#there's no direct communication there's nothing solid physical its like being on a dark room and you can't recognize anyone its FOGGY

[the-acid-pear]

Dissociation is probably the easiest state of mind for me to notice. When any other matter is modifying my brain it's impossible for me to be sure if I'm experiencing it or not, but for dissociation is SOOO easy because I can just say my legal name and not feel weird and that just solves it 👍

[synchlora]

I Promise

major warnings here, please heed them. there is lots of blood, major injury, and self-harm. also mentions of suicide, alcohol, and past abuse, both physical and emotional.

time period is in the days just after tubbo discovers where he believes tommy killed himself. so just as exile was ending basically

-----

It could’ve been a bird.

The cry that echoed throughout the SMP wasn’t entirely distinct. Could’ve been anything honestly. It was loud, it was unidentifiable, and it came from the general direction of the graveyard.

That was all Quackity knew when he set out from his home. He had been working on paperwork for L’manburg, staying up long after his fiances, with the whispered promise he’d join them in their cozy bed once he was finished.

But something was up. Something that he wasn’t willing-- or was far too curious-- to ignore. He's not one to be superstitious, but a shriek coming from a graveyard isn't exactly something you can sleep on after hearing. So he left the warmth of his home and headed out to the graveyard, armed only with a lantern and a healthy fear of what he may encounter.

The night is chilly and the crisp autumn wind bites at face as he makes his way towards the source of the call. He holds his lantern close, trying to convince himself the tiny flame can provide some semblance of warmth. Looking to the screensaver of his fiances on his communicator, he suddenly wishes he were back at home snuggled under the covers with them.

But as he walks down the path to the graveyard, he can instantly tell something’s wrong. The ground ahead of him is dark and stained in some places. Feeling his heart beginning to pound with dread, he approaches the parts of the path that have been discolored. Lowering his lantern to the ground, his heart sinks as red fills his vision.

The pathway is covered in a trail of blood.

Holding his hand to his mouth to stifle a gasp-- and maybe also to choke back the bile that rises in his throat-- he follows the trail back to one gravestone in particular. The normally grey stone is stained with red, a spattered pattern of fresh blood now accenting the bold name etched into the granite.

Tommy.

And in an instant he knows exactly whose blood it is.

Feeling sick with concern, he nearly trips over his own feet hurrying back down the path to follow the blood leading out the gates. He knows it has to be Tubbo’s, no one else visits Tommy’s grave nearly as much. No one else visits Tommy’s grave at all. But he can’t bring himself to imagine what happened. Doesn’t want to imagine the young president with such an injury that would cause this much bloodshed.

Even as the trail ends at Tommy’s old house, he’s still in denial of the situation.

Bursting through the doors of Tommy’s old home, he sees Tubbo standing in the corner, shakily holding an axe to the base of an already-bleeding horn. It's skewed at an awkward angle and it takes Quackity a moment to see the cause of that unnatural turn. Covered in fresh, red blood, there’s a deep gash at its base. He meets the eyes of Tubbo and frantically begins to speak.

"What the hell happened?" his eyes are flickering over the scene before him as he tries to process what’s going on.

Tubbo looks at him, unblinking, shaking as he moves the axe away from his own skull. He glances to the blood-soaked hand holding the hatchet and looks up to the man standing in the doorway. With a sudden fervor that was not in his form moments prior, he shoves the axe forward, holding it out to Quackity.

"Can you fix me?"

"What?" Quackity stands back for only a moment of confusion before snapping back to the present moment. He has one goal right now: protect Tubbo.

He lunges forwards and quickly takes the axe from the young boy's hand, discarding it on the floor behind him. Tubbo frowns as the axe clatters to the ground and he looks up to Quackity, desperation now painting his features.

"Please make me stop being Schlatt."

Quackity’s breath is gone in an instant.

"What??" Quackity once again voices his obvious confusion, stepping closer to Tubbo and feeling his stomach lurch at the sight of his mangled horn. "What do you mean?"

"I don't want to be like him," a sob escapes the boy's mouth as he babbles on, "I’m becoming him and I don't want that to happen."

There’s fear in the horned boy’s eyes, genuine concern laced with the sharp pain that he is no doubt feeling.

And Quackity is livid.

Not angry at the small figure before him, no. He is instead enraged at the memories of sharp teeth and whiskey-tinged breath. Enraged at the thought of his old mentor, the man who he watched kill the boy in front of him without hesitation or remorse. The echoes of a shouting voice fill his ears as he takes a deep breath and tries to calm himself.

How could Tubbo ever think he was anything like Schlatt? Schlatt was a monster, a cruel man who wanted nothing but to hurt others. Tubbo is just a kid. A young president who was caught in the crossfire, forced to make decisions no man, much less a child, should ever have to make.

And he can’t let Tubbo convince himself that he’s even a fraction of that evil.

Kneeling down to his height, he holds out a hand to the younger and gets his attention back from staring at the bloody axe behind him. Tubbo looks to him, eyes glassy and not seeming to fully take in the situation he’s in.

"You are nothing like him, Tubbo, okay?" there’s a stern assuredness to his voice that he’s never had before, "No matter what, I know you could never be who Schlatt was."

He offers out an arm for the younger to accept. He quickly does, falling weakly into a hug before whimpering in pain at the movement of his severed horn. Quackity cringes upon hearing Tubbo cry out, tears welling in his eyes just at the sight of the kid he sees as a younger brother in pain. He has to get his horn fixed and fast, there’s no time for--

“I exiled him,” Tubbo quietly speaks through broken sobs, voice building into a shout, “I exiled him and now he’s dead and-- and-- and it’s all because of me!”

Tubbo cries and pushes himself away from the hug. Quackity’s heart aches as Tubbo shrinks away from him, curling himself into the corner of the room. He’s hyperventilating now, whole body shaking as he cries, though Quackity can’t tell if it’s from pain or grief.

“Tubbo…” Quackity cautiously approaches him and sits down a few feet away, “There’s-- you couldn’t have known what Dream would do to him--”

“I should have!” his voice is hoarse with tears as he screams at the older. Wincing at the pain the sudden exertion of anger causes, he crumples in on himself and hugs his knees to his chest continuing to sob.

“He’s my best friend,” Tubbo’s voice is hardly audible as sobs catch him in his mistake, “was…”

Tubbo nearly falls over, Quackity catching him before he fully faints.

“You never should’ve had to make that decision,” Quackity shifts to help Tubbo sit up better before continuing, “That’s the difference between you and Schlatt.”

At this Tubbo looks up, puzzled.

“Schlatt would take any chance to hurt others but you... you can’t bear that pain even when forced to make those choices.” Quackity gently rubs reassuring circles on Tubbo’s back, “you are not a cruel person.”

Tubbo tries to speak, though he instead simply shudders as his voice trails off. He feels physically weaker, now hardly sitting up on his own, much less able to continue speaking. The only words that leave his mouth now are incomprehensible ramblings about a pillar and an island that Quackity has never heard of before.

He’s bleeding badly, the wound to his horn gushing blood readily and staining his face and clothes as it continues to bleed profusely. He has to get that blood to stop before he loses too much.

Quackity shifts slightly to get a better look at it, feeling himself get dizzy at the sight of so much red. He can see that Tubbo took one solid swing at it but it didn't cut cleanly through. There's still a portion of horn holding on in vain to the rest of it. A tiny, cracking bridge between the base and curling end.

The base of his horn is where it’s bleeding. He’ll have to get some bandaging and hold pressure there to get it to finally stop. But god, it’s an awkward angle with that piece of horn and there’s no way he can manage to keep steady pressure with it in the way.

Quackity’s heart sinks as he realizes what he needs to do.

He'll have to break it off.

There's no way he'll be able to get the rest of it to stop bleeding with that portion of his horn in the way. It’d be impossible to hold pressure on the wound with it there. And if he doesn’t, well. He’d rather not think about that outcome.

He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, though the sight of blood doesn't leave his mind. Regaining his composure, he shrinks away from Tubbo slightly. Tubbo mumbles something through his delirious state, though Q can't tell what it is. He sits up and places a hand on Tubbo’s shoulder to get his more direct attention. Tubbo looks up.

“I--" he's not sure how to even begin to phrase this, "I need to clean up your wound and stop the bleeding."

Tubbo nods along, wincing at even the slight movement.

“But in order to do that I've got to…” Quackity clenches his teeth hard. This isn't going to be easy, "I have to break off the rest of your horn."

Tubbo flinches at this proposition despite himself. He was the one begging Q to cut it off only minutes before. Why is he feeling so resistant now? He’s why they’re in this situation to begin with, why his view is filled with red and his mind is buzzing with pain. He wanted this.

But now he’s afraid. The pain has caught up with him and his mind is reeling with thoughts of survival before anything else. And oh god, is he going to die? Is Quackity going to be the last person to see him as the light drains from his eyes? Better Quackity than Tommy, he supposes, though it’s not like it’d even be possible for Tommy to see him now. He blinks a few tears from his eyes as he pictures the cold stone of his friend’s grave.

Tommy wouldn’t want you to die.

With what little energy he has left, he lets out a quiet, raspy yes.

Quackity nods and pulls him into yet another hug. Tubbo weariy obliges, weakly wrapping his arms around the older’s back and letting his tears soak into his shirt.

“You want me to count down?” Quackity’s voice is practically a whisper, feeling as though if he speaks too loudly it’ll somehow shatter the fragile thing that is Tubbo in this moment.

Tubbo nods lightly into his chest before sitting back and wiping tears from his own face. It doesn’t do much more than smudge more blood across his eyes. Looking defeatedly up to Quackity he says one more thing.

"Please just--. Just make sure no one hears me?"

Quackity feels his heart break at the request. Tubbo, despite it all, still doesn't want to be a bother to anyone. Despite being on death’s door, despite all of the pain he’s in, he still worries his problems will only burden others.

And despite how much it pains Quackity to do so, he agrees to muffle his cries.

"I promise."

Nodding to the younger, he gently kneels in front of him. Placing one hand to keep his horn steady, he gently grips the mangled end of it. The sight alone is just about enough to make him puke, but he bites back the bile that threatens to rise up his throat. Taking a deep breath, he starts to count down.

"Three," he feels Tubbo tense his shoulders but quickly regain his faked composure. He’s trying to breathe in calm patterns to little avail.

"Two," Quackity can feel his own hands slick with blood and questions whether or not he can stomach hurting Tubbo, even if it helps him in the long run. Gods, this is horrible.

He takes a deep breath.

"One," he sharply pulls his hand back, gripping the end of the horn. A sickening crack fills the air and Quackity feels the horn break from the base. As soon as he sees that the horn is fully detached, he tosses it across the room and in one swift motion, hands still covered in blood, he wraps his arms around Tubbo and pulls him in close.

He has to keep his promise.

While the citizens of L'manburg and the Dream SMP alike may not have heard Tubbo, Quackity will never be able to get his shriek out of his head. Never forget how tightly Tubbo clung to the back of his shirt, never lose the scarring of etched fingernail imprints the younger left on his arms, never clean off all of the blood that cakes the indents in his communicator’s keys as he shakily called for someone-- anyone-- to come help him. But he keeps it to himself.

He can’t break his promise.

[dana-sculy]

Vive Ut Vivas - Chapter Three

Chapter Two / Chapter One

This was so far my favorite chapter to write! Let's just say it has a really cute msr moment, it has Melissa being really up to help Scully get some fun, and it’s based on both Mulder and Scully’s perceptions of the story. Feel free to tell me anything, hope you guys enjoy!

tagging @today-in-fic   (To read it in AO3, come here)

Fox

I check my watch for the millionth time today. It’s been forty minutes. Were these things supposed to last this long? Is she going to come here after it all or is she just going to flee to her sister’s home and leave me here alone?

