#order must be restored to the universe

[nocturnalazure]

I swear to the Maker, I'm gonna post a new update before the end of the year even if I were to die doing it.

[perlelune]

Training Wheels | Coriolanus Snow | i.

Your mother's macabre work never appealed to you as you always preferred the comfort of your books, but when her apprentice takes a special interest in you, your safe, quiet world is flipped upside down.

Warnings: DUB-CON, NON-CON, Gaul!Reader, Shy Reader, Manipulation, Parental Neglect, Drinking, Peer Pressure, Hazing, University set, Loss of Virginity, Dumbification, Insecurities, Abusive Relationship, Degradation, Suicide Attempt

This is a dark story. Heed warnings before reading under the cut.

𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘 𝖒𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙

Your hands quake around the bucket of mice as you stand above the terrarium. The bright-skinned creatures inside writhe around, in anticipation of their next meal. You peer inside the metal bucket at the little mice with their cute whiskers and beady eyes. Your heart twinges. They will soon meet their end, courtesy of you. But what else can be done? The snakes need to eat. Because if they were not fed, the colorful reptiles would break through the glass in search of the food they were denied. You used to have nightmares of it as a child. The lab crawling with snakes, their neon scales filling every corner.

Natural order restored as every warm-blooded creature in their vicinity turns into prey. 

You suppress a shudder. While that never happened, you can’t erase the slight chill dancing through your bones whenever you approach the terrarium. 

Other lab assistants have offered to take on the task, noting your discomfort. You’ve turned each of them down. Mother has given you this job ten years ago. A gift, she called it. More of a challenge quite frankly. A way to test your nerves, that she always deemed too delicate. She never expected you to go through with it. “Hippity, hoppity, little one,” she mockingly sang that day as you fidgeted before the ceiling-high glass case filled with snakes to the brim. Their scales were a deep green back then. Nothing like the pink, yellow and blue shades they don today. A plethora of mutations throughout the years has made them what they are now.

You tip the bucket against the edge of the glass case, abandoning the poor rodents to their fates. The reptiles are quick to dive upon them in a heap. The mice’s helpless squeaks reach a peak, piercing your ears until they’re silenced quickly. You watch, stomach tight while the snakes open their maws and swallow the furred animals whole. The spectacle will never sit well with you.

Still, you school your features and steady your heart. Mother’s voice echoes through your head.

Emotions are a weakness. They must be harnessed, contained.

Harnessing your emotions. A feat you could never achieve. One that makes you a failed experiment in Mother’s eyes. A waste of space. A disappointment.

You start climbing down the ladder to gather more mice from their cages. Your insides clutch at the prospect of gently picking them up only to escort them to a sorrowful fate.

The train of your thoughts is interrupted when voices erupt from the other end of the long hall. 

Recognizing them, you freeze. Panic floods your veins. You haste down the ladder, the bucket clattering as you discard it on the floor. 

You scurry inside the nearest office and duck beneath a table.

The voices grow in the lab. You eavesdrop, allowing you to catch snippets of the conversation. They’re discussing Mother’s latest experiments with the Avox subjects. One succumbed to a chromosome translocation with a wolf mutt. The finer details of replacing the subject and what can be learned from the results are discussed in cold, clinical fashion. No regard for what was a human life, now lost, is granted. The Avox was nothing more than a slab of meat meant for slaughter. The slow, barbaric kind.

Ice seeps through your veins. You loathe visiting that room, the one displaying Mother’s human experiments on unfortunate Avoxes. Their beseeching gazes. Their warped pleas parroted by the jabberjays above them. You almost passed out every time you were tasked with monitoring their electrolyte status or switching their intravenous tubes.

Head rising from under the desk, you allow yourself a peek. 

Mother’s here, of course. You recognized her voice right away. Then, there’s…him.

You let your gaze rest on him, never having the chance to observe him like that. Steal a glance from the back of the lecture hall. Get a glimpse of him amidst his crowd of friends, always in his element of course, owning every room he’s in.

Never before did you get to just look at him.

The first thing that strikes you is how beautiful he is. Handsome in that dazzling way the pretty boys in the sappy books smuggled from the Districts your mother berates you for reading are.

She calls them stupid. For you however, they are your only escape from the dismal humdrum of the Capitol. Fictional worlds that shield you from the harshness of reality. Your saving grace.

Platinum locks combed back from his face. Eyes as blue as the sky. Sharp, angular features.

Coriolanus Snow.

Behind the safety of the glass panel, openly admiring him is easier. In fact, you find it almost hard to peel your eyes away.

No wonder half the girls in your cohort can’t stop gushing about him, how there’s an irresistible, slight air of danger hovering around him since his brief time as a peacekeeper. Even Io Jasper noticed it. And Io never notices anything that she can’t wedge between two glass slides and examine under a microscope.

Awe mingles with envy in your chest. This is who your mother chose as her unofficial successor. The worthy, cool-headed apprentice she has yearned for years. She’s been through so many people, each more eager to please and impress than the last. None ever fit. Not even you. Especially not you. Nobody except for him.

No one had ever passed your mother’s crooked tests before Coriolanus Snow came along.

Blue eyes travel upward, the Snow heir seeming to sense the scrutiny upon him.

“Is someone here?” he says, pushing forward.

Your pulse quickens at the sound of Coriolanus Snow’s deep voice, disturbingly close. You crouch to hide from view.

Mother’s exasperated breath reaches you from behind the glass panel.

“Don’t worry. It’s probably my daughter. I’m afraid she’s quite useless,” she says matter-of-factly.

Your heart sinks. Face warm with embarrassment, you shrink beneath the desk. You bring your knees to your chest. Hearing such words shouldn’t affect you. Not after all these years. Yet it does. A pointed reminder that you can never measure up. That you’re a glaring mistake, lucky to even be allowed to wander the halls of the Citadel and be given a semblance of responsibility, however small.

That you’re not enough, will never be enough.

That you should never have been brought into the world.

After getting caught, you file away your embarrassment and make yourself small. Even smaller than usual. It's not too hard. When you aren’t working at the lab, your schedule consists of attending lectures and studying for long hours at the library. It keeps you busy enough to find excuses to skip a few hours at the lab. After all, midterms are only a few weeks away. They require your entire focus. You can’t fail and add more of a shameful stain to Mother’s name.

It’s why you ramped up your studying since the Academy. You were painfully average then, tragically unremarkable, not even ranking high enough to get your own tribute to mentor in the tenth Hunger Games. The shriveling stare she cast upon you the day of the reaping after Dean Highbottom failed to speak your name is burned into your mind forever. That day, you failed Mother again. You swore to yourself to never let it happen again afterwards.

This year, you will study harder, until your eyes fall off if necessary. If you can pass every class with flying colors and perhaps even aim for the valedictorian spot, you can prove Mother that your existence isn’t a complete and utter waste. It might be a lofty goal for you, but you’ve been ranking higher with every test these last few weeks.

For days, your path does not cross Coriolanus Snow’s again. Your peace is maintained. You get to almost forget how piercing his blue eyes were that day, even from behind the glass panel.

Today, you don’t expect things to veer away from your usual routine. You sit in the back of the lecture hall as is your habit. Students pour inside at a sluggish pace while you peruse your notes from the previous class. They barely make sense, even to you. Defense economics has never been your favorite subject, possibly your most hated in fact, and paying attention during Professor Cloudsbane’s class is even more of a challenge. More than once, you dozed off, the complicated concepts struggling to fully sink into your mind.

Keeping up with this class is twice as much work than all the other ones. Even Mother’s bioengineering and military strategy courses do not give you so much grief. Concepts she’s drilled into you since childhood are easier to digest.

Which is why you’re flabbergasted when the results of last week’s test are passed around and you receive yours. In disbelief, you blink at the paper multiple times.

It’s the highest grade you’ve gotten the entire semester. Possibly the highest one in the class. You bask in the private, secret victory. You’re always so behind. You plan on enjoying that tiny moment. You hug the test to your chest, a smile creeping upon your lips.

“So what score did you get?”

Your head whips up, the sudden voice startling you out of your thoughts.

Bright cobalt orbs fill your sight.

You gape in disbelief. Coriolanus Snow.

Lost in your thoughts, you didn’t realize he and his group of friends have elected to occupy the seats in the row before yours today. You’re stunned. They’re usually sitting somewhere in the middle of the hall, not quite at the front but close enough so that Clemensia can comfortably harass the professor with a ceaseless string of questions as she’s known to do.

“So?” he asks again. His eyes dart down. “Your grade?”

Your throat knots as you gawk at him. When you don’t reply, he huffs out a laugh and swipes the piece of paper from your hand. You’re too flabbergasted by his actions to even react.

Empty hands hanging before you, you watch him purse his lips as he inspects your paper.

“Hm, top grade. Figured.” His eyes twinkle. “Expected from Dr. Gaul’s daughter, I suppose.”

“You almost had it, Coryo. But she beat you,” Clemensia teases, wiggling her eyebrows. Meanwhile, Ivy Briarose, Clemensia’s close friend, giggles at her comment. 

You steal a glance at his test; he’s holding it next to yours. Surprise surges through you. There’s only half a point between your grade and his. Just half a point…but still. Coriolanus always aces Professor Cloudsbane’s tests. Him getting the top grade is often expected. But this time, the Snow heir falls behind…you. 

You can hardly believe it. A sliver of pride flutters through you. The fruits of your labor are beginning to show.

“If you don’t watch out, she’ll steal the top student spot from you,” Livia chimes in. You can tell the blonde is reveling in this, that strange animosity between her and Coriolanus on full display.

Coriolanus’ jaw ticks, his tight-lipped smile unfaltering as he studies you.

“I suppose she could,” he utters softly. Despite his tranquil expression and the smile pulling his lips, a peculiar unease settles in your bones. You shift in your chair, goosebumps blooming across your flesh.

He hands you your test back without a word. You’re relieved when he turns and the class starts. 

Still, even with his back turned, the weight of his sizzling scrutiny doesn’t part from your skin. 

The class proceeds, the words pouring from your professor’s lips a befuddling heap in your ears as usual. You jot everything down, acutely aware you’ll need several hours if not more than that to decipher everything he said. Your mind already throbs at the prospect. 

You sneak a glance at the row in front of you. It’s mostly filled with the top students, most of them mentors that last year at the Academy. Some of them aren’t even taking notes. Only Coriolanus sporadically does. He appears to have no issue keeping up with this class, unlike you who drowned in the first few minutes.

You’re relieved when the lecture reaches its end. Your mind is on the cusp of overflow. You desperately need a break. 

You pick up your things and rush to the exit. In the hallway, some guy bumps into you from behind, sending the books in your arms flying across the floor. He doesn’t say anything to you and you bend to pick up your books. Tears press behind your eyes. This is nothing. It shouldn’t make you blink back tears. It’s not the first time someone’s treated you like you were invisible. 

“Hey, apologize.” 

Your eyes drift skyward. Stumped, you watch Coriolanus grip the boy who bumped into you by his shoulder. 

“What?” the guy replies, confusion scrunching his features. 

“You bumped into her. I said ‘apologize’,” Coriolanus articulates, as if he were addressing a particularly slow child. When the guy tries to leave, rolling his eyes, the blond squeezes him tighter. Tension flickers in the air. They trade looks and doubts creep on the guy’s face, his face blanching. 

He clears his throat and whirls to you.

“Sorry,” he blurts out.

You shake your head. “It’s fine.”

He turns, likely hoping to leave again, but Coriolanus tuts him, pointing at your books, still scattered across the floor.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” he says, arching his brow.

The guy unleashes a sigh but hunkers down to collect all of your books. He gives them to you in a neat pile as you stare at the spectacle, mouth agape.

“Thank you,” you mumble.

He nods and saunters off, avoiding Coriolanus’ eyes.

Coriolanus grabs your hand, helping you to your feet. The pads of his fingers are rougher than you expect, calluses pressing against your soft skin. Heat rushes to your cheeks as you rise. 

You’re not sure what to say, your nerves flaring beneath his stare. But you suppose you should thank him. While you struggle standing up for yourself, he just did it for you. So you mumble the words under your breath and begin heading in the opposite direction.

With his long legs, Coriolanus easily keeps up with your hasty strides. Your heart skips a beat as he falls in step with you.

“I feel strange asking this but…” He leans above your shoulder to whisper, “Are you avoiding me?”

“I-I’m not,” you stammer, your pulse racing with the lie.

The blond chuckles.

“You’re walking awfully fast for someone who’s not avoiding me.”

“I’m just running late to my next class.”

“What about your mom’s lab?” he challenges. “You were hiding from me, weren’t you?”

Your lips tighten. If only he’d drop it. You don’t want to revisit that awkward moment. Everything about it makes your stomach ache.

“I…wasn’t,” you lie, your voice barely above a breath. Your face warms as a smile plays upon Coriolanus’ lips. You halt in your tracks, hugging your books against your chest as you pivot to him. You bashfully meet his gaze. “I was just a little spooked.”

He tilts his head, mirth swimming in his cobalt orbs.

“Spooked? By me? Do I scare you, angel?”

The pet name, uttered like a caress, sets your heart aflutter.

“No,” you mutter. Another lie. And it’s like he’s picked up on it, his soft, pink lips stretching even more.

“It wasn’t nice what she said,” he says abruptly.

You blink in confusion.

“I’m sorry?”

“Dr. Gaul, about you. It wasn’t nice.”

You shrug. “I’m used to it. It’s fine.”

He approaches you. The scent of his pricey cologne engulfs your senses. It’s masculine but the faint scent of roses lingers underneath, as if stubbornly clinging to him.

His voice lowers, his gaze entrapping yours. 

“It’s not fine. You work so hard to make her see you. You’re a good daughter.” You don’t realize his hand’s moved to your face until one of his fingers traces the curve of your cheek. Your heart races at the sudden touch. Coriolanus’ thumb drags down to your chin, his attention landing on your bottom lip. He smiles. “Hard work should be praised, rewarded even.”

Disarmed by his closeness and the strange words rolling off his tongue, you retreat.

You readjust the books between your arms.

“I s-should go. My next class is about to start.”

His words interrupt you.

“Hey, why don’t you have lunch with me and the others today?”

Your stomach clutches. You think about Coriolanus’ usual crowd, a bunch of kids from wealthy, influential families, popular and revered. Clemensia Dovecote. Livia Cardew. Ivy Briarose. Hilarius Heavensbee. Festus Creed. Most of them now hold the admiration of their peers for having survived the chaos the Tenth Hunger Games were.

You’d never fit in with them. In fact, you never did. Coriolanus must know that. Is he trying to punish you for eavesdropping on his conversation with your mother the other day? 

