#the final step is bringing human suffering into the equation

[skin-slave]

Plants with defense mechanisms against mammals do not consent to be killed and eaten by humans! They have made it clear that they do not want that!

Phenols are intended to irritate mucous membranes and act as toxins. Tannins are anti-nutrients that prevent absorption and inhibit digestive enzymes. Extra-floral nectar and many volatile organic compounds are the rape whistle of the plant world, a desperate attempt to attract allies that will defend them from predation. Terpinoids, alcohol, alkaloids, and cyanogenic glycosides are all defensive compounds. These are all a clear statement of non-consent!

Stop eating these plants immediately:

Fruit: strawberries, blueberries, raspberries, pomegranates, grapes, oranges, lemons, limes, grapefruit, apples, persimmons, quinces, wild cherry, pineapple, bananas, goji, cassava, apricots, plums, peaches

Vegetables: spinach, kale, broccoli, Brussels sprouts, tomatoes, carrots, peppers, onions, garlic, potatoes, eggplants, okra, bamboo shoots

Nuts/seeds: walnuts, pecans, sesame seeds, flaxseed, almonds, sunflower seeds, guarana, kola

Grain/grass/legumes: oats, barley, rice, lentils, chickpeas, wheat, sorghum, beans, peas

Other: tea, coffee, cocoa, tumeric, ginger, cinnamon, clove, nutmeg, lemongrass, rosemary, yerba mate, paprika

This isn't an exhaustive list. Grocery aisles are full of violated plants. A strong scent is a sign of elevated volatile organic compounds and sour or tart flavors are often due to defense compounds. So that can be a hint. But check the species you normally eat to be sure.

Caffeine is a defensive toxin and the caffeine in other things is extracted from plants, so beware of caffeinated snacks and drinks that seem otherwise safe. Also watch your vitamins and supplements for nonconsensual extracts. And don't forget cosmetics and skincare! Many plumping formulas contain caffeine and/or other defensive compounds like capsaicin.

This is just another step in moving toward an exploitation-free life. If a living thing has expressly denied consent, it's unethical to kill it and consume its remains. Just bc their screams are at ultrasonic frequencies doesn't mean they fall on deaf ears.

[feministdragon]

“Every place in the world has sun, wind, waves, flowing water, and warmth or coolness below ground, in some combination. Renewable energy sources are a step up, not a step down; instead of scarce, expensive, and polluting, they have the potential to be abundant, cheap, and globally distributed. Transitioning all of our infrastructural systems to be powered by renewable sources is about growing out the number of people who have access to more energy, who benefit from using it to meet human needs, whether as basic as cooking food or as modern as global telecommunications.  Leaning hard into renewable energy opens up two further possibilities. When we talk about responding to climate change, what we really mean is minimizing the suffering that results from climate instability. Limiting emissions is part of that, of course—every increment in temperature has a measurable human impact, which means that every decrement in emissions makes a difference—but so is mitigating the effects of the atmospheric changes that are already locked in. Technology is our active human interface with the material world, and all of the ways in which we respond to climate change will require access to energy, whether it's robust disaster response, microgrids that provide reliable electricity even during extreme weather events, or building out cities and communities that are resilient to a wider range of environmental conditions.  And that brings us to the final reason to transition to renewable energy, which is because we also use matter. It takes energy to make things, but of course it also requires atoms, usually specific atoms, in quite specific combinations, sourced from specific places. They are extracted, refined, processed, fabricated, transported to where they are used, and discarded. Much of our consumption of matter is in a one-way path from extraction to waste. Those atoms not only have to come from somewhere but they have to go somewhere: they often end up in the atmosphere as pollution, in the ground as landfill, and in ecosystems planetwide. 

We mostly only close materials loops when it’s ‘economically viable’ to do so. By and large, what that means is that it takes less energy to recycle the material than it does to create it in the first place, which is true for aluminum, steel, and glass, but not for materials like plastics or concrete. But the promise of access to renewable energy is that it changes this equation, putting processes that are intrinsically energy-intensive, like recovering the carbon from plastics for reuse or desalinating seawater to make it potable, on the table. It doesn't matter how much energy a process needs if it is inexpensive, doesn’t limit the energy available to others for their use, and is non-polluting. There's a virtuous circle here too: the faster that renewable energy systems are up and running, and the closer we can get to achieving this potential, the more that we can apply that clean energy to repurposing the materials of our current technological systems to build out the physical infrastructures of our new ones. Not beating swords into plowshares, but recycling cars into electric trams. We live on a sun-drenched blue marble hanging in space, and for all that we persist in believing it's the other way around, that means we have access to finite resources of matter but unlimited energy. We can learn to act accordingly.”

[blouisparadise]

Here are some amazing bottom Louis fics that were posted or completed during the month of July. We really hope you enjoy this list. Happy reading!

1) Jealousy, Jealousy | Not Rated | 1163 words 

Harry gets jealous when James Corden hold his Louis in his lap and pets him on the Late Late Show. He shows Louis who he belongs to and takes care of him.

2) The X-Factor Judge | Explicit | 1635 words 

Harry watches the X-Factor and gets jealous about Brendan jumping on Louis. When Louis gets home Harry reminds him whom he belongs to. 

3) Didn’t Know You Had It In You | Explicit | 1807 words 

Harry sleeptalks and reveals his kinks which Louis is more than happy to try out.

4) Mine | Explicit | 1979 words 

"So you been single for a while now?" Louis gulped as the vibrator slowed down sending a thankful look to Harry before glancing back at the interview who was looking at him with great interest,

"Uhhh yeah," he replied keeping his answer short and brief. He straightened his back shuffling slightly on his chair as the vibrator shifted inside of him hitting his prostate causing him to let out a small gasp as grimaced at the interviewer who just grinned back. She must be an excellent actress or just stupidly oblivious.

5) In The Moment | Explicit | 2611 words 

Note: This is part 2 of this series.

Where it's their first time and Harry is being all fluffy and encouraging Louis to say his name and other dirty stuff?

6) Salvation Under My Breath | Not Rated | 2858 words 

Louis is pregnant...

...and Horny

7) The Sight of You Brings Forth a Peace In Me | Mature | 3254 words

Louis loses inspiration and goes on a nature walk to find some. The inspiration takes shape in the form of Harry. 

8) Put Your Sweet Lips On My Lips | Explicit | 3435 words 

Note: Part one of this fic is #23 on this list. 

Adjusting to one another’s life came as naturally as the sun rising in the morning and brightening the sky, chasing away the darkness that had dared to lurk in its absence. They did not side step each other, did not second guess their instincts once they were finally together. It was the crash of roaring waves - reckless in their paths - but upon meeting had unified into calm waters in the vast sea.

Living with Harry was like a breath of fresh air. In all his years, Louis had never felt alive. He supposed there was some credit to be given to how devoted Harry was to him. The man would rather step in a raging fire than let him suffer even a trace amount of agony.

9) Fuck U (Even) Betta | Explicit | 3568 words 

Note: This is the sequel to this fic.

Harry had sensed Louis was getting antsy all day, prodding and poking at Harry’s psyche like a game of mental whack-a-mole, trying to find that one thing that would flip the switch and push Harry over the edge. Even after all these years Louis still thinks he can get a rise, that he can in any way control the scenario. He couldn’t be more wrong.

10) We Act Like Nothing Is Wrong To Avoid What’s In Front of Us | Mature | 4179 words 

Louis sends nudes meant for Harry to the wrong person on accident. Harry finds out. Rough sex ensues.

11) Love's First Bite | Explicit | 6135 words 

Note: The pairing in this fic is Louis/Zayn.

For Zayn, love was never a part of life’s equation, not when you’re considered a lowly vampire while working in the Vampire’s royalty club, Love’s First Bite. He’s bitter and resentful and sees no point in looking into his past or future. But when Zayn saves a human named Louis, it all changes. He finds something special in him and, more importantly, someone worth giving up everything he holds dear.

12) Your Blueberry Eyes | Mature | 6154 words 

Louis tattoos and Harry falls for blues.

13) Blow Me Away | Explicit | 6471 words 

Louis likes giving blow jobs.

He doesn't exactly get off on it – he's been with people who properly loved it, and he's not quite that into it – but he doesn't mind the feel or the taste and he really, really likes watching his partner lose it, so getting down on his knees regularly is a no brainer.

Which is why it's a bit frustrating that every time he does, Liam hauls him back up again.

14) Thank You For This Prom Night | Not Rated | 6554 words 

Note: This is part 3 of this series.

It's Prom Night. Stuff happens.

15) Can We Make It Anymore Obvious? | Explicit | 6628 words 

Five times the boys accidentally walked in on Harry & Louis plus one time they did it on purpose.

16) It's The Way You Love (I Gotta Give It Back To You) | Explicit | 8153 words 

Stretching, Louis finally pulled the duvet aside and let his feet fall onto the plush rug at his feet. Louis lived for soft, comfortable, plush things. From the fairy lights and fake plants to his plush robe and thick socks, everything in Louis’ little one bedroom apartment was carefully catered to his whimsical and soft aesthetic.

17) My Eyes Want You More Than A Melody | Explicit | 8315 words 

Harry’s brain is short-circuiting at an absolutely awful time, the more expressive side of him is falling to pieces for some reason. The only responses he can give are venerated vibrations and nods, the feeling of Louis’ sweaty skin sliping him further into nothingness. Lightly dewy thighs, so muscular and plush— his lips feel just the same, so dangerously soft, a devious intention lying behind it all. “You’d do anything for me,” Louis mumbles, teeth tugging on Harry’s bottom lip, eyes dragging from his sinfully pink mouth when he lets it go to his hooded green eyes. “Isn't that right, daddy?” Harry whimpers— something that’s so foreign to him— but nods, trailing his hands up his shaved thighs, fingertips passing the hem of the dress.

18) Running Is Different Than Going | Explicit | 9018 words 

Note: The pairing is Louis/OMC.

On the run, the last thing Michael expects from a stranger is help. Louis offers him everything he needs so he can keep running, but makes it harder than ever to continue doing so.

19) Quarantine, Baby! | Teen & Up | 9615 words 

Note: There is no smut, but it contains mpreg Louis, so we’ve included it in this monthly roundup. 

When Harry and Louis get a little too bored in quarantine, they turn to each other for some x-rated entertainment. Then, what starts as a COVID-scare, turns out to be something completely different.

20) Effervescent Horizons | Not Rated | 10676 words 

Note: This is part 6 of this series. There is also no smut, but it contains mentions of bottom Louis, so we’ve included it in this monthly roundup. 

They go to college together!

21) Moments | Explicit | 10726 words 

Looking back, Louis should’ve known that the universe likes to fuck with idiots like him who think they’ve got it all sorted.

Looking back, he should’ve known that the minute he relaxed and let his guard down, when he thought things were going smoothly, that’s when it would hit him.

Looking back, he should’ve known to be on the lookout for a curveball.

He just hadn’t accounted for that curveball to have long legs, green eyes, and dimples; a curveball named Harry Styles.

22) The Blood Is Rare (And Sweet As Cherry Wine) | Explicit | 14270 words 

Note: The sequel to this fic is #8 on this list. 

"Officer, I see you're giving away my secrets already," Harry said as he entered the room.

"It's hardly a secret," Louis accepted the delicate glass, cutting a glance at the man when the underlying scent hit him, "A little early to indulge in such things, isn't it?"

"You've had a long morning, I'm sure. Merely looking after your health, Officer," Harry smiled.

"You don't need to concern yourself with that."

"Someone has to."

23) Violent Delights | Not Rated | 76174 words 

Prince Harry is arranged to mate Princess Charlotte, but first he must spend a month completing courting traditions which ends in a mating ceremony. When he arrives to the Tomlinson castle, he finds the forbidden North wing holds that which the family has worked hard to keep secret. Mainly: the sickly sweet Prince Louis, who’s rare gender has forced his family to keep him locked away for his own protection.

24) Truth Behind Golden Eyes | Explicit | 228727 words 

Louis is a royal servant born with magic in a kingdom where his sole existence is outlawed with a war he has no idea he has a part in upon him. Harry is the prince on whom the burden of mending a broken kingdom falls upon and he might be willing to risk it all for a simple servant if only he admitted it to himself.

Check out our other fic rec lists by category here and by title here.

You can find other monthly roundup fic rec lists here.

[trenchcoatimpala]

Castiel was so new to everything concerning the incredible feat that was being human. Aches and pains dwelled in his joints, tiredness seeped through him with an ease that he hadn’t known could exist; it gripped him in an iron hold, dragging him down in an ocean that he had otherwise been afloat in. 

He had been prepared for these things. He’d watched the Winchesters endure pain and suffering, he’d seen firsthand what it would be like if he lost the safety that his grace provided, making him just that little bit more invincible than a mere human. He knew what it felt like to hurt, as he was still vulnerable to the edge of a blade or the barrel of a gun, but such things could never kill him. 

The one thing that Castiel had never been able to comprehend, the one thing that troubled him more than anything else, was the one thing he had not been prepared for.

Nightmares.

Dean Winchester is a frequent customer to the agony of nightmares and Castiel has soothed his terrors more times than he can count, whether Dean welcomed his efforts or not. 

But Castiel himself, once angel of the Lord, had never understood the complexity of a human mind while it dreamed. He was never able to figure out how one could be tormented in what was supposed to be a restful experience. He only came to understand, one night, when his mind started to play tricks on him during his slumber. 

Getting to sleep was hard. The bunker hummed around him, the concrete walls seemed to close in on him, a cold wind brushed over his skin and sent shivers down his spine, a feeling Dean had told him felt like you were being watched. The bed under him was comfortable but stiff, the pillow was thin and did little to support his head. His thoughts seemed to be caught up in a race, chasing each other around and around on an invisible track. 

Once he did manage to drift off, a tired body rolling him into sleep, his dreams were the farthest from pleasant. 

He dreamt of everything that had been done to him. He dreamt of the pain from being torn apart by the snap of a finger. He dreamt of the millions and millions of clones, that bore an uncanny resemblance to Dean Winchester, strewn dead around an empty warehouse. He dreamt of his memories being tampered with at the hands of Naomi. 

Castiel woke up with a scream of pain, straining against the straps of a chair, that was no longer there, as his thoughts and memories were altered, his programming rewritten, all to make him the perfect soldier. 

Sweat slicked his skin and dampened his shirt, his heart hammered a desperate drumbeat in his chest, and his hands were clammy where they gripped the sheets around him. 

The whirring of Naomi’s drill echoed in his mind and he swallowed hard, the fear pulsing through him yet another new feeling he would have to get used to. 

Footsteps sounded outside his room and then the door was being pushed open and Dean was shouldering his way inside, gun drawn. 

“Cas!?” he shouted, voice pulled tight with worry. 

“I’m alright, Dean,” Castiel replied where he sat upright on the bed, his breath still trying to find its way back to his lungs. 

Dean’s sharp green eyes suddenly snapped towards him and he instantly lowered his weapon. “You were screaming, I thought-” 

“It was just a nightmare.”

Understanding flickered across Dean’s features, dancing in the hallway light where it shone into Castiel’s room, a sliver of brightness to conquer the dark. 

“Do you wanna talk about it?” Dean asked tentatively. 

Castiel considered this offer. Dean knew most of what Castiel had dreamed about, but he was in no hurry to relive his memories with the hunter.

So he shook his head. “No.” 

“Okay, uh,” Dean started to back away, “I’ll just go.” 

The thought of being alone was not a good one and the act of it was not something Castiel wanted to endure. “Can you please stay?” he asked. 

Dean faltered in the doorway. Castiel was sure he was about to say no, but then he nodded and stepped fully into the room, shutting the door behind him with a click. “Sure, Cas.” 

In the dark, Dean’s movements were those of a shadow, sliding seamlessly through the room as if he were a part of it. When he pulled back the covers and joined Castiel in the bed, the springs creaking under his weight, Dean suddenly became more visible. 

Castiel could see the few strands of hair that tried to flee the nest of neatly stacked strands on top of his head, he could see the sparkle in his eyes and the upturn of his lips as he offered Castiel the barest of smiles. 

They lay there for a moment, bodies close but not touching, the air charged with electricity, like the moment before lightning strikes. 

Castiel shivered in sudden cold from the drying sweat on his skin, and Dean instantly moved closer, pulling the former angel into his arms. He knew neither of them would speak of this in the morning, Dean was only comforting him from a nightmare, nothing more. 

But the longer he lay in Dean’s arms, listening to the steady beat of his heart and his quiet breaths, the more he began to understand just what it meant to be human, to feel. This feeling blossoming in his chest was only going to grow. He’d always felt something towards Dean, even when he was an angel, but now that he had shed his wings, now that he could bleed and hurt and feel, he learned what love truly felt like. 

Castiel held tightly to Dean, burrowing into the crook of his arm, laying his head under Dean’s chin, the last remnants of his nightmare slipping away as Dean traced careful patterns across his back with his fingers. The motion soothed him, drew his eyelids closed and pushed a happy hum from his lips. 

After a moment, Castiel felt the lightest of pressures on the top of his head. It took him a second to realize that it had been a kiss, the most barely-there of kisses, but a kiss nonetheless.

“‘Night angel,” Dean said softly against his hair. 

Angel? But he wasn’t... 

“Dean, I’m no longer an angel,” Castiel corrected Dean’s mistake. 