I check my pencils inside the top drawer of the table. There are two left. The others now decorate the dusty grey ceiling. I turn to my shells at the end of the room, but everything’s cautiously organized in there now. Scully would be so proud. She mocked me for months, after we were assigned, for having such a lack of organization with my stuff.

Call it boredom, but I had to do something, anything, to fill my mind with other than Scully. Since yesterday, when Skinner told me she would be evaluated today, I couldn’t think of much else. I tried to find cases to work on, but they only made me think of crackpot theories I wanted to tell her, so I could see those beautiful blue eyes roll to the top or her head. So I cleaned my stuff, and it helped me get distracted for a while, but then I thought about how I would feel triumphant over her reaction to it, how she would pretend it was nothing but wouldn’t be able to hide her proud smile in the corners of her mouth.

It’s useless, it seems, to try to forget Scully. She’s in every little thing I do or think, and sometimes it drives me nuts. Going to Skinner’s office could be an option, but I don’t want to make her any more famous than she already is right now, after everything that’s happened. People already talk about her abduction, how it was as strange as our job, about how we probably sleep together, and I don’t want to give them more reason to spread these rumors about her. I decide to wait a little more.

After four, as I return from the bathroom, I feel a tiny pair of hands cover my eyes from behind, and even if it wasn’t for the size of her hands, or for the fact that nobody else would do that or even come down here, I’d still be perfectly aware that it was Scully. My body senses her presence like a magnet, like an invisible line that connects us, a telephone signal.

“So, what do I have here, a visitor? Isn’t it nice to be suddenly so highly regarded?” – I say that as I turn to face her, holding her hands with mine.

“Nice to see you too, Mulder.” – She gives me a wry smile, walking towards our office room.

She stops at the door, clearly noticing the place is cleaner than before. Then, she sits on the edge of the desk, legs crossed, slowly thumping her fingers at the table. There’s a triumphant look in her eyes, as she directs them to me.

“What happened here, Mulder? Did you get visited by your cleaning fairy godmother?”

“Well, Scully, as a friend once told me, this place needed some care.” – I tease her with a wink.

“Smart friend you have, Mulder.” – She stares directly into my eyes – “I wonder if she used to kick your crazy ass a lot.”

God help me, because how much I missed sassy Scully. I know she is just joking with me, but the truth is, she did had my back more times than I can count on our partnership, not to mention that she helped me keep our department going with her down-to-earth reports. I may not always agree with her theories, but in all honesty, she keeps me on the right track.

I come closer to the desk and bow my head to whisper in her ear.

“It’s not out of the realm of extreme possibility, Scully.”

There’s a brief moment of silence between us after that. My partner seems immersed in thought but, judging by the way she’s chewing the inside of her cheek, and how she doesn’t dare look into my eyes, I know she’s nervous too. She’s holding back something, and I wonder if it has something to do with her evaluation today. I was so excited by her arrival that it didn’t even cross my mind how maybe they didn’t allow her to go back to work yet.

As a profiler, the prospect of reading people’s behavior surges with quite frequency to me. It’s almost natural, their actions end up being noticed by my mind and then it follows its own path. With Scully, though, I never dared to do that. Despite the fact that I always suspected the reasons she was sent to me in the first place, as to debunk me – and her behavior was fitting quite well in that – it all changed when she entered my motel room in barely a robe that night on our first case.

She had just met me, and yet she allowed herself to be entirely vulnerable with me that night. It was an act of fear, of course, but she decided to trust me, and after that, I decided I was willing to do the same with her. At the time, I made a decision. I was never going to profile Scully. I would listen to what she had to say, and I would limit my watch to the signals she was willingly showing me.

We became incredibly good at that kind of communication, ironically. Sometimes we don’t even need to verbalize what we are thinking before the other gets the message. Sometimes our bodies show more than we could with a speech too.

Therefore, I know better than anyone that pushing Scully to tell me right now what’s wrong won’t do any good. Finding it out myself before her decision to tell me wouldn’t be right, either. It has to be in her time. For now, I just lift her face with my thumb and wait, looking into her eyes, asking for permission to know whatever there is to know.

“I, hum… I just came back from Skinner’s office. He’s approved my return to work any time from now.” – She finally speaks, keeping our eye contact.

“That’s the best thing I heard today so far, Scully. Do you agree with Skinner? I mean, do you feel alright to be back to duty?” – I cup her face with my hand and caress it softly. She trembles a little, but doesn’t stop me.

“I’m fine, Mulder.” – She rests her right hand on top of mine, which’s still cupping her face, and holds it. There’s a strange sense of déjà-vu in the air. Months ago, when her father died, we stood here in a very similar conversation. I suppose she’s thinking the same thing.

“I need to work” – her eyes plead me to understand, and that only makes me feel more worried.

If only I could go back in time and protect Scully from the all the damage I caused her. I never gave much thought about the costs of my pursuit of the truth: I had already lost my sister, my family; there was nothing to lose before. But after Scully, that was not true anymore. They’ve put her in the middle of our crusade because of me, because of what she meant to me.

What did we become?

Sometimes that question keeps me awake in the middle of the night. Partners. We are that, for sure, but partners would never be willing to go as far as we would for each other. Friends. Our friendship was built in a solid ground of trust, of mutual care, but is that just as far as it goes? Assuming we’re friends doesn’t seem to cover the deep depths of our relationship either. We’re deeply connected: by heart, by mind, we have a bond that irradiates into our entire lives. I know Scully’s favorite perfume, her favorite type of flower, how she loves the spring and how she was never afraid of the dark. I’ve held her in my arms multiple times, in life and death situations, whenever she needed support. She takes care of me so often; she’s always stood by my side.

That intimacy seems to trespass the territory of friendship in all aspects, except the physical one. That’s a line we never dared to cross, but it doesn’t mean I’m not aware of the sensuality Scully exudes, or how beautiful she is. I keep that effect she has on me inside elaborated mental boxes wrapped up with yellow tape written “do not cross”. Even so, sometimes it’s arduous to keep myself unaffected by it. It’s a dangerous path, to try to define us, and an even more dangerous one, to wonder what I’d wish us to be.

“Mulder, I can hear you thinking.” – She says, bringing me back from my thoughts. – “I’ve already spoken to Skinner, my sister is taking good care of me, and, most importantly, I'm alive. But Mulder, I don’t want to come back to a life where people treat me like I’m broken. I need to feel capable again, to feel strong. I need you to support me on that, please.” – The last word comes above a whisper; her eyes watered yet steadfast.

“Scully, are you familiar with the sea anemone and clownfish?” – She’s taken aback by my question, but decides to go along with it.

“Well, as far as my biology classes in school would allow me. Why?”

“Did you know that only select pairs of anemone and clownfish are compatible to each other? At first, the possibility of a fit between the two of them, not to mention a beneficial one, would be highly improbable. The anemone is protective, using nematocyst strikes to scare every kind of threat. It was up to the clownfish to adjust to that, in an act of not trying to eat her tentacles, like most fish do. In return, the anemone has evolved to not strike the clownfish. You see, they both had to move further from their natural behavior in order to create their relationship, and despite the risks, they work better together than alone.”

“Mulder, are you saying you and I are like fish?” – She muses with a smile.

“We don’t live in the bottom of the ocean, Scully, but that doesn’t mean we can’t relate to that somehow.” – She laughs a little, making me feel better for lighting up the mood.

“We also need to adjust sometimes, Scully, to make ‘us’ work. If you want me to adjust, I will. I just want you to be willing to do the same for me. You scared me to death, you know, I thought I’d lose you.”

“You’ll still have to put up with me for a long time, Mulder.” – She smiles. – “I’ll be your anemone, Fox Mulder.”

“Then I’ll be your clownfish, Dana Scully.”

—

Dana

The sun was lowering slowly in the sky, leaving threads of light lingered in it, mingling with the rolling clouds in a beautiful gradient of colors that stood upon its original blue, now mixed with orange, purple and yellow. Absorbed in this welcoming view, my thoughts drift away by their own will, far from everything.

I feel the soothing breeze that flows in the park, which is still crowded with kids in school uniforms that play nearby. Some other people pass through the bench I’m seated in, some jogging, others riding their bikes. It feels peaceful, to be around this kind of normalcy once again.

“Lost in thought, sis? – Melissa taps my shoulder before sitting next to me. She’s smoking one of her herbs.

“You know I’m a federal agent, right?”

“Sister’s don’t put each other in jail, Danes.” – she turns to me with a teasing smile. – “Want some?”

“Maybe I could use some of that.” – I give her a small laugh, but it ends up sounding more like a sigh.

“Oh, having problems with the man candy? You know, I could really help you with that if you’d let me, Dana.”

“Enough with this idea, Melissa. I’ve already told you, Mulder and I are just partners and friends if you want to know.” – I give her a serious look, and it only makes her smile more broadly.

“Are you saying he doesn’t make you weak to the knees, sis? You can’t tell me you don’t think he’s hot. That would make me consider taking you back to the hospital, because there would be definitely something wrong with your head.”

“Okay, okay. I’m not blind, Melissa. Mulder is handsome and very sensual at times, but it would be highly inappropriate to get myself involved with him, even if I wanted to.”

“You should try to have fun sometimes, you know? You’re too boring.” – She laughs and takes my hand, standing up.

“What are you doing?” – She pulls me out of the bench, walking towards the avenue and out of the park.

“It’s time for us to go do some mundane, silly stuff, Miss Federal Agent.”

Two hours later and I see myself being guided through the glowing streets of a crowded Friday night. I have no idea where Melissa is going to take me. It reminds me of our early days in San Diego: she could always find the best places for us to hang out, even when dad was on our back. That was something I used to love about her, the fact that she would always include me in her plans, either if it was a party she was invited to, or just a ride to the beach or the mall. She would never leave me behind.

Street lamps flicker on our way. There’s no wind, but is not too warm; the fresh air is perfect and the stars are a beautiful sight I’m not used to pay attention to. It’s funny how my mind seems to be noticing these things more nowadays: the stars, the quiet laughter from the couple on the other side of the street, the smell of candy coming from somewhere near. It’s interesting how things in the universe can be perfectly standing while your life has just come from its way upside down.

Melissa makes a turn four blocks away from her place, and she seems to find the pub she’s been looking for. From the outside, it looks pleasantly rustic. Its construction rises through time-worn bricks, and it's difficult to see through the windows, but the cheerful sounds from within can be felt outside. She rests her hand on the rough paintwork that coats the door and push.

The ambient is crowded, but comfortable enough. Aside from a set of tables and a large booth on the back of the pub, the space is composed by a long mahogany bar and a number of tall bar stools arranged to accommodate any drinker who didn’t want to be seated at one of the tables. The ceiling height is pleasantly commodious, and I notice stairs leading to somewhere worth further explorations later.

“Well, sis, I must admit that you still have your touch for picking up these things.”

“Not so bad to stay with your sister, uh?” – Melissa takes the free reminiscent table for us, and makes a sign for the waiter. – “Plus, you really needed some fun in your life, Dana. Let’s forget men and worries for a little while.”

The waiter approaches us with a charming look in his eyes. He seems nonchalant about it, though; as if it was something automatic that he’s quite used to do. His bronzed skin and green eyes only add to the view.

“What can I do for the ladies tonight?” – He asks us with a foreign accent.

“Well, my sister here has just come back to life, so to speak, so what do you suggest?” – Melissa winks at me.

“Well, Ma'am, it should be something with a strong taste, yet soft, remarkable; something that reminds you how life is worth living, don’t you think?” – The answer is directed to my sister, but despite that, his eyes direct to mine as he speaks.

“I totally agree.”

“How about you? A lady with such fierce eyes must have an opinion of her own.” –  At this point, both the waiter and my sister look at me expectantly, waiting for a response.

“For now, I’ll just have a cold beer, please.” – The waiter nods at me and turns to Melissa, waiting for her turn to order.

“Bring me some tequila, would you?”

“Sure. And my name is Adam, by the way. Just call me if you need anything.” - As he storms out to get our drinks, she turns to me.