“I-I never talked to any of them,” you answer, panic swelling in your gut.

His brows crumple. “If you don’t talk to anyone, you’ll never make friends.”

“That’s okay. I don’t need friends,” you retaliate.

“It’s always useful, having friends,” he rasps. “The right connections, they can get you far.”

You anxiously roll your bottom lip between your teeth.

“I’m not good at…making conversation.”

“We’re having a conversation now,” he says, laughing.

As you mull over what he just said, a small smile tugs your lips.

“I guess we are.”

His gaze sharpens. “That’s a pretty smile. I’d love to see it more often.”

His low, soft voice sends chills through your spine.

Coriolanus’ long lashes droop as he gauges your expression.

“I’d be disappointed if I didn't see your face, angel.”

You fidget, your eyes sinking to the floor before rising to meet his again.

“I don’t know if that’s okay… for me to show up like that.”

“I’m inviting you, so of course it’s okay.”

He speaks like it’s a given, like whatever he says goes. His confidence unsettles you. 

You fall quiet, weighing your options. There’s something in Coriolanus’ silky voice that makes it hard to say no, but you’d hate being the unwanted guest at the popular kids’ table. 

Still, the expectation on his face makes you not want to let him down. 

“I’m not hearing a yes.”

“Y-Yes,” you stutter belatedly. 

A broad smile spreads on his handsome face.

“Perfect. See you at lunch then, angel.”

As he strolls away, your feet remain glued to the floor, your mind lingering in disbelief of what just occurred. 

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Jason Wilson at The Guardian:

In a December 2023 speech, JD Vance defended a notorious white nationalist convicted over 2016 election disinformation, canvassed the possibility of breaking up tech companies, attacked diversity, equity and inclusion (DEI) efforts and talked about a social media “censorship regime” that “came from the deep state on some level”.

The senator’s speech was given at the launch of a “counterrevolutionary” book – praised by the now Republican vice-presidential candidate as “great” – which was edited and mostly written by employees of the far-right Claremont Institute. In the book, Up from Conservatism, the authors advocate for the repeal of the Civil Rights Act, for politicians to conduct “deep investigations into what the gay lifestyle actually does to people”, that college and childcare be defunded and that rightwing governments “promote male-dominated industries” in order to discourage female participation in the workplace. Vance’s endorsement of the book may raise further questions about his extremism, and that of his networks. The Guardian emailed Vance’s Senate staff and the Trump and Vance campaign with detailed questions about his appearance at the launch, but received no response.

‘Congratulations on such a great book’

Vance’s speech was given in the Capitol visitor center in Washington DC last 11 December, according to a version of C-Span’s subsequent broadcast of the event that is preserved at the Internet Archive. The occasion was the launch of Up from Conservatism, an essay collection edited by Arthur Milikh, the executive director of the Claremont Institute’s Center for the American Way of Life. In his introductory remarks on the day, Milikh said the book “maps out the right’s errors over the last generation … on immigration, on universities, on the administrative state”.

The book, however, appears more directed towards supplanting an old right – seen as too accommodating – with a “new right” focused on destroying its perceived enemies on the left.

In the book’s introduction, Milikh writes: “The New Right recognizes the Left as an enemy, not merely an opposing movement, because the Left today promotes a tyrannical conception of justice that is irreconcilable with the American idea of justice … the New Right is a counterrevolutionary and restorative force.” Also in that piece, Milikh offers a vision of the new right’s triumph, which has an authoritarian ring: “We like to say that one must learn to govern, but a truer expression is that one must learn to rule.” In his speech, Vance first offered “congratulations on such a great book, and thanks for getting such a good crew together”, and then warmed to themes similar to Milikh’s. “Republicans, conservatives, we’re still terrified of wielding power, of actually doing the job that the people sent us here to do,” Vance said, later adding: “Isn’t it just common sense that when we’re given power, we should actually do something with it?”

Brad Onishi, author of Preparing for War, a critical account of Christian nationalism and the host of the Straight White American Jesus podcast, said: “Vance, many Claremont people, including some folks in this volume, and especially the ‘post-liberal’ conservative Catholics that he hangs out with, have advocated for a form of big government that will wield its power in order to set the country right.” He added: “And you may think, well, OK, that doesn’t sound so bad. But here the common good is rooting out queer people, making sure non-Christians don’t immigrate to the country and outlawing things like pornography that are currently a matter of personal choice. “You end up with this conservatism that promotes an invasive government conservatism rather than a small government.”

[...]

‘Free our minds … from the fear of being called racists’

In the book, commended by Vance, a series of authors take reactionary – or “counterrevolutionary” – positions on a number of social and economic issues. In one chapter, John Fonte writes of disrupting narratives of civil rights progress: “The great meaning of America, we are told, comes from liberating so-called oppressed groups and taming the power of privileged groups. Thus, our history is one of liberation: first of Blacks, then of women, then of gays, and now of the transgendered.” Fonte retorts: “Not only is this narrative false; it will take us further down the path of national self-destruction … On the questions of slavery, American Indians, and racial discrimination, the progressive narrative is not a historically accurate project designed to address past wrongs, but a weaponized movement to deconstruct and replace American civilization.”

Like other authors in the collection, Fonte offers policy recommendations. He proposes heavy-handed federal intervention into education: “[T]he US Congress should prohibit any federal funds in education to support projects … that promote DEI (“diversity, equity and inclusion”) and divisive concepts such as the idea that America is ‘systemically racist.’” In his chapter, David Azerrad tells readers: “We need to free our minds once and for all from the fear of being called racists.” The assistant professor and research fellow at rightwing Hillsdale College, and former Heritage Foundation director and Claremont Institute fellow, also claims that conservatives have been too conciliatory on race: “For too many conservatives, the goal is to outdo progressives in displays of compassion for blacks … yet blacks continue to vote monolithically for the Democratic Party and progressives have only ramped up their hysterical accusations of racism.”

Azerrad continues with white nationalist talking points on race, crime and IQ, writing: “It is not racist to notice that blacks commit the majority of violent crimes in America, no more than it is to incarcerate convicted black criminals … There is no reason to expect equal outcomes between the races … In some elite and highly technical sectors in which there are almost no qualified blacks, color-blindness will mean no blacks.” Elsewhere, Azerrad writes: “[C]onservatives will need to root out from their souls the pathological pity for blacks, masquerading as compassion, that is the norm in contemporary America … This is most obvious in the widespread embrace of affirmative action (the lowering of standards to advance blacks) and the general reluctance to speak certain blunt but necessary truths about the pathologies plaguing black America – in particular, violent crime, fatherlessness, low academic achievement, nihilistic alienation, and the cult of victimhood.”

[...]

‘Do not subsidize childcare’

Helen Andrews, meanwhile, offers “three things we could do right now that would put a big dent in the multiplying lies that have come from feminists for the last forty years about women and careers”. Her first proposal is to “stop subsidizing college so much”, since, according to Andrews, in the 22-29 age group, “there are four women with college degrees … for every three men. That is going to lead to a lot of women with college degrees who do not end up getting married.” “Second,” Andrews continues, “the Right can do more to promote male-dominated industries. Reviving American manufacturing and cracking down on China’s unfair trade practices isn’t just an economic and national security issue; it’s a gender issue.” Her third proposal is “do not subsidize childcare” – since the fact that “many working moms are struggling” with childcare costs “might actually be good information the economy is trying to tell you”. Andrews is the print editor of the paleoconservative magazine the American Conservative and has previously written sympathetically about white supremacist minority regimes in Rhodesia – renamed Zimbabwe after white rule ended – and South Africa.

Scott Yenor claims in his chapter that before the 1960s, America lived under a “Straight Constitution, which honored enduring, monogamous, man-woman, and hence procreative marriage. It also stigmatized alternatives”. Yenor is a political science professor at Boise State University and a fellow at the Claremont Institute. He then claims: “We currently live under the Queer Constitution”, which “honors all manner of sex”, and under which “laws restricting contraception, sodomy, and fornication are, by its lights, unconstitutional”. Yenor claims: “These changes in law are but the first part of an effort to normalize and then celebrate premarital sex, recreational sex, men who have sex with men, childhood immodesty, masturbation, lesbianism, and all conceptions of transgenderism.”

Yenor says the state should intervene in citizens’ sex lives: “In the states, new obscenity laws for a more obscene world should be adopted. Pornography companies and websites should be investigated for their myriad public ills like sex trafficking, addictions, and ruined lives. The justice of anti-discrimination must be revisited.” In a separate essay co-written with Milikh, the editor, Yenor advocates in effect destroying the current education system and starting again. The essay includes a recommendation for school curriculums: “Students could start building obstacle courses at an early age, learning how to construct a wall and how to adapt the wall for climbing … Students could learn to build and shoot guns as part of a normal course of action in schools and learn how to grow crops and prepare them for meals.”

The Guardian reports that Trump VP pick and Ohio Senator JD Vance promoted far-right extremist views from Arthur Milkh’s Up From Conservatism essay book.

[arliedraws]

Drabble - Sirius escapes Azkaban at the start of SS/PS and swims to the shack where Harry and the Dursleys are staying.

Just a small exercise I used as a writing warm-up :)

—

Harry had never received a letter in his life.

This was, to Uncle Vernon, the natural order of things. The post came each day, except on Sundays, of course, and over the years, they received plenty of bills, birthday cards for Dudley, and letters from Aunt Marge, but never a single envelope addressed to Harry.

To say that Uncle Vernon was upset that one finally did come to Harry at number four might have been putting it rather mildly, for in his compounding fury, Uncle Vernon had gone to extremes to find a place to which letters were undeliverable. The fury that Harry Potter had received one letter drove Uncle Vernon to hasten them out of Little Whinging and into the car where they spent several days hunting for a hiding place that would restore the natural order of the universe.

Perhaps they had finally found it. The shack was perched atop a small island just off the coast. The Dursleys and Harry had come by boat, braving the freezing waves to land upon the rocks. As Aunt Petunia urged Dudley into the dilapidated shack, Harry halted at the edge of the island, staring off into the distance where mist shrouded the horizon line.

“What’s the hold-up?” barked Uncle Vernon. “What are you looking at?”

“I think there’s another island out there,” said Harry.

Uncle Vernon shot him a nasty look. “There’s nothing out there.”

Harry shrugged as Uncle Vernon followed Aunt Petunia and Dudley into the shack. He could have sworn he saw an outline of something huge, like a tower, in the distance, but the fog was too thick now, and whatever it was had been swallowed up.

Eventually, the chill of the sea battered at his jumper until he was shivering, and Harry felt slightly damp as he resigned himself to joining the others in the shack. By the time he closed the door behind him, Aunt Petunia was already serving their rations which consisted of a packet of crisps and a banana for each of them.

The only boon of the filthy little house was that it seemed to thoroughly depress Dudley who slumped on the sofa and ate his crisps miserably, staring at the spot where he must have been pretending sat a television. Uncle Vernon was quite cheerful, however, pleased that he had brought his family to a place so far removed from society that the postman would never find Harry.

When night fell, Aunt Petunia made up the sofa for Dudley. Harry claimed a threadbare blanket before she could give them all to Dudley, and he found a spot on the floor where he thought the dirt was the softest. Awkwardly, Harry rested his head in the crook of his elbow, trying not to breathe in too deeply the blanket’s stench of seaweed.

The storm outside the shack rattled the wooden walls, and sea spray splattered the windows. This did not concern Uncle Vernon who bid Dudley and Harry goodnight with a slightly deranged smile before disappearing into the second room with Aunt Petunia. Harry, however, couldn’t help imagining a huge wave sweeping the house right into the sea and drowning them all.

Harry tried to settle into his nest on the floor, but he was too cold, the ground was too hard, and Dudley was snoring loudly enough to rival the crashing sea beyond the walls. Harry’s birthday was only a few hours away which might have been something to look forward to, but it seemed too sad to consider that he’d be turning eleven in a place like this. Well, he reasoned, was it any worse than his cupboard?

Harry turned over as lightning flashed through the windows. Dangerous thoughts were occurring to him. Life had never been particularly fair to Harry, which was something he’d come to accept, yet when he really stopped to think about it, Harry wished for a completely different one. Apparently he’d had a different one before because his parents died when he was a baby and left him to his mother’s sister. Uncle Vernon insisted that Harry’s parents were drunkards who died in a car crash, and while this wasn’t particularly pleasing to think about, Harry rather thought he’d prefer loving layabouts to the cold and hostile Dursleys.

Dudley’s stomach growled, startling Harry. Uncle Vernon had forced them all to suffer the depressing meal of crisps and bananas, and it was most certainly not enough for Harry; for Dudley, it must have been merely crumbs. It must not agreed with Dudley either because a foul stench filled the room, and Harry balked, rolling away and stuffing the blanket against his nose. The blanket, however, wasn’t any better. Unable to take it, Harry got up towards the window.

He was expecting to see waves breaking against the rocks, rising with the increasingly swelling storm. He expected to see the rain as it slapped the pane of glass, and perhaps even a jagged bolt of lightning splitting across the black sky. But as Harry looked out the window, he locked gazes with a pair of wide eyes.

At first, Harry thought he was dreaming. A ghastly, emaciated face was looking at him. The thing was horrible—it was a ghost with pale, sunken eyes, gaunt cheeks, and black, lank hair. Harry’s cry was stuck in his throat as the thing stared back. It seemed almost as surprised as Harry.

Then it was gone.

Heart pumping painfully against his ribs, Harry stumbled back from the window.

I’m dreaming, he thought. That wasn’t real. I didn’t see anything.

Harry whipped his gaze to the door. It didn’t have a lock—at least, the one that was on it was broken. He rushed towards it, suddenly terrified. If that thing came in, what would it do? Just because the Dursleys refused to believe that there were supernatural forces in the world didn’t mean they weren’t real and that they couldn’t eat them all.

For several minutes as thunder rumbled and the wind whipping the house, Harry pressed his back against the door. He was hours away from being eleven and he was skinny—a quick meal for a monster. He couldn’t let it get him.

Then, as Harry sat there, he began to feel stupid.

There were no such things as ghosts or specters or vampires. In his exhaustion and hunger, he must’ve invented the vision and convinced himself it was real; when he really thought about it, he was certain he knew he had imagined it.

Eventually, Harry slinked back to his spot on the floor and pulled the ragged blanket over his jeans and jumper, curling into the dirt. If he closed his eyes and squeezed them tightly, sleep would come for him and erase the nightmarish specter from his memory. It would be his birthday, and he would spend it in the middle of the sea.

He thought so, at least.

The door creaked. The crashing of the waves grew louder.

Harry’s eyes snapped open, though he stayed very still, his gaze locked on the empty fireplace. He heard the door close. His heart was pounding so hard now that he could hear it, and he tried to keep the harsh huffing of his breath quiet.

