#they all came from non-dedicated nests

[malmagmafr]

Flameforger is very cool, I like setting my dragons Ablaze 🔥

[molly-ghuleh]

Ungrumpify Your Papa: Papa Emeritus II x afab!reader

Summary: It's your first holiday season with Secondo and you're determined to make him less of a grump.

Words: 6.9k (nice)

Warnings: NSFW, MDNI!!, reader is AFAB but there are no gendered words/pronouns, smut, fluff, lingerie, light dom!Secondo, teasing, brief mentions of overstimulation, holiday feelings, discussions of religion

AO3

A/N: Happy day 2 of the XXXMas at the Ministry series! Check out day 1 with Primo by @copias-sewer-rat in the links below, and stay tuned for day 3 with Terzo by @ghulehunknown and day 4 with Copia by @bupia (who also put together these incredible graphics)!!

Day 1 (Dec 20th): Naughty Presents (AO3)

Day 2 (Dec 21st): Ungrumpify Your Papa (you are here!)

Day 3 (Dec 22nd): Mistletoe'd (AO3)

Day 4 (Dec 23rd): Treasure Hunt (AO3)

Secondo is very particular about how he curates his living quarters. His taste is distinct and refined, but not to the point of tackiness. It’s obvious that he’d spent a non-trivial amount of time picking out his furniture after he became Papa, and even more time reorganizing his space to ensure you felt welcome after he’d asked you to move in with him. Every book, every pillow, every little trinket or decoration or memory has a dedicated place somewhere, and each piece is treasured and respected like it has belonged there for all of eternity. 

So, you weren’t surprised when Secondo grumbled when you pulled out a red and gold plaid throw blanket for the holidays, but he’s gracious enough to allow it to live on the couch (so long as it is neatly folded after every use, of course). And you had to stifle your laugh when he’d come home to find a little mistletoe hanging from the threshold of his bedