#read this in the voice of a man who's been chronically unable to listen to more than 1 story podcast episode

[drawnecromancy]

This year i'm going to try the re:dracula version of doing the dracula thing.

[angst-fairygodmother]

Scenario 18 and/or dialogue 23with Nathan and the Misfits crew might be fun?

A/N: I think I had a little too much fun with this one... Also if anyone wants recommendations for creepy carnival/circus music to add ambiance check the tags for my listening-list. Word Count: 4032 Content Warnings: death, murder, death threats, attempted murder, implied threat of sexual violence (very implied)

“Ugh,” you groaned, leaning on the railing outside the community center. “How long is that going to be there?”

The others looked to where you were gesturing to the bright colorful tents and flagpoles being set up on the far end of the park. 

“The carnival is going to be in town for a week,” Simon said, shrugging. “It’s not so bad, although it does mean a lot more people around.”

“Yeah, but it’s a carnival. There’s halls of mirrors and kettle corn and candy floss,” Nathan listed off, sounding more excited than he usually let you all see. “And clowns!”

“I hate clowns,” you said with a shudder.

“Don’t act like you do,” Curtis muttered, casting a glance over at Nathan and rolling his eyes.

You glared before turning your attention to your boyfriend, who had decided to take up his usual antics and was hanging over the rail by his knees (and one hand which he tried to hide) like he was trying to be a trapeze artist and hassling Kelly, who kept threatening to push him over into the lake. 

“Nathan Young, this lake is worse than the Bog of Eternal Stench, and if you end up in it, I’m not shagging you for a week,” you called over.

He shot up instantly, almost losing his balance in his scramble to get not only off the rail but as far from it as he could, as if the water could reach up and drag him in. Suddenly his attention was caught by a poster on the nearby column and he wandered over to it. Curious, you all followed, leaning around to read the bright purple page. 

‘Raven Brothers’ Carnival and Sideshow! Now hiring local performers with unique talents to be featured in our show!’

“We should totally do it,” Nathan said. “I mean with our powers, we’ll be a hit.”

“Mine’s not exactly one I want to be showing off,” Alisha pointed out, flinching at the thought, “so I’ll pass.”

“Fair point, what about the rest of us?” Nathan looked around the group, none of you particularly keen on the idea of using your powers like cheap tricks, especially not so close to home where you were sure to be seen by loved ones and neighbors.

“No,” Simon said, shaking his head determinedly. “It’s not right. We shouldn’t abuse our powers like that.”

Well, it wasn’t quite the voice of reason you were hoping for, but it was close, so you half-heartedly agreed.

“Well I’m going to anyway. It says ‘cash paid.’” Nathan snapped, trying to play off his hurt that you had all sided against him off as nonchalance. 

“Nathan…” you sighed, curling your fingers around his bicep, only to be shrugged off as he stormed in the direction of the carnival.

“It’ll be fine...right?” you asked the others, a bit fearfully. No one answered you, Kelly and Alisha casting you sympathetic glances and Curtis shrugging before all four of them turned back to gather their things and carry on with work for the day.

~

“The Playhouse?” Nathan read the sign above the red structure that had been erected with surprising speed given how sturdy it looked. “Kinky.” 

He had followed the signs, and then the crowd of freaks, here so that he could audition. But now that he was here...he fidgeted, running a hand through his unruly hair. 

He wasn’t nervous exactly, he told himself, trying to maintain his bravado even as an internal monologue. He just wished Y/N was here, to give him a kiss for luck. Not that he needed luck when he had charm and natural talent. He just liked the excuse to kiss her. Yeah, that was it.

Taking a deep breath, he pushed the little black door open and strode into the dim, velvet-lined interior. He had to admit, it was spookier than he expected a carnival to be, but maybe that was just because it wasn’t all done up and lit yet.

“Hello,” an airy voice called to him. “Are you here for the auditions?”

His eyes fell to the small, dark haired woman at the front of the room, sitting in front of a raised stage. She had a clipboard in her hands and a very glittery tophat perched off-kilter on her head. “I’m the Head Floozy, I run all the stage performances and the carousel.” She offered him a brilliant grin.

He frowned, puzzled by her title, especially given that she certainly wasn’t dressed like a floozy in her loose jeans and bulky turtleneck sweater. Not that he would have noticed if she was. Because he had Y/N and would never look elsewhere when she was right there. But she wasn’t right there…

He shook his head, pulling his thoughts back to the woman who now raised her eyebrows questioningly at him.

“Oh, yeah. I am,” he answered, once again trying to play up the bravado.

“Great! I love how many young people are still performers at heart! What’s your name and your talent so I can add you to my list.”

“Nathan. Nathan Young,” he smirked. “And I’m immortal.”

“Sorry what?”

“I’m immortal. I’ve got this weird power from a freak storm and now whenever I die, I just come back to life. It’s great!”

She stared at him for a moment. “Well then, Nathan Nathan Young,” her voice held a hint of something dangerous under its lightness. “You just moved up to the first slot. Why don’t you hope up there on that stage and show me what you’ve got.”

“Oh…” he hadn’t thought about the fact that they’d want a demonstration. Too late now… “Well, of course! But I need some way to die first.”

“That won’t be a problem. You just hope on up and I’ll take care of the rest.”

Nathan climbed onto the stage. The woman pulled a wicked looking knife out of seemingly nowhere. She pulled her arm back and Nathan felt a jolt of regret, and pain as the knife embedded itself in his gut.

He sank to his knees with a wheezing groan.

A few moments later he woke with a gasp, his eyes flying open to find the Head Floozy standing over him, the knife (still covered in his blood) in her hand.

“Welcome back,” she chirped, a bright grin on her painted lips. 

She reached her free hand out to offer him help up. He decided not to take it, and her eyes narrowed but the smile never disappeared.

“You are definitely in. But, Nathan Nathan Young, do you have any friends with cool talents like yours?”

“Sure. My mate Kelly can read minds, and the weird kid, Barry, can make himself invisible. And my girlfriend…” he trailed off, your disapproving frown flashing across his mind.

“Whatever her power is, you can surprise me with it later,” the Floozy waved her hand dismissively. 

“What?” He frowned. 

She locked eyes with him, her face growing serious. “Bring them to me.” The command sounded nothing like her normal voice.

Nathan’s eyes went glassy for a moment and he found himself unable to resist, not wanting to even, before the world came back into focus.

“What was that?” he asked, having not heard what the woman said after asking if anyone else had powers. 

“Oh nothing!” That bubbly trill was going to get annoying fast, he thought. “Just be sure you’re here first thing tomorrow for rehearsal. We don’t have much time before the Grand Opening!”

After Nathan left the room, the Floozy turned to a man who had been watching from the shadows.

“This will be the Greatest Show Ever!” she exclaimed.

“Yes, a trick like that is sure to bring in the crowds,” he replied. “It might let us be stable for a while, not worry about it.”

~

A few days later, things were still tense between you and Nathan, and the others had convinced you that you should all go to the carnival, to support him and also just have some fun. It would be nice to have a change from just drinking at the bar or sitting around eating bad pizza for a change.

“I just want to state again for the record that I hate this, and if a clown comes at me, I’m punching first and asking questions never,” you protested weakly as the group strolled up to the ticket line. “And if it goes all Something Wicked This Way Comes, I will say I told you so.”

Even you had to admit that, all lit up in rainbow lights, with pennants fluttering in the breeze, and tasty smells and cheerful music floating out, the carnival did look pretty inviting.

“Five with Nathan Young?” Alisha asked the ticket attendant pleasantly.

The heavily face-painted man in the booth smiled. “Right this way. VIP treatment for all of you. These wristbands will let you skip the lines and get you a free funnel cake!” He ushered each of you over and you reached your hand over the counter to have the blue paper bracelet taped on. 

“And which one of you is the girlfriend?” 

You raised your hand meekly. 

“Ooh, good taste Mr. Young has!” the man exclaimed. “Come with me, young lady. Nathan has a special treat for you.”

“Eugh, gross,” Curtis muttered and the ticket attendant gave him a funny look before an exaggerated look of shock crossed his face.

“Oh, no! I didn’t mean it like that! Although I’ve only known him a week and I’d say he probably had it on his mind while arranging this…”

You flushed hotly.

“Let’s just...stop talking,” you pleaded. “You guys go ahead, I’ll catch up with you for funnel cakes later.”

The ticket attendant slapped a little cardboard sign on his booth to let the crowds know he’d be back later and led you away, winding confusingly through the crowds.

“So where are we going?” you asked. 

He shook his head. “I promised not to tell.”

Eventually, you were brought to a stop near the base of the ferris wheel. “Wait here.”

You nodded and the attendant disappeared, melting into the sea of people around almost as if he’d never been there. The minutes dragged on. You tapped your foot impatiently. If you were going to be here, you wanted to at least get to explore the show, not wait around for your chronically late boyfriend.

Suddenly a hand tapped you on the shoulder and you jumped, spinning around angrily, only to find laughing green eyes staring down at you, peeking out from behind a potted flower. 

“Nathan! Don’t scare me like that!” you shouted. You probably would have slapped him on the shoulder if it didn’t threaten to make him drop the plant.

“I was gonna do a bouquet, but I thought you might like something alive more,” he explained, holding it out for him. You took it, carefully, noticing that the clay was painted the exact shade of his eyes and had both your initials painted on it. 

“That’s sweet, Nathan,” you sighed, instantly forgiving him. “Although I don’t know what I’m going to do with a marigold all night…”

“Ye can keep in my dressin room and then we’ll get it at the end o’ the night.”

“Is this just an excuse to get me back to your dressing room for a quick shag?”

“No! I would never!” he pressed a hand to his chest in mock horror. “Unless ye wanted to…Actually I was gonna take you on a romantic ferris wheel ride but it took me longer t’ get here then it was s’posed to. So I gotta get back for the show...you’re comin right?”

“I don’t know Nathan…” you bit your lip apologetically. “You know I hate watching you die…”

“Please?” he whined, giving you those irresistible puppy dog eyes. “I need my best girl…”

“I had better be your only girl,” you said warningly before sighing. “Alright, fine. Lead the way.”

~

There was something strange going on. You were sure of it. The hairs on the back of your neck prickled as the lights in the theater dropped to signal the beginning of the show. And as much as you wanted it to be, it wasn’t just because carnivals creeped you out as a rule.

You couldn’t shake the feeling, even as you tried to enjoy the performances. And then your powers twinged and you looked down to see the marigold, balanced on your lap because you hadn’t had time to stash it before finding your seat, was wilting rapidly before your very eyes. 

The MC - a short, frighteningly pale woman with very little clothing and a very glittery top hat - came out on stage to announce the next act in her high, breathy voice that sounded better suited for a sex hotline. The clapping audience sounded smaller than it had in the beginning. The man came out, juggling a collection of fruits. You glanced at the person beside you and had to clap a hand over your mouth to stifle a scream. He was mummified!

You scrambled out of your seat, dropping the marigold corpse. The shattering of the pot against the laminated wood floor drew more eyes than you would have liked, but fewer than there should have been in the crowd. In particular, there was a man, dressed all in black, with a cold, cruel stare watching you now from the shadows at the edge of the stage. A shiver ran down your spine.

“Get her.” The MC called out in a voice that radiated power.

Everyone in the room moved toward you. Several performers came out from the wings, moving toward you. A familiar curly head appeared among them, moving toward you. Ice filled your veins and your stomach dropped like lead.

You ran.

~

You were panting and out of breath, cheeks stained with tears and desperate by the time you collided with the others, all standing around a bucket of kettle corn and watching a fire dancer.

“Oh thank god,” you cried, not caring that you had crashed directly into Curtis who had caught you in confusion and was staring.

“Y/N?” Kelly asked, confusion making her accent thicker. “Wot the fock happened to you.”

“Mummified...at the sideshow....evil...Nathan...mind control...have to…” you gasped, trying to explain around terror and exertion and your own heavy dose of confusion.

“Slow down, I can’t understand ya.”

You took a few deep breaths and finally pulled away from Curtis, who shrugged when you tried to apologize. You explained what you had seen and they all stared.

“I think having the plant with me saved my life, like my power used it to take the draining effect instead of me,” you concluded, sort of proud of it and sort of hoping you were wrong and imagining the whole ordeal.

“We have to save Nathan,” Simon stated matter-of-factly. “And stop the carnival from killing more people.”

“There could be more of them though. Everyone here could have powers and be in on it,” Alisha pointed out. “We should just go to the police.”

“Like they’ll believe us? They’ll book us all on suspicion for drugs,” Curtis countered, earning a dirty look from his ex-girlfriend.

“I’m with Simon. We have to try at least,” you said eventually.

The five of you settled on a plan and headed back to the Playhouse, not noticing the extra figure following in the shadows behind. 

~

The crowd was gone when you arrived and the building was dark. 

“Shit, they must be scattered looking for ya,” Kelly whispered, all of you hiding just in case. 

“Well then maybe we should let them find me,” you gritted your teeth, suggesting a new plan which involved you being bait for a trap.

Running back to the entrance, you spoke to the friendly ticket attendant again, finding out that the two people you described were The Floozy and Lloyd Raven, the two people who basically ran the show. 

“Great. Does this PA system broadcast to the whole carnival ground?”

“Yeah, why?” he asked.

“I need to borrow it.” Before he could say anything you grabbed the microphone, pressing the little button to activate it. 

“This is a message for The Floozy and Lloyd,” you called, hearing your voice echo tinnily over the speakers everywhere, cutting off the bouncy music. “Give me back my fuckin boyfriend or else!”

Then you thanked the attendant and made for the wide main lane. Nearby you spotted your friends in the shadows of a booth and took up your position. Alisha pointed to the booth, calling your attention not to the dart game, but the array of prizes: marigolds, succulents, peace lilies, and tiny philodendrons. You smirked. It might be their carnival, but you had a perfect counter to their home field advantage.

A few moments later, the pair came strolling out of the crowd, Nathan walking placidly and stiffly between them.

“Hello there,” the man, Lloyd, purred, tipping his purple velvet hat to you as they stopped, right at the perfect spot. 

“A fucking goatee?” you asked. “Really? Why not just wear a sign that says ‘I’m a villain’?”

“I don’t think you have much room to criticize my appearance dear. At least I have fashion, and the sense not to try threatening someone while wearing denim or ripped tights.”

“Let Nathan go.” You glared at them, reaching your powers out.

“But he’s ever so pretty,” the Floozy chirruped. “And would be so much fun to play with. Hey Lloyd, what if you fed off the immortal boy instead of the crowd?”

“I could sustain myself forever, and I just might. But it does so lack panache.”

Kelly looked ready to leap out at the Floozy. Curtis and Alisha were watching you for a sign that you needed them. Simon was nowhere in sight.

“Let. Him. Go. Now.”

“Oh fine,” Lloyd sighed dramatically, turning his head to the Floozy. “You know what to do dear.”

Her smile practically dripped venom as she leaned down to whisper something in Nathan’s ear. He started walking toward you, still stiff and glassy-eyed. You swallowed nervously, taking a step back. He increased his pace, running at you, hands outstretched, and definitely not for a hug.

And then suddenly he jerked to a stop in seemingly midair. You nodded in thanks to Simon, or where you approximated he was.

The grating sound of ‘Entry of the Gladiators’ blared over the speakers. 

“Fucking cliche,” you muttered, just as the first strands of trailing vine wrapped around the Floozy’s ankle. 

From there it was quick work to launch your attack, every little plant rising up to attack the two, subduing them and leaving them suspended upside down. Somehow their hats stayed on and irrationally it made you hate them more. 

“Release him, and everyone else from your stupid mind control,” you ordered once more. 

The rest of your friends had joined you by your sides, including a now-visible Simon who was still holding back Nathan, with aid of Kelly, to keep him from trying to throttle you.

“No,” she hissed.

“You know, we’ve figured out that when people die, it stops their power,” Alisha pointed out. You all whipped your heads around to stare, not expecting that suggestion to come from her of all people. 

“I can handle that,” an unknown voice said. 

“Who the fuck said that?” Curtis snapped, looking around. 

Meanwhile you absently shook the pair around by their binding vines, determined to knock at least one hat off without actually touching it.

“Me,” the firedancer from earlier said, stepping forward. “They killed my sister at their last show, so I hunted them down here. I would have introduced myself earlier, but you didn’t really give me a chance.”

Maybe after we’re done here you can heat things up with him, you suggested internally to Kelly, noticing the way her eyes roamed over the stranger.

She rolled her eyes at you, smiling.

“I was just going to use my power to smother them, but if you want to have a go, be my guest,” you said, gesturing invitingly to them.

You watched a ball of flame flicker in his hand.

“Oh!” you cried out, surprised that he had a power too.

Simon looked nervous, probably about the number of powers gathered in one place.

“Hey, you should use that talent to cause a tragic accident over at the Playhouse,” you said, off-handedly, hoping he would pick up on the suggestion of using a fire to cover up a mass murder.

He flashed you a smirk. “I like the way you think. But first, them. If you care about those greens, you might want to withdraw.”

“Nah they’re...actually wait, I really wanna do something first.” 

“This’s for threatening Nathan,” you growled. “And don’t think I don’t know what you meant.”

You narrowed your eyes, honing all your focus in on the Floozy. You whipped her up, high into the air and dropped her quickly down, jerking short just before she smacked into the ground. The stupid hat finally tumbled off her hair as she cried out in pain from the whiplash you had most definitely caused.

You grinned victoriously, and maybe a little manically if the looks the others gave you was any judge.

“Go ahead, I’m satisfied now.”

A few moments later, as the bodies burned, Nathan finally slumped, nearly knocking Simon to the ground as he became dead weight. Then he stirred.

“Where am I? What happened?” he asked, looking wildly around.

“Still at the carnival. You were mind controlled,” Simon explained, helping him right himself. 

“It’s a long story,” Kelly added.

“Y/N! Are you alright?” he asked, hurrying over to you and cupping your cheeks between his graceful hands. 

���Yeah, I’m fine,” you said. “How do you always end up the damsel in distress?”

He shrugged and flashed you a flirtatious smirk. “It’s because I’m so goddamn beautiful.”

“Hate to break up the party, but you should go so I can torch this place,” the firedancer said.

You all nodded, making your way to the entrance. 

“Hey wait, where is everybody?” Nathan asked. 

“I got them evacuated before we set our trap. The second time,” Curtis said, nonchalant. 

“But not the people at the show?” you asked.

He shrugged. “I didn’t go back that far. You know how it is.”

Later, the six of you, plus one firedancer (Andrew he was apparently called) lounged against the rail, passing around a joint and watching the flames of the carnival lick at the night sky, reflecting beautifully in the lake. The fire department would be there soon, and until then, Andrew assured you, it wouldn’t spread past the farthest tents. All in all, it wasn’t a bad end to the night.

“Hey, Y/N, can I talk to ya?” Nathan asked, pulling you aside.

“Are you alright Nathan?” you asked, concerned that the mind control had some lingering effect. 

“Hm? Yeah. I just...tonight was s’posed to be special and I fucked that up,” he started, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. “But I wanted you to know anyway, I think I’m in love with you.”

“What?! Nathan, tonight has been a mess. You tried to kill me!” You cried incredulously. 

“That wasn’t my fault! You said yourself I was mind controlled,” he whined guiltily, dropping his voice as the others looked over curiously. “And it’s still how I feel…”

You sighed. It was no fun giving him a hard time if it made him actually feel bad.

“I love you too, you idiot,” you said, threading your arms around his neck and idly toying with a curl.

He grinned a wide, dopey grin. “I knew it. I mean I am pretty irresistible.”

You rolled your eyes. Before you could say anything though, his lips were on yours and he had pressed you back against the brick wall. You moaned softly into the kiss as your tongues battled for dominance, and all your witty comebacks were forgotten.

“By the way,” you said when he finally pulled back, reluctantly, for air. “I told you so. Carnivals. are. always. evil.”

[succulentsunrise]

Where the Fire Lilies Grow

Content: SFW, contains mentions of nightmare and chronic illness.

Hey, it’s my series on Tani and Mereleona, inspired by @thoughtfullyrainynightmare‘s Embers of Sun and Flame! It will tell the tale of Tani meeting and falling in love with Mereleona...but we’ll see if she feels the same 😉

Next >

Chapter 1: Tani, the Verdant Knight

“Love does not begin and end the way we seem to think it does. Love is a battle, love is a war; love is a growing up.” James Baldwin

The morning had begun rather peacefully. There had been no reason to get up early, but Tani was used to waking up before the sun rose. Back at Kikka - her hometown - she had worked hard since the dawn. Now, as a Magic Knight of the Azure Deer, not having to wake up and go at it for the whole day made her feel almost like she was slacking. She had prepared for the day without much of a plan. Still, her planless plans had been ruined by her teammate and friend, Icree. Tani had been calmly treating her small garden of plants, when the red-haired Knight had popped out of nowhere and pushed a new recruit to her shoulders. There they stood now, staring at each other in an uncomfortable silence. The recruit looked young and extremely frail, as if a wind could knock her over. It was a rather direct opposite to Tani’s muscled bearing. The girl’s purple hair was tied into a long ponytail, which could almost reach the end of her long, dark dress. Her eyes were soft and heavy, lending her a youthful and sorrowful appearance.

“I’m Kliodna--Kliodna Sheeban,” the girl said with a hoarse voice. “Pleased to meet you.”

It sounded as if she had smoked all her life, if not more. The smile that she offered was weak at best. Tani nodded uncertainly, recognizing that she belonged to a noble house by her family name.

“My name is Tani Chartreuse,” she answered. “Is your--are you alright?”

“Yes, please, do not worry,” Kliodna quickly rasped. “I was very sick recently, which has left my voice damaged. I will be better soon.”

“Perhaps you shouldn’t talk as much, then.”

“I have a lot of questions.”

Tani narrowed her eyes at the innocent smile the girl flashed at her. Straining one’s voice like that would lead to no good. She brushed parts of her short, brown hair behind her ears.

“I will take care of my garden first,” she commented, turning back to her collection of plants. “Then we’ll get you a quill and some paper.”

“This is yours?”

“Yes. Not everything here, but some of these. That,” Tani pointed at a larger, hanging fern a little further away. “And these here.”

The plants she pointed out last were small, potted succulent plants - her favourites. She took care of them with gentle passion, always making sure they had what they needed.

“You have plant magic, correct?” Kliodna asked, clearing her throat a little.

Tani gave her a surprised glance, stopping for a brief moment to evaluate where she got her knowledge.

“Yes. Did Icree tell you that?”

“Icree?”

“The red-head that dropped you here.”

“Ah! Yes. She said your plant magic was impressive,” the girl answered happily.

Tani eased into a small smile.

“It is still far from what I’d like it to be,” she commented, starting to look for her watering can. “The attack on the capital showed there is still much to do.”

Though it had been a couple of weeks since the terrorist organization Eye of the Midnight Sun had flooded the streets with undead, Tani had not been able to think much else since. She possessed great powers in healing and reinforcing magic, as great as any self-trained commoner could have, but no skill in offensive magic. No matter how she tried, she could not learn a spell to harm. To mend this flaw, she had taught herself how to use a sword. Even now it hung around her waist in its scabbard, attached to her belt. The undead, however, had not cared about a few meager stabs to their already dead flesh. Though Tani had not admitted it to anyone, she still saw occasional nightmares about that flaming street, surrounded by zombies and with no friends nearby to help. The dead citizens laid at her feet - those that she had been unable to defend. It had been sheer luck that Icree and Luka had found her in time back then. With Icree weakening the strange magic’s hold on the bodies and Luka’s sculpted jackals tearing them apart, the remaining citizens - and herself - had been saved. Still, the outcome of the overall attack had not been good. There were hundreds of victims, and a captain of another Magic Knight squad, Fuegoleon Vermillion of the Crimson Lion Kings, had fallen into a deep coma due to his injuries.

Tani looked at the moving lips of Kliodna and realized that she had fallen too deep into her own thoughts. She had not listened properly to the girl’s raspy speech nor had she found her watering can. She concentrated in time to at least hear the question.

“--unable to move. You were present then, protecting the capital?”

“Yes. It’s our duty as Magic Knights. Your duty too, now,” she answered, hoping that Kliodna had not realized that she had not listened.

“I hope to make our squad proud,” the girl said cheerfully.

If Tani had not been caught in distressing thoughts, she might have joined the cheerfulness of the girl. Another member of Azure Deer, Fragil, had told her not to dwell too long in memories of the past. She and Fragil were not very close, but it seemed like the other had sensed her unease. Still, she found it hard to forget how helpless she had felt that day.

“I should introduce you to the other members,” Tani stated a little flatly, the thought of Fragil sparking the idea. “Why did Icree leave you here in the first place?”

“She said she was quite busy - don’t get me wrong, she was very sweet to me! - but that you could show me around.”

Kliodna seemed to have sensed that something was a little off. Her gravelly voice was laced with a little bit more forced cheerfulness. Tani gathered herself mentally. She would have to do better than this.

“That is likely true to an extent,” she commented, pushing a smile on her face. “We are all a bit shaken by the attack. Icree spends her days and nights hunched over books, trying to figure out how to cancel the kind of magic we saw on the battlefield.”

“You--we expect them to return still, then?” Kliodna asked, the forced cheerfulness turning into wariness.

“We don’t know. We need to be prepared,” Tani answered. “However, do not dwell on it now. You have used your voice more than is good for it, so let me use mine. I will show you the place and introduce you to the others.”

The young girl nodded, this time obediently saving her voice. She waited kindly as Tani took care of her plants, and then they left together. The tour was short, but sweet. It took Tani’s mind off of the previous topic of conversation. Though many members of the squad were on missions, she was able to introduce Kliodna to a few of them. The first one they met was a dark-haired and lithe woman in the dining hall, Fragil Tormenta. Tani met her dark blue gaze with slight apprehension, remembering how sharp she was with reading others’ emotions. At least she did not comment anything, but instead welcomed Kliodna warmly to the squad. Fragil was a gentle and caring person by nature, though a little introverted. She and Kliodna got along well, especially after they found out that they were of the same age. Tani made a mental note of being right about Kliodna being young - she was 20 years old, making her six years younger than Tani. Two other members passed them by as they were talking with Fragil, only briefly introducing themselves to the newcomer. Tani had never talked to them much. Francis was a tall, black-haired man with a rather cold air to him. Cesc, instead, was a boyish red-head with a bit of a cocky attitude. They were nice people, but not someone you easily got to know better. The last two members they were able to find that particular day were Tani’s friends: Icree Papillo and Luka Diffidus. Icree they found in her room. What once had been a spacious and clean area was now littered with books and notes, and one tired red-head. Still, her greeting of them was as bubbly as always. Icree was a people’s person. She was a short woman in her 20s, with bright red hair crowning her head. Parts of it she had dyed white for fun. There was always a distinct scent of flowers and fun around her - the latter part being a little exhausting for Tani, who enjoyed calm time spent alone much more than fun time. Nonetheless, Icree was a reliable friend, who adjusted her attitude according to the people she was hanging out with. Later, they found Luka in his small studio. It had once been a normal room, but ever since the green-haired noble had come there, it had turned into his studio. Finished sculptures and designs were neatly put into their respective places, and the floor covered with protective canvas. Luka himself was a rather quiet and shy person, who rarely interacted with others. He was handsomely melancholic, as if a sculpture himself - though the illusion was easily broken if he got embarrassed. He could most often be found right here, in his studio, working tirelessly on details of the most beautiful stone or wood sculptures. He and Kliodna only spoke very briefly. The most that Kliodna could get out of him was Luka explaining what he was working on. He spoke of it with quite the passion - but receded back to his silent self as soon as he realized it.

The tour of the place ended at Kliodna’s new room: a simple, spacious place for resting and her hobbies. Her unopened bag was neatly placed on the floor. Tani concluded that Icree must have snatched her right as she had arrived.

“May I ask something?” Tani asked carefully.

It was something that had bothered her for a while: it was not time for the entrance exam. Yet the girl was noble, so perhaps she was allowed to join a little later. Or perhaps she had been scouted beforehand.

“Of course,” Kliodna said cheerfully, though her gaze was inside her room.

It was likely she was tired from meeting all the new people and seeing all the new things - or at least, Tani would be.

“Why are you joining only now? The entrance exam was a long time ago.”

“Oh. I have been sick for a very long time,” Kliodna answered with a bit of hesitation, her raspy voice breaking a little. “I qualified this year to join, but unfortunately it set me back a little. I’m fine now.”

Tani nodded, uneasily looking to the room as well. Either she had hit an uncomfortable subject, or she was causing the girl to strain her already unstable voice even more. Neither was a good thing.

“Well,” she started cheerfully, searching for comforting words. “We are here for you now. If you feel unwell, come to any of us, and we’ll help you in any way we can.”

Kliodna smiled, and with one hand on her throat, nodded.

“I’ll need to rest now, but thank you for everything,” she said silently. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Do you need anything warm for your throat? I could bring you a cup of tea.”

Tani only got a nod as a reply. She smiled at the young girl and left for the kitchen. She understood perhaps a little now why Icree had brought Kliodna to her. Icree was a person that wanted others to talk, so she could listen to them. With this girl, Icree probably had to worry a lot about where the line between talking and asking questions was. With a small sigh, Tani navigated the corridors to the common kitchen. It was not as if she had done any better job. They’d have to come up with some easier way to communicate. Writing on paper would take a significant time and be a slight waste of resources. It wasn’t the same as talking. Yet Kliodna should not be made feel unwelcome either. Icree would have to be pulled into this. Tani set decidedly three mugs in front of her: one for Kliodna, one for Icree, and one for herself. Icree had worked the whole day, probably. A small pause and a little bit of gossip would do her good. A warm cup of tea would be just the thing. Tani prepared the three mugs of tea and placed them on a wooden serving tray. After a brief consideration, she added the teapot on the tray as well, and made her way back to Kliodna. The new recruit received her tea and the filled teapot with gratitude, having clearly started unpacking her things. Tani did not speak with her long, but instead headed back to Icree’s room. Supporting the serving tray with her left arm and leaning it against her waist, Tani knocked on the door.

Icree’s voice was faint through the door, and clearly tired.

“Come in.”

Tani pushed the door open dexterously. Icree smiled upon seeing her.

“Drinks? Anything hard?” the red-head asked with no small amount of hope in her voice.

“Just tea this time,” Tani laughed. “We’ll get better stuff at the festival.”

“I don’t think there will be a festival, Tani,” Icree responded, beginning to make space on her messy desk for the tray.

“Not true. They are holding it.”

“Really?” Icree sounded very surprised. She gave a slightly distrusting glance to her brunette friend.

“I heard the Captain talk about it earlier,” Tani revealed. “The Star Festival will be held despite the concerns. We’ll get to play festival games and eat well. We are in dire need of it, aren’t we?”

Icree smiled tiredly at her.

“We’ll get to watch the scoreboard tell a sorry tale of the prowess of Azure Deer. I talked recently with my friends in the other squads. The Green Mantis’ have sixty-nine stars for all their efforts. The only one we have hope catching up on are the Purple Orcas, and they have fifty-one. Do you have a way of conjuring two more stars out of nowhere?”

Tani put down the tray onto Icree’s desk. The most popular part of the festival was indeed the ranking of the squads. While their squad, Azure Deer, had never had any hope of catching up with the royal squads, they had managed somewhat to stay in the lower middle of the list. Now it seemed like they’d be second last, if Icree’s information was correct.

“Well, at least we can trust the Black Bulls to be last, right?” she said reassuringly, but it didn’t seem to have the wanted effect.

“Black Bulls have one hundred and one stars,” Icree answered bluntly. “I talked with Vanessa yesterday.”

Tani stared at Icree for a moment in surprise. The Black Bulls were a group of misfits, who completed their missions by the means of destruction. As far as she could remember, they had been near negative amounts in stars. However, Icree’s source was reliable. Vanessa Enoteca was a member of the Black Bulls, and not one to boast without something to back it up.

“So we are likely last?” she asked with a sinking feeling in her stomach.

“Hooray for us,” Icree confirmed, rising her tea mug in a sarcastic celebratory manner.

“Have you told the Captain?”

“Would he care?”

The question hung quietly in the air. They both knew that Rill, their Captain, would likely care, but most often he was rather carefree about running the squad. He was the youngest of the Captains - and younger than both Icree and Tani - and it showed in the way he led. His talent was easy to respect, but his personality was all over the place. Well, that was Tani’s opinion. She would trust him with her life on a battlefield, but on a day-to-day basis of running the squad and making sure everyone had missions? No.

“You know he does,” Tani answered quietly, taking her mug of tea and sitting down on the bed near the desk. “If you don’t tell him, he is going to freak out.”

“He’ll freak out in any case. Better let him enjoy the festival first,” Icree shrugged. “Either way, want to help me with something?”

Tani nodded, having a pretty good guess on what it would entail. Icree always wanted to test out her new theories after a long day of reading and theorizing.

“A new thing you want to try out?” she questioned.

“Yeah. Can you make one of those plants - it can be anything - and just--don’t resist,” Icree requested with a slightly cheered up tone.

It was rather clear she was excited to test out her new theory. Tani closed her fist and concentrated, pushing from between her fingers a pink flower with small petals, large leaves and a long stem: a kalanchoe.

「Molting Larvae」, Icree spoke, creating a striped caterpillar on the plant. Tani had witnessed Icree’s magic many times before: it created butterflies that could hinder and harm enemies. She had never seen her teammate create a caterpillar before. In the most determined manner that she had ever seen a caterpillar eat, this one set out to eat her magical flower. No, it attempted to eat her magic itself. It was a rather slow process, but both Icree and Tani looked at it with wonder.

“I don’t sense you receiving the magic you are taking,” Tani noted after a while.

“As far as I’ve understood my own spell - the caterpillar gets it,” Icree answered, slightly flustered.

“It’s not complete yet. Something is missing. It’s terribly slow and not something I could use in a battle very easily, unless I was able to hide the caterpillar somewhere on the person. Plus, the more magic it eats, the more noticeable it becomes.”

“I could try to reinforce your mana flow?” Tani suggested with uncertainty.

She wasn’t quite sure this was a problem that could be solved with better control of mana, though it was Tani’s specialty. She could help others withstand harder hits and move quicker by reinforcing them and speeding them up, as well as help them regulate the flow of their magic.

“No, it’s not about that,” Icree confirmed her suspicions. “I might just have to keep working with the spell.”

“Well, while the caterpillar feasts - you’ll come with me to the festival? Even if we might be last, we can still enjoy the thing.”

“Of course. I think we’ll all be there, except for Luka. We should drag him out as well.”

“Maybe he’ll find inspiration from the festival,” Tani teased, though neither of them believed in it.

“Maybe he’ll find a muse!” Icree joked a little, her worries melting away for a little while.

They stayed chatting together for a while, leaving behind the worries of attacks and achievements. It was more relaxing to get excited about the Star Festival like everyone else and ponder what to do about Kliodna’s condition.

[chrysalispen]

Prompt #7 - Nonagenarian

AO3 Link HERE

=====

"Where are you going, Nonna?"

Vita bas Laevinus smiled at the eager and upturned face of her young grandson - followed the sharp track of a pale blue gaze half-concealed beneath a forest of pale gold curls - and bent her attention back to lacing up her pattens. 

"Into the woods, dear," she said, "to prepare for tonight's dinner."

"By yourself?"

"And who else would be coming along? Your sisters are still at the schoolhouse and you've your chores to finish."

"Father says women and children mustn't go into the forest alone. There are monsters." The child shifted uneasily from foot to foot, as if he had something to say and not yet enough wherewithal nor courage to say it. "My chores are done, so I'll come with you, Nonna."

"Will you?"

"Someone has to protect you from the monsters."

"That's very brave," she said. "You don't even yet know why I'm going."

"...Are you gathering kindling for the hearthfire? Wait, but no- we have plenty of wood." His little brow knitted, a tiny line indexed from third eye to brow, before a sunny, triumphant smile replaced it. "It would be... would be gratuitous."

With a laugh she reached for the worn wicker basket hanging on the hook next to her shawl.

"Goodness, child, am I to be subjected to yet another of your large words?"

"I read it in one of Octavia's fairy tale books," he said, with an air of practiced indifference. "It means 'unnecessary'."

"Does it?"

"I can spell it, too. Want to hear?"

He was already rattling the letters off, swift and precise, before she could acquiesce. Five going on ninety, Vita thought with no small degree of amusement. The boy had mastered his letters before he was out of diapers and had feverishly consumed the contents of every book he'd laid hand upon since.

Vita ruffled his wild wind-tossed hair. "I'm going mushroom-picking," she said. "You can tell me some more of your words on the road. And if you watch and listen as well as you talk, you'll learn how to find the best caps for eating."

His eyes lit up.

"An adventure!"

"An adventure," she agreed, smiling.

~*~

Three winters passed and Vita was six and eighty.

Three winters had passed since her youngest daughter's death - since she'd come to live with her son-in-law and help care for the children - and she was starting to feel every turn of the seasons deep in her bones. Winter had lingered this year, and her difficulties remained even with the arrival of the warm months.

Safely unseen, watching from the window over her cookstove, Vita uncurled her aching fingers with the unhurried and experimental hesitancy borne of long experience with chronic pain. Her hands didn't hurt half as much as her poor hips; more often the chill left her too lame to forage in the wood alone for fear of falling. But she suspected it would not be so very long before she would be unable to cook the family meals without aid. 

She was starting to slow down for good. It was only to be expected. Happened to everyone eventually, she supposed. Even if she worried what would become of them after she was gone, whenever that might be. 

At least I have a willing and eager young assistant, she told herself, glancing at the boy dutifully slicing a small block of cheese. And that was true enough; her grandson's early promise seemed only to blossom with each passing day, his fine and agile mind paired with a penchant for observation.

Although she wished he would make some friends his own age.

"Don't you want to go play with the other boys, Nero? It's a nice day and everyone else is outside."

"I can't. Father wants me to help him plant the north field, so I'm not to play today." Wiry shoulders lifted and dropped in a single abrupt and listless motion. "It doesn't matter. I don't want to associate with them." 

"Whyever not?"

"...Because they're envious of me," he said, in as flat and factual a manner as she would have expected to hear had he informed her the sky was blue. He rolled up the sleeves of his secondhand dalmatica, faded and oversized, bulky in the waist but already too short in the arms; it was tight about those shoulders, knobby but broad. "Nonna, can you show me how to make your pasta?"

The boy's voice was curiously brisk. Vita's brows arched upwards in a silent question, but the calm and shuttered expression he wore told her she'd get naught else of importance out of him. 

At just eight summers he was already learning how to hide himself from the world. She sighed.

"Yes. But not before you wash your hands." 

"I know." He was already reaching for the water bucket. 

Her gaze sharpened at the sight of his forearms. They were mottled with fingerprint bruises, the marks made by hands much larger than any of his classmates. But before she could remark upon it, his arms dropped to his sides and the voluminous sleeves hid them from sight as he turned away and made a quick exit.

The old door latched shut at his back, and like an errant cloud crossing the path of the sun, Vita's smile faded. ~*~

"He's not taking any bleeding test and that's final." "What? Of course he'll take the placement test. Why wouldn't he?"

"There's no point. He's not going to any blimmin' Academy, either. Long past time he got his head out of the clouds and learned his place in the world." Atticus bas Sceava was well on his way into another stupor. The unlovely paired scents of sweat and stale gin hung around his haggard features like an invisible cloud, his bloodshot grey eyes squinting at her out of sallow sockets. "Anyroad, I need him for the harvest. Eleven summers is plenty old enough for him to start properly earning his keep."

"We can hire extra hands for the harvest if that's what it takes, Atticus."

"Thresher's broken. And I've not the money to hire extra hands, let alone send the boy to some high-priced school in the capitol. He belongs on the land-"

Vita's lips tightened.

"He belongs wherever he wishes to go. If his future is elsewhere then I'll do what needs must to help him find his path."

Her son-in-law drew himself to his full seven fulms of height, looming over the worn surface of the table. She tensed but held her ground; the drink always turned his temper sour but he had always stopped well short of raising a hand against her. "Old woman," he growled, "mind your place and stay out of my affairs. I am the head of this household. You have no right-"

"They are my grandchildren! I have every right."

His teeth bared, like the hackles of a rabid dog.

"You'll hold your tongue if you like it in your head. You've always encouraged him in these fool notions about his tinkering. He's had plenty of book learning -- more than any of his sisters -- and now it's time he learned how to be a man and help run the farm." A petulant sort of animal cunning twisted at his lips. "Besides, there's no one on either side of the mountain knows how to fix a thresher of that make and model. He'll be staying whether he likes it or not."

Vita's expression remained carefully impassive, but as Atticus slumped back into his chair and reached for his bottle, all she could think about was the way her grandson's eyes came alight every time he could do what he loved- and the shuttered coldness in them when he couldn't.

We'll see about that, Atticus, she thought, hobbling away, ignoring the grinding ache from shoulder to wrist as she leaned upon her cane. We'll see about that.

~*~

"Father wasn't awake to see us leave, was he?"

"No, dear."

"Good," Nero said forcefully. His long legs kicked to and fro and his sharp eyes were fixed upon the timepiece overhead.

It was a warm morning, this day of her ninetieth summer: very still and humid, and Vita and her grandson sat alone on the small platform to wait. In this remote part of the province, the train that eventually ran on a route into the heart of the imperial capitol came only once a day. 

She studied him, a boy with an intellect too large for his still-growing body. The clothes he wore were ill-fitting - more secondhand items from his sisters, worn and patched where the threads had run bare, too narrow in the back, too short in the arms and legs - but the texts in his lap were new, a farewell gift from the mayor who had acted as his patron when his acceptance letter had arrived from the Imperial Magitek Academy. 

"You have your iden... your card."

"My identification card, yes."

"And your train pass."

"I've checked twice now."

"Mind you pay attention to your route. I've heard they have soldiers on these trains that will be very rough if you try to get back on the train once you're off." She fidgeted nervously with the embroidery in her lap. "Do you have your lunch box?"

"It's right here." 

He patted the package that sat alongside the big leather bag holding all of his personal belongings, securely wrapped in plain hempen cloth, his initials sewn into the corner. Vita's smile was sad. 

"The very last meal we cooked together before you went away to your new school," she said. "Think of your poor Nonna when you eat it."

"I will."

"And mind you write often. I want to hear all about the city."

"...Nonna?"

"What is it, dear?"

"You needn't worry for me. It's an adventure," he said. "Right?"

For just a moment she saw something of the boy he'd once been, for the first time in years. Worry lingered there in the tilt of his mouth, perhaps. Bitterness. Or the anxiety that ever came upon the cusp of the unknown- and then like a passing cloud, it was gone and he was grinning at her: mouth stretched wide and exuberant, pale blue eyes twin stars.

It would be more difficult without his hands to help at the farm, but it was the right thing, she understood: to let him go his own way.

"One of many," she said, smiling at last.

[masked-buffoon]

Chapter 1: Preying in the dark (Part 2)

Warnings: murder, blood and violence

Author notes: the second part is out! You can read part 1 here!

The night was heavy, tensed. The ambient silence was deafening, oppressive. Had I not heard people's miserable thoughts, the atmosphere would have been awfully quiet. At such times, the slums of Yokohama were the stage of numerous illicit exchanges — drugs, mostly, but also humans — and muffled violence. In that place, where breathing could burn one's lungs with poverty, a fight gone wrong, a drunken man attempting rape on a poor lost girl or the assassination of any notorious man running away in that kind of remote place were common, and completely mute. There would seldom be a cry, a scream, some laughter, but nothing could ever pierce the curtain of stillness draped over the shallows. It was on nights particularly well lightened up by a full moon that the thieves gangs usually made a move.

Swiftly, with a band I had been given to avoid lice upon my arrival, I tied my hair in a neat ponytail. Then, from under the thin blanket a thief had offered me as a welcome gift, I grabbed the handle of a small dagger, a weapon I had bought with the little money I had earned from my first robbery, and hung it at my belt. Thanks to rags and scraps of fabric I had found, I had managed to make myself clothes, or rather, I had repaired my own, which had suffered from numerous holes and usury. I took a deep breath and went out of the shack made of plastic I lived in, pulling the hood of my dark cloak over my head to hide my face, then reached the group of burglars who had kindly welcomed me among them when I had been wandering without a place to go. I had been taught the ways of the slums, the ways of our peculiar work, in that underground world. Surely, we did not eat everyday, but that place felt warmer to me than the luxurious mansion I had grown up in. The money we earned by stealing whether honest or not people was redistributed among children, younger than me, to contribute to feeding them. For the sake of defending myself and with the purpose of helping out during missions in mind, the thieves had also taught me how to use a knife to fight, and how to use any kind of pin to pick up a lock easily and discreetly. Gradually, I had improved my agility and strength, despite being chronically weakened by the effects of my ability. Nevertheless, these people had not given up on me and had even given me a chance to be part of their gang. I was grateful that they had not thrown me away like my parents had, and had decided to dedicate myself to their cause. This evening, we were heading to a jewellery they had been keeping an eye on for months. After countless hours of observation, they had reconstituted the schedule of the owner, and had found the perfect time to hit and steal as much jewels as possible. I was to accompany them, and could not hide my excitement as I followed them in the alleys. It would be my first real robbery, not a mere pickpocketing in the streets or a grocery theft, no. A real robbery of a jewellery. If everything went as planned, we would be very rich in an hour or so.

We arrived in front of the shop. As expected, the streets were deserted, people were sleeping and, mostly, there was no camera. In such a fancy shop, there should have been a device or two, yet... None. That detail should have caught my attention, but all impatient I was, I did not listen to my consciousness advising to be careful. I had the honour of picking up the lock of the shop and, fingers trembling in anticipation, opened the door to the Aladdin's cave to reveal showcases futilely protecting brightly shining diamonds and gems of all sorts. The cases were quickly opened and the jewels were shoved into our bags within a blink, without any resistance. Again, we should have been concerned about the lack of alarm and surveillance cameras, but could one blame us, poor and miserable humans putting our hands onto unimaginable riches for the first time? Already, the prospect of a better life was building inside my creative mind, and, overwhelmed by the joyful and exhilarating feeling of being wealthy, we made our way out of the jewellery. For once, I could understand, somehow, why greed had blinded the parents who had given birth to me. Money could make one absolutely intoxicated, addicted, and any human could go to any extent to obtain the holy boodle. I was the last one of the group and, wanting to make sure we had not forgotten anything, I stayed back a minute in the shop. It had been the brightest idea of the night.

Ripping apart the silence of the night, the infernal buzzing of machine guns erupted in the street and the deathly ballet of bullets took my companions' lives, accompanied by a choir of screeching screams. I had not heard anyone's thoughts. That useless ability of mine had not even detected the trap we had fallen into. Heart painfully thumping against my rib cage, I dashed toward the back of the shop and squeezed myself in between brooms, mops and cleaning products. In a desperate attempt to calm down my breathing, I clasped my two hands onto my mouth — a rather practical move which prevented me from crying as well.

"Take a look inside so we don't let a vermin escape." A poised voice ordered "It's too bad they had no brains. Trying to steal from a shop under the protection of the Port Mafia... Did they think we would not notice them observing us?"

I understood. The lack of surveillance cameras and the reason why no alarm had rung during our deeds... It was because, from the beginning, the shop had been watched by dogs of the Port Mafia, a notorious underground organisation. From the beginning, we had been destined to be suppressed...

"To think I could be with my wife and kids..." A man grumbled, entering the back room "Damn thieves..."

I prayed for him not to open the closet where I was hidden. If he were to find me... If he were to find me, my short life would end... Or perhaps I could beg for them to spare me...? To which cost, however...? Footsteps got closer to me and I closed my eyes, biting down onto my hands not to let out a sob which would betray my position. The door to the closet suddenly moved. His hand was set onto the knob, and he was about to open it, when...

His phone rang. With an annoyed groan, he picked up his call and stepped away from the closet. My heart was beating erratically as he assured his wife he would go home soon and I could not help a sigh from escaping my lips as he finally walked out. Was I safe...? I had been incredibly lucky to escape unscathed... Surely, I could not indulge in such dangerous activities anymore. Despite living in utmost misery, I cared about being alive and being disfigured by a machine gun was not on the top of my list of ways to die.

"Let's move on if there is no one left." The same voice as earlier demanded.

Still trembling, I sneaked out of the closet, then out of the shop to step outside, in the streets. The moon seemed to be staring down at me, terrifying, like the single eye of a cyclops, and, mimicking a spotlight pointed onto actors, showed me the terrible sight of the thieves' corpses. I covered my mouth, fearing I would throw up in disgust in front of the viscous scarlet blood oozing from the gross piles of fresh flesh. I retched as the particularly repulsive stench of decomposing bodies reached my nose and I stepped away, feeling nauseous.

Time stopped when a gunshot echoed in my back.

"Well, well, well... What do we have here? More than a vermin, it rather looks like a frightened bunny. Looks like I was right to stay back... Because I love hunting~"

I froze, unable to budge a single muscle. I could not get my body to run and remained, absolutely stunned and feet embedded in the ground, as the man walked toward me, slowly, menacingly. He appeared in my field of view, suddenly, his large coat floating around his thin body, and pointed his gun toward my forehead.

"Worry not. It will be a painless death." His voice wanted to be reassuring despite the mocking tone he used.

I ducked. The barrel of his weapon was still letting smoke out from his shot, and, luckily, I had regained some control over my body.

"Hoh...~ Persistent much...~?"

I did not let him time to savour the vision of his prey desperately trying to stay alive and ran past him, bumping into him purposely to make him lose his balance in an attempt to gain some precious seconds to escape.

Following nothing but my survival instinct, I ran away from him, epinephrine rushing through my vessels to guide my legs in the back alleys of Yokohama, in between dirty and greyish walls, all the way back to the slums, where I lived. I was panting when I finally reached my shack and immediately glanced over my shoulder to see if he had been able to follow me. No one. All of my stress suddenly dropped, bringing me to the ground as I broke into tears, too happy to be alive and to have escaped from the mafioso. Despite the thieves' death, despite the failed robbery, despite my ability taking the better of my mind, the only emotion I could feel was the deep relief of being able to see the next day's sunrise.

Upon hearing about the events which had occurred during the robbery, the remaining members of the gang had decided to chase me from the group to guarantee both my and their safety. They had also advised me to look for a shack in another part of the slums, just in case the mafioso would still be looking for me, and had wished me luck to survive. Once again, I had nowhere to go anymore... The new shack I had taken was barely bigger than my previous one; at least, I could stretch my legs while sleeping. I had lost my occupation and the place I thought I could belong to, all because we had been too careless. I sighed, staring at the wall made of plastic. What could I do? How would I occupy my days, and, mostly, how would I survive? My headache was worsening as the days passed, and I was aware that fatigue would slowly kill me if an infectious disease did not. I wanted to live, yet I did not know how to. It was simpler to die. At the very least, surrounded by eternal darkness, I would not need to wonder about means to keep myself alive. However, I did not wish to end my time in that world just yet. I wanted to try and experience life. Only, it seemed life did not want me to experience it. Determined, I decided to wander around the city during the day. Perhaps would I be able to steal one or two wallets from distracted tourists, which would be better than starving. With renewed vigour, I left my shack and headed to the centre of Yokohama.

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[deceptive-jo]

Who am I to you?

Based on this post where I said I wasn’t gonna do it. Not part of my Brotherly Divination AU.

The Actor lost his best friend years ago. Meanwhile the Host just tries to live in peace with the other egos and Dark. But is that all there is to it or might there be a past and future for them?

TW: death, mention of lost body parts (It’s the Host what do you expect), manipulation, loss of a loved one, cursing

Words: 2.909

@blood-stained-ink I have a feeling you might want to look at that.

Author loved the Actor. That was a fact, they were both aware of it and it was completely up to them what they made of it. Currently that meant small kisses in passing, hot cups of tea and a warm blanket whenever one of them fell asleep on their desks and cuddles in front of the fireplace after waking up from yet another nightmare. It was enough. Honestly, being able to live in peace in their cottage and continuing to work was more than he could have hoped for. So what if Dark wanted to come over to bother them from time to time? He could go back to hell for all Author cared. It was not like he had a place to judge their relationship as long as he had that pink maniac running around. So what if they were a pair of egoistical assholes that killed people from time to time? That was nothing less then the other Egos could say about themselves. Well, maybe King, that boy was precious. No, Author was content, as long as he had his partner and a successful novel from time to time.

Speaking of- “Where did you put my baseball bat?”, the yell rang through the house to catch the attention of a certain performer in his bedroom. The Actor, or Marc as called by most, turned away from the mirror he was fixing his hair in front of and marched out of the room. “What do you mean? You put it back in your room after last time- Wait are you going out?! We’re supposed to be at the restaurant at 7!” Author dragged his hand through his hair. Right, the dinner Ace had planned. “I’m gonna be quick”, he yelled upstairs not bothering to search for his bat. He’d have to do with his pen and notebook then. He was already half out of the front door when he caught the “Don’t get any blood on your clothes”. ‘Don’t worry, love’, he thought to himself, ’I am going to look my best just for you.’ With that thought and a last grin the door slammed close behind him.

The Actor paced back and forth in the living room, throwing a hurried glance towards the front door and listening intently for any sound the back door might make. Nothing. What ever the hell was ‘quick’ for that asshole? Sure, they still had 10 minutes left but Author knew how much he hated to arrive in the very last secound if he could avoid it. But they’d just have to go through the void. If only this idiot would finally come back. But Author did not come back. Not in the next 10 minutes. Not the next hour. Not even the next day. It was after waking up on the couch for the secound time in a row that Marc decided to start searching for his friend. So he wandered through the forest for hours, trying to pick up any trace Author or his ‘victim’ could have left behind. Nothing. Then the actor went into the city, checking the cafes and restaurants they frequented, the book shops his best friend would sometimes spend hours in, but again, nothing. No one he asked had any recollection of seeing the Author the last days. Marc even sifted through the void for 4 days in a row steering clear only of the blue-red pulsating area that was Dark’s aura. After two weeks he stopped searching. He didn’t know if that was an appropriate time or if he should search longer. To be completely honest, he hadn’t really lost a person before like that. The last person to not come back to him was Celine but he still knew where she was back then and he refused to think about the implication this left for his current situation. Truth be told, he also didn’t like the other implications that left. The man sighed, slumped over on his desk staring at the small ring box in his hands that had become increasingly heavy in his pockets over the last days. Where the hell was his best friend?

The Host didn’t remember much. In fact, before a certain point in his life his mind drew a blank slate. When waking up the man found himself unable to see. The room smelled of hand sanitizer and peppermint. A hospital perhaps? But why would he be in a hospital? The next he knew a person appeared at his side and the scent of peppermint and hand sanitizer grew stronger. “Hello Host. My name is Dr Iplier. I’m going to change your bandages real quick then Dark will want to speak to you”, a male’s warm voice reassured him. The Host – was that his name? It seemed so peculiar – had many questions but he still kept them in while the doctor was at work. After that he couldn’t feel him leave the room but instead another presence joined him and suddenly the Host was glad that the doctor stayed. This presence was different, repressing and dark. The new man set himself next to the Host and began to talk in a deep, echoing voice, for a long time. He told the Host that his name was Darkiplier and that he was the leader of what he called ‘Egos’. Apparently the Host was one of them. They took him in after finding him on the forest floor, unconscious and with his eyes ripped out of his skull. The Host was still very confused but Darkiplier was there to explain most of his questions. Whenever he awoke in the hospital bed in the manor’s clinic Dark sat next to him, no matter how late it was. He was there to comfort him after he had another nightmare, more wild and obscure pictures just flunked around in his head. It was Dark who helped him figure out how his new sight worked and when he had his first vision that left him thrashing and screaming it was Dark who appeared and calmed him down. When he was allowed to finally leave the clinic Dark awaited him in the hallway and took his arm. While escorting him through the manor Dark did most of the talking. That was alright. The Host was more then content with listening to his boss (friend?) complaining about the Jim’s newest shenanigans. He just contributed his occasional nod or short remark and in no time they arrived at his room close to Dark’s.

The next months passed in a rush. Despite mostly staying in his bedroom, the library he discovered soon and Dark’s office he still became well enough acquainted with the rest of the hosehold. RJ and CJ were always eager to listen to his stories, Bim liked to spend his rehearsal time before a show in his room and even Google tolerated his stay in the android’s office whenever the Host wished to escape the chaos of the house. But over it all it was Dark who he was closest to. Whenever he could spare the time the entity would visit the Host in the library for a game of chess, a talk or simply to read in the semi-silence of the room. The first time he touched him the Host still repulsed, startled. But Dark didn’t seem annoyed to announce himself before making a move and soon the seemingly random hand on his arm or shoulder brushes became a regular thing between the two of them. He had a feeling they were more and more trusting towards each other. The Host knew that it was no use to try and lie to his friend and Dark was aware that he could hardly keep a secret from him. So they didn’t. Besides Dr Iplier was Dark the only one to have seen the Host’s empty eye sockets. Whenever Dark would have an episode his friend would know and help him with his chronic pain as good as possible.

The Host assumed this to be a normal thing until he noticed the reactions of the others and how Dark always seemed to distance himself to them somewhat, or how he seemed to never enter any of their offices in a non-business related matter. After this revelation he also began to notice how the others treated him in a seemingly overly conscious way as well as the looks Wilford would throw him sometimes that he couldn’t quite place. Something had changed with his closeness to Dark and he didn’t like the effect it had on his relationship with the other Egos.

But all that didn’t matter right now. In this moment the only thing that mattered was Dark’s arm around his, pressing the Host close to his chest. His chin rested on his head and the man’s hand gently stroke his hair, twirling his blonde streak of hair around his grey fingers. “What is on your mind, dear?”, mumbled the demon who had noticed his friend to be in deep thoughts once again. “The Host was just thinking about the other Egos. He noticed how their behaviour regarding him has changed over the last weeks. They appear to have become more...distant towards him.” The fingers in his hair stopped just for a moment before picking up their motion again. Dark hummed, “Don’t worry about them. Who knows what’s gotten into them. They’ll get themselves together again, I’m sure. You should get your mind off of these thing. I’ll invite you to dinner.” That actually took the Host off guard, “W-What would bring Dark to such an offer?” “Can’t I just take out my boyfriend?” “Boyfriend?”, when had that happened? Had he not interpreted the change in behaviour right? Dark chuckled behind him, “That wasn’t supposed to slip out. I can take it back if you want me too.” “No”, the Host mumbled. He didn’t move his head, just slowly raised his left arm before his hand got grabbed by Dark’s, “the Host wouldn’t be opposed to that.” “Wonderful, I will come by at 7 to pick you up”, and with that and a quick kiss on his head Dark was out of the room. Leaving the Host behind, alone with his thoughts.

It was exactly 7 pm when the Host heard a knock at his bedroom door. He opened the door, trying not to look as if he had been standing behind it for several minutes already. Dark smirked down at him looking somehow even sharper in his suit than usual. He reached forward before stopping himself as if he had to remind himself of something. What was it- right, the Touch-Rule. Why had they put that up again? It was not as if he would mind, right? “Your tie is crooked”, a moment later he felt quick hands redoing and adjusting his tie. “You look good”, came from his escort as he took his arm and began guiding him down the corridor. The Host beamed at the compliment. He had found a suit in the back of the wardrobe that he didn’t even remember owning. He did not know why it seemed so important for him to impress Dark all out of a sudden. But that was normal for boyfriends, right?

Dark watched his pet as he rambled on about his latest works. He did look just as handsome in the suit as he had imagined. ‘Yes, I can definitely make this work’, he thought to himself. By now all his moves had played out in his favour, from gaining the seer’s trust and affection to wiping his memories. It hadn’t been easy, he had to admit that, but in the end it pay out. When they found the Author in the woods, alone and unconscious, they had to take the chance they got. Host would be thankful for knowing that he freed him from this obnoxious personality and the Actor’s influence were he ever to regain his memories. Not like that was going to happen any time soon.

The Host was...content. He should be happy. Maybe he was. Technically his life hadn’t changed. He still spend most of his time in his office, writing and recording. Bim and the Jims didn’t come to his room quite as often. Dr Iplier rarely talked during their appointments any more. He hadn’t seen the rest of the group for days, or was it weeks? He found it hard to sleep, often falling asleep only in the early mornings which usually resulted in Dark bringing him breakfast. That was the one constant in his life: Dark. And while he still stopped by from time to time and they spent most nights together...there was something keeping them at the points they were now. They didn’t grow apart, you couldn’t say that, but there seemed to be this one topic that stood like a wall of glass between them – the Host’s past. He still couldn’t recall exact memories (not like he was trying to) but much like with the Egos he managed to catch onto certain auras and atmospheres. And while those surely changed – from wild green swirling in deep oak brown over baby blue tinted with cold metal to flashing yellow playing with lavendel – one red aura always stayed there, omnipresent and calming, warm. He was unsure on the identity of this man, for he knew it was a man, but he was sure of his connection with him, which was a passionate and loving one. For a moment he wanted to assume it was Dark’s, though it didn’t match with his current one. Maybe he should ask him. While Dark didn’t like to talk about his past, he had always shown interest in any possibility of the Host’s memories returning. The Host did not tell him about the man.

It was the Host’s birthday. Well, actually it was the day he joined the Egos but they didn’t really have anything else to go of. He received some mumbled birthday wishes when he entered the kitchen but he could also feels how the others averted their eyes not even daring to look into his direction. He knew why they did it. He had had enough time to really think last night, seemingly for the first time in a while. That wasn’t to say that he liked the reason. He needed to get out of here before the air suffocated him.

The man sitting on the porch of the small cottage went by the name of Actor. His friends called him Marc but the last one of them had died three years ago. Exactly three years actually. That’s why he sat on this porch. Because he shouldn’t bother any more, right? He told himself he didn’t because that was not the kind of person he was. But that didn’t change the fact that he hadn’t had another partner since then, that he had taken no one here – home.

The man had lived in a manor once, together with his beautiful wife. When she left him the huge house felt too big and too empty for him alone. So he filled it with parties and music and loud women and men. Ten he had started to live here with his beautiful friend. When he left him the house felt way too tiny, suffocating, made him question how they had survived in it as two. So he didn’t need to fill it with noise. As it was it was enough. It had always been.

Movement out of the side of his eye caught his attention. Annoyed at the disturbance he turned around and looked right at- “Author?” The other man looked up at him, caught off guard. He could now see the bandage around his head, not the beautiful golden eyes of his beloved but besides that and the glimming golden streak of hair it was an exact copy of him. The man seemed to have noticed his stare and began muttering again. How had he not noticed that before? Actor opened his mouth again when- “The Host knows you”, the stranger (?) blurted out. “You do?” The man nodded, “Your...aura. He has seen it before. In his memory”, he tapped lightly against his temple as if to emphasize his point, “No, he doesn’t know who you are. But of all the few things he remembers...you are the clearest.” Actor frowned. He didn’t understand everything the man (the Host?) said but damn if he wasn’t going to try and help them both. “I’m the Actor”, he began while slowly walking towards the Host, “and you are the Author. But you’re supposed to be dead.” The Host (Author?) slowly shook his head, the same sad and omnipotent smile on his face as his partner, “He supposes that would have been three years ago.” “How did you know that?”, Marc hissed with narrowed eyes. “That’s when the Host was taken in by the Egos with no recollection of his previous life.” “The Egos- Fucking Dark”, Marc swore under his breath. That insufferable, disastrous bastard! How could he dare to- “What did he do to you?”, he had to know. And may the gods know if that absolute maniac had hurt just a single part of his beloved’s being he would make. him. suffer. But the Host just kept looking at him with that tilted head, the sad smile still on his lips as if he were to pity the other man. “He proposed.”

[starbuck]

Terror Notes: “Go For Broke”

well… I guess I’m really doing this! Some proper, bullet-pointed notes for each episode of The Terror, starting with ep 1: Go For Broke!

I wrote these out last night (and edited them this morning to make them readable - you’re welcome!) so I hope that y’all enjoy my thoughts and assorted nonsense! I tried to save my comments for points I actually wanted to make because I feel like they bring something to the table but I still ended up writing A Lot lol

I love that Crozier couldn’t even be bothered to be present in welcoming Sir John and Fitzjames onto Terror, making Little and Hodgson do it by themselves. One could argue that he had important captain-y things to be doing at that time or something but I’m not 100% sure that wasn’t the case. 

idk if it’s just the angle, but I paused the episode just as the shot of the officer’s mess is coming in from above and Hodgson’s hands make me so uncomfortable. They look so bone-y and weird. (Just what you came here for, I know. Hand commentary.)

Cannot tell you how uncomfortable it is, after many rewatches, to listen to Fitzjames recounting in a casual, lighthearted manner 1) shooting people 2) people catching fire (and burning to death), and 3) their burning flesh smelling “like roast duck” (so, like something edible) and it’s even more uncomfortable to have the closeup be on Hodgson’s face as he laughs at the ‘roast duck’ comparison.

On a lighter note: I love that Fitzjames felt the need to remind everyone what size cherries are by illustrating it with his fingers. In case they forgot, I guess? As someone who occasionally speaks unnecessarily with my hands, big mood tbh.

I LOVE it when Fitzjames gives Little that affirmative tap on the arm after he compares Fitzjames’s injury to Lord Nelson’s. My friend Eli and I refer to it as The Fitzjames Arm Tap. I would like a Fitzjames Arm Tap, pretty please.

God, Sir John loudly setting his hands on the table to try to dispel the tension from the ‘birdshit island’ debacle as he attempts to change the subject is so funny. I’m gonna stop just pointing out things I find funny soon, I swear, but I just cannot handle this scene.

Between Hodgson looking horrifically embarrassed by Crozier’s outburst at Fitzjames and Little looking nervous when Crozier shoots him a look as Sir John says that there’s no reason to be concerned about the ice, it really does seem that they were having to ‘manage’ him even back in ep 1 when his alcoholism wasn’t completely out of hand.

Personal sidenote about this: My Pop-pop is often rude to workers in stores and restaurants (he doesn’t drink thank goodness but he has Alzheimer’s coming on which has worsened his temper) so I very much understand the feeling of being on-edge that an outburst is going to occur and trying to deal with the fallout when it does. Just going by my own experience, I can imagine Little apologizing to Fitzjames for Crozier’s rudeness as soon as they were out of Crozier’s earshot (not that anything Little could say would heal the deep psychological wound that Crozier created but hey, it’s something).

The way that Sir John brushes aside Dr. MacDonald’s and Crozier’s concerns about moving Young when he’s in such bad shape never fails to upset me but also ~foreshadowing for hauling the ill on boats oooohhh~

I said I was done pointing out random things that amuse me but the speed and agility with which Des Voeux pops out of the hatch and onto the deck after Orren falls into the water is just so funny. I could watch that two second clip on repeat all day. Might gif it so I actually can.

Is this a good time to point out that there’s also a scene in Moby-Dick where someone falls from high up on a mast and drowns? It’s in a chapter all about bad omens experienced by the crew of the Pequod and The Terror definitely has some similar vibes going on with the sun dogs displayed in the establishing shot of Erebus in that scene and David Young, a “warning of things to come,” on his way over.

The second(?) time I watched the part where Young tells Stanley that he didn’t think anything of getting headaches since he’s always gotten them, I had this thought pass through my head that was like “oh god, I had chronic migraines for years so I’d never have known if I had lead poisoning either!” but then I realized that this probably was not a relevant concern I should have.

Not sure I have any deep commentary on this but as Gore informs Sir John and Fitzjames about the blocked propeller, he’s standing in the same spot, in the same room as Goodsir will stand next episode to tell them about his death.

Also regarding this scene, I love how Gore waits for Fitzjames to give him the go-ahead to leave before actually going. I know that Fitzjames is his superior officer too but, since Sir John already dismissed him, it seems like waiting for Fitzjames’s approval isn’t really necessary, yet a nice thing to do. Perhaps this is a legitimate formality, but something similar happens later in this episode in the command meeting when Crozier asks Gore how many sun dogs he’s seen; he looks to Fitzjames and waits for his nod before answering Crozier. He doesn’t look to Sir John, he looks to Fitzjames. I know that we know essentially nothing about Gore but like.. underrated ship???? Just saying…

Ten nights ago, I was unable to get to sleep for at least an hour because I started thinking about David Young’s saying “I want to go to my grave as I am” and, of course, that ultimately doesn’t happen for him but also, this, like all things about him, is a “warning of things to come.” I’m pretty sure that no one else was properly buried until, arguably, Fitzjames and ironically, that was explicitly not what he wanted done with his body (and, since his grave was later looted by Hickey, similar to the way that Young’s autopsy ultimately achieved nothing, it didn’t really matter anyway).

I know that this happened exactly ten days ago because I forced myself to wake up and write it down in my notes app, lest I forget, which only prolonged my sleeplessness. I suffer for my analysis. 

Ah yesssss Tozer’s lesbian haircut. We love it! Why does my hair not look like that when I take a hat off? I’d like to file a complaint.

Was just thinking the other day about how Hartnell being the one to notice that there was something up with the ice in ep 1 is followed up on with Blanky complimenting Hartnell’s ability to read the ice to Crozier in ep 7. I wonder if Blanky ever gave him like. ice-reading lessons after becoming aware of his interest and natural talent at it in ep 1? That makes me happy to think about.

The two people who we’re shown awoken by Young’s screaming are Sgt. Bryant and Morfin and like. Do I even have to explain why that’s an Oof?

The way that Goodsir hesitates before knocking on Stanley’s door and Stanley irritatedly closing his book before answering the knock in an exasperated voice would be comedic in any other context. If I’m being honest, it still makes me laugh. As does Stanley’s “As if that weren’t plain.”

I’ve pointed this out before but mmmmm... that shot of Stanley in profile with the open candle flame in the background… the foreshadowing in this ep is thicker than the smoke at… Oh alright, I’ll stop. 

God, the autopsy/dive scene…. Collins being lowered down and entering the water paralleled with Goodsir’s initial cutting into Young’s corpse, the breaking up of the ice paralleled with the cutting of the bone-saw. But most significant to me is the parallel of what is seen/not seen and the long-term effect that this has. Collins sees Orren’s corpse (and then presumably never tells anyone about it), reinforcing his guilt over Orren’s death, the beginning of his mental health decline. Goodsir doesn’t see the cause of Young’s death in his autopsy and this not knowing about the lead poisoning until it’s too late to do anything about it is the cause of many of Goodsir’s later problems as well. And, to finish it all off, both the autopsy and Collins’ dive were ultimately for nothing (considering a spinning propeller is useless when your ships are frozen in). 

Crozier and Blanky’s simultaneous face journeys as Sir John rambles on about how there’s nothing to worry about and they’ll find the passage any day now are truly legendary.

I wrote some pretty extensive tags on this already but man… Crozier’s comment about how not all of Sir John’s men returned from one of his previous arctic expeditions is just so nasty and awful. Like, yes, Sir John is wrong to undersell the danger they’re in and Crozier is advocating for the correct position here, but that was completely uncalled for and horrible to say, particularly in a command meeting, in front of so many people. And Sir John looks legitimately upset by it too. He gets over it quickly, at least on the outside, but I still feel really bad for him (and I NEVER feel bad for Sir John so this is weird for me).

“But of course we will not be abandoning Erebus, or Terror…” Let’s check back in six episodes and see how that’s going! 

Crozier slamming his fist on the table to prove he’s not being melodramatic reminds me of this one post (that I sadly can’t find rn) about Jesus Christ Superstar that’s like “‘CUT OUT THE DRAMATICS’ Judas hollered dramatically.” It’s such an Overall Mood.

I don’t have a developed commentary on this at the moment but it’s an interesting reverse-parallel that Sir John had no concern for Young’s well-being when he was alive, ignoring Crozier’s concerns about moving him from ship-to-ship when he was in such poor health, yet now that he’s dead, Sir John is the one to recommend that Young be buried which Crozier is surprised by, and seems to feel is unnecessary.

There’s been so much amazing commentary already made about Young’s burial scene so I’ll skip it except to say that Hickey’s irritated sigh when he hears footsteps coming towards the grave is SO funny. That’s exactly how I feel when I know that someone is about to tell me something that will annoy me.

Goodsir was really getting into the emotion of Sir John’s “eulogy”/motivational speech before he remembered the promise he made about Young’s ring. Also, what triggered his memory was Sir John saying “We shall earn our loved one’s cheers and embraces,” so no doubt a reminder of the traumatic “Your loved ones will be there in Heaven to welcome you! :)” “I never knew my mother or father” exchange (or maybe just a reminder of the fact that he was supposed to get Young’s ring to his sister but just let me scrape a little humor out of this. God knows I need it).

The shot of Bryant praying in his hammock the night before they get completely frozen-in is honestly deeply upsetting to me. Especially considering he’s a marine so he Did Not Ask To Be Here, yet there he’ll die.

According to Melville, ship’s compasses occasionally spun round-and-round when a ship was caught in a severe storm and this was an incredibly upsetting thing to behold because of how disorienting it was. So, considering that, Fitzjames keeps his composure pretty well but he clearly has some reservations about how things are going and Sir John has no comforting-sounding remark about ‘Magnetic North’ to offer him now.

The bit where Sir John “sees” Crozier, on Terror, turn away from him with a half-smirk on his face is interesting because there’s no way he could have possibly seen Crozier’s expression at that distance and I’m doubtful that he’d even have been able to make out the identity of anyone he might have been able to see on Terror’s deck. So really, it speaks mostly to Sir John’s mental state; his seeing their getting frozen in as a loss against Crozier and imagining that Crozier would see it as a victory for himself.

Ugh the final shot is making me think about @catilinas’s post comparing a shot of the two ships stuck in to the shot of the ink drops from ep 3 and I am LOSING IT but I was losing it anyway because it’s 2AM now and my entire body feels like gelatin. 

THANK YOU AND GOODNIGHT! 

SEE YOU NEXT TIME!

[okimargarvez]

DOG UNIT

Original title: Dog unit.

Prompt: Luke and Phil perform in particular sweet exercitations.

Warning: none.

Genre: funny, friendly, romantic.

Characters: Penelope Garcia, Luke Alvez, Phil Brooks, Lou, Roxy, O.C.

Pairing: Garvez; Phil x O.C.

Note: part 87 in Garvez canon Life.

Legend: 💑🐶.

Song mentioned: none.

GARVEZ STORIES

Note: I written this story based on an event when they showed us the skills of dogs who work for Police, Firemen or other such departments.

DOG UNIT

 The man bends down to be at her same height. For a moment he looks at her, then gently caresses her. -Okay, girl, are you ready?- he asks her, but she doesn't answer him. -Today is an important day.- a shadow appears behind him.

-Don't put pressure on her.- his girlfriend warns him, with an equally severe look and tone.

Luke stands up and turns to her. -Seriously, Pen, I don't think it was a good idea to let you watch the drill.- and above all, it hadn't been his idea, but a special permit snatched from sweet looks and too tempting allusions. The man sighs, cursing his chronic inability to resist her.

Fortunately, she is only partially aware of it (unbelievable but true, despite the fact that more than two years have passed). -Why?- she asks with a slightly hurt look. But he holds on. -Okay, I'll be good, quiet as a mouse.- then surrenders, raising her hands to make the yield even more obvious. -Even if you know that mice actually...- she starts again less than a second later. Luke glares at her.

He is talking again to dog. -Rox, focus on my voice. Only on my voice.- he adds, and the peck doesn’t pass unnoticed. The woman snorts; Luke barely holds a giggle. But he must remain serious. -The recruits are about to arrive with their dogs.- Penelope admires her boyfriend, feeling her heart burst, unable to contain all the love that she senses. It's not just the fact of seeing him interact with their babies. Or that he's pretty much too good to be real. It is all that he carries with him: his wounds, his battles, his past or BY, before you, as he calls it. A sneeze behind her interrupts her thoughts.

A woman with long red hair is desperately looking for a handkerchief in the chaos of her bag. -Hey, Sammie, what are you doing here?- she asks, moving away from Luke and Rox.

She recognizes the kind of look in her eyes and understands the answer before she can say it out loud. -I accompanied someone...- an instant after a perfectly steady man on his own legs and a big dog still convinced to be a puppy make their entrance.

-Lou!- Penelope cries, running towards him. Samantha chuckles, exchanging a look with Luke. -My love!- she exclaims, crouching down to let herself be wash by kisses and licks. Roxy also observes the scene, deciding that there are no reasons to be jealous.

The dark man, who definitely feels like the third wheel, clears his throat. -Hello to you too, Penelope.- the blonde reluctantly rises, feeling behind her a chorus of giggles.

But no real reason to be embarrassed. -Sorry Phil, but...- he raises his hand, making a sign to her that there's no need to explain.

-I'm used to it.- he shrugs, then he leaves free Lou, who wastes no time, reaching his oldest friend. -Hey, bro, don't tell me I'm the first.- they exchange a purely masculine and military pat, while their respective girlfriends roll their eyes and giggle at their so... predictable ways.

Luke smiles at him. He wasn't sure if Phil would make it, and not just to come to this event. Only now that he sees him standing, quiet, he feels that part of his guilt is fading away. -And instead it is really so.- he swallow, with a lump in the throat. -Like old times.- but Penelope has noticed it and maybe she is not the only one. -The others are coming.- he tells him.

Phil turns around, following the direction of his friend's gaze. At least a dozen men in uniform with as many dogs on a leash, of various breeds, are entering the main door. -Which one will shout first?- he asks, with a conspiratorial tone.

Luke frowns. -You lost me.- he admits, getting a frustrated look from his best friend. Now the shouting of men and the panting of animals are getting closer.

-What, you disappoint me, man.- he shakes his head, he turns for a moment to check that the girls are still at a safe distance. -Between Sammie and Penelope, which one will scream and jump first, seeing the dogs?- he explains then, as he greets them with his hand. They have already sat in the front row. -And which one will emit the highest yell?- he adds, before both let themselves go to laugh.

The Latin pretends to think about it seriously. -Em, I'd bet on my horse for both.- he gives a kiss to the blonde with his hand. He would swear she could read his mind and understood what they were talking about. Or maybe he taught her too well how reading lips. After a few seconds they hear a loud noise, a patter, then a little scream that one of the two men recognizes all too well, even if he usually hears it in a very different context.

Phil puts his hand on his shoulder. -You are half right.- he teases him, so he puts himself aside, seeing a red and yellow tornado coming.

The latter stops in front of the Latin. -Luke!- she calls, in an extreme urgency.

He bites his tongue, trembling for what she will say. -Lovely...- and he blushes preventively. However, she doesn't pay too much attention to it, she has hearts eyes.

-But did you see how damn beautiful and sweet they are?- she asks, but she doesn't care about a real answer. -Some are still practically puppies...- he allows himself to stroke her arm. With the corner of his eye he notices his friend in a similar situation.

-Of course, the training is more effective if you start to teach them some small and fun exercise already at an early age.- he explains, enjoying that admiring look. It drives him crazy when he is the direct subject of her attention. -And, mind, that Roxy listens to you.- he winks.

-The same goes for you, redhead.- they hear Phil echo him.

Sammie performs in a shocked expression. -Did I say something?- she defends herself.

-No, but you still managed to puncture the eardrums of all.- he replies.

She shakes her head. -Very funny, hombre.- Pen looks at Luke with a strange light in her eyes. He forces himself to take in hand the situation again.

-Ok, no more fuss, it's time to get serious.- the girls go back to their seats. Luke starts showing the recruits some of the exercises their dogs will learn during the training. Roxy carries out each command with precision and diligence. Then, it's Phil and Lou's turn, who despite his vehemence, proves to be just as good, finding the hidden men, specific objects, overcoming obstacles. Finally, Luke takes one of the dogs, a Bernese named Nietzsche, who specializes in finding corpses.

After answering all the questions and having say goodbye, the two couples separate, each reaching their own home. Just inside it, Penelope embraces her own little girl. -Rox, you were really good, mom is so proud of you!- almost too much.

-Hey, and there is nothing for me?- the man jokes. -Pen?- but then he realizes that there is something strange. -Love?- he asks, now worried. She stands up, staring at him.

-Just hold me tight, because right now I can't say anything.-

-------------------------------

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[holdthosebees]

Metamorphoses

A/N: Daisy character study, mid-season 4, with background Daisy/Basira and a cameo from John. This was going to be the Lakeside View Apartment Suite installment of my Mountain-Goats inspired series, but it got completely away from me. CW for... I don’t really know how to warn for recovery from being possessed by a fear god! Canon-typical chronic pain and disordered-eating-like symptoms, I guess? 