“So much for having fun, Dana. You should be the big sister, you know.” – Melissa points a disappointed look at my direction.

“I’m not looking so forward to having a massive headache in the morning, Missy. Plus, someone will have to be sober enough to take care of the both of us.” – She laughs at that.

“You should really live the moment more, instead of worrying that much about the future, sis. After what happened to you, I thought you’d get better at that.”

I remember the hospital nights and the complete sense of soreness I felt on my body for a moment. It makes me tremble a little, and Melissa notices it instantly. There’s no breeze of air coming at our direction, so I’m pretty sure she guessed it was no weather that caused that.

“Oh God, I’m sorry. I didn’t want to make you feel bad, Dana.” – She reaches her hand out and places it on top of mine.

“I’m fine, Missy. Can we just… not bring that up just yet? It’s too soon, please.”

“Sure. Let’s talk about something else.”

We talk for several minutes and the conversation becomes lighter. We talk mostly about my sister’s recent life: how he’s just broken up with a boyfriend I never got to meet, how she’s been really enjoying her new job, how mom still thinks she should go back to church. I realize there’s a lot about her that I’ve lost, not exactly just because of my disappearing, but because, with the busy routine I was living before that, I ended up not being very present in her life.

I wonder if Missy noticed that through the years. She’s done so much for me in the past months, in the hospital, and now opening space in her daily life to take care of me… I was so worried about the FBI, about my own personal issues that I didn’t stop to think maybe Melissa only wanted something I’ve been neglecting her in a long time: to be with me.

Maybe she was right about living the moment, after all. All I’ve done was to worry about myself, while she was just trying to enjoy spending time with her sister. Maybe it’s time for me to give her what she wants.

“You know what, Missy, I think maybe you were right.”

“Wow, the alcohol must be working well, because I can’t believe you just said that.” – She mocks me, contented. – “About what, specifically?”

“Well, about me not living my best life lately. I see how much yours changed, and I wasn’t even there to be part of it. I’m sorry, I haven’t been exactly the dream family lately, have I?” – I give her a sorry look and a sad smile.

“Well, you’ve been distant. I wondered why for quite some time. We used to talk about everything, even when we were apart. I guess changing is part of life but… can we come back to that? I miss you a lot.”

“I miss you too. I was so involved with my career, with… things I can’t explain to you. I suppose I tend to close myself off to the people I love.” – She returns my smile, staring at me.

“That you definitely do. I’ll tell you this: I don’t care how you live your life, as long as you are happy. And as long as you trust me to be part of it. Deal?”

“Deal.” – I say, squeezing her hand.

At this point, our glasses are barely empty. I scan the pub until my eyes find what I was searching for.

“Adam!” - I shout for the waiter, who’s carrying an empty bottle that was left on the bar.

He notices me from the crowd and approaches our table pleased.

“Here I am. Would you like some more beer?”

“In fact, I think it’s time for that drink you suggested me. Bring me your best, and fill a glass for my sister here too.” – I give him a teasing wink that only improves his delight. – “It’s Dana, by the way.”

[emberbent]

Book 2: Air | Chapter 4: Bending Embers

“Idiot,” Yanyu scoffed. She was a mean-faced woman of indeterminate old age; though she wore civilian clothing, her long, gray queue and sharp, precise movements gave her away as having had Dai Li training. She cast a disgusted sneer at the Avatar, who was held fast to a chair with hand-shaped cuffs made of unforgiving stone, entranced. “I can’t believe she fell for it.”

“I can’t either,” the Org lackey grunted. He sat beside the chair on the floor, taking a rest with his arms curled around his bent knees. He’d lit the fireplace to stave off the chilly late-autumn draft that had swept into the room. “Name’s Nobu, by the way.”

“Can’t say I really give a damn what your name is,” Yanyu replied airily. Then, with more force: “You know what I’m here for.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Nobu rolled his eyes. “Hang on a sec.” He yanked his radio out of its holster on his belt and held it up to his mouth. “Agent Tanaka to Command. Avatar has been captured and is ready for transfer, over.”

The response was immediate. “Very good. See that she is brought to me in one piece. Over.”

“Wilco. Over and out,” Nobu said into his radio. Hauling himself up into a standing position, he twisted a couple times to the left and right, cracking his spine. “Man… I’m getting too old for this.”

“Oh, please,” Yanyu spat. “Don’t talk to me about being old. I want my money.”

Nobu stood firm. “You know the deal. We get her transferred, and then you get your cut.”

Yanyu rolled her eyes. “Fine.” Then she looked again at the pacified Avatar, eyes open but unseeing, face still. She produced from the inside of her robe pocket a little vial of thick, black liquid. “Let me give her more of this before we take her.”

“What is that?” Nobu inquired, squinting at the substance.

Yanyu uncapped the vial and, with a hard curling of her fingers, removed the sludge and let it hover in the air for a few seconds. “Insurance,” she smirked. “Gave her some of this when she was a kid just in case. This’ll help her stay nice and quiet on the trip.”

With a slow, tight twist of her hand, she propelled the wobbling blob toward Shinza.

“Open,” Yanyu instructed.

She obeyed. The sludge brushed her bottom lip.

Hey. Hey! Wake up! shouted a familiar voice in Shinza’s mind.

Her hand twitched. 

“Hurry!” hissed Nobu. “She’s coming out of it.”

Shinza! Wake the fuck up, you’re in trouble!

“No she’s not,” Yanyu replied arrogantly. “Shinza… you are a good, quiet girl.”

Korra’s palm was hot and hard as it struck Shinza’s face. “Wake! Up!” 

Shinza bolted upright, dazed, as she found herself in the spirit room with Korra. “What…?”

“You have to wake up,” Korra urged. “It was a trap. The Org and some bitch named Yanyu are kidnapping you. Get up.”

Slowly, stupidly, Shinza looked at her hands, her arms. Realization dawned on her. As if piped in through an old-time intercom system, a voice came to her: “You are a good, quiet girl…”

She was awake now.

“I can help you, but you have to fight. Ready?” Korra urged.

On the physical plane, Shinza’s eyes shot open, glowing white with the force of Korra’s guidance. A howling wind kicked up around her, throwing furniture around the room as if it was all made of paper. The earthen cuffs crumbled away and she stood up from the chair. 

“I am no such thing,” Shinza bellowed; the wind was deafening, but her voice rang out above it, bolstered by Korra’s voice layered behind it. With a sharp jab, she shot a blast of fire at Yanyu’s head.

Yanyu swiftly ducked and rolled, grounding herself in a solid horse stance and sending her foot downward, hard. The cement slab beneath their feet broke into shards like brittle candy, shredding the carpet above it; Yanyu directed the shards inward, aiming to capture Shinza’s legs. Narrowly, Shinza leapt upward on a current of air, the cement scraping at the leather of her boots. Behind her, Nobu snuck up and wrapped his arm around her neck, cutting off her airflow with the crook of his elbow. Flailing, Shinza kicked both legs out high, striking Yanyu in the jaw in an attempt to wriggle free. Nobu flexed his bicep. Shinza saw stars. He snared her wrists behind her back and wrestled her to the ground, stomach to the earth with his knee hard on her back.

“Stop fighting!” Yanyu commanded over the cutting wind. Gesturing with her hands, she summoned the crumbled earthen cuffs; they reformed and flew toward Shinza, stony fingers curling--

Shinza uttered a deafening howl. The gale picked up with sudden, ferocious force and sent Yanyu and Nobu both across the room in different directions, their bodies thudding against the walls. She got to her feet. Nobu, fazed and angry, bolted upright and lunged for her. In a split second, Shinza’s eyes went to the fireplace. Her hand shot out, summoning the smoldering embers forward. Then she thrust her fist at Nobu, sending them into his eyes.

Nobu screamed, clutching at his face and falling to his knees. The smell of charred flesh permeated the room.

Behind her, Yanyu drove her bony knuckles into Shinza’s spine. Once, twice, but before she could land the third blow, Shinza whirled around, catching Yanyu’s arm in her grasp and twisting until she heard a loud pop. Yanyu yowled defiantly, her hard green stare daring her to continue. Shinza yanked her other arm forward, gripping it hard and twisting at the shoulder so Yanyu couldn’t move.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Yanyu growled.

Shinza snapped her arm with a nauseating crack. “You will never block anyone’s bending again.”

In the recesses of her mind, Korra whooped and hollered triumphantly, and then slipped away. The white glow receded from Shinza’s eyes, and the gale subsided. The room was in shambles. Yanyu lie passed out on the floor, and Nobu crouched near the crooked bed, wailing, blinded, burned.

“Why? Why would you do this?!” Nobu cried. 

Shinza sank to her knees near him. “Would you really have let me go if I’d asked politely? I don’t think so. I don’t believe you would have reasoned with me.”

“The Avatar is not reasonable,” Nobu argued miserably. “You’ve proven that today.”

“I’m sorry you see it that way.”

“I don’t see anything now because of you!” he spat viciously, lunging at her in rage but toppling, unwilling to remove his hands from his blistered face. He sobbed. “It wasn’t supposed to go this way. I was supposed to turn you in, collect my bonus, and retire.”

Shinza studied him. Greying at the temples; muscled, but he probably had to work harder to stay fit than he used to. Maybe he had a wife and grown kids. This was just a job to him - one with a good pension, by the sound of it. Nothing personal.

“What do you really think of the Organization?” Shinza inquired. “Of the Avatar?”

“I don’t know,” Nobu sniffed. “I don’t care anymore. Leave me alone.”

Shinza’s gaze narrowed on him. Was he really letting her go? “Okay then. I’m walking away.”

“Go. Get a head start before I change my mind. Just know the big man won’t be pleased when you don’t arrive. He’ll send out another crew, a better one, and they won’t treat you well.”

“That’s fair,” she said. Then she turned for the door, stepping carefully over Yanyu’s prone body and opening the door. With one foot over the threshold, she turned back. “By the way, the healers in Republic City are top notch. They’ll fix you up.”

Nobu scoffed. Shinza stepped into the chilly air, sticking her thumb and index finger into her mouth to whistle for Xia. But before she could make a sound, the ground rumbled beneath her feet. Shinza turned back to see the pointy end of a shard of concrete leveled at her face. Yanyu directed it with her feet and sent it forward. Shinza ducked, but the corner of the block caught her shoulder, ripping her clothes and the skin beneath it. An ugly black bruise began to form immediately. Shinza growled furiously, cocking her fist--

A plume of sweltering flame blasted through the doorway, missing Shinza but engulfing Yanyu, as Xia drove relentlessly forward into the building, arching upward in a loop like a roller coaster once she’d cleared it and doubling back to reign more fire. 

“Shit,” Shinza murmured. The inn began to burn around her. “Oh, fuck.” 

Xia made another loop and slowed down just enough for Shinza to throw herself onto her back. Before she knew it, they were speeding into the air as the inn was consumed by flames. In the distance, she heard police sirens.

Reeling, Shinza clung tightly to the dragon. She’d managed, just barely, to wriggle out of her own kidnapping, but she’d had to physically maim two people to do it. Her dragon had just committed murder by arson. The Organization, she knew, would be out for blood. She could already see the propaganda flyers littering the streets of towns across the globe: Avatar brutally murders her opposers. 

The visceral feel of Yanyu’s limbs snapping in her hands pulsed in her head like a sick heartbeat. The stench of Nobu’s charred flesh was embedded in her clothes - a smell she’d never be able to wash out. 

Clinging tightly to Xia’s back, she planted her palm firmly onto the slick, scarlet scales, closing her eyes and communicating with gratitude: I couldn’t have gotten out of that without you.

_______

They touched down in a town a comfortable distance away from Gaoling. Shinza parted with Xia, wearily found another inn, checked in, and immediately collapsed on the bed. Though she slept hard, she dreamed a familiar dream: black sludge oozed out in sticky tendrils from her eyes, nose, mouth, and ears. But this time, she let it flow, watching it collect itself into a neat blob and flow back into its little glass bottle.