He heard nothing—nothing but the sound of the sea, the howling wind, Dudley’s stomach…

Then, a hand touched his shoulder.

Harry tried to shout; hand clapped over his mouth. A rasping voice was hushing him. Harry tried to shove the creature off of him, screaming into the wet palm. Panic overtook him. He scrabbled for a thin wrist and kicked in his silent, grunting struggle.

“Harry, Harry, please—stop—I’m—I won’t hurt you—” the hoarse voice was whispering. “Shh, please—”

Harry looked up at the creature in terror. Wet, matted hair hung over the specter’s brow, darkening his already shadowed eyes. They stared at each other. It wasn’t a ghost at all, but a man.

“What are you doing here?” whispered the intruder. His gaze flickered to Dudley who was still snoring.

The hand eased from Harry’s mouth. Maybe it would’ve been wisest to scream for help—to bring Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia scrambling into the room, but Harry couldn’t think. This thing—this man knew his name. The man was soaking wet and wearing strange clothing that hung in rags from his skeletal body. His hand stayed clenched on Harry’s shoulder.

“Who—who are you?” breathed Harry.

“Sirius,” he murmured. Harry frowned, not understanding. “That’s my name…” Again, the intruder looked back at Dudley to ensure he was still asleep.

Harry leaned away. The man smelled like seawater, perhaps even more so than the ragged blanket, and he was trembling from the chill. If Harry had not been so terrified, he might have offered the man the blanket, but as it was, he was convinced the intruder was going to do something terrible to him.

“Are you going to kill me?” said Harry so quietly, he was surprised the intruder heard him.

Sirius, so he called himself, shook his head. “No…but I…I shouldn’t have come in… It was only…I can’t…I can’t believe you’re here…” He stopped to cough which he smothered with the crook of his elbow, the veins protruding in his forehead as he tried to keep himself quiet. His eyes were red as they turned to the dilapidated shack, taking in the dirt floor and moldy sofa and the cracked window before they returned to Harry. “What are you doing here?” he asked again, his voice so hoarse, it was hardly more than a hiss of breath. “Are you…safe?”

“I’m fine,” lied Harry.

The intruder frowned. “Are you?”

“You—you should probably go, Mr.—er—Mr. Sirius—”

“Where are your aunt and uncle?”

“They’re just in there—” then Harry lowered the finger he was pointing as he realized what the intruder was asking. Another wave of horror paralyzed him. How did this Sirius person know about Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia?

“Shhh, it’s all right…” said Sirius who must have seen the panic on his face. His hand hovered as though readying it to slap it over Harry’s mouth again. “I’ll leave… I shouldn’t have… I only wanted to…” He swallowed. A bead of water dribbled down his nose as he tilted his face at the ragged blanket. “Why are you sleeping on the floor?”

It was the last question Harry expected.

“Er—I—there wasn’t anywhere else to—”

BOOM.

Harry jerked; Sirius’s hand gripped his shoulder painfully. They both stared at the door in bewilderment.

Fear shone in Sirius’s eyes as he turned to Harry, urgently whispering, “Harry, what I’m about to do—don’t tell anyone. Please—I beg you to keep my secret—”

Another boom! shook the shack.

“Secret?” said Harry.

Dudley was stirring behind them. “Where’s the cannon?” he said.

Sirius said nothing more—he couldn’t say more—because when Harry blinked, in his place was no longer a man but an enormous, jet black dog. The dog faced the door, hackles raised, growling softly as the pounding continued. Harry gaped, sputtering at the dog—

“Who’s there?” a voice roared.

Uncle Vernon had rushed into the room clutching a rifle, aiming it at the door. Aunt cowered behind him as he warned the intruder to stay away or he’d shoot, but either the newcomer did not hear or they did not care, because in the next moment, the door flew from its hinges, crashing to the floor as a gigantic man, the largest Harry had ever seen in his life, ducked through the doorway.

The dog shrank away—the dog that was really a man—slinking behind Harry. If he meant to hide, he was far too large to disappear behind Harry…

Uncle Vernon yelled. The giant, however, was unperturbed as he bent and put the door to rights, fitting it back into the frame. He turned to face them, his wild black beard and hair sopping wet and beady black eyes sweeping over the shack.

“Rough seas. Not easy getting’ here in a storm like this. Could yeh make some tea?”

[qirarey123]

Villains in Spider Ballerina's Universe

La Folia Vert (The Green Madness)

In the Spider Ballerina universe, Le Farceur Vert takes on the role of the Green Goblin, infusing the chaotic and mischievous spirit of a jester with the iconic menace of the Green Goblin.

Josephine's encounters with Le Folia Vert are marked by a dance of unpredictability. The jester's penchant for turning crime into a dark performance challenges Josephine's commitment to restoring order and beauty. Their dynamic is one of unpredictable twists and turns, as Le Folia Vert takes pleasure in turning the city into their chaotic stage.

••••

L'Ébéne Cygne(The Ebony Swan)

In the Spider Ballerina universe, L'Ébéne Cygne is a symbiotic entity inspired by Odile, the Black Swan from Swan Lake, combined with the malevolent nature of Venom.

Josephine faces a formidable adversary in The Ebony Swan, whose darkness is a twisted reflection of her own grace. L'Ébéne Cygne aims to corrupt the beauty of ballet, turning it into a nightmarish dance of shadows.

••••

The Pirouette Puppeteer(Doc Ock)

In the grand theaters of Paris, the Pirouette Puppeteer weaves a tale of mechanical marvels in form of ribbons and puppetry, bringing a unique blend of technology and dance to the Spider Ballerina universe.

Josephine's encounters with the Pirouette Puppeteer are a clash of artistic expression and technological innovation. The Pirouette Puppeteer sees Josephine as an obstacle in her quest for revenge, while Josephine struggles to understand the motivations behind the mechanical ballet of her former colleague. Their conflict is a dance of tragedy and technology, a battle between the elegance of ballet and the cold precision of machinery.

••••

The Charming Marquis(Chameleon)

In the aristocratic circles of Paris, the Charming Marquis is a master of disguise and manipulation, using his balletic finesse to infiltrate high society and weave a web of intrigue in the Spider Ballerina universe.

Josephine, unknowingly entangled in the Charming Marquis's schemes, finds herself facing a foe who uses elegance and charm as weapons. The Charming Marquis sees Josephine as a symbol of everything he believes was stolen from him, and their conflicts are a dance between grace and deception. Josephine, in turn, must navigate the intricacies of the social web to uncover the Charming Marquis's true identity and put an end to his manipulative ballet.

I actually have more ideas on Villains but this will do for now.

[banjjakz]

Seven Days at Granny Orimoto's Flower Shop ; Yuuta x F!Reader

My name is Okkotsu Yuuta. I am a recent graduate of a martial arts vocational school. I just completed a year-long internship abroad in Africa. Due to my recent re-entry into Japan, I am still in the process of setting up my phone and internet. I apologize for the inconvenience and I am extremely sorry for the burden. As a supervisor and business, you may benefit from the set of skills that I have to offer. I can lift upwards of 25kg. I am neat and detail oriented. Due to past life experiences, I am a fast learner and quick to adapt to new surroundings. I am accustomed to taking orders and delivering results. It is my utmost goal to ensure the comfort and satisfaction of those around me. I am eager to be of service. Please think of me kindly.

Or: An odd boy shows up every night begging for a job offer. Did you mention that he gives you handwritten letters? Do you have to report a workplace romance if the only other employee is your boss, who is currently dying? Asking for a friend.

notes: commission for the lovely mielle! thank you very kindly for 1) commissioning me!!!!!! and 2) putting up with my compulsion to surpass any and all word count specifications

warnings: general off-putting vibes, casual discussions of child death, implied stalking (at the very least), unethical(…? maybe ethically gray?) necromancy, etc. y'all know what's about to go down

♡‬ read on ao3 ‪♡‬

Life as a florist is every bit the dream that you’d hoped it would be.

The thought of working from nine to five in some cubicle for the rest of your life was enough to drive you out of university before even completing the feeble attempt you’d half-assedly made at a degree. While the path to your current state of employment had not been linear, easy, or even recommended, you cannot imagine ending up anywhere else.

You’re lucky enough as it is that Granny Orimoto was willing to take you on – perhaps, at first, out of pity – as a shop-hand. That day, all those months, is still as clear as unmarred waters in your mind. What a pitiful image you must have made: underfed, poorly clothed, with roving, vacant eyes.

Nevertheless, you adjusted quickly and gratefully to your new place of employment. Within months, your sense of self and purpose in life had been restored, watered and nurtured underneath the guiding light of Granny Orimoto’s flower shop. Like a corpse risen again, your days were once more filled with hope and aspirations.

Eventually, Granny Orimoto began bestowing upon you more and more responsibilities. You tend to think of your daily tasks as privileges more than anything else. You’ve graduated far beyond merely ringing customers up on the till – at this point, you’re somewhat of a budding horticulturalist. Or, at least, that’s what you’d like to think on your good days.

Recently, Granny Orimoto has even begun to entrust you to manage the shop on your lonesome for several days out of the week. It used to be the case that she would require you to work only hours that coincided with her own availability, so that you might fall under her constant supervision. Of course, this was back when you could barely keep a plant alive. Nowadays, things are quite different.

Quite different, indeed.

On this slow, Monday evening, managerial status finds its way to you once more. Closing the shop used to feel weird, without Granny Orimoto there to lay into you about your posture, or your clumsiness, or your naturally shy, stuttering nature. Now, it’s starting to feel eerily more and more like business as usual.

When the bell above the front door rings, you don’t think too much of it – this town is a bit of a tourist trap, so there are quite a few out-of-towners who aren’t used to respecting closing times. Usually, you’re too nice to shoo them out, but the weight of the day bears heavily upon your apron-clad shoulders.

But when you spin around on your heel, the polite-yet-firm “we closed four minutes ago” withers on your tongue like dead leaves crumbling away upon the unrepentant, earthen ground.

The most disturbing thing is not that he’s exactly your type of handsome: tall, gaunt, malnourished, with a strange, lost look in his wideset eyes. It would be easier, somehow, if your immediate and arresting attraction to the gangly stranger was the most of your worries.

Perhaps what unnerves you so, is the fact that you are powerless to do anything but devote the entirety of your attention to the odd young man. The terra cotta pot once in your grasp has suddenly been placed on the nearest shelf. The gardener’s gloves on your hands have now been stripped away and flung carelessly to the ground, the delicate flesh of your fingers on display for the world to see.

“Are you hiring?” He asks. The lights flicker. Granny Orimoto should really stop fighting you about calling an electrician – they aren’t that expensive.

No, is what you should say, because you don’t have the authority to answer this question and also the thought of having to train someone else when you are just barely getting the hang of your newfound managerial status is a terrifying prospect.

And yet, what ends up leaving your mouth is:

“Yes.”

His black hair is overgrown and in dire need of a trim. The bangs are in a liminal state: too short to part, too long for comfort. It dangles limply in his eyes. Those eyes. Big and glassy and dark, like a dead doe gazing up, unseeingly, at the sky.

“Okay,” he says. “Is there an application that I could fill out?”

Is he not cold? The weather chills significantly at night, and his layers look rather thin. Or maybe that’s just the way the clothes hang off of him. “No, it’s alright. You can just – um, you’re good.”

“I’m…?”

“You’re good,” you repeat and then you have to fight for control over your own body, so that you can turn around and break eye contact before it actually kills you.  “When can you start? Do you have a phone number? Um, so we can get in touch with you about scheduling and training and verify your location and such and so forth.”

Okay, that last sentence was hastily tacked on. You’ll be the first to admit that much. But what kind of girl would you look like, asking a random stranger for his number out of the blue?

You hear more than you see him shuffle his feet, still lingering awkwardly in the doorway. “Um, no, sorry. I don’t have a phone.”

“E-mail?”

“Ah..no…would communication via letter be alright?”

What is his problem?

He shows up, four minutes past closing, poorly dressed and clearly in poor health, as well, to inquire about a job opening, and doesn’t even have a phone or any form of contact to provide other than handwritten correspondence?

Is this a prank? Are you being pranked, right now? You pause your fastidious, frustrated handling of today’s arranged bouquets just to surreptitiously scan your surroundings for any hidden cameras.

It’s like the man of your dreams has walked through the door. It’s almost too good to be true. You know you have eclectic tastes—and this is exactly why you’ve never had a boyfriend, before.

Because what living man could possibly compare to the fictional freakshows you stay up late at night reading about? Who would be worth fawning over, when you are already well equipped with a wealth of off-putting – and, quite frankly, disturbing – characters of ill-repute? Never has there been a living, breathing vessel capable of catching your jaded, heavy eyes.

Until now, that is.

“Sure,” you say, allowing the brain-rot to take control of your faculties. “Give me one second to write down our mailing information.”

But before you can cling desperately to another excuse to evade his magnetic presence, the strange boy speaks up, alluring you with the unsettlingly tranquil timbre of his voice: “That won’t be necessary. I can hand deliver the letters every day, around this time.”

You blink, sizing him up once more. Any normal human being would find this situation incredibly odd and even worth of a police report.

However, you’re comfortable in your own skin and are able to recognize that the screws you’ve knocked loose over time have, for better or worse, permanently altered your threshold for “red” or “green” flag recognition. For all you care, the flag could be purple. You aren’t thinking about flags right now. You’re thinking about his murky bangs, dark and deep, a rich obsidian, metastasizing over the smooth expanse of his alabaster forehead like a natural disaster.

“Okay. I’ll be waiting at this time every night, then.”

For the first time this evening, his gaunt face split into a tender grin, pink lips parting like spliced flesh. Somehow, he’s able to make the act of smiling something gory, something haunting. Your eyes are glued to the bone-white of his teeth. It’s like watching a car crash. You want, desperately, to look away. You cannot.

“I’m glad,” says the strange boy. “I’ll be here every night, right on time.”

A soft breeze stirs outside, just restless enough to tickle teasingly at the windchimes which dangle from the shop’s awning. Usually, the barrier of the front door dulls the melody. Tonight, you can hear the bells loud and clear.

Before you can think to demand (beg) that he reveal additional identifying information about himself – like, say, his name – the boy has all but disappeared from sight. Incredulously, you whirl around on your heel, scanning every visible inch of the shop for any possible clue as to where he went. But your searching is all for naught. It seems that he is, both in presence and absence, a complete mystery to you.

Well. There are certainly worse things that have happened to you. At least you got to chat with a cute, creepy guy for your trouble.