They put Daisy in what had once been the break room. It has a coffee machine and a stovetop and an electric kettle and minifridge and two couches, which she can push together into a makeshift bed. The decision is made quietly, with minimal discussion, but Daisy knows that she’s there so that, on the bad nights, she doesn’t have to walk too far on her unsteady legs to get a drink of water, or vomit in the sink.

Tonight is not one of the bad nights, but it’s not one of the good nights, either. On the good nights Basira stops working before nine and comes and eats takeaway on the grimy carpeted floor, and sometimes John even joins them, and sometimes they play cards, or drink, or drink while playing cards. On the good nights Daisy’s breath doesn’t come short, and movement feels natural and free. Her body still hurts, doesn’t ever stop hurting, but sometimes it hurts a little less. And on the best nights Basira stays late in the breakroom and falls asleep at Daisy’s back, one arm draped lightly over her waist, a comforting pressure that never quite slips into terrifying.

They’ve only kissed once, since Daisy got back. It was clumsy, intense, awkward. She could feel Basira waiting for her to take control and push back. She couldn’t. Her lips were chapped and raw and she couldn’t muster any actual arousal, just a deep sad tenderness that sat uncomfortably in her healing ribcage. They’d hugged for a long time afterwards, Daisy’s face buried in Basira’s neck, Basira’s hand resting ever so gently on the jut of Daisy’s shoulder blade. Basira hadn’t tried again. But she had come to rest beside her on the couch, and come back, and come back, and Daisy is so absurdly grateful for it that she forgets how to breathe.

Tonight, though, Basira is still working and Daisy is alone. She pulls the ratty comforter up to her chin and tries not to feel like it’s suffocating her. In the quiet darkness of the archive she can hear the pipes creaking and the air conditioning hissing as it turns on. The hair on the back of her neck stands up, and she knows that John is watching her. He probably doesn’t even know that he’s doing it. She raises a hand, wiggles a few fingers in a wave, and the feeling passes.

Sleep comes and goes.

When she was a child her teacher had read her a book about a god. She hadn’t paid very much attention, distracted as she was by flicking bits of paper into Emily Carpenter’s hair. But it comes to her, lying down in the dark. Not the words, but the illustration on the cover: a woman leaning out of the darkness into a circle of bone-pale candlelight, her body curving down over a sleeping man. His arm over his face, head turned away. A drop of wax sliding from the candle in her hand, caught in the moment before it falls.

That’s what she feels like, most days. Not the woman or the man, but the drop of wax. Caught between the fire and the fall, frozen, and all it would take, she thinks, screwing her eyes shut and curling up onto her side, all it would take is one moment’s upheaval, one push, and the whole damned image would break.

Or maybe it isn’t the question of a moment. Maybe it is the slow slide, gradual, so gradual you don’t notice that you’re slipping until you let go. She is scraped raw, these days. Her mouth waters at strange times for something she’s never truly tasted. It isn’t hunger; hunger, you can get used to. She is tired of gritting her teeth, feeling them wear down as they grind. She wants to bite.

It is a strange exhaustion that comes, not from over exerting yourself, but from holding yourself constantly in check. Every action must be deliberate. Even breathing. Especially breathing. Sometimes, when it’s just the two of them alone, she buries her face in Basira’s hair and breathes in slow. Wishes she could live on the scent of her, on the reassuring pressure of touch. I caught her, she thinks, placatingly. I don’t have to hunt anything, anymore; we’ve caught each other. It’s easiest when Basira wraps her arms around Daisy a little too tight, squeezes a little too hard. It isn’t easy at all.

The door opens, letting in a line of yellow light. Daisy does not go on alert. She does not reach for the knife that she knows is under one of the couch cushions. She squints at the black silhouette in the doorway and tries not to be disappointed when she realizes that it’s John.

“Sorry,” he says. It sounds like he means it. John is sorry for everything, these days, except maybe the things that count. Daisy can sympathize. Some guilt is so deep you can’t swim in it without drowning; that doesn’t stop it from leaking. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” Daisy says. Her voice is hoarse. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Ah,” John says. His footsteps are light as he walks across the tiled floor to the kitchen, as though he’s trying to touch the ground as little as possible. His narrow shoulders are hunched. Daisy wonders if this is what she looks like: a slowly eroding form, afraid of the space she consumes. “Just… getting a glass of water. Then I’ll be out of your way.”

“Is Basira still up?” Daisy says. John navigates the kitchen perfectly well in the dark; it’s something she’s noticed since he came back from the arctic expedition. He doesn’t need light to see, anymore.

“I think so. I’ve been in my office, mostly.”

“If you see her…” Daisy hesitates. Her fingers clench and unclench in the comforter. “Tell her she needs to rest, too. She works herself too hard.” It’s a pointless observation, of course. It’s not like Daisy can do any of the work for her, and she wouldn’t trust John enough to delegate to him. They are as unable to help Basira as they are to help themselves, some days.

“I doubt she’ll listen to me,” John says, dry and bitter as cheap wine. “She rarely does, anymore. Still, I suppose I haven’t given her much of a reason to.”

Daisy sighs.

“Just--try?” she says. She runs a hand through her hair. How long has it been since she washed it? How long has it been since that mattered? “I’d tell her myself, but…”

“I will.” In the sliver of light, she can see only the corner of John’s wry smile. “I’ll do my best, at any rate.”

Daisy nods, and rolls back over, pulling the comforter with her. Her leg twinges painfully. She hears John turn off the tap and walk to the door, where he hesitates.

“Goodnight, Daisy,” he whispers. She doesn’t reply. She grits her teeth and swallows her tongue and imagines that the blanket is the world, pressing down on her, a comforting and horrifying thought. It’s too heavy. It isn’t heavy enough.

In the story, the wax falls, waking the sleeping god. In the story the woman’s life is broken by this; she goes wailing to the god’s mother, who gives her a series of impossible tasks. In the story, she succeeds. Of course she does. Her god is a god of love, after all.

[odderancyart]

A Yellow Sky

Chapter 1

Next

So... I wrote a Hamilton Foster Care AU because of Reasons. I guess I might as well share it here

AO3

Ten foster homes in three years. Alexander Hamilton is chronically unable to just shut up and do what he's supposed to, even when he's trying, which has certainly had consequences for him in his short life. The Washingtons are his best shot, his caseworker keeps telling him, but Alexander is a realist. They'll realize how annoying he is, hate how much smarter than them he is, and after a couple weeks they'll send him away.

But it's nice there, he finds. Far too nice. Almost like the calm before the storm.

***

Alexander leaned his head against the cool car window, his hands tightly knitted together in his lap. Outside, fields and meadows rolled by. A little while ago, they’d left New York City for the first time since he came to the mainland, and it felt strange to leave the cityscape behind. He’d never seen anything like this before. Back on Nevis, and then St. Croix, the ocean reached farther than anyone could see, and palm trees cropped up everywhere. Vast stretches of golden wheat was a new view.

The sun beamed on the clear-blue sky, oblivious to the sixteen-year-old's quiet distress. To the knot in his stomach. Of course it was. Why would anyone - much less the sun - care about him? An immigrant, bastard, son of a- Alexander cut himself off right there. Those words had been repeated at him so many times, and most of it was true. But his mother wasn’t a whore, and he refused to let anyone call her that. His father, now that was an asshole, but she... Kind brown eyes, black hair falling down her face as she stroked his deathly pale cheek. “Vivre, mon Alexander,” she’d murmured before coughing again. Live, my Alexander. “Become something great. You're so smart. It's your destiny.” By the morning, she was dead, and his own sickness had begun to recede.

He closed his eyes. That was the reason he was once again leaving, once again going to a new foster home where he’d undoubtedly wouldn’t stay for more than a few weeks, or months if he was lucky. His foster parents’ son had called him a whoreson and he’d punched him in the face. Had earned him quite the punishment, and then he’d been sent on his way, called difficult and violent.

Watching the fields buzz by dispassionately, he squeezed the pen in his hand hard. It was calming. No matter what anyone did to him, he’d always have his words.

No matter what the new family did. Without question they’d seem nice at first, and then they’d find out what an annoying brat he was and they’d make him regret it. Eventually he’d end up somewhere else, and the cycle would repeat.

In the back of his mind, he wondered what James was doing right now. His older brother, named after their deadbeat father, who had just turned eighteen as their cousin fucking killed himself, leaving them to fend for themselves. With no job – only an apprenticeship – he hadn’t been deemed capable of raising his younger brother at St. Croix and Alexander had been sent to the mainland after the hurricane. To New York City.

“-Xander. Alexander,” his caseworker, Mr. André, snapped, glancing back from the driver’s seat. “Are you listening to me?”

Alexander flinched, sitting straight and nodding quickly. “Yessir. S-sorry.”

“As I was saying-” He sounded annoyed, and it was hard not to flinch again. “-this is your best shot. Your one shot. You’ve been jumping homes for three years now. Ten homes, Alexander. In three years.”

Nodding, Alexander stared into his lap. Of course he knew that. “Yessir,” he whispered.

“The Washingtons are influential people, Alexander.” His voice softened marginally. Mr André sure liked to use his name a lot. Seemed to think it gave more weight to what he was saying. It was stupid – not that he’d ever voice that opinion, of course. Making enemies with his caseworker was the last thing Alexander wanted. “And they’re good people. This is the best chance you’ll get, and it was extremely kind of them to agree to take someone with your track record in. Don’t screw up.”

“Yessir,” he said for a third time. He’d learnt his lesson by now. Don’t open your big fucking mouth. Talk only when spoken to. Don’t ask for anything. Never say ‘no’.

And never let them know you’re ten times smarter than they’ll ever be. People don’t like that. They’ll make you suffer for humiliating them. Particularly adults don’t like becoming unable to come up with anything to answer a fourteen-year-old immigrant. The corner of his mouth almost quirked upwards. Would have if he hadn’t still been able to remember the pain coming after those stunned faces.

“Good.” A sigh. The car stopped. “We’re here.”

Without looking, Alexander slid out of the car, keeping his eyes trained on the ground as he went to the trunk to grab the gym bag in which he kept his meagre belongings. Enough clothing for a week, a few books, his notebooks, a lot of pencils, and that expensive fountain pen he’d saved for two years to be able to buy and which now was one of his most precious belongings. And the two things he treasured the most: a photo album from his childhood in the Caribbean, and the few letters he’d received from James.

“Take a look at your new home,” Mr. André prompted, and he automatically obeyed even as he almost scoffed. Home. Yeah, right. He looked up.

His bag fell to the ground with a thump.

Holy shit.

The house was gigantic, white with a red roof and at least two floors. Alexander couldn’t quite make out if there was a third or if it was an attic up there. A fucking tower stuck up in the middle of it. The car stood on a gigantic gravel circle surrounding a circle of green grass, and a lush garden stuck out from behind the building, and there was a lake.

This was his new foster home? Someone who lived like this wanted to take in a poor bastard from the middle of nowhere? Why?

Mr André let out a short laugh at Alexander’s open mouth and wide eyes. “Come on, Alexander. Let’s not keep them waiting.”

Jerking back into reality, he grabbed his back quickly, following up to the brown double-doors. “Yessir.”

He swallowed as Mr André knocked hard on the door, forgetting to breathe for a moment as he waited to see his new foster parents. His heart pounded in his chest as he heard footsteps from inside.

The door slid open almost soundlessly, revealing a bald, middle-aged man. A quiet gasp of horror escaped Alexander. He was the biggest man he’d ever seen, with broad shoulders and a serious face. He swallowed, ducking his head to hide the fear in his brown eyes. If that was his new foster father, he could hurt him badly if he wanted to.

“Mr Washington,” Mr André said pleasantly, confirming his fears. Fuck. “A pleasure to finally meet you.”

“Mr André, I assume,” Mr Washington replied, his voice one of someone who was used to being obeyed. “And this must be Alexander.”

Swallowing again, he forced himself to look up and nod slightly. “Yessir. Alexander Hamilton.” He blinked in surprise as his new foster father smiled warmly at him.

“Welcome to your new home. Come in. My wife is in the library, she’ll join us in a moment.”

Library. Alexander’s eyes snapped up to Mr Washington’s face, and he straightened without meaning to. They had a library? He was just about to shake his head to dispel his excitement as Mr Washington looked at him. Even if they did, there was no way they’d let him in there, was there?

“Do you like to read, Alexander?”

Biting his tongue, he nodded weakly. Hoping the other wasn’t insulted by his interest. “I do, sir.”

To his relief, Mr Washington only smiled wider. “Good. You’re welcome to read anything in there. Just be careful, some of the books are quite old. Quite a few first-editions too.”

Alexander couldn’t hide is shock, outright staring at him. “You’ll let me-?” He cut himself off quickly, freezing mid-step where he’d begun to make his way inside. “I- I’m sorry, sir,” he quickly mumbled. His stupid mouth, questioning things. Questioning something good. He gritted his teeth. Undoubtedly, he'd revoke the library privileges now, before he’d even had the chance to see it. Somehow, that felt worse than the beating he’d surely get for talking out of turn as soon as Mr André left.

Mr Washington raised an eyebrow, and Alexander swore at himself. For a moment, it seemed like he would say something but then he simply gestured for them to follow, calling out “Martha! They’re here!”

They were seated in a leather couch in the most luxurious living room he had ever seen in his life. If living room was even the correct word. Maybe parlour would fit better. The walls were covered in turquoise wallpaper, with oil paintings hanging on them. He recognized the coffee table as mahogany, and the back wall was dominated by a fireplace taller than him.

Smiling at him, Mr Washington gestured toward one of the paintings, the one hanging over the fireplace. Alexander recognized Mr Washington. He had his arm around a woman who must be his new foster mother. Then there were two other adults – a man and a woman – and a young boy. “You’ll meet Gilbert tonight. He’s our adoptive son, and your age. A few months younger, if I remember your birthday correctly. The other two are Martha’s - my wife’s - children from her first marriage. They have both moved back to Virginia, though.”

“I’m- I’m sorry, sir?” Alexander wasn’t sure what kind of response he was looking for. Mr André gave him a pointed glare, and he shrank in on himself.

Mr Washington only laughed softly, however. “Don’t be. They’re happy and that’s all a parent could ask for.”

He nodded quickly, averting his eyes. Focused on his breathing. The man, his new foster father, sounded trustworthy. Kind. But they always did. They always sounded like they wanted him there, like they wanted him to be family, but they never did. He hadn’t had a family since his mother died, not even his brother. It had been the same after that, and they’d grown more and more distant.

No, they’d keep the act up, especially as long as his caseworker stayed, and then they’d make sure he never forgot that he didn’t belong, that he was here on their mercy and that they could get rid of him whenever they wished. Or do whatever they wanted to him: no one gave a damn about yet another orphan lost in the foster system, especially not an immigrant. Even if the Virgin Islands actually were part of the US, but no one seemed to care about that.

Oh, Mr André actually had pulled him out of one of those foster homes himself after a teacher called CPS when the violence became too evident, but that was one time. One. Hardly something to cheer for.

Footsteps came from one of the arches leading into another hallway, and Alexander glanced up just in time to see a tall woman with her hair in cornrows and cornrows in a bun enter the room. Mr Washington lit up at the sight of her.

“Hello,” she said, voice light and sweet. “I’m Martha Washington.” She held out her hand first to Mr André who stood up and shook it, and then to Alexander. He quickly rose as well before shaking it weakly. A flush rose to his cheeks. Pathetic. He was perfectly capable of a strong, business-like handshake, but it wasn’t a good idea to show off to his new foster parents. Not to anyone who had power over him.

“Mrs Washington, a pleasure,” Mr André replied. “This is Alexander. We’re very grateful you were willing to take him in. Aren’t we, Alexander?”

He nodded, staring at the ground. “Yes, sir, we are. Thank you, ma’am.” The words tasted bad in his mouth. Gratitude. They always expected it, no matter how shitty they treated him. He glanced up at Mr Washington. “Thank you, sir.”

“Oh you don’t need to be,” Mrs Washington was quick to say, causing Alexander to frown in confusion. “It’s our pleasure. We’re delighted to have Alexander in our home, and Gilbert is already so excited over having a brother his own age.”

“I already have a brother,” Alexander muttered, before stiffening. Stupid. His heart stopped, and he stared up at his foster parents in fear. “I- I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t mean to talk back I’m-” He cut himself off. They’d hate if he rambled. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Mrs Washington tilted her head, watching him in...  was that concern? No of course it wasn’t, why would she be concerned about him? It was just annoyance disguised as it because Mr André still was here. Alexander already feared the moment when he’d leave.

“Why are you sorry, dear?”

“I didn’t mean to speak back,” he repeated, hating how weak he sounded. How weak he was. And hating that he hadn’t even been here ten minutes and he’d already fucked up.

The Washingtons exchanged a gaze.

“Don’t be, son,” Mr Washington finally said. Alexander flinched at that word. Son. “You’ve done nothing wrong. A brother, you say?” He merely sounded curious, but Alexander ducked his head anyway, nodding jerkily. Would they get mad he had a family outside of them? Even if he hadn’t seen him since he left the Caribbean?

“An older brother,” he finally replied softly. “James. He's still on St. Croix.”

“How come you’re not together?” Mrs Washington asked. “If you’re comfortable with me asking.”

He really wasn’t. Not at all. “He was just eighteen when our cousin... died. Our guardian.” His voice was almost inaudible. “Couldn’t take care of me, too old for the system. So he stayed, and I was sent to New York after the hurricane.” It had been so exciting, too, even with the scars watching his home being ruined left him with. He was going to move to the greatest city in the world. There had been no future for him at St. Croix.

Still wasn’t.

Smiling at him, Mr Washington nodded. “If you want to call him, the phone is yours. Don’t worry about long-distance fees, we can afford it.” He stood up, looking to Mr André. “Should we get the paperwork done?”

The other two adults agreed, leaving him behind to go sign the documents in Mr Washington’s study. Alexander curled up on the couch, careful not to let his dirty sneakers touch the leather. His blue second-hand Converse were so worn down he could almost feel the ground through the soles, and they were squeezing his toes. Half-turning, he looked back at the portrait. The fact that they had an oil-painting of their family was just... insane. People still did that?

He rolled his eyes. Rich people still did that. Because of course they did. The boy – they'd said he was his age – seemed to be about thirteen there, lanky and a little disproportionate, but already handsome. His thick, curly hair was in a bun on top of his head and he had a cocky sort of smile. Like someone who knew how good and smart they were.

Alexander remembered when he used to smile like that in public. He’d stopped sometime in his second year of foster families, he thought, though it was hard to keep track. Might’ve been a longer time ago.

Anxiety coiled in his stomach as he thought of meeting his new foster brother. Would he like him? Would he be like his last, a spoiled brat who thought he could treat Alexander like a slave? With riches like these, it didn’t seem unlikely. After all, Alexander himself was a nobody. Illegitimate, a deadbeat father, a deceased mother. Poorer than a church rat. His most expensive belonging was that fountain pen, which had cost him two hundred dollars. It was so smooth to write with it, and he adored it. Nothing else he owned cost more than twenty – his phone, that is. An old Nokia on which he could do nothing but text and call people, given to him by an old foster family. He was happy just to have it. James had called him on it on his sixteenth birthday a couple months ago. It was the last time they spoke.

Soon, the adults returned, and Mr André ruffled his hair, which he had tied up in a fashionably messy bun, and smiled at him. “Be good now, Alexander.”

“I will, sir,” he replied quietly.

With a nod, Mr André bid his goodbyes and left, leaving him alone with the Washingtons.

As soon as the door closed, Alexander braced himself, ready in case they’d decide to punish him for his rudeness already.

“So, Alexander,” Mrs Washington began, and he looked up at her, accidentally meeting her gaze. He held it defiantly for a moment before looking away, his heart fluttering anxiously. Damn him for being unable to learn his place. To his shock, there was not a hint of anger on her face. She just kept smiling. “Would you like a tour of the house right now, or do you want to go straight to your room? If you want to unpack and get some rest before dinner. Gilbert will be home by then, and he can be pretty intense.”

