#or retreat into making or recalling stories when alone

[iiguess]

which aesthetic™ colour are you?

FOREST GREEN.

You're in your own world, spinning fictions and building realities and finding the poetry in ordinary things. The people around you can tell there's something special to you, and you're well-loved by a some very good people. But even to your closest friends, you're a bit of a mystery. This always surprises you to hear, because you don't mean to put walls up-- you just get so caught up in things nobody else sees that you forget to let yourself be seen. You're complicated, and sometimes you get tangled in it. Don't worry, though, it's not off-putting; despite your accidental air of mystery, your warmth can be seen like a campfire through distant trees.

[valeriianz]

Parent Trap AU part 2! told from Robyn and Orpheus' perspective haha. (part 1!)

“Lemme see!”

“Quit shovin’!”

Robyn hovered above Orpheus, forcing the boy to crouch low so they could both poke their heads around the corner to spy on their dads.

Hob and Dream had been dancing around each other all week. Smiling and laughing and even touching each other with more and more frequency (a tap on the shoulder, a hand on the small of the back, even shoes brushing under the table). The twins’ masterful plan to make Hob and Dream fall in love again seemed to be going well… but just before anything earth-shattering happened, anything concrete, the two men seemed to remember themselves and backed away. To the utter bewilderment and anguish of the twins as they retreated back to the drawing board. 

(Literally. It was a large crayola canvas that Orpheus had in his room to doodle on).

Robyn didn’t get it. It was so obvious Dream– the father he’d always known existed somewhere– still had feelings for his dad. It had been hard to tell, in those first couple days pretending to be Orpheus, but once he’d started earnestly asking Dream about Hob, forcing him to recall stories from the past and watching as he’d smile or laugh softly to himself, his gaze far away and misty, it became clear.

But then Dream would shake his head, clearing it, and change the subject.

Robyn and Orpheus had felt that connection between themselves instantly. That zap of recognition like, “Ah-ha! We were meant to find one another.” Why was it so difficult for Dream and Hob to see it?

Robyn huffed. Grown-ups.

After briefly parting for a couple days, Robyn found himself back at Orpheus and Dream’s luxurious home, under the pretence of one last stay to reacquaint themselves to the idea of shared custody or something along those lines, the boys didn’t really understand it, but what they did understand, was that their dad’s would be sleeping under the same roof. But only for a few days.

And after chasing Cori out of the house (good riddance, the pompous git. The boys made sure to give him hell), Robyn and Orpheus knew they had to utilise their time well, plotting their biggest scheme yet.

They, along with help from Dream’s butler, Mervyn, had set up this elaborate dinner that– oh no, Robyn and Orpheus wouldn’t be able to attend, leaving their parents to dine alone. Orpheus had set the scene: candlelight dinner, serving their dad’s favourite dishes, and (Merv’s idea, bless him for taking interest in the boy’s tomfoolery) soft jazz that would eventually transition into a very special song.

“You’ll see,” Mervyn had winked at the boys as he set up the playlist. 

Robyn and Orpheus watched now, as their fathers sat down for dinner, perplexed at the absence of their sons (Dream looking exasperated and Hob scanning the room knowingly, biting down a smirk). The table was clearly only set for two people, and Robyn had done a fantastic job (in his opinion) of decorating with candles and flowers– he had studied that old photograph of their dad’s, copying the layout of the table they sat at there.

Mervyn came out and poured the wine, which is when Dream inquired where Robyn and Orpheus were.

“Afraid they couldn’t make it,” is all Mervyn said, as if the boys were very busy, tied up in meetings and paperwork and whatever else grown-ups did.

Hob propped an elbow on the table and let his head fall in the palm of his hand, shaking it slightly and fully smiling now, amused.

Robyn grinned too.

It took them a moment to finally start talking, but they fell into it, eventually. Discussing the boys at first, “little tricksters…” pranking Cori, stealing his glasses, setting the dog loose while they had wine and cheese on the terrace, and finally spooking his horse while he and Dream were out riding so the horse galloped wildly into the brush, knocking the ridiculous blond American off his saddle and into the mud.

Hob tried hiding his snickering behind his hand as Dream recanted these events to Hob, but Dream caught him with a woebegone sigh.

“It’s not funny, he sprained his wrist.”

Hob took a deep inhale, gathering himself.

“After all that wine and cheese, I hope he shit his pants, too.”

“Hob!” Dream snorted inelegantly, slapping a hand over his mouth, which only set Hob off again, laughing in earnest now.

The boys had to move away once they heard the squeaking of their own muffled laughter, both hands over their mouths, wheezing through their teeth.

“You’re just as bad as them,” Dream finally spoke after the giggles had worn off.

Hob shrugged noncommittally, mischievous grin still on as he took a long sip of his wine.

“You like it,” he said confidently, eyes sharp.

Dream said nothing, popping a forkful of beet and pear salad into his mouth.

After appetisers was dinner, then dessert. The time ticked away slowly and the boys eventually moved from their vantage point to the kitchen, asking Mervyn how it was going and the butler shooing them out with barely anything to go off of.

But it was going well, as far as the boys could tell. The conversation between Dream and Hob was flowing steadily, Dream giving out his smile more and Hob unable to take his eyes off of him. The grand finale was coming up and Robyn and Orpheus held their breaths as the jazz flittered out and in its place, a violin came up and both Dream and Hob seemed to seize up at the same time.

Orpheus was beginning to think this was a bad idea, especially as his father sat up ramrod straight, his fingers drumming on the table's surface. And Robyn’s dad looked…

Well, he looked– tortured, was a pretty close description. His lips had parted and he kept looking between Dream and his own hands, which he had begun wringing out in his lap.

“You’re just too good to be true…Can’t take my eyes off of you…”

A male’s voice crooned through the speakers, but Robyn and Orpheus paid it no mind as they silently watched their fathers.

Finally Dream met Hob’s gaze and held it. The boys held their breath, too. Wondering what was going to happen now.

“Do you think they know?” Hob asked quietly, so quiet that Robyn barely heard him speak.

“It’s our wedding song, of course they knew,” Dream sighed, casting his gaze up to the ceiling.

It was Hob’s turn to tap his fingers on the table, thinking, and making his mind up about something as he pushed his chair out and stood.

Orpheus took Robyn’s arm and shook it as Hob stepped up to Dream, dipping slightly and offering his hand.

“Dance with me?”

Dream stared at Hob’s hand, lips parted. Robyn felt himself shaking with the effort to remain calm.

Dream swallowed, Robyn could see from here.

“Do you think this is wise?” he asked in a whisper, eyes flicking up to Hob.

After a moment of tense silence, nothing but the song quietly playing, Hob took a long breath.

“It’s our song, we can’t not dance to it.”

And as if that was sound enough logic, Dream carefully took Hob’s hand, fingers elegantly curling around it, and allowed himself to be pulled up and led to a spacious spot away from the table.

Hob took the lead, using his hold on Dream’s hand to pull him close, the other hand circling his waist and causing Dream’s eyes to flutter shut as he willingly stepped closer, their bodies nearly touching, his own hand resting on Hob’s shoulder.

Robyn and Orpheus could barely watch now, from this angle. They scooted back out into the hallway to find another spot where they could see more clearly.

The only other option was from above, a loft directly above the dining room which was Dream’s study, a place Orpheus wasn’t allowed to be in by himself, but he figured this was a good enough excuse to break that rule.

Orpheus led the way, quiet tiptoeing turning into a full blown sprint up the stairs and around the corner, shushing themselves as they got to the door of his father's office and quietly pushed it open. The music was louder up here, closer to the speakers that hung from the ceiling, so they wouldn’t be able to hear their fathers if they spoke, but they could properly spy on them now without being seen or heard.

Robyn followed Orpheus’ lead and crouched down, crawling forward on his tummy and poking his head out through the railing and peeking below.

Dream and Hob were still swaying to the music, just as close and eyes open, gaze locked to each other. They had picked up momentum now that the song was more than halfway over, the second chorus coming in with trumpets and bringing the rhythm up to something more infectious, more daring as Hob’s grip around Dream’s waist circled around the small of his back, holding him tighter as he began to spin them around the room.

Dream’s long legs kept up as Hob visibly loosened up, leading them in an informal waltz. Robyn caught his dad’s wide, toothy smile every time he turned and he could see his face clearly. His eyes seemed to sparkle. 

Orpheus nudged Robyn. “I’ve never seen my father smile like that.”

Robyn had noticed that Dream was smiling, too. But it was lips only, parting every now and then, like he was holding it back, biting his bottom lip afterwards to keep it at bay. But his eyes lit up in a way that was almost unrecognisable, focused solely on Hob.

Hob’s hand on Dream’s waist dropped, taking his other hand suddenly and taking a step back, turning Dream in his hold so his back was against Hob’s front, and spun him out, Dream following along with a surprised yelp and laughter that the boy’s heard from their vantage point.

When Hob pulled Dream back in, they were closer than before, chests flush together and noses bumping fleetingly. 

The song was coming to an end, fading out as Hob and Dream slowed in their dancing to a standstill. 

Orpheus gasps next to Robyn. “They’re gonna kiss.”

“Shh!” Robyn bumped his elbow to his brother’s side. 

The boys held their breath as the song finally ended and another one started, instrumental jazz again. The men stood so Robyn and Orpheus could see both of them from the side, watching with bated breath as Hob brought up Dream’s left hand and kissed the knuckles, eyes glued to Dream’s.

Hob said something, his lips moving, unable to make out from here, but Robyn could see how Dream’s eyes widened as Hob dropped his hold on the other hand, moving his up to cup the side of Dream’s face.

Hob leaned in, agonisingly slow, eyes half-lidded. 

And was met with Dream turning his face away, so not even the boys could see what expression he gave off.

Hob’s head dipped, defeat radiating off him, his forehead resting solemnly on Dream’s temple.

Robyn had to bite his tongue to hold back the groan of frustration that bubbled up in his throat. All Orpheus’ and his hard work!

Dream swallowed again, his jaw twitching, saying something, to which Hob shook his head, finally dropping his hands and ripping himself away.

“Hob, I’m sorry…” the words barely made it up to the twin’s ears, spoken by Dream, broken and thick.

Hob shook his head again, a painful, false smile plastered onto his face as he took another step back, then another, putting more and more distance between them.

“No…” Orpheus bemoaned, sitting up slightly. “What’s happening?”

Hob said something, quiet, before finally turning around and walking out of the room.

A long, heavy moment permeated the air, made doubly awkward as the music continued to play.

Dream stood, wrapping his arms around his middle.

And the boys simultaneously rolled onto their backs, staring blankly up to the ceiling.

So they missed the way Dream wiped a hand over his eyes, took a steadying inhale, and ran after Hob.

[sixteenthchapel]

Hello! Just wanted to say that I'm in love with your art and ur one of the people that made me fall in love with jttw jdjdje Also ur characterization of Wukong and Tripitaka makes their dynamic so charming and amusing 😭 (They r so dumb god)

Random question! Do you have a favourite moment in the book?

First of all, thank you so much!! oh my gosh that is so kind TToTT I'm really happy you liked them!! The pilgrims all being dumb together is my favorite thing hhaha As to your question, oh man, absolutely. Its more a bunch of moments all from one chapter. My favorite chapter of the book goes something like this: And I've said this before but should say again, it has been several years since I read the novel cover to cover, so I may not remember all the details just right, but as I recall it, my favorite chapter is the one immediately following the story of the White Bone Devil, which is one of the most famous chapters. But to me, the story of the White Bone Devil is nothing compared to their ridiculous conflict with Lord Yellow Robe, Kui Mulang.

After Monkey is banished by Tripitaka, he goes back to Mt Huaguo, leaving Pigsy and Sandy to look after the priest. Which goes about as well as you'd think. Pigsy says he'll go find food, then just takes a nap, Sandy I think goes looking for him, and when they both don't come back for a while, Tripitaka goes looking for them and ends up walking DIRECTLY into this demon's lair.

When Sandy and Pigsy learn of the priest's capture, they attempt to stage a rescue. During the middle of the fight, Pigsy thinks they're going to lose so tells Sandy to cover him, he has to go take as shit IMMEDIATELY. Runs into the bushes, and escapes all the while Sandy is captured and yelling at him for being a fat, useless, coward (rude.. but in this case very true lol)

Pigsy, now alone and unsure what to do, flies to Mt Huaguo to find Monkey and ask him to come back and save everyone. He tells him everything that's happened, and that Trip has been captured and will surely die if he doesn't help. Even after hearing all that, Monkey refuses. He's still upset that Trip dismissed him and thinks dying and reincarnating ought to teach the brat a lesson! Pigsy gives up at first, skulking off and mumbling to himself about what a flea-ridden bastard Monkey is... this is overheard by some of Monkey's minions who deliver the news to the king himself. Monkey orders Pigsy to be brought back for execution LOL Thinking on his feet, Pigsy tries to redirect Monkey's ire, and thinks one of my favorite lines in the novel. "A warrior is more likely to answer a challenge than an invitation".