Dean chuckled under him, his laugh reverberating through Castiel’s bones. “It’s an expression, Cas. Wings or not, you’ll always be an angel to me.” 

“Oh,” Castiel said in a whisper.

Warmth spread through him, such a stark contrast to the cold he’d been feeling minutes before. The only thing he could equate the feeling to was that of his grace flowing through his vessel, filling him up with power and light. He was without his grace now, and he missed it dearly, but perhaps he would eventually learn to live without it, perhaps Dean could fill the hole his grace had left behind. 

Dean shifted, bringing his arms up to wrap even more securely around Castiel’s human frame, jarring him from his thoughts.

Castiel had never had to worry about feeling safe when he was an angel, he was the one who did the safekeeping, the protecting; but now that he was a fragile human being, he was sure that he would never feel safer in any place but Dean’s arms.

When he finally fell asleep, it was the most restful, most peaceful, sleep he had experienced since becoming human, and he wished that he could spend every night tucked against Dean’s body, but alas, that was probably too far fetched a dream. 

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[ms-m-astrologer]

Saturn in 2021

Note: this one’s long.

Saturn’s 2021 Timeline:

Friday, January 1, 2021 - Saturn at 1:37 Aquarius

Sunday, February 14, 17:02 UT - Saturn enters pre-Rx shadow, 6:53 Aquarius

Wednesday, February 17, 19:08 UT - Saturn/Aquarius square Uranus/Taurus, 7:14 (7 degrees 14 minutes)

Sunday, May 23, 08:10 UT - Saturn stations retrograde, 13:31 Aquarius

Monday, June 14, 22:01 UT - Saturn Rx/Aquarius square Uranus/Taurus, 13:07 

Sunday, October 10, 01:19 UT - Saturn stations direct, 6:53 Aquarius

Friday, December 24, 07:17 UT - Saturn/Aquarius squares Uranus Rx/Taurus, 11:05

Saturday, January 1, 2022 - Saturn at 11:54 Aquarius

Saturday, January 15, 2022 - Saturn exits post-Rx shadow, 13:31 Aquarius

This planet, folks, is The One to pay attention to. Its transits affect everyone, without fail.

Saturn in Aquarius is just as strong as Saturn in Capricorn: both signs are ruled by Saturn, although it must share Aquarius with Uranus. And that brings me to The Three Big Deals of 2021, namely, those three squares between Saturn/Aquarius (strongly placed) and Uranus/Taurus (in its fall).

It always makes me scoff when I hear or see people say that Aquarius is a leftist, revolutionary sign. The 40th President of the US, Ronald Reagan (devil take him), was an Aquarius - he was revolutionary, all right, but in a decidedly conservative and reactionary direction. What Aquarius is (among other things), is ideological. It’s a fixed air sign; its opinions are set, and nothing will change its mind. Expect a lot of demands to adhere 100% to this or that orthodoxy. No shades of gray allowed; all is black or white.

The squares between Saturn and Uranus, according to Michelle Perrin in the 2021 Llewellyn Daily Planetary Guide, show that

We are turning a corner into a new age without really realizing we have left the old one behind, creating a time where new paradigms are no longer relevant but a new social order has yet to congeal into anything solid.

This particular square, with Saturn 270 degrees ahead of Uranus in the Zodiac, is a “Last Quarter” square. We’re turning away from what was hatched and brought to fruition after the Saturn-Uranus conjunctions of 1988 - we’re tearing down old structures that don’t work any more - and we get to do all that, without having a strong sense of where we’re headed next. (Namely, the one-and-done Saturn-Uranus conjunction, at 28:01 Gemini, on June 28, 2032.)

(If you were alive way back in 1988, think back to what was going on at the time in terms of larger cycles finishing and starting. The conjunctions were all in late Sagittarius: 29:55, 28:47, and 27:49.)

Saturn in Aquarius has particular challenges and lessons for us all to learn. The following is a synthesis between Isabel Hickey (Astrology A Cosmic Science), Steven Forrest (mostly The Book of Earth), and me.

“Tests of ownership. He who has no desire to possess has no fear of loss.” This is of course a very Taurus thing, as the sign is too apt to equate material stability with security. Uranus’ transit through Taurus is determined to demolish that misconception, and this year he’ll have some help from Saturn. We know we’re messing up here, when we give “too much power to money and security.”

“Test of true humility and lovingness. Denied the love sought in this lifetime until the spiritual bookkeeping is balanced.” Leo is all about himself being The Star, while Aquarius counters with “you’re only one star in a whole universe full of stars.” Can we shine without making it all about us? Overweening egos are due for a smackdown. Conversely, we can become too overwhelmed by “stage fright,” and refuse to share something that humanity desperately needs.

“Test of outgoing desire. Desire nature is extremely strong and until that is brought under control there is much suffering and pain.” Such a pitfall for all the fixed signs - not getting one’s own way 100%, but instead having to compromise, adapt, adjust, etc. - but especially for Scorpio. This may also manifest as needing to get over the typical Scorpio broody gloominess, into a more positive frame of mind.

“Test of responsibility. The soul must accept the responsibility of regeneration and be about the Father’s business.” I’m pretty sure what “Issy” meant was that we have to stop trying to keep up with the Joneses, and start trying to help our fellow humans. But there’s another danger here, namely the stereotypical Aquarian detachment from emotions. The sign can be too cold, and that eventually begets sociopaths.

When Saturn travels between 1:37 and 6:53 Aquarius: placements will receive a one-and-done aspect from transiting Saturn. Examples: Ms M’s natal Mars/Aries will receive a one-and-done sextile; Ms M’s natal Juno/Leo will receive a one-and-done opposition. (Like it matters if she’s single!?!)

When Saturn travels between 6:53 and 13:31 Aquarius: Saturn spends most of his time here, not only for 2021 but going a couple of weeks into 2022. Any placements affected by this will get three separate aspects. The first one will bring a situation to our attention; the second, retrograde aspect will give us further insights into the situation; the third and final aspect will allow some resolution, if we work for it. 

(This part is making Ms M apprehensive, since it’s going to trigger her natal fixed grand cross: Asc/Scorpio, Venus and Desc in Taurus, both squared by Ceres and Uranus in Leo, and by Pholus in Aquarius. Empty nest?)

Even more fun is that transiting Uranus/Taurus will be wreaking havoc at the same time. It will travel between 6:48 and 14:49 of Taurus in 2021, and as you can see it overlaps the same degrees as Saturn. If you have fixed placements between 6:53 and 13:31 (that is, anything in the signs Taurus, Leo, Scorpio, or Aquarius), there is some hard work in your future. Even if it’s for something better to manifest, and even when we know that intellectually, we’re still reluctant to let go of control.

This also goes for mutable placements (the signs Gemini, Virgo, Sagittarius, or Pisces) between 21:53 and 28:31; Saturn and Uranus will semi-square (45 degrees) or sesquare (135 degrees) that placement, making for a lot of frustration. You won’t be able to wiggle out of consequences, as easily as you normally do.

If you have placements between 6:53 and 13:31 of the signs Aries, Gemini, Libra, or Sagittarius - lucky you! You’ve got some flowing energy between Saturn and that placement, and although it doesn’t guarantee a less painful time, you’ll at least have an easier time coming to grips with it. (Trine Ms M’s natal Mercury/Gemini/8th - astrology will get her through this!!)

In The Book of Earth, Steven Forrest starts out every description of transiting Saturn aspects, with the words “Growing pains.” That description is perfect. The stakes are a little higher, and the process more complex, than simply getting physically taller, though. Steven says that during “Saturn times,” we need to intentionally select a challenge, then give it everything we’ve got. The reward is that we move forward to the next maturational stage; if we refuse, we end up trapped in the past. Here are a couple more quotes from the Saturn section of Steven’s The Book of Earth.

“Saturn is not narrowly about old age; it is simply about whatever is the next step for us.” Growing up, in other words. As I have said on this blog many times before, the “only” thing that happened to me during my first Saturn return, was getting married. That was still a big deal in 1987: I assumed a different societal role (remember Saturn’s association with the 10th House), in a very traditional way (natal Saturn in Sagittarius). Perhaps it is because, as a small girl, I had four Crone figures in my life; perhaps it’s all the Aries in me, trined by my natal Saturn - but I wasn’t afraid, instead embracing the new opportunities.

“Saturn is not bad - but it is quite fair to say that it is hard.” My guess is that this is the one that frightens many 20-somethings - not to mention people who are much, much older and ought to know better. “Hard” does not equal “bad”!

Saturn in Aquarius is all about (1) knowing your own values and (2) living up to them. Anybody else’s approval, or disapproval, is completely irrelevant - and we need to accept that, even if “anybody else” doesn’t. We need to question authority, and also what’s known as “conventional wisdom.” We need to work on becoming more “authentic.” And we need to become comfortable with some solitude (2020 has been a great training ground for that), without isolating ourselves emotionally. There are a few people at least who will understand and accept you; get off your ass and put yourself in the way of finding them.

[spoiler1001]

The Queen of Hearts Pt.2

Contact with the mass burned, and it was gaining speed, moving to catch up with the fleeing crew. It touched their ankles when Alice decided to pop out her wings. They were bright red, built for defense, with joints in three sections for ease of wrapping around something without bending the solid bone. The feathers, made from solid magic, were iridescent and scale-like. The wings were fragile, barely any muscle built into it, looking like the skin was wrapped around the bone structure. They glowed bright, even against the darkness of the monster.

It didn’t stop the light from being sucked into the monster.

“-not going to make it-” Alice whispered, making a verbal note to herself.

“Alice?” Lucia’s voice pulled Alice from her thoughts.

“I know someone in Capulet. He’ll call the guys, they know how to deal with this.” Alice gave Lucia a smile.

Alice flapped her wings hard, raising about a foot off of the ground. Licia matched Alice’s movement, now in her devil form.

“Make sure they get here, ok?” Alice pulled Lucia in, cupping the back of her head, placing a kiss next to the beak in Lucia’s demonic bird form. It was gentle, and Lucia could feel tears soaking into her feathers, but was unable to tell if they were Alice’s or Lucia’s. It didn’t matter in the long run. Alice pushed Lucia away, flapping her wings to send out a magical shockwave that dug up dirt and bent plants, but creating a cavern about ten feet down that stopped the slime in its tracks. Lucia watched, having been knocked out of her devil trigger, as one final tendril pierced Alice from behind, exiting right where her heart had been.

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

“Dammit.” Dante hissed he ran his fingers through his hair from the stress.

“How long ago was that?” Vergil asked, shaking his head.

“A few hours,” Nero spoke up. “Alice bought us time, but…”

“Mundus is a vile and repulsive opponent. It’s very likely he was aiming for her.” Vergil squeezed the handle of his blade.

“The attack has stopped for the time being.” Lucia agreed hesitantly.

“Why the hell would the former king of hell be after her?” Nero asked.

Vergil frowned. “For a number of things. The most I can think of is that we were close once, and she would know how to create a portal to hell reliably.” Vergil’s fingers twitched.

“Mundus likes to bring suffering to anyone who is bound to our whole clan. I figured he was dead, but it was more of a hope.” Dante shook his head.

“He will be dead before this is over,” Vergil promised.

Nero tapped his fingers against the Red Queen. “So, let me guess- you want me to go along.”

“You would be a great help in the fight, but you are needed more here.” Dante answer.

“We still need still need to get people out of the danger zone.” Lucia supplied.

“Nero, look. You do not want to be in this fight. This demon and the demon controlling it is what sent us on our path. This is what killed our mother and what lead to the downfall of Sparda.” Dante grabbed Nero’s shoulder.

“And that’s what you think happened to Alice.” Nero looked up at Dante, frustration in his voice.

“It’s possible but I won’t say for sure unless we see her and-” Dante spoke but was cut off.

“It’s not something that someone’s child should see.” Vergil finished the thought, reminding Dante that there was a very good chance that Vergil saw Eva’s body. “We have this handled.”

Dante watched Vergil’s face. It was distant, unreadable, but it was obvious there was a lot on his mind. Nero looked between his father and his uncle for a moment before nodding.

“I’ll call Kyrie. Tell her that I’m staying for a few days.”

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

The twins walked towards where Nightmare had touched down. Blood and loose dirt were sprayed around like they were spewed from a defective spray can. The air hissed and burned against their skin, making it smell like tar and sulfur. Vergil stepped in front of a long divide in the ground, the moisture pulled from the ground, leaving sand and dirt in piles on either side of the crevice.

“This was created by a lot of power,” Vergil said outside, kneeling down and touching the loose dirt, causing it to cling to his glove and skin. “This was desperation.”

“Almost 25 years ago, she broke into my shop, damn near trashed it. If she hadn’t been holding back…” Dante looked over the damage to the whole area. The trees that were bent had now fallen over. The land on the other side of the canyon was dark and inky, with a shine to it. Dante glared at it, causing the monster to bubble under the look.

“I remember that night. It was the last night that I saw her before… before I came back from hell.” Vergil looked over at his brother. “I was under the impression that she had fallen in an ambush.

“Oh.”

“Yes, I had believed that my actions lead to her death. Imagine my surprise when it turned out she was still alive, and then some. I was a fool for trusting an absolute clown.” Vergil stood up, grabbing his sword and squeezing the handle.

Morphing into their demon form, the twins flew over the crack in the earth. The fluid of Nightmare peeled away from them as they touched down, exposing the bare ground. Vergil and Dante turned back in their human form, to conserve strength in case things were leading to an ambush. It didn’t stop at the ground immediately around them, it also started forming a path on the ground in front of them, leading them to something. Dante gripped the pistols in their holsters. As they moved, the Air hissed louder, mimicking the sound of an army of angry cicadas. It was overwhelming to their enhanced hearing.

Dante turned around to see Nightmare closing up behind them mimicking how their wounds heal. The night sky seemed to grow darker now that they were surrounded by the hellish weapon.

The twins knew that this area had once been covered by trees. Thousand of old, living trees had lived there for generations. Nightmare had dissolved them completely. It even had wooden splinters sticking out of it, along with the stiff leg from an unfortunate wild animal.

The twins walked for hours. Time seemed to move slowly at the moment. Eventually, it lead to a gazebo. It was not man-made. To even equate it to a gazebo would be generous. It was a shed, built in the style that one would think a gazebo would look like, but the builder themselves had never seen one themselves. The wood was cut in uneven chunks, stuck together by bits of Nightmare, which was burning bits of the wood while keeping it together. It was a miracle of sheer will that it was still standing.

[leutik]

Literature between Political Correctness and Cancel Culture

(Analyzed through Walter Siti, Natalie Wynn and Rick DuFer.)

(buckle up, because if you're gonna read this, it's gonna be long)

«Today is much easier to mistake an author’s personal stances with the content of their works, and then make the author pay for the work’s sins.

Today I look around and I have the sensation that literature is no longer taken seriously: that the way to interpret literature the way I knew it, depth-focused, focused on the power of words to reveal truths otherwise concealed to their own author, is disappearing — substituted by a conception of literature that has to serve a list of good causes.

When some writers of the “neo-effort” (Siti’s neologism) insist on the fact that words are decisive, and that it’d be urgent to change the words in order to change reality, I’m suddenly reminded of those old Marxist authors: they explained that the structure, which is what lays under society, determines what lays upon it, that is words and ideology. Thus, changing the name of something doesn’t change the thing the word stands for at all.

Literature has been considered throughout time the most indicated form to make resurface the part of ourselves — often, the least pleasant — that we’ve exiled in the shadows of our subconscious: a process that often happens without the author’s acknowledgement of it.

The authors of the neo-effort believe they have the duty to spread their ideas to the largest possible number of people and that, in order to do so, they have to simplify as much as they can what they write, sacrificing on the altar of efficiency the style, considered useless. The aim is to do good, namely gain an effect, what does it matter if it’s good or bad literature? Literature used to “take root”, to influence; put at the service of pre-established ideas, and not to venture into the discovery of something we don’t know yet. This way, it gains an ancillary role. And it’s a humiliation of literature — which can truly be useful, instead, only then it hurts.

Sartre’s “Nausea” doesn’t align with his political stances. For Sartre, the effort was the individual reflection of a society in perennial revolution, substantially a school of liberty, whilst for neo-effort the role of literature is to reassure.

Their attitude, their rejection of style, their low consideration of literature, tends to isolate the good writers out there, marginalizing them in a niche that looks like a convention of obsessed aesthetes in the public’s eyes.

I see it in the writing courses I teach: more and more young people whose main interest isn’t to write to learn something about themselves or society, but it’s to write to gain the title of writer and place themselves on the market, detecting the most profitable sector at the moment, which might be fantasy, crime, or effort-centred writing: it doesn’t matter, what matters is for it to be trending and to be reassuring to the reader, in a more and more therapeutic conception of writing.

Literature isn’t immediately therapeutic, this is the difference. When “The Sorrows of Young Werther” was published, copies of this book were burnt, because of the suicides it inspired. Today we read it at school. How much time has passed? I don’t refuse knowledge’s benefit, I refuse that knowledge can benefit instantly, painlessly. When I went to a psychoanalyst to face my neurosis, the psychoanalyst made me suffer for months, and only after I took benefit from it. What would have happened if they had welcomed me with a pat on the back and said “Don’t worry, stop thinking and go help African children”. Probably I would have had an immediate benefit, but all my neurosis would have stayed there, intact.