Unsure what the right answer was, he looked back to her, now careful not to look her in the eyes. There was no indication of which she wanted, so he carefully said, “Can we go to my room, ma’am? If that’s okay.”

She nodded, and he exhaled, relieved relief. Thank fuck, it had been the right one. “Of course. George, take his bag.”

“No!” His heart went up into his throat, and he stood up in alarm, his eyes wide as Mr Washington reached for the black gym bag. Were they- They wouldn’t take his things, would they?

Stopping mid-movement, Mr Washington stared at him in bewilderment before slowly straightening again, not grabbing the bag.

The relief was overpowering, and Alexander didn’t even care if they hit him for having the guts to act out like that, he jerked the bag toward himself, pressing it to his chest.

“Alright…” Mrs Washington blinked. “You can carry it yourself if you wish to, of course. Your room is on the second floor, next to Gilbert’s.”

What kind of name was Gilbert, anyway? Alexander wondered as he nodded again. “Yes ma’am. Thank you.”

His new foster parents led him out the room, up a dark-brown wooden staircase covered by a white carpet. Seemed like a stupid colour to make a carpet in his opinion. Especially one in the fucking entrance hall, where people would come inside from the garden. The walls were covered in art, and looking down at himself, at his worn black jeans, dark-blue t-shirt and flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, he felt incredibly out of place. Alexander glanced up at them nervously. What was he even doing here? This wasn’t the kind of place he belonged in. Not yet, at least. One day, though. That was the thought that kept him going. One day.

“There is Gilbert’s room,” Mrs Washington told him, pointing at one door. For some reason, the French flag had been painted on top of the panel door.

Catching him staring, Mr Washington chuckled. “Gilbert is from France. His parents were close friends of ours and wished for us to receive guardianship of him if something happened to them.”

“That’s very nice of you, sir,” Alexander replied quietly, a pit of dread forming in his stomach. At least it had granted him some peace to know they had an adoptive son already. But if they’d adopted him because they knew his parents, it was a completely different thing.

Then, Mrs Washington opened the door next to Gilbert’s. “And this is yours. It’s a bit sparse right now, since we didn’t know what you’d like to furnish it with, but I’m sure we’ll fix that in no time.”

Alexander’s mouth fell open as he stepped inside. “This- This is all mine?” His voice sounded strangled as he stared at the room- at his room, at least for now. His throat felt thick all of the sudden.

“All yours, son,” Mr Washington confirmed.

It was so big. A twin-sized bed with a teal duvet stood by the wall, and the window had a window-seat, and there was a fancy writing desk with a real office chair that actually looked comfortable. There even was an armchair in one of the corners. “Th- thank you,” he whispered, hardly getting the words out. “Thank you so much, sir.”

Mr Washington smiled, and patted his shoulder. Alexander couldn’t help his violent flinch but was proud of himself that he hadn’t ducked away, at least. The hand was quickly removed.

“We’ll call you down for dinner in an hour.” Mrs Washington stepped out again, her husband following. “Gilbert will probably be home just before that. You can stay here, or explore the house. Do you want the door closed or open?”

Once again, he didn’t know the correct answer. Alexander chewed at his lower lip, then shrugged lightly. He wanted it closed. But he didn’t know what they wanted it to be. With a nod and another slight smile, Mrs Washington left it half-open as they left.

He listened to their steps disappear downstairs before he relaxed, throwing his bag on the bed and jumping up on it. The soft mattress bounced as he moved, and he couldn’t help the small noise of excitement he made. He’d forgotten what a comfortable bed felt like, if he ever had known. Compared to this, his bed home at Nevis had been a rock.

When he was certain they weren’t coming back, he started picking up his belongings. The books and notebooks came first, and then the photo album. He’d find somewhere to hide them soon, somewhere the Washingtons wouldn’t look if they searched his room. Then, carefully, he picked up the black folder in which he kept his brother’s letters to him, swallowing down the thickness in his throat.

He pulled up one of them, reading the first lines.

Alexander,

I’m happy to hear you’re doing well in America, and that you’re going to a better school than the one here.

Counting the times he’d debated with himself to call his brother and beg him to get him home to the Caribbean, to adopt him as his only relative alive – except for their father, wherever the hell he was. He’d almost done it one time last January after a bad beating for sneaking down to the kitchen to steal food. Especially during the horrible New York-winters. He never stopped being hungry during those months, and he never got enough food even during the summers. Alexander couldn’t count the times he’d gone to bed a frozen winter night sobbing for the tropical weather of the West Indies. Away from this frozen Hell. But eventually, he always talked himself out of it.

James and St. Croix were poor. He didn’t want to be a burden. They’d hardly spoken for over two years, and didn’t know each other anymore.

And in two years he would’ve aged out of the system. He’d finally be able to build himself a future, to go to a great college on full scholarship, become someone. A lawyer or politician, maybe. At St. Croix, he wouldn’t have a future. Certainly not one that would mark his name down in history. And that was what he wanted. What kept Alexander going.

A legacy.

Even if he had to survive two more years of foster care to get there, he would. He’d show them what Alexander Hamilton was capable of. That he was smarter than any of them, better than any of them. He’d be remembered by history while their petty little names disappeared forever as soon as their grandchildren were dead.

The corner of his mouth curled up in a smirk. It was small, but it was there, and he glanced toward the door. The Washingtons could do their worst.

He’d show them all.

[optimizche]

Sinful {Part 1} (Kim Junmyeon x Reader)

[For the reader who requested the Priest Junmyeon fic. I shall be writing this in two parts]

What the fuck am I doing here, you asked yourself as you settled into the pew beside your mother.

Never in your life had you been a religious person. Part the revulsion of organized religion came from living with your mother. She read the Bible every time she had a moment free from work or household chores. She frequently attended the neighbourhood church services, fervently participating in its activities.

Another huge contributing factor to your dislike of religion was witnessing the abuse of your mother at the hands of your chronically alcoholic father. Even as a child, when you'd be cowering in the corner of the kitchen, watching as your father beat the living hell out of your mother in a drunken rage, you wondered about the existence of a God. If God did exist, he wouldn't have allowed your mother, your pious and devout mother, to be abused in such a brutal manner.

One day, mercifully, your father decided to abandon your family. Your mother tried her best to hide her relief at the abrupt departure of your father, but you knew better. You had always been a perceptive child. Your mother returned to her Bible, you returned to your studies. And you worked hard. Your academic record won you a full scholarship at a prestigious institute and you finally left the small, sleepy town you had called your home.

You set up a life for yourself in New York City, working as an attorney at one of the city's premiere law firms. You were good at your job, a direct result of which marked a tremendous improvement in your lifestyle. You lived in a penthouse in Upper East Side, drove a Lamborghini, you earned a seven figure salary. The works. Your life was on the right track.

Once a year, around the holidays, like clockwork, you returned to your hometown to pay a visit to your mother. Diagnosed recently with an advanced stage pancreatic cancer, your mother did not have much time to live. You were well aware of that. And hence, you tried to make your remaining time with her as happy and peaceful as possible. You humoured her every request, which is how you had ended up in church today.

Your mother had an expectant look in her eyes, clutching her hymn book in hand as she gazed at the podium.

A few moments passed, before the priest walked in. Everyone stood to greet him. You did too, your eyes glued to your phone in your hand, tapping away a text to your assistant back at work in NYC.

"This is Father Junmyeon Kim," you mother whispered to you, excitement evident in her voice.

You hummed absentmindedly, eyes still focussed on your phone screen as you sat back down with the rest of the congregation.

Typing out the text, you placed your phone into the pocket of your coat, glancing up at the priest for the first time to see why your mother had been so excited about this Father Junmyeon.

You gasped. And you understood immediately.

The man standing before you was young. Far younger than what you had been expecting. You'd been expecting a middle aged, balding, wrinkled man. Father Junmyeon was none of those things.

He was... magnetic. His presence commanded your attention, a sense of leadership innately present in him. Dark haired, dressed in black slacks and a matching black long-sleeved button up shirt with a clerical collar, his presence was imposing.

Throughout the sermon he had a kind, almost seraphic smile upon his lips, his dark eyes scanning the crowd, as he addressed the familiar faces that frequented the church. Your hometown was a small town after all. Sitting in front, you were directly in his line of sight, and when his gaze did find you, his speech faltered for barely a moment, before resuming with its usual cadence.

"Mark Twain said that there is a charm about the forbidden that makes it unspeakably desirable," he said, his voice clear and so melodious, he could've almost been a singer. "And I fully agree with him. We humans, are all sinners. No matter what we may say to others, or to ourselves, we all have sinned atleast once in our lifetimes. God has made us that way, it is his will. I believe that as long as there is remorse, as long as there is repentance, God will be willing to forgive any sin. His love for us is infinite, and he loves us all. Each one of us has made mistakes, but as long as we ask for forgiveness from Him, we will be forgiven. We will be absolved..."

You found yourself drawn into his sermon, mesmerized by his thoughts, his words, his voice.

And him.

Most of all, him.

Even as he elaborated further upon how the lure of the forbidden, you couldn't help but notice how devastatingly handsome he looked.

"In conclusion, a quote from Aphra Behn comes to mind. 'There is no sinner like a young saint,' she said. Let us ponder upon it and let us not judge each other for our sins. Let us simply ask for forgiveness and leave the rest to Him. Thank you."

The applause in response to his sermon was resounding and you joined it as well. How refreshing it was to hear a priest speak so open-mindedly about sins. In the scarce other sermons you had listened to in your short churchgoing life, the priests had always denounced the sinner. Father Junmyeon had spoken otherwise.

And it had left quite and impression upon you.

_______________

That very same night, you found yourself unable to stop thinking about Father Junmyeon.

Unable to sleep, you tossed and turned fitfully in bed, your mind replaying his words.

Isn't that exactly what you believed in as well? Sinners should be given a chance at absolution. That is why you worked so hard as a lawyer, defending people who you knew had committed crimes. But you wanted to save them. Because you knew that everyone deserved a second chance.

After a while, your thoughts drifted to Father Junmyeon himself. And they became decidedly unholier, as time passed.

You thought about how broad his shoulders looked, how soft his raven hair would feel if you were to run your fingers through it. You thought about his luscious lips, how they'd feel when they pressed against yours...

By now, a pleasant heat had pooled between your legs and you decided that since Satan himself had decided to tempt you by presenting you with Father Junmyeon, it'd be okay to give in.

Just for once.

No one would have to know...

Your hand crept between your legs and below the waistband of your now soaked panties.

Closing your eyes, you began to think of him while you touched yourself.

The way his voice sounded like a chorus of angels.

The way he smiled.

The way his dark eyes looked at everyone in attendance at the church.

The way his fingers clutched his copy of the Bible. Such long, elegant fingers.

You began to fantasize that your fingers, that were now knuckle deep within you, were his instead.

A deep, throaty moan left your lips at this, and you turned over, onto your front.

Raising your hips into the air, you brought yourself down upon your fingers, plunging them that much deeper into you, imagining him spearing you with his cock.

"Junmyeon," you choked out a moan, your other hand clutching at your pillow while you thought about no one but him.

Your release came in a powerful surge, taking your breath away, and you cried out, pressing your mouth into your pillow to muffle the sound.

Once you returned from your high, you realized what you had done. Your fingers were sticky with your juices, your skin sweaty and your chest heaving with gasps.

And your mind remained on Father Junmyeon.

Part 2

[theteablogger]

Andy writ large

Several people have sent me links to the New Yorker article in which Ian Parker exposes author/editor Dan Mallory as having lied, gaslighted people, and engaged in other manipulative behaviors for many years in order to further his career. When confronted, Mallory tried to blame it all on mental illness. Anons have been discussing this on tf-talk and FFA, noting that Mallory sounds a lot like "the prestige drama version of Thanfiction", and I have to agree. I've written several times in the past about people who reminded me and others of Andy (Aiden Sinclair/Richard Outhier, Travis Aaron Wade, Kevin Spacey, Teri Hoffman and Tyler Deaton), and the similarities in this case are even more striking than any of those. So here are the things that stood out to me in Parker's article. This is a pretty long list, so I've broken it down into several sections for readability.

Generally manipulative behavior:

Tom Scott described Mallory, at their first meeting, as being self-assured and nonchalant in a way that (to me, as a reader) seemed studied. He also said that Mallory casually bragged about his success in a way that left him feeling charmed rather than nonplussed or annoyed. This matches up with several accounts I've read of people’s first impressions of Andy when he was in the LotR fandom.

Both Andy and Dan Mallory tend to get personal with strangers quickly and to overshare – e.g., the "lighthearted debate" at a festival in which Mallory abruptly got serious and spoke frankly (lying) about his alleged history of ECT. This kind of oversharing tends to elicit sympathy from listeners and to make them feel that this person is being genuine and vulnerable with them, which makes them more inclined to open up in turn. This is something that Andy was doing as recently as last year, but he misjudged his audience some of the time and they just found it off-putting.

They frequently engage in self-deprecating humor, which is endearing and encourages others to let down their guard. These days, Andy incorporates glib, jokey references to his past into this part of his shtick (e.g., "someday over a glass of wine, I'll tell you about the time I accidentally started a hobbit cult"), so it also serves to inoculate listeners against anything negative they might hear about him from other people.

Both tend to zero in on and exploit good-natured people who give others the benefit of the doubt.

Both pride themselves on (and brag about) using charisma and "wit" to talk their way into places/situations for which they are underqualified, that they can't afford, etc. See Andy’s remarks about getting "gorgeous service" at high-end boutiques based on charisma alone, and the commencement speech in which Mallory bragged about talking his way into a thesis program without doing the qualifying work.

These men hate to be in anything that could be construed as a subordinate role, although this is one area in which Andy is arguably more subtle than Dan Mallory.

Both enjoy hiding in plain sight—in Mallory’s case, through his novel.

Both have long histories of engaging in gaslighting, lying, and manipulation for their own benefit and/or entertainment.

Acquaintances have described both men's behavior as performative and calculating.

Neither could let go of their former victims, but instead kept contacting them to try and draw them back in—Andy did this with Abbey after she left him in Virginia, and Mallory did this with his former colleagues in London.

Lying liars who lie:

Both men have lied repeatedly and extensively about their physical and mental health histories, and can't be bothered to keep their stories straight. In Andy’s case, this has included claiming various psychiatric diagnoses with symptoms corresponding to their Hollywood portrayals, telling stories about allergic reactions and injuries that were wildly exaggerated at best, and more. Mallory told ever-changing stories of psychiatric treatments that worked either very well or not at all, blamed his chronic lying on Bipolar II (a claim that would be ludicrous if it weren't so offensive), repeatedly claimed to have brain tumors and/or cancer, and told a variety of lies over the years about family members' illnesses and deaths that never happened.

Both have lied about having mysterious, incurable ailments that would definitely kill them within a set number of years—which was prone to change—but that conveniently didn't stop Mallory from working when he felt like it, or Andy from traveling anywhere his friends would pay for.

Each of them has told a multitude of easily disprovable lies about his education, his family, and his personal history.

Both claimed to have been abused as children, though Andy told long, graphically detailed stories about it and Mallory doesn’t seem to have gone further than making an implication.

Each has lied about a younger sibling's identity: Mallory impersonated his brother in a long series of emails to former colleagues about his alleged ill health, and Andy told his friends that his sister was responsible for everything he'd done to people as Amy Player.

Both have inadvertently revealed themselves via verbal, syntactical, or spelling idiosyncrasies when impersonating others online.

Both impersonated other people to chronicle their fake or severely exaggerated illnesses and to describe their plucky/humorous behavior during alleged hospital stays.

Both faked accents—Andy was "Irish" and Mallory was "British".

Both have claimed, directly and by implication, to have connections and insider knowledge of Hollywood, the film industry, and/or screenwriting.

Aside from all the outright lies they've told, both men have engaged in lies of omission, deliberately not correcting others' misunderstandings or misperceptions about them.

When their lies were exposed, both claimed that their accusers were lying because they were sexually attracted to them and had either been rejected (as Mallory said of the CEO of a publishing house), or were disturbed by the attraction (as Andy said of Turimel).

Both tend to double down when confronted about an obvious lie, and then try to steer the conversation to other topics.

Miscellany:

Each is the eldest son of affluent parents.

Mallory's fascination with Tom Ripley is reminiscent of Andy's admiration of Frank Abagnale.

Both were involved in their college theatre departments. For Andy, this is true of his attendance at VCU, at Thomas Nelson Community College, and at Christopher Newport University almost twenty years ago. (I’m not sure what he did at George Mason. He wasn't there for long.)

The work of both men is, shall we say, "derivative". In Andy's case, this applies more to his art. I am not familiar with Mallory's work other than The Woman in the Window and a handful of quotations from essays and e-mails he's written, but it appears that in TWW, he may have ripped off a novel by Sarah A. Denzil that was published six months before he started trying to sell his book, and has almost certainly ripped off "Copycat", a movie from 1995 (see New Yorker article).

Mallory’s focus on process and strategy in writing, the way his own voice overwhelms that of the narrator, and Parker's description of TWW as "a thriller excited about getting away with writing a thriller" all reminded me of the experience of reading DAYD and the way Andy has often talked about writing and storycraft.

Many former associates of each man were at least somewhat aware of how sketchy they were, but were unable or unwilling to call them out.

A surprising number of people, despite knowing they've been lied to repeatedly and at great length, still like both of them quite a lot.

Both Andy's and Dan Mallory's parents seem like kind, decent people who love their sons and want to believe the best of them.

Specific lines from the "New Yorker" article that made me think of Andy:

A former colleague on Mallory: "'If there was something that he wanted and there was a way he could position himself to get it, he would. If there was a story to tell that would help him, he would tell it.'"

"He’d begin with rapturous flattery…and then shift to self-regard. He wittily skewered acquaintances and seemed always conscious of his physical allure."

Author Sophie Hannah: "Mallory 'renewed my creative energy,' she said. He had a knack for 'giving feedback in the form of praise for exactly the things I’m proud of.'"

"Speaking in Colorado last January, Mallory quoted a passage from Kay Redfield Jamison’s memoir, 'An Unquiet Mind,' in which she describes repeatedly confronting the social wreckage caused by her bipolar episodes—knowing that she had 'apologies to make.' … In more recent public appearances, Mallory seems to have dropped this reference to wreckage. Instead, he has accepted credit for his courage in bringing up his mental suffering, and he has foregrounded his virtues."

Mallory: "It's been horrific, not least because, in my distress, I did or said or believed things I would never ordinarily say, or do, or believe—things of which, in many instances, I have absolutely no recollection."

[sidhewrites]

Coriander Chapter 5b

Previous Installment found here. Approx 1800 words. Feel free to send Asks or Messages about what’s written or anything you’re curious about.

Coriander sat at a simple, borrowed table, spices out on display for shoppers to stop by and pick and choose what they wanted. It was never crowded as the other tables. Knittelnau was too small for merchants to set up entire stalls, only to break them down again, but they displayed their latest works or newest designs outside their homes or shops, and friends and neighbors came to see.

A few amateur musicians practised with the professionals. It wasn’t hard to pick out who had more than a few month’s experience, but the music was largely drowned out by the small crowd, talking and gossiping and shouting across the street at what they had found, and do you want a chicken for dinner and do you like green or yellow better?

She did business without saying much. Customers tried to make conversation, but Coriander stuttered and stammered too much to be of much company, so they simply said what they wanted, dropped a few coins off, and left. A few cloves of garlic to a young man learning how to cook. Peppermint for an old woman whose head hadn’t stopped aching since her wife died. Rosemary for a mother whose memory wasn’t what she wanted it to be, and fennel for her daughter’s nausea. An old notebook served as a ledger, tracking what was sold, and how they paid. Most exchanges weren’t in coin, and while the banker could be relied on to mediate financial disagreements, Bestina didn’t trust Coriander enough not to undersell anything, nor a few townsfolk from taking advantage of it.

The banker, Anthony Waites, stopped by the stall himself, handing over three silver marks for some rosemary.

Coriander hesitated. The amount he took was only worth a single mark, if she remembered correctly, if not less, and she looked up helplessly.

He raised his eyebrows, confused, but there was a knowing gleam in his eye. “Is something wrong?”

Waites was a clever man, able to do sums in his head that Coriander could hardly do on paper and recall exact dates of when loans were paid without blinking. He regularly purchased rosemary, though usually it was while meeting with her mother for tea. Surely he knew the costs. So she looked down, unable to answer the question.

