but he had neglected to search for an entrance within.

Into himself.

To liberate himself from this reality, he needed to disconnect, much like pulling the plug on a phone line. Will had always hesitated beyond that critical ‘click,’ restrained by his fear from daring to forge ahead. There lay a tempestuous reckoning if he were to cease his dance and advance at his own rhythm, sprinting ahead while the world crumbled around him. It didn't matter how unconventional such a choice might appear; he hungered for it nonetheless.

He yearned to gnaw through his own leash and bolt, like a stray seeking freedom.

An unsettling familiarity tinged the logic and setting, something, again, just beyond his grasp. It was as if the force holding him captive here resisted his complete comprehension, aware that any such revelation could serve as a clue to extricate himself from this harrowing madness.

Will grappled with his thoughts. His gaze shifted toward the cliffs, and as he drew nearer, he couldn't help but notice the unsettling resemblance they bore to the ones he had once plunged from with Hannibal.

A compelling urge surged within him—a longing to propel himself forward and leap.

But which facet of his mind was steering him? The rational one, or the irrational?

Was this a literal or metaphorical descent?

He inched closer to the cliffs, peering down into the churning sea below.

[burning-fcols]

Vox is clearly obsessed. Has been obsessed with Angel ever since their accidental night together. Why do people think he's put extra cameras in the spider's dressing room? He hasn't taken his eyes off the screens feeding the display back to him as Angel gets himself ready. Fuck it. Valentino could hold out a little bit longer, if anything he'll come up with an excuse for it. Angel's room even has a communicator, hidden well from a certain moth. Just for contact between them. His voice crackles to life over it, strained with need.  "Angel? Can I borrow some of your time? You won't get caught, trust me~ " ( :'3 ) - ✧ ˖ ˙ 「 @Qᴜᴇꜱᴛɪᴏɴᴀʙʟᴇᴍᴜꜱᴇꜱ 」 ˙ ˖ ✧

「 ☆ 」 Drawing the attention of intense individuals is a-given for Angel, fate seeming to have a personal vendetta against him. Even before Hell, he often felt the gaze of creeps watching his movements. Subtle in their lechery, for fear of drawing harm upon themselves. No concern given to the mafioso's well-being should he be blamed for earning such thoughts, even when he wasn't TRYING to. In Hell? Subtlety is unneeded and restraint even less-so. Something Angel had learned quickly.

Despite his luck, Angel had still HOPED— however stupidly —Vox wouldn't fall into the same pitfalls after experiencing what he has to offer. That pride might be enough to keep those urges shoved down where they can't risk tainting his carefully-cultivated persona. Or the tenuous position of power Vox put himself in; especially when walking the delicate line that is being on Valentino's good side. But all it took was one night, one accidental fucking night, and Angel could already feel the shift in the air. Everyone else oblivious to the change, as they SHOULD be.

But Angel vividly aware of the way cameras seemed to... shift whenever he passed them. Trailing him wherever he went, focused on every action, every scene both on and off-stage... Existing in the studio becoming just as much a performance as when he's being filmed, Angel shedding his habit of letting himself SOMEWHAT breathe when not under Valentino's watchful eye. Sure, he had always knew Vox could see him— witnessed those moments of humanity, even when he would breakdown in his dressing room —but it never felt like it mattered until now.

It never felt like Vox was genuinely paying attention.

Keeping his composure— sparingly giving glances to the cameras before he caught himself —Angel has to admit he may have been working with the change in dynamic. If only because there's hardly a CHOICE. Better to grab what semblance of control he could, act as if he's a part of the game rather than an unwilling pawn. Noting the additional cameras in his dressing room ( one doesn't spend as much time in the room as HE has without intimately knowing the old from new ) he may have been subtilely showing-off. Acting as if in the midst of work, body positioned to allow Vox the best angles. Every curve, every slow teasing slip of his new outfit onto his form— Val having picked out something special for him to wear —the way Angel's glossy lips slightly part as he applies his eyeshadow in the mirror.