He tells Monkey that it wasn't him... This demon, Lord Yellow Robe, he's the one who called Monkey a weak, pathetic, cowardly fool.

And this makes Monkey ENRAGED

Monkey springs into action, flying to confront this demon. Screaming about all the nasty things this demon said about him while Lord Yellow Robe has no idea who the hell this monkey is or why he's so pissed off.

And boy, does Monkey go HARD on this guy. After he beats him up and along with a bunch of his soldiers, the demon retreats into his lair and Monkey is left out. He can't find a way to get to him, so instead takes out his anger on Kui Mulang's wounded but still living soldiers, killing them all. He meets back up with Pigsy and Sandy and tells them his brilliant idea to draw the demon back out.

By taking his half-human children and killing them outside the gates, hoping that will enrage their father enough to come back out. Even his companions think he's malding a little hard

This has gone on awhile so to cut the rest short, Monkey is eventually "victorious". I think I recall a subplot about Trip being turned into a tiger too, and there was this captured princess subplot too.

But this is my fave chapter lol. Basically "Monkey Accidentally Saves The Day By Avenging An Imagined Insult To Himself"

Peak Monkey behavior, absolute mad lad, everyone is an idiot. Its just a mess and I love it.

[fyeahnix]

Reunion | Vi/Reader General Audiences 907 words CW: no y/n use

The dingy dark of Zaun's back alleys burned your nostrils with the deadly mix of smog and human feces. You would have sold a kidney to make enough to live on the Promenade level, at least to avoid most of the Zaun grey that choked out precious fresh air and sunlight. Unfortunately, "line cook" wasn't a job on the list of roles that paid enough to sniff that air. Still, it was better than risking run-ins with the enforcers and ending up in Stillwater prison.

Gutter rats skittered away from your building's back door when it whined shut. You hefted the garbage bag into the dumpster as you caught a glimpse of cat-yellow eyes blinking around a corner. The puff of spoiled milk and old yellowtail made you scrunch your nose as the lid closed. You scanned the alleyway. Luckily for you, no sump snipes skulked about hoping to bum you for a cigarette or a drop of alcohol.

The hollow song of a bottle rolling caught your attention. A distant mrow complimented the disturbance and immediately you knew you weren't alone. Any of the wayward snipes would have approached you by now. Whoever it was was likely watching from the shadows. You needed to head back up.

You turned on your heel to retreat to your building. Two dogs argued back and forth in the distance. You reached for the door, keys in hand, but a voice to your left made you jump, caught you off guard.

"Glad I finally caught up to you."

It wasn't the direction you expected, which was worse, and it only hurried your movements.

"Not even gonna see who it is?"

The cadence and timbre of the voice threw you off. You stopped. A gentle tease tinged the end of that statement, a tease that jogged your memory. You left your hand on the door as you searched your brain's filing cabinets for the owner.

Wait… no. It couldn't have been…

You whipped your head to the direction of the voice. "Vi?"

Sure enough, your past poked her head out from the shadows of the neighboring building. She rested her shoulder against the smoky brick.

"Vi…"

She shrugged as you closed the distance with tears burning your eyes.

This wasn't real. It couldn't have been real. Violet was… she was dead, wasn't she? Or gone? Ran away? You didn't know for sure. You'd heard every reasoning under the grey from everyone you grew up around. She vanished and so did Powder.

Without a trace.

Seven years worth of tears assaulted your eyes, clouded them. Through the haze, you studied the unmistakable red-pink hair, darkened since you last remembered. Her facial features were more pronounced. Gone were the heavy, rounded cheeks of early adolescence, replaced with a still soft but defined face now scarred and tattooed with brawls and trauma. Her thick, dark brows knitted together as you stood before her confounded on what to do or feel.

All in all, it was Vi. Bigger, taller, and more hardened than you recalled. But it was her.

A mix of emotions roiled within you. Relief, confusion, longing.

Anger.

You wiped the tears from your eyes with your palms. "Where the fuck have you been, Vi?!" you hissed, pushing her shoulder with all the strength you could muster.

She glanced at your hand then shot you a quick glare you interpreted as a first and final warning. She reached out and you backed away, shaking your head. She sighed, rubbed her face.

"It's… it's a long story."

You wanted nothing more than to lash out again despite her reaction. All these years and she'd been alive? Doing Janna knows what?

"Then start talking," you said, and you didn't recoil when she reached out again.

She tested the waters with a slow and gentle stroke down your cheek.

You wanted to pull away, bask in the heat and rage that boiled underneath your skin. That pressed half-moons into your whitening palm. You wanted to run up your stairs back to your apartment, back to safety. You wanted to leave her there just like she left you all those years ago and—

No.

You stopped.

Another stroke on your cheekbone and you found yourself leaning into it. Tears marked your eyes again. You tried your hardest to hold on to the anger and hurt of having been left alone by your first love at fifteen. Wondering every night if it was something you did or said or if she'd fallen victim to Zaun street life. Crying in your pillow every night for weeks until the tears wouldn't manifest anymore. Wondering if the gaping void in your chest would ever heal. Hoping that if you closed your eyes hard enough, she'd reappear when they opened.

And now you feared if you closed your eyes at all, she'd disappear again.

You relaxed into her touch and before long she enveloped you in her arms. You rested your chin on her shoulder and stood there.

Helpless.

She hugged you tight. She was strong, stronger than when you were teens, but just as gentle.

It hurt you.

You closed your eyes, and no, she didn't vanish. Just stayed there and held you in that dark and dingy alleyway behind your building.

Held you until she finally spoke the words you'd been longing to hear as your name rolled off her tongue.

"I… I'm. I'm sorry…"

You squeezed her and broke.

[snapeaddict]

Snapetober Day 6 - Mushroom

He deserved better AU - post-war

"I want a knife like you."

"No, Severus, knives are for grown-ups. You get the scissors, they will work just as good. Trust me."

The boy looked disappointed, but he did not protest – he never protested. But Albus felt proud, for after all these months, Severus had finally started to voice his opinion on certain matters. Him saying “no” to anything was a big step forward, and when the headmaster had denied his request, the boy had simply moved on, not expecting his demand to be met with any sort of violent outburst.

It had happened so many times before. A movement too sudden, a tone a little colder, or lower, or drier than usual… so little could put the child in a state of alert. 

But he was happier, now. Truly, finally happier. 

"How do you know we can eat them?" Severus asked, pointing at the patches of brown mushrooms in front of them. 

There were many of them, dozens at least, perhaps a hundred: more than enough to make a tasty meal. Albus handed him a small basket. 

"I could tell you that I have studied herbology and know my way around fungi and plants, my boy... but truthfully I trust Pomona here. And we do not have the right to have toxic mushrooms on school grounds, so by law, everything here is safe. And delicious."

He watched as Severus darted off towards the patch, using his childproof scissors to cut the bottom of the mycelium, as he had been taught. He marveled at the child's precise, gentle movement as he cut the mushrooms and deposited them in his basket - the elegant and skillful manners would stick with him in adulthood. 

With some difficulty, Albus knelt next to Severus, watching him work for a few more minutes before starting his own harvest. He was a terrible cook, of course; that was well-known. But he would entrust their booty to Minerva who knew her way around the kitchen, though she, too, was not as gifted as Severus had been. The boy had many talents, but his culinary prowesses certainly stood amongst his best-hidden skills. That and candle-making, but that was another story entirely.

"So, Severus", he said, picking up one of the mushrooms from his basket, "this is the mushroom's cap, this is its gills, and this is the ring. They are very complex things, you know. Not animals, and not plants either."

"But more like plants, or animals?"

"Animals. But they aren't either."

As Albus spoke, a cool breeze blew over his hand, lifting Severus' raven air and the branches of the trees all around them. A ray of autumnal sunlight, low and almost orange, illuminated half of the child's face. With his rosy cheeks and sparking eyes, he looked radiant.

So these were the moments one wishes to have frozen in time, Albus thought: those moments so vivid and beautiful that they immediately recall to the watcher the passing of time, and how they would quickly pass by them by.

But they had so much time in front of them now. Not stolen time, not borrowed time: just time, time for Severus to be a child and for Albus to do better.

He tucked some loose dark hair behind the boy's ear with a tenderness that almost made his hand tremble. 

Behind his back, a baritone voice rose in the midst of the forest's chatter.

"Albus Dumbledore."

Severus was startled, and he took a step back. The headmaster took his small hand in his, pressing it reassuringly. He got up with some difficulty, his other hand leaning on the nearest tree for support.

"Firenze, my friend", he exclaimed warmly, turning back as the centaur approached. "I am very glad to see you here."

He felt Severus retreat behind him, and tilting his head, he added in a softer voice: "I am not alone, as you see. This is... but you know who this is, of course."

Firenze nodded, his blond braid hanging so low that it almost touched the ground when his head moved.

"Severus Snape", he told to the half-hidden child, bowing respectfully. "It is an honour to meet you again."

Severus looked at the centaur, then at Albus, seeking reassurance - the headmaster pulled him up, hugging him tightly. Though Dumbledore was tall, a centaur still remained highly impressive for a child so small, even in his arms. Albus stroked his hair affectionately. 

"Do not worry, my boy. This is Firenze, a very good friend of mine. He teaches Divination to the older students at Hogwarts. He is a centaur - I suppose you have never seen one before."

"No", Severus whispered, his eyes resting on Firenze's waist, where the body of the man and that of the horse met. He looked up again, smiling timidly at the creature's very human face. "Hello."

The centaur bowed his head again. He peered at the child for a few seconds, a solemn expression on his face.

Then, his gaze reverted to the headmaster, and he simply said:

"It was written in the stars that Severus Snape would get to rest, but none of us had predicted this fate, for the sky too was elusive. We are glad, very glad indeed to watch his beautiful soul finally bloom: he is the man who puzzled the stars."

Behind them, the sun was setting, and the whole forest was flooded with shimmering light, each of its leaves projecting nuances of orange, crimson and gold.

Slowly, Albus put Severus down on the ground, and the little boy picked up his basket. Firenze extended a hand to him. After a moment of hesitation, the boy took it: the centaur pressed it warmly in his huge palm. 

"Be happy, Severus Snape", he said cordially.

Then, nodding in Albus' direction, he turned on his heel and disappeared behind a tall pine tree, as silently as he had arrived.

[draculasfavoritewife]

Din Djarin x Reader Headcanons Pt. 2

Summary: You and the Mandalorian become something more than merely hunting partners.

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Warnings: Me waxing ridiculously poetic about him. Implied smut towards the end.

Here it is! Part 2 of my Mando headcanons! Hope everyone enjoys the payoff! So sorry it's so long -- I sure had fun writing these :) Din Djarin is pretty much perfect, and anyone who thinks otherwise just hasn't seen enough of him.