“I heard a rumor that a physician has moved into Mowry. One especially skilled with chronic pain.”  His smile was genuine. He cared for her mother. Most people did. Bestina was a beloved hostess, and provided most of the spices in Knittelnau. And if there was a physician -- someone more skilled in sciences than the inexact art of a hedgewitch’s magical healing -- they were going to need the coin.

Coriander mumbled her thanks and took the payment. Bestina wouldn’t approve of the charity, but she wasn’t around to argue over it now.

But by the time she had the rosemary placed in a small pouch, Waite’s attention had gone down the road. Coriander followed his gaze, where voices rose in excited curiosity. A crowd grew at the edge of the road, each individual craning their necks and standing on their toes to see what was going on.

She stood uncertainly, straining to get a look but loathe to leave the table unattended. With her luck, she’d knock the entire thing over before she made it three steps towards the crowd. Waites looked back long enough to take his rosemary and offer his prayers for Bestina’s health before joining the crowd himself.

So she waited patiently, until the crowd parted and the object of excitement moved in. A rider on a handsome dappled horse made his way carefully through the crowd, down the road and up to her table. Both bore deep blues with gold lining, and the royal crest was emblazoned on the rider’s doublet. All eyes were on them both.

She wanted to sink into oblivion, prayed desperately the rider would pass her over and head on out to the other side of the village. He did no such thing.

His voice was a deep bass, and reverberated in her ears as he spoke: “I have a missive for Jasper, who has no family name.”

Sylph’s graces.

“I was told you know this man?”

She was going to faint.

The rider looked down at her imperiously, too tall and widely built. He had the bearing of a soldier, and his deep set eyes bore into her. But before she could stammer an answer out, another man’s voice -- one far more familiar this time -- rang out over the crowd.

“Here! Hey -- hello! Excuse me!” Jasper pushed his way through the crowd, nearly tripping over himself in his haste, and sprinted the distance between them. He stopped, hands on his hips, a wide grin on his face. “Sir Erron, you’re late.”

Sir Erron did not smile.

“Oh, enough of that. Come down and say hello.”

He did not.

Jasper pouted. “Please?”

“I’ve two missives for Jasper, no family name. Is this you?”

“Two? I must be popular this time of year. My handmade flower chain business is taking off already.” Jasper winked at Coriander before nodding. “That’s me, Jasper no-name. Have you tried the local spice-provider’s peppermint, sir? They’re heavenly on headaches and taste richer than any spice I’ve had before.”

Coriander blushed. Sir Erron handed over two papers without a word, but she caught a glimpse of a playful smirk flash across his stoic expression.

Jasper handed the rider a mark and bowed deeply, adopting an over-exaggerated Berall accent  “My thanks, Sir Erron. Always a pleasure. And do say hello to your wife for me, would you? It’s been far too long.”

“Sylph keep you,” Sir Erron said, and rode off back the way he came.

Jasper waited until he reached the crowd. Most townsfolk stepped back, but a few crowded closer, curious about where he’d been, about the queen, about Berall and so on. Coriander looked back to Jasper, hoping to glean some information about what just happened.

Jasper leaned on the table with a lazy grin, running a thumb over one of the wax seals -- neither of which bore the royal crest. “Erron hasn’t been to Berall in months,” he said. “Other messengers hand their letters off to him, and he takes them west as is needed. I think he’s jealous.”

“Oh. That’s horrible.”

“No, it’s all right. He always goes back for a little while in the summer. It’s possible this is his last delivery before he goes back.”

“Oh. It’s an awful long way back, isn’t it?”

“He delivered my last invitations to Berall to me. I think he meant to find me in Mowry, and didn’t get the notice that I’d left until he’d already gotten comfortable in the inn.”

“But you said you’d met his wife.”

“Ah, he doesn’t have one. Wishes he did, poor man. But he won’t get anyone’s attention scowling like that.”

“I’m sorry.”

Jasper looked to the letters now, pulling the first open carefully as he talked. “No, don’t be. I told him that conversation is half the part of making friends -- and he’d have to make friends before he could make romances. But does he listen?” Jasper blew a raspberry and shook his head. “Nor does he deliver missives. These are far too short. I’d sooner call them notices.”

Coriander glanced up, but fought the urge to read over his shoulder, though his smile faded as he read.

After a moment, Jasper folded the letter up and read the second. His brow furrowed, and he frowned.“Is everything all right?”

Business was returning to normal around them. Merchants and shoppers made their way back to their tables and shops, chatting and exclaiming and relaying details of what just happened.

“Miss Tippit,” Jasper began. “How would you like to go to Mowry with me?”

After the initial shock of the question wore off, Coriander shook her head, stammering out an insistent no. “I couldn’t possibly leave Knittelnau, not with my mother so ill. And there’s work to be done. It’s almost summer, s-so there’s herbs that need to be harvested, and -- and besides, I’ve never even ridden a horse before, and -- and … and … well, you’ve seen my mother. Some days she can’t even get out of bed. I couldn’t possibly leave her alone, and, they might need help with setting up for May Day, and...” The more she talked, the more it seemed she was trying to convince herself, rather than anyone else.

Jasper waited until she seemed to have run out of reasons not to go, and shrugged. “Well, that makes sense, but it’s not the question I asked.”

She frowned, confused.

“I asked if you’d like to go.” Jasper’s feline smile softened into something bordering on hopeful, something hard to say no to. He had to have been doing it on purpose.

Coriander hesitated again, lips pressed together. She thought she’d told him already. “I couldn’t.”

“You said so already, of course. I wouldn’t dare take you away from your duties, but let us assume for a moment that you could be spared. Just pretend.”

But she couldn’t. There was no use in pretending, or dreaming of the possible. Better to keep herself useful. Better not to think too hard on it all. Coriander’s gaze fell again, and she set her jaw, shaking her head in a way she hoped looked definitive. She didn’t want to go. She didn’t. Her duties were much more important to her than anything beyond the horizon she’d grown up watching.

Jasper’s smile faltered, but he nodded. “That’s all right. You shouldn’t do something you don’t want to do.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No -- no, you’ve nothing to apologize for, Miss Tippit.” He made himself smile more brightly again, stowing the missives in a pocket. “Some people like to stay home and live quiet lives. It’s a very nice life for those who want it.”

But with the way her gaze would linger on the horizon, the way she talked about things beyond the borders of her small home, he’d assumed she wasn’t one of them. Still thought so, really. It was all too easy to lie and say you wanted to do something, when the guilt or fear of doing anything else weighed heavily enough. Better not to make it worse right now. Guilting someone into changing their answer wasn’t the way to go either, and he could have been wrong about her wanderlust in the first place.

He shrugged. “I only thought I’d extend the invitation to my trusty guide. Nothing more.”

She had seen the hope in his eyes, though. That he’d wanted her to go with her. Well -- maybe not her specifically. But an adventurer’s life could get lonely, she supposed, and maybe any companion was better than none. Still… “I’m sorry.”

He waved her off, refusing a battle of apologies, and turned his attention to the table. “What have you got to sell, Miss Tippit? I’ll need something for hares on my travels.”

She looked at the herbs on the table, and offered a few suggestions.

[darkfire-kai]

A lewthur fic with Arthur having Hanahaki disease, please? Some angst with happy endind (becauseIwannaseemyboyhappyandlovedattheenddamnit), like Arthur having the disease even before the 'incident', but he hides it for the sake of his friends' relationship and his friendship with Lewis. After Lewis' death, Arthur refuse to do the surgery, considering it self-punishment for what happened. But then Lewis comes back (ofcourse). From here we'll see what happens next. P.s. I love your writing.

….Hanahaki Disease? *Looks it up* Huh… A disease one suffers from having a one-sided love, by coughing up… Ooooooh. Okay! Sure thing Nonny! I’m going to branch off of canon here so you’re warned, but I hope it is enjoyable all the same. Also oops, it turned into a small book. Haha… I have to break this up into parts actually, so consider this part one. I hope you don’t mind but I wanna answer this thoroughly for you Nonny. It’s been awhile since someone wrote me a request~.

~Hope you like it.~

Part 1

~Prologue~

It had happened shortly after they met. The pain that burned in Arthur’s chest plagued him for awhile, for weeks, but he did not understand what caused it. He mentioned the pain to his best friend Vivi, but their new friend Lewis…he couldn’t make himself say it.

As they grew closer together, the pain only grew worse. Doctors didn’t have a reason for it, some blaming his anxiety for it. However, as he and Lewis grew closer, another symptom appeared. The pain in his chest turned to coughing, and the first time he was lucky enough to be alone. The violent cough sent something crawling up his throat, and he ran for the bathroom. He expected to see his lunch. He wasn’t expecting to see the bright blue petals that fell from his lips.

He was confused, his breathing rising through the rough before causing him to cough more, and more petals fell out of his lips. He didn’t understand it at all, and he had no idea who to talk to. He let it go on for awhile, seeing as the petals were mostly harmless. He didn’t want to worry anybody, after all. He wanted his friends to stay happy, and they worried about his scrawny ass anyway.

He started carrying a handkerchief to hide them in, letting his friends write it off as a chronic cough alone. It was only after graduating High School that he finally took a chance at telling his Doctor.

He didn’t expect to actually get an answer: Hanahaki. It was a complicated disease that Doctor’s still couldn’t find an origin for. However, there was a surgery that could fix it. Alternatively, the doctor offered him another solution that sounded simple enough.

Talk to your true love, tell them how you feel, and it should go away when they accept your feelings. Sure, it sounded easy enough.

One huge problem though.

His true love and his best friends were already in a relationship, one that had started in their freshmen year of High School. They were overwhelmingly in love with each other, always holding hands and exchanging hugs and kisses.

They were perfect for each other, and there was no way he could get in between. They were always in sync, and they took care of each other. He should’ve just been grateful they kept him around as a good friend.

He dealt with the coughing, with the pain, and with hiding the flower petals. They were happy and he could tolerate it.

Solving mysteries was not the most profitable, but every dollar went into savings. He planned on getting the surgery when he could afford it, and perhaps his friends would never have to know. Then it would be happily ever after.

If only.

The green cave should have been turned down. They didn’t have enough information, the place was marked with danger signs, and they simply lacked in the proper equipment.

Yet at Vivi’s excitement, they still went inside, together. However after that night, they would never leave together again.

“Lewis…? Lewis I don’t like it here…” Arthur whimpered out as he followed his friend up a tunnel, the torch the only source of light around. It made it hard to see anything, but he lightly clutched at the back of Lewis’ shirt. “Can we just…turn back and leave instead…? I…I don’t want to go…”

A warm, deep chuckle came from in front of him, and Lewis turned his head back to look at him. His beautiful purple eyes shimmered in the torch light, his soft smile spreading across his face in an attempt to convey some comfort.

“It isn’t something to be scared of Arthur…It’s just a cave,” He said firmly and hummed. Arthur felt his heart flutter, then his chest hurt at the motion, but he still wasn’t convinced. Lewis could see that though. The man could read the squirming little blonde pretty well, and after a moment he let out a sigh. “Okay, how about this? We explore to the end of this tunnel, then we can go back and try to convince Vivi to go home. It’s a waste of our time or something. I bet if I bribe her with Chinese food on the way home, she’ll leave more willingly.”

Arthur swallowed gently, still not liking the idea, but he knew Lewis would keep his word. It was just a little farther down the tunnel, how bad could it be?

“I…I guess you’re right,” He conceded and sighed gently. Lewis chuckled and leaned back a little, making sure he could pat Arthur’s back a few times. His warmth and radiating smile made his fear melt away. He just seemed so sure that everything was okay, so how could Arthur not feel the same?

The next thing he remembered was waking up in the hospital. The pain shot through his body like he was on fire, and the doctor’s were scrambling to get him subdued properly. He felt like they were burning his entire arm, his fingers growing numb as he cried out in fear.

He looked at a nurse who was desperately pleading with him, probably telling him to stay still, but then he looked down at his arm. It hurt like mad, and he expected to see blood, or burn marks, or even bone sticking out.

Instead, he stared at nothing, an empty space that almost mocked him. All he heard was his own scream before everything went to black again.

Several weeks had to pass before his broken mind picked up the pieces. He understood the green entity that stole his body and made him do…do…the unspeakable. He could remember the feeling leave his body, starting with the offending hand, and quickly traveled up his arm. His skin had turned a sickly green, like it was rotting away from the inside, and a dark voice rang in his ears.

“It’s not fair…is it? You’re suffering… You’ve been suffering…all because this guy… All because he can’t see you…”

His throat was paralyzed, his own voice dead in his throat as he saw Lewis walk into an opening at the end of a tunnel. One eye could only see the light Lewis carried, but the other caused the scenery to tint green. He could see the end of the tunnel, the tall platform Lewis walked onto, and the endless abyss that was underneath him.

“It’s not fair…wouldn’t it just be better…if he didn’t exist?”

Why did his body have to move? Why wouldn’t it stay? Why wouldn’t his voice work? He couldn’t tell the reason why and the pain that wrecked his body was growing more intense. He could feel himself trying to fight, but he grew closer. One hand grabbed at the bad appendage, trying to make it stop.

“Or maybe if he just…disappeared?”

All he remembered was the feeling of that soft vest underneath his skin, before his nightmares were plagued with blood curdling screams and blood. He wake up screaming, and soon he’d have his Uncle in the room, trying to calm him back down again.

It was all his fault. The one he’d been in love with was gone forever, and he’d been the one to push him over the edge. It made him stay up late at night, and wake up way too early the next day. It made his appetite fade away, the blonde just unable to find his appetite most days. He still ate, but only what he thought would be enough. It caused his anxiety to build, and his relationship with Vivi was becoming more and more strained.

She didn’t remember Lewis at all, probably from trauma, and thus he had no one he could really talk to about that night. His word was falling to pieces, but the worse part was that the damn flowers never stopped. Lewis wasn’t around anymore, yet still he coughed up ugly petals, most having turned grey now, and the pain grew more intense every day. Sometimes even, he found it very difficult to breathe because of those petals. One day, it would definitely kill him.

“Mr. Kingsmen, your condition is becoming very severe,” Dr. Benson said firmly as he looked at his chart. “The Hanahaki Infection in your system has rapidly spread throughout your lungs, and the amount of petals you cough up daily is unhealthy. I must insist that you get the surgery, before it puts your life in danger.”

Arthur listened to every word his doctor said, but a bitter smile spread across his lips.

“I know… I know you would but… I refuse…” He answered, a little sigh escaping his form. “I…Is that all? Can I please go home now?” He looked up at the doctor, the tired bags underneath his eyes as he looked to him. It had been nearly a year since the incident, and his heart and soul still ached.

The doctor seemed to take pity on him, backing off with a sigh as he wrote something down in his files.

“Alright Arthur… I’m continuing your diazepam prescription, but I’m also going to add a pain killer that you can take when you need it. Your chest pain is natural with your condition, but since you refuse the surgery, this is the next best thing I can give you. You can always refuse to take it, but I would not recommend that. Please have someone call me in if your condition gets any worse… Okay…?”

Arthur bit his lip and nodded his head. The doctor stayed where he was for a moment, before speaking out firmly. “Okay?!” Arthur got the hint this time and looked up at his doctor.

“Yes Sir… I understand,” Arthur said firmly and gave him a half smile. Feeling more satisfied, the doctor stepped out and had a nurse come back with discharge papers. Arthur took the papers in his hands and sighed as he walked out to his van, before leaning back against his seat. He bit his lip and closed his eyes, letting his chest settle down. “How can I…?”

How could he put an end to his pain through surgery? How could he do that when the one he had loved so much, was all gone? He couldn’t feel anything anymore. This pain that bubbled in his chest…this was the least he deserved.

He loud out a harsh cough as more petals fell into his hand, an exasperated sigh escaping his form as he whimpered out gently. He took the clump of petals and tossed them out the window, before taking the key and turning it in the ignition.

A light buzz from his cellphone gets a sigh and he answers it, fully expecting it to be Lance asking about the appointment.

“Hey Artie~,” He heard Vivi practically sing through the phone, making his voice catch a little in his throat.

“Oh hey Vivi! I wasn’t expecting a call from you!” He immediately responded, trying to return her cheerfulness. It was hard to match that energy, especially when he felt like a hole was being torn in his chest.

“I know its been awhile, but I need a ride to a house outside of town,” She said happily. “I promise to buy you pizza on the way! My first ride bailed on me. Plus, I really want to hang out! You’ve been avoiding me lately, and don’t even try to deny it.”

Arthur immediately clicked his teeth shut, closing off a response that he had prepared for Vivi. He swallowed a moment, looking down at the metal arm he had been keeping at his side. He felt chills roll down his spine when he saw it, and he bit his lip again.

“O….Okay…. Where are you at…?” He asked tentatively, before listening to the girl give him directions. Feeling uncertain, he slowly drove to the shop she worked at.

She hopped in the car, he hung up the phone, she turned on the radio, and Arthur started driving in the direction she pointed out. He felt a light cough rack his form, his hand covering his mouth as he forced himself to swallow some petals. They tasted bitter, but he didn’t say anything until he knew he’d gotten rid of the evidence. “So…So where are you going exactly…?”

“I’m going to a cute little house on the edge of town,” Vivi responded with a happy little giggle. There was a suspicious lilt in her voice, and Arthur raised an eyebrow at her.

“Why do I feel there’s more?” He asked, though he wasn’t sure he wanted the answer.

“Oooh~. That’s nothing,” She cooed and smiled at him. Arthur visibly sighed and shifted to rub his forehead.

“Vi…”

“Okay okay, it’s just a little job,” Vivi answered and giggled. “A nice home owner asked me to check out her house. She says she thinks there is a ghost haunting it, but they haven’t shown any violent actions or concerning actions. So I think maybe it’s a lost spirit looking for a place to return.”

Arthur’s sigh rocked his body, and he felt his chest ache a little.

“You’re just… You wanted to go all alone?” He asked sharply, Vivi shining him a casual smile.

“Yep!” She responded and hummed some more.

You are a terrible liar…

The whole reason she called him, was probably because she knew Arthur would not let her go into some creepy place alone. He audibly sighed, before he stopped the van at a gas station and looked over at Vivi.

“You’re not fair…” He muttered unhappily, and she tilted her head over in joy.

“Oh whatever do you mean?” She asked, her dog Mystery finally showing his head from the back seat. He must have been distracted to miss when he got into the car.

“Cut the crap… You should just ask me if you want to do a mystery together…” Arthur said bluntly. Vivi pouted at him, then let out a little chuckle.

“Well you would find a reason to get out of it, and this way, I would know you totally don’t before hand,” Vivi said firmly, before leaning closer. “Arthur… You’ve been really cooped up lately… It’s been a long time since you’ve done…anything! And I…I want you to hang out with me more… I thought we were best friends.”

A small pout, but genuine and sweet eyes made his heart melt. He knew she was right, that he’d been avoiding her for awhile now, but this wasn’t the way he wanted to do it.

I would have never met with her again though…not on my own.

“We need to talk about this later but I… I won’t let you go alone,” Arthur said firmly and sighed. “So…Give me the details.”

[dfroza]

we have to search for Light and welcome it inside.

A willing heart that is humble, not forced to be in Love. this is why we have been made free. free to either choose or reject the truth of our Creator, and of who to be.

Today’s reading of the Scriptures from the New Testament is the 13th chapter of the book of Luke that points to the path of the Son:

Some of those in the crowd informed Jesus that Pilate had slaughtered some Galilean Jews while they were offering sacrifices at the temple, mixing their blood with the sacrifices they were offering.

Jesus turned and asked them, “Do you believe that the slaughtered Galileans were the worst sinners of all the Galileans? No, they weren’t! So listen to me, unless you all repent, you will perish as they did. What about the eighteen who perished when the tower of Siloam fell upon them? Do you really think that they were more guilty than all of the others in Jerusalem? No, they weren’t, and unless you repent, you too will all eternally perish, just as they did.”

Then Jesus told them this parable: “There was a man who planted a fig tree in his orchard. But every time he came to gather fruit from his tree he found none, for it was barren. So he said to his gardener, ‘For the last three years I’ve come to gather figs from my tree but it remains fruitless. What a waste! Go ahead and cut it down!’