Although, this is nothing compared to what happened a few days prior. When Angel looked RIGHT at Vox a camera while being taken by Valentino in his dressing room, sultry gaze secretly letting Vox know he was aware the other was watching... Frankly, Angel commends the Overlord for holding out this long.

Startling at the sudden disruption, Angel sets down his makeup brush to disguise the slight tremor in his hands. Sucking in a discreet breath, he silently exhales... before looking up at a camera he knows is looming overhead. Showtime. Repressed need is unmistakable in Vox's tone, the others strained state oddly comforting. He's already on-edge. So long as Angel keeps his unease under control, he should keep the upper-hand despite being the powerless one in the room. With a sly smile, he responds to Vox's question... knowing it's an order.

❝ I was wonderin' when you'd make anotha' move... You got more self-restraint than most people do, Mista' Vox.~ ❞ He teases, name somehow sounding like a sin when passing his lips. He plays up his brattiness with a flip of his bangs and a lowering of his hot-pink lids, ❝ Sure hope you don' show any once I'm there. ❞ Mentally-preparing himself for a no-doubt pent-up Vox, he makes his way to the doors of his dressing room, hips purposely swaying with each step. Sparing a glance over his shoulder, he purrs through a smirk, ❝ I'll see ya soon, Daddy~ ❞

❛ Trust me. ❜ Angel doesn't trust Vox as far as he can throw him, but he fervently PRAYS to be proven wrong. If he's not... then Angel is fucked in more ways than one. 「 ☆ 」

[rjthirsty]

Leni Klein (IkePri AU)

Who is Nokto without Leni? And who is Leni without Nokto? It only made sense to me to have Leni designed next in my character commissions because the twins need each other. I had to go with something different than Licht, it sounded too masculine to me, and I spent a ton of time researching names to find something I liked.

Her design was also very important, because while the twins have a lot of similarities, they also make a point to be different from one another. I wanted them to have some similar designs, but be different enough that they're their own people.

Art done by @nakitamelo commissioned by me.

Name: Leni Klein Gender: Female Age: 26 Birthday: October 9 Appearance: 5'2" (157.5 cm), Small boned and thin-framed, Silver hair, Red eyes

Leni Klein is the sixth born of Rhodolite's royal family, known as the Sixth Princess. She is a lone wolf, preferring solitude over the company of others, and often thinks her existence is a curse to those around her. Leni and Nokto are twins, but an event in their youth drove them apart and they rarely speak now. She is a skilled swordsman, and adept at combat and tactics, able to pick up the mantle of leadership if she so chooses to. However, her preference for being alone and desire to keep everyone much further than arms' length away leads her to being unsociable and curt with everyone. Since she rarely speaks except in matters relating to training or where required by her social standing, it's seen as a boon to have a conversation with her in any capacity.

Notes about Leni:

Leni's crest is a wolf, while her twin, Nokto, has a fox crest despite them being twins and birthed by the same woman. It would seem that crests are chosen rather than given to the children of the King, though there is no indication when this happens, or why.

Leni is an amazing swordsman, likely the best in the country. A fact that isn't well known outside of the royal family.

She prefers to exist outside of the spotlight and the crowds, adding to the "lone wolf" trope she has working for her.

Nokto and Leni have a tenuous relationship. They rarely speak to each other and it is strained even when they do.

Leni and Nokto were very close as children. An event drove them apart when they were quite young, and they've never mended the divide since then.

There are old superstitions about twins throughout the real world, and most of them are negative. Leni's backstory in the OG game covers one of these, and while it is important for her character development, I haven't yet decided how to implement it.

She gets along best with her older brother, Yves, who dotes on her, though she doesn't return the affection.

[tristanxitsallcoolbruvxpayne]

Full Name: Tristan Laughton Payne Alias: Agent 42 Age: 36 years old Birthday: November, 13, 1985 Zodiac: Scorpio Occupation: Second in hands, in charge when Orion asks. Residence: U.S.A. & London Sexuality: Bi-Sexual Face Claim: Charlie Hunnam

Biography

Tristan Laughton Payne's early years were shaped by the bustling, sometimes gritty streets of London during the 1980s and 90s. Growing up in the heart of the city alongside his twin brother, Remy, and their younger sister, Briana, he learned early on that life wasn’t always kind.