*Translations of words/phrases in Mando'a at the end

A couple of weeks go by after the shower, and you avoid each other except when necessary, as if by an unspoken agreement

Din just needs the time to sort all his thoughts and feelings out, as he's suddenly questioning everything

So he comes off as more brusque and distant than usual, which is really saying something

You can see the turmoil seething underneath though, so you give him space and just hope his final conclusion isn't that he needs to be alone again

It ends up being the opposite

After a particularly deadly hunt in which you were both confronted with the very real possibility of the other one dying, you retreat to your makeshift quarters in the hope of sleeping off some of the distress that's still eating at you from the inside out

You don't hear his approach, since he's stripped off most of his beskar besides the helmet

But when you look up, he's looming sullenly over your bunk

You stubbornly stay silent, waiting for him to make the first move

"I can't...lose you"

He can't believe he's said those words so plainly, but there they are, hanging in the cold air between you

You find you can't speak or the tears might finally fall, so instead you cling to him, shoving your head into his shoulder and letting your fingers dig through his dark undershirt into his back

His answering embrace is crushing, and you remember just how deeply attached this man can become to another being

"Don't leave me, Din Djarin," you whisper "I love you"

He's quiet for a long moment, but this time you don't doubt him, you know he has a much more difficult time with intimacy than you do

"Cyar'ika" is what he finally chooses to hum, and that single word means more than any poetic verse or lengthy admission

"Stay with me tonight," you request softly as you finally pull back from his strong arms "rest with me in the darkness, let me hold you"

And he actually does

You can't really see him in the blackness, but your light mattress dips dramatically to his weight as he joins you, and you eagerly pull him to you as you both settle

Dank farrik, he's so warm as he lets you curl into his now bare torso -- you may never let this man sleep without you again

Perhaps it's because you both could've been killed today, but he exhibits none of his usual hesitancy as you burrow closer to him, his arms folding around you and skin meeting skin

This may just be the most relaxed you've ever experienced him

He's surprised you remember a few of his scars from that time you two showered together, and if they're ones he recalls, he tells you a few stories of how they came to decorate his body

You can't get enough of the way his voice growls deep in his chest against you, without all that armor in between

Although you know that it will be a long time before you ever get to truly see his face, you learn a few things about him, there in the dark, and it helps you imagine him a little better

You like the way his scruffy stubble scrapes against your cheek when he leans over to murmur in your ear; you hadn't expected him to be unshaven but you find the idea suits him

His hair is glorious, thick and slightly curling where it's longer, a tantalizing blend of silky soft and coarser strands, and after the way he stiffened the first time your hands strayed into it, he actually seems to enjoy the sensation of your fingers brushing through it

He talks to you more on this sightless, bare night than he has in probably your entire partnership so far

He lapses into his native tongue as sleep starts to overtake both of you, and even though you're rusty and don't understand all of the phrases, you're completely his as soon as you first feel the sensation of his full lips forming words against your shoulder and the back of your neck

The two of you rapidly become much closer after that night

It's not unusual for your hands to linger on each other when you're repairing the ship or during other quiet activities while you're alone

Though when on the hunt, you two maintain a very professional civility and not much else

He's become much more fiercely protective of you, though he'd deny it, but you see and it makes you smile

Shared showers become more commonplace, and he shares your bed on the nights you ask him to

But he's always long gone by the time you wake up

Mando'a is coming back to you the longer you stay with him, and sometimes the two of you converse entirely in that tongue for days

Your first kiss takes you by complete surprise, and he hadn't planned on it either

It was after a successful hunt in which you'd pulled an admittedly stupid stunt to come out on top, and no matter the fact that you were relatively unscathed, this man is angrier than a rancor that you would put yourself at risk like that for a few extra credits

You are his now, after all, and he's nothing if not ridiculously protective of what's his

"I never want to see you do something like that again" he seethes, and though he doesn't raise his voice you can hear the fury roiling underneath

"Stop fretting over it, Din, I'm here, aren't I? Nothing happened"

You hear the grating exhale beneath his helmet, too many emotions he's not familiar with surging to the surface from where he's bottled them up, but all he knows is that if you won't let his words pierce your thick skull, he'll have to show you what you mean to him

You can't keep back a yelp of shock as the lights go out

There's a click and a clang as he rips his helmet off, probably the most carelessly he's ever done it

And before you can process a thing he's nearly on top of you, and his lips are devouring yours, and kriff you never thought kissing him would taste so good

When he finally releases you so you can breathe again, his forehead is resting against yours, the Keldabe gesture you only faintly remember receiving from your buir, and it makes your heart ache to feel it from him

"Now" he huffs "I won't be seeing another stunt that foolhardy from you again, do I make myself clear?"

"Understood, Cyare"

He doesn't let you out of his grasp throughout the night

It takes a long time to eventually achieve further intimacy beyond a kiss, though you know he's thought about it, and you definitely do

Perhaps unsurprisingly, he's the one dragging his feet -- you've wanted this for a long time now -- but you didn't expect his reasoning for being reluctant

"How can you want us to share something so personal, when THIS is such a problem?"

You are completely lost when he vaguely gestures at his head, it takes a minute to process he means the fact that you haven't seen his face

"Din," you start, reaching up to trail a caress down the side of his visor to his breastplate "What if I were blind? Would you think my love for you less if I couldn't see you at all?"

That makes him think

"I know you, I've seen you at your best and your worst; I've slept beside you and learned all your scars with my fingers; but more than that, I see you here"

You place your hand over his heart, which you know from experience has most likely quickened at your gentle touch

"I love you, and if ever I am privileged to see your face I will only love you more, but I will not know you more, for I know you already"

"You are mine, Din Djarin, and you are mesh'la"

He can say nothing for a moment, too overwhelmed by your words and the fact that you respect him and his creed so deeply

It takes another few days of him turning it all over in his head -- though he's very good at making snap decisions, this is one that requires more consideration

He's quiet, and more efficient than ever during your next hunt, if that's even possible, and you can tell by his sharp movements that he's on edge

When you return to the ship, he gently but purposefully guides you to his quarters, a place you've hardly stepped foot inside for the entire time you've been here, and your heart starts beating erratically with anticipation

"Do you still want this?" he asks

"More than anything"

The darkness swallows you both in its welcoming embrace

Your Mandalorian is the lover you've always dreamed of; he can be gentle -- so soft with you it's maddening -- or rough enough to make you plead for more

He tells you in undertones just how highly he thinks of you, all the things he's always too stoic to say out loud, but your love seems to have finally loosened that stubborn tongue of his and you bask in it

You sleep that night in his bed, for the first time of many

And he's still there when you wake, as warm and solid as ever, one arm thrown around your body and his other hand twined in your hair, your foreheads pressed together, and dank farrik you love this man so fiercely you know you would kill or die for him

"Welcome back," he teases as he feels you shift against his body "You were out cold"

"And whose fault is that, Djarin?" you kiss him softly "I didn't think you'd still be here"

"I wanted to watch you wake up for once"

You smile and sink back into his hold, since he seems for once in no hurry to move his day forward

"Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum, Din"

He brings your hands up to play with his hair, and makes a pleased sound deep in his throat when you pull a little -- who would have thought he would like that?

"Let's do this again sometime?" you hum

His chuckle, barely audible, thrums into your ribcage where his chest presses against yours

And his kiss, coupled with the reverent fingertips drawing heated trails up your spine, gives his reply more eloquently than words ever could

Eventually, life does remind you both that it stops for no one, and you rise to return to the more familiar routine of a pair of bounty hunters on the run

But, as it turns out, your Mandalorian makes an excellent NON-platonic shower partner as well -- the poor 'fresher wasn't ready for that much steam ;)

Cyar'ika = Sweetheart

Cyare = Beloved

Mesh'la = Beautiful

Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum = I love you; I will know you forever

[snippychicke]

Cats & Ships-- Part Eight

Title: Cats & Ships

Overall Rating: Teen for now, will go into mature at a future date

Trigger warnings: Nothing beyond what's in the live-action series. I mean, Kuro's still manipulative and paranoid. It gets better tho? Slowly?

Pairings: Captain Kuro (Klahadore)/Reader; hints of Kaya/Usopp

Summary: It started out as a means to get information as Khaladore. Who would be better to provide information regarding the high seas than Syrup Village’s Harbormaster? Except, for the first time in a very long time, Kuro found himself trusting, and even liking, the young woman he shared tea with every week. 

And then the Straw Hat Pirates arrived and ruined his plans. Except fate decided his story wasn’t done there. 

Nor was yours.

Masterlist here! | Read on Ao3!

By the time you woke the next morning, the Black Cat Pirates had loaded up their loot and had already set sail, not even a speck on the horizon. 

You could admit, you were a little miffed. The damned bastard had saved your life, apparently carried you home when you passed out on him, and then left before you could even say thank you. 

Granted, what else did you expect? Even if he had meant the things said in the heat of battle, there was the whole fact he was a pirate and you, well, weren't. Nevermind the whole history between you, which alone was a huge tangled mess. 

You shouldn't feel this way. You shouldn't miss the bastard. But you had -- you did. You loved being able to spend time with him last night. Seeing him again, the fondness in his eyes. And then snuggled up to his side…

God damn, those feelings for Klahadore had transferred right into Kuro and seemingly intensified despite everything. 

Then things started to arrive via the post, and only the first package had a note: ‘For Safekeeping.’ There were no notes on who would have sent it, but you really didn’t need any clues when you opened the first small box and found easily over a thousand berries inside, making you gasp and quickly close it, hoping no one had seen. 

Soon you had more money hidden away under the floorboard of your home than you had seen in your life. Along with other valuable items like raw gems, bars of gold, jewelry. All sent in small boxes every few days that never really caught the attention of the villagers or the postmaster. Well, other than the fact the influx of mail meant that there was a chance you had a suitor somewhere, which only made you laugh. 

What the hell did that pirate have planned?  Was he simply using you as a guardian for the treasure his crew looted? Did he trust you that much? Granted, you were hiding it away instead of spending it or turning it over to the authorities. 

-----

As if things couldn't get more complicated, you soon had an unexpected visitor. 

Kaya herself.

She looked almost like another person as she entered the Tavern. No longer looking exhausted and half-dead, her eyes were bright with those dark circles retreating, and her skin no longer pallid. 

Her smile was full of life, making you grin while you made your way to the young woman standing at the bar of the tavern. "Kaya! I wasn't expecting a visit!"

"We have a mid term break," She confessed as she met you with a hug. "And, well, I don't really want to return to Syrup Village just yet." 

"I understand, and I'm happy you came to visit!"

The morning was spent catching up between orders, Kaya sharing stories of the larger city and her classes, while you tried to avoid the largest stories you had. 

Because seeing the young woman again had reminded you of Kuro's plot as Klahadore, and guilt ate at your stomach. You could still recall her shaking as she recounted that night. Of fearing for her life, hearing Kuro’s mocking words and searing tone filled with hate. 

Stories of a man you had only caught glimpses of in those dark eyes, but never truly faced yourself. The Kuro you had met was cold and reserved, but you had seen the crack in his defenses, revealing a man unable to trust anyone. Afraid of being betrayed at the drop of a hat, but also so ready to leave a life of piracy behind. 

And you had the loot stored in your home proving not only that he trusted you, but he was working towards that goal. 

Yet there was that fear that you were just another pawn, another stepping stone just like Kaya had been. And that those blades would soon be stabbing through your heart as you looked into eyes that didn’t hold any warmth. 

As if summoned by your thoughts, the postman dropped off another small package along with the rest of the mail, and unfortunately caught Kaya’s attention before you could slip it into the back. “There’s no sender listed?” she noted as she studied the box roughly little larger than her hands. 

“Yeah. A-a secret admirer,” you excused without really thinking. “Keeps sending me…things.” 

Kaya’s dark eyes lit up with excitement as she grinned. “Oh? Like what?” She pushed the box towards you. “Open it!” 

Ah. 

Shit.

The tavern was empty except for a few regulars lingering at their usual booths, the mid afternoon slower than molasses. It gave you no excuse, so with a heavy heart you grabbed a pair of scissors to cut through the tape. 

Half a dozen gold ingots, and then a smaller package wrapped in brown paper, which was new. Your own curiosity was too strong to resist pulling it out and undoing the twine tying it shut. 

A simple little necklace with a black-cat pendant, and a folded note. For you. Twine is for my namesake. 

Oh. An actual gift? And a black cat at that? The symbolism wasn’t lost to you, and your heart squeezed painfully with the influx of emotions. 

Except it took a sour turn when you saw Kaya, her smile gone and her eyes as sharp as when she had come to confront you about Klahadore. Apparently the significance of the black cat wasn’t lost on her either. Or maybe she recognized the sharp cursive of Kuro’s writing.  “Secret admirer, huh?” she stated darkly, making you sigh. 

“Listen, it’s… it’s complicated.” Unable to withstand her harsh gaze, you looked back to the pendant in your hand. “I didn’t say anything, because I wasn’t sure how to bring it up.” 

Kaya was quiet for a moment before taking a deep breath as if to calm herself. “Well, the subject is up now. So, tell me. Were you really in on his plot back home?” 

“What?! No!” You swore swiftly as you looked up at her. “No, I had absolutely no clue about that, I swear. Klahadore’s real nature was just as surprising to me then as it was to everyone else.” 

She relaxed slightly in her seat, her hands releasing the cup of water that she had been clenching tightly. “Then… when you saw him on your way here…?” 

“We were still at odds with each other,” you explained. “Neither of us knew if we could trust the other, but I think… we both wanted to. Not too long after that, his crew ended up here…” And you ended up tipsy, in his lap, and heard him confess that he fully expected him to try and kill him. That he expected everyone to be willing to slit his throat or poison his tea. “We… came to an understanding. I promised that I wasn’t interested in revenge, and that he could trust me not to stab him in the back. Which… turned out to mean a lot to him. And then the Jones Pirates came to town.”

“I had heard rumors of that,” Kaya confessed as you trailed off. “And the rumors that the Black Cat Pirates had liberated the town, but I didn’t believe it.”

You gave her a wry smile. “I don’t blame you, but that’s essentially what happened. Our dark saviors. The marines wouldn’t help, but they did. Jango-- his right-hand man, had even backed up Kuro’s claim that…” 

“All of this was because I heard you were in trouble. I didn’t even think before commanding my crew. No plan, no nothing. Merely the sole thought that I had to get to you.”