“But the gardener protested, ‘Sir, we should leave it one more year. Let me fertilize and cultivate it, then let’s see if it will produce fruit. If it doesn’t bear figs by next year, we’ll cut it down.’ ”

One Sabbath day, while Jesus was teaching in the synagogue, he encountered a seriously handicapped woman. She was crippled and had been doubled over for eighteen years. Her condition was caused by a demonic spirit of bondage that had left her unable to stand up straight.

When Jesus saw her condition, he called her to him and gently laid his hands on her. Then he said, “Dear woman, you are free. I release you forever from this crippling spirit.” Instantly she stood straight and tall and overflowed with glorious praise to God!

The Jewish leader who was in charge of the synagogue was infuriated over Jesus healing on the Sabbath day. “Six days you are to work,” he shouted angrily to the crowd. “On those days you should come here for healing, but not on the seventh day!”

The Lord replied, “You hypocrites! Don’t you care for your animals on the Sabbath, untying your ox or donkey from the stall and leading it away to water? If you do this for your animals, what’s wrong with allowing this beloved daughter of Abraham, who has been bound by Satan for eighteen long years, to be untied and set free on a Sabbath day?”

When they heard this, his critics were completely humiliated. But the crowds shouted with joy over the glorious things Jesus was doing among them.

Jesus taught them this parable: “How can I describe God’s kingdom? God’s kingdom is like the smallest seed that one might plant in a garden. When it grows, it becomes a huge tree, with so many spreading branches that various birds make nests there.”

Jesus taught them another parable: “How can I describe God’s kingdom? God’s kingdom is like something as small as yeast that a woman kneads into a large amount of dough. It works unseen until it permeates the entire batch and the loaf rises high.”

Jesus ministered from village to village, making his way to Jerusalem and teaching the people as he went. A bystander asked him, “Lord, will only a few have eternal life?”

Jesus said to the crowd, “There is a great cost for anyone to enter through the narrow doorway into God’s kingdom. I tell you, many will want to enter but won’t be able to. Once the head of the house has shut and locked the door, it will be too late. Even if you stand outside knocking, begging to enter, and saying, ‘Lord, Lord, open the door for us,’ he will say to you, ‘I don’t know who you are. You are not a part of my family.’

“Then you will reply, ‘But Lord, we dined with you and walked with you as you taught us.’ And he will reply, ‘Don’t you understand? I don’t know who you are, for you are not a part of my family. I will not let you in. Now, go away from me! For you are all disloyal to me and do evil.’

“You will experience great weeping and great anguish when you see Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, along with all the prophets of Israel, enjoying God’s kingdom while you yourselves are barred from entering. You will see people streaming from the four corners of the earth, accepting the invitation to feast in God’s kingdom realm, while you are outside looking in. And take note of this: Some are despised and viewed as the least important now, but one day the master will place them at the head of the line. And some whom you view as ‘elite’ today will become the least important then.”

Just then some Jewish religious leaders came to Jesus to urge him to flee from that place because Herod was out to kill him. Jesus told them, “Go and tell that deceiver that I will continue to cast out demons and heal the sick today and tomorrow, and on the third day I will bring my work to perfection. For everyone knows I am safe until I come to Jerusalem, for that is where all the prophets have been killed. O City of Jerusalem, you are the city who murders your prophets! You are the city who pelts to death with stones the very messengers sent to deliver you! So many times I have longed to gather your wayward children together around me, as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings—but you were too stubborn to let me. Now it is too late, since your house will be left in ruins. You will not see me again until you are able to say, ‘We welcome the one who comes to us sent in the name of the Lord.’ ”

The Book of Luke, Chapter 13 (The Passion Translation)

Today’s paired chapter of the Testaments is the 21st chapter of the book of Job:

Then Job answered Zophar.

Job: Listen carefully to what I’m about to say,

and let your listening be the consolation you give me.

Suffer me to speak to you,

and after I’ve said what I need to say,

you may commence mocking.

Is my complaint addressed to humanity, or has it ever been?

Why shouldn’t I, by this point, be impatient with all of this?

Stay with me, and be stunned at what has happened to such a righteous person;

cover your gaping mouth with your hand.

When I think back upon everything that has gone before, I’m terrified;

my body is overtaken with trembling.

Why do the wicked live

on an ever-upward path to long life and riches?

Their children become well-established in front of them;

their offspring are guaranteed to grow up before their very eyes.

Their houses are immune to approaching terrors;

the rod of God is not on their backs punishing them.

Their bulls are consistent breeders;

their cows deliver healthy calves without miscarrying.

They produce flocks of children and send them all out into the world;

their young ones dance around free of care.

They still participate in celebration,

raising their voices to the song of the tambourine and the harp;

delighting in the sound of the flute.

They pass their time in the lap of abundance,

and they are even permitted to pass quickly to the land of the dead,

instead of lingering with chronic pain.

They tell God, “Leave us be.

We have no interest in You or Your ways.

Who is the Highest One anyway,

and why should we serve Him?

What can we possibly gain by asking favors of Him?

Isn’t He generous enough already?”

Look, don’t you see?

The wicked do not control their own wealth, God does;

I am a long way from understanding the plan for the wicked.

Bildad claims the flame of the wicked is blown out.

But how often is their lamp extinguished?

How often does disaster strike them or does God give them pain

because of His anger at what they’ve done?

How often are they as straw in the wind

or the chaff separated from the grain by fierce winds?

It is said, “God stores away a man’s misdeeds

and delivers them to his children.”

Let Him repay the man Himself, so the man can know it.

Let the wicked see his ruin with his own eyes

as he drinks down the wrath of the Highest One.

After all, once he’s dead and gone and his time is up,

what will he care for his household and family?

Now who dares impart knowledge to God

since He stands as judge over the most powerful?

One person dies when he is fit and strong,

completely secure and totally at peace;

His body is vigorous and well fed;

his bones are strong and moist.

Another person dies with a bitter soul,

having never even tasted goodness.

But they lie down together in the same dust,

covered by the same blanket of worms.

I know how your minds work, my friends,

and how you plan to wrong me—your thoughts of retribution.

You will counter, “Show me!

Where is the palatial estate?

Where are the vaulted tents of the wicked?”

But I say, have you never consulted with those who travel this world?

They can tell you the complexions of many lands.

But you’ve never permitted their witness

in your courts of opinion, have you?

Well, if you had, you’d have heard

that when disaster strikes, the wicked are spared;

On the day of fury,

they are escorted safely through.

Who challenges them openly regarding their actions,

and who repays them on account of all they’ve done?

When death finally comes and they are laid in their graves,

guards stand watch over their tombs, fending off grave robbers.

Laid to rest beside the stream, clods of earth cover them kindly;

while countless souls have gone before, all of humanity follows after.

So, my friends, how can you continue trying to comfort me with these empty consolations?

So far, your answers have been only thinly veiled lies!

The Book of Job, Chapter 21 (The Voice)

my personal reading of the Scriptures for Wednesday, April 28 of 2021 with a paired chapter from each Testament of the Bible along with Today’s Proverbs and Psalms

A post by John Parsons that looks at faith and trust:

The receiving of the Torah (מתן תורה) must take place each and every day, as it says, “Trust in the LORD 'bekhol libekha' (בְּכָל־לִבֶּךָ) - with all your heart; and know Him 'bekol derakhekha' (בְּכָל־דְּרָכֶיךָ), in all your ways” (Prov. 3:5-6). The giving of the Torah is described as a “loud and never-ending voice” (Deut. 5:19), though it is our constant responsibility to shema – to receive the invitation of God’s heart.

"Trust in the LORD with all your heart... know Him in all your ways" (Prov. 3:5-6). The Hebrew word for trust is "bittachon" (בִּטָחוֹן), from a root word (בָּטָח) that means "to lean upon," to feel safe and secure.... Bittachon describes emotional acceptance of the goodness of the LORD. Some of the sages have said that while emunah (אֱמוּנָה), or "faith," represents a state of cognitive or intellectual understanding (בִּינָה) that God is involved in all the events of the universe, bittachon means emotionally trusting that the Lord is present in every situation for your good.... Rabbi Bechaya put the distinction this way: "Everyone with bittachon has emunah, but not everyone with emunah has bittachon." Bittachon is an intuitive awareness of the personal love of God for your life, coupled with complete trust that He deeply cares for you (Rom. 8:28). It is an expectation that the love of God is "I-AM-always-with-you," too.

“Know Him In all your ways,” and that means whatever way you find yourself in, which of course includes the way of your struggles, your transgressions, your fears, and your heartaches, as well as the way of your deepest longing and hope... Amen. [Hebrew for Christians]

4.27.21 • Facebook

and another post about being Love:

Did you know that one of the most frequently occurring commandments of Torah is to love --- the stranger? The commandment is repeated in various forms over 30 times in the Jewish Scriptures, for instance: “You shall love your neighbor as yourself: I am the LORD” (Lev. 19:18); “You shall treat the stranger who sojourns with you as the native among you, and you shall love him as yourself, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt: I am the LORD your God” (Lev. 19:34); “Love the stranger, therefore, for you were sojourners in the land of Egypt” (Deut. 10:19); “You shall not wrong a sojourner or oppress him, for you were sojourners in the land of Egypt” (Exod. 22:21); "When a stranger sojourns with you in your land, you shall not do him wrong” (Lev. 19:33); “Do not oppress the stranger” (Zech. 7:10); “Cursed be anyone who perverts the justice due the stranger” (Deut. 24:19); “The stranger shall be as the native born children of Israel among you” (Ezek. 47:22), “There shall be one law for the native and for the stranger who sojourns among you"(Exod. 12:49; Num. 15:16), and so on. Clearly the LORD does not want people to feel ostracized, excluded, or otherwise left out of His providential and loving plans... Indeed, the message of the universal love of God is at the heart of the gospel itself, hearkening back to God’s earliest promises to redeem humanity and restore paradise lost. “Religion,” tribalism, prejudice, ethnic pride, and so on, are anathema to the Kingdom of God.

Jewish tradition says that King David was born on Shavuot (“Pentecost”), the holiday of shtei ha-lechem, the “two loaves” that prophetically foretold of the advent of the “one new man” (Eph. 2:14-22) and of the mysterious inclusion of the Gentiles into the covenant promises of God (Eph. 3:6). God has a great compassion for the outsider, for the lost, for the orphan and those who are without inheritance in this world. During Shavuot it is customary to read the Book of Ruth which tells the story about redeeming love and the advent of King David. Recall that King David was a direct descendant of Ruth, who as a Moabitess was an outsider and “stranger” to the promises of God (Ruth 4:17). Despite being part of an despised and rejected group of people (see Deut. 23:3), Ruth overcame the law's demand by believing in the love and acceptance of a redeemer of Israel (Ruth 3:9). Ruth's great grandson was named David (דָוִד), meaning "beloved," which has the same numerical value as the word "hand" (יָד). It is no wonder that the LORD chose David to represent God's extended hand of love for the stranger, for the convert, for the outsider, the leper, and the lost, since his descendant Yeshua the Messiah came to love and redeem the entire world by means of His outstretched hands...

“I was a stranger and you welcomed me” (Matt. 25:35). We are commanded (i.e., blessed) to practice ahavat ha'geir (אהבת הגר), the “love of the stranger.” This means showing compassion and empathy to an "outsider" who may question their worth and place in your midst... On a somewhat deeper level, the duty to "love the stranger" applies not only to someone whom we regard as an "outsider," but more radically to the "stranger within ourselves," that is, to those aspects of ourselves we censor, deny, or reject. Self-hatred is a spiritual dead-end, chaverim.... Like the prodigal son, we have to "come to ourselves" to return home (Luke 15:17), yet we can't know that we are unconditionally loved until we venture complete disclosure and seek acceptance - despite the mess of our lives. That is the great risk of trusting in God's love for your soul. Those parts of ourselves that we "hide" need to be brought to the light, healed, and reconciled. After all, if we don't find healing for our self-rejection and pain, how can we hope to love and accept others? Dear Lord, deliver us from the torment of self-hatred, in the Name and passion of your love, amen. [Hebrew for Christians]

4.28.21 • Facebook

Today’s message from the Institute for Creation Research

April 28, 2021

The Oracles of God

“Much every way: chiefly, because that unto them were committed the oracles of God. For what if some did not believe? shall their unbelief make the faith of God without effect?” (Romans 3:2-3)

This striking synonym for the Scriptures (“the oracles of God”) occurs just three times in the Bible. In our text, Paul is emphasizing the great privilege and responsibility that was committed to the Jews when God gave His “oracles” to them, a word implying “divinely inspired utterances.”

The author of Hebrews rebuked those Hebrew Christians who had still not learned the very “first principles of the oracles of God,” despite having been professing Christians for a long time (Hebrews 5:12). Finally, the apostle Peter urged his readers: “If any man speak, let him speak as the oracles of God” (1 Peter 4:11). That is, anyone who presumes to speak for the Lord must “preach the word” (2 Timothy 4:2). It is not our words but His words that are “quick, and powerful” (Hebrews 4:12). In fact, Stephen called them “the lively [or ‘living’] oracles” (Acts 7:38).

In all these references, it is clear that these “oracles of God”—that is, the Holy Scriptures—constitute the very utterances of the living God. They were given to and through believing Jews and are preserved for us now in our Bibles. They obviously should be believed, studied, obeyed, and proclaimed by all who consider themselves to be Christians.

The fact that many people reject the Bible, even claiming it is wrong in what it teaches, is irrelevant. Such claims merely display human arrogance. God’s Word has been “for ever...settled in heaven” and “is true from the beginning” (Psalm 119:89, 160). It will endure even after this present world has passed away (Matthew 24:35) and will finally be the criterion by which its detractors will be judged in the last day (Revelation 20:12; 22:18-19). HMM

A tweet by illumiNations as a collaborative effort in Bible translation:

@IlluminationsBT: The four largest people groups with the greatest remaining need are: the Shaikh of Bangladesh, Japanese of Japan, the Shaikh of India, and the Brahmin of India. #iwtkbible

4.28.21 • 11:01am • Twitter

[scripttorture]

So a bit back you said something about affects of solitary confinement and how victims often had issues recognizing everyday objects. Could you talk a bit more about that? How could that aspect be portrayed well in writing? Thanks for the help!

 Ah, no, sorry but I think you’vegotten the wrong end of the stick.

Sensory deprivation cancause victims to lose the ability to recognise everyday objects (I Cobain calls this ‘severe prosopagnosia’ but this usually refers to inability to recognise faces, which the victims also suffered from).

Solitary confinementcan not.

They’re both extremebut they’re different. Sensory deprivation requires a special set up thatrestricts or masks at least four senses. Solitary confinement just requires aroom.

With prolonged solitaryconfinement and/or victims with pre-existing mental health problems, solitarycan cause hallucinations and psychosis. However these are not the most commonsymptoms. Youcan find a full list of symptoms, both physical and psychological, here.

Sensorydeprivation…well it’s something I advise writers to avoid for a few reasons.

It’s incredibly, almostuniquely, damaging. A realistic and respectful depiction of victims would, Ithink, be extremely difficult to write. Not impossible by any means, but very very difficult. 

Fiction generally does a pretty poorjob of respectfully depicting disability. The kind of multiple disabilitiessensory deprivation causes- well essentially I’ve never seen a good portrayalof mental health problems that severe.

A character who’dsurvived this for the extreme length of time we’re talking about would be incapable of doing a great many ordinary things. They’dneed a carer and would probably be in some sort of institution. That makes itdifficult to produce a plot which focuses on the victim. I personally don’tlike the idea of torture victims being relegated to the side lines; I thinkthis often risks stepping into rather unfortunate tropes.

I am not saying thatwriting a plot focusing on such a character would be impossible. But I think itwould be difficult and most of the asks I get about sensory deprivation seem towant the victim to come out of their ordeal capable of functioning in societywith some independence. In which case sensory deprivation is not a realistictechnique to use.

The technique itselfhas rarely been used in real life.The real victims were a small number of American mental health patientsinvolved in unethical, unconsensual experiments. There have been no cases that meet the legal definition torture using sensory deprivation.

Over-use of such a rareform of abuse in fiction teaches thepublic that this is what torture is like. That in turn makes it moredifficult for victims to share their stories and gain support.

I prefer to encouragereaders to write about torture techniques that were/are in regular use in theirsetting. In fantasy and sci fi I try to connect the setting to real world timesand places and suggest torture techniques that were used then.

Sensory deprivation, inmy opinion, feeds into stereotypes about torture being ‘high tech’ or‘scientific’, when the vast majority of torture is about as high tech as beinghit with a wooden plank.

And the final bigproblem with using sensory deprivation is that because it’s so rare we don’t have good information on it.

A lot of data isessentially the research notes of Dr E Cameron, the man who subjected severalmental health patients in his care to sensory deprivation in the hope of‘re-writing’ their personalities. The research was extremely poorly conducted. There are (so far as I know) no patientinterviews.

There was some work done by Dr Baldwin (who usedpeople who did not consent in his experiments) and ethical experiments using volunteers conducted by Drs Lily andHebb.

The work done by Lilyand Hebb is actually very very good, but it doesn’t by its nature talk about the more extreme lengths of time andextreme symptoms sensory deprivation can cause. Most people in Lily’s ‘tank’stayed inside for 4 hours. No one stayed in Hebb’s ‘box’ longer than six days.

Cameron kept a womanknown as ‘Mary C’ in a similar box for 35days. Most people can only voluntarily stay in one of these devices for 24 hours or less.

The result is thatwhile I can list symptoms for the more extreme time periods (ie a week ormore in box-like structures), such as the memory loss most of these people suffered and losing the abilityto recognise faces and ordinary objects which affected at least two of them*, I can’t sayfor certain how these symptoms manifested or affected Cameron’s victims intheir daily lives.

I know that they spentthe rest of their lives in care homes. Several years later other researcherspublished a further paper on them, which essentially said that none of them hadrecovered and the damage Cameron caused seemed more extensive than previouslythought.

The patients themselvesare anonymous.

If you really do want towrite about them, or a fictional character who undergoes something similar thenI think the level of research you’d need in order to portray them realisticallyand respectfully would be something like a doctoral thesis. I think you’d needto track down the doctors who had contact with them and if possible thepatients themselves and their families.

I think, essentially, aproject like that would be something akin to ‘The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks’.

It would take years.

Because at the moment I’m just not sure that a good nonfiction source which covers all the relevant information and focuses on the victims exists. And I think that to capture that experience the most important and useful thing is to listen to what the victims themselves have to say. Without their voices it’s very easy to misrepresent them. 

Unfortunately we’re talking about a group of people who are voiceless. For me respecting the victims means remembering what they say when I write. If I can’t find a simple resource then my instinct is to read around the topic and create my own library, my own resource. 

If that’s a project youwant to take on, for your writing or out of interest, then these are the bestsources on sensory deprivation I know of. And I sincerely wish you the best of luck.

The Search for the Manchurian Candidate,J Marks, Norton Co 1991

The Mind Manipulators, A Scheflin E Opton,1978 (I haven’t read either of these books yet, so far as I can tell from sources that cite them they cover sensory deprivation in a general way but do not focus on the victims)

A Textbook of Psychology, D Hebb 1966, 2nded

‘Effects of Decreased Variation in the Sensory Environment’ W HBexton, W Heron, T H Scott, CanadianJournal of Psychology 1954, 70-76

‘Production of Differential Amnesia as a Factor in the Treatment ofSchizophrenia’ D E Cameron, ComprehensivePsychiatry 1960

‘Effects of Repetition of Verbal Signals upon the Behaviourof Chronic Psychoneurotic Patients’ D E Cameron, L Levy,L Rubenstein, Journal of Mental Science1960

*Some of the patientssued the CIA and Canadian government over these experiments but that does notnecessarily indicate that more victims didn’t experience these symptoms.

Edit: In response to comment, yes I think prosopagonsia does generally refer to being unable to recognise faces. I took the term from I Cobain (Cruel Britannia) in his summary of case Cameron’s victims raised against the Canadian government and CIA. The victims were unable to recognise everyday objects and faces, something Rejali confirms. Cobain’s use of prosopagonsia might wlel be incorrect though, so thank you for pulling that up, I’ll edit the main text to reflect that.

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