Their mother, Andrea Payne, was a woman trapped by her own demons, and their father disappeared from their lives one fateful day, never to return. Yet, despite these early losses, the trio forged a bond that was stronger than any obstacle life threw at them. They became a unit, a small but tight-knit family that weathered the storms together. The absence of their father and the challenges they faced never quite seemed to break them. But the cracks were there, often hidden beneath the surface.

As children, Tristan, Remy, and Briana grew accustomed to living with only the barest of necessities. Their mother’s drinking habits took away even the little luxuries they once had. With each passing day, it became harder to ignore the growing strain of their situation. While the boys sought out jobs here and there, from odd tasks to the occasional bout of petty theft to survive, their family’s tenuous stability was always on the edge.

Remy, in particular, had a hard time holding down a steady job, often giving up after only a few weeks. This left Tristan to shoulder much of the responsibility, and soon enough, it became clear to their mother that her son was the one bringing in the money to sustain the family. But Andrea, ever blind to the sacrifices of her children, saw only the loss of her own comfort and independence.

It didn't matter to her that Tristan's hard-earned paychecks went to his sister's medical bills or to buy food for their family; Andrea saw only her own disappointment that her children would not support her habits as she wished. With her alcohol-fueled resentment growing, she decided to hold on to her children, using their income to sustain her own lifestyle.

Tristan and Remy, however, did not falter in their devotion to Briana, even if it meant going without food for days, a sacrifice they hoped would allow their sister to get better. But despite all their efforts, Briana, always a sickly child, passed away on her thirteenth birthday. Her death marked the beginning of the end for the Payne family as they knew it.

The pain of losing Briana was compounded by their mother’s complete lack of remorse. Andrea, drunk and belligerent, showed up at her daughter's funeral, ranting about her misfortune and blaming everyone but herself. It was at that moment that Tristan and Remy knew they had to escape.

They began saving every penny they could, working in any way they could, all with the goal of getting as far away from their mother as possible. By the time they turned eighteen, the twins had saved enough to move out. They packed their belongings and left their mother's house behind, taking only what they could carry and leaving everything else to rot.

The new chapter in their lives began.

With their mother’s toxic grip finally loosened, Tristan and Remy took different paths. Tristan had always been a defender, the one who stood up for those who couldn’t protect themselves, while Remy had always been more of a pragmatist, someone who believed in getting what was owed. These differences in their characters led them to very different careers. Tristan found his calling in law enforcement and, after some time, was recruited by SHIELD, where he became involved in operations that would shape his future. Remy, on the other hand, joined GeneCo, where he became a repossession agent, a job that required him to take back assets from those who had failed to keep up with their debts.

As for Tristan, he made New York his home. His work with SHIELD continued to be fulfilling, but the scars of his past—his family's struggles, his mother's neglect, and his sister’s death—remained with him.

Yet, despite it all, he pushed forward, continuing to serve and protect in the ways he always had, now far from the city where his story began, but still carrying the weight of those memories with him wherever he went.

The Payne brothers’ lives were shaped by hardship and loss, but also by resilience and determination. They had each other, and with that, they learned that survival wasn’t just about getting by—it was about finding a way to live, to move beyond the pain of the past, and to create something better for themselves and the people they loved.

Character

Tristan is a complex mix of intensity and tenderness, shaped by deep-rooted fears and an unwavering sense of loyalty. His protective nature stands at the core of his personality, influencing both his strengths and flaws. He is fiercely devoted to his family, having raised his nieces alongside his brother, Remy, which showcases his nurturing side despite his hardened exterior.

His strengths, such as precision, sharpshooting, and combat skills, hint at a background that demands both discipline and skill, possibly military or underground work. However, his flaws—cunning, dangerous, and overprotective—reveal a tendency to push boundaries, whether for survival or to keep loved ones safe. His possessiveness and pride indicate a need for control, which may stem from past experiences where he felt powerless.