“That once the captain heard, he was on a warpath to get here as quickly as possible.” It felt like a confession of a different kind when you said it like that, even without saying why he was so hellbent on rescuing the town.  

There was a lull of silence as you fingered the small pendant, and Kaya studied her drink, both of you lost in thought. 

“Klahadore was always fond of you,” She admitted after a long moment. “I could tell he looked forward to your ‘weekly meetings’. I actually remember once teasing him about it being a date and he had actually blushed while he waved it away, insisting that a Harbormaster would have no interest in a lowly butler such as himself. He always seemed happier on those days, more prone to smiling and a little less strict.” 

“I hate what he did,” You stated. “I hate that he lied and manipulated all of us. I hate that he’s a pirate and that I shouldn’t trust him. But yet….” 

“You do,” She finished for you, looking rather sympathetic. “I can tell. You trust him-- you care for him-- don’t you?” 

You nodded your head guiltily. “I do. So much. Even though logically I know it could all be one of his plans, that I could just be another pawn… my heart says I can trust him. That the fact he is trusting me to safeguard this means that he really does trust me. That all of this might be real.” 

Kaya smiled wryly. “Is it silly that I’m both happy and hurt? That after everything, I still miss him?” 

You pulled the younger woman into a hug, which she quickly reciprocated. You could feel tears soaking through your shirt and rubbed her back soothingly. “I think it's perfectly normal. Or, at least, I understand how you feel.” 

[wardencommanderrodimiss]

Head empty, only chrobin roleswap. please help?

I don't know what kind of roleswap you're thinking about, but I ended up thinking about my old roleswap (Robin, Heirophant of the Grimleal and Gangrel's tactician, picks up an amnesiac swordsman and brings him home with her), which then got me to thinking about a scene set in Ch 5 that I never shared the concept for. And then I wrote half of this scene as a summary and the rest as a fic, because I only wanted to actually write the back half of it, so that's all I wrote:

Gangrel sends brigands to attack a border town and takes Maribelle hostage when she intervenes. Emmeryn goes to negotiate with him and Lissa, Frederick, and the Shepherds insist on coming with her. Gangrel and Aversa, meanwhile, dragged Robin along with them. (All three of them fucking hate each other. By the way.)

Emmeryn attempts to get the story of what happened. Gangrel tells her one story and Maribelle tells her another. The negotiation goes south, fast, and even faster once Lissa accuses the Plegians of having captured or killed her brother. Robin, who had not heard that the Ylissean prince has gone missing, attempts to intervene in the conversation then and get some more information about this. She and Emmeryn manage to exchange a few civil words, Robin telling her that Plegia has had nothing to do with the prince's disappearance, before Lissa accuses Robin of lying and generally just starts screaming at her, and Gangrel says that well, such a weighty accusation certainly sounds like a declaration of war to his ears.

(If I recall correctly how this conversation is set up in-game, and what the battle map is like, Gangrel, Aversa, and Robin would be up on a cliff and then Emmeryn and the Shepherds are down below. Chrom is just kind of lurking in the back behind Robin, wearing some hooded cloak because that's how he and Robin both dress all the time. So he's not really part of the conversation, which is how none of the Ylisseans see "hey, that's our prince right there!")

So Gangrel sets the Plegian forces on the Ylisseans, tells Robin that they're under her command, and to make sure that none of the Ylisseans get away alive, before he and Aversa immediately dip. The brigands that Gangrel brought along do not take well to Robin's attempt to give orders, while the Ylisseans are pissed off by everything that's just happened, so Robin finds that, despite having every tactical advantage on paper or a game board, she's losing ground, fast. She attempts to call a retreat and gets called a coward and a traitor by her own soldiers, and with no other choice, Chrom just tries to drag Robin off the battlefield to escape before the Ylisseans can kill them, too.

Emmeryn, meanwhile, was told to stay back, but she's interested in this other Plegian commander, who seemed more willing to parley than either Gangrel or Aversa, and makes the choice to, in the midst of the chaos of the fighting, try to catch up to her.

-

“I did not catch milady’s name,” the Exalt says. She stands alone at the base of the cliff, about fifteen feet below Robin and Chrom. 

“I am Robin,” she replies. “Heirophant of the Grimleal. For what reason do you risk your life to chase after me?”

“You seemed, perhaps, more willing to parley than King Gangrel,” the Exalt says. “I would apologize for my sister’s accusations, as well; fear for her brother has led her emotions to get the better of her. I must ask you again: my brother has gone missing. Have your people anything to do with it?”

“As I said,” Robin says tersely, “Plegia knows nothing of your missing prince. If he were captured, Gangrel would have offered him to trade, rather than grab the first noblelady to pass by the border. And were he dead, he would not have been able to resist gloating.”

A Plegian wyvern wheels about in the sky, tilting to one side as it attempts to fly with an arrow in one wing. “Robin,” Chrom says. “We need to go.”

Were Gangrel here, he would kill the Exalt himself. But Robin is not Gangrel, and Chrom is just here to do what Robin asks of him. If Robin is willing to let the Exalt leave, Chrom won’t stop her. He casts a glance down at her, surprised to find that she is staring directly back at him now. Her eyes are wide. Perhaps she is afraid that this mysterious swordsman will strike at her, if Robin hasn’t yet?

“Wait,” the Exalt calls. “You do not wish for war, either. The way you spoke with your king tells me that much. If you hold such a position of honor amongst the Grimleal, then–”

“You are bold to petition me, standing on your father’s foundation of my people’s bones,” Robin snaps back. “No, I do not wish for a war that will once again send my people to their unnecessary deaths. But the way I spoke with my king may also tell you he does not hold my opinion in any regard. I cannot broker peace for you, Naga’s-blood.”

Arrows fly through the air; a wyvern falls, and then another. “Robin,” Chrom says, grabbing her arm and trying to pull her away from the cliff’s edge and the conversation with the Exalt. “I don’t think the rest of her entourage is going to be so friendly if they catch us.”

Robin relents, stepping away, but once again the Exalt’s eyes are on Chrom. She follows along the ground below, scrambling up onto the rocky base of the cliff like she’ll be able to reach them. “Swordsman,” the Exalt calls. “May I see your face?”

“What?” Chrom asks, and without any clue what she means he looks to Robin - but Robin is watching the Exalt intently now, also trying to figure out what this means. Maybe she’ll explain if he indulges her; Chrom lowers his hood. At this distance, he can make out the Exalt’s face more clearly: the shock frozen upon it, and the faint marking on her forehead. 

She says nothing, and after another moment Chrom turns away. That look on her face disturbs him, but he was the one telling Robin they needed to go; he can’t dally now. Not even if–

If–

Hours later, back firmly in Plegian lands, Chrom stands to the side and grits his teeth as Gangrel berates Robin for “her” loss against the Ylissean forces, as though it wasn’t Gangrel who set them up to fail. Robin simply takes it, as she always does; it’s impossible to tell if she’s really even listening. Aversa delivers a few snide jabs before she leaves, following the king, and then it’s just the two of them. But anyone could still be nearby to listen, and hard as it is to bite his tongue, Chrom waits until they’ve found a more secure position to pull Robin aside.

“You really don’t know anything about this missing Ylissean prince?” he asks.

She shakes her head. “What I said to the Exalt is true,” she says. “I don’t know anything, and Gangrel would let everyone know if he knew something.”

He’s known Robin a few months now. She has always been honest with him, even when she isn’t honest with Gangrel or Aversa. Chrom knows everything that she keeps from them. He’d like to think that he’s pretty good at getting an accurate measure of a person, having only known them a short time, and he’d like to think that he’s got Robin figured out. She doesn’t court war, nor did she strike down the Exalt of Ylisse when she had the opportunity. She would rather have peace and show mercy. She’s generally honest, generally not underhanded, and she doesn’t like to torment her opponents, nor does she relish in their misery.

The person he thinks he knows her to be wouldn’t curse an enemy prince with amnesia and then take him as her right-hand man in some sort of gloating power-play, and then lie to him about it.

But right now, the only thing he knows is that he doesn’t know anything.

“Right,” Chrom says. “Then I guess you don’t know why I have a mark on my shoulder that’s the same as the mark on the Exalt’s forehead.”

He hopes her shock isn’t feigned. The Robin he thinks he knows isn’t that good of a liar - but he doesn’t know what even the Robin he thinks he knows will do, now that she knows she has an enemy prince who’s fallen right into her hands.

[jerzwriter]

A Mother's Journal - Part 3

Book:                   Wake the Dead (pre-series)

Characters:        Eli Sipes, F!OC (Florence Sipes)

Rating:                 Mature

Warnings: Violence, cursing, mentions of death

Series:                 A Mother’s Journal

Category:            Series - Angst with some fluff

Summary:           Florence is learning how to mother two young men in a world she still doesn't understand. It ends with one afternoon she and Eli share together, one where they encounter danger but also a deeper understanding.

Words:                 1593 (plus journal entries)

A/N:        Hey there. I wanted to take this through the time Eli was twenty, but it would have been entirely too long. This series is meant to give a mother's perspective but also to give the reader a glimpse of Eli's life before Wake the Dead began. To explore the latter more thoroughly, the next part of this story will be a mini-series, Coming up Blank. It will cover a pivotal point in the boy's life, then the last part of A Mother's Journal will lead to the end of the story of Eli's family. Thank you to all who are reading! :)

Series Masterlist WTD Masterlist Full Masterlist

Spring 2031

Florence took a deep breath. Spring. Rebirth. Renewal. For a moment, she allowed herself to recall springs of years long gone. The feeling was only secondary to falling in love, she once believed. And in some small ways, it still was: warmer weather, longer days, and watching the flowers bloom was magical. But today, spring also meant drones returning in droves. They could go an entire month without a sighting in the winter, but once spring arrived, that luxury ended.

She caught a glimpse of Eli relaxing on the porch as she began to prepare dinner. Seeing her eldest at peace was so lovely, so she put dinner aside and decided to join him.

“Whatcha doing there?” she asked with a bright smile as she stepped outside.

“Just whittling,” he shrugged. 

But peace never lasted long in this world, not even on a perfect spring day, and today was no exception. A hideous snarling sound seemed to surround them. Florence grabbed her pistol; but couldn’t determine where it was coming from. The stench of decaying flesh became more pronounced, so she knew it was near. She gasped in horror when she turned to find the creature’s oozing, mangled arm wrapped around her son’s torso. Eli was a soldier in this world, and it was rare to hear fear in his voice. But his whittling knife wasn’t doing a thing to stop the assault, and when he felt thick ichor dripping down his neck, he knew this could be his end.  

“MA!” His voice was a primal scream, one he instantly regretted it. Loud noise could attract more drones, leaving his mother alone to defend herself, and he wouldn’t forgive himself for that. He furiously struggled to break free when there was an explosion in his ear. Just before the monster sunk its dripping fangs into her son’s shoulder, Florence put a bullet through its head.

“Not on my fucking watch!” she spat, pulling Eli up front the ground. “Do you hear me! Not on my watch!”

She wanted to drop everything and hold her “baby” close, but Eli grabbed his bow, and the two sprung to action. Survival first, emotions later, and they had a perimeter to check to ensure this one didn’t bring any buddies along.

Once confident the area was secured, they retreated to the cabin, where Florence took a shuddering breath. But she had one more task to complete before she could even think of settling her tattered nerves.   

“Eli,” she started.

“I know. You have to check me.”

Her blood went cold at his words, making reality hit. This had been her greatest fear, finding a bite or a scratch on one of her boys.  The dreaded “rule number three.”  She doubted she’d be able to do it, and as she faced the real possibility for the first time, her heart felt like it could explode, which would be preferred over finding so much as a scratch on her son. But luckily, he had none.

Pulling him close and breaking into tears, Eli felt his body stiffen at first.  He had never seen his mother break down like this.  He had seen her sad, angry, and afraid, but this was different.  At that moment, a right of passage occurred. He realized his parents weren’t superheroes who handled all the madness with aplomb.  Instead, they were people, scared and frightened people who did the impossible.  And though he never thought it possible, he now loved them even more.  Enveloping her in his arms, they both fell to the floor, shaken. 

“Eli, that’s the closest one’s ever been to you…” she sobbed, “if I hadn’t come out to see you….”

“But you did, Mom,” he said, staring intently into her eyes. “I’m here.  I’m fine.”

Florence looked Eli over once more and smiled… they were safe.  At least at this moment, they were safe.   

“Go,” she pat his cheek gently. “Go wash all that gross crap off of you. I’ll keep watch until Dad and David are back home.”