In the morning, she felt as if she’d been hit by a Satobus. Bleary-eyed and sore, she made her way to the bathroom, noting the ugly blue bruise and the throbbing, bloody scrape on her shoulder. Her reflection stared back at her, hollow-eyed, pallid. Her freckled face was framed by a tangle of dark hair. There were no mirrors in the Eastern Air Temple; with the exception of the pond in the early, tranquil morning, she hadn’t seen herself in months. Shinza scarcely recognized the woman she saw. In her own mahogany eyes, she saw exhaustion, anger, sadness, and what Shinza could only describe as freedom. Though she smoke and char from the inn in Gaoling still clung to her skin, and though she could still hear Yanyu’s yowling and the snapping of her bones, she felt as if a great weight had been lifted from her. Carefully, she cleaned the wound on her shoulder and bathed. She’d lost her bag, she realized with a sigh, and reluctantly slipped back into the soiled and torn clothes she’d arrived in. 

Then, with a growling stomach, she went out in search of food. A block down from the inn was a noodle house; Shinza stopped in and slipped into a booth. A waiter came by to attend to her - a young man with a tapestry of tattoos covering both arms.

“Morning,” he greeted, clearly pretending not to notice the state of her clothes. She had a feeling he wasn’t one to judge. “What can I get you?”

“House special, please,” she replied. The young man bowed and returned momentarily with a steaming bowl of fresh noodles drowning in fragrant broth. Her stomach rumbled again as she unsheathed her chopsticks.

“Anything else I can get for you?” he inquired.

“Actually,” Shinza paused, studying his tattoos as surreptitiously as she could. “Will you tell me where you got your ink?”

“Pretty sick, huh?” He took a moment to admire the intricate, colorful designs on his skin. “Old man Guo hooked me up. He does it old-style with a poker, not metalbending. He’s over on Shi Street and Main.”

“Thanks,” Shinza replied, and tucked into her noodles.

_______

Shi and Main was a short walk. Guo’s place would have been all but invisible to those not looking for it, save for the wooden sign that had fallen off its little hooks on the awning and sat leaning against the outside of the storefront. Shinza entered and found a man - old, indeed - perched on a stool behind the counter, apparently asleep.

“Excuse me,” she said. “Are you Guo?”

As if he’d been awake the whole time, he smiled brightly, toothlessly. “Oh, yes, that’s me. How may I help you?”

Shinza peered at all the artwork that lined the walls, some of it on old-style parchment scrolls, some on paper. Not a measure of wall was without a drawing or a painting. Spirits, beasts, curvaceous women, and poems in elegant calligraphy abounded.

“I’d like a tattoo,” she said. “A big one.”

With the enthusiasm of a child, Guo stepped off his stool and hobbled around the front counter. “What strikes your fancy?” he inquired in his thin, airy voice. His cloudy eyes traveled over the torn fabric of her shoulder.

“Don’t ask,” Shinza said flatly. Guo met her gaze and winked. Then she rolled up the sleeve on her opposite arm. “Are you familiar with the red dragons of the Island of the Sun Warriors?”

The process took nearly eleven hours, but meditating with Lo Sang for months on end had prepared her both for the wait and for the pain. The pain was intense and prolonged and entrancing; once Guo had sunk the inked needle into her skin for the last time, he carefully and reverently cleaned her skin and gestured for her to take a look in the full-length mirror nearby.

The tattoo consisted of strict, uniform linework and painstaking, meticulous shadow stippling in pure black ink. It started at her clavicle, where the likeness of Xia’s head breathed fire toward Shinza’s heart; the dragon’s body extended down the entire length and surface of her arm, ending with the detail of Xia’s tail wrapping delicately around her fingers, over her scars.

“It suits you,” Guo said, admiring his work. “Your spirit companion will be quite proud.”

“How do you know I know this dragon?” Shinza inquired casually. 

Guo peered up at her and offered another toothless smile. “We have long awaited your return, Avatar,” he whispered. “Go in peace.”

Guo refused to accept the last of her money, claiming no payment was greater than to be allowed to tattoo her. Shinza cast him one last inquisitive look before closing the door behind her and whistling for her dragon.

_______

@chromecutie @hetapeep41 @jaymzbush @newyorkerqueen @my-remedy-is-euphoria

[skvaderarts]

Chapter Twelve: Dauntless

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Chapter Twelve: Dauntless

Note: Hey everyone! Thanks for reading the last chapter! I was pretty tired when I edited it, so I’m sorry for any errors. I’ll be more careful and try to go back soon and correct anything I see. In the meantime, I want to thank Random Reader Nothing Special, BeansWithBones, and HunterJamie for their continued support. I always love talking to you guys! Now, back to the chapter! This one is going to be very... interesting. Haha!

-~-

There was nothing visible within the inky blackness. No light pierced the veil, seemingly holding back all time and rendering distance irrelevant and imperceivable. Regardless of how far he reached in either direction, he never touched anything and the sensation of weightlessness he felt was disputed by the lack of air friction but felt nonetheless. Yet somehow he seemed to travel rapidly downward, the sensation of his stomach dropping being the only concrete indicator of any movement at all. After all, it was so dark in here that he could simply have gone blind. He would have no way of telling. Being this deprived of his senses wasn’t reassuring, but until he figured out what was going on, there was no way of knowing.

As V stood (or floated or fell downward... there wasn’t really a way of knowing for sure) within the dimensional equivalent of a sensory deprivation tank, he internally acknowledged that although he should feel threatened or concerned, he didn’t. There was something strangely familiar about this place that he couldn’t quite place. If he didn’t know any better, he would swear that he had been here before. But that wasn’t possible... was it? After all, he should remember that. Or maybe he shouldn’t. Maybe the part of him that swore up and down that it had been here before was the only part of his subconscious that recalled a prior visit to this hellscape. How could he possibly say for sure?

In the blink of an eye, V suddenly felt every muscle in his body tense as he was hit with a powerful gust of air. As it grew in intensity, it dropped in temperature, the once oven-like heat taking on an otherworldly chill that sent him sliding back towards some unknown destination. Or it could have been forward for all he knew. It was literally impossible for him to tell at this point, especially with his arms folded around himself to protect his body from the unearthly force that pressed against him. It didn’t take long for him to lose his center of balance and topple to the side, launching forwards on what he could only assume was the floor. However, when he made physical contact with it, he found that it was soft and pliable, almost buoyant. The liquid clung to him but didn’t stick, possessing a quality similar to that of oil in water. Every bead of the abyssal substance ran off of his skin like it was coated in a hydrophobic substance. Every part of his body that made contact with it tingled slightly in response, and he was unsure if this was a good or a bad thing. Regardless, it was strange how much colder it was than the already freezing air. While not cold enough to remove any skin, it was more than a little bit uncomfortable. 

V launched himself to his feet, pushing himself upward with a quick press against the ground. To his shock, he kept tumbling backward instead of landing on his feet. It was as if the floor had rotated to keep him from gaining the upper hand. As he cartwheeled backward headfirst, he gained speed, flipping more times than he could even try to count. As he did so, his breathing became slightly frantic. Where was he going to land? Was he going to land at all? What if he was trapped here forever and this was how he would spend the rest of his natural (or unnatural) life? Did time even pass in this place? Had the entire day before this been nothing but a fever dream as he passed into eternal damnation? The idea of being stuck here quite literally spiraling out of control forever sure made it seem plausible.

“I need to regain my control over this situation,” He thought to himself with finality,” However I came to be in this place is irrelevant. I refuse to stay here any longer. If I could just stop-”

The very instant that the world “stop” passed through his mind, his body hit the ground with a heavy smack, knocking the wind out of him. The once soft material that he had touched merely a few moments before now felt like asphalt, a substance that he was all too familiar with falling onto. Every part of his body ached, although he somehow knew that he hadn’t broken anything. It was more like a toothache, a dull throb that traveled through every inch of his body leaving him immobile and uncomfortable. Thankfully, his pain threshold was legendarily high, so the instant his breath returned to him, he blinked and carefully clambered to his feet.

“I can only assume that you brought me here for a reason?” V asked cautiously. He had no idea the limits of the power that his place possessed.

The darkness did not respond. Instead, it remained woefully silent, unwilling, or perhaps unable to answer his question. He inhaled, unwilling to take silence for an answer. He hadn’t come here of his own volition, at least to his knowledge. He required answers. He was owed answers. And he was going to receive them.

“So you’re going to tell me that you are capable of manipulating this entire place,” V said gesturing casually to the vast nothingness that encompassed him,” but you are not capable of communicating? How disappointing.”

The air (if that was what he was in. Presumably. After all, he was breathing) became statically charged, causing his thin, lightweight white hair to float upward slightly, spreading out around his head. His arms tingled as the static wrapped around him, making every hair on his body regardless of how thin, stand at attention. He exhaled, lifting his arms to look at them. He almost expected there to be something physically present, but there was nothing. This reminded him of something all too familiar, but he dare not speak his thoughts into existence. There was no way that this could have anything to do with them.

…

“If you have some sort of wisdom to impart upon me, I’d appreciate it if you would do so. I do not desire to be here any longer than I already have been.”

Again, the vast emptiness did not reply. At least not verbally. The inky ground bubbled and churned as if it were about to produce something from within it. Several back abyssal spikes broke free from the ground and encircled him, growing closer to him as they closed him in completely. V stood his ground, now thoroughly fed up with whatever the hell was going on. No, this was going to stop. Now.

“Either make your demands or release me,” he said, completely unamused by this situation,” I’m done entertaining your games.”

Before he could say anything further, the wind returned. Only this time it hit him with the force of a freight train. The spikes encapsulating him from behind dropped into the ground and he went flying backward, tumbling weightlessly, except this time much harder and faster than he had before. Every molecule of air left his lungs and he gasped as he crashed with devastating force into the now almost completely solid surface that surrounded him. He never got the chance to figure out if it was the wall, floor, or ceiling because he was rendered unconscious upon impact. It was lights out the instant he made contact with whatever he had landed on.

The young white-haired man gasped and jolted into an upright position in his bed, gasping for breath. His hair flopped down onto his face, sticking to the sweat that he seemed to be soaked in. As he panted breathlessly in an attempt to grasp as much precious air as his lungs could contain, he moved his arms and jolted in shock. In the places where the black substance had gripped him, were the faint but now fading remnants of his former familiar’s tattoos. Specifically Griffon’s. The marking glowed brightly, emitting white light as it outlined the corresponding markings. After a moment, the light faded, allowing V a better look. His arms and part of his chest were covered in faint grey markings that were barely perceivable to the naked eye. But they were most certainly his former tattoos. Of that, there was no doubt. The only difference was they were completely depleted of their power, the vibrant black luster now absent in its entirety.

After a moment, the marking disappeared entirely, leaving his arms and chest bare again and his mind swirling with a plethora of thoughts and anxieties. Had his resurrection unleashed something within him? After all, the place that he had just been in seemed to be metaphysical in nature. He had woken up in his room again after his visit, and his body was still just as sore as it had been a few moments ago. And to top it all off, his head throbbed from the supposed impact he had made with the ground just moments ago. Some aspect of that had to be real, didn’t it?

It almost felt like he had brought something back with him when he had returned and he couldn’t even pretend that that wouldn’t have consequences later down the line. For now, he would take a shower. Perhaps the soothing water would calm his nerves and give him a much-needed reprieve to focus his thoughts and form a hypothesis as to how this had come about.

Things had made so much sense before all of this had happened.

He didn’t like his old life, but at least he didn’t visit other dimensions in his downtime.