;

The next day, Granny Orimoto abstains from work yet again. Her modest apartment sitting atop the flower shop has kept her out of sight for many days, now. You’re no stranger to her fits and bursts of ill health, but you cannot recall the last time the brusque, full-hearted old lady has been bedridden for such a prolonged length of time.

You almost consider trying to drop by unannounced to bring her some soup and vitamins, but the thought dies immediately upon arrival. Memories of the last time you’d tried to caretake for her and were subsequently thrown out with indignant, irate gusto are enough to curb your momentary sympathy.

This means that you are effectively head of shop, once more. Over time, it gets easier to deal with the random accidents prone to any small, self-run business: leaks, clogs, jams, flickering lights, disappearing items, strange sounds at odd hours with an unlocatable source. All of it, you handle with def improvisational methods.

Even the spontaneously shattering bathroom mirror is no match for your handywoman capabilities! Really, Granny Orimoto should be lucky that it is you who happened to show up on her doorstep just as her health began to take a dive.

These are the kinds of thoughts buzzing around your skull as twilight descends upon the horizon like flies to a carcass. The death of the day is, as usual, a bloody affair: hues of bright vermillion spill across the sky, setting everything in the shop a brilliant, flagrant shade of fresh-burning red. The terracotta pots seem almost to be radiating with internal heat.

Night comes soon enough, bringing with it a brisk chill in the air. The wind rustles the windchimes, a forewarning of what is to come.

And sure enough, at 8:04 P.M., there he is, lingering in the doorway, daring to take not one step past the threshold, just as he’d done yesterday, that first night.

“Good evening.”

Clutched in his fingers is a wrinkled letter, wrapped in plain stationery. He offers it to you with both hands, politely.  

The space between the both of you evaporates in the fraction of a second it takes for you to cross the shop and greet him back, accepting the letter with greedy hands and a greedier heart. “Good evening. Thank you for the correspondence.”

“Thank you for receiving it,” he replies, scratching the back of his head in a stupidly endearing self-conscious gesture. “I know the manner of communication is a bit unconventional… sorry about that…”

“It’s okay.” And it really is. You, of all people, are no stranger to unforeseen and harrowing life circumstances. That the young man does not possess a phone or email address is not so uncommon, anyways – you’ve had time to reflect on the situation, and for all his off-putting looks and strangely formal manner of speaking, he could easily be a country mouse who has recently relocated to a more urban area. Who are you to judge?

“Shall I have a response waiting for you tomorrow night?”

He bows, then, for a bit longer and a bit deeper than what is normally appropriate for two virtual strangers. “I’d be grateful. Thank you for the trouble.”  

Once more, he evaporates seemingly into thin air, leaving behind not even the faintest trace of his existence. He appears to possess an uncanny ability to slip out of sight just as your eyes fall shut in the millisecond it takes to blink, to breathe.

Taken in stride with his dark-circled eyes and general aura of mysterious tragedy, the whole schtick is a little bit sexy, you have to admit. His vibe is that of a haunted family heirloom: beautiful, priceless, stained in generations of blood and cursed to doom those who dare to draw too near.

Your eagerness is almost feral as you tear apart the seal to the envelope in your hands, greedily pawing at the innards. What awaits you is a handwritten letter, complete with smudged pencil marks obscuring some of the more intricate kanji scribbled onto the page. Some of his radicals waver, lines bending or sprawling in odd and abnormal ways, as though he’d been shaking when we wrote it.

 As though he’d been nervous. So nervous, in fact, that upon handing you the thing, he had to immediately abscond from the premises without another word.

Cute.

To Whom it May Concern,

Thank you very kindly for your willingness to take me on as an apprentice to your shop. Please allow me to introduce myself.

My name is Okkotsu Yuuta. I am a recent graduate of a martial arts vocational school. I just completed a year-long internship abroad in Africa. Due to my recent re-entry into Japan, I am still in the process of setting up my phone and internet. I apologize for the inconvenience and I am extremely sorry for the burden.

As a supervisor and business, you may benefit from the set of skills that I have to offer. I can lift upwards of 25kg. I am neat and detail oriented. Due to past life experiences, I am a fast learner and quick to adapt to new surroundings. I am accustomed to taking orders and delivering results. It is my utmost goal to ensure the comfort and satisfaction of those around me. I am eager to be of service.

Please think of me kindly.

Upon reading the very last word of the very last line, you discover that your bottom lip has been bitten so severely that a fine trickle of blood is descending down your chin.

There is no resume or CV in sight – just this handwritten, strangle little letter in which he divulges some most interesting truths.

Is he playing mind games with you? “Accustomed to taking orders”? “Eager to be of service”? Is he trying to tell you something? Outside of the hiring process, that is.

The note itself is perfectly polite and proper. It’s you whose mind succumbs hedonistically to the gutter. Oh, for shame.

 At night, the shop tends to turn into a gnarly jungle of pots and leaves and vines and poorly-placed smatterings of soil; you wade through theses trenches, aided by no more than the moonlight attempting to feebly infiltrate through the shutters – as the lights are out, again. Should probably call someone about that.

In your frantic haste, it’s a miracle your hands aren’t sliced by a spare pair of shears lying forgotten on some counter or another. Before injury occurs, you’ve already located what you’ve been searching for: a usable pen and some clean, uncrumpled paper.

The matchbox in your back pocket proves useful as you strike up a flame and light a nearby candle, paying no mind to the potential danger of the wobbly column of fire in a room full of fauna.

Like a woman possessed, you feverishly scribble away at your reply. It takes you longer to draft this one particular letter than it had to complete your college entrance exams.

But it’s alright – the candle beside you burns throughout the night, neither the wick nor the wax diminishing even a wink.

Dear Okkotsu,

Your eagerness to work hard is clearly evident. Color me impressed.

As fate would have it, I am in dire need of some help with running the shop. The owner has been absent with illness for quite some time and the workload is starting to get unmanageable. The addition of a strong set of arms is more than welcome. Even when it was the two of us putzing around, we still wouldn’t have been able to do some of the heavier lifting.

I’m curious to hear more about your passion to serve. Was this instilled in you during your time at vocational school? What does “being of service” mean to you?

While we are ultimately a public-facing shop, the stream of customers is slow, and your daily tasks will often look like physical labor and horticultural activities. But, from your letter, it sounds like this will pose no object.

Overall, your enthusiasm is appreciated and your hard-working attitude is attractive to future employers.

You could start as early as tomorrow.

Please do respond at your convenience.

It was rather quickly with only a slight bit of panic running through your veins that you tacked on “to future employers.” Even while reading it back, you cringe a little bit. Too forward? Oh well. It’s written in ink and it’s much too late to go for hunting for another clean piece of paper in the shop’s opaque blackness.

Speaking of which… you really should call an electrician. And a plumber. And some sort of handy man, to help you clean up all the broken glass from the shattered bathroom mirror. And maybe it may also me a good idea to get in touch with a security footage company and inquire about their installation rates. It certainly can’t be normal; how many things go missing so frequently. Although you’ve spent most of your waking hours with an aging elderly woman up until very recently, you’re quite sure that dementia isn’t contagious.

Ah, well. These are all things to take care of tomorrow. Sighing, you tuck away the letter into your back pocket for safe keeping before you go about locking up.

You try not to think too hard about the lingering gaze you feel on the back of your neck. If anything, it feels better than being completely alone.

;

The fragrant scent of okayu fills your nose as you climb the stairs to reach Granny Orimoto’s apartment.

Usually, you would not dare to trespass inside her abode, despite it’s close proximity to the shop. She is a grouchy old lady who does not take kindly to meddling. And yet, you couldn’t ignore the seed of worry in the pit of your belly, which had blossomed over the course of the past few weeks into full-blown concern for her wellbeing. Besides her once-daily text message in the evening confirming the status of shop operations, you have not seen or heard from the old woman in what must be almost half a month at this point.

So, you’ve bitten back your pride and prepared a meal to personally deliver to her.

You are moderately concerned when there is no response to your three separate attempts at knocking on the door. Granny Orimoto hadn’t responded to any of your text messages, so you’d naively assumed she’d been asleep and hadn’t seen them. But is it possible to sleep through the ruckus that you’re creating?

The tension in your body only heightens when you try to the doorknob and realize, in shock and slight horror, that it’s open.

“Granny Orimoto?” You call out, haltingly yet loudly – loud enough to reach her wizened ears. “Granny, I’m sorry, I’ll be coming in now! Pardon the intrusion!”

Taking care not to jostle the still-hot bowl of rice porridge in your hands, you slip off your shoes at the Genkan and make your way inside of the apartment. Although you’ve only been here once before – and it had been an extremely brief stay before Granny Orimoto had shooed you off the premises – it still doesn’t feel all that unfamiliar to you.

It’s a traditional set-up, that much is for sure. Not much has changed, either. Same old floral blankets folded in various assortments and piles around the tiny room, same old plastic draining rack laid across the kitchen sink.

And, of course, there is that strange pair of guest slippers by the front door.

A bright, childish pink with the width and depth to accompany the foot of a young girl no older than six, these slippers had given you pause the first time you’d set foot in Granny Orimoto’s apartment. As far as you know, the old lady doesn’t have any living relatives with which she maintains contact. She spends every holiday alone, in her room, and refuses any offers of companionship between the two of you. You’ve always assumed something tragic must have happened, for a woman this advanced in age to have no one to visit or host during the New Year.

So why, then, does she keep a pair of children’s house slippers by the front door?

Although they are neatly placed and carefully aligned, the heels of the slippers face the direction of the household – as though they’ve been recently taken off and exchanged for outside shoes. Like someone has been here and left. Were they in that position when you stopped by before? Perhaps Granny Orimoto set them that way during her last cleaning.

Shaking yourself out of your reverie, you move past the entrance area and towards where you know the bedroom awaits. There is no overt stench of death and decay, so you aren’t afraid of walking in on her corpse. You’re, like, 85% sure that you could mentally recover from handling that situation, but it would be unfortunate and would likely mean an endless night for you and the poor EMTs who would be dispatched to the scene.

The bedroom door, too, is slightly ajar, and when you push it open all the way, you’re greeted by a sight that hits you squarely in the chest, knocking the wind from your lungs, stealing your voice, marring your eyes with shock and sympathy.

Granny Orimoto lies on her back, skin so pale that it is a near perfect match to the futon covers draped around her frail body. Even from this distance, you are able to clearly track the pathway of her veins as they course across her, the deep blues and greens standing out abnormally against the thin, alabaster flesh. Her hair, significantly grayer than the last time you’d seen her, has escaped from it’s usual, customary low-slung bun. You’ve never seen Granny Orimoto in any other kind of style – in fact, you’d begun to think – somewhat mischievously – that her hair had been surgically arranged to the nape of her neck.

But now, it sprawls around her skull in scraggly spirals, spilling across the pillow like leaking liquid. Thin and brittle, you’re sure that if she tried to gather it into a bun as she once had, it would split and break into a million fine pieces of ash.

“So, you’ve come.”

That hoarse voice snaps you out of your trance. You hadn’t even noticed that she was awake. One moment, you’d been gazing at her motionless body – and the next, you find her entirely unchanged except for the fact that her eyes are now open, peering at you. Unblinking. It’s disconcerting.

It looks like the effort pains her, to lift one hand and pat weakly at the comforter. “You came all the way here, silly girl. Might as well sit.”

You aren’t being kicked out?

Wow. She really must be dying.

Gingerly, you fold your legs beneath you and linger at the edge of the futon. “Granny, how are you feeling? I brought okayu. If you are feeling up to it, please eat. You must take care of your health.”

“Alright then,” says Granny Orimoto, mildly. “You’ll have to help me.”

“Of course.”

There is ultimately an insignificant amount of spillage down the front of her shirt, in the end. Still, you take it as an opportunity to encourage her to take a bath and change into fresh clothes, which you expect she has not done in far too long. This, too, requires your assistance. You don’t mind it at all. In fact, it brings you peace – to be able to care for the woman who had most probably saved your life by taking you in, all that time ago.

When it’s all said and done, Granny Orimoto lays back in the bed. The sheets could use some washing and the futon itself should surely be hung out in the sun to dry, but you recognize that this might be a bit too much excitement for her today. Having eaten and bathed, Granny Orimoto appears ready to return to her slumber.

You decide not to push your luck by overstaying your welcome. “Please rest well, Granny Orimoto. I will come back soon.”

It is when you are almost past the threshold of the bedroom door that you hear Granny’s whisper, faint as smoke and so soft it almost doesn’t sound like the stubborn, strong-willed woman you once knew:

“You remind me of my granddaughter.”

As though you’ve been struck by lightning, your body is immediately paralyzed, muscles helpless to do anything but twitch in confusion, overstimulation. “Oh…? I hope she is well…”

“She’s dead,” says Granny Orimoto. “The stench of death follows you.”

Ironic, coming from a woman who is quite obviously preparing to approach the far shore herself. “I see.”

“Whatever is hanging around you, get it taken care of. You’ll stink up the shop and the plants will wither.”

“Yes, Granny.”

“Are you taking care of my zinnias?”

“Yes, Granny.”

“Better be. How can you own a flower shop if you can’t take care of zinnias…”

You want to whip around and ask her what the hell she means by that, but the rumbling of her soft snores fill the space before you can get another word in edgewise.

As you make your way downstairs, Granny’s words continue to marinate in your mind – and not just her implication that the shop would be left to you. That she thought it fit to tell you that you remind her of her dead granddaughter was certainly an event that occurred in your life. But what exactly had she been on about, telling you that you smell like death?

In absentminded thought, your hand fiddles around in your jacket pocket with the latest letter from Okkotsu. You can’t stop thinking about his response to your last letter.

To You, Whom it Concerns,

Are you taking care? The seasons are changing during this time, so I hope your health is faring well.

I’m glad that my enthusiasm comes across as clearly as my physical capabilities.  Sometimes I struggle to convey my intentions and inner thoughts. It seems like we can understand each other well, even while communicating through letters, which makes me happy.

To me, being of service means unobstructed and clear-minded dedication of the self, body and mind, to another’s fulfillment. Not dissimilar to pure love. This “pure” element is important to me. In fact, I believe total service is a form of pure love. Would you agree?

Maybe this is a bit strange to say, and you might hate me for it, but you remind me of a girl I once knew. She is long gone now. It has been nice to see some of her, again. Of course, it has been even nicer to get to know you.

Regretfully, I cannot begin formal employment just yet. The country re-entry procedures are taking longer than expected and things are a bit complicated right now. It is burdensome, but if you could please kindly allow for some additional time I would be very grateful. I’m sorry to trouble you.

In the meantime, it’s fun to chat together, like this. I’d be happy if we could continue.

Take care not to catch a cold.