“You sure?”

“Unless you want to sit around in zombie guts….”

“Yeah,” he chuckled. “I think I’ll shower.”

“Good choice,” she grinned, leaning over to pick his blood-stained clothes off the floor; they had to be put outside until they could be washed. Three small wooden stars fell out of his pocket as she picked up his pants. She took them in her hand and eyed them, vividly recalling them on the outside table just before the attack. They must have been important, she thought, if that’s the first thing he grabbed.  

Shortly after, Eli entered the kitchen, drying his hair with a large cloth. Florence placed a steaming bowl before him as he plopped into a chair.   

“I made your stew.”

Eli grinned brightly, and her seventeen-year-old son looked just like her little boy again. “You’re such a mom,” he teased.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“If we’re celebrating? You make me food. If I’m sad? You make me food. Survive a zombie attack….”  

“When in doubt, you go with what you know.”

Eli hummed with delight as he put a spoonful in his mouth, and Florence noticed his eyes lingering on the wooden stars lying on the kitchen table.

“They fell out of your pocket. I knew they must be important to you if you grabbed them, even before you grabbed your weapon.”

“Yeah,” he snorted. “I won’t make that mistake again.”   

She wanted to ask more, but she knew her son, and pushing was the one way she could ensure he’d never open up.

“They’re for Nessa,” he volunteered after a few moments of silence. “Her birthday is coming, and you know how she loves stars. So I thought I’d make her a bunch. This way, she can have them, even during the day, or there aren’t any in the sky.”  

“That is so sweet, Eli. I’m sure she’ll love that.”

Once again, silence filled the air, and once again, she didn’t dare to ask more. Then, she heard a clang as Eli’s spoon dropped into his bowl.

“Mom… can I ask you something?” he asked with urgency.

“Of course, anything.”

“How did you know? With you and Dad… how did you know… it was him?”

“Well,” she sighed. “It didn’t happen all at once, but in a way, it did. It was his first day at school after his family moved to town, and I wanted him to feel welcomed.  But when we started talking, we just hit it off. Within no time, we were best friends, inseparable.”

“So, you knew that quickly?”

“Oh, no. We were very young and… well… we were just friends at first.  But we started getting older, and….”

“Ma, please, no details,” he cringed.

“Relax,” she laughed, giving his shoulder a shrug. “I’m not going to tell you about the make-out sessions your dad and I used to have.”

She laughed more heartily when he threw his head into his hands with a groan.

“OK, I’ll stop,” she assured.

“But… you knew… right? You knew you wanted to be with him… as more than friends.”

“Yeah,” she nodded. “I did.”

Eli’s face twisted as he swallowed, speaking again with an almost pained voice.

“How do you know if it happens?”

“Oh, Eli,” she sympathized, touching his hand. “It’s unmistakable when it happens.  You’d know it.”

He lowered his head, gently retrieving his hand.

“Should I feel that way about Nessa?” he whispered.

“There is no should when it comes to these things, you will either feel it or you won’t, son.”

“But it’s not likely that I will meet anyone else.”

“No. It’s not impossible, but you’re right, it's improbable that you will. Does… she feel that way about you.”

Eli shrugged and looked out the window; the sky was beginning to turn to dusk. 

“I don’t know. She feels like I do, I think.”

“And how is that?”

“She’s my best friend, and I love her… but I don’t love her, and I feel like I should.”

“Oh, honey,” she sighed. “If the world was the way it should be, you and Nessa would have so many people to choose from. But here….”

“It’s probably inevitable,” he said. “And it could be worse. At least we’re best friends; we care about each other….”

“There are worse ways to start,” Florence replied wistfully. 

“But when we kissed,” he blurted before his eyes went wide with horror when he realized what he had just said. Embarrassed, he jumped up from the table, but his mother took his arm.

“Eli, I’m not going to press you on that, and you don’t have to be embarrassed. Not with me. We don’t have to talk about it anymore, but I'm here if you ever want to.”

“Thanks, ma,” he sighed. 

“And don’t be so hard on yourself. You don’t have to figure this out tonight, tomorrow, or even this year. Just… just keep loving each other as friends. That’s the most important thing. If more is meant to happen, it will.”

They turned toward the window when they heard footsteps approaching. Both reached for their weapons, then Florence breathed a sigh of relief when they saw David and Jim returning.

“Oh, thank God,” she sighed. 

Eli jumped up from the table to greet them, eager to end the conversation.

“Thanks, Mom,” he half smiled before walking away. But after a few steps, he stopped in his tracks and turned around. “And Mom?”

“Yeah?”

“You were badass today.”

“Thank you,” she chuckled.  “You’re pretty badass, too.”

A/N 2: Thanks for reading. The next part will explore Eli and Nessa's relationship, and we'll also learn more about his brother David and Nessa's brother, Brady. Again, thanks for reading!

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@choicesficwriterscreations Day 4 Self-Reflection

[aaronsrpgs]

This is a game for an upcoming album some friends are putting out. Not sure it makes sense without the tape (and I’m not sure I’ll be able to fit it all on a J-card), but here it is nonetheless.

PSYCHIC SPORTS

THIS IS A SPORT YOU PLAY ALONE

On a piece of paper, write & draw the following.

EXTINGUISH ALL FIVE CANDLES (EA5C): ❏ ❏ ❏ ❏ ❏ 

If you mark all five EA5C, you win the psychic sport! Please descend into a realm of telekinetic transcendence.

GET SHOT DOWN LIKE A WEATHER BALLOON (GSDLAWB): ❏ ❏ ❏ ❏ ❏ 

If you mark all five GSDLAWB, you lose! Please crumple to the repressive ground like an invasive thing crafted of plastic and traitorous rope.

Now CHOOSE A HEADING. Headings are WRITTEN BIG LIKE THIS. You can only do each heading once.

Follow the instructions. If you're asked to ROLL WITH THE QUESTIONS, answer the questions that follow, and then roll two dice, adding them together along with +1 for each question you said YES to. ANSWER TRUTHFULLY. Then consult the result.

TELEKINESIS

When you try to modulate the soundwaves with the power of your mind, roll with the questions:

Are you hosting a show?

Are you the child of an American leader?

On a 10+, mark one EA5C and choose one:

Light something you can see on fire.

Text a parent about your success.

On a 7-9, mark one EA5C but only if you can tell someone an embarrassing medical story.

On a 6-, mark one GSDLAWB and call an ex.

MORE TELEKINESIS

When you narrow the band of your mindcast, roll with the questions:

Did you just throw a piece of food in the air and catch it in your mouth?

Can you guess the exact time, to the minute, without looking at a clock?

On a 10+, mark one EA5C and choose one:

Use me as a reference on your next job application. (I think you're top-notch.)

The next time you play this tape, it'll contain a secret message for your ears only.

On a 7-9, mark one EA5C but be real salty about it.

On a 6-, mark one GSDLAWB and throw an important piece of technology across the room.

A LITTLE MORE TELEKINESIS

When your mind powers become a beam the powerful width of a single molecule, roll with the questions:

Can you recall, verbatim, the last text you received?

Can you wink each eye?

On a 10+, mark one EA5C and choose one:

Confess your feelings to that crush. They'll reciprocate if you're cool about it.

Take a day off. You deserve it.

On a 7-9, mark one EA5C but only if you do that thing you've been putting off.

On a 6-, mark one GSDLAWB and break a window.

YOU KNOW SCIENTISTS

When you scroll through your contacts for those best trained in the postmodern pursuit of knowing and remembering the most provable facts, roll with the questions:

Can you recite a fact one of them has taught you?

Do you have personal beef with Neil DeGrasse Tyson?

On a 10+, mark one EA5C and choose one:

Something you believe becomes incontrovertibly true.

A scientist you hate will slip on a banana peel or show their ass or whatever.

On a 7-9, mark one EA5C but recognize that something you feel is unfortunately false.

On a 6-, mark one GSDLAWB and post your most embarrassing belief to social media without context.

GIGANTIC BEAST

When you lumber out of the wilderness to tower over civilization, roll with the questions:

When you look down, do people seem to be nothing more than ants?

Can you destroy something with a single heavy stomp?

On a 10+, mark one EA5C and choose one:

You can eat whatever you want for the rest of the day.

Everyone runs screaming away from you.

On a 7-9, mark one EA5C, but you owe allegiance to the great forest.

On a 6-, mark one GSDLAWB and retreat to the wilderness, swearing off the fruits of civilization until your next rampage.

LAY COVERED IN FORESTS

When you supinely recline in a wooded clime, roll with the questions:

Can you see a living tree?

Are the only sounds coming from the wind and wild animals?

On a 10+, mark one EA5C and choose one:

You just feel better now.

A bird brings you a gift.

On a 7-9, mark one EA5C, but you must give a part of yourself up to the loam.

On a 6-, mark one GSDLAWB and allow a beast of the woods to feast on your flesh.

NOTICE YOUR RIGHT HAND

When you use your right hand as a vehicle for coming to terms with the fleshy part of yourself, roll with the questions:

Can you see your right hand with your eyes?

Can you see your right hand without your eyes?

On a 10+, mark one EA5C and choose one:

You seize the thing you most desire.

You learn to trust your manual sensations more than any separate person.

On a 7-9, mark one EA5C but only if you keep your right hand in a pocket for 8+ hours.

On a 6-, mark one GSDLAWB and slap yourself. Hard.

TIME FOR OUR REGULAR PSYCHIC MIND-WIPE

When you forget, forget, forget, roll with the questions:

Is your mind smooth like a river-washed pebble?

Is your mind empty like a clear blue sky?

On a 10+, mark one EA5C and choose one:

Excise the painful memories of your choice.

Dissociate the harmful feelings connected to your worst memories.

On a 7-9, mark one EA5C but forget the time of your next appointment.

On a 6-, mark one GSDLAWB and remember only the bad times.

PITTSBURGH STEELERS

Oh, buddy, you're fucked. This is your last resort. Don't choose this one unless you have to. Roll with the questions:

Can you string three Ws together? (The answer is always no.)

Can you show up to work on Sunday (The answer is always no.)

Can you make 70,000 people stand up and say Jesus Christ? (The answer is always no.)

On a 10+, mark one EA5C and choose one:

The next time someone sees you, play dead.

Paint your genitals gold.

On a 7-9, you can mark one EA5C if, the next time you sleep, you have an amazing dream.

On a 6-, mark one GSDLAWB and get killed on the road.

[euvenly-jester]

Spicy Chicken Soup

Summary: Euven tells Astarion about a traumatic, but pivotal moment in his life that lead to where he is now. Astarion relates the story to his own history, and takes Euven's feelings very seriously when trying to provide comfort.

WARNING: The first half of this story is a retelling of Euven's childhood trauma. Details of survivor's guilt - along with physical, mental, and implied sexual abuse of a minor follow. If you want to skip the flashback, you can skip to the second half marked by periods and dashes.

It was the eighth day of Mirtul. I was 12 years old. I can recall that much, but not the reason why my mother was so angry that day. Her temper got the best of her so often, the memories blend together a bit. I remember that she called me and my brother, Jostef into the kitchen, and she was yelling about something small. That's how she always made me feel; small and helpless. Jostef was always right there with me, but we knew better than to play hero for each other. Despite the two of us sharing a bedroom, I always felt alone when it really mattered. At any rate, 14 year old Jostef and I stood in the kitchen before our belligerent mother yelling about gods know what, and then she reached for my arm. Without a second thought, or even a first thought if I'm to be honest, I turned on my heel and raced for the door. But I wasn't fast enough. I felt her strong grip on my right horn and yanking me backwards, introducing the back of my skull to our kitchen table's unforgiving corner, then the cold floor that was still wet from being cleaned just minutes before.

I stared at the ceiling for a few moments as the world blurred in my eyes. Jostef looked shocked, even scared for me, but he kept silent, just like I would have done. Mum crouched down to hug and comfort me, a feeling that made me wish my skin would melt away. No matter how loving it seemed, her touch singed like a hot iron. I never knew if she was truly being affectionate, or if she was building up to something more sinister. As I focused all of my attention to how much I wanted to be away from her, she continued apologising and prattling about what a bad mother I must have thought her. And as always, her spiel was followed with "You know, things would be different if your dad were here. You should be blaming him for all of this," as if I'd even opened my mouth once in this debacle. I knew better than that, just like I knew better than to run from her. She probably was just going to jerk me around by the arm to emphasize her words, but I made her pull me back like that. I could have just stood there and faced whatever she had planned, but instead I was on the floor, crying in pain with a head injury. 