-~-

V’s hair was still stuck to his face, only this time it was from water instead of midnight precipitation. He had changed into the alternate set of clothing that Kyrie had left him the day before and sat down on his bed, noticing for the first time that daylight shined in from outside. It was later in the day than he originally thought. There wasn’t much due to the storm that still raged beyond the safe confines of the house, but at least things had calmed down somewhat since last night. Before there was no light at all, as if the clouds themselves had absorbed it with their arrival.

He sat there for a moment, his wet hair dripping down onto his shirt. He didn’t really notice it, and if he had, he wouldn’t have minded. Something more was going on, and the longer he stayed here, the more pronounced the feeling of ever approaching danger became. He needed answers. Urgently. For perhaps the first time in his life, he didn’t know much of anything about what was going on, and that unnerved him greatly. As his mind tried to piece together a coherent string of thoughts, V stood up and walked over to the window. After pulling the curtains shut, he leaned his head against them, noting how cold the glass was even through the thick cloth.

During his shower, he had time to think. And during that time, something had occurred to him. For the first time in his entire life, he needed to make a decision that pertained to his family. V scoffed to himself at the thought of it. How preposterous, the idea that he was now part of something like this. Until yesterday, he had no idea what it was like to be loved; to be wanted and accepted unconditionally by others. For the majority of his life up until this point, he had been an outsider everywhere he went. His distinct white hair was quite the head-turner in public spaces, and his stature made it nearly impossible to blend in even though all he wanted was to assimilate and be overlooked. And now he had exactly what he wanted, but in a way he would have never fathomed possible. 

More often than V would be willing to admit, he had sat and pondered the possibility of having a family somewhere out there, so much of his idle time and energy spent on possibilities and contingencies. But he didn’t have a plan of action for being loved and wanting to preserve the lives of those closest to him. Despite the fact that he barely knew Kyrie and the children, even Nero for that matter, it was undeniable that he felt… comfort when he was with them. That was something that he treasured. But what was that worth to him truly? Could he equate a worth to that?

It had been no coincidence that he should return and then have such a surreal out of body experience. And then there was this storm. It was anyone’s guess where his familiars had disappeared to when he had died, but he was willing to guess that simply returning to hell or fading into oblivion were off the table as possibilities. That was too simple, and they were not regular demons. Nightmares probably didn’t work the same way as your run of the mill lesser demon. After all, did a nightmare really ever die? Perhaps if they were forgotten, but even then the person who experienced them could still recall vague details about their dreams later down the line.

And then that presented another important question. Did V want his familiars back in the first place? While there was no question as to their loyalty and the strength of his relationship with them, he wasn’t entirely sure he was ready to devote himself to that path so fully. At the time that he had made his allegiances, he was presented with no other alternative. Literally backed into a corner, it was either fight or die, and he possessed no fighting experience or knowledge of how to control any abilities that he might possess. Was he ready to give up any possibility of a normal life and commit such a substantial part of being to this world that he had born so far from? When he had been raised away from the chaos that seemed to plague his family, he had been given a chance at a somewhat normal, if not arduous and miserable life. Somehow, even though he had never met the woman, he had the feeling that this wasn’t what his mother would have wanted for him. And a part of him respected and agreed with that sentiment. But another part of him resented the idea that he needed to be protected from his own existence. After all, if he truly was a descendant of Sparda, he couldn’t be that helpless. Maybe he just needed a teacher. From what little he had come into naturally, he knew he possessed abilities. Royal Fork was born purely from his will, no instruction required. And this nagging feeling of uncertainty that he felt now was almost assuredly supernatural in its insistence.

Did the need to repel danger at any cost constitute a choice at all?

By that notion, did anyone in his family truly have a choice in all this?

V gripped the curtains tightly, allowing his eyes to close before exhaling. He would always find the strength to embody the ideals that he stood for. The only issue here was that he had no idea what part he played in any of this. However, coincidences were something he was against on principle and he rejected them as a policy. If he actually thought that whatever was going on with this storm and his experience during the night were not somehow connected, then he was truly stupid. And although V was many things, stupid was not one of them. Before he could decide anything, he needed to be more informed. Going into things blindly had ended badly for him the last time.

Although he was the first to admit that he didn’t know very much about the island of Fortuna, he knew that this place had a history with demons. Word of the disaster here a few short years ago had reached the mainland in bits and pieces not long after it had occurred, and talk of magic and supernatural activity had shrouded the entire place in an air of mystery. Maybe he could ask Nero if he knew something about what had happened here. It was hard for him to believe that there could be a cataclysmic demonic invasion here and Nero hadn’t been involved somehow.

After taking a final breath to clear his overcrowded mind, he turned and headed to the bedroom door. He was tired already, and he hadn’t even been awake an hour yet. As he opened the door, the children ran past, more than likely headed in the direction of the stairs. Nero was standing just off to the side of the door talking on the phone with someone, although he hadn’t a clue who since he wasn’t talking loud enough to be heard clearly. Kyrie and Nico were nowhere to be seen, but he assumed they were somewhere nearby. A distant crash from inside of the garage followed by the sound of Nico cursing confirmed his suspicions. Some things never changed.

He stepped out into the hallway, closing the door behind himself just in time to hear Nero read off an address to someone and say something about seeing them soon before hanging up the phone. Nero turned, catching sight of V out the corner of his eye. He seemed to be in a relatively good mood from what V could decipher, his posture more relaxed than he was accustomed. Despite the three children playing not far from them, this was still a much less hostile environment than they were normally accustomed to being in. Wonderful. He could start his morning by totally killing the mood between them for the rest of the day. Just what he was going for.

“Hey, you’re awake,” Nero actually sounded somewhat surprised as he spoke,” I was wondering if you were getting up today.”

V glanced over on the small wall clock that hung over a mudroom rack near the entrance, noting that it was just shy of noon. He scoffed at the comment, seeming somewhat amused. 

“Ironic. This is actually rather early for me, all things considered,” He replied nonchalantly as he leaned against his bedroom door,” I actually have a question for you, if you can spare a moment.”

Nero spared a glance in the direction of the children playing down the hall. They had parked themselves in the living room, not going upstairs as V had assumed. If V was willing to guess, they normally played outside, but the storm had forced them to hang out inside and they were making the best of an unideal situation. Understandable.

“Shoot. What is it?” Nero asked casually.

V crossed his arms, capitalizing on his position against the wall to provide him the balance he required. “I need in-depth information on demons, specifically pertaining to alchemy or binding. Is there anywhere in town that houses that sort of information?”

Nero gave him a sideways look, clearly wondering what he could want with that kind of information. He seemed to ponder the question deeply for a moment as if he were debating something. After a moment, he sighed. “... No. Not in town. But…” Nere glanced up and down the hallway as if he was checking to see if anyone was within earshot,”... There was this one bastard that worked for the Order, a huge asshole named Agnus. He has a lab outside of town in some giant castle that Sparda supposedly lived in forever ago. That place is loaded with books. It was abandoned after the Order fell apart after the attack.”

V took in the response, nodded to himself as he considered the validity of finding anything useful there. It seemed likely. “How do I get there?”

The look on Nero’s face spoke volumes. While he was curious about what V could possibly want with that wretched place, he decided to just go with it. But the last thing he was going to do was let him go there alone. That was just asking for trouble. There were traps everywhere, and just because the Hellgate had been destroyed didn’t mean that the place wasn’t still crawling with demons.

Nero took a step towards the door and grabbed his sword, reaching for his coat with the other. This was going to be a long day. 

“Don’t worry about it. I can get you inside,” his mind was distant. Going back to the place where he had the first glimpse of his power was going to be very surreal,” I just hope whatever you want there is worth it. That place is nothing but trouble”

-~-

PHEW! I am so sleepy right now. But I made sure to check the grammar on this chapter better than the last one. I’m sure something slipped past me, but it has to be better than last time. Thanks for checking out this chapter! It was really fun to write, especially the voice section at the start. I can’t wait to hear your thoughts on that one. I’d love to see if any of you can guess what’s up with that place. In the meantime, stay safe out there and I’ll see you on Wednesday, June 10th with another chapter! Take care!

[theuniverseshow-blog]

7 Ways to Think, Create, and Manifest like the universe itself

Author: Keri Mangis

“If you could have any superpower, what would it be?”

Whenever I’ve played this fun hypothetical game, I’ve always—and without hesitation—chosen the power of flight.

There’s something truly freeing about the thought of zipping around the universe—flying about and boldly sparking new things into life. No doubts, no second guesses, no written plans, no checking over my shoulder, no worries at all.

Without gravity, there’d be nothing to weigh me down. Without direction, there’d be no one to tell me I’m going the “wrong” way. Without time, I’d never be in a hurry. Without an end to reach, I’d never feel limited. Flying through the unbounded universe, I’d feel like a badass creator, because I’d be in the belly of the biggest badass of all: the universe.

The universe burst from nothingness. It continues in every moment to create, never bothering to write up a business plan or take a survey.

The universe creates using the

five great elements

—ether, air, fire, water, and earth:

Starting from nothing but ether (space), the most expansive and least concrete element of all, a pure chance arises out of the infinite.

This chance, given attention, begins to shake, move, and shift (air). As it does, it becomes slight possibility.

Now, the slight possibility collects weight in the form of supportive ideas, drawn in by its magnetic pull. In doing so, it builds up friction and heat (fire), animating it into probability.

Next, the probability cools and looks for places to settle—much like a river, gently (or not so gently) nudging the earth beneath it to make room (water). The probability is now an expectation, like a baby in the womb.

Finally, if the conditions are right, the expectation sprouts forth into life (earth). We can see it, touch it, and interact with it. What began as random chance is now reality.

We have these same five elements at our disposal. In fact, we are made from them.

We are spacious, expansive beings, made up of mostly space (ether). We rely on oxygen (air) to survive. Our digestion, metabolism, reproductive system, growth, and thinking processes are mobilized and managed by heat (fire). The human body is largely made up of liquid (water) in various forms—blood, lymph, phlegm. And the solidness within us (earth) is our tissue, organs, nails, hair, and bone.

But as human beings living on this tiny planet, we rarely create like we come from the endless universe. In our physical, limited, grounded, gravity-bound human body, we create from only a finite list of possibilities. We think, create, and manifest inside perimeters and limits.

Along the way, all kinds of people interrupt our creative process, telling us that we are beholden to some kind of standard, or norm—or even to them. Sometimes, we listen. We let ourselves settle for less creation and more replication. We deny our grandest dreams, and instead, play mix-and-match with already existing manifestations.

Yes, society invites us to create—but not if our creation threatens the status quo. They tell us the sky is the limit, but we want to reach further. They tell us we can’t fly.

These are people who have forgotten that we were all born from an unlimited universe. They need us to believe it too. They’d rather we create in an ordinary, not an extraordinary, fashion. The extraordinary is challenging. It’s uncomfortable. It’s unsafe.

But what about life was supposed to be comfortable? What part of offering ourselves and our creations uniquely to this world was supposed to be safe or easy? Why do we overwhelm ourselves worrying about the potential risks, rewards, failings, or successes to the point that we paralyze ourselves into doing nothing at all?

We, as human beings born of this bold creator known as the universe, can take inspiration from it and pursue our creative processes with the same sense of freedom that the universe enjoys.

Here’s how:

1.  Let creation be born from silence.

We can tap into a higher level of creativity with just a few moments of reflection and meditation. This silence offers an opportunity to pull down from the ether—the emptiness of space—a truly original thought or idea. This sitting in silence is a form of deep listening. It’s connection with our soul. It’s communicating with the cosmos. It’s sitting at the feet of the greatest mentor of them all.

2.  Let thoughts arise from stillness.

One of my favorite mantras in life is, “Don’t confuse activity for progress.” This means that looking busy on the outside is not always a measure of true productivity. Mixing and matching existing ideas is not the same thing as true creation. So, go ahead, let a fresh idea marinate for a while. The belief of wasted time is a fallacy. Some ideas just take a little more time to embed themselves in human consciousness.

The universe doesn’t rush. Nor should we.