The first time you’d read it practically had you squealing into your hands like a schoolgirl. Pure love? Expressing concern for your health? Expressing his desire to continue exchanging letters, even if he can’t formally start the training process?

At this rate, you’re on track towards a confession.

Which, of course, is the ultimate goal. You could never forgive yourself for letting the physical manifestation of all your wildest fantasies slip away. No, you’ve got to reel him in. You’ve got to ensnare him in a web of infatuation, so convoluted and intense that he won’t be able to find his way out. You’ve already decided that he is yours. It’s only a matter of time before things fall into place.

As has become customary, Okkotsu drops by the shop at precisely 8:04 p.m. and not one moment sooner or later. You’ve grown to anticipate the tinkling of the windchimes which herald his otherwise soundless arrival. Like an apparition, his visage manifests in the front door.

There’s something different about tonight: uncertain, he chances a foot past the threshold. “Could I trouble you to come inside?”

Oh. Oh! Are you finally past the stage of contactless letter exchange? You could cry tears of joy. “Please come in.”

“Pardon the intrusion…”

When he breaks past the entry area, it’s as though a wave of heat pulses throughout not just your own body, but the entire shop, as well. A light sweat breaks out at the crest of your brow. Is this seasonally appropriate? You aren’t sure if there is any season wherein a heatwave past sundown is normal.

Okkotsu looks at you like a lost puppy, floundering at what to do, what to say next. You yourself are no less awkward, but you take on the burden of breaking the silence first:

“It’s funny, you mentioned in your letter that I remind you of a girl you once knew. Today, my boss said that I remind her of her dead granddaughter. Wouldn’t happen to be the same girl, huh?”

You’re trying for lighthearted, but the joke falls flat when Okkotsu pales, white as a ghost.

Damage control, damage control! “Oh, I’m – I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“No, no, it’s alright,” he cuts you off, raising a hand. “I should’ve been forthright from the beginning. You aren’t too far off from the truth.”

Huh?

Okkotsu continues, “When I was a little boy, Mrs. Orimoto’s granddaughter and I were best friends. Her name was Rika. When she was six, Rika died in a car accident. I was with her at the time and failed to do anything to stop it from happening, or to save her. I’ve always been very sorry to Mrs. Orimoto, who raised Rika from a young age. By working at her shop, I hoped to repay some of that debt…”

You blink once, twice. Time seems to fall apart and reconstruct itself in the space it takes you to conjure up a response. What can you possibly say, to a story like that?

“You don’t, er, have to say anything,” mutters Okkotsu, as though he’s read your mind. “I know it’s heavy. But that’s the truth…”

“Okkotsu,” you say, voice tinny and faraway to your own ears. “You have a good heart.”

His downcast face shoots upwards, wide eyes seeking out your own with a desperate sheen to their dark, bottomless depths. “Huh…?”

“I mean it,” you press on, stepping closer as you do. He doesn’t even flinch or waver. You know this, because your senses are acutely aware of every fiber of his being. “Not many people would be that brave, or honor that sense of duty. You’re an admirable man. Has anyone ever told you that before?”

It seems you’ll be staying well past closing tonight to mop up the puddle that Okkotsu is about to melt into. His ears burn such a bright red that they almost glow in the dim lighting of the shop.

“I- I--!”

“So that’s the depth of your service,” you muse, your toes stopping just shy of his own, “or your ‘pure love’?”

Okkotsu’s eyes flutter shut. The sound of his gulp echoes like a gunshot. “Ah… er, miss manager, I—”

“Call me by my name. I’ve written it to you for a reason.”

Obeying your direct command, he feebly whispers your name, invoking you like he’s scared of what he’s about to summon. It sets a live wire alight at the base of your spine. Sparks fly throughout your body and it’s all you can do not to pounce on him then and there in this very shop, sleeping Granny upstairs be damned.

“Good. It seems you really are skilled at taking direction.”

His eyes are still closed when you nods, face flushed. Cute. You can’t help but want to tease him more, push him further. “Good job.”

His head all but hangs, now, as he resolutely refuses to make eye contact with you. In front of him, his hands are clasped suspiciously in front of his crotch – a detail which you take in ravenously, hungrily.

Curbing the overwhelming desire to do more, you settle with pushing your sealed envelope into his firm, solid chest with both hands, letting your fingernails press lightly into the muscle. “Here’s today’s letter. Read it and respond well.”

“Yes, I understand,” he says, eyes still shut, head still hung.

It requires you to stand on your tiptoes, when you try to lean into his ear and whisper: “You deserve a chance to make things right. Let me help you with this.”

You let him go, then, because you’re sure he’s about ready to burst at the seams. The last thing you throw his way is yet another bit of praise, because you’re a little bit awful: “I admire your idea of pure love, Okkotsu.”

Before tonight, you’ve never seen a grown man walk straight into a windowpane. Okkotsu reels back, nods and bows to you in acknowledgement before hightailing it out of the shop so fast that, as usual, you fail to actually see him go through the motions of stepping out and leaving. He’s always in such a rush. An odd one, he is.

Good thing “odd” just your type.

From that night onwards, Okkotsu starts making himself more available outside of his usual 8:04 p.m. haunting. Now, he’ll drop by early enough in the afternoons for his shadow to be visible against the door. Still, he resolutely avoids any times when current customers are present. You tease him, lightly, for this, asking how he plans to work partially as a sales attendant if he is afraid to interact with the customer base.

His response?

“I want to work here for two reasons,” he’d stated simply. “For you, and for Rika.”

Normal women would probably find an issue with their ideal man likening them to his dead childhood sweetheart. Fortunately, you are not normal. It’s flattering, even.

Clearly, Rika was another manifestation of his pure love. That you can even approach that category, let alone be mentioned in the same breath as her, is, to you, a vibrant green flag. You must be doing something right here.

So you continue intertwining yourself deeper and deeper with Okkotsu Yuuta: the letters are a constant in both of your daily lives, as well as his visits become more frequent. As an interesting development, he’s started to bring you homecooked food. Usually, it is you who does the caregiving. The first time he shows up with an obento made specially for you – complete with a heart made out of specially cut seaweed set atop the fresh rice – you almost start crying.

Admittedly, it’s all moving very fast. Hasn’t it only been four days, now, since he’d first darkened your doorway, pitifully asking for a job with no form of communication? And now, here he is, feeding you the food he’d prepared for you to enjoy as you go about your closing shift.

“Would you ever want to go out?” You blurt, and then pause, mortified at the overtly forward implication to your words. “Like! To a restaurant! Or a café! You always bring me stuff. Let me treat you.”

“Hmmm…”

Okkotsu’s wide, dark eyes roll upwards in thought. “But I really like staying here. I like eating here. No one else gets to see your pleased, comfortable face while eating except me. I don’t think I can share that. Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you respond, dizzy. “You don’t have to.”

This is the right answer. Despite his soft, youthful features, the ginger grin he offers you is undercut by the ominous glint in his intense gaze. “I don’t have to share?” He gathers some pickled plum in the chopsticks, bringing them to your open, waiting mouth. “It’s all for me?”

“I am,” you say, and accept the bitter, delicious fruit on the tip of your tongue. It is pungent. It is sweet. It is overwhelming. You almost aren’t able to swallow.

Time spent with Okkotsu makes life seem so fantastical that it almost blinds you to the world of the living. That night, you cannot find it within yourself to leave the shop and go home after closing, instead opting to chat with this gaunt, ghoulish boy until you are startled awake in the morning by your phone’s automatic alarm.

When you come to, you discover that you’d all but passed out behind the front desk, where the two of you had sat, talking, for hours into the night. Okkotsu is nowhere to be found, but in his absence is a crisply folded piece of paper lying innocently upon the desk. Hastily, you scrub at your eyes and smack your lips, trying to wake yourself up as much as is possible before you unfurl the letter and dive into its contents.

To You, Whom it Concerns,

Do you have any idea how difficult it is to be apart from you?

If I could have, I would have stayed with you all throughout the night. I’m sorry to have left you by yourself. But you aren’t really alone. If you ever feel lonely, in the shop, please remember that I’m always there with you. Watching over you. Can you feel me?

Thanks for listening to me last night. It was a heavy story to tell, but now that I’ve confessed it, I feel so much lighter. And you accept me! Words can’t express how I feel, so please allow me to keep showing you.

Also, since Mrs. Orimoto isn’t well these days, can I ask that you don’t share with her that I’m here? The shock may worsen her condition. When she is no longer bedridden, I will tell her myself that I wish to remain and work in the shop. You shouldn’t be caught in the middle of my situation.

As always, I can’t wait to see you again. I miss you so much already, and I haven’t even left the shop yet. I’m writing this as I watch you sleep. Did you know that you snore a little bit? It’s cute.

Please think of me often.

On the one hand, you want to bury your face in your hands and scream and cry and maybe roll around and die a little bit. A love note! It’s a proper love note, this time. The thought makes your insides feel as though they’re being set alight with a bright, brilliant, inextinguishable flame.

On the other hand, Okkotsu’s mention of Granny Orimoto has brought to mind the fact that you haven’t heard from her in what is now two days. Usually, she’ll send you a message or two at the end of every day, making sure that things are in order and that you haven’t burned down the shop yet. But the last time you’d spoken to her had been when you brought over the okayu to soothe her sickly stomach…

Inexplicably, a chill overtakes your body.

Operating on autopilot, you pull yourself together – running a hand through your hair, smoothing your wrinkled clothes – and make your way out of the shop, to the external set of stairs running along the west wall.

With haste, you climb the steps, nearly tripping over yourself to reach the front door which has been left, once again, unlocked. The sense of wrongness occupying your faculties only heightens when you realize this must mean that Granny Orimoto has not been up out of bed since you’d last visited.

When you stop to toe off your shoes at the genkan, you notice that the bright pink pair of children’s house slippers are nowhere to be found, absent from their perpetual perch by the front door, as though someone – or something – has stepped inside.

Mind whirling a mile a minute, you push into the apartment and immediately reel back at the offensive scent of pure, unadulterated rot.

Oh.

Oh, no.

It could be the spoiled ingredients in the fridge, you think, desperately, as you hustle towards the bedroom. It could be anything. Anything but what it is you’re most afraid of.

Dazed, confused, scared, and still freshly woken up, your clumsy limbs somehow manage to collide with one of the low-sitting tables filling the living space. The abundance of knick-knacks and keepsakes cluttering the surface clatter in indignation, making an obscene ruckus as they fall over and to the floor. Upon closer inspection, you realize, to your horror, that it is an altar which you’d disturbed.

The only things left unshaken by your blundering blight are two framed photos: one of which displays the portrait of a young girl, no older than six, with long, dark hair and a serene smile. She seems to peer at you through the barriers of the picture frame, through the barrier of time. Her gaze hooks into your soul and invites you to step closer, to look harder. The longer you stare, the higher the gooseflesh on your skin raises in alarm. It’s an uphill battle to slide your gaze over to the picture beside her, which displays the likeness of a young boy close to her in age – presumably unrelated to her, given their distinct features, and yet, he is placed next to her on what is surely a memorial altar meant to honor and house the deceased.

While the personal effects and other supplicating items have all been disrupted and thrown off by your collision, the incense in front of the two picture frames still burns brightly, steadfastly. Oddly, it does nothing to quell the horrid stench of decay in the apartment. If anything, the altar seems to be exasperating the smell, which brings involuntary tears to your eyes and a pucker to your lips.

It's less so that the stench itself is what drives you to such a reaction; rather, the sensation invading your olfactory senses fills you with an abominable concoction of violent emotions: rage, pity, sorrow, envy, despair. You are drawn follow the source of these feelings, and your feet lead you to the bedroom, hands trembling underneath the sheer weight of all that you are experiencing as they push the slightly ajar door all the way open.

A gasp escapes you, unbidden. There, in that same, white futon adorned with layers and layers of her signature floral blankets, lies the corpse of Granny Orimoto. You can tell she’s dead because her skin has started to sag and bloat in strange and inhuman ways. This is the least surprising thing before your eyes.

Next to Granny sits a little girl – the spitting image of the girl in the portrait you’d glimpsed mere moments ago. Her gaze had once been trained steadfastly on Granny’s body, but now she looks up at you, unblinking, all-seeing.

“Hello,” says the girl, with a little girl’s voice.

“Hi,” you respond. “Do you live here?”

“Yes,” says the girl. “This is my granny.”

You remind me of my granddaughter.

She’s dead.

Granny Orimoto’s parting words to you echo in your head, rattling your brain, fizzling your consciousness.

“It’s nice to meet you, Rika. Granny Orimoto told me about you.”

Slowly, cautiously, as though you are approaching a spooked animal (ironic, given the fact that it is you who is shaking like a leaf), you crouch down and kneel on the floor, sitting on your haunches in a polite manner, mirroring the girl before you. Granny Orimoto’s body is the only thing separating you as you both sit, face to face, hands clasped in your laps, peering curiously at one another.

“I know,” says Rika. “Yuuta told you about me, too.”

Of course she would know about the conversations you and Yuuta have. This also might as well happen. At this point, after all you’ve just witnessed – first, the fresh corpse of your former employer, and now, the physical manifestation of a girl who died over ten years ago – there is very little left that could happen which would truly shock you out of your wits.

“Yes, he did. Have you been hanging out in the shop? Have you been lonely?”

The girl sticks out her bottom lip. “Yeah. You guys didn’t pay attention to me. Even when I was really loud, or turned the lights off, or broke the mirror. Sorry for breaking the mirror. I was mad.”

“It’s okay to be mad, but we mustn’t break things, or hurt others. I’m sorry for not noticing you sooner. Do you like plants and gardening? Like your granny?”

Rika nods. “Mhm, yeah. But Granny never lets me into the shop. Granny says all I do is mess things up. Granny says I’m no good. Granny says people died because of me. Did you know my dad is dead, too?”

“I’m sorry,” you say.

“It’s okay,” says Rika. “I wanted him to die.”

You blink. “Did you want Granny Orimoto to die, too?”

She takes a moment to contemplate before answering. “Granny had to die if I was going to play with Yuuta again.”

“What do you mean?” You ask, desperate to understand. When she begins to explain, you lean forward, forgetful of the fact that it is an old woman’s corpse which lies beneath you.

“Granny has already lived for so long. I wanted to come back. I died before my seventh birthday. Yuuta and I were supposed to spend it together. Yuuta never forgot about me. Yuuta talks to me every day. Yuuta went to Africa. Have you ever been to Africa? I went with Yuuta because he made a shrine for me there. Now Yuuta is back in Japan. Yuuta promised that we would play together again. Yuuta said he needed some time to prepare things. Yuuta is good at things like that – Yuuta can fight and do magic. Yuuta does jujutsu. Do you know jujutsu?”