The memory gets a bit hazy from there, but I remember waking in my bedroom with a bandage wrapped around my head. I might have passed out, but I don't remember. Jostef looked at me with pity in his eyes from his own bed. I sat up and firmly repeated what I'd been saying for years, "I'm really going this time. Are you coming with me?"

"Not this time, Euven."

"There's not going to be a next time. She's busy cooking now, and I don't think I'll have the courage tomorrow. I'm going to be out of here before she calls for dinner."

He didn't say anything, I don't think he believed me. That or he was having second thoughts again, just like the last time. And the time before that. But I couldn't let my fear win again, I had to get out. I left him there with his silence and crept into my mother's bedroom after making sure she was still busy cooking. I found a backpack in her wardrobe, and emptied it before retreating to safety. After the door was securely shut, I filled the bag with an extra set of clothes, some food I kept hidden in my pillowcase, a metal cup, and my lyre. I gave Jostef one last chance to join me before giving him a long, tearful hug, and climbing out the window. I never saw him again after that day.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

My vision is overtaken by a wall of tears and I can't tell what Astarion's expression is now, but he pulls me into a tight embrace. I try to forms words to assure him that I'm alright, but he places his hand on the back of my head, muffling my face into his chest. Suddenly, all at once, the dam breaks and I'm back in the shoes of a sniveling little boy that's spent his whole life begging deaf ears for help. There's only one word that keeps repeating in my head: "Why". My voice cracks under the weight of the small, simple word, but can't stop repeating it like a spell that will somehow change the past. "Why, why, why?!" my hands curl into fists and collide with my temples.  

"Why did this happen to me? Why was she so angry? Why didn't Jostef come with me? Why did I just leave him there?" My voice becomes more unstable with each word. "I can't believe I left him... What kind of brother could do that? He endured every bit as much as I did, and undoubtedly more after I left. I let him continue to endure- continue to have fear, and to pray every chance he got that somebody would save him. But I can promise you that nobody did, and the gods only know where he's ended up because of it."

Astarion grips my hands tightly in his. They feel soft, and cool to the touch. "Your older brother was not your responsibility," his words almost sound angry, but not with me. I know that his sharpness is pointed to what I've endured, and the fact that my past still haunts me in a way that he can surely relate to. I didn't mean for him to worry like this, it makes me feel guilty. I could be so much worse off- and if anyone has a right to a pity party, it should be Jostef. But I know in my heart that Astarion doesn't feel that way, so I let him continue to comfort me the way he thinks I deserve. "I know that you think I'm being cold when I say that, but I'm saying it with every ounce of sympathy that I can hold. You were a child. It's absolutely vile what happened to you both, truly. Nobody could have expected you to have continued living that way just because your brother couldn't bring himself to venture out with you. He abandoned you every bit as much as you did him, just think of all the hardships you faced alone on the road. I'm sure that 'mother issues' aren't the only thing that led you to falling for a man that tried to kill you upon introduction, but we won't dwell on that now."

My lips crack into a little smile, accompanied by a breathy chuckle at how bluntly he ended his thought. Astarion rolls his eyes and hugs me again, "Well it's true, darling. I'm rather experienced with a blade, but I've never had a mark give me that look while I had it against their throat; at least not without discussing it first". His tone may be light and playful, but he's not wrong. Maybe Jostef doesn't hold my leaving against me. He could see us as 'even', so to speak. I consider his words carefully as I fiddle with the lace of his shirt.

"Are you alright, my dear?" he asks gently, bringing to my attention that I haven't spoken in a few minutes.

"Oh, yes, I- uhm..." I stutter, it's always so difficult for me to speak after letting out so much emotion. He hears my struggle, and softly hushes me in response while he pets the back of my head. I feel his cold fingers graze over the small scar that stays covered by my hair: a souvenir of the day I left home, and a reminder to never return. He stops moving when he realizes what's hidden beneath the short black layers of hair, then resumes as if he doesn't want me to notice. Astarion knows all too well the feeling of not wanting your scars to be made a spectacle of, so he simply pretends it's not there out of respect.

"How about I go and tell Gale to get dinner started, hm? I'm sure he could be coerced into cooking with chime pepper if I tell him you're in need of something special. That wizard may not be able to handle spicy food, but I think he'll make an exception for his good friend."

I nod with a subtle smile, Astarion knows me so well. And he's right, Gale has been such a good friend to me over these months of travelling together. My love stands up from the bed and tucks the duvet around me tightly, planting a loving kiss on the top of my head before sauntering across the room and flinging the door open. He holds onto the door frame with one hand as he leans into the hallway to call downstairs, "Oh, Gale of Waterdeep! We have a special dinner request!" He turns back and gives me a wink before  fully leaving the room, on his way to fill Gale in on the details. As I lie in bed, I can't help but feel warm inside, in spite of the painful memories that claw at my heart. I hate the way that I got here, but I'm so happy to have made it. 

[hatchetfieldgazette]

ali filling in the blanks because i have a type called character's who we have little back story for, annie cresta edition :

annie cresta was raised by her aunt and her aunt alone. she never knew her parents, but that was just fine with her. she was happy. she was busy. she was a bit lonely and didn't really have friends but she had her family and, if nothing else, she counted the ocean as a friend and often times found herself wandering the ocean whenever she has off time- a habit that she picks up on at night when she can’t sleep after her games.

she went to the academy just after her seventeenth birthday, after her aunt got sick, leaving to take care of her. the only argument that she can recalling having with her aunt was about whether or not she should attend and annie was content not to- her aunt, however, insisted. annie kinda stuck to herself, tried to keep to herself but learned. trained, and became specifically skilled at knifes alongside her skill with a sphere that she already had from fishing.

annie volunteered at age 18 for the 70th games—- a choice that was made because firstly the tribute who got reaped was young and also in hopes that if when she won, the lifestyle of a victor would be enough to provide for and care for the woman who provided and cared for her.

though trying her best to be charming, she knew who she was and was admit about keeping to who she was. she could be charming, she could catch the eyes of sponsors while keeping true- and also telling her story.

annie and her district partner, a 14 year old she knew briefly from the academy named drystan stuck by the careers, they were in fact turned on by them for both their reluctance to kill unless attacked and for a chance for the others to further themselves in the game. after witnessing drystan get decapitated, annie fled, getting injured in the process but able to make it to hiding until an earthquake in the arena caused a flood. the water was enough to briefly snap her out of her panic and cause her natural instinct and true skill to kick in, swimming until she was the final tribute standing.

while the games were one traumatizing experience, coming home was the start of another as she discovered that while she was away, her aunt had succumb to her illness.

many of the early nights spent back in district four annie does not fall asleep in her house in victors village but instead walks to the shoreline to try and calm herself down and ends up falling asleep on the sand.

the victory tour was a whole other struggle for her, both being unready to travel again and still lost in grief and guilt annie being prone to succumbing to tears and moments of shaking as she tried to drag herself through speeches and would often not eat anything at the festivities after. she didn’t attend the harvest festival celebrations in four and instead retreated to her ocean waves.

alongside trying to block out noises and closing her eyes, annie often will try her best to count in order to distract herself from whatever might be causing her panic. it’s a distraction if nothing else and one that will get her to calm… eventually if a certain someone is not around to help calm her.

[adapembroke]

Rethinking Chiron

I have many reasons to be thankful for Chiron. That may seem like an odd thing to say about the Wounded Healer. Most astrologers would say having Chiron in the 11th house like I do means that some of my greatest wounds will come from rejection by my communities. And there’s nothing I can do about it. Chiron wounds can’t be healed, they say. The best I can hope for is using my experience with the wound to heal others with the same wound.

When I learned this, I got angry. I knew there was something to this Chiron business, but I believe in hope. I was convinced that my community was out there somewhere. I just hadn’t found my people yet. I didn’t care how many astrologers I respected subscribed to that story of Chiron. I refused to believe that my Chiron wound couldn’t be healed. If I couldn’t find a community to accept me, I was going to make one. I was going to build the most welcoming community I’d ever seen.

Before I knew what Chiron was, I had already started doing the work. After college, I spent a year in a community organizing internship. I was supposed to be learning how to rally a community around social justice work. What I actually learned was how to create communities where people aren’t just lonely followers and observers. They are included and actively involved members of the community because they are seen and appreciated for their unique skills and interests.

Using what I learned from that internship, I used Discord to create the community that would eventually become the Narrative Astrology Lab. I wasn’t thinking of it as a place where people with rejection wounds like mine could find a place they belong for the first time. Yet, over and over I’ve heard newbies say, “I’ve never been one of the cool kids before!”

Recently, one of the members of the lab asked me about my experience with Chiron. Mars had just finished spending months activating their natal Chiron in Gemini. I have Mars conjunct Chiron in Gemini in my natal chart, and they wondered if the transit had taught me anything about that Mars-Chiron combination.

I hadn’t realized it until that moment, but that transit completely revolutionized my view of Chiron. I no longer see Chiron as the Wounded Healer. The wound is only a small part of the Chiron story. Meditating on the rest of his story has made my view of Chiron so much richer… and brought massive healing, as well.

The wound of Chiron is a narrative problem.

I have only been physically dragged into a church once in my life. I was in high school, and my youth group was planning a retreat. It was the last night to sign up, and I wasn’t on the list. I had no interest in going. As we waited for our parents to pick us up in the church parking lot, a group of the younger kids begged me to sign up, and I refused. When it became clear that I wasn’t going to budge, the group picked me up like the world’s smallest traveling mosh pit and carried me into church.

My memory of this event is vivid. When I close my eyes, I can still see the white doors of the church getting closer as I yelled, begging to be put down. I didn’t want to spend days cramped in tight quarters with a bunch of other church kids. I wanted to be left alone.

I don’t have an especially vivid memory. It’s rare for me to be able to recall images from the past clearly. It’s even rarer for me to be able to recall a random memory like refusing to sign up for a church trip. I have learned that when my unconscious keeps a random memory cryogenically frozen for decades, the memory isn’t actually random. These oddly vivid memories are artifacts of a personal narrative I’m carrying that is disconnected from reality and ready to retire.

The story I told about that day at church was that it was one of many examples of times when I’ve been rejected by a community I care about. Looking at it now, it’s strikingly obvious that I wasn’t being rejected. They really wanted me to join them!

How could I make such an obvious mistake? Because of my personal narrative.

I’ve always been a weird kid. Wonky knees kept me from running around on the playground. I wasn’t able to participate in gym class. I had to sit on the bleachers and watch. The other kids noticed and acted like my disability was a communicable disease, either teasing me or avoiding me. By the time I was in high school, I identified as an outcast. I told myself that I was looking for my people as hard as I could, but deep down I believed I was–and always would be–rejected by every community I cared about.

The story of being dragged into church should have contradicted this narrative. If I’d been able to look at it critically, it would have, but the conscious mind filters our perceptions of reality to suit our unconscious narratives. The narrative of rejection clouded my judgment, making it impossible for me to see the truth.

All was not lost, though. Like a grain of sand in the shell of an oyster, the memory of being dragged into church irritated me until the day I was ready to recognize it as a pearl.

Chiron’s house is the place where we are adopted by the gods.

A few months ago, I was captivated by an element of the story of Chiron no one talks about. The story begins with Chiron being rejected by his human mother who is horrified to have given birth to a centaur. This is the part we focus on, the pain and horror of childhood rejection. But it’s not the end of the story. Chiron is adopted by Artemis and Apollo.

Today, we know that psychological wounding we get in childhood sticks with us for the rest of our lives, but in the myth, we don’t see him pining for his biological parents. We can chalk that up to ancient ignorance of child psychology, but doing so diminishes the love of adopted families. Being adopted by the gods seems to suit Chiron just fine. He grows up to be a well-respected doctor and mentor of heroes.

What if Chiron’s place in our charts doesn’t just point to a rejection wound? I wondered. What if it also points to a place where we have been adopted by the gods?

I thought back to the times when I have felt most alienated. I realized that those were the times when I spent the most time at the library. Books were my mentors and closest friends, but I wasn’t completely lacking human support. I had teachers who recognized my bookishness and encouraged me to see my love of reading and writing as a way to connect with others.

Who’s to say those teachers weren’t messengers of Hermes?

Planets conjunct Chiron aren’t easy to accept.

If my story was a simple fairy tale, I would say that this realization about Chiron allowed me to see that I had been accepted by every community I had ever belonged to, that my perceived rejection was just an illusion. And then I lived happily ever after.

The truth is more complicated.

On the day I was dragged into church, I had set a boundary with my community. I didn’t want to go to the retreat. I told them I had no intention of going. They physically crossed my boundary and attempted to get me to go anyway.

I wasn’t rejected, but my boundaries were. My community wanted me… but without my Mars.