The Literature I talked to you about is depth-centred, and literature hasn’t always existed: thus it can disappear, sink for many years. Who said that it’ll survive, despite everything?

In Pasolini’s trial he was acquitted because Ungaretti was called to testify. He wrote a letter where he wrote that the formal value of Pasolini’s work turned into literature even those scenes that the prosecution deemed obscene. Law couldn’t do anything but recognize the critical judgement and welcome it. Web’s tribunal, today, would have burned Pasolini at the stake, and Ungaretti with him.» (via Walter Siti’s interview with the Huffingtonpost)

In other words, we can summarize Siti’s view with the sentence «novels aren’t the cure to the world’s evils.» They aren’t, because they don’t have the power to be, and more so they aren’t even supposed to be: writing is a form of art, and art has primarily an end in itself. Literature isn’t a political marketplace, even if it can be used to be — it’s not a crime to turn it into one, but by doing so, one loses Literature’s nature. By doing so, the harm could be mistake literature’s primary aim (that is being a form of art, that is style, that is the pursuit of the truth) with what they turned literature into: a marketplace to defend the author’s ideology.

Siti’s powerful image of the Web’s tribunal, the Web’s court finds an echo in Natalie Wynn video Canceling: in a sense, what Siti calls “neo-effort writers” fall under the same line of thoughts of Cancel Culture perpetrators.

«Like the guillotine, [cancelling] can become a sadistic entertainment spectacle.

Now there's a version of this conversation that's already been had to death, and it goes like this: On the one side are a bunch of male comedians who constantly bitch about how Cancel Culture is out of control, you can't joke about anything anymore without these Millennial jackals trying to get you in trouble.

And the other side is mostly progressive think-piece authors who argue that there's no such thing as cancel culture, it's just that powerful people are finally being held accountable for their actions and they can't fucking handle it, so they go around bitching about cancel culture.

Now unfortunately, neither of those viewpoints is quite as correct as some people might hope.

What Cancel Culture does, [is to] take one story and transform it into a significantly different story.

Presumption of Guilt

There's a traditional understanding of justice according to which, before you condemn or punish a person, you hear the accuser's side of the story and the accused's side of the story. You allow both sides to present evidence and only after everyone involved has had a chance to make their case do you pass judgment and punish the convict.

But cancelling does not abide by the law. Cancelling is a form of vigilante mob justice. And a lot of times, an accusation is proof enough.

Abstraction

Abstraction replaces the specific, concrete details of a claim with a more generic statement.

Essentialism

Essentialism is when we go from criticizing a person's actions to criticizing the person themselves. We're not just saying they did bad things. We’re saying they’re a bad person.

Pseudo-Moralism or Pseudo-Intellectualism

Moralism or intellectualism provide a phony pretext for the call-out. You can pretend you just want an apology; you can pretend you're just a “concerned citizen” who wants the person to improve. You can pretend you're simply offering up criticism, when what you're really doing is attacking a person's career and reputation out of spite, envy, revenge.

No Forgiveness

Cancelers will often dismiss an apology as insincere, no matter how convincingly written or delivered. And of course, an insincere apology is further proof of what a Machiavellian psychopath you really are.

Now sometimes, a good apology will calm things down for a while. But the next time there's a scandal, the original accusation will be raised again as if you never apologized.

The Transitive Property of Cancellation

Cancellation is infectious. If you associate with a cancelled person, the cancellation rubs off. It's like gonorrhoea, except doxycycline won't save you this time sweetie.» (via Natalie Wynn's Canceling video transcript)

Natalie Wynn describes and formalizes the phenomenon of Cancel Culture in those steps:

I only listen to the presumed victim,

I abstract the context to a vague idea,

I equate the action to the actor’s very essence (as if such thing even existed),

I say I’m acting in favour of morals or truth,

I accuse every person the presumed abuser ever came in contact with to be an abuser as well,

and I either reject every form of apology at the moment, or bring up the issue as if no apology was ever made at their first misstep.

Now, in this post I’m not trying to perpetrate any concept of charity, not only because it’s an attitude that takes a lot of work to inherit, but also because the negative aspects that might bring one to be a neo-effort writer or a Cancel Culture perpetrator are part of the very human nature (or, very stupidly, they wouldn’t be humans.)

The self-evidence rises here: those negative parts of human nature can be channelled everywhere, and literature or any other form of art is the healthiest way to do so: you’re not going to get rid of your anger, or your sadness — the best thing you can do is learn to control it and suppress it, but how is it going to work in the long run? It’s going to act past your good judgement, or even cloud your good judgement, clouding it into thinking you’re defending some pseudo-moralism or pseudo-intellectualism, when what you’ll be doing is just venting on someone else.

This is one way to see it: when one forgets what proper thinking is and falls into those quick and gut-feeling “thoughts”. Or one could even take advantage of this Cancel Culture, of this ground of poor thinking to instrumentalize this lack of critical judgement to attack someone else.

On instrumentalization and its dangers, Rick DuFer says:

«Political correctness works when its aim is to protect the weak from abusers, but when it favours every little susceptible sensitivity it turns dangerous.» (via Rick DuFer’s podcast DailyCogito)

Rick DuFer talks about a shared responsibility that happens during offence: shared between the offender and the offended. The problem with offence, as opposed to harm, is that it isn’t quantifiable, so the offender is guilty in regard to their intentions, and the offended is guilty in regard to the instrumentalization they can enact with the situation.

And again we find “instrumentalization”: if one destroys my property, I can quantify the damage, but if one insults me, how can I quantify how offended I truly am? This is when I can twist one person’s words and turn them into an offender, this is when sensitivity becomes a mask and no longer a virtue (or, for the toxic masculinity’s thought, a vice.)

Now, to wrap things up:

These people take the (s)word of this school of thought (which some other dichotomists may, generalizing it, call it “Strong Thought” or “Unique Thought”), perhaps without even knowing there’s an alternative, while there are multiple, actually: as many as the human beings right now populating Earth.

They may do it out of a dualistic and very childish view of society — divided into good and bad people. And if that’s your view of life, you’re not gonna want to be associated with who others deem as bad, following a gut feeling and nothing more. (And I say “gut feeling” to avoid saying “very poor thinking”, because that’s what absolutization, essentialism, and the rest is.)

Your thoughts aren’t really yours, and you become a vessel for something that belongs to someone else, someone who crafted those thoughts in a very different context, or with instrumentalization in mind. You don’t want to risk criticizing those thoughts because you don’t want to be isolated, or because you’re a sane person who deems it important to act rightfully (even if you’re letting others tell you what “right” is.)

And for how problematic moral relativism is, it surely is better than any form of absolutization: better than rejecting your status as “sapiens” and stopping thinking altogether, passively accepting what others taught you to be right and wrong, maybe even out of fear, or a stupid rush for glory and sympathy.

So I wouldn’t call this moral relativism, strictly, but rather moral subjectivism, or context-centred morality. A morality in which people still have a brain to separate a piece of work from an author’s ideology (against essentialism) and to still take into account the context in which an action was performed (against abstraction). A morality in which “good” and “wrong” aren’t seen in black and whites, but rather into lighter and darker greys; a morality which systematic use can slowly dress into the habit of charity towards one another, into kind teaching rather than cruel instrumentalization.

And is it really utopistic, is it really unfeasible, if we’re not falsely annihilating the suffering and the negative parts of the Human Experience?

This whole discourse could be turned into a political marketplace of rights and lefts, of conservatives and progressivists — but my aim here is much smaller (or bigger, if one is a humanist): to make the reader question their critical thinking, and just that.

(We love some self-doubt.)

I believe moral acts aren’t supposed to be a badge to share on one’s vest — to renew your status as “approachable person” (as if saying “don’t worry, you can talk to me, you’re not going to be deemed as bad for it”) or to be praised for. Moral acts are the only acts that raise humans from other species, the acts where the “sapiens” shows its evolution, the acts where our negative aspects aren’t hidden but channelled into arts, without the fear that someone might call us bad for it. (Immoral, even, whilst acting in the most moral way possible, exorcising those negative parts of us in the least harmful way possible.)

So, at the end of this unnecessary rant, my question is: is it better to be a minion in a culture where you have to watch your mouth, as if it wasn’t yours, or to be a person who’s engaged in researching how right and wrong truly manifest?

[glittercracker]

Kingkiller Crap

So, I’ve never really posted much here that involves my own thoughts. There are a number of reasons why, but whatever. I feel the need NOW to post some thoughts, and having no working independent blog (yet!) I suppose this is the place to dump them. PSA: none of this is about anime. None of this is frivolous or fun. TW for sexual abuse. You have been warned! So. I’ve been rereading the Kingkiller Chronicles. aka “Name of the Wind” and “The Wise Man’s Fear” and “That Other One That Shall Not Be Named.” This reread was, at the beginning, almost an afterthought. A way to keep my 13 yo happy on a 7 hour car ride. Except, he could not have cared less, and I got sucked back into the story (and okay, if that is how all our audiobook car rides go, meh? At least it keeps me sharp!) I raced through book one, and bought book 2 on audible with an eye to my upcoming surgery and recooperation. Book one was problematic in the places I remembered, but also as generally engaging as I remembered. And then book 2 happened, and surgery happened, and I have had weeks to lie in bed listening to this bloody interminable sequel, and I find myself lost in a morass of, “WTF was I ever THINKING?” Namely, how did I ever love this book enough to pine for the next? It’s been hard to put a finger on exactly what is making this time through book 2 both a slog and also vaguely, creepily uncomfortable, but if you’re interested, my rather stream-of-consciousness ramble of thoughts ensues. First, the male gaze that rears its head at times in book 1 predominates here. But while I don’t love the way Kvothe describes women, I also have 2 degrees in literature, and I’m beyond that being a reason not to read an otherwise engaging book. Second, Kvothe is a Gary Stu, for all of Rothfuss’s protestations to the contrary. Again, so far, so much traditional high fantasy. But while, say, Aragorn is content to just quietly be Awesome At Everything, Kvothe is a braggy little shit of a Gary Stu: the person you hated for announcing their perfect scores in that hs class you could never quite master. I could fill several pages with examples, but for some reason what really made me want to kick him in the head was not Felurian’s disbelief of his virginity (though really, jfc, REALLY?) Nope, it was the end of his time w the Ademrae (sp may be off, remember, I’m listening not reading!) when he crows about having learned the history of his sword 2 days earlier than expected. Why does this stick out? Oh, idk. Maybe bc he sucks so hard he can���t even get past the first obstacle in his practical final exam? Yet he still has to tell us how fucking awesome he is for remembering 6000 names of previous owners.

I know, I’m supposed to forgive his teenage idiocy. The internet sympathists (no pun intended!) keep telling me this. And I suppose that I would, IF this were a simple first-person narrative - but it isn’t. Let’s repeat that, and really think about it. This story is being narrated by an older and presumably wiser Kvothe who has lost everything - whose abilities have been expunged to the extent that he can’t open his own chest of Cool Stuff. He shows humility in his actions, mostly. And yet when discussing his 16 yo self, the humility evaporates, and he speaks with no kind of perspective or lens of accrued wisdom. He still compares women to instruments waiting for the “right” player (i.e. him) and defends this choice of words by saying, essentially, “You aren’t a musician, you don’t know!”

Interesting assumption for an innkeeper in a medieval-esque world. Interesting assumption if this is in fact authorial interjection, too, because I suspect the majority of this book’s audience *are* musicians to at least an extent, and I also suspect that the majority of us (yes, us - I own several beloved instruments, including a harp custom made for me as a wedding present from my husband) would not equate a human lover to even the most beloved of instruments.

But all of this is well-trodden critical ground. As far as I can tell, though, my third issue isn’t: although it’s perhaps the most glaringly tone-deaf example of all of Rothfuss’s excruciatingly tone-deaf portrayal of his world’s women. Namely, the two girls kidnapped and gang-raped by the fake Ruh.

Almost all of the criticism I’ve read on this section of TWMF concentrates on Kvothe’s treatment of the girls’ abusers. What’s interesting is that no one ever seems to write about Kvothe’s treatment of the girls themselves. Yes, he treats them kindly. He tends their wounds, he feeds them, he tries (and succeeds, of course) to draw Ellie out of her shocked stupor. 

Yet what he never once does, from the moment he takes control of the situation, is ask their opinions on any of this, including what their next step should be. He just decides to bring them back to their families - families who, in this type of society, might well disown them for being “ruined”. And the girls themselves, namely the intelligent and savvy Krin, seem to go blindly along with what he says. Why? Would Krin at least not question this, or object to his making decisions for her, when a group of men had so recently and brutally taken away all of her agency? Would she not question whether being brought back to her family is the best thing for the catatonic Ellie?

Okay, apparently not. So they return to their apparently very forgiving town. Kvothe stands up for the girls against the village shithead: thank you, Kvothe, bc I’m sure Krin could not have said those words herself. He assures the reader that they are with people who will love and care for them despite what has happened to them: thank you, Kvothe, though it’s stretching my credulity a bit that you would assume that no one will take issue with their deflowering. But then he “gifts” the girls the spoils of his slaughter: the horses, the valuables, the wagons. And I was about to give him a (grudging) pass for being decent about this, EXCEPT: he goes on to say that these goods are meant for the girls’ dowries. Specifically, to make them worth enough financially for potential husbands to overlook their loss of virginity. He even tells Krin not to settle for a less-than-lucrative marriage.

And suddenly, I was outraged. Why? Because a man who had witnessed the full extend of these women’s abuse brought them back to a backwater town believing that he was being magnanimous both in doing so, and in giving up whatever share he might have taken of the spoils of the debacle to make them financially lucrative marriage prospects. Because he never asked these traumatized girls if they might rather cut and run with the money than use it to make some man overlook their abuse in order to make them his property. He never even questions the idea that they will be grateful to submit to marriage contracts that will no doubt require them to have sex with their husbands, even though these women have been abused to the extent that they cannot sit a horse for *two days* after being rescued. And the worst part is that 20-something frame-story Kvothe doesn’t question this either; he just goes on to gloat about people singing songs about his daring rescue. Maybe I was just ready for a straw to break my benefit of the doubt. Or maybe this really is as outrageous as it feels. Either way, I can’t help being angry at Rothfuss. As a writer, I am very well aware that character and author are not the same thing; that authorial intent is not the same as authorial beliefs. But there are moments in some books when I have to wonder if that line is blurring, and this is one of them. Kvothe has literally JUST left a female-dominated country full of independent women happily doing their own thing. He has given these girls the means to find themselves a situation that will never require them to be beholden to a man again - even houses ffs, in the shape of those 2 wagons, should they want them. There are so many options beyond marriage: I can’t, for instance, think of a medieval society that didn’t have its version of a convent. Or, for Krin at least, why not the University? For that matter, why not marry her himself, and then set her free to do as she likes under the awning of a respectable marriage? 

Instead he returns them to their fathers, and likewise gives their fathers the means to marry them off with no argument. Who, after all, holds the reins of the horses at the end? Why does Kvothe assume that these families will actually use the wealth even in the dubious way that he recommends?

And in this, I think, I am justified in giving Rothfuss the stink-eye. This is one more instance for Kvothe to play the hero with no real attention given to the consequences. Kvothe himself, I think, would be appalled. He has suffered so much deprivation in his life, so often been marginalized, scapegoated, powerless, how on earth could he so easily consign others to that fate? How could he think, loving Denna as he does, having heard her words to the beaten girl in Severin, that buying these girls husbands who will “overlook” their abuse for the sake of wealth is anything but a wretched life sentence for them?

Sigh. There was a time when I desperate awaited book three. Now, given the other women’s lives at stake in this series, I’m not so sure I want to know.

[dreams-of-kalopsia]

Before the Flowers Bloom Again

Summary: It was the greatest irony of her life, the most elaborate prank in all the universe and its alternate realities combined. Pidge was the one who had suffered from years of unrequited love, and yet it was Lance who had flowers blooming in his lungs. In a universe where Hunk never pushed Lance to ask Allura out and where Honerva atoned for her sins by saving all realities with Voltron instead of Allura, there existed a rare disease that blossomed more beautifully the closer it grew towards death.

A @plancesecretsanta 2020 fic for @sakarrie. Merry Christmas! Here’s your Pidge-centric angsty fic ^u^

Read it on AO3.

----

It was always the most mundane days that end up becoming the worst ones. They turn bad in an instant and without warning, like an electrical switch for disaster: one flick of circumstance, and suddenly all the lightbulbs in your brain are flashing red in alarm.

Pidge’s switch came in the form of a phone call.

“Katie. Med bay, now. Lance collapsed.”

Six words in three sentences, delivered by her mother in two seconds. Her brows furrowed and her heart pounded like it was freefalling from the sky without a jetpack or parachute. She started running in no time.

When they parted for their respective offices just a few hours ago, Lance had cheerfully promised her to bring home pizza for dinner. When she arrived at the med bay, he was already in an Altean cryopod, Coran and Allura urgently working around it while deep in discussion with Mom and the Galaxy Garrison’s in-house doctor.

Confusion blended with Pidge’s worry. Allura and Coran in the Garrison was a natural sight—but that was before they became the Queen and Royal Advisor of Altea three years ago. Why did the two most important people of their planet have to personally deliver and set up a cryopod when even humans could operate it?

“What’s happening?” she asked to announce her presence.