3.  Let manifestation take its first steps in darkness.

We don’t have to know where we are going yet. Trust that the bridge will manifest beneath you just when you need it. Sometimes, creating this way—from nothing and without roadmaps—means we will have to tear down and begin again, perhaps many times. This doesn’t mean the idea isn’t right or good. It’s simply that creating this way requires more patience than ordinary creation. We must build in space for trial and error.

Welcome chaos and confusion. As we grow, and as an idea grows with us, it’s like a new marriage. It requires regular negotiation, shifting, and adjusting. Parts of us might die along the way. They were the parts that were meant to be released. Let them go.

4.  Go ahead, leap before you look once in a while.

Original creation is inherently risky. But the worst that can happen is failure—and that, in badass creator language, is just a chance to try something different, or try the same thing in another way.

5.  Trust the timing, the lifespan, and the intensity of your creations.

Just as there are all kinds of creations in the universe, there are all kinds of creations on earth. Some of our creations will become bright stars, lighting the way for others. Still others may turn into black holes—right there in front of us, but as of yet, inaccessible. Others may become like a planet, offering life and nutrients to all who inhabit it. And then there are the ideas that are like shooting stars—quick but inspiring.

Embrace them all. Love them all. They all have worth, for they came from you—and before that, the universe. They were all brought to life for a purpose, no matter the duration or intensity.

6.  Don’t wait for approval from someone else.

Who is this “someone else” you deem worthy of valuing your creations, anyway?

7.  Don’t wait for permission.

The universe continues on in its journey of expansion, beholden to no one, not running anything by anyone, limited by nothing. Does the universe worry about our opinions? Our critiques? Our praise? Or if it’s most recent creation makes the bestseller list? No, the universe creates, because it is its nature to create.

And, as children of the universe, creation is our nature too. So let’s start thinking, creating, and manifesting like the universal badasses we are.

[keptin-indy]

Dresden Files: Salem 9

Remember when I was distraught about something I couldn’t talk about a few weeks back?  THIS IS THAT SESSION.

Also a lot of things are made up about the real-life Turner-Ingersoll Mansion, aka the House of Seven Gables. I think only the GM has even read the book, much less the actual history of the place.

Ath had Adler return him to his renovated body, his true form basically forming the body’s spine, which explained his stiff bearing.  He was also insistent that no one who had the potential to wield him (namely Baz) touch him, which was understandable and respected.  It didn’t take long for him to re-acclimate himself to his changed frame and he was thankful that he didn’t have to relearn how to walk (he had apparently floated in the ancient NeverNever, but speculated that the parts of the NeverNever which bordered on the mortal world had changed too much over the aeons for that to still be the case).  Baz got a number of worried phonecalls from the community reporting Murchah’s apparent murder at the hands of an unidentified monster, which he tried to soothe over by telling people he was already taking care of it.  He also got a call from an old friend who said he would be transferring from the Boston PD to Salem soon and did he know of any apartments that didn’t cost an arm and a leg up there?

That night, strange dreams once again plagued the supernatural residents of Salem, this time in the form of a burning green eye peering through a crack in the firmament, though those were the only details in common and everyone reported slight variations in their personal visions.  The dreams were the talk of the town the next day and Adler asked one of the spirit-tourists visiting Count Orlok’s if they dreamed, but it had no idea what he was talking about.  Eunice had decided to haunt Adler that day and started with a more basic question: do the spirits sleep?  It also still didn’t know what she meant, so first she tried to explain the concept of sleep and then got sidetracked by the logistics of inhabiting a dead body.  Through her extensive experience in getting small children to go to bed, she coaxed the spirit into the museum’s breakroom and lulled it to sleep, but the body it was wearing unexpectedly went deathly still and nothing could wake it back up, leaving Eunice and Adler with a corpse on the back room’s couch.  Eunice floated out to find Baz, but forgot what she wanted him for by the time she found him.  Adler put the stiffening corpse in a vampire costume and nervously passed it off as a display prop until the end of the day, when he stashed it in the storage room and called Baz to help him remove a body.  Baz was extremely confused, but Ath offered to rent a van and the four of them took the body to Daniyah.  The sorceress asked if her spirit had met an unfortunate end and Adler told her it was trying to understand sleep.  Daniyah told them that spirits do not sleep, but it may have been pulled back into the NeverNever and, provided it wasn’t in direct sunlight when it had crossed over, was likely still in the vicinity of Count Orlok’s.  While they were there, Baz also asked if Daniyah had had the dream with the eyes, which she confirmed, further saying that she’d had it before several times over the years, perhaps once a generation, and it had never been a problem.  Whatever it was, Warden Rowland always took care of it, but beyond that she didn’t know anything about it.She politely offered them tea and cookies, notably not treating Ath’s new appearance any differently than she had Murchah, as she’d been in the city almost as long as he had and had seen this kind of identity change before.

Baz went back to the Rowland Estate to look through the Commander’s notes for anything about the giant eyeball, but found only two references, one saying to contact William Turner about it, then 20 years later another reminding him to track down George Turner.  Sure enough, there was an old rolodex with George Turner’s phone number, but when Baz called, the house belonged to new owners who told them the man they’d bought it from went to a nursing home afterwards.  Eunice haunted all the local nursing homes until she found the one George Turner had lived at...until his passing the night before.  Some research turned up that the Turners had been a long-established mercantile family responsible for the building of the House of Seven Gables, but that George had been the last of them and had died without issue.  According to local lore, the House of Seven Gables was cursed, driving people connected to it insane.  Eunice gave Baz a stern admonition about not having any heirs himself and lamented that he was too young for Evelyn (who was thankfully not there to hear that), which Baz took as Eunice’s roundabout and exasperating way of showing her approval of him.  Baz called Mary to see if she had any more information on the Turners or the House and it turned out that the Circle had bought the House when George was sent to a home and had managed it ever since.  However, no practicing witch had set foot inside it for years after the last practitioner caretaker of the place, Pete Harris, had come out insane and, horrifyingly, without magical ability.  Several other Witches took turns looking after him, but he was delusional at the best of times and incoherent the rest, though still lucid enough to be frustrated that no one understood him.  Adler tracked down Pete’s current caretaker and Baz asked to meet with their charge as soon as possible.  Pete obviously had relevant information, as he was babbling about eyes in the dark watching him when the group (tragically still minus Evelyn) came in and continued in that vein as they tried to ask him more specific questions.  The only new information they got from him was that he said the eye was in the house (presumably of Seven Gables) and that it has “drunk his magic and cried rivers of blood”.  Pete’s caretaker ushered the group out when he tired and told them that this had been one of his more lucid days.  On the way out, Eunice wondered concerningly if all patients with dementia were perhaps talking about perfectly real things other people just didn’t understand, but Baz was more worried by the idea of losing his connection to magic.

The group had no choice by to check out the House in person, but Baz was uneasy about going inside (and indeed, the Circle warned all magical tourists not to enter), so Eunice stepped into the MaybeMaybe to see what she could find, which turned out to be suspiciously not much.  Most houses of such age and reputation had some resident ghosts or spirits, but this one was empty in the spirit realm.  Ath entered the house in the physical world and felt as though he was being watched, but took the standard tour anyway.  The (vanilla mortal) tour guide played up the nonspecific creepy history of the house, and when Ath asked about stories he’d heard of a big green eye, the guide told him he would love to hear more about that after the tour.  The rest of the tour went normally (though Adler did text Ath to make sure he hadn’t gone insane) and after the other guests had left, the guide said that Ath obviously wasn’t there for the tourism, what with the dream going around again.  Ath said he was collecting information for the Warden and the guide was happy to open up, saying that he’d never seen anything personally, but he’d also never spent the night there after what happened to Pete.  They were all welcome to look around and he gave Ath his contact information.  As Ath wandered through the house, the feeling of being watched intensified, especially around the windows underneath the famous gables, and when he looked through them, his reflection was subtly wrong, showing his body, parts of his true form, and twisted elements that came from nowhere.  Meeting back up with the group, Ath reported his findings and Baz said that the windows were probably Ways into the NeverNever.  Ath added that there was likely some kind of involuntary opening trigger for them at night and the group examined the windows from the outside, still getting the same kinds of unsettling reflections.  Since the actual physical windows had been replaced over the years, the gateways couldn’t be directly attached to them, but the history of the House showed that it had a sort of metaphysical weight that extended beyond its literal structure: various attempts to remodel it in the past had always eventually ended up with its original design intact, so tragically the group’s vague suggestion of just burning it down was unlikely to work.  They decided to come back at night, just before dawn, to see what the windows did and without direct intervention, the dreams with the burning eye recurred, upsetting the community, who had never had to deal with it for more than one night at a time before.  Since Eunice didn’t sleep, she took the opportunity to rifle through George Turner’s belongings at the nursing home, turning up a signed copy of the House of Seven Gables, which she gave to a bewildered and awe-struck Baz when they met up.  At night, the House’s windows glowed very faintly green, almost subtle enough to be passed off as reflections, but when the group looked through them, each saw only their own reflection and not any of the others’, strangely idealised, but still unquestionably Wrong and with glowing green eyes like the one in the dream.  Baz opened the Sight and found a huge pair of solid green eyes looking inward at him, not initiating a Soulgaze, but making it hard for even him to close the Sight.  Sam licked a window and could feel something trying to pull him in, but, again, had no way to communicate this beyond growling at it.  The group was eager to go inside without Baz, who was at the most risk, but Baz refused to let others take risks on his behalf.  Rather than argue about this, Ath barged into the building, hearing brief whispers before the dawn abruptly cut them off.

The group returned again the next night, this time before midnight to give them more time, and everyone heard the whispers upon entering the house.  From the inside, the windows were blatantly glowing, as was the door to the attic...which the House hadn’t had during the day.  The door jamb was made of incongruous stone in the wooden wall and blood seeped out from all sides (though apparently not human blood, according to the two sensitive noses in the party).  Before proceeding any further, Eunice suggested that they share what the whispers were saying to each of them.  Ath said they offered him a choice between forgetting all the horrors he had seen and starting over, ceasing to exist, or returning to his former glory as a Formori champion.  Baz said laying down his burdens and letting someone better suited take the job.  Eunice said getting her baby boy back.  Adler pointedly did not answer, saying only “there is a monster at the end of this book”.  Sam was a dog and also didn’t answer, but presumably it was lots of pets and food.  Baz opened the ominous door and felt something metaphysical break at his touch.  On the other side was a void, but when he cast a magelight into it, it gave the uncanny feeling of the illumination being the only thing that gave the place substance.  The floor beyond where the light fell surely didn’t exist and wouldn’t unless the light touched it, and eerie things moved in the darkness around them.  Adler gave himself bioluminescent veins and the group heard footsteps approaching across the non-existent floor.  An old man with a book and striking green eyes stepped into the light, cordially introducing himself as He Who Offers despite Sam’s insistent growling.  When questioned about the dreams, He said that the eyes were how they perceived a portion of his being, and that they saw into the hearts of men, finding what they wanted most.  A compact had been made with him long ago which brought him to this place where men killed for personal gain.  Baz pointed out that the House was a museum to Nathaniel Hawthorne now, which wasn’t exactly suited to this greed and betrayal stuff and He asked if He had permission to leave it, which Baz immediately denied because He sounded too excited about it.  Baz then asked why the eyes were appearing to everyone, since that sort of thing was usually confined to Halloween.  The man answered that He didn’t know what Halloween was (which was shocking, as all spirits intrinsically knew that), but an offer stood open that was traditionally taken by the Turners, who had only asked for petty, boring things like wealth and success.  When asked what He got in return, He seemed confused, saying that He just offered things.  Pete Harris had evidently refused his offer and had been driven mad by it.  As long as no one accepted the offer, the dreams would continue until someone stepped into the Turners’ place, though someone with a longer lifespan could prevent the position needing to be filled so frequently.  Adler suggested that maybe what He got in return was a stronger foothold in reality every time someone took one of his deals, and Baz suddenly realized the niggling feeling of familiarity he’d had since He introduced himself.  He Who Offers was an Outsider, the most mysterious and malevolent beings the Council had ever encountered, constantly looking in from the Outer Gates and seeking entry; even talking to one was a violation of the Seventh Law.  Baz told the others to get back through the door now and He bemusedly observed that Baz had finally worked it out, but leaving wouldn’t solve the problem and the door still stood open.  A cold wind blew past the party toward the open door, insubstantial and unstoppable...except by Sam, who grabbed it in his mystical jaws, holding it in place even as it tried to struggle loose.  Baz tried every magic he could muster in a few seconds to stop the thing so Sam could let go, but Outsiders are basically immune to mortal magic and he couldn’t hit the wind with a sword.  Sam held fast and whined pointedly toward the door until the others took the hint to get out, but Baz refused to leave him until Sam turned his big eyes on him and motioned him toward the door.  Tearfully, Baz told Sam that he was the best boy and closed the door as he left, trapping Sam beyond the Outer Gates.