When I look back at the times I’ve felt alienated in communities, my Mars has been there like a berserker looming over my shoulder. I am not an aggressive person. When threatened, my first instinct is to fawn, not attack. Yet, I’ve always felt like people can sense my Mars like the smell of something feral.

“I feel like I was raised by wolves and am still learning to be civilized, don’t you?” one of my professors once asked me.

When I was a teenager, I was a punk on the outside. It was my way of exercising self-defense. Like a hedgehog, I wore spikes on my skin. Kicking a hedgehog is its own punishment. I hoped that my spikiness would send the same message. Then I went to college with the plan to disappear in the crowded anonymity of Boston. I shed my punk aesthetic for a peacoat and a knitted slouch hat. I wore them like an invisibility cloak. If I had the language of astrology then, I would have thought: There is no reason for my Mars to be here. Maybe now it will shrivel up and fall off.

I suspect Chiron feels similarly about his horsey backside. In myth, Chiron is the token centaur in a community that sees centaurs as brutish barbarians. He achieves an honored place in his community by playing by the rules, continually demonstrating that he is “different than all those other animals.” He is the civilized centaur, so educated and refined he is trusted with the mentoring of heroes. In the process, he rejects the animal part of his nature that is rejected by his community.

Embracing Chiron is necessary healing.

In one of the versions of the myth of Chiron, he does an odd thing. When he is wounded and discovers it is a wound he can’t heal, he takes the place of Prometheus, the rebel being punished for stealing fire from the gods. Seeing Chiron taking punishment he doesn’t deserve, Zeus frees him and puts him in the starry sky.

In other versions of his story, Chiron isn’t wounded at all. He is rounded up with all the other centaurs and killed in a centaur genocide. His willingness to conform doesn’t save him. Neither does his supposed immortality. When his community decides it is no longer willing to tolerate centaurs, no one cares that he’s the civilized one. He is killed, anyway.

I like to think that these two versions of the myth represent different paths he could have taken. Different paths we all could take when presented with the option to wound ourselves in the quest to fit in. And the consequences of betraying an aspect of our nature.

It is only when Chiron is willing to identify with the rebel Prometheus, and embrace the rejected parts of himself, that he is able to take his place among the stars.

The alternative isn’t silent misery. It’s the death of his soul.

[cypheroxide]

WARNING FOR ALL MALES FROM ME when buying a security device for a loved one.

Last weekend I saw something at The Gun Show that sparked my interest. I was looking for a little something different for my wife ######. What I came across was a 100,000-volt, pocket/purse-sized Tazer.

The effects of the Taser were supposed to be short lived, with no long term adverse effect on your assailant, allowing her adequate time to retreat to safety...??

WAY TOO COOL! Long story short, I bought the device and brought it home.. I loaded two AAA batteries in the darn thing and pushed the button. Nothing! I was disappointed I learned, however, that if I pushed the button and pressed it against a metal surface at the same time, I'd get the blue arc of electricity darting back and forth between the prongs.

AWESOME!!! Unfortunately, I have yet to explain to ###### what that burn spot is on the face of her microwave.

Okay, so I was home alone with this new toy, thinking to myself that it couldn't be all that bad with only two AAA batteries, right?

There I sat in my recliner, my cat Leo looking on intently (trusting little soul) while I was reading the directions and thinking that I really needed to try this thing out on a flesh & blood moving target.

I must admit I thought about zapping Leo (for a fraction of a second) and then thought better of it. He is such a sweet cat. But, if I was going to give this thing to my wife to protect herself against a mugger, I did want some assurance that it would work as advertised.

Am I wrong?

So, there I sat in a pair of shorts and a singlet with my reading glasses perched delicately on the bridge of my nose, directions in one hand, and Taser in another.

The directions said that:

a one-second burst would shock and disorient your assailant;

a two-second burst was supposed to cause muscle spasms and a major loss of bodily control; and

a three-second burst would purportedly make your assailant flop on the ground like a fish out of water.

Any burst longer than three seconds would be wasting the batteries.

All the while I'm looking at this little device measuring about 5" long, less than 3/4 inch in circumference (loaded with two itsy, bitsy AAA batteries); pretty cute really, and thinking to myself, 'no possible way!'

What happened next is almost beyond description, but I'll do my best.

I'm sitting there alone, the cat looking on with his head cocked to one side so as to say, 'Don't do it stupid,' reasoning that a one second burst from such a tiny lil ole thing couldn't hurt all that bad.. I decided to give myself a one second burst just for heck of it.

I touched the prongs to my naked thigh, pushed the button, and...

HOLY MOTHER OF GOD. WEAPONS OF MASS DESTRUCTION. WHAT THE... !!! I AM CERTAIN I JUST MET JESUS!!!

I'm pretty sure Hulk Hogan ran in through the side door, picked me up in the recliner, then body slammed us both on the carpet, over and over and over again. I vaguely recall waking up on my side in the fetal position, with tears in my eyes, body soaking wet, both nipples on fire, testicles nowhere to be found, with my left arm tucked under my body in the oddest position, and tingling in my legs! The cat was making meowing sounds I had never heard before, clinging to a picture frame hanging above the fireplace, obviously in an attempt to avoid getting slammed by my body flopping all over the living room.

Note:

If you ever feel compelled to 'mug' yourself with a Taser,

one note of caution:

There is NO such thing as a one second burst when you zap yourself! You will not let go of that thing until it is dislodged from your hand by a violent thrashing about on the floor!

A three second burst would be considered conservative!

A minute or so later (I can't be sure, as time was a relative thing at that point), I collected my wits (what little I had left), sat up and surveyed the landscape.

· My bent reading glasses were on the top of the TV.

· The recliner was upside down and about 8 feet or so from where it originally was.

· My triceps, right thigh and both nipples were still twitching.

· My face felt like it had been shot up with Novocain, and my bottom lip weighed 88 lbs.

· I had no control over the drooling.

· Apparently I had crapped in my shorts, but was too numb to know for sure, and my sense of smell was gone.

· I saw a faint smoke cloud above my head, which I believe came from my hair.

I'm still looking for my testicles and I'm offering a significant reward for their safe return!

PS: My wife can't stop laughing about my experience, loved the gift and now regularly threatens me with it!

(found on the inter webs, not really me)

[iturbide]

Honestly, just trying to picture Byleth's loneliness during Three Hopes in this Golden Attempt AU makes me feel so depressed and sad for them? I can only imagine how hopeless they feel and how pointless even trying all this feels - after all, who are they really doing this for, when none of their friends even know who they are? - at least they're not completely alone though, since Sothis is there.

Can you imagine though, if they DID find Claude? Still alive at the very least, and them trying to once again befriend him? A part of their heart aching whenever they see glimpses of their dear friend, hidden behind how much more walled off Claude must have become in his imprisonment? That must really hurt too.

So apparently I have a thing for stories involving powerful characters with headfriends traveling back in time and embarking on lonely journeys to prevent a horrible outcome they’ve already experienced once.

That’s

uh

Future Built Part 2 in a nutshell

but also this has kind of been eating at me since the ask came in so please accept an attempt at putting it into words:

///

Under normal circumstances, Byleth would consider it suicidally poor strategy for a lone fighter to assault a city. 

But they did not have an army to call on here.  No brigades to back them, no allies to stand by their side, no friends to depend on for aid.  Only their own sword, their own strength, their own reflexes -- and the Goddess’ gift to turn back the hands of time. 

They hoped that would be enough.

The way into the underground fortress was difficult to reach, and barely concealed or guarded because of it.  Byleth might have thought it a matter of overconfidence, if it hadn’t taken so much work to find the place.  Months of stalking the agents they knew, following what leads they recalled from conversations in another lifetime (Lysithea’s tales of dark mages in Ordelia after the fall of House Hrym, in one of their their last meetings before everything went so wrong), searching blind for any trace of their presence, winding back time over and over…

…and finally trusting their hunt to feeling over evidence when all else failed.  A sick sensation had overcome them before Remire, heavy and oppressive enough to cloud their thoughts and drain their usual reserves; they sought it out, in the absence of all other evidence, climbing until the sensation was almost overwhelming -- and that was where they found the cavern, a black gaping maw diving out of sight into the earth.

With sword in hand, they plunged inside, leaving behind the light of the sun and running blind until the stone beneath their feet gave way to metal panels and the darkness gave way to veins of light that pulsed in time with the city’s metal heart.  

A siren shrieked to life as they reached the city gate and cut its watchmen down.  They ignored it, rushing through the maze of corridors leading to their goal, avoiding the dead ends and the wide chambers where the Titanus lay in wait, roused from their dormancy by the ceaseless alarm.  Resistance mounted halfway through, but they had chosen their path with care: the enemy could not bring their full force to bear in the narrow hall Byleth had chosen, and they wasted no time cleaving their way past.  They heard the grinding hum of metal ropes lifting something from the depths and turned swiftly away from the lift chamber that would soon unleash a battalion of fresh fighters; another turn, another long corridor bathed red by the glowing stones embedded in the ceiling, another cursory fight, and at last they reached the wide stairwell down beneath the heart of the city.

They cleared the steps two at a time, their breath drowning out the siren’s endless scream.  The first time they’d made this assault, they were too late, and there was not even a body to find: all that remained was a gold cap and the cut end of an unraveling braid.  The second time they were too slow, so often lost in the maze or forced to retreat from the Titanus that by the time they cleared the stairs the whole place had been scoured clean.  The last, they’d been careless in their timing and run afoul of Solon, who forced them to retreat empty-handed before they could even confirm whether the cells were filled. 

But as they skidded to a halt on the cold steel floor, familiar green eyes narrowed under the flashing lights. 

“Never seen you around here before,” Claude said, his voice hoarser than they had ever known it (even at the end, even as he choked out those final words, it had been soft, enough to break their heart and the Creststone alongside it).  Byleth nodded in acknowledgement, evaluating the panel jutting from the wall alongside the cell.  They saw nothing familiar, or anything to help them guess how it worked.  Experimentally, they lifted their sword and drove it down into the plate, watching it spark as they ripped through its metal innards. 

The bars did not move.  Perhaps not the best course of action, then. 

Time reversed. 

“Never seen you around here before,” Claude said again, though he had no memory of doing so.  Byleth nodded, frowning as they looked over the panel again.  They pressed a hand to it: no response.  Wiped the heel of their palm up the smooth surface: nothing.  Down, instead: still nothing.  Five fingertips, first up, then down: the same.  Three fingertips: more of the same.  

Frustrated, they brought their fist down on it -- and small lights brightened under the clear glass, illuminating symbols they had not noticed before.  Two arrows, up and down, caught their eye; the down merely flashed red when they pressed a thumb to it, but the up turned solid green -- and the bars slid soundlessly up into the ceiling.

They moved swiftly into the cramped cell, approaching the young man sitting against the far wall.  His clothes were unfamiliar, neither the black and yellow of the Golden Deer uniform, the tawny hue of his gambeson from another lifetime, or even the gold-accented black of his imposter’s new wardrobe: in the dull red cast from the warning lights, the tattered vest and tight-sleeved jacket looked bronze, gold accents shining intermittently as they shifted in time with his breath.  The comfortable trousers in deep tan with embroidered accents and dark walking boots, well-used (though not recently) gave the impression of a traveler, or someone prepared for a journey; they hadn’t seen him arrive at Garreg Mach -- hadn’t known him, back then, or known to look for him -- but at least now they could guess how he’d been taken.  Too late now to prevent it -- but not too late to change the outcome. 

Byleth offered a hand down to him, a smile curving across their face. 

Claude did not move.  “Who are you?” he asked. 

[A friend,] they signed back.

He smiled, then, one that did not reach his eyes.  “Well, Friend,” he said (but they heard no trust in the word, just the simple address of someone calling an acquaintance by name), “if you’re here to help I’d be crazy not to take it.  I owe you,” he added, taking their hand and letting them help him to his feet. 

Byleth turned, moving out of the cell again and turning toward the stairs as the first trickle of enemy soldiers sprinted down to meet them.  They would have to move fast to avoid getting boxed in (which had happened before, in their attempts to escape alone -- they would rather avoid another repetition), and swiftly cut down the two swordsmen that rushed to meet them before charging the archer taking aim from the platform halfway up the steps.  The body tumbled down to join the others, landing in a crumpled heap before the true heir of Leicester as he limped to join them.

That posed a problem.  They hadn’t factored in a possible injury: the slower their pace, the more likely they were to be overwhelmed or hemmed in by multiple waves of enemies in the maze.  If only they still had the Sword of the Creator at hand…though while they missed its reach and the effortless way it responded to their every thought, they were still grateful that the weapon in their hands now didn’t pulse in response to the stone heart lodged in their chest--

More footsteps.  Byleth turned, blade ready to meet the soldier raising their lance to strike--

The enemy reeled back, an arrow jutting from their throat as they collapsed on the landing.  Byleth glanced over their shoulder, catching Claude’s brief grin before he drew another arrow from the quiver he’d looted from the black-clad soldier.  “At least I’m not too rusty.”