His hobbies and habits reinforce his duality; while he engages in tactical and strategic activities like weapons training and solving puzzles, he also enjoys simple pleasures like cooking and playing with his nieces. However, he struggles with trust, gambling, and sleeplessness, hinting at inner turmoil.

Fear plays a significant role in his character, particularly his fear of failure, losing loved ones, and not being enough. His deepest fear—becoming like his mother—suggests a troubled past and a driving force behind his determination to carve his own path.

Overall, Tristan is a layered individual, balancing between calculated precision and raw emotion. His loyalty and love run deep, but so do his demons, making him a compelling and multidimensional figure.

Short dirty blonde hair Blue eyes Slightly scarred Tattooed Muscular Works out often Bit of a posh British accent Flirty Family first Smoker Pesuedo Dad Punctual Mischievous Fears heights Overwhelming Loyal Playful

@writingsinashes

@toxorionxhastingsxwexbow

[mothinked]

In Owen's defense, military vehicles were heavily armored and the sunroof was no exception. If anything, straining to open it had put his improved physique on display: traps bunching and biceps flexing under his skin like steel cables until the panel finally gave, its hinges creaking in protest from both age and disuse. There wasn't an ounce of fat on him these days. He even had abs to boast about... if he were so inclined to. There were women now and then who would watch him at work in the boatyard and he would sometimes catch their eyes and smile at them.

Owen would be a liar if he said the thought didn't cross his mind to go beyond playfully flirting, to seek some physical companionship again. But he knew from past experience that this was something that would hurt Abby on a deep level. Even though they weren't actually dating. Not yet. Throughout the course of his complicated relationship with Mel, he could see the hurt in Abby. One minute they could be sharing a laugh between them (some dumb inside joke or another) then Mel's appearance or general presence could render her silent. She'd turn to biting remarks here and there or be short with him and he'd just brush it off like he did with most things in life.

Shrug and move on. Smile and forgive.

He never took it to heart though... Abby's feelings were valid. So were Mel's.

She tried harder to hide it from Mel—up until Jackson, that is—because of their tenuous bond and likely not wanting to cause tension in their friend group. But the unexpected pregnancy created a chasm between him and Abby and he later became desperate to find a way across lest it continue to grow more vast. And he did find a way to reconnect with her: that emotional night on his boat. Had he had any inkling of the events that would transpire the following day and change the trajectory of their lives forever, Owen would have pushed harder to go to Scar Island with her and Lev.

Mel would have returned to the stadium before Ellie showed up... Or would she have stayed, waiting for the return of a man that didn't love her as much as she loved him?

The Owen of today could hardly stand the person he had been in Seattle. All that anger and misery and for what? A fucking turf war he wanted no part in. The WLF was a mistake. Abby would agree with him. But there was this unspoken agreement between them to not bring up the past—this was their clean slate, their new beginning. The grief wasn't gone, however. He reckoned that swallowing shattered glass would somehow be less agonizing than overcoming their traumas. Both Fireflies had a tendency to bottle it all up until they were bursting at the seams.

Owen scoffed. "Tyler's probably slept with all of the female Fireflies at this point." He flashed an incredulous smile, shaking his head. "It's like he's setting a world record." Brown eyes flickered over to Abby in a sideways glance after a minute or two of silence. Silence save for music still playing. "Sasha asked me out. A few weeks ago maybe."

'I know you've been carrying that torch for Anderson but can you blame a girl for trying anyway?'

"Turned her down gently. Didn't wanna piss off one of our best sharpshooters, you know?" Like Abby, Sasha was competitive and disciplined. But that was as far as their similarities went.

Owen's foot pressed down a bit more on the gas as he added with a chortle, "Almost there, Abbs. Another half a block to my cave and your hot shower." Reaching over, he made a show of checking if her seatbelt was securely locked in after the comment about taking a dive out of the vehicle. Then, as he had at the beach, Owen smoothly slipped his hand into Abby's with his fingers filling the spaces between hers before letting their adjoined extremities rest in her lap. When was the last time they held hands during a car ride? He decided that didn't matter.

It felt like the first time all over again.