Everyone visibly stiffened. Four pairs of eyes darted in her direction, troubled expressions barely smoothened out of their faces. Her already furrowed brows creased further.

“Oh, Katie...” Mom approached with hurried steps and pulled her into a tight hug. “I’m so sorry. He visited my lab to ask about a flower. I didn’t know he was sick or that the flower came from his lungs until he started coughing and collap—”

“Wait, wait,” Pidge interjected. She was used to processing a barrage of data in a matter of seconds, but this particular information just… bounced right off of her brain.

Flowers?

Coming from the lungs?

And Lance, her husband whom she sees every day, sick?

She felt so lost and disoriented. “Can someone explain from the beginning?” She looked expectantly over her mother’s shoulders at the other three, but they merely exchanged uneasy glances.

Doctor Calvo cleared his throat. “We were actually hoping you would be the one to tell us when the symptoms started,” he said. “Commander McClain must have been sick for long enough that flowers obscure his lungs on imaging tests.”

Expectant gazes returned to her fourfold, and shame crept up her face. Because she couldn’t tell them anything about her own husband’s condition. As much of a genius as Pidge was, she couldn’t retain information she never knew existed. And as far as she knew, aside from his occasional sick jokes, Lance himself hadn’t been sick ever.

“I uh… I didn’t… know he was sick, either.” She lowered her eyes towards the cryopod. Lance’s face could hardly be seen through the Altean blue viewing window and the short distance that separated the two of them. He was the only person who could shed light on this whole situation, but he lay unconscious in a frozen state as if to keep everyone else in the dark.

Why and how did he manage to keep her of all people from noticing anything? For some reason, apprehension seized her at the thought of finding out. So she focused instead on getting answers for the ‘what’. The technical aspects were at least easier to digest.

Pidge pulled away from her mother and turned to her Altean space family. If anyone would have a clue on what kind of disease had afflicted Lance, it would definitely be Coran. Besides, they wouldn’t be here if neither he nor Allura knew.

They wouldn’t be regarding her with sad eyes if the disease could easily be treated with a short stay in the trusty Altean cryopod.

“Tell me,” she said quietly, preparing herself for the bomb that was sure to drop.

It took some time for Coran to give an explanation. “The Meskans, the first species to be infected, call it the Kada Disease.” His usually jovial voice mellowed with an apologetic tone. She chose to ignore it in favor of obtaining more information. It wasn’t his fault, anyway.

“The Meskans? From Meskar, the—”

“—host planet for the Fourth General Assembly of the Universal Union we all attended, yes.”

But that was more than half a year ago.

Pidge’s eyes widened. Seeing her reaction, Coran and Allura nodded gravely. Mom squeezed her hand in concern.

“I’m afraid my knowledge of this rare disease is limited to what I’ve seen of a colleague way back in the day.”

“…What happened to that colleague?” she forced herself to ask.

Allura released a heavy breath. “Gravia, Father’s ambassador to Meskar at the time, had fallen in love with a Meskan during her stay in the planet. Unfortunately, the feeling was not mutual, and she returned to Altea with a broken heart. She developed the disease soon after that…” she trailed off then sent over a meaningful look, like she expected Pidge to understand everything from that sad story.

Pidge couldn’t, though.

It was possible that the disease just happened to manifest after the Altean went home. It probably had a long incubation time, or other extrinsic and intrinsic factors had influenced its development. Temporality didn’t always equate to causality. “You couldn’t possibly think that Gravia actually died of a failed romance, right?” she asked in disbelief.

The silence and increasingly pained expressions were answer enough, but the answer wasn’t one she wanted.

Her fingertips turned cold and clammy as her mind rebelled against her instinct urging her to accept the validity of what she’d just heard.

“Perhaps its more popular name would help convince you,” Coran finally said. “Florescent Cough, the disease of unrequited love.”

The cold spread from her hands and chilled her blood. Her gaze dropped to the cryopod that encased Lance.

No way.

This had got to be the greatest irony of her life, the most elaborate prank in all the universe and its alternate realities combined.

She was the one who had suffered from years of unrequited love, and yet it was her husband who had flowers blooming in his lungs.

“No way.”

[theangriestpea]

In the Shadows : Thirteen

Summary: Jughead Jones, resident werewolf, just wants to protect his family and his pack from the incoming doom of The Red Circle. Sweet Pea and Lily join him to help keep the Southside safe from human tyranny. Meanwhile a demon princess named Myra and succubus named Lavender had a plan to bring on the apocalypse. 

Rating: Mature // Explicit

Pairings: Jughead Jones x OC, Sweet Pea x OC, Kurtz x OC

Warnings:  mild smut, vaginal sex, shower sex, kidnapping??, jealousy

Word Count: 5.1k+

A/N: eheheheheh this is finally out lol. I’ll be working on a request or two next and then TKT! I don’t show up in the tags anymore so RIP my note count

Chapter Thirteen : The Return

Hell was colder than he had expected. A lot colder. The white magic that Lily had painted onto him glowed faintly, the essence of it wrapping around him like a thin sheet of armor. The cavernous hallways were dark, lit only by periodic dim blue flaming torches that lined the walls.

Sweet Pea exhaled, his condensed breath puffing in front of him as he intently watched the needle of the compass. He could feel her again, finally after three long days, but it was very faint. He tried to keep his mind focused on the task, he didn’t have much time. Even spending an earthly hour here would equate to a little over a day. Time moved much faster in hell, and Lavender had already spent three months there. He worried tremendously about the state he would find her in.

When he saw her again, she’d finally be showing. When she was taken, Lav had only been two months pregnant. Now she would be halfway through her pregnancy, and if they hadn’t of known the sex already (though Sweet Pea wasn’t entirely convinced that the end of the world could be brought on by a little girl) then they certainly would know now. He had already planned to take her to a doctor as soon as possible to get everything checked out. Not that it was necessary, but he needed it for his own peace of mind.

Every now and then he would check the pocket watch. Thankfully it was a wind up watch that was unaffected by the strange atmosphere of hell. He wound it up a few more times for good measure, unsure if the speed of time here would have any kind of affect on the mechanism. It was best not to take chances. If he were here even a millisecond longer than an hour, then he would be damned here for eternity. He would die and there would be no hope left for Earth.

Back in the mortal realm of Earth, Lily was cleaning up the mess she had made. She could feel the piercing gaze of her mate on her back, but was choosing to ignore it. His possessive anger was not something that she really needed right now. The waxing gibbous moon was heavily influencing him. Days leading up to and after the full moon were always his most emotional, Lily had learned to deal with it.

He let Daisy down so that she could play with her toys, although she didn’t seem too interested in that. She simply sat between his feet, staring at where the demon Mammon had been. This was her first time seeing a full fledged demon, and Lily was sure that it had had some sort of affect on her. Ultimately it had been safer to keep her in the room where both Lily and Sweet Pea could keep an eye on her just in case the demon chose to play some sort of trick on them.

Now she wondered if that had truly been the best decision. Daisy seemed in a daze, her eyes ultimately unfocused as she peered across the room. Despite her worry, Lily continued to put the materials away in their rightful place. She checked on a potion that was brewing against the wall. Sweet Pea had given her detailed instructions on what to do while he was away to make sure that it was completed properly. She stirred it twice counter-clockwise before checking the temperature. It was for Lavender, and possibly for Sweet Pea if he really needed it. It would heal any afflictions they received while in the other dimension. Lav’s human half was liable to have suffered the past three days.

When she was finished, she finally acknowledged the brooding wolf that was sitting in the corner. “Are you done pouting?” She asked, knowing that they had to be prepared for Sweet Pea to return at any moment.

Jughead glowered, “you still love him.” He sounded hurt, though she suspected it was more his pride than his feelings. Lily was already feeling weak from the spell, the edges of her vision blurring. She didn’t really want to put up with this.

“I love him as a friend, Jug. He’s always been my best friend and he always will be. It’s platonic. And yes, I’m worried about him going into hell. So much could go wrong. Daisy still needs him, she’s so young and she worships him. I couldn’t imagine raising her alone.” Lily said as she rubbed her temples, eyes slipping shut in an attempt to steady herself.

“You wouldn’t be alone,” He countered, “You’d have me.” He noticed her wavering and stood, careful to not step on Daisy as he walked over to her.

Suddenly Lily’s legs gave out and he had to quickly reach out to catch her. He noticed right away that her skin felt incredibly clammy and her body was cold. “Lils?” He asked, voice showing his panic. “Hey?”

Her breathing turned labored as she struggled to look up at him, “Lay me down, Jug.” She croaked, feeling a fever starting to take over her. He picked her up and carried her into the bedroom, laying her down on the bed.

“What can I do for you?” He asked, jealousy and hurt completely gone now as worry took over. “Can I get anything? Will that potion work?”

“I don’t think…” Her voice drifted off as she found herself feeling incredibly tired. “I just need some sleep.”

Jughead brushed a few stray hairs from in front of her face. “I’ll watch over Daisy, and wait for the others to return. Just rest for now.”

Lily felt too weak to even nod, quickly drifting into a troubled slumber.

Back in hell, Sweet Pea was navigating the dark hallways. The hell flame torches were few and far between, and for the most part he found himself walking along in the darkness. When he did find light, he quickly checked both the compass and the watch to make sure that he was heading in the right direction.

It helped that he could feel her now. He could sense what direction she was in, the compass just helped solidify that feeling. He found himself growing colder and colder and he wished he hadn't come without a shirt. At one point he tried to take a torch from the wall, however it was bolted in place and wouldn’t budge.

He tried to concentrate on the task at hand, however his thoughts kept drifting to his unborn child. Was she okay? Had Lavender been given enough to eat? What if there was something wrong with her development because she had spent the equivalent of three months in hell? Worry plagued him more than the cold did.

Ten Earth minutes passed, however it felt more like hours here. He was beginning to feel more and more frustrated as everything just looked the same. Exhaustion was starting to overtake him as he turned down yet another dark hallway.

Suddenly he felt her stronger than ever and he knew instantly that she was close. He ran to the cell door that was nearest to the left and tried to look inside the tiny barred window. “Shanna!” He shouted, hoping with every fiber of his being that she was in there.

The torch on the wall gave the room a faint blue glow. He could barely make out a figure shift on what appeared to be a cot along the back corner. “Pea?” A tiny voice rang out. Sweet Pea’s heart leapt into his throat as he tried to get the door open. It rattled on the hinges, but did not otherwise move.

Lavender got up from her makeshift bed and made her way over to him, skeptical that he was real. Myra had played too many mind tricks on her for her to trust her own eyes. She had taken his form on multiple occasions just to screw with her. Despite this unsurety, she approached him. He certainly felt like the real Sweet Pea.

Sweet Pea was cursing at the door in front of him, he paused from tearing at the handle briefly to look at her. Now that she was under the torch he could see her a little more clearly. She looked filthy, hair matted and covered in dirt. Her clothes were ripped in several places and his eyes moved downward. He took in a sharp intake of breath when he saw the undeniable swell of her stomach. “I’m getting you out.” He said before going back to the door.

She came closer, cautious and curious. How was he going to do that exactly? She couldn’t see him very well through the door, his side of it had no light. “Pea?” She asked again, and he stopped once more to look at her.

He stared, waiting for her to speak again. “Is it really you?” She asked, and the tone of her voice was almost disturbing to him. It sounded extremely foreign, and he briefly wondered if she was real.

“Yes, baby, I’m real.” He replied before going back to trying to examine the door. He realized that the release on the lock was a simple magic spell, something even a notice witch could undo. He wondered why she hadn't been able to get out herself, but figured he would ask questions later. Now wasn’t the time.

Sweet Pea muttered the spell, knowing that once he did everyone would know that he was here. His determination to save her however did not make him even consider the possibility of having to go against demons. He’d die for her and their child. As long as she was safe, he didn’t care what happened to him.

The door finally swung open and he pulled her into a tight hug, careful not to squish her stomach. Lavender melted against him, closing her tired eyes as she felt the simple contact recharging her energy just the tiniest bit. “I’m too weak to run.” She mumbled, knowing for sure now that he was the real deal. She was just so tired, so weak, so powerless from months of substituted souls. She needed something real, not the powdered bullshit Myra had been force feeding her.

Sweet Pea swept her off her feet, one arm under her knees and the other under her shoulders. He heard another tired sigh escape from her chapped lips as he began to run back from which he came.

His progress seemed even slower this time. Since his hands were full, he was unable to check the compass or the watch. He would just have to go from memory and instinct. He prayed that it would be enough to get them out.

“Pea,” Lav rasped, her voice still minute and he was sure that if hell was anything but silent then he would have been unable to hear her. “I can get us out.” She mumbled, half-awake now.

He slowed to a walk, unsure how she would even be able to do this. Lavender closed her eyes and mumbled a spell that was special to half breeds such as herself. A faint violet line appeared before the two of them, winding into the path he needed to take.

“Hurry,” She said desperately, “I don’t have much energy left to hold it.”

Sweet Pea took off, pushing his muscles to their absolute limits. His breaths came out in heavy pants as he chased the fading line. Time was running out for both of them. It had taken over half an hour to find her, now he had to make up time getting back.

Another fifteen minutes passed and he was sure his legs would give out at any moment. He would have been fine without the added weight, or if he had been able to pace himself. There just simply wasn’t time for any breaks.

Skin that was once covered in goosebumps was now drenched with sweat. The black markings began to smudge and Sweet Pea could feel the spell Lily had put on him weakening. He was starting to feel pain from his being here, the atmosphere affecting him greatly. He did his best to keep the negativity at bay, but it was growing more and more difficult.

Finally he reached the opening that was connected to the cottage. He burst through it and instantly the inter-dimensional slit closed with a soft popping sound. Sweet Pea fell to his knees, nearly dropping Lavender in the process.

Jughead ran to them, taking the hybrid from his arms so that he could collapse onto the wooden floorboards. She had fallen unconscious, sleeping against Jughead’s chest now that he had here awkwardly pulled into his lap. At first he hadn’t even recognized her, as she no longer had her signature purple hair but instead was sporting light blonde locks. It dawned on him that this was her natural hair color. The witch either didn’t realize the difference or had seen it before, Jug would later find that it was the latter.

The wolf noticed that Sweet Pea was covered in burns. Hopefully the potion would be good enough to heal him. He could also feel Lavender quickly draining his energy through their close contact. He had to quickly remove himself from her to keep from losing too much of himself. He was worried that she might take a yank at his soul if he held her long enough.

After laying her down on the floor, Jughead moved to get two mugs. “Is the potion ready?” He asked the witch that was pulling the succubus closer to him so that he could hold her, knowing that her and their child would need whatever essence he could give them.

Sweet Pea glanced at Jughead, “yes, it should be. Just pour half a cup each. That will be plenty, where is Lily?”

Jughead ladled out the hot potion into the two mugs. “She wasn’t feeling well, so she’s resting.”

He frowned, knowing something was very wrong. Lily shouldn’t be feeling badly due to the minimal spell work she did. She should be fine. He hoped that it wasn’t something too serious as he had to focus on Lavender for the time being.

Jughead padded over to them with the two cups. Sweet Pea managed to sit up enough to take one from him. He pulled Lavender into an upright position, putting the rim to her lips and urging her to drink.

He managed to get her to take the potion without much resistance, her natural reflexes allowing her to swallow. Once he was finished he took the second mug and quickly chugged it, throwing his head back in the process so that he could relish every last drop.

The streaking burns quickly healed, and his tan skin was unmarred once more. He put the mug down and held his girlfriend close, one hand trailing to rest on her stomach. It was too soon for him to be able to feel any movement, but still he had some hopes that maybe he could. After nothing happened, he let out a sad sigh.

Thankful that the potion had also healed his torn muscles and ligaments, Sweet Pea stood with Lavender in his arms. He placed her on the old worn-out couch and covered her body with an old afghan that had been in Lily’s family for decades. It had been made with comforting magic to help ease anxiety. He hoped that it would help her to rest peacefully.

He turned and noticed Jughead was holding his shirt out to him. Sweet Pea gave him a small nod as he took it and pulled it back on over his head. “I’ll go see what’s up with Lily.” He said, “Keep watch out here just in case. The house is warded against everything but Mammon, however I would rather be on guard just in case.”

Jughead looked at the half demon, noticing finally how dirty and unkempt she looked. He had never known her to look anything less than put together. Even when she was in her pajamas, every hair was in its exact place. Then again, she rarely left her appearance unaltered for anyone other than Sweet Pea. Her having fair hair was probably the most bizarre part. He had been accustomed to the purple.

He noticed her cheeks were slightly sunken in, her collar bones more prominent then they had been before. “Okay, just figure out what’s wrong so we can get her better.” Jughead said. He had this impending feeling of dread ever since Lily fell asleep. Something just didn’t seem right.

Sweet Pea entered the bedroom, immediately sensing just how sick Lily was. He rushed over to her, placing a rough hand on her forehead. It was on fire even though her whole body seemed to quake with a long lasting shiver.

There was an uncanny darkness about her aura. Normally it ranged from white to a dusty light pink. Now it was dark grey and he could tell even in that short amount of time that it was growing darker. This wasn’t good. He needed to do something about this quickly, however he was never all that good at healing magic. That had always been Lily��s forte.

“Daddy?” Daisy asked, tugging at his pants leg. She looked as though she were about to cry. “What wrong with mommy?”