“I know it,” you tell her.

“Yeah, Yuuta has powers. Yuuta knows a lot about dying and things like that. So, anyways, Yuuta said he would use his powers to help me come back so we can play together again. Yuuta said that me and granny have to switch places. I said ‘OK, Yuuta!’ and then Yuuta said he needed seven days. What day is it today?”

Somehow, you know the answer, even without looking at your phone’s calendar. “Monday.”

“Oh, so it’s been seven days. Yay! We can play together again. Do you want to play with us, too?”

“I would like to play together, yes.”

Abruptly, Rika unfurls from her graceful little seated position and makes her way over to you, crawling over Granny Orimoto’s corpse. You try not to think too hard about the graphic squelching that occurs underneath the childish palms of Rika’s tiny hands.

“Yay! Let’s go downstairs. Maybe Yuuta will be there.”

You don’t have the heart to tell her that Yuuta only swings by when the sun is out of sight. Her arms raise, clearly indicating that she’d like to be carried, and you are content to oblige her, as you scoop her up in your arms and make good on her direction. You exit Granny Orimoto’s apartment with Rika in your arms, her little feet dangling from your hip. The bright pink pair of slippers almost fall off as you make your way down the stairs, and you take care to remind her to make sure not to lose them.

When you get back to the shop, you must admit that you were mistaken in thinking Yuuta would not be there. As though he’d been anticipating this – which, you realize, he absolutely was, as this marks seven days from the first time he’d set foot in the shop – Yuuta stands by the front desk, wringing his hands before him nervously, sweat visible at his temples.

The both of you lock eyes, and he smiles, warm and fuzzy and entirely ill-fitting for the increasingly absurd scenario in which you find yourself. But you have little time to interrogate him about what the hell is going on – for Rika leaps from your arms and hits the ground running, screaming at the top of her little lungs, Yuuta!! Yuuta!!!, excited and so full of life, in only the way that children can scream in pure joy. Pure love.

He crouches and readily meets her, scooping the little girl up in his arms and sweeping her into the air, spinning round and round with Rika in his arms. Rika-chan!! Rika-chan!!! he cries – literally cries, that is, as you cannot help but spot the stray tear or two running down the swells of his flushed cheeks.

It is right as you are starting to feel a bit voyeuristic that Yuuta slows to a stop and finds your eyes once more. He comes to you, then, with Rika still perched on his hip, a chafingly tender smile splitting his face into two.

“I knew it was you,” he whispers with charged intensity, voice potent with unspoken feeling. “I knew you were special. I’ve always known. You never judge me. You always listen. You accepted me. And you accepted Rika, too.”

Have you? Accepted them, that is.

You shock yourself when you realize that you really have accepted all that’s transpired. Granny Orimoto saved your life when she’d taken you in and, for that, you must always be grateful. But from what Rika shared with you about how she’d been treated as a small child, and from what you’ve observed from Yuuta’s generally traumatized disposition and extreme reluctance to come face-to-face with the old woman, you realize, now, that there is a reason why Granny Orimoto had no living family to speak to or rely on when she was in her final days.

Whether or not her death had something to do with Yuuta’s apparent preternatural abilities (you remind yourself to ask about that later), it remains clear that she’d been in ill health long before you’d arrived at the flower shop. With no one to talk to. No one to care for her. You’d always felt pity. But, now, you realize that it may have been a situation of her own doing.

How could you argue with the living, breathing testament to that fact, who stand before you in fresh-faced, smiling glee?

“Of course I accept you both,” you say, earnestly, and mean it. “Rika is too cute not to love!” The young girl giggles, bashfully burying her face in Yuuta’s neck.

“And what about me?” Yuuta’s brows are quirked, his smile dipping into something a bit more cutting, a touch more heated than his simple joy from moments ago. “Am I cute enough to love, too?”

The answer is simple and requires no effort on your part: “I love you, Yuuta.”

You had more to say after that, but it proves a bit challenging to monologue your undying devotion to this man while said man is currently enveloping your mouth inside of his own. He kisses like a black hole: devouring, dark, impossibly comprehensive, and providing you without hope for possible escape.

He really is your type.

;

After those first seven days, Yuuta finally begins training at the shop. And Rika joins in, as well.

The three of you make an odd, adorable little family unit. After Yuuta had taken care of cleaning and renovating the apartment space upstairs, the three of you moved in without further delay. Your days are filled with home-cooking, raising Rika, maintaining the shop, and working alongside the man who has quickly made himself to be your life partner in every endeavor.

In fact, so much of your life is consumed with this newfound domesticity that there is little reason for you to leave the shop in the first place. Whenever you stray too far outside, you are prone to headaches, dizziness, fatigue, and even fever. It’s best to stay where is familiar, you reason. And Yuuta’s cooking is too good for you to want to eat anywhere else. He makes sure you eat three times a day, at least, and insists you finish your plate every time. Perhaps this is why you can’t stand life outside of this four, cozy walls – where else could you possibly find contentment such as this?

The business is re-named to “Rika’s Flower Shop,” which all three of you find quite agreeable given the current state of affairs. More customers than ever flow in, attracted by the colorful designs hand-painted by Rika herself on the building exterior. You generate enough revenue for additional renovations to be made on the shop. There is enough room in the budget to hire some part-time shop hands – local university students in the area looking to support themselves.

Everything is coming to fruition. For once, you truly feel as though life is blossoming.

And you can attribute all of it, every last bit of happiness, to them: Granny Orimoto, Rika, and Yuuta. The happiness is so overwhelming that you don’t ever want to leave their side, not even to run to the konbini, or to visit the post office. Why would you need to leave, when everything you’ve ever wanted is right here?

You have a family, a home, a life. You’ll remain in this shop with your loves until the day you grow as old and sickly as Granny Orimoto, and you’ll likely die upstairs, lying next to Yuuta, the both of you wrinkled and gray, curled together atop the futon, exactly where Granny had wheezed her last, bitter breath.

You wonder if Rika was there to watch it happen. You wonder if Rika will be there to see the both of you off, too.

You hope so. You really, really hope so.

You’re sure death will be every bit the dream you’re hoping it will be.

[windvexer]

Heylo! I wanted to ask about your experience post initiation if that's alright .i recently did a tarot reading and got told that to please spirits in order to begin a good working relationship, i must contemplate and be ready to be Changed. there were lots of signs that it could lead to feelings of isolation, and otherness but it will lead me deep into myself (sry if this is too long.) i want to know if u went through something similar, or something else, and is it worth it personally for you. I would also love some pointers as to what I'm supposed to contemplate about. I don't mind the isolation but maybe I'm not understanding some key aspect of it. anyway thank you and i love your blog it's an irreplaceable resource for me. :)

Hi :)

Spirit-lead initiation into witchcraft is a controversial topic, I think in part because it can be very uncomfortable to discuss.

I have been relatively open on my blog that my initiatory experience was extremely painful and required a level of sacrifice and transformation that I was too immature to comprehend at the beginning of the process. Even now it's not something I'm sure I could articulate.

For me it was a process that lasted the majority of a decade. I think this is a relatively average timeline - which I just bring up because I think it's useful to point out that if you are facing the same sort of thing that I faced, it's not just going to be over in a few weeks or months.

Was it worth it personally for me? I don't know. Right now, my answer is that I love who I am and I like my life, and I wouldn't be who I am or have this life if I didn't go through that process. I used to say I'd never do it again if I had the choice. Now, a few years after the fact, sometimes I say I'd do it again. Maybe in a decade I'll think it was worth it.

It's my belief that the sort of initiatory process I, and others, have gone through, isn't necessary for most people to form a good working relationship with the spirits.

I believe that if you have the choice, you should very, very carefully contemplate initiation and only agree to it after a prolonged period of reflection.

So, what's there to contemplate? I dunno. Otherness on the path to spirit-working was a major part of my trip, so if we are kindred, here's maybe something to contemplate:

You are a boulder. You are a very nice boulder in the wilderness. You're composed of many varieties of minerals and metals. You are a gorgeous boulder, glittering in the sunlight, hosting a unique map of inclusions and ore veins unlike any other boulder in the world.

You sit high up on a mountainside. A few meters behind you is a river. Below you is a dry valley.

The waters of the river are pressing up behind you. They rush past you, sweeping by, continuing their eternal circuit in the mountain-range, but rarely trickling into the dry valley below.

One day, you gain an interest - as some boulders do - in allowing some of the water to trickle past you into the valley below. The secrets of nature will allow you to sometimes let water to lap up over your sides, and through narrow crevices, to water the plants you find to be most beautiful, and provide drinking pools for the little animals you hold most dear.

Little by little, the valley beneath you begins to change as you apply yourself to learning the secrets of nature and letting the water flow past you.

After some time, the water begins to whisper in your ear. It appreciates your interest in its flow - it likes your focus on the river. A deal can be brokered:

The river will dissolve only some of the minerals and inclusions that run through you, creating hollow tunnels. Through these tunnels, the water can flow much more easily and rapidly.

But there are conditions.

The conditions are that whatever is washed away can never be returned. How could it? What force in the universe could restore the crystalline structure within you once the waters have carried it away?

And, the river chooses which inclusions will be removed. The river is very wise in these matters; it knows better than anyone how water can best flow through any boulder. It isn't up to you to choose what leaves, and it isn't up to you to choose the nature in which the water will flow through you.

Finally, if you use the secrets of nature to ever stop the flow of water through the new inclusions, you are at risk of crumbling away. The empty caverns within you will dry up and leave you empty in places that should be whole.

The river asks you to contemplate and return with an answer.

Of course it leads you deep into yourself. The river is going to run right through you.

[sapphicbookclub]

A Master of Djinn by P. Djèlí Clark

Cairo, 1912: Though Fatma el-Sha’arawi is the youngest woman working for the Ministry of Alchemy, Enchantments and Supernatural Entities, she’s certainly not a rookie, especially after preventing the destruction of the universe last summer.

So when someone murders a secret brotherhood dedicated to one of the most famous men in history, al-Jahiz, Agent Fatma is called onto the case. Al-Jahiz transformed the world 50 years ago when he opened up the veil between the magical and mundane realms, before vanishing into the unknown. This murderer claims to be al-Jahiz, returned to condemn the modern age for its social oppressions. His dangerous magical abilities instigate unrest in the streets of Cairo that threaten to spill over onto the global stage.

Alongside her Ministry colleagues and her clever girlfriend Siti, Agent Fatma must unravel the mystery behind this imposter to restore peace to the city -or face the possibility he could be exactly who he seems…

Genres: fantasy, historical, steampunk, romance

Order from Blackwell's here and get free worldwide shipping!

[talonabraxas]

Orion's belt aligned with the Giza pyramids. Al Nitak points to the Great Pyramid. The gods left many signs using mathematics and astronomy, especially those signs built into the Great Pyramid.

Lions Gate Portal 8/8

August 8th, known as the Lions Gate, has been revered for several thousand years as the date that marks the peak of an influx of high-frequency energy onto planet Earth from the star Sirius, which is in its closest proximity to earth from July 26th through August 12th – the full period of the Lions Gate opening or Galactic New Year. Second in brightness only to the sun, to Ancient Egyptians this star was revered as their “Spiritual Sun” and referred to as Auset’s star Sopdet – Spdt, meaning “she who is sharp.”

The Lions Gate is the annual season when Spdt comes into her most pristine alignment with Re [the Sun], Geb [the Earth], and Sah – the Hunter constellation identified with ancient Egypt’s King Ausar – called Orion in Greek. During this cosmic portal, Sopdet – the spiritual Sun – emits an ancient activating energy so powerful as to cause the annual inundation which has sustained Nile River Valley communities over several millennia, whilst spurring the collective ascension of human consciousness throughout earth – the land or house of Geb/Keb. As God Djehuti proclaimed, “If the truth must be told, this land is indeed THE TEMPLE OF THE WORLD…” The August 8th peak of the Lions Gate is when Sopdet is said to perfectly align with the shaft from Queen Auset’s Chamber within the Great Pyramid of Giza, in concert with that from King Ausar’s Chamber aligning with Alnitak, one of the three stars of the Hunter constellation’s belt. Known as the “3 Wise Men” or the “3 Sisters,” these three stars form the cosmic blueprint from which the complex known as the Pyramids of Giza was built.

“As above, so below… As within, so without” are codes which remain key to Kemet’s ancient Mystery System. Thus, the Nile River represents the Milky Way (called Maziwa Mkuu in Kiswahili, meaning ‘great milk’) on earth ‘below’ as in heaven ‘above’. Two lions are said to hold open this magnificent time-space portal, one of which is represented by the Great Sphinx whose figure is an earthly representation of the constellation of Leo and a key piece of the puzzle of relationships within the Milky Way galaxy ‘above & below’. Lying on the west bank of the Nile river, the Great Sphinx is poised with its tail to the west [where the sun exits] as it faces directly east towards the sun’s reentry. The Lions Gate [7/26 – 8/12] opens within the astrological season of Leo, adding to the influx of regal energy from the alignment between Earth and the Universe’s Galactic Center, which reaches its peak on 8/8 over African soil. It is a powerful reminder of Heaven-on-Earth’s potency, symbolized ‘within & without’ through the quintessential Divine Love that exists between cosmic Hunter Ausar and his earthly Gatherer, Throne Queen, and Spiritual Sun – Auset.

According to the mythology of Ausar-Auset, in a jealous bid to usurp their Heaven-on-Earth throne, Set murders King Ausar, dismembering his body into 14 parts and scattering them in the wilderness [African Diaspora] so as to prevent his resurrection and return. Set the antagonist is god of chaos, foreign oppressors, violence, perversion, illness, and the desert who caused Egypt to be widowed of the gods and humanity to be trapped in his false predatory & parasitic matrix. After widow Auset searches the wilderness and manages to retrieve and mummify only 13 of her husband’s mutilated body parts, it is up to Heru, her posthumously/immaculately-conceived son with King Ausar, to become the Warrior who avenges his father’s fate and restores divine order to the kingdom by defeating Set…

Pyramid texts speak of Heru as the Great Lion: “Horus who comes forth from the acacia to whom it was commanded: ‘Beware of the lion’. May he come forth to whom it was commanded: ‘Beware of the lion’.” [Pyramid Text 436a-b]

Africa’s Acacia tree, which is sacred to goddess Auset, has long been associated with ancient mysteries including the secrets to life, death, healing, sustenance, and resurrection – hence their organic ties to matriarchal goddesses. Linked to the Akashic Records, the astral ancestral library where everything that has or will ever occur is recorded, the Acacia trees in Heliopolis were thought to have been the birthplace of the very first deities. Heliopolis (called On in Lower Egypt), was the ancient worship center of sun-god Re whose celestial boat was made of Acacia wood in its hind parts (palm wood in its fore-parts). The mythologies of Ausar-Auset are Heliopolitan in their derivation and orientation, e.g. the reference to Ausar as ‘the one in the tree… the solitary one in the acacia.’ This saying was based on the version of their story in which Auset releases her husband’s body from a pillar in Byblos [a prophecy relating to the scripted bible?] that had been fashioned out of the tree which enclosed the coffin King Ausar had been tricked into entering as Set’s ploy to usurp/colonize Egypt’s throne. Symbolizing the immortality of the soul in Freemasonry, the thorny acacia tree otherwise represents Ausar’s backbone, depicted as the Djed Pillar in this particular mythological account.