The struggle with the sunroof is more amusing than need be and she can’t help but watch with a grin. No help offer. Just solely observing. An eyebrow arches up at the effort and she’s about ready to reach up and try to assist but he finally gets it open and Abby laughs, shaking her head. “The real scary stuff is you can’t open that thing up. Are the muscles just for show at this point?” She’s teasing of course and all if good fun. She wasn’t one to speak considering she was still working on gaining what muscle she could back and in all likelihood, she would have had just as much trouble getting the damn thing open but the breeze now sure did feel nice.

Abby slouches down in the passenger seat more and lets out a yawn. If there was such thing as perfect day, this was pretty close to being one so far. Add in a hot shower and dinner and a movie and it might just reach that level. Her lids fall closed as she gets comfortable, not opening her eyes back up as he speaks though that eyebrow arches up again and admittedly she’s curious. “Well when you put it that way, now I really don’t know what to expect. And please tell me you’re not going to quote it the whole time… if you do, I might have to smother you and that would be really sad because then who I would do runs with? Sasha at the range seems pretty capable. Or maybe that guy that helps train the dogs, Tyler? He seems interested in helping out.” That was putting it mildly and she knew it would annoy him. Tyler, the man with eyes for any woman with a pulse on Catalina, had certainly thrown a couple glances her way. The admiration was not reciprocated but he was a hell of a dog trainer, she would give him that.

She opens up one eye to peek over at him and shoots a grin in his direction so that he knows she’s only kidding. There’s no interest in anyone whatsoever except for the man beside her and though she may not have been the best at showing it, she knew how she felt. Abby could only hope that Owen knew too. “I’m warning you now, if I don’t get a shower and a meal soon, I may roll out of this car while moving. How much farther is this man cave?” Patience was never her best quality and though she’s been working on it, she clearly hasn’t made much progress.

[missfay49]

Five years of war relief

A speech of welcome to Mr. Wendell L. Willkie upon his visit to Chungking, delivered at a tea party given on October 4, 1942, by Madame Chiang Kai-shek, as honorary chairman of the China Chapter of United China Relief, to Mr. Willkie, honorary chairman of U.C.R.

Our guest today has visited many countries and has seen for himself what they are doing to gain victory for the United Nations. He has also had to listen to many addresses of welcome. Without wishing to disparage those extended elsewhere, I am confident that nowhere has the welcome been more sincere and heartfelt than that which he is receiving in Free China. The reason is not far to seek. Mr. Willkie has not only shown himself to be a great friend of China, but an understanding friend. He knows that, in seeking to fulfill her national aspirations, China does not desire to encroach upon the rights of others. She does not covet their lands or resources and she does not seek to interfere with their way of life. He will realize that, grimly determined as we are that victory for the Allied nations must be won, we have no hatred for our enemies in spite of the terrible barbarities from which we have suffered. Consequently, as Mr. Willkie has so often eloquently told his American compatriots, China is not only a valuable buttress to the United Nations because of her manpower and material resources, but because of the moral and spiritual strength that has held the nation together for over five years despite the disruptive effect of a war which has put a terrible strain upon every man, woman and child in China.

No doubt, while in other lands our guest gained insight into the manner in which our gallant allies are facing the problem of meeting the demands of what is generally called war relief. One of our objects today, besides honoring our very distinguished guest, is to enable him to meet representatives of the various organizations that were our answer to the almost overwhelming demand upon our resources and capabilities that war thrust upon us. The fact that Mr. Willkie is

49

honorary chairman of United China Relief is sufficient proof that he takes a genuine personal interest in that phase of our war effort. As I also am one of the honorary heads of U.C.R., it was thought fitting that I should establish a contact between Mr. Willkie and representatives of those bodies to which U.C.R. has been rendering such signal assistance.

With his wide knowledge of world affairs, Mr. Willkie does not need to be told that since Pearl Harbor and the extension of the war throughout the Pacific region, the difficulties of our war organizations have been greatly increased. This both in positive and negative ways. The positive effects were due to the tens of thousands of refugees which swept into Free China from Hong Kong, the Netherlands Indies, Malaya and Burma and who had to be cared for. The negative side was that these very people who now looked to us for succor, had been one of the financial mainstays of our relief organizations in the previous war years. This is a feature of the position that is, perhaps, not generally noticed.