This link contains a spoiler for anyone who might be made anxious about bad things happening to dogs and doesn’t want to worry about it for a week.

[silhouetteofagirl]

Contrast (from A Study in Synonyms)

They may have different ways of communicating it, but Alistair and Sigyn are still very much in love.

My workplace likes to talk about love languages and from what I can tell, Alistair uses words of affirmation, for the most part, followed by physical touch and quality time. Sigyn is probably services, quality time, and actions. Also, still in camp dwarves are not just short humans and I totally believe that dwarves have really good dark vision.

The five love languages are Words of Affirmation, Acts of Service, Giving/Receiving Gifts, Quality Time, and Physical Touch. While I'm not 100% sure I believe in these, I find it's useful as a thought experiment.

This is, once again, pure self-indulgent fluff. Tooth-rotting fluff.  However, there is mild sexual content and blood.  The blood is less than what’s seen in the game.

Read on AO3

It strikes him one morning as she’s wandering about their room just how disgustingly in love with her he is.  She’s naked, picking out clothes for the day, and the sun is filtering in through their window.  Now that they have settled, at least temporarily, she’s lost a bit of her deep tan from their constant travels, but she is no less radiant in the morning light.  Maker’s breath, she isn’t even doing anything important, just looking at her meager collection of garments and trying to remember if she has anyone to impress that day.

“It’s just that I caught wind that a particularly lovely smuggler is currently lying low in Amaranthine and I would love to say hello.” She says as she stretches her arms over her head.  Sigyn is still firm muscle under the layer of fat and he’s never been able to resist how he can see each muscle move.  Nor has he been able to resist how she jiggles, so as she drops her arms and releases the tension from her shoulders he can’t help but smile fondly at her form.

“Is this the lovely smuggler who offered to teach you her particular brand of sneaking and stabbing in exchange for a night in bed together?” Alistair asks lightly as she picks out a shirt of his.  It’s a dark gray shirt he wore the day before that he hadn’t gotten anything on, but still, he had been helping fix part of the wall.  Regardless of how it must smell, she pulls the loose garment over her head before walking back to their bed.

“If I recall correctly the offer was to both of us, Alistair.” She crawls onto the bed and cocks an eyebrow.  He leans forward and kisses her.

“I wasn’t ready at that point to share.” He says as she takes his invitation and curls into his arms.

Sigyn presses a kiss into the juncture of his neck, “I know.  And I will never think badly of you for your reservations.  Your comfort is important.”

“Careful, Commander, people might think you love me if you keep saying things like that.  Might catch wind I warm your bed.” He says in a mock serious tone.

“Oh stone, not that.” She says drily, “Anything but that.  What will people think?”

“Everyone knows you only keep me around for my good looks.” Alistair’s face starts to betray his smile.

“The good looks are a bonus, but I keep you around for your body heat and occasionally for your more... generous attributes.” Her voice mirrors his serious tone, though she seems to be succeeding better at keeping her voice steady.

He chuckles, “Ah, how could I forget.” Sigyn then kisses him again and he smiles, “Why my shirt?”

“It smells nice.” She says.  “Want me to take it off?”

“Maybe later I can take it off you.  I was curious, I did wear it to work in yesterday.” Alistair says casually.  She hums at his words.  “So, lovely smuggler?”

“Need to make sure her business isn’t too illegal.  Being warden commander is a hell of a thing.” Sigyn tucks her face back into his neck.

“Lest others forget you could have run a Carta, which I’m very glad you don’t.” He says into her hair.  She pulls away and gives him a look.  “Well, if you were running a Carta, we wouldn’t have met and that’s a thought I don’t like.”

“Now who’s being sentimental.  What will they say?  The warden commander seduced one of her subordinates?”

Alistair tugs her gently into a less than lazy kiss.  He rests his forehead on hers.  “And don’t you know it.”

She pecks his lips and then removes herself from his hold despite his pout of protest.  Sigyn gets off the bed and Alistair watches as she finds a pair of pants and a belt. She cinches the belt over his shirt so it hangs a bit less loosely on her.  She then goes over to her small mirror and fiddles with a few of her piercings.  The small hoops are removed and replaced with small gold studs.  She then frowns and pokes the bridge of her nose where two silver balls rest and picks up the small gold bar that she sometimes replaces the silver one with.  He loves that she doesn’t like replacing that piece of jewelry, but she’s thinking about it just so she will match the earrings as a way to contrast his shirt.

Alistair gets off of the bed, taking a blanket with him, and crosses over to her and her silent contemplation of the finicky jewelry.  He wraps his arms around her shoulders and rests his chin on her head.  “You’re so warm.”

“I haven’t been wandering around the cold room.” he murmurs.  “Do you really have to— you know?”

“Leave?” she asks, looking at him in their reflection.

“Yeah.” He says.

She puts down the jewelry.  “It’s only a night, maybe two.”

“I know.” She turns in his arms and goes on her tip toes.  He meets her kiss.

“Do you want me to stay?” she asks softly as he buries his face into her neck despite the awkward angle.  

“It feels foolish.” His voice is muffled against her neck.

“Alistair, do you want me to stay?” she asks again, running a hand through his hair.

“Yes.” He admits, pulling away so he can make eye contact with her.

Sigyn cups his face, “Then I’ll stay.  The lovely smuggler can wait a day or two.” He kisses her and pulls her back towards the bed.  As he sits on the bed and pulls her up so she can straddle his lap, “May I ask what’s bringing this on?”

“I just really love you,” Alistair says.  She’s backlit by the sun, it brings out the dark red in her hair which makes his heart ache.

“I know.  I love you too.” She says, tossing her hair back out of her face.  He gently presses a kiss to her brand and she stills.  “Al-Alistair?”

“You are so beautiful.  You wear my shirts because you think they smell nice.  I love how every bit of jewelry you wear has a story.  I love how your hair looks in the morning. I love that you change and adapt plans for me.  I love how your body moves and how soft you are.  I cannot believe how unfathomably lucky I am to have you.” His voice catches, “Maker’s breath, it feels like my heart is going to explode if I loved you any harder.”  She cups his face and kisses his nose.

“The lovely smuggler can definitely wait.” She says with a fond smile that makes his heart skip a beat.  Alistair wraps his arms more securely around her and leans back onto the bed.  Sigyn removes the belt and shimmies off her pants before snuggling into his arms.  “I love you too, Alistair.”

They spend a lazy morning, then a lazy afternoon curled up in bed together.

He’s laughing at something Sigrun has whispered to him conspiratorially when she is hit once again with his beauty.  It’s just before dawn, they had been up late handling a few darkspawn just a bit away from the Keep, and now they are eating some food before they all crash.  He’s still got smears of darkspawn blood on him, a nasty bruise is forming on one cheek, and he’s laughing, head thrown back as the gray dawn lights his face.  Sigyn is utterly disarmed and she stumbles over nothing, almost dropping her plate of food.

“You all right, dear?” he asks as she straightens.  Sigyn nods, not trusting her words.  His eyes soften and he scooches over so she can sit down next to him.  Alistair seems to understand what she wants and wraps an arm around her shoulders.  It’s not the first time she’s felt this utterly in love with him and, maybe, it’s just the exhaustion talking, but she presses herself firmly against him.  Alistair is so warm and solid and there and she is content to listen to him talk with Sigrun and hear his voice rumble through his chest.

The food tastes like nothing, she is only mechanically chewing the warm bread and moist cheese as she sits and feels so utterly at home here.  The world moves around her, but all she can focus on is his voice as it reverberates through him and his warmth.  Even if it is the exhaustion, she wishes this moment to never end.  That she can stay here, pressed up against a man that more stable than the Keep's walls, more solid than the stone of its foundations, and more safe than any fortress could ever hope to be.

“Sigyn?” she blinks a few times and makes a hum of acknowledgment.  “You with us?”

“Yes.” She says a bit too quickly.  “Yes, I am.  What were you saying?”

“Right, bed.” Alistair says warmly.  Stone, he’s always so warm.  He changes his arm’s position and then he’s helping her to her feet.  Someone, probably Sigrun, says she’ll take their plates and Alistair thanks her before directing his attention again to Sigyn.  “Come on, love.”

Sigyn finds herself being guided to their room.  Their room, stone, that is so nice to think.  His hands are gentle as Alistair steers her up the stairs and he’s humming.

“I love you.” she says.

Alistair stops humming, “I love you, too.”  He shifts his arm so he can rub a thumb across her shoulder as they climb the last flight of stairs.  Sigyn smiles as he resumes humming and then he’s opening their door.  He does not remove his hand from her as they enter their room, instead, Alistair guides Sigyn to their bed and helps her get out of her clothes.  He then helps her sit on their bed and kneels between her knees so he can wipe off the worst of the remaining gore, though somewhere in the back of her very fuzzy mind she knows that they will need to fully bathe in the morning.

As he pulls away from his position between her knees so he can grab her a shirt to sleep in, she catches his face between her hands.  “Alistair, I am so in love with you.”

He flushes and looks pleased, but he still says, “I know, but you are exhausted.”

Sigyn yawns and says, “And you are beautiful.” He kisses the inside of her wrist and smiles fondly.

“Thank you.  You need sleep.” He lightly pushes her back onto the bed so she is lying down.  She’s mostly asleep by the time he crawls into bed with her, but she’s awake enough to curl into him and murmur that she loves him one more time.

He’s snoring.  It’s not something he does often, but Alistair is snoring softly into her hair.  Warm afternoon sunlight is filtering in through a window and making his hair look like gold.  Sigyn runs a reverent hand down his shoulders, marveling at his freckles.  She’s contented herself in the past with attempts to kiss all of them; she’s always wanted to count each one, but there are so many, or draw constellations across them, but she’s still learning the stars.  She shushes him with a gentle kiss to his collarbone as he mutters something as she pulls away.

It doesn’t take her long to gather what she needs.  Sigyn places the tray down on her desk and then crawls back onto the bed.

“Alistair.” she murmurs as she runs a hand up and down his shoulder.  His eyes flutter open and the feeling of awe just as powerful it had been earlier in the morning.  “Alistair, good morning.”

“Mmmfh.  Sigyn, wha—” his voice is thick with sleep and his hair is fully ruffled.  Sigyn gently places a hand on his warm, unbruised cheek.

“I brought breakfast,” she supplies, “or lunch.”  He lifts a warm arm and wraps it around her.

“Or we could sleep.” He tugs her to his chest.

“If you insist.” she says, “But you are the one who has poor night vision.”

“Compared to you.” He grumbles.  Alistair then rolls so he’s on top of her, arms caged around her so she can’t escape as he rubs a stubbly cheek against hers.  She squeaks and giggles at the sensation and Alistair chuckles sleepily.  After a few moments and a sleepy kiss that tastes terrible, he rolls back onto his side, freeing her.  Sigyn presses a kiss to his temple and wriggles out of his grasp.  She crosses the room and gathers the tray. “What’s all this?”