He picked her up, holding her close in one arm as he used his free hand to check Lily’s racing pulse. “She has the flu, baby.” He replied. It wasn’t that far from the truth. It was a type of influenza, just not a normal kind you can catch from other humans. It was demonic and it would consume Lily’s white magic in a matter of days.

It occurred to him that the only one who could help with this was Lavender. She had used the last bit of her magic leading him out of hell. He would need to get her a soul to feed on, a live one. That would help her bounce back the fastest.

He carried Daisy back out into the living room. Jughead could tell by the look on the dark witch’s face that the situation was dire. “I need a soul.” Sweet Pea said abruptly, before Jug could voice his concerns. “It’s the only way to save Lily.”

Jughead stared, not understanding what Sweet Pea was asking of him. “Like a living soul?”

“Yes, I’d use mine if I thought we could get it back a second time.” He said honestly. “But, that is too much of a risk. I think she’s been only on supplements this entire time. If she had a fresh one then it would give her enough energy to be able to help me heal Lily. I need demon magic, and she’s all we got.”

“Can’t you just have sex with her when she wakes up?” He asked, hoping that there was another way. “Wouldn’t that help?”

Sweet Pea was growing more and more frustrated. “She’s not going to wake up on her own in time to save Lily. If you want Lily to live then you’ll get me a fresh soul for her. Otherwise, your mate will die and Daisy will be without a mother.”

Jughead hung his head in defeat. He had never been too keen on taking an innocent life. While it was a part of Lavender’s existence, he had managed to separate himself from that part of her for the most part. Mostly because her killing members of The Red Circle had direct repercussions on him and his pack. She had disturbed the peace almost more than the vargulf had.

“I’ll make some calls.” He said at last, knowing that he had two newer packmates in mind that could potentially help them out. He walked outside to talk on the phone in privacy.

Sweet Pea shook his head as he knelt down beside his soulmate. He kissed her forehead lightly, hoping that it would bring her some peace wherever her mind was right now. All he wanted to do was to hold her and talk to her and make sure everything was alright. Unfortunately that would have to wait. There was too much that needed to be done.

Outside, Jughead had called Charlie. Her and her boyfriend Fangs, the newest (and only vampire) initiate, had been on a job to tail members of The Red Circle. They were to keep tabs on them to make sure that they weren’t up to anything too sinister. Obviously they would want payback for the deaths of the two members Lavender had taken out before she was abducted.

Charlie mentioned that there was one that was a bit of an outcast. He didn’t stay with the core group often and tended to do his own thing (which included getting into fights with wolves during the new moon when they could draw no energy from it). He had gotten at least two of their packmates thrown in jail and charged with assault. She suggested they use him to both help Lily and end his particular low grade reign of terror.

Jughead told her to bring him to the cottage without being seen. He wanted them to make sure they weren’t followed or tracked. Maybe getting rid of someone who had been a thorn in the pack’s side wouldn’t be too much of a loss of life. He would burn the world down to save Lily, so perhaps one less nuisance wasn’t really that bad of an idea.

He hung up the phone and went back inside. Sweet Pea stood from his place on the floor, “Did you find someone?” He asked, knowing that if Jug hadn’t then he’d go out himself and bring someone back.

“Yes, Charlie and Fangs are bringing him.” He said. “They’ll get here as soon as they can.”

Pea nodded and sat back down, resting his back against the front of the couch. Now all they could do was wait…

A few hours later, there was a hard knock on the door. Jughead quickly opened it to find Charlie with a proud look on her face and Fangs with an unconscious man thrown over his shoulder. “One pissant for delivery.” He said with a boyish grin.

Jughead stepped aside and allowed them both inside. They made their way into the living room where Fangs dropped the spectacled human onto a nearby chair. He groaned softly but didn’t wake.

Jug looked him over, assessing him in any way that he could. “Dilton Doiley.” He said under his breath. He had remembered him from when he was buddy-buddy with the Northsiders. He had always found Dilton to be a little stranger than most. While humans typically were odd creatures, DIlton had been given an extra dose when he was made.

Sweet Pea had been looking over his notes on succubi. He had managed to find a spell that would allow him to transfer the human soul to Lavender’s body so that she could consume it without the need for sexual intercourse or physical contact.

After taking about fifteen minutes to prepare, going through the proper motions to ready himself, he placed one hand on Dilton’s wrist and the other on Lavender’s chest. He closed his eyes and began to whisper the spell under his breath. He would be using his own body as a conduit, something that could potentially be dangerous. However, the risks were greatly outweighed by the need for his partner to be awake and able-bodied.

He felt Dilton’s life force enter him, it shot through him like lightning, shocking him as he guided it into Lavender. It successfully passed through and in moments the hybrid was taking in huge gasps of air.

Sweet Pea let go of both of them, as he quickly gave Lavender his full attention. She sat up, hand immediately on her stomach as she caught her breath. She coughed, sputtering as she choked on saliva. Jughead quickly brought her some water which she greedily took in.

Once she was finished drinking, she looked up at Sweet Pea with large hazel eyes. He took her small face into his hands and kissed her deeply, happy to feel her lips moving back against his. He pulled away after a few moments. “Lily is sick. I need your help.”

Lavender sat up, rubbing her forehead as she felt a headache coming on. She thought about altering her appearance to something more attractive, but decided to not waste the magic. “What kind of sickness?” She asked, feeling groggy and sore still.

“Demon flu.” He said, not really knowing what else to call it. There was probably a more formal name for it. “I can’t heal her myself. Are you...is the baby okay?”

His sudden change of subjects gave her mock whiplash. “She’s fine, Pea. Let’s worry about Lily right now. I don’t think I have enough magic to help her right now though, but we can fix that. Can you take a shower with me?”

Sweet Pea smiled and kissed her forehead. “Of course, princess. Let me get you some clean clothes to wear. I’m sure Lily has an old flannel of mine that’ll fit you. You should still fit into her pajama shorts.”

“Carry me?” She asked, holding her arms up to him. He scooped her up into his arms. “Jones, we’ll make this quick. Keep an eye on Lily, okay?”

Jughead nodded simply before joining Daisy in the bedroom to keep watch over his mate. He hoped the two love birds wouldn’t drag out their reunion too much.

In the bathroom, Sweet Pea helped Lavender get out of the tattered dress she had been wearing. His hands ran over the bony parts of her shoulders and ribs. “I’m going to cook so much kimchi for you that you’ll be sick of it.” He murmured. It was her favorite and she had started craving it pretty heavily shortly after they finally got together. He knew it would make her happy.

Lavender was exhausted, but managed a happy smile at the thought. “I think I’ll need a little more than kimchi to get my weight up.”

He started to undress, shrugging in the process. “Then I’ll make you whatever you want. As long as you don’t leave my sight ever again.”

“I won’t, Pea.” She said, cutting on the water and stepping in. He quickly joined her. “At least my morning sickness is gone. We don’t have to throw up together anymore.”

The witch snorted back a laugh. “Thank god.” He watched as she slowly started to detangle her hair with her fingers. “You’re a hot blonde, you know that?”

She rolled her eyes at him. “Please. I’m a hot everything.”

“Your tits got bigger.” He said, groping them excitedly.

Lav let out a soft moan. Her breasts had become incredibly sensitive over the past few weeks. He hadn’t quite been expecting that response, but was thoroughly pleased by it. “We have to be quick.” He mumbled, voice low.

She whined at him then, wanting more than just a shower quickie. But, she knew that Lily’s health was steadily declining. They really didn’t have the time to be sensual right now. Lav turned her back to him and placed her hands on the smooth white wall while bending over as much as she could considering her stomach.  

Sweet Pea grabbed his cock, stroking it a few times to get it completely ready. He knew she wanted something more meaningful than this, and he’d give it to her later. This wasn’t exactly how he expected their reunion to go either. Still, it couldn’t be helped.

He aligned his head with her entrance, watching as the water came down across her smooth back. Slowly he pushed into her, moaning at the sensation of her soft walls clamping down around him. It had only been a couple days but he had still missed her so fucking much. He had no idea he’d ever be so attached to another person that wasn’t his daughter.

Lavender moaned, feeling their connection suddenly strengthening. She could feel her magic increasing exponentially as he began to thrust in long, languid motions. He filled her up so perfectly that it seemed to throw her off guard every time. She still wasn’t used to it after the short time they’d been together.

He grabbed hold of her hips to keep her steady as he increased his pace, not knowing how rough he could really be with her now that she was five months along. Fuck, she felt so amazing around him that it drove him crazy. All he wanted was more and more until he couldn’t get it up anymore.

Now wasn’t the time for a marathon though, he quickly sped up to a speed and rhythm that he knew would get her off quickly. His cock hitting that perfect spot time and time again. Lavender’s head reeled as she braced herself against the wall, unable to quiet the moans that erupted from her. She wished she had something to grab hold of, fingers flexing against the wall of the shower so hard that they were turning white.

In no time at all she hit her peak, walls clamping down hard around him and fluttering, urging him to release into her. Sweet Pea groaned, twitching inside of her as he came for the first time in days. He had been too depressed to even masturbate while she was gone, resulting in the extra large load that was now inside of her.

He slowly pulled out, grabbing a loofah and Lily’s body wash to help clean her up. He got it nice and soapy before rubbing it across every itch of her shaking body. The dirt and grime came right off, gliding down in large streams down her legs.

While he did this she took the time to wash her hair, thoroughly scrubbing her scalp. This was the first shower she had had in months and it felt so good to be clean again.

Once she was rinsed off, Sweet Pea turned off the water. He reached out and grabbed a large fluffy towel to wrap around her. He watched as her hair slowly turned back into its signature lavender color, starting from the roots and creeping all the way to her ends. A few piercings and tattoos reappeared as well.

He kissed the top of her head before grabbing a towel for himself and putting it around his waist and stepping out onto the soft bath mat in front of the shower. He held his hand out for her, helping her out as her legs were still quivering lightly.

“Let’s go save Lily.” She said, looking a million times better than she did before. Sweet Pea nodded before helping her dry off and get dressed.

<ao3> <masterlist> <playlist>

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[dokuhebi]

Word prompts, [secrets] or [run]? ~~ for Dan @shatteredxlookingxglass

word prompts compilation [ run ] for your muse to run their fingers through mine’s hair [ secrets ]   my  muse  sharing/confiding  a secret // @shatteredxlookingxglass

Cold were the streets of the Hidden Leaf, when civilians hid themselves in their homes and the sun hid itself beneath the horizon. Dull was the moon that hung in the sky and meekly tried to banish the darkness, as stars all but disappear behind clouds. Orange were the assisting lights of buildings and houses, keeping the town from the shadows in the form of lamps, streetlights and still bustling households. Quiet was the home the serpent climbs short stairs toward, and hesitant was the pale hand curled in to a ball awaiting the nerve to knock at the impolite hour of night. They break down every detail, they analyze every aspect from paint colours and textures of walls, to sounds and sights of the village around them. For it was what their mother had once taught them to do when their emotions got the better of them. How to perfect the age old shinobi trick of overriding basic feelings to instead focus on something more beneficial. Being extra perceptive, detailing the cold roads, dull moon, vanishing stars and orange lights, all served to take their mind off what may otherwise haunt them. And so the serpent persists with this ingrained and taught habit, counting those steps all the way up to Dan’s door, chatoyant eyes bounding off every surface available to seek out the next analysis that may drive away incoming thoughts of less desirable and clinical emotions. What they don’t stop to think about, despite how deep the thought may run if they allow it, was why they had chosen to come to his house in the first place. Why in the moment of stifling grief they had fled their hidden den and found themself outside his door. Wondering if they dare knock, wondering if they should back out now before they have to explain being here to him before they have even explained it to themself. The door clicks open, jolting them from their thoughts. Jarring was the noise of the hinges creaking when the door opens its mouth to offer entrance. Blue were the eyes to greet them, a second spent counting those shades of mingling blue and green. Cheerful was the sound of the songbird they only now notice, sitting on a nearby tree, coated in the darkness from overhanging branches, tattling on their arrival to its summoner. So much for being more perceptive, they realize, far more distracted by this trick their mother so vouched for. They take a step back, no longer requiring such close proximity to the door when he had rid them of any need to knock. Only for his figure to step aside to grant them entry, as their slender hand falls back to their side. Still wearing their Jounin attire, still speckled in what looks like poorly brushed off mud, debris, ink and the potential faded splintering of blood. They hadn’t done much else than haphazardly draw a cloak over their figure, and that in itself gets swept by the wind, drawing open the front of the fabric to reveal the stains. They find their way inside, a quiet apology for disturbing him so late, taking the seat he offered to them, declining the offer to remove their cloak. Ghostly is the way they make themself a part of the furniture, half there, half somewhere else, trapped between worlds. Warm was the porcelain cup offered containing herbs and leaves mingled in hot water. Patient is the gaze that watches them, as his form takes residence on his own couch, as his hands eventually take up the task of drawing the residue of dried blood from their silken hair. Counting the patterns in the room, in his eyes, it no longer serves to distract them at all, as they take a sip from the tea he had just told them was still too hot to drink. Allowing the burn to bite at their tongue without so much as wincing, irritable when the pain only serves to shake them from their thoughts a mere moment. “What do you believe happens to the dead?” the question falls from their lips almost scathingly, as if the topic itself had angered them for years, and the quiet lull of displeasure would forever scar their throat, “I’ve never heard a man sound sane when speaking about what happens after this life,” they say, and such a short and fleeting life the human body was offered, “I have heard shinobi say that the dead eventually come back in new vessels, reincarnation. As if it may be even slightly believable that in all the centuries, not one shred of evidence exists of returned loved ones. I have heard shinobi speak of the pure lands, as if they feel they are owed some sense of peace, as if being disillusioned in this life might somehow equate to them being saved in some next one. I have heard of shinobi speak of gods, gods who they swear to be all powerful, yet for all the suffering our people are wrought by, must either be cruel, or incompetent.” They haven’t noticed his hands running gentle strokes through their hair, combing out the mess that had tangled itself in silken locks. At least, their mind has not noticed. Too accepting of his presence beside their own, too unquestioning. Their body however, starved of touch and the conditioned to cope only with the isolated habits they bring upon themself, notices instantly. Takes advantage perhaps, as their svelte form leans against him. Their smaller frame tucked neatly in to the curve of his body, fitting there rather perfectly, as they unconsciously seek the contact of reassurance he offers. As he rids them of not only the messy little leaves and speckled blood, but of the tension that had gripped their shoulders when such soothing combing proves a rare show of trust in their presence. “If reincarnation is real, it means we live one pointless life after the other. Never remembering the lessons we learnt to begin with, never remembering the people who supposedly return to us. If the gods are real, we ought to want nothing to do with the creatures that can do so much, but do so very little, that we might question their existence,” they say, before golden eyes move across to finally spot and acknowledge the hands running through their hair, where their own slender fingers move to coil around his one wrist, drawing his hand toward themself and turning it over, so they can expose the vein running along his wrist and up his arm. Hidden beneath pale skin, skin that had suffered countless lacerations, yet persistently heals, “why should we bother think about what being dead might be like anyhow? Why are we so accepting of the idea that dying is the only option?” He must think them mad now, for all their ramblings without context. For showing up looking as if they had returned from some assignment when he had indeed seen them in the village that very morning. Looking elegantly refined and neat, reserved and evidently lost in their own thoughts. If only they had the excuse of alcohol being in their system, when their next idea surfaces without a moment of consideration. If only they could blame carelessness on some overindulged and mind altering poison controlling their inhibitions. It is only the disturbed state they are in after staggering and startling failure that had propelled this idea however. As they run their finger over the vein they know needed the smallest cut to cause him to lose too much blood to recover from. Fragile was the body gifted to the ones they loved. They allow their light grip around his wrist to instead tug him to his feet when they stand. Where they bring the man to his own dining table, before releasing his wrist so their hand can dip in to their cloaks hidden pocket, and retrieve a single scroll. Grey had been the engraved stones of countless memorials and tombs, housing lines of bodies in Konoha’s cemetery. Deep had been the holes dug to retrieve the remains bundled in cloth at the heart of their parents graves, barely distinguishable as human with how little was gathered from the blown up war grounds years ago. Quick had been their departure from robbing those graves, after sampling dna and covering their tracks by putting back the earth they had disturbed. Erratic had been the behaviour of two captured criminals, men who were meant to be escorted to prison by the serpent during their last assignment, but who had been abducted instead and caged away, only for the viper to lie and feign having killed them during the mission due to dangerously uncooperative behaviour. Terrified were the sacrifices fighting back, two men unable to escape the smaller serpentine shinobi, who’s skill in the art of killing and destroying exceeded their entire generation. Pained had been the screams when both men became a part of a greater experiment, when their bodies began to give way to the new souls the serpent decided to replace them with. Empty had been the agonized eyes of the men as they helplessly waited for the serpent to complete Edo Tensei, as the serpent desperately waited to see their parents faces start to overtake the sacrifices. A life for a life. Unfamiliar had been the faces to finally greet the necromancer, when they realize in a jarring moment that buried within their parents graves were two strangers. Agonized had been those strangers faces when they were torn back to the living world unsuccessfully. Unable to die, but far from alive. Tormented had been the resurrected shinobi, crying for their ends as they crumbled in to paper in ruination, only to remain alive despite the cracking, decaying and crippling forms. Fumbled had been the serpents attempt to dispel the ritual and dismiss the souls back to the unknown. Ten minutes had been the time needed to finally empty the room of the living dead, that felt more like hours in their overwhelmed shock. Layers of failure had made that experiment a shaking experience. Failing to find their parents remains, realizing they now had no dna to even attempt this ritual in future. That they had been visiting the graves of strangers for years when error was made on the battlefield, and the wrong blown up and mutilated bodies had been placed in the holes dug for their mother and father. Failing to even complete Tobirama’s abandoned project, when the sacrifices suffered a gruesome fate and the resurrected suffered just the same agony, only to be banished after finally collapsing lifelessly. It might have put them off Edo Tensei, if the devilishly ambitious streak in them did not hiss it had not given them the right to give up. Now, the scroll of Tobirama’s work, revised by the serpent in Dan’s home, is presented. Placed in the middle of the dining table, as golden eyes look to the pale haired shinobi beside them. Forbidden techniques were something they knew Dan found fascinating, but whether he would be on the same page as them regarding one so cruel, one so actively defying all that was thought moral, natural and doable... well, they are yet to see. But they trust him enough to know that either way, their secret, their obsession with the dead coming back to them, would be kept safe. And so it is rolled open, for his eyes to see the detailed ritual, the inked sigils and the hand written demands. “Why seek out pure lands, when we can make this our home eternally... and why pray to gods, when we can become them.”