Trees act as resurrection portals and/or gateways between worlds in ancient Egyptian Mysteries, such as the Sycamores (associated with goddesses Nut & Hathor) through which Re rises as the Sun each day from the east: “I know the two sycamores of turquoise between which Re comes forth, when he passes over the supports of Shu to the gate of the lord of the east from which Re comes forth” [Book of the Dead: Ch. 109]. Auset & Nepthys were regarded similarly as “the two Acacias.” Thus, these Mother Trees act as do the two lions which hold open the portal for the “Spiritual Sun” Sopdet to rise as the consort of Sah during the Lions Gate season, in order to usher forth the blessings of the Galactic New Year with the annual inundation of the Nile River. Their child, hawk god Heru-Sopdu is referred to as “Lord of the East,” thus presaging mythologies surrounding the Ausar-Auset-Heru trinity as archetypal personifications of key spiritual motifs that connect us organically to our higher selves… “As above, so below.”

“As within, so without” is a principle that plays out in the eternal relationship that exists between Ausar-Auset, their love representing a Heaven-on-Earth divine order, which is interrupted by the chaos that Set’s predatory & parasitic rule brings, i.e. until Heru is able to successfully accomplish his Hero’s Journey and restore Ma’at/UbuNtu… unity-consciousness. For Africa, the earthly source and staging of these love-as-salvation narratives, Set is representative of a false matrix built on slavery, (neo)colonialism, apartheid, misogyny, misogynoir, etc. – controlling foreign narratives which have in-formed external elite-run global systems & misled most of humanity into profound states of isolation, alienation, disconnection, and disorientation from organic & natal bonds. Heru – “[the Lion] who comes forth from the acacia…” [Pyramid Text 436a-b] – thus has his work cut out for him.

Again, in this case the acacia reference represents a fascinating organic matriarchal portal between worlds for Heru as a human prototype resident in each of those who do not entertain predatory or parasitic relationships of dysfunctional dependency [read “slavery… apartheid… (neo)colonialism… misogyny… misogynoir…”], but strategically translated into self-referential Europatriarchal scripture as mankind’s singular “savior” [Jesus]. Deep inside Africa – the regal lion‘s natal home – the acacia tree itself has a characteristic dome-shaped canopy due to the way indigenous giraffes graze, which they have to do carefully because the acacia senses this feeding activity and releases tannin, a defensive poison that can kill from the overgrazing of its leaves. The acacia then emits ethylene on the wind, a chemical that alerts other acacia trees to preemptively defend themselves against “predators” by producing tannin also. DMT, a hallucinogen associated with spiritual experiences, is present in various species of the tree such as the Acacia Nilotica.

The Lions Gate represents so much to so many, especially during this dramatic period of humanity’s ascension in 2020 (Gregorian timeline). Feline power, highly revered in Kemet, is front and center as the astrological symbol for Leo and also as the identity of the African goddess annointed as “Opener of Heaven’s Door.” Among her other titles, Goddess Seshat – “Foremost of the per-Ankh” – is also known as the “Panther Goddess” and “She of Seven Points” in reference to her highly emblematic dress and crown, respectively. Appropriated by Europatriarchs in their design of Lady Liberty following America’s post-Civil War end of slavery, Seshat‘s 7-pointed crown has symbolically countered the racist & misogynistic tendencies of false 3D matrix systems. Seshat‘s traditional panther-skin dress returns our consciousness to humanity’s African source and the need to descramble & purge predatory Victorian-era matrix codes which, during the receding Piscean era, morphed into parasitic neo-colonial arrangements, hijacking the human spirit and its potential. These & other ancient unity-conscious codes [UbuNtu] are key to human ascension and Heaven-on-Earth reparations in the dawning age of Ma’at... “Return, return, O Shulamite; return that we may look upon thee…” [SoS 6:13] “Behold, I come quickly: hold that fast which thou hast, that no man take thy crown.” [Rev. 3:11] Blessed Be…

[radiofreederry]

DC invites you to pitch ten comics to them. What do you go for?

DOCTOR MID-NITE (miniseries): House, MD meets Daredevil as blind vigilante doctors Pieter Cross and Beth Chapel handle cases at St. Camillus, the hospital for superheroes, where an emerging plot to use the Earth's superhumans as a transmission vector for a deadly disease forces them to race against time.

TEEN TITANS (ongoing): A coming-of-age story as Superboy assembles a new team of Teen Titans, featuring himself, veterans Static, Robin, and Solstice, new Titans Thunderheart and Animal Girl, and new characters Blue Lantern and Space Cadet, to provide a space for young heroes to come into their own and find themselves.

THE SPECTRE (miniseries): The Lord's Spirit of Vengeance comes to Earth to mete out justice in a horror story with a heavy dash of theology.

ADVENTURES IN THE DC UNIVERSE (ongoing): An anthology series in the vein of 52 which features rotating casts of second- and third-string DC characters, fleshing out their stories and giving them time to shine.

MYSTERY IN SPACE (miniseries): It's a galactic whodunit as Captain Comet and Adam Strange must team up to solve a murder at a United Planets summit before events spiral into a cosmic war.

STARFIRE (ongoing): Koriand'r moves to Malibu to start her life on Earth fresh, but this attempt at a reset is disrupted by threats from beyond the stars, seeking vengeance on Tamaran for crimes long forgotten, as well as the possibility of new romance between herself and Dick Grayson.

PIED PIPER (miniseries): Hartley Rathaway struggles to reintegrate into society as an ex-con, even with the support of his friend Wally West, the Flash. He is soon forced to re-don his costume and sonic weapons after he discovers that a serial killer is targeting Central City's homeless population.

MARY MARVEL (ongoing):After Billy Batson is forced to take the Wizard's place at the Rock of Eternity, his sister Mary steps up as the main bearer of the power of Shazam. She must now juggle superheroics and a normal life as she begins classes at Fawcett University, even as Billy's enemies target her for revenge.

DOCTOR FATE (miniseries): As war breaks out between the Lords of Order and Chaos, threatening to swallow the world in mystical pandemonium, Khalid Nassour must find a way to save the world and restore the magical balance.

BOOSTER GOLD AND THE LEGION OF SUPER HEROES (ongoing): During a mission gone awry, Booster Gold is de-aged into a teenager and stranded in the 31st Century. He joins the Legion of Super Heroes while searching for a way to restore himself, and his self-aggrandizement and materialism causes endless conflict with his altruistic and science-minded teammates.

[quietbrushstrokes]

I present to you: My babies! This is an alternate universe in which instead of narinder being the one who waits, It’s leshy !

Leshy is the bishop of chaos. With a name like The Bishop of Chaos you’d think he’d cause some, no? Well, In this universe, he does.

He causes so much, in fact, that his siblings chain him up in purgatory. Narinder had proposed death as a solution, but Shamura shut his idea down fast.

‘How could we kill our own brother?’

Wrong choice, Shamura.

Or maybe, right choice?

Now, employing the help of the last llama, he intends to regain control of not only dark wood, but every other realm. While causing a little chaos, ofcource.

(Yes I know the llama has the crown and weapon out, it was for aesthetic reasons dammit)

More beyond the break If you want more details on the au ⬇️

Our llama, now tasked with assassinating all of the bishops, decides this path is not for her. She doesn’t want to kill them. But She doesn’t want to be killed either. She starts her cult. Through old tombs etched into stone in each bishop’s domain, She learns the past of the bishops. Each bishop was born for good, Narinder the bishop of life, Heket the bishop of harvest, Kalamar the bishop of health, Shamura the bishop of peace. Each one turning to evil. Narinder the bishop of death, Heket the bishop of famine, Kalamar the bishop of Pestulance, Shamura the bishop of war.

Leshy’s tomb is etched out, and unreadable, but there are fragments of words. Chaos and order being the only readable words.

She knew what she had to do.

She meets with ???, the mystic seller, who informs her that to reform a bishop, you need god tears, but they must be defeated first. And be willing.

One by one, she takes down the bishops, and invites them to stay at her cult. Each one declines, so she locks them in a small area of their domain. She visits daily, bringing food, water, and kind words. The bishops slowly warm up to her, and each one begins to slowly feel indifference to their old ways. She soon gets her hand on god tears, and begins reforming the bishops. One by one, she restores peace. Until Leshy. As the bishop of chaos, he has no want for order, for kindness. He was also betrayed by the llama, who used their own crown against him.

Durning this time, She finds out what’s truly up with leshy from the other bishops. He was never born for order, never born for good. He was born as a normal Darkwood worm, and found the crown. It gave him power like nothing else, and he loved it. He fought with the crown for more of its power, corrupting it with his greed, making himself the bishop of chaos.

This all culminates in a final Battle. All of the reformed bishops fight with the llama against Leshy, weakening him until they can get him to stop fighting. Once he is weakened, they show him how life could be. He submits, and is turned into the bishop of order, and his crown returned.

The llama, now without a crown, and no longer a bishop, has completed her journey. She knows she did the world a justice, and rejoices in the fact she reformed a world so set in its ways when they couldn’t see the wrong they had done.

….and that’s all I’ve got so far- I’m not sure if she dies, lives on as a normal mortal running her cult, maybe the bishops grant her immortality? I was also tossing around the idea that the bishops donate a bit of their power to create a crown for her, making her the bishop of something? Maybe the bishop of wisdom or perseverance or something? I never got that far.

I don’t know if I’ll continue this au, but I had this cooking in my brain soup, and figured I could pour out a bowl to sample. I might draw the reformed bishops later on if I get bored. This was fun to brainstorm though!

[everybodyknows-everybodydies]

okay so before I can talk about some things I have to establish some other things, and I'm shaking all the bees out of my brain today with great vigor, which means, without further ado: a brief overview of How Does Restoration Work (according to people named Mouse who are me)

point zero: for the most part, simplistically, each school of magic can be thought of as a manipulation of something. enchanting and conjuration fall under different strains of manipulation of souls, illusion as manipulation of the mind, and so forth. restoration is manipulation of the body.

now first (and this might be stating the obvious lol, but I have to state it): it does not work 1:1 exactly like it does in-game. people do not actually have the handy-dandy HP bar, illness/injury does not translate to a single number ticking downwards, and healing is definitely not just "make number go back up" in a matter of seconds. when you're at a point where a hypothetical HP bar would be nearly depleted, anything that's fast is not going to have the kind of long-term payoff that you need, but it might get you somewhere safer so you have the time to dedicate to actually properly healing.

secondly: in order to fix something, you have to know how it works. magic is a tool; any tool is only as effective as whoever is wielding it. it doesn't take a lot of knowledge to close a paper cut that didn't even bleed, but a severed tendon is going to be a very different story. an accomplished healer must have extensive knowledge of the body and its various systems in order to ensure their healing attempt is not going to inadvertently cause a whole slew of other problems. doctors today go through over a decade of schooling and training; in the US at least you're looking at a minimum of four years of premed, four years of med school, and three to seven years of residency. personally I think healers should also be the school of magic that requires the longest time spent learning because... there IS so much to learn! an additional note is that restoration has the benefit we do not of being magic, though: I think that in a world where healing is executed largely through the hands with magic, it stands to follow that you are not going to want to physically open someone up every time you need to check something inside the body, and so for my purposes this leads us to healers cultivating a specialized, passive sense of the bodily interior through touch. I've described this previously as a bit like echolocation as magic is channelled through the body and allows the healer a sort of "sixth sense" of precisely what's going on and where, though an in-universe analog might be a highly-refined version of "detect life".

(but Mouse, one might say, that's not a restoration spell! correct! the classification of magic is arbitrary! now put a pin in that thought because it will be important at a later date. not today though stay with me here.)

thirdly: as any tool should not be alone in the toolbox, magic can be used as a supplement or supplemented by mundane resources. if you have the time for it, an open wound will benefit from being stitched together to hold shape before applying magical healing, resulting in the need to produce far less scar tissue than a wound that you try to heal without closing it first. you still need to know how to use a tourniquet, how to handle a dislocated shoulder, how to drain an abscess, etc. just like you wouldn't whip out your power tools to hang a single photo frame, you have to know when to rely on magical healing and when to take whatever steps you can non-magically.

fourthly: magical healing has limits. manipulation of the body is not an all-powerful solution. no deus ex machina healing here. the two major restrictions are (1) the body's natural capabilities, and (2) the body's preexisting material. a body is capable of much more than we generally achieve in day-to-day life and nobody is running at 100% capacity 24/7 (because you would die, very fast). restoration can amplify measures that are already in place, such as stimulating platelet clotting/fibrin production over a cut to scab it over rapidly - and then, if taken further, providing the energy for tissue repair to move entirely from cut to scab to scar. crucially you will note that you cannot skip a stage! the healer is using what the body already has available, just allowing it to happen on a compressed timescale by boosting the energy available and providing external direction. there is a LOT of potential regarding what a healer could be capable of just by stimulating production of different hormones or shuffling brain chemistry alone. but! to reiterate! restoration is manipulative, not additive: a healer may be able to reattach a limb if they get to you in time, but they can't grow you a new arm out of nothing.

fourthly, subpoint: magical healing has cost, for both the healer and the patient. the more severe the injury/illness is, the longer it will take to heal and to recover fully from the expedited healing process, and thus the more energy the healer has to expend. a healer is limited most sharply by the depth of their own magicka reserve; practicing to expand the amount of magicka one has access to is just as fundamental a skill as learning anatomy and physiology. this is why most healers don't work alone! being able to literally split up the work - I'll take the broken leg; you focus on the slipped rib - reduces the probability of running out of magicka mid-patient and allows for fewer required follow-up sessions to ensure recovery is proceeding the way it should.