“Breakfast.” he gives her an amused look and sits up so she can place the tray on his lap and clamber onto the bed. “It’s just food.”

“Mhmm.” Alistair seems unconvinced but he still hands her a piece of toast with egg before he digs into his own.  They eat in companionable silence as Alistair slowly wakes up further.  He’s draped only in blankets and sunlight and she can now see more of his freckles and scars.  The afternoon hangs in a sunny moment.

When they are done, Alistair takes the tray and puts in on the ground.  He then faces Sigyn and taps her cheek.  At her nod, he kisses her.  It’s a lazy kiss, but she still holds him close as if he is something precious when it's over.

“Sigyn, are you going to tell me what’s going on with you?” he asks softly. She runs a hand through his hair and he leans into the touch.

“I’m just in love with you.”

He smiles, “It’s not that I’m unhappy to hear this, I’m wondering what brought this up.”

“Your laugh.” She states.

“Ah.” He kisses her. “Shall I just go along with this, then?”

She slides her hands down from his hair, gently over his bruised cheek, to rest them on his chest. “Only if you want.”

“I want.” Sigyn kisses him, insinuating herself into his space more thoroughly.  There’s no rush in the kiss, but he is more than happy to lie back as she kisses and nibbles her way down his chest.  He helps her remove the shirt and pants she had worn to get food and splays his finger across her hips.  She sighs happily as he traces a stretch mark with a finger as she grinds down against him until he’s hard.  Their pace is achingly slow and when they are finished, she seems content just to run her hands through his hair as they cuddle.

Then she peels away from him to find a cloth so she can wipe them both down.  He’s still sensitive as she cleans up the evidence of their enjoyment, but she places a soothing hand across his hips and presses a kiss onto his abdomen.  She then draws him out of bed and leads him to their bathing chamber.

Alistair is surprised to find a tub full of water when they enter. “When did you—?”

“I asked very nicely and kept you occupied.” Sigyn says.  He kisses her cheek and she blushes. “It’s not just because— we also need to get the rest of the battle off of us.”

“Still. I am a very lucky man to have a woman like you so utterly in love with me.” He says as he holds out a hand to help her into the tub.  Sigyn hesitates and he rolls his eyes. “I want in here with me, you can adapt whatever plan you had, oh warden commander.”

Sigyn sighs and shakes her head but joins him in nonetheless.  The water is no longer hot, she had spent just a little bit too long occupying Alistair, though she knows herself well enough to know that as soon as he sighs out her name, all punctuality of hers goes out the window.  Still, the water is warm as she settles between his thighs.  Alistair does not let her focus all her attentions on him as he is also fairly insistent on bathing her as well.  But he always enjoys how she melts into him when he washes her hair, so she indulges him with no complaint.  When they are done washing, they stay pressed together until the water is tepid.  Then he is helping her out of the tub and she is appreciating how the water drips off of him.  But as he helps dry off her hair with a soft cloth, Sigyn is certain that he knows just how much she loves him, even if she can’t always find the words.

[casualdestinynut-blog]

“Like a psychopath”

I am so sick.  So unbelievably sick.  I wake up choking on thickened topographies of yellow.  There’s magma in me.  Sulfur.

I was sick in late-November/early-December too.  It’s not unheard of for me to get sick in the winter, but this year I’m concerned about my aorta.  There’s an aneurysm at its root that’s always been present but is approaching the size needed to get the surgery to correct it, which is very likely to increase my lifespan.  I’ve been spending the better part of the year deciding whether I was going to get the surgery, when American society and culture can be so hellish and unnecessarily cruel.  I have decided to get the surgery.  With this cold I hope I last till the surgery date: there are the dread “flu-like” symptoms that accompany a dissection that I’m worried about.  There’s no fever though, just the severe mucus discharge, post-nasal drip.  The developing cough.  The aches.  The weakness.  But there is no fever.  There is no fever.  The cold is worse than the one that I had earlier this month; I spent yesterday in bed, reading, resting.  Waiting.

There are three, but only two of them are talking.

It’s actually difficult to write when sick.  I’ve been attracted to lying in bed.  I’m not even going to walk my dog today.  I love my dog.  He’s a dachshund and he’s cute and cuddly and seems to know that I’m not feeling well.  This is the first time I’ve been so sick I don’t want to get out of bed in over a year.  No desire to actually move through physical reality.  None whatsoever.

There’s still oatmeal to eat.  Then I go back to bed.  I’m lazy.  It’s okay to be lazy.  I wonder if anyone’s reading this.  My journal.  That I keep online.  When I kept it on facebook I’d get likes and comments from people I used to know intermittently.  There was an intermittence to the timing of said likes and comments.  They stopped coming.  I deleted my facebook account.  Here there are no expectations.  I expect no one to like my posts.  Or even read them, really, though it would be nice.  It would be nice for some non-verbal communication.

So, it takes about 2 weeks to recover from a flu.  If it’s the flu.  A flu, which I think it is.  So far I’ve drunk more water today than I think I have for many days.  My throat is sore so it discourages the consumption of fluids.  Solids too, for that matter.  I’ve started reading a novel by Don Delillo.  His style has rubbed off on me.  Spiritual frotting.  I like his spirit penis rubbing on me via his externalized intellect.  Reading a book is to a large extent for me a sexual act, like writing a book.  I cuddle with my favorite authors.  I read them in the bed.

The book is Libra, a fictionalized account of the life of Lee Harvey Oswald and the Kennedy assassination.  I’m almost nostalgic for the worldview: my mom’s family were ethnic Italian-American Catholic Democrats who were in awe of Kennedy as any Catholic in that era was, the absolute unquestioned Golden Age of American Catholicism, the 40s, 50s and 60s, where everyone has a theory about Kennedy’s assassination.  My mom married a Republican Protestant, converted and so now when I read a book from someone enamored enough of the 60s political era and especially from the Catholic point of view it’s like I’m being let back into my mom’s family who used to live close together when I was growing up but who have now scattered across the country.  It’s like I’m still watching football with them in the living room, living off second hand smoke.

I haven’t read a book in many months, basically since I started hosting the writers’ group.  I’m going to discontinue it; last night I sent an email to the two people who come most often and asked them if they want to take it over.  They haven’t responded yet.  I’ve become weak with a cold.  It’s a cliche.  I’m Lemuel Gulliver.  Now I stay in the house, ill and having decided to get the surgery that will extend my life beyond its natural extent.  Is this how weak I’m going to be after the surgery?  It takes a few months to recover from it.  It’s unfortunately located in an area where non-invasive stent technology hasn’t been developed yet to address the kind of aneurysm I have.  Just four days ago I wasn’t this weak.  This is a cold.  A flu.  That is what’s happening.

Black hair.  One thing I learned about white people with black hair going out attending meetups is that we’re put on trains, figurative trains of thought that lead to our destruction in physical reality.  It was like everyone knew my story before I did.  The people I met were nearly completely divorced from the Western philosophical tradition/cannon.  With one exception they knew nothing of the broader high arts tradition.  They were imminently popular, anti-intellectual and thought only the body existed.  Social justice is a falsehood.  I missed listening to the radio.  I missed living my beautiful life, broke yet productive and reading.

Guns and flowers.  Guns and flowers are what I kept thinking about.  It was the train I kept finding myself on, along with trees.  “You lumberjack, you.”  Was I supposed to cut down his house?  There was no synchronous event with the neighbor yesterday on the dog walk.  His house was still after I looked at his facebook page.  The dog didn’t bark.  He was challenging me and I didn’t want to be challenged.  He was doing it for months.  I know what happened: the social pattern with the light-brown haired is that when a light brown haired woman *imagines* an offense that I’ve perpetuated on her, a light brown haired guy comes to exact retribution from me in *reality*.  Both he and his wife have light brown hair.  She saw me outside her house walking my dog with a flashlight after dark.  Did I scare her?  I was walking my dog, is what I was doing.  The next time I saw the guy he was wearing a miner’s helmet that he shined in my face and started screaming “WHOA!”  He hasn’t worn the miner’s helmet since, but not long after I started to lift heavier weights and I hurt my back.  Permanently.  Spelunking and Aspen.  An avalanche.  Some days every step I’m in pain.  My hard-won exercise severely curtailed.  He feels guilty for it.  I know he feels guilty for it.  I know it was premeditated trickery, that he had every intention of not letting live and let live -- that’s why I say that he taught me it’s impossible to live and let live, because he tricked me and I know he feels guilty for it.  How do I know this?  Because I found myself in perfect timing with him again.  It kept happening.  For a couple years it happened.  I’m not saying that I wasn’t crazy when he met me.  I’m not saying he offered to talk to me and I couldn’t look him in the eye because I was crazy.  I’m not saying I didn’t want to talk to him, but that I knew we weren’t compatible because of how social he is and I was cloistered in a house in this very subdivision in my teens, not being to youth group at church and instead being told that I should be grateful for the Hollywood movies my parents got me to watch.  I thought it was because of my deformity, though anyone living that life is going to think there’s something wrong with them.  I knew we weren’t compatible because he lived and was living the life I’d dreamed of living but was told I couldn’t, and I was envious and still am envious of him, and I didn’t want to taint his life with my envy.  But I don’t think I deserved to be tricked.  Again, how do I know he feels guilty for tricking me?  I had and still have no intention of killing him or his family.  But there was a synchronous situation where I was approaching his house while I was walking my dog on Halloween, and his car approached from the other direction full of children, and when it parked in the driveway I watched as told his family to just stay in the car and wait until I’d walked away before they got out.  That’s how I figured out that he tricked me, and how I know he feels guilty for it, because he was afraid enough of my presence on the street .  And recently, the same thing happened -- the same thing happened, where I didn’t *really* offend a light brown haired girl, but a light brown haired guy took a real sort of retribution on me for an imagined offense on the light brown haired girl.

I admit to huge spikes in blood pressure after he tricked me; just seeing him and sometimes even thinking about him cause huge spikes in my blood pressure after I hurt my back.  But it was the incident on Halloween where his guilt was on display; the thought never even crossed my mind, though I realized he was afraid of me and the possible harm I could do to his family.  But the thought never crossed my mind.

So, there’s revenge to consider.  I’m not going to kill him, but there are other ways to take revenge that are more subtle.  The question is: how?  How is a resolution.  Maybe this is the very thought he had with his wife.  I did want to talk to them, but I didn’t know how.  I don’t think I deserved revenge.  I didn’t do anything to them, and it wasn’t till after I hurt my back that I started acting like an actual stalker.  Some part of me knew, but I withheld judgment until I saw him display his feelings of guilt, and the pattern repeated with another light brown haired opposite sex couple.

Anyway, I keep a vegetable garden in my front yard.  Maybe I’ll just keep a flower garden and put gun decorations in the pots, turn the pots into large train figurine on a track with compartments.  Lighter haired whites are a problem.  I can’t just live and let live with them.  His entire family is now subjects of my novel.  They’re all going to be characters.  He created a stalker, is what he did -- he wanted a stalker, and so I’m going to give him one.  I wasn’t stalking him for two years, but he was shouting stuff at me in passing on the street.  So, he has a stalker.  They’re apparently in Richmond right now, so that’s why there was no synchronous event with him and his house.  We’re spiritually connected.  He can tell when I look at his facebook page.  Maybe I’m haunting them right now.  It was my fault I was too crazy to talk to them when they were trying to talk to me, but I don’t think I deserved revenge for being mentally ill.

If anyone’s reading, have you ever become your stalker’s stalker?  I’m not saying that I wasn’t really insecure and going through a mental illness, I’m not saying that I didn’t want to talk to him.  But I did communicate that I was trying to live and let live.  He was stalking me, but now I’m stalking him.  His stalking drove me so crazy that I became *his* stalker.  But he started it, so it’s a paradox.

I’m going to go lie down now.