[strommccallum]

We Must, Without Delay, Challenge the Phony "Democratic Socialist" Controlled Opposition and the Misuse of "Democratic Socialism"

What defines the global working class’s generally dismal state of class consciousness? What, at this point in history, in this “information age”, in this era of possibility for the speedy dissemination of the truth to the most remote and backward corners of the earth, keeps its constituent regional working classes and their various factions from swiftly developing full self-awareness and unifying into a global revolutionary democratic movement capable of vanquishing the various cartels of capital?

Nothing more than the refusal of we, the vanguard of democratic socialism, to organize a meaningful direct challenge to the disinformation campaigns of capital. Nothing more than the unwillingness of we, the vanguard of democratic socialism, to directly cut through the capitalist news media and political theater, “popular culture”, “organized religion”, and academic indoctrination-fueled nescience of common men and women to the the true nature, structure, and charted course of the order they find themselves oppressed, jaded, divided, burgled,  and mortally threatened under and their concomitant nescience to the potentiality of democratic socialist society.

Serious consideration of this simple truism and the fact that, at this point in history, there is time for nothing other than the immediate and direct awakening of the common people immediately followed by the procession of revolutionary democratic action, can only awaken us from listlessness and demoralization and bring us to recognize that task directly before us is, yes, the perfectly simple and for the moment still fully accomplishable task of directly awakening and developing full class consciousness in the common people of the world.  It is the task of winning an information war with nothing but the truth and intellectual honesty, presenting the blueprint to democratic socialism, and building informed and revolutionary consensus in proletarians and other non-labor exploiters- it is the task of enlightening them and awakening them to the fact that they have an opportunity to free themselves from the tyranny they suffer under and democratize life, save their posterity, and redeem humankind with their own hands.

There is no component task of this greater task more significant than the showing of what is perhaps the weakest link in the obfuscation campaign of the capitalists, the equation of “democratic socialism” with social liberal welfare capitalism popular in societies with presently-existing constitutional potential for popular electoral seizure of bourgeois state power, for the product of gatekeeping fraud that it is and the phony leftist controlled opposition that owns this definition of democratic socialism- the various loudly “socialist” “left wings” of the parties of the “Socialist International”, the Bernie Sanderses, the Alexandria Ocasio-Cortezes, the Cynthia Nixons, the Jeremy Corbyns, the Benoît Hamons, and their supporting mercenary writers, editors, and podcast hosts- for the power, fame, and money-hungry opportunists, the fraudsters, the hired tricksters, and the dividers and oppressors of common people, the pushers of abrasive and class consciousness-suppressing social liberalism and race to the bottom cosmopolitanism masked as internationalism, that they are.

To play confused, timid, and dishonest games of “entryism” and “fellow traveling” with these elements would be to do nothing more than play ball with the capitalists and wholly give up the fight. To unmask this sham and these actors, on the other hand, would be to obliterate the capitalists’ political theater in the mentioned societies and present actual democratic socialism to both the socially progressive and traditionalist elements of their the working classes. It would be to get unstoppable revolutionary momentum going in these societies and to begin to inspire disobedience and protest in societies where electoral freedoms that can democratically legitimate seizure of power were not won in the past and can only be won now if leftist opposition strong enough to convince capital to throw its hands up and go gentle into that good night can materialize.

So let us get the ball rolling. Let us move at once to discredit the equation of democratic socialism with social liberal welfare capitalism and the phony “democratic socialist” controlled opposition- in opinion articles and YouTube videos, on talk shows and livestreams, at the town halls of phony “democratic socialist” candidates, everywhere. Let us present a vision of a world with democratic economy, with socialized means of production and management of workplaces by those who labor in them, with the management and guidance of economies at large and its constituent cooperatives and unions by recallable representatives of the people through recallable legislative representatives from both the various localities and industries for the furthering of their own and their posterity’s interest, with the ownership and management of natural resources by the people at large, with direct to consumption agreements between worker cooperatives and unions, and with absolute right to personal home ownership and ownership of the necessities of life. Let us point out the fact that the welfare capitalists argue for none of this- let us draw attention to the simple reality that welfare capitalism calls for the preservation of the ancient capitalist-employee dynamic, non-employee/investor stockholding and business ownership, the “financial industry”, rent and the non-existence of a legal right to home ownership, the continuation of the global race to the bottom, and markets and money in general in their present forms. Let us highlight the fact that the programs of global cosmopolitan “race to the bottom” capitalism and environmentally-conscious working class socialist internationalism are not the same. Let us be kind to socially traditionalist people, let us reason with them and show them that democratic socialism is not social liberal welfare capitalism and that any coalition capable of defeating capitalism will need their involvement- let us show them that genuine democratic socialism is not their enemy and that less socially traditionalist working class people are their natural comrades, and let us show them that while capitalism will destroy all of the tradition they hold dear, democratic socialism can see to the survival of much of it that is truly valuable and non-problematic.

Again, the clock is ticking. We are in a state of affairs much worse than the socialists of yore could have ever imagined possible. It is not inevitable, as they insisted, that capital will be overthrown and exiled to the dustbin of history at some point- the reckless industrialization and technological advancements of recent times have made that much evident. The avaricious creeps and parasites will be able, unless they are removed from power and expropriated soon, to do whatever they wish to do with those they have lorded over. There can be a final defeat of common people. We cannot take things slowly and easily, nor can we reassure ourselves with the idea that some future generation of the working classes of the world and its intellectual vanguard will win the battle if we don’t. In this world of the intensification of the pitting of the world’s common peoples against each other and the acceleration of the new style imperialist pillaging of the poorest peoples of the world, dizzyingly rapid cultural genocide and destruction of whatever tradition is worth a single damn, anthropogenic climate change and environmental ruination and that, if allowed to play out, will make extensive organized human existence impossible for everyone but the wealthiest by the end of the century, narrow artificial intelligence development and automation that if allowed to continue to proceed will within the next couple of decades render almost all people obsolete to the capitalists and facilitate the creation of capitalist-commanded armies and law enforcement forces not kept in check by a need for the living and breathing working man and woman’s labor or the mutinous potential of those less than thoroughly sociopathic human soldiers and law enforcement personnel, there just isn’t time for anything other than rapid development of full class consciousness and organization of revolutionary democratic action.

So let us not waste another minute. So let us take this crucial first step. So let us begin to show the men and women of the global working class the actual grand scheme of things and awaken them to the fact that they can free themselves from the oppression they suffer under, save their posterity, and redeem humankind with their own hands. We have no time to lose.

-Strom McCallum

(Republished from my blog)

[unrighteousbooks]

The Divine Hunting Accident of Dante Allegory This is the fourth and final part of a very long story, one that I began months ago. It has taken me a long time to collect my thoughts, and I am aware that they are still not entirely clear. Having begun the story, however, I have resolved to see it through to completion. So: * * * * * I needed to visit Graceland. Graceland is a beautiful name. To be received in Graceland. That is what we all want, isn't it? I believe there is a song about it, something about human trampolines and bouncing into Graceland, which I mention only because my resolution to tell this story began with a discussion of music. Graceland Cemetery is on the north side of the notoriously sinful city of Chicago. Perhaps that makes sense: Sinners need grace more desperately than saints. I wanted to stand in front of a grave at Graceland because it seemed like a good place to think about sins and redemption. Before I discuss that particular grave, however, I need to say this: In another grave, in a cemetery not so far away, the remains of a boy named Bobby Franks lie in a cold coffin. He was murdered at the age of 14. The murder took place on May 21, 1924, on a quiet side street on the south side of Chicago. Bobby Franks was murdered by Nathan Leopold Jr., who was 19, and Richard Loeb, who was 18. The story of the murder, then, is the story of three young men, but it is only Bobby Franks who will forever retain that adjective: Young. Young Bobby Franks, young then, young now, young forever because of the callous cruelty of two other young men. They murdered him for fun. They murdered him because they wanted to know how it felt to take someone's life. They wanted the thrill of the experience. What kind of person does such a thing? What kind of person imagines that it would be thrilling to kill someone, and what kind of person can fail to understand the moral implications of murder? The facts of the case are this: The killers, both highly intelligent, had been born to wealth and privilege. They believed that they were a superior breed of men. Convinced that they were examples of Nietzsche's ubermen, they felt unburdened by conventional morality. Leopold and Loeb committed a series of petty crimes, but wanted more: they wanted to shock the world. They formed a plan to kidnap and murder a random victim. Driving a rented car on streets in their own neighborhood, they happened upon Bobby Franks. They lured him into the car and murdered him with a chisel. They drove to a secluded area southeast of the city, mutilated the boy's body, and concealed it in a culvert. Their "perfect crime" fell apart within days: the body was found the next morning, and nearby, police found a distinctive pair of glasses which were quickly traced back to Leopold. The two confessed and pleaded guilty to the charge of murder. At their sentencing, their attorney -- the venerable Clarence Darrow -- delivered a lengthy, eloquent appeal for mercy, asking only that his clients be spared the death penalty. And so it was: On September 10, 1924, Leopold and Loeb were sentenced to life in prison, plus 99 years. They were sent to Joliet Prison, some 30 miles from Chicago, then transferred to the nearby Stateville Prison. It is hard to imagine how men who had fancied themselves as superior to their peers would have regarded their surroundings. It is certain that they would have felt despair; but surely their despair was no greater than that of the family of their victim. It is tempting to judge Leopold and Loeb's parents harshly. When we regard someone as a monster, we wonder about the source of such depravity, and we look for someone or something to blame. Yet whatever the failings of Nathan Leopold's father, we must grant him this: He did not abandon his son. With friends in high places, he employed his power to make his son's life in prison as bearable as possible. He kept him well-supplied with books, and Leopold spent his days reading. Reading, thinking, and learning. If there is a path to salvation -- a path to grace -- for those who have committed atrocious crimes, the first step on that path must involve learning. Moreover, when we learn, we want to share our knowledge. This, in fact, is why I am now attempting to tell this story. I say "attempting" because it may not be clear what this is about. Is it about Nathan Leopold and Loeb? Partly, but it is also a story about a story: This is about a graphic novel called The Hunting Accident, written by David L. Carlson and illustrated by Landis Blair. The Hunting Accident tells the true story of a man named Matt Rizzo. Like Leopold and Loeb, Rizzo grew up in Chicago. His Chicago, however was vastly different. In the Kenwood area, where Leopold and Loeb were raised, crime was an aberration. In Rizzo's neighborhood, it was a daily fact of life. A man who is subjected to poverty and crime might imagine that they are forces which pull in opposite directions. He might believe that crime is the means by which one escapes poverty. This was the case for Matt Rizzo. Whatever the causes -- and surely they are complicated -- Rizzo turned to crime. One night he stole his father's shotgun and, with two companions, held up a liquor store. The robbery did not go as planned: The owner, also armed with a shotgun, escaped through the back of the store and opened fire on the robbers. Matt Rizzo was struck in the face, and was blinded. * * * * * There are times in life when we make bad decisions. That statement, however, does not necessarily convey the gravity of the situation and its consequences. Describing something as a "bad decision" implies nothing more than a poor choice, the regret we feel when we selected beef instead of chicken. The question we need to examine is this: What are the consequences of deciding to do something bad? Suppose a man does a wrong thing, with intent to harm -- or at least, a willingness to harm -- and the end result is not what he expects. Instead, he is one who is harmed. Is that justice? Do we call it karma, and pretend that his debt has been paid? We cannot, because if we do, we have to explain why there are times when men and women do horrible things and suffer no consequences. If we strive for justice, we must do what we can to remove the whims of fate from the equation. In other words, justice must be blind. Blind. Justice, blind, decreed that the man whose bad decision had left him without sight still had a debt to pay. In January 1936, Matt Rizzo was sentenced to prison. He was sent to Stateville. Stateville, where Leopold and Loeb were still serving life sentences. Life, plus 99 years. For Richard Loeb, the life sentence was about to end. On the 28th of January, Loeb was murdered by another inmate. Fearing that Leopold would be targeted as well, the authorities confined him to the prison infirmary. There, he met Rizzo, still recovering from his wounds. There was a time when arrogant, aloof Nathan Leopold would have paid no mind to an embittered blind man whose formal education had ended in the fourth grade. But with age and knowledge, Leopold had begun to change. The two men became friends. One never knows what is in a man's heart. Did Nathan Leopold truly regret his crime? Did he regret the suffering that he had caused, and not simply regret the personal consequences of his crime? We do not his motivation, but we do know that his behavior changed. In prison, Leopold began to help others. He began to help Matt Rizzo. His family's wealth and privilege, previously used be his own benefit, was now employed for different means. Leopold obtained books written in braille. He taught himself to read braille, and then he taught Matt Rizzo. Tutored by a murderer, locked away in Illinois' most notorious prison, Matt Rizzo read the classics: Dante, Shakespeare, Milton. When he left prison in 1941, Rizzo was blind but no longer hopeless. He had learned to love literature. He turned away from crime. He got a job selling insurance. He married, and his wife gave birth to a son. The marriage, however, did not last, and his wife left for Los Angeles, taking the young child with her. When she died in 1959, the boy was sent back to Chicago to live with his father. This is where The Hunting Accident begins: with a young boy in a strange city, with a blind father in a dark and dingy apartment. The boy grew up believing that his father had lost his sight in a hunting accident. When he learned otherwise, there would be a reckoning. The Hunting Accident is a story of blindness, but not simply the blindness of one who has lost his sight. Like Dante's Divine Comedy, it is about those of us who lose our way: "Into that sightless world, let us descend." The world, Dante tells us, is blind, "And you in very truth have come from it!" Our blindness leads us astray. What leads us back to redemption? Knowledge. Knowledge made Matt Rizzo a better person. There is comfort in understanding the world, and thus it is tempting to see the world in simple terms. We take complex human beings, and simplify them in ways that make them easy to understand. This person is good, that person is bad. We want to be able to say, without qualification, that Nathan Leopold was evil. I would prefer a world where things are simple, but I cannot make myself believe what I do not believe, just because it would be comforting. I cannot be blind to this fact: Matt Rizzo became a better person because of the influence of Nathan Leopold. This fact forces us to ask: What can we forgive, and what should we forgive? When Clarence Darrow was pleading to spare the lives of Leopold and Loeb, he was appealing to our better nature. "Nothing is more cruel than righteous indignation. To hear young men talk glibly of justice... Is there any human machinery for finding it out? Is there any man can weigh me and say what I deserve?" Justice will not appear from nowhere, so we must do our best to bring it into existence through our own efforts. But we must be aware that we may judge wrongly, and that the result of such an error -- injustice, cloaked in sanctimony -- is as grave an error as one can possibly make. Leopold and Loeb were guilty. This is very clear. But what made them, in their youth, callous and cruel? Darrow was not naive. Compassion and kindness do not cure all ills. But perhaps they are still better than the alternative. "You may here and there cure hatred with love and understanding," Darrow said, "but you can only add fuel to the flames by cruelty and hate." Nathan Leopold was an easy man to hate. Darrow understood as much. "I have stood here for three months as one might stand at the ocean trying to sweep back the tide. I hope the seas are subsiding and the wind is falling, and I believe they are, but I wish to make no false pretense to this court. The easy thing and the popular thing to do is to hang my clients. I know it. Men and women who do not think will applaud. The cruel and the thoughtless will approve. It will be easy today; but in Chicago, and reaching out over the length and breadth of the land, more and more fathers and mothers, the humane, the kind, and the hopeful, who are gaining an understanding and asking questions not only about these poor boys but about their own, these will join in no acclaim at the death of my clients. But, Your Honor, what they shall ask may not count. I know the easy way. I know Your Honor stands between the future and the past. I know the future is with me, and what I stand for here; not merely for the lives of these two unfortunate lads, but for all boys and all girls; for all of the young, and as far as possible, for all of the old. I am pleading for life, understanding, charity, kindness, and the infinite mercy that considers all. I am pleading that we overcome cruelty with kindness and hatred with love." More than 95 years have passed since Clarence Darrow spoke these words. They were addressed not only to the judge. They were meant for us. "I am pleading for the future; I am pleading for a time when hatred and cruelty will not control the hearts of men. When we can learn, by reason and judgment and understanding and faith, that all life is worth saving, and that mercy is the highest attribute of man." And yet, this is still not simple. We cannot read Darrow's words, and pretend that all is clear, and that everything is forgiven. When we stand in front of Matt Rizzo's grave, we must not forget the grave that we did not visit: The grave of Bobby Franks. Chaos lurks at the fringes of every true story, forcing us to wonder: What if? There are always unseen forces at work. But what we can see suggests that Matt Rizzo became a better man because of the influence of Nathan Leopold. If Nathan Leopold had been put to death in 1924, Bobby Franks' grave would be no different. But what would Matt Rizzo's grave be like? * * * * * I am a poor storyteller. I talk too much and say too little, and I know this story is already far too long. I must, however, add a coda. In 1958, poet Carl Sandburg testified at Nathan Leopold's parole hearing. "Those who perhaps won't like it are those who believe in revenge. They are the human stuff of which mobs are made. They are the passion ridden." Twenty-three years later, another renowned writer asked for mercy for another violent criminal. The novelist Norman Mailer, impressed by the writing of a convict named Jack Henry Abbott, argued in favor of his release. Within weeks of leaving prison, Abbott stabbed a young man to death outside a Manhattan restaurant. "Culture is worth a little risk," Mailer had said. What do we weigh when we try to define justice? Who deserves mercy? Sandburg had argued that Leopold deserved freedom, because he had shown compassion. Mailer had argued that Abbott deserved freedom because he had shown skill. Which carries more weight? * * * * * Now, having arrived at the end of this long, convoluted story, I can only tell you this: I have stood in a cold cemetery, holding a beautiful book, staring at the tombstone of a man named Matt Rizzo. There is braille carved in stone, and the monument has other names apart from Rizzo's own: Dante, Homer, Virgil, Milton, Shakespeare. Shakespeare, who understood the beauty of mercy: "The quality of mercy is not strained. It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven Upon the place beneath. It is twice blessed: It blesseth him that gives and him that takes." What would have become of Matt Rizzo, without the quality of mercy? That is simply one more question, in a story which already has more questions than answers. If you ask me for answers, I can only tell you this: I am not Virgil, guiding the lost to salvation. I have my opinions, but I do not claim any divine insights. To do so would be comedy.