(fourthly, sub-subpoint: this is also why Colette Marence, the only professional healer in Winterhold, deserves a significant raise and a vacation and if anyone asks "is there a healer around" somebody ELSE can take care of it for once-)

fifthly: potions! we know that alchemical concoctions are a separate beast entirely from magic as executed by a mage - namely, I point here to spell absorption/spell reflection not being triggered by drinking a potion. this could take us down a separate rabbit hole about alchemy tapping into the innate magicka stored in reagents and the way THAT works, but for now the relevant question is: how does a healing potion differ from a healing spell? primarily the difference is capacity for intent and direction: a healer, being a person, can focus in on the specific site of injury and identify exactly what's wrong and exactly what steps need to be taken to fix it most efficiently. a potion does not have this capacity for specificity and is instead subject to the direction of the body's natural systems. ingested, it will be dispersed through the digestive system and through the bloodstream; applied as a salve it may work faster, but this usage is limited to external injuries. strong healing potions therefore are great for boosting your natural healing capacities long enough to get you to an actual healer for more serious cases, and may be all someone relies on for less serious cases - similar to using over-the-counter medication for a cold versus going to see a doctor for bronchitis.

tldr: restoration IS a perfectly valid school of magic, and just because it emphasizes mundane knowledge alongside esoteric magical knowledge does not make it any less fascinating or worthwhile. thank you <3

[eldritch-spouse]

How would Krulu, Miara or saidars in general feel about lessors (somehow) becoming as powerful as them or becomes a god in their own right?

Inconceivable.

Unacceptable.

Something that must be stopped at all costs. As well as an opinion shared by both Krulu and Miara.

Letting humans become that powerful is like giving a monkey a machine gun.

Humanity would have the tools of gods at their disposal but neither the maturity nor the comprehension with which to properly use them.

It is more likely that we destroy universes than furnish them the way siadar do.

Fret not, for even if the astsar siadar fail to hold their ambitious creation back, another force will restore order.

[santoschristos]

Shakti & Shiva in YabYum: the divine representation of the union of energy and awareness. + Later, under the fig tree, the master explained. "AIl that has to be changed. The stallion must be turned into a mare, man into a woman.

There is no other way. You remember how full of joy the mare was, anticipating her strength even before any thing happened? And then afterward it was she who was triumphant.

This is the story of the race. Woman came from man, but once the two sexes became independent, it was inevitable that one would devour the other. That is what the universe is: someone gives and someone receives.

There is always a sacrificial victim. Many people believe that the only way to avoid this cycle is asceticism and chastity. But this never works, for in one way or another the individual is devoured.

Always the man's role is secondary. The mare devours the stallion who has impregnated her, the bee kills the drones, the primeval mother carries around her neck the primordial Lingam.

Every mother, mare, goddess and woman is a devouress, and in one form or other every male is castrated and consumed." He paused.

To change all this we must redirect the tremendous energy that you saw in the stallion. We must restore the original principle of male passivity and female activity. The world was created not by the masculine ptinciple but by the feminine. Love must learn to follow this course. Only those willing to learn how to love women in a different way, murdering them out wardly in order to permit an inner rebirth, will find the immortal city of Agharti.

"The key moment is when the semen is ejaculated. When the stallion ejaculates, he becomes impoverished. The role of the male appears to end while the female's begins. But semen is also soma and should be Conserved.

It should not spurt outward but inward.

Outwardly it can only create children of the Aesh, while inwardly it makes sons of the spirit. Outwardly it plays the mother's game; inwardly the male is impregnated and engenders the son of man.

"No sons of the flesh are born in this loveless love. There are only sons of the spirit, escaping cyclical life, who are created when the semen is driven inward, giving them eternal life."

"Semen is a visible aspect of the great power of which we are all a part. It is OM made into substance. It is the movement of the sun within your blood and of the sea of life within your body. It is also the word you use to communicate with the gods.

You must therefore preserve it if you wish to enter Agharti." The disciple said that he had seen statues of Siva and Paryati making love on the walls of the temple but he did not under stand how the semen was to be withheld.

"You must discovcr this for yourself. You must transform a natural act into a ritual, changing it into something supernatural. Ordinary sexual life does not create magicians or Siddhas; it merely perpetuates the human race. You will therefore have to follow a different road, also in the company of a woman so that you will both be saved. If she is not with you, something will be left unfulfilled and incomplete. You will have attained nothing.

Even at the ends of their lives, saints and ascetics con tinue to yearn for women. The technique you must follow is therefore not something you learn but something you must grow to understand. At the moment of ecstasy Siva remains motion less; he does not ejaculate his semen. She, Parvati, is the active one, for when woman does not rcceive, she gives.

From her skin the woman transmits a substance which enters the man's blood and becomes a part of him. It creates a unity within him. The seed is planted, and he enters the city of Siddhas. Pure sexuality echoes a desire to return to the ancestral home. It is a return to unity: true sex is the nostalgia of the gods.

"You are carried beyond the realm of ordinary existence. The life of a magician goes against nature: it proceeds in the opposite direction." --El/Ella ~ Book of Magic love

art: Expanding Universe by Alphachanneling

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

Come Now, Little Duke | The Good Stuff

Okay, so if you can't tell I've been going through some of your stories again and catching up on updates and asdfjlk you're such an amazing writer! The personality you give the characters is so good it makes me want to scream and your prose? *chef's kiss* Is it alright if I hit you with another prompt? You've written a lot of Janus comforting Roman (which I love), but I just got caught up in Come Now, Little Prince (I think it just might be my favourite of your stories) and Janus comforting Remus filled my heart in ways I can't describe. Could we get more of our favourite danger noodle comforting, protecting, and being possessive of the trash rat? – twoalpacas

Read on Ao3

Warnings: gunshot, blood loss, passing out from injury, mentions of being on heavy painkillers/drugs

Pairings: dukeceit

Word Count: 1420 (it's what he would've wanted.)

Remus had never seen Janus fight before. That's why he's there—to get hurt for him, to do the dirty work, to pull the necessary levers and little administrative violences. But Janus was a breathtaking fighter. If Remus hadn't already been clocked rather hard on the head, dazed and on the ground, ready to pass out, he might have swooned at the sight.

The attackers dropped.

Janus was at his side in an instant, expression intent.

"You don't like getting your hands dirty," he slurred.

"I don't like losing my best operative either. Don't worry, I'll get you to clean the blood off my hands on your knees when you're not dying," Janus said, still a little too concerned to be his normal unflappable self, "restore the order of the universe."

Remus snorted and regretted it. Wounded was not good for laughing.

"Come on, then," Janus said, grunting as he slid an arm under Remus's back, "these new clothes are coming out of your budget if you can't get them clean."

An order was an order. He gritted his teeth and hauled himself up, an injured hand pressing against the gunshot wound. An involuntary hiss through his teeth as pain ravaged his limbs followed by a moment of surprise as Janus's body pressed warm and solid against his side.

"Stay awake until we get to the car," he muttered as they slowly made their way through the carnage, "then you can pass out."

Get to the car. Get to the car. Get to the car.

He was still conscious by the time they finally made it to the car, but Janus was practically dragging him to the door. Air passed weakly through his lips as he fumbled woozily for the door handle.

Janus's voice mumbled something but it sounded like it was coming through syrup. Pain fluttered like static across his field of vision and his head slipped down.

He opened his eyes.

A ceiling stared back at him. He blinked. Outside didn't have ceilings. He must be inside. But cars didn't have ceilings that looked like this. So they must be inside inside somewhere. Did he make it to the car? He hoped he made it to the car. Janus said to make it to the car.

"Good. You're awake."

Remus turned his head to see Janus pulling a chair up to the bed. He…how long had he been like this?

"You've been out for about an hour," Janus said, "welcome back."

Remus swallowed. His mouth felt like it was full of cotton. "Why…why'm I so…sthlow?"

"A combination of your injuries and the sedatives, plus the gauze in your mouth." Gloved hands reached up to pry it out, leaving his mouth slightly less cottony, but only slightly. He blinked slowly. Janus tutted and reached back up, brushing a bit of hair from his face and whistling lowly. "They got you good, huh? I've never seen so much blood all over your pretty face."

If Remus hadn't lost so much blood, he probably would've blushed.

"Wha—" he tried to swallow some of the cotton— "wha'd Doc say?"

"Let's just stick to the good news for now," Janus said darkly, "which is that you're not dying anymore."

Oh. That was good news. As Janus stood and turned away, he remembered something. He gritted his teeth and started to get up.

"And what," Janus said sharply, "do you think you're doing?"

Remus gestured weakly. "Your hands."

"And what about my hands?"

"'M supposed to clean them."

Confusion furrowed Janus's brow until he realized what Remus was talking about and he rolled his eyes. "Get back in the bed," he said, exasperated, "you're not out of the woods just yet."

Oh. A bed. Is that was he was laying on> But his bed didn't look like that. Or feel like that. His ceiling didn't look like that either. But orders were orders.

Janus had disappeared by the time he lay back down. He blinked, still slightly woozy. Blood loss, probably. Or the pain. But he couldn't feel much pain right now. That was bad, right? When you couldn't feel that it hurt?

"Don't shift around too much," Janus said lowly, sitting next to him again, "just because we've got you on the good stuff doesn't mean you won't do any more damage."

He stilled, lying there motionless, until Janus sighed and shifted.

"I've never seen you this quiet before," he said, "outside of a stakeout or when you're asleep."

Remus didn't say anything.

"Here." Janus turned his head gently so it lay facing him. "There's still blood on you."

Remus just blinked as Janus started to dab at his forehead with a tissue. His brow was drawn in concentration, his gaze on his work. He caught Remus looking and raised an eyebrow.

"Yes?"

Remus blinked. Several expressions flickered across Janus's face and he dropped the tissue.

"What is it?" he barked. "Tell me what hurts, right now. Did they wear off already?"

"'M sorry."

"Don't apologize, just tell me what hurts. Did you pull your stitches out?"

"'M sorry, Boss."

Janus paused, gaze darting all over Remus's face, before he reached out and cupped his cheeks in his hands. "Tell me what you're sorry for," he instructed softly, "and then tell me why you're crying."

Crying? Remus was crying? Oh. That was bad. This was wrong. Janus wasn't kind to him. Janus wasn't gentle with him. He was only kind and gentle when he was lying or when he wanted something. Maybe that was why he was being kind and gentle right now, because Remus did so bad.

"I did bad," he mumbled, voice catching and hiccupping a few times, "I—I did bad."

"What did you do," Janus asked, hands still warm on his face, "what was bad?"

"Y' said 'good stuff,'" Remus managed, "good stuff's only for…for when it's bad and—and if it's bad then I did bad. I did bad."

Janus's eyes widened. That was bad too, right? Yes. If he did bad then that meant it wasn't good and if it wasn't good then Janus would be mad and if Janus was mad then that was bad.

"Oh, you poor thing," he heard distantly before the warm hands were on his torso, "come on, now, up you sit. Sit up, just like that, that's it."

He couldn't breathe properly. Why couldn't he breathe properly? Breathing hurt. Breathing wasn't supposed to hurt. If he did so bad that breathing hurt then Janus would be really mad.

"Easy, now." Something warm settled on his abdomen. "Slow in down. Nice and easy, come on, relax."

But Janus was mad—

"I'm not mad, sweetie," the gentle voice said, "calm down, now."

The gentle voice began to lull him, breathing becoming less and less like dragging himself over razor wire and more like just inhaling and exhaling. The warmth settled on his face again.

"I expect my agents to fear me," he heard distantly, "but not like this. I don't like seeing you like this. If you're ever like this again, you come and you find me, do you understand? I'll make it better."

Remus blinked.

"…you can't understand a word I'm saying, can you?" The warmth passed over his face. "You poor thing. Oh, you poor, sweet thing…"

Remus let out a whimper as he was moved.

"Shh, shh, it's alright now. No more thinking for you right now. You go to sleep while the drugs wear off, okay?"

S-sleep? He could sleep?

"Yes, you can sleep. It's okay, just fall asleep whenever you need to. I have you." Something soft and slightly damp pressed against his forehead. "I'll look after you for now."

The last thing he thought he felt was something warm and wet cleaning the blood from his hands.

General Taglist: @frxgprince@potereregina@gattonero17@iamhereforthegayshit@thefingergunsgirl@awkwardandanxiousfander@creative-lampd-liberties@djpurple3@winterswrandomness@sanders-sides-uncorrect-quotes@iminyourfandom@bullet-tothefeels@full-of-roman-angst-trash  @ask-elsalvador @ramdomthingsfrommymind@demoniccheese83@pattonsandershugs @el-does-photography @princeanxious@firefinch-ember@fandomssaremysoul@im-an-anxious-wreck@crazy-multifandomfangirl @punk-academian-witch@enby-ralsei@unicornssunflowersandstuff@wildhorsewolf @thetruthaboutthesun @stubbornness-and-spite @princedarkandstormv  @your-local-fookin-deadmeme @angels-and-dreams@averykedavra @a-ghostlight-for-roman @treasurechestininterweb @cricketanne @queerly-fluid-fan @compactdiscdraws@cecil-but-gayer@i-am-overly-complicated@annytheseal@alias290@tranquil-space-ninja @arxticandy @mychemically-imbalanced-romance@whyiask@crows-ace @emilythezeldafan@frida0043 @ieatspinalcords @snowyfires@cyanide-violence@oonagh2@xxpanic-at-the-everywherexx@rabbitsartcorner @percy-07734@triflingassailantofmyemotions @virgil-sanders-the-gay-emo@cerulean-watermelon@puffed-up-bees@meltheromanstan@joyrose-fandomer@insanitori@mavenmush@justablah65@10paradox10@uhhh-hi-there-i-am-nervous@cutebisexualmess@bella-bugatti-frogetti-baguetti@ultrageekygirl

[eretzyisrael]

NEW YORK — Columbia University has agreed to take additional steps to make its students feel secure on campus under a settlement reached Tuesday with a Jewish student who had sought a court order requiring the Ivy League school provide safe access to the campus amid protests against Israel over its war in Gaza with Hamas.

The law firm representing the plaintiff in the lawsuit, filed as a class action complaint, called the settlement a “first-of-its-kind agreement to protect Jewish students from extreme on-campus Gaza war protestors.”

Under the agreement, Columbia must create a new point of contact — a Safe Passage Liaison — for students worried for their safety. The liaison will handle student safety concerns and coordinate any student requests for escorts through an existing escort program, which must remain available 24/7 through at least December 31, according to the agreement.

The settlement also makes academic accommodations for students who couldn’t access campus to complete assignments or exams, among other provisions. The Jewish plaintiff, known by the initials CS, said Columbia’s decision to let students take classes online in response to the protests showed that the school had become too dangerous for Jewish students to receive the education they were promised.

“We are pleased we’ve been able to come to a resolution and remain committed to our number one priority: the safety of our campus so that all of our students can successfully pursue their education and meet their academic goals,” a university spokesperson said in a written statement.