Byleth smiled back, inclining their head toward the top of the stairs.  And when they turned to clear the way, they heard Claude’s footsteps hobbling in their wake. 

-----

In Byleth’s early attempts, getting in had been the hardest part: dealing with waves of soldiers, the metal Titanus monsters, the confounding maze of passageways…by the time they reached the prison cells, they were nearly spent, but so much of the city’s soldiers had been quelled that escape proved a far easier task.  Now, though, they had the process memorized, and could sweep through the assault without meeting more than cursory resistance. 

It was the escape that became the challenge, then, with an army guarding every exit and soldiers poised and ready to sweep in from any direction to press them from all sides.  But with two of them to meet the odds -- a sword at the fore, a bow just back from the front line, and the goddess’ blessing rewriting their mistakes -- they made their way steadily back toward the city gates.  

“Take care,” Sothis warned as Byleth undid the blow of a great knight before it could cleave them in half.  “My power is limited in this place, and I will not be able to undo much more.”

Byleth made a vague noise of assent, lost under the ring of steel and the whistle of another arrow just over their head.  They rushed the knight, sidestepping the overhand swing of his axe and driving their blade through the slit in his helmet.  They were close, now, enough to see the great tower rising up before the central arch--

Claude screamed. 

They whirled in time to see the arc of blue-white lightning snaking over the high walls from the central courtyard, watched the crackling halo that wreathed him fray as he fell to his knees and finally disperse when he collapsed to the ground.  For just an instant they left their fate in Sothis’ hands, leaping to Claude’s side and gripping his shoulder, at once relieved and terrified to feel him trembling beneath that touch…

He coughed once, then again, struggling up onto his elbows, then back to his knees.  “I can keep going,” he managed through gritted teeth…though Byleth could see him struggle to hold his bow, let alone raise it to fire. 

[We’re close,] they signed.  Claude nodded, wincing as he limped forward again, and Byleth moved a pace ahead to cover him before another wave of black-clad fighters rounded the corner with weapons raised.  A block, parry, slash felled one; a feint and lunge brought another down; and though the arrow that flew overhead did not drop the mage wreathed in incomprehensible runes, it staggered her enough for Byleth to charge in and finish the job. 

The gateway loomed just ahead, veins of light pulsing through its metal frame.  They could still hear soldiers rushing through the maze, but there were no foes standing in their way now; nodding to Claude, they strode to the center of the open span bridging the maze and the archway leading to the surface…and waited, letting him limp past and following a pace behind to guard their flank.

A few arrows and spells arced toward them as they passed beneath the gate, easily dodged or deflected from their path.  Past the veins of light, the darkness consumed everything but the sound of their footsteps and their breath…but the higher they climbed, the more shadows they could pick out from the rest of the black -- and finally a ray of light pierced through the gloom. 

Byleth could have sworn they hear Claude’s breath catch at the sight.  But they let it pass without remark. 

They waited at the black mouth of the cave, alert for any sign of pursuit while they watched the heir of Leicester limp past them into the light.  Nothing came, though; perhaps they were rallying the Titanus to hunt down the stranger who stole their prisoner, or perhaps they were simply assessing the damage done by a lone mercenary and a wounded archer.  It hardly mattered now.  They were out.  Claude was free. 

Byleth intended to keep it that way. 

-----

They did not reach the foot of the mountain until midday; they cleared the forest edge by mid-afternoon, and evening was well underway by the time they stopped to rest on the far bank of a stream Byleth suspected fed the Airmid River.  Claude sank to the ground among the twisting roots of an ancient tree, stretching his bad leg out before him and trying to work some feeling back into it.  He looked up only when Byleth approached, taking their offered cup of cold water with a slight nod.  “Thanks, Friend.”

There was still no trust in that address.  They could not blame him for it, even if it did hurt: this Claude had only met them in the last day, after all. 

“So who are you, exactly?” he asked, watching them without drinking. 

[Byleth,] they signed back, gesturing for the cup again and taking a drink themselves before handing it back.  [I’m a mercenary.]

Claude took a sip, mulling over the signs.  “So someone hired you to find me?”

Byleth shook their head.  [Everyone thinks you’re leading the Alliance.]

His eyes narrowed.  “I saw one of them…turn into me.  Perfect likeness. He took my place, didn’t he.”

It wasn’t a question.  But Byleth nodded.  “And no one noticed,” Claude continued. 

[I did.]

He looked up at their face, his expression unreadable.  “How did you know, then?  This is the first time I’ve met you.”

Byleth didn’t know how to explain that this wasn’t the first time they had met him.  That they’d spent years with Claude in another lifetime.  Had taught him at Garreg Mach.  Had joined him in the war against the Empire.  Had watched him learn to trust his allies, and rely on them to reach his lofty dream.  Had been his friend. 

…had watched him die under Edelgard’s axe, taking the blow in Byleth’s stead -- and assuring the war’s end with the sword he had always carried at his hip, finally unsheathed to cut down the Adrestian Emperor’s ambitions. 

They doubted he would believe all that. 

[I heard about you,] they offered.  [He didn’t strike me as the same person.]

“So you came all the way out here to…the middle of nowhere, best I can tell, to try and find someone you’d only ever heard about, who’d been replaced by a look-alike so perfect no one else could tell the difference…why?”

They met his gaze steadily.  [Fódlan needs you.]

He scoffed, the sound muffled against the rim of the cup. “Fódlan doesn’t know the first thing about me.  I wouldn’t have been replaced so easily if it did.”

[It doesn’t change that Fódlan needs you.]  They had seen what could happen when this imposter was left to his own devices.  It was an outcome they did not wish to relive. 

“What am I going to do, then?” he asked.  “Should I march up to the imposter and tell everyone I’m the real Claude von Riegan?  Who would believe me, when they’ve only ever known him?  I’ll be the one who looks like the fake.  How am I supposed to do this alone?”

[You’re not.]

He frowned, one eyebrow quirking up in silent question.  [You’re not supposed to do it alone.  You don’t have to.  You have me.]

“I don’t have the money to pay for a mercenary,” he shrugged.  “Not one of your caliber, at least -- all I’ve got is the shirt on my back and a bow I lifted from one of the guards…”

[I don’t want money,] Byleth signed back.  

“So…a debt?  I owe you my life as it is--”

They shook their head again.  “What, then?” he pressed.  “I don’t have anything else--”

[I don’t want anything.]

He stared at them, trying to find something in their face that might betray the signs.  “Why?” he asked. 

[I told you.  I’m a friend.  I’m here to help.]

A disbelieving smile twitched across his face.  It still did not touch his eyes -- but there was more life in it than they’d seen since catching sight of him behind those iron bars.  “Well, in a situation like this, who am I to turn down help from a friend?” he chuckled, offering his hand. 

Byleth clasped his wrist without hesitation, and felt his fingers grip theirs in turn.  They had a long way to go before they could hope to set things right. 

But this was a fine start. 

[grizzledyoungimpact]

Pairing: Jon Moxley/Angel Michaels Quote: If you recall, them clouds ain’t really clouds at all. Verse: Mafia TW/CW: Mentions of PTSD, mentions of war

Life had become even more complex after the end of the war for Jon Moxley. Before the war, Jon had been nothing but a street tough. Jon had run with a group who called themselves The Switchblades. Jon’s brother Brandon and their mutual friend Sami Callihan had run the streets through fear and intimidation, wanting to get the respect that they felt had always been denied to them. As Jon had gotten older, he had found he wanted more. He wanted a chance to do something right, something good. When the war had started, Jon had thought that his something more was to join up. In a way, Jon had been right. He just hadn’t hit the nail on the head just yet. Jon had proven himself to be a capable soldier and, under the watchful eye of a man named Hunter Helmsley, Jon had been put in a covert team with two other men. Seth Rollins was a brainiac, though a bit religious, who was adept at codebreaking and espionage. The muscle of the team had been a silent but kind man named Leati Anoai. That was a name that Jon had known before the war, Anoai. The Anoai’s were one of the most feared crime families on his side of the seaboard. And Jon? Jon was a silent assassin, able to blend into the darkness around him with little effort. Together they had been called the S.H.I.E.L.D, dedicated to the rescue of those who needed it most. After the war had ended, Jon had made it home, though not without his scars. All three men had changed for their experiences. Seth had retreated into his religion even more, gathering a following of like-minded men who would do anything for him. Leati had been slighted by the government, and thus had retreated into the life of crime that he had so badly tried to escape. And Jon? Well, the term so many fancy doctors liked to throw around was shellshock. That was a fancy term for a list of things that he couldn’t control. Loud noises seemed to bring him to a state of near shut-down, seeming to bring him back to the horrors of his days in a trench. Those memories hit him again and again and again. It had stopped Jon from seeking out his brother and best friend, instead tending to stay to himself. Someone he had met since returning to the States had been a help, however. In fact, she had become so much more. Her name was Angel Michaels. Angel was a waitress at a small diner near the small apartment that Jon called his own. She was pretty, with long blonde hair usually pulled out of her soft blue eyes. Those eyes, however, betrayed her youth. Behind her eyes was darkness, proof that the woman knew more about the world around her than she let on. Jon had promised himself to find out what she hid, to make sure she didn’t bear that weight alone. Stops in the diner to see Angel had turned to dates. Dates had turned into meeting Angel’s daughter Brianna. Meeting Brianna had turned into Jon taking up as the father to a daughter he had never expected to be and as a husband he could never have dreamed he’d be. Angel had even shared the story of how she had become a single mother. Once in her life, Angel had been married to the son of a worthy oil tycoon, Ted DiBiase Jr. Ted had loved her in the beginning, but like many rich men who were not used to being told no, Ted had quickly grown bored and started to cheat. When Brianna had been born without the use of her legs, both DiBiase’s had quickly turned away from Angel and Brianna. Jon, in turn, had finally told someone else about his diagnosis. Jon found his confidant in his soulmate. He had assumed that was that, he and Angel would learn to live with their traumas. That was until Angel had come to him with an offer from a mentor of hers. William Regal was a well-to-do member of society who had two different sides. Most members of society knew William as an owner of a corner gym. The gym, known more widely as The Blackpool Combat Club, was a refuge for men who had served their countries and needed a place to express themselves. That, of course, was a front. In all actuality, The Blackpool Combat Club was an extension of the crime family that Regal fronted. The men who served The Club knew of these actions, but because of William’s acceptance of their pasts, the members were accepting of their positions. A circle of chairs had been set up in the gym, the members of the Club sitting together. There was the quiet, bearded Bryan Danielson who had lost one of his closest friends before losing one of his legs in the trenches. Claudio Castagnoli had left his neutral country to carry information as a multi-lingual spy, though he had since fallen in on himself. He had yet to confirm to the other members of the group why, but Jon recognized the look in his eyes. It finally felt like he had someone other than his Angel who would understand in these two men. “If you recall, them clouds ain’t really clouds at all,” Jon spoke up, clasping his hands to his knees as he spoke. “I saw ‘em in the battlefield. It…it’s mines. Can still hear ‘em when I’m sleepin’. I know I scare my kid sometimes. Can’t help that.” Angel placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, “Bri knows you would never hurt her. We both know…” “If I may, Angela,” William interrupted, “though young Mr. Moxley knows this, a part of himself will always be on edge. I was the same way with my Benjamin and my Anya. It cannot be helped.” Jon gave a soft nod, “His lordship is right. I-“ “It’s not shameful,” Bryan spoke up, his voice gruff, “Most men ain’t got the balls to admit what those places did t’ them. Me? You? Claudio? We’re different. We can look our pain in the eye, keep goin’.” Jon thumbed his nose, giving a sniff as if he could be moved to tears. He was stopped from speaking as two young men entered. Well, Jon was sure both were men. One was a little more feminine in the face, though in fashion they were masculine. Feeling Angel’s hand tighten on his shoulder, Jon could sense his wife’s feelings. These two were children, barely older than twenty at most. She had a need to protect, and Jon wondered if this was how Angel had once felt about him. “Jon…they…” “Is this Mr. Regal’s gym?” the baby-faced younger of the two figures spoke, “I…my brother Wheeler and I…” Jon stood, crossing over with a rough smirk, extending his hand. Angel’s thoughts had been his own and it hadn’t been until he joined this club that Jon had finally found what his duty in life was. His duty in life was to help others, to protect others. “You came to the right place. Welcome to the Blackpool Combat Club.”