Mr. Willkie would not, I suspect, be inordinately pleased if he were assailed by an avalanche of statistics. But we would like him to know that war relief alone since 1937 has cost China hundreds of millions of dollars. And this, it has to be remembered, at a time when our Customs revenue was practically entirely cut off, our ports occupied and communication with the outside world rendered tenuous. Our foreign trade almost ceased. Yet, notwithstanding all these heartbreaking disadvantages, our relief work has gone on; industries have been established in these southwestern and southeastern provinces, waterways have been improved, waste lands redeemed and our political and economic machinery adjusted to meet the new conditions. We realize, however, that with new and graver problems cropping up every passing day, we must continue to strain every fiber in pressing forward towards victory which is not to be had for the mere asking.

I am convinced that during his stay with us Mr. Willkie will gain an even clearer insight into the thoughts and aspirations of our Chinese people. He will find that we are wholeheartedly eager to help in creating a better w3orld in which all races and peoples have equal freedom and from which fear of aggression has been banished. China is genuinely appreciative of what America has done for her. The friendly feeling

50

which has always prevailed between our countries has grown stronger, and immeasurably more so in these bitter war years during which the American people, rich and poor, old and young, down almost to the last baby, have spontaneously and eagerly extended a helping hand to our war relief, especially to the "warphans." Although there are, necessarily, many differences between our peoples, Mr. Willkie will find that a sense of justice is common to us both. It was this inherent quality which helped to enable Chinese culture to endure for so many centuries. This quality has always been latent in America and it is now more than ever apparent under the impact of war.

In Mr. Willkie himself we have found the embodiment of that warmth, spontaneity and energy which are also characteristic of the American people. He is indeed a worthy representative of them and of President Roosevelt. If I were to tell you that on this trip wherever Mr. Willkie went sunshine and victories descended upon these lands as in the case of Egypt and Russia, I feel sure that you would agree with me that Mr. Willkie is an augur of good omen, and that his visit to China will not accomplish less than what we all are hoping and working for - the ultimate victory of the United Nations. As a living and dynamic symbol of a new world society of free nations, we welcome you, Mr. Willkie, to our midst.

51

[valiantvillain]

WIP Wednesday

Tagged by @captastra.

Chapter 2 of Duty, Diligence, Devotion

Characters: (half-orc paladin Tav) Miraz x Astarion

The truth came stalking into Miraz’s tent the very next evening. 

Her suspicions about Astarion’s likely tenuous relationship to life had climbed to their peak. The pale elf had made no mention of the night before, gave no inclination that he had heard a paladin’s poor excuse for stealth creeping out of her tent. Nothing but let himself be caught watching her movements a breath too long, always providing the perfect opportunity to smile at her with more than friendly fascination. Indeed, his attentions seemed to have only grown bolder: taking his time brushing past her, touches lingering upon her arm and shoulder even when she had donned her armor and could scarcely feel his touch through the chainmail, sidling up next to her a little too casually. All too intimately. With every sarcastic retort she issued, the more readily she could expect another instance of flirtation,a thread of strain in his smile and his movements marred by the undercurrent of a sudden nervous energy that had not been there the previous day. 

Then there had been the boar. Or rather the exsanguinated corpse of one. Against Astarion’s dismissive protest, Miraz had knelt to investigate. It had borne no obvious injury, not even a trickle of blood staining the ground. As though death had come to the beast on the wings of natural causes. Perhaps a disease that had worn away the defenses of a young and healthy boar, its bristly coat shining with the luster of youth still. But the edges of bloodless flesh and the two needle-like puncture in its throat told a different story. An icy finger of dread trailed down her spine as she fought the urge to cut a steely glare towards the elf peering over her shoulder. 