[starbuck09256]

From the dialogue prompts! Any combination of: “Why can’t you look at me?” “Look what you do to me.” “I’ll let you do anything if you’ll just touch me now.”

En Ami Post Ep

He’s withdrawing back into himself, won’t even look at her, and she feels his anger and pity running off him in waves. To be tricked by a man they both know is only motivated by evil. A man whom she willingly went with despite the fact that he had her sister killed, Mulder’s father killed, stole three months of her life. A man that they have held a gun to, wanted dead more than anyone else in the world. Who has single handedly been the orchestrator of most of the horrors that have befallen them. Willingly believed him, why? So she could cash in on the glory of being the one to end cancer? That’s not even who she is, she’s not the one for acknowledgement, not the one to seek the sort of attention a cure would bring.  Why did she do it? Why did she jeopardize her life once more to chase the impossible? Is it because she thinks she has been chasing the impossible this entire time? Is it because she knows first hand what being faced with one's own mortality brings to the equation? Is it because her and Mulder finally finally gave into the love between them and she thought it was once again too good to be true? That she needed to once again sabotage her own romantic happiness? That she seeks horror and fear and loneliness? She wants to scream and cry and go back in time to 3 days ago waking up in Mulders arms. Wake up to the soft light stretching across his skin as the world outside forgot that cigarette smoking bastards exist. 

Forget that she was once again so easily deceived by thinking that maybe just maybe everyone has good in them. Everyone wants to leave a lasting impression on this world for the better. She’s angry at Mulder too, not nearly as angry as she is at herself. No she will pay her own penance later. But how many times has he run off on her? How many times did she chase him down to the middle and ends of the earth. While he chased a lead of a ghost in the wind. She has tangibility, she had proof. She had everything that would make her believe and that asshole knew it. Knew how he could play her, hell played them, he’s been doing it for years. 

Now he’s used her to destroy the most valuable relationship of her life. Trying to separate her from Mulder, not even having the x-files shut down twice did that. Not being missing for months, not facing death over and over again have torn her away from him. Not because of some need to prove her love and devotion. No it’s never been about that, it’s been about the adventure, the passion, the constant challenges to her perceptions of the world. She doesn’t just value the work, she values the way Mulder makes her feel. He makes her feel like the strong smart beautiful woman she’s always strived to be. He makes her feel alive in ways that she didn’t know existed. And she’ll be damned if some sorry excuse for a human being takes away the one person in this world she values above herself. 

She stands up straightening her jacket walking with the clicking of her heels against the grain of his hardwood floors. She was ready to leave ready to walk away and let this impossibly complicated tether between them dissipate into the night. No, not after everything, not after knowing what his touch feels like. What it sounds like to have him moan her name into the darkness. How his lips capture hers in the bright dawn, his calloused hands running over her sweat covered skin. Not after knowing the way he challenges her mind and loves her soul. She pushes his bedroom door open, sees the scattered files and maps, evidence on how he searched for her. Years ago when he promised to always find her and this time he didn’t but she came back. Of course she did. 

He stares at his tennis shoes, clearly on the way to a run, running away from the thoughts that plague his heart, running away from them. Just as she was ready to do. 

She stands in the doorway ready to block his retreat onto the rain soaked pavement. “Why won’t you look at me?” in her mind her voice is strong, fearless. But in reality it is soft barely registering in her own ears. It is covered in fear, fear that this is something unfixable. He says nothing looking at his shoes while he sighs heavily into dim lit room. He wants to reach out to wrap her in his long arms and never let her go. He wants them to leave this miserable existence behind and have a life beyond the x-files. He’s found the truth of his sister. What that bastard did, and now knowing she went with him. Willingly, without so much as a moment of hesitation. God, what has he turned her into that she would forget all sense. Forget about how much that man has made them both suffer.  

“Mulder.. I..” and that’s when she sees it, sees him lift his eyes to hers. His tear soaked cheeks, his 4 day stubble, the evident disregard for his own wellbeing in the small amount of time she’s been gone. He doesn’t function right without her. Their mutual paranoia has created an extreme version of codependency that is frightening in its powerful existence. What have they become? Without the other are they really two hopeless shells of people? Are they really only surviving to exist with the other? The level of this knowledge makes her physically recoil. Dana Scully is a lot of things, but a needlessly dependent person who can’t function without a man is not one of them. But now the truth is staring her in the face, he needs her. Just as much as she needs him and they have come so far, denying what they mean to the other for so long. It’s not just the recent addition of sex that has made them this way. No thinking back through the years to see this truth has been there almost since the beginning. When she held a government official at gunpoint to get into an airbase. Where he chased down a suspect and beat him within an inch of his life for taking her. While the idea should repulse her, she should be appalled at the woman she is now. But she isn’t, Mulder isn’t a weakness to her. He is the embodiment of her strength. It is his determination and passion that ignites her own. HIs intelligence that challenges hers, he’s almost like an enhancement. He enhances all the things in her. Makes her stronger, braver, smarter, he creates a powerful fearlessness in her, a depth of empathy, a way of looking at the world and finally seeing it for all the beauty it holds. All that love shined at her and in this moment, she finally understands. 

Finally sees why he held back so long, why she held back. They would die for the other, but all she wants right now is to have him touch her. To make the pain and stupidity she feels wash away from her body in his arms. She wants to feel loved and cherished, and forget that the demons are at the door, sniffing and waiting for them to make another error in judgement. She steps towards him as he sits on the bed sinking into the side that has become hers. His elbows rest on his knees as he buries his face in his hands ashamed of the vulnerability that he shows her. He shakes his head as she steps between his long legs wanting to reach out and touch his face. 

“Look what you do to me. I can’t be angry at you, I would of done exactly the same thing you did.” His voice a whisper above the ticking clock. “I would of gone with him, believed him, done whatever he asked knowing if it would save one person it would be worth it. I know it would be.”

 His eyes meet hers and her eyes fill with tears matching his own. He wants to touch her. Wants to reach out and stroke her cheek pull her into himself and hide them both away from the world until the rain beats the memories out of their minds.

 “He saved you, he gave me the cure for you, and at the time I would of done anything for that, hell I even told him I would. How can I be mad and judge you at a different level than myself? How can I sit here and show the anger and frustration, shut you out for something I’ve willingly done before. You’re better than me, smarter than me...and yet both of us know that this world is bigger than us. Bigger than that smoking bastard, and I know you did everything you could to get in touch with me. I do..” his voice wavers as he swallows hard. 

“But now, now it’s different. It’s different for me Scully. Because I know I would do anything if you’ll let me touch you.” 

His eyes pierce into hers. His anger is at himself, not her, his pity is at himself. He is angry that before she was already too much to lose and now it’s impossible. 

“I can’t lose you Scully, not again, not ever and it terrifies me more than anything I’ve ever known or believed. So much so, I’m at the point of wondering what the hell we are still doing here? What the hell are we even fighting for?”  

Her breathe is let out in a slow ragged wave as she collapses against him. He wraps her up as  he moves them onto the bed kissing her tracing her face with his long fingers as his tongue searches out hers. He pulls back as they are both breathless. She looks up at him, a sad smile on her face as she reaches up to trace his lips with her fingertips. 

“This, Mulder. This is what we are fighting for, moments like this for everyone.” 

He lets out a soft chuckle against her palm. Kisses her once more as he covers her small body with his. He will make love to her tonight, and tomorrow they will keep going on. Moving forward knowing that now they are aware of the risk, and what is really the cost. 

@today-in-fic @improlificinsarcasm @lappina @pearsalot @itotallygazeatscully @peacenik0 @scully-eats-sushi

[amwritingmeta]

14x14: The Chicken and the Snake

Lots of snakes in this episode. Well, the episode is named for a snake symbol, isn’t it, so it makes sense, but the symbolism of the snake is all over the narrative. Like, everywhere. And it’s pretty. It’s just so pretty.

There’s the rattler in the painting, visible over Cas’ shoulder at El Sabroso, there’s the gorgon - Noah - of course, and Felix the Snake, shedding his skin, which to Rowena is a bit too on the nose *heart eyes* and then there’s the fable of the Chicken and the Snake, leading into Michael shedding his skin, as it were, but as the title of the post suggests, I’d like to frame this around the tale the gorgon tells Jack.

It goes as follows:

Once there was a crafty black snake who kept eating this poor chicken’s eggs. She couldn’t watch them all the time, you see. The black snake would wait until she was gone and then slide one of the eggs into his mouth and crush it in his throat. Now this went on until there was only one egg left, but when the chicken left that egg - just for a moment - the snake swallowed it up. But for some reason he couldn’t crush it in his throat. The chicken had hardboiled her final egg just to choke the snake. And the snake died. 

What does it mean?

Yes, that is the question.

Cas asks Noah why he’s telling Jack this story, and Noah says it’s because he can’t quite tell if Jack’s the chicken or the snake.

The chicken is willing to sacrifice her last egg because she realises there’s no way she can protect it with the snake alive. Rather than go through the pain of losing what she loves and watching the killer go free, she takes the preemptive measure, letting go of what she loves in order to put a stop to any more killing. Is it revenge for her previously lost offspring? There’s a tinge of it there, right? But as one might assume that the chicken can lay more eggs, her choice actually means that, by killing the snake, she’s protecting her next batch of eggs from being eaten. 

The snake is greedy, but, to be fair, he’s also a snake. Snakes eat eggs. The gorgon clarifies this as he says it’s not like he enjoys eating people, it’s a lonely way to live, but it’s his fate, or rather it’s the condition for his survival. (granted he’s a sadistic little prick, but that’s beside this point) Now look at the snake, which is acting according to its nature. There’s no malice to the snake’s actions. He’s crafty, sure, but he’s not stealing the eggs for fun or in order to torture the chicken. He’s stealing the eggs and eating them for sustenance. Not ideal for the chicken, and she has every right to find a way to protect her young, but also the two are natural enemies, so the scenario is to be expected.

Which one is Jack?

Well, there’s one more interpretation to be had out of this fable. Not just the two Cas offered: greed and sacrifice. This third interpretation can be had when taking into account that this fable isn’t just about the chicken and the snake.

What about the egg?

The egg that is helpless and without a say in the matter, even without a choice in its own fate to act as saviour or tool for vengeance or what have you. 

The fable then becomes a very stark comment on many aspects of life, where the crafty find ways to feed off the weak and exposed, and suffer all the little children. (I may be having issues with the political landscape atm) (irl bleed)

There’s also the Jungian point to be made of how the chicken represents life, the snake represents death and the egg represents the point where they meet. Highly symbolically, of course. 

Any way you look at it, you can’t ignore the egg in the equation.

Greed/selfishness vs. sacrifice = lost innocence.

And considering how the episode ends, Jack steps up to protect those he loves and (possibly) sacrifices his soul in order to stop Michael, leaving himself very much exposed to the danger of moving from protector, into threat. If this reading is correct, of course.

Chicken -> egg -> snake.

At the end of the episode, Jack could be seen to encompass all of them. 

I mean, just look at him spread those wings, stating that he’s himself again, while the entire episode is outlining the internal conflict he’s under, where he doesn’t consider himself an angel, but he’s burning off his soul to act as protector and shield, and through that choice leaving himself increasingly exposed to the darker side of his parentage, because without a soul to tie him to Kelly, there might not be anything to stop him from feeling all the influence of Lucifer that he so feared at the start of S13.

I’m not saying that I think he’ll necessarily be turning into Lucifer ie go absolutely eviiiilllll, I doubt that he will, because, to my mind, it doesn’t line up with the character progression of TFW, but Jack losing sight of what’s right and what’s wrong? Letting his powers go to his head, thinking he can protect the world? Possibly even isolating himself because he feels his father figures don’t actually understand him or, even, that they’re holding him back from making his own choices? That he’s outgrown them and he knows better than they do how to protect those he loves, including them?

Yup. Could be.

And what about Lucifer, awake in the Empty? Will Jack be able to bring him back now (canon would say yes) and will he? Well, he just declared himself the son of Lucifer. If he begins to feel isolated or controlled by TFW and he doesn’t have the humanity to understand the love they’re showing him - that is if his soul is actually burned away, but I can’t imagine the writers would let the possibility for this conflict just slip by, even if it’s not entirely gone just yet - then why not? Imagine the season ending on that moment? Eh?

(not saying it will) (just saying eh?) 

Now, the serpent is a very visual tie to the devil, if you want to make it Biblical, and see foreshadowing for Lucifer’s possible return. It holds up.

To my mind the most important meaning of the symbol of the snake is tied to what the title of the episode refers to: the Ouroboros.

The Ouroboros is one of humanity’s oldest symbols, and since its inception it has represented renewal, the cyclical nature of the universe, life out of death. For the alchemist, the Ouroboros also represented the harmony of opposites, and the reason I bring alchemy into it is because of Carl Jung.

Yes, that old fellow again, mentioned above and now once more. I’ve grown very fond of him since 14x08, let me tell you. 

Carl Jung studied alchemy with enthusiasm. He was always searching for correlations between his own thoughts on the human psyche, and the work done by great thinkers in fields outside his own. He believed in connectivity, and felt that like-mindedness was a strength, not a weakness. In alchemy he found many such correlations and even ways that helped him properly formulate his own ideas of individuation in a more approachable way.

He says about the Ouroboros: 

The alchemists, who in their own way knew more about the nature of the individuation process than we moderns do, expressed this paradox through the symbol of the Ouroboros, the snake that eats its own tail. The Ouroboros has been said to have a meaning of infinity or wholeness. In the age-old image of the Ouroboros lies the thought of devouring oneself and turning oneself into a circulatory process, for it was clear to the more astute alchemists that the prima materia of the art was man himself. The Ouroboros is a dramatic symbol for the integration and assimilation of the opposite, i.e. of the shadow. 

Alchemy is most famous for extremely clever women and men striving to turn basic metal into gold, but the true spirit of the teachings of alchemy is all about a refinement of the alchemist as a human being. To strive for internal balance. This is what drew Jung to it and kept him engrossed in its teachings for a good chunk of his life.

One could also see the snake (crafty) and chicken (nurturing) as the internally imbalanced shadow-self/ego, striving for dominance and neglecting to actually care for the egg (inner child). 

The thing, to my Jungian-laden brain, is this: internal balance won’t be struck by killing the shadow-self, because the shadow-self can’t be killed. It’s a part of the Self and needs to be integrated. The fact that the shadow-self can’t be killed was supported, one might say, by the visual narrative of 14x14, as part of Michael (representative of Dean’s shadow-self) was absorbed into not the ego, because that’s Dean himself, but into Jack (representative of Dean’s inner child).

So, yes, my first reaction was that there might be a bit of turbulence up ahead. Because the inner child declaring its very clear identity confusion as though it’s not aware of this confusion, before swallowing up the shadow-self in order to protect the ego is symbolically very, very unhealthy. 

Or maybe there won’t be turbulence up ahead because who knows what other curve ball might be thrown into the mix! I’ve no solid idea where this is headed. Maybe Jack gobbled Mikey up and is completely healed and now Jack will go fix Heaven and stabilise the shit out Hell and all will be right with the entire world.

Yeah, okay, I sincerely doubt it. :)

Oh, and to clarify, when I talk about Jack representing Dean’s inner child etc. is not me saying that Jack isn’t also his own character, because he is, but he serves Dean’s progression, yeah? Jack can’t progress if Dean doesn’t, because Dean is the narrative axis around which all else pivots. Dean’s choices largely inform the trajectory of the narrative. 

And wouldn’t it be great if Dean’s on track to getting out of that position soon? It would be! Because that position makes it so much easier for him to believe it’s all on him, when it really doesn’t have to be. 

Now, let’s take into account that Jack’s new pet snake’s name is Felix. Felix means “lucky”, but it also has its roots in “happy”. 

Meaning that Jack now has happiness for a pet, in the shape of a being that traditionally represents resurrection, as it sheds its skin and through that act is proverbially reborn. And perhaps this is visual foreshadowing that Lucifer is about to rise again, or perhaps it’s a visual plant of how Jack may need to reach a point where he’s faced with those old questions of Who am I? and Who do I want to be?

What do you want, Jack? I think you gotta whole lotta growing up to do before you can actually answer that question. 

I hope he gets to learn the lessons, and be happy, but them narrative chips will fall where they may. I am so here for this ride.

[angelspigeon]

Moar angst? Maybe with a happy ending. Saix is dying in Lea's arms and he doesn't know whether or not he will come back. He tries to tell himself it's okay because Lea has found true friends that will make him happy, but Saix doesn't want to go because he also wants to be reunited.

Hi!!

YES ANGST!!!

Your angst was something I actually headcanon and needed to write for the vol 02 of my fanbook so THANK YOU!!! I finally got the occasion to write it down!!!

Maybe I got a bit carried away? I put in a lot of others relationship (and piece of a fanfic I couldn’t post but filled with headcanons) so I hope this will please you anyway!!

I won’t post it on AO3 because I think I will need to rework it a bit and just throw it in my fanbook later ya know so no AO3 door BUT those 3 205 words are all for you!!!

 When he died, it seemed to be the right thing…

Dying, be with Lea in Kingdom Hearts. Forever. Being by Lea’s side… It was the dream. The only thing he really wanted.

So why was he there? Why was he listening to Xemnas’ nonsense… again?

Why…

He hated every of his ideas. He hated the sound of his voice. He hated…

“Moony?!”

A hand moved in front of Isa’s eyes. No… Saïx. He hadn’t the luxury to be Isa. Isa was something lost, forgotten… He didn’t think he could only come back that child. He wasn’t sure he wanted. The name they called him had just really little importance when he was by Lea’s side…

The thing was that… he wasn’t in Lea’s side.

So Saïx looked up at Xigbar who had moved his hand in front of him.

“You’re with us?” he asked.

Was it being with them like sharing their view of what they will do, the conquest of the Worlds, or listening to them?

“I am,” he replied.

“Yeah… It didn’t seem so. But if you’re in! Come on! We need to find more friends! Or… how do you say when you use them, whatever if they are killed or not, in the end?”

“Object?”

“Yes! We need to find more living object!” Xigbar said. “Xemnas wants lot of them.”

“What will happen to us?”  he asked.

“You really want to know?”

He had something in his tone. Something telling that, exceptionally, he cared.

“Am I the kind of people who would waste his saliva?” Saïx wondered.

“You’re doing it, there. And every time you speak to me,” Xigbar smirked. “Though… Honestly?” he said with a grave and dull face. “Don’t expect to life old.”

“This doesn’t afraid you?”

Xigbar shook his head.

“No! Surely don’t! I’m a big boy and I will do great! But you…” Xigbar grabbed Saïx’s cheek, pressing them between his hands. “… I know you. Don’t die too fast, ‘kay?”

Saïx nodded.

But he didn’t know.

This battle was forcing them to walk on a path so different from Lea’s. And if he had to be against him?

He wasn’t made for that.

He had intertwined his life with him and could accept to be on a different path of him but he couldn’t accept to hurt him.

Even one second…

Though… giving up on his life to avoid hurting him… wouldn’t it hurt him even more? If Lea had forgotten him, that would be the worst for him because he wished to always live at least in his memories, but wouldn’t it be better?

For everybody.

  The sound of the pen against the paper was reverberating in the room.

As always, Saïx had to be there, helping Xemnas with the things he thought useless. Keeping order in his thoughts was his work. It was annoying. But it helped. He had managed to climb all the stairs to finally arrive there. He had the confidence of his Chief, one of the most important members of the new Organization, and he had access to every of his plan…

Of the whole Organization plans.

Like the last time, he had every way to destroy everything he wanted at default to success what he wished the most.

He couldn’t access this.

He was unable to do what he wanted.

His only wishes, at this exact moment… was to make sure Lea could be happy. If his life was about to end… Of course, it was about to end. Any Xehanort really thought they could win? When they have so many powerful people against them? And no one in their side…

And what he expected…

“We could use the Replicas…”

“The Replicas, Sir, are you sure?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Xemnas walked toward Saïx. “We don’t have the time to convince people to follow our lead but we can bring back people sharing our ideas. This would offer us an opportunity to win over the Light. Especially because, as for you, I can trust them.”

Saïx looked down on the papers he had. Every information needed stocked and stacked just right in front of his eyes. They had gathered a few members. Xigbar, Luxord, Marluxia, Larxene… him, of course. This was showing a little obsession of the man. And, yes, Saïx could understand the need to turn back even more toward trustable people. Another past, because it was obvious Axel… Lea, wouldn’t come back and Roxas couldn’t come back. Yet… it wasn’t impossible.

But…

People were missing.

A lot of them.

They needed Replicas.

To fill what was missing and, as Saïx was passing through those who could complete the equation…

“My Lord… Do you remember that puppet we used to have with us? Xion.”

She wasn’t supposed to vanish from memories. It wouldn’t follow Vexen’s plans. He wanted his work to be remembered! Lot of those who saw her just didn’t care much about her and the others… Axel… Saïx begged for make it vanish from his memories. To protect him from everything. He had lost Roxas, he couldn’t lose more… suffer.

He knew he was doing mistakes but they have the way for that.

But now… Now, Axel, or Lea, couldn’t forget something. Not completely and he knew… He knew he would remember her one day. He knew he hadn’t forgotten her for real…

“You want us to use this puppet?”

Saïx nodded. “If we managed to have Vexen by our side, we could have Replicas and he would bring her back. She owns a Keyblade so she is fitting the role more than… me, for example,” he said.

“You own a part of me since so longtime, I think you perfectly fit the role. Anyway, if this idea seems interesting… Will Vexen accept to join us?”

“I can convince him, if you allow me to try, Sir,” Saïx offered.

“Very well.”

“Thank you,” his Second replied, bowing in front of him.

  Saïx couldn’t understand how Vexen had accepted to let go on his Humanity for the sake of the plans. He didn’t understand how he could abandon his Heart… But he did it. Only to fulfil their goals. His goal. Vexen wanted to have his revenge, to redeem himself… next to his son, Ienzo.

For that, he needed to step in the Devil’s Lair and give them a bit of what they wanted.

Only to fulfill his desire.

They all were ready to make sacrifice.

Saïx was ready for them to.

All of them…

“What will you do when the moment will arrive?”

Vexen didn’t look up when he heard the question behind him. For now, they were eleven. And they will be, certainly, thirteen when Xion will be made. But Saïx didn’t want her to share his fate. Maybe she could overgrow this. Maybe he could find someone else to replace her. Even if it has to be Sora? Unless Lea had affection for him?

He… he didn’t care about disappearing. He didn’t think Lea would really miss him. He didn’t think he still deserved Lea’s love but… Vexen?

“I’m the one who create the Replicas. I don’t think I risk anything,” Vexen said. “I will make sure they are enough so I don’t have to fight and die.”

“But what will you do for…”

Saïx showed his eyes.

Vexen smirked. “I can live with that. Maybe it will disappear when everything will be done, though. I’ll see.”

“I see…” Saïx whispered.

“When will you be done with…”

The door opened. Saïx immediately went quiet. But his eyes widened.

It wasn’t that surprising to see Xigbar, even if he had that smile.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

But what he had under his arm…

“Hi, Saïx!”

Just in front of his eyes, Demyx was waving his hand.

Vexen had nothing to do with this discussion. He had so many works left to finish with Xion. And the Replica for Roxas. He needed Xemnas for Xion but for Roxas, they only needed Sora. And so, this will bring more difficulties in all of this.

“We’re trying to have enough Replica for the Darkness’ plans. What Demyx is doing here?”

“I couldn’t stay dead and away from you!! I couldn’t believe it when I was alive! But couldn’t reach to you! I’m so sorry. I should have come back to you. But it was hard to know if I was welcome?”

“Of course, you were,” Saïx replied.

Why not? Except the creeping fear that he would be killed again by the Light… Creeping fear becoming worst again  when he noticed Demyx’s eyes…

Yellow.

“Enough Replicas, uh?” Xigbar asked as he walked toward the inanimate puppet.

“It’s going to be big,” Vexen replied. “Everything we can wish for and more!”

“I wish a lot of things!” Xigbar smirked. He moved his arm away from Demyx and approached the Replica, only to turn toward Saïx and press his cheeks between his hands. “I wish you make him smile.”

“I never said I can do Miracles,” Vexen replied.

Saïx frowned even more.

Demyx jogged to Saïx, hugging him.

It was just the shadow of a smile, but he managed to make the Second-in-Command smile anyway.

Very few where those who knew the affection Saïx had for Demyx. He always seemed to hate him, not care at all, and even despised his presence. But that didn’t mean it was what he truly thought. When you were someone as important as him, it was crucial not to show your true feelings.

Lea, Axel, seemed already to be an easy target. But Demyx… he always frightened that it would be an easier target…

At this exact moment, he preferred not to think about that. He preferred looking at that Replica and hope. Hope that it meant everything will be alright…

  In his bedroom, Saïx was laying on the mattress. He didn’t need to sleep but sometimes, he didn’t want to work…

He heard a sound at his door and turned his head, not welcoming anyone though. Either that person will leave, either it was someone who will enter anyway so… he preferred to be quiet, to let the thoughts swirl in his head and invaded him.

The door opened.

“Hey, Saïx, can I come?”

“Even if I say ‘no’, you will.”

“Right!”

The door closed and, just a few seconds after, he could feel a body against his. He moved his arm so he could lightly embrace the one who was snuggling against him as if he wasn’t a living threat…

“You don’t mind, right?”

Saïx moved his head toward Demyx. As if it was really the kind of things he would worry about… Demyx had a Heart filled with light and Saïx often wondered how he could have been with them. As much as for Roxas, probably.

Roxas…

Saïx wondered if they could success…

“Can I say something to you?” Demyx asked.

Saïx nodded slightly in the Darkness of the room.

“I was surprised when Xiggy mentioned you. I heard Lea joined the Light and… I thought he was the love of your live…”

“I don’t have the luxury to choose,” Saïx replied. “I’m only waiting for…”

He closed his eyes. There were two wolves within him. One still had hope and the other was less idiot and know the truth.

“You can wait for him with me,” Demyx smiled, trying to cheer him up.

“And if he doesn’t find me?”

“More time together!!” the boy burst with joy.

Saïx clamped his hand on his belly. Demyx bit his lower lip, seeing this, and hugging him tightly.

“Please, don’t think about this,” he said in the hollow of his ear. “You’re doing really fine.”

“Thank you…”

Those words Demyx had said to him wasn’t something Saïx was used to hear. At least not without being like a bone throw at a dog…

“Do you want something?” Demyx offered.

“No. It’s fine,” Saïx replied.

“Tell me if you need anything.”

Saïx wasn’t surprised the boy tried to do so much for him. He almost expected Demyx to propose him to play music for him… Thank God, he didn’t. Though Saïx could remember the time where his music was the only thing he could bore. And when he was so desperate because Demyx disappeared and there was no more music in The World That Never Was. Because their empty lives were even more empty. Because he felt so left alone…

Even Xigbar tried to cheer him up but everything had shattered, little by little when Axel left them. Left him.

And after that… he was just taking the longest road to his own Doom. This was supposed to be his salvation and now…

Somehow, he was happy to be there because he really liked Demyx even if he didn’t show it much. He really had been with him in the hard time when his whole existence had shattered, piece by piece. When he needed to grab on something and the Promise on Kingdom Hearts became less sure, when his hate was so strong… Without Demyx and Xigbar, he didn’t know what he would have become.

So… being there, being with Demyx once again finally… wasn’t it the most logical end?

  A few months before, for the sake of Axel, Saïx had hoped this puppet will never move anymore.

Now, for the sake of Lea, Saïx hoped this puppet will move…

Vexen had no fear for a random Replica and he swore that, as soon as Roxas will touch his Heart, he will be complete again. In a Replica, yes, but he would be there and his own being. As he always had been. He could live his life as he deserved it.

But for the puppet here…

Saïx walked like a wolf in a cage, waiting.

“Will you be able to do it for Naminé, too?” he wondered.

“Yes,” Vexen replied, fixing the last details to call back Xion.

He had very little information about her and her own being was so strange. It was more difficult.

“I will manage to have you pushed on the side but make sure it will be the same for Demyx. I will give you the opportunity to leave and do what you want. Don’t fail on me.”

“Silence, Saïx,” Vexen said.

Saïx folded his arms.

“You want to redeem yourself, I want it too. You will have what you want and so me too,” the scientist said to him.

“I don’t want to redeem myself,” Saïx replied.

It was only selfish.

In fact, Vexen could understand it too. They weren’t that different. But Xemnas wasn’t that different than them neither…

Saïx kept walking, glancing at the puppet.

He stopped.

Her fingers had moved.

He saw them move. Just at the right instant…

He approached the table with hope.

Vexen ignored him. Ignored her.

“Xion?” Saïx called.

The hand moved. A relieve bathed Saïx. Roxas and Xion will be there soon… Once this will be done…

“One last thing,” Vexen said.

“Yes?”

Saïx wasn’t looking toward him because Xion was sitting just in front of him.

“She will not be Xion as you remember her until her Heart could connect with Sora.”

Saïx turned his head toward him.

“So… I will bring her to the fight.”

He was annoyed because Lea couldn’t remember her and risked to hurt her. And if it happened, Lea wouldn’t forgive himself. But he will make sure this wouldn’t happen. He didn’t plan to let Lea be sad. Soon, he will be reunited with Roxas and Xion. And he will be happy…

What could he hope more than this?

  The day of the big battle arrived.

Too soon.

Saïx knew that Vexen had brought a Replica for Roxas. He knew that Demyx was in a safe place. He knew Xion will soon be her again… She will be alive.

Everything will be alright.

He just needed…

“Moony?”

Saïx turned his head toward Xigbar who walked toward him.

“What will you do?”

“What do you mean?”

He groaned when he felt Xigbar’s hands on his cheeks. The man was always forced to touch him like that?! It was annoying…

And yet… the gesture was tender.

He always was happy to receive that affection from him.

Wasn’t it the worst that him, who had grown up being alone and avoiding to be touched, he ended up being very close of people who needed to show their affection that way?

“I know for Demyx and I know for the two others… You will leave?”

“Why would I?”

“You will join Lea, right? I wish you my best wishes!”

Saïx shook his head, looking down.

“Why?” Xigbar asked.

“I belong to Xemnas. I’m stained by him and there is nothing for me. No one who could care…”

“I…”

“You will forget me, Xigbar.  I knew this was what will happen to me months ago… I suppose I have to thank you? For having let this time less painful? The day I lost my Heart was the last time I was allowed to have one… I accepted the fact. My Heart is…” Saïx’s fists were shaking. “The only Heart I need is Lea…” he whispered.

“Is that what you want? It’s over?”

Saïx nodded.

“You know you have a chance to come back if you die.”

“I don’t think it will happen.”

Xigbar pressed his hands over his cheeks and leaned to press his forehead against him.

“Then, I will hope for two…” he whispered.

  “See you, Isa…”

Hope…

They all talked about hope. Saïx never had this hope. He just had will. Will to pursue. Will to fix things… Will to make Lea happy…

From the beginning, it always had been what he wanted. The very beginning. The first day he saw him, at the window of his house. The day when his Heart met the only one…

Hope seemed so dull. So vain…

Why would he hope?

He didn’t believe there was a right place to die and yet… he was dying in the best place in the World… In the warm and soft embrace of the one he loved. The man who will be surrounded with those he loved, finally…

Lea would be happy.

Why having hope when his sole purpose in life was finally fulfilled.

Lea would be happy…

But… the green eyes were filled with tears. He hated see them like that… He regretted the old spell, the upside-down tears.

He didn’t want Lea to be sad.

He didn’t want to go. He didn’t want to be somewhere else than in Lea’s arms. It wasn’t fair… He wanted to be there to see him happy. He wanted to wake up every morning next to him and to kiss his face. He wanted to hear his voice.

He didn’t want to leave him alone.

Roxas and Xion could really fill the hole he will create in Lea’s Heart? He wanted to believe it because he was nothing and he wanted Lea happy but those eyes on him were saying something else.

And…

And he didn’t want to leave.

He wanted to come back. He wanted to hope…

He wanted to hope he will come back and see Lea’s smile every day…

“… See you, Lea…”