Had he been perturbed, had his voice wavered with the alarm of yet another danger to prey upon them in the night, she might have granted him som benefit of the doubt, however meager. Might have allowed herself yet another shred of it, despite all the misgivings. Instead, his words dripped with annoyance, knowledgeable as though reciting words he had memorized from a well-read book. It was too easy, too nonchalant, too practiced. As if he had rehearsed the lines a thousand times before in preparation for this very moment. Yet all Miraz could see when she got to her feet was the jagged edges of an old wound that bore too many similarities those of the boar peeking out from beneath the lace of his collar. Instinct and reflexes tightened her grip on her hammer as his airy assurances that he would keep watch from vampires sailed past her ears, his chill touch light as feathers as he reached to place a hand on her shoulder. Almost protectively. 

If Astarion had detected anything unusual about her, any stiffening of her limbs, any particular flintiness in her gaze when they returned to camp that evening, he gave no indication. But maybe that too was part of the charade. The pretense of unsuspecting normalcy. 

Gods, if she had wanted to play mind games she would have stayed in Baldur’s Gate. Stayed her grandfather’s pet bastard and submitted herself to his endless tests. Years of practice had made them practically second nature, instilled in her an inherent paranoia that saw fit to underscore every interaction, analyzing every word and expression for a whiff of intrigue or insult. It had made her clever, as grandfather had so loved to remind her, made it easy for her to sniff out a lie like a dead body beneath the floorboards. The powers of a paladin had only honed the keenness of her nose to that of a hunting hound. It was exhausting, to always be alert, always rigid and detecting, unable to cease pricking her ears for the merest hint of deception. Only ever able to relax in the presence of her friends, a handful of children once left on the steps of Baldur’s Gate’s temples. 

Astarion, she noted, had elected to seat himself beside her with an air of familiarity. All cheeky grins and fluid flattery as he practically reclined against her side. The smell of rosemary and liquor that came with the elf being too close eked its way past the wood and smoke of the fire and the spices of a potato soup. For all the good the meal did Astarion, for his eyes gleamed hungrier than the night before. 

Now there she lay in her tent, struggling to succumb to sleep on her bedroll yet again. Victim to a fitful mind and a sense of grim expectation. She lay still however, willing her eyes to remain closed, her hands to remain idle and wrapped around her pillow instead of her weapon. Yet behind her eyelids, a sliver of pale light sliced through the shadows, the flutter of canvas sounding in her ears. 

Then the footsteps. Soft and cautious with the barest rasp of shifting gravel. Drawing nearer and nearer. Right towards her. Her heart quickened, pounded in her ears as every muscle in her body tensed, bracing for an attack. A moment to strike. Even as she tried not to let on that she was indeed awake. Awake and very much aware of the eyes raking the length of her body like a voyeur’s salacious stare, could feel them like a wandering hand. Revulsion threatened to twist her mouth into a scowl and give her away.

Go away and I won’t have to hurt you, she silently warned, hoping the intruder did not notice her fingers cautiously stir beneath the blankets. Her unwelcome visitor knelt beside her, its breath fanning against her face while a cool hand swept her hair away from her neck. Her eye twitched. She heard a swallow, a deep shuddering breath. The hand wove seamlessly through the tangles in her hair to plant itself beside her head. Then it bore down upon her. 

Rosemary and bergamot swarmed her flared nostrils. 

Miraz had known it. She had been right all along. 

Her eyes snapped open the exact same moment she reached out to snatch a handful of silk and lace, fingers entangled in the leather lacings at the front. A set of brilliantly white fangs gleamed in the dark like polished ivory, like needles and pins, like hunger. 

Above at the other end of her glare was Astarion, the shock plain on his face and the wheels in his skull visibly turning for some feeble kind of explanation. Frozen and eyes wide. Discs of red filled her vision, the tip of his beak of a nose barely brushing her chin. 

But the proof was right there, wasn’t it. Mere inches from the neck he had intended upon piercing. 

“Shit.” One single word, his voice no more than a whisper. The sight of him, aghast and finally lost for words, caused a flicker of satisfaction in her heart. 

Her lips curled into a snarl, a growl surging in her throat as she took hold of the hammer. Astarion jerked back, grasping at her arm when he proved unable to wrest himself free of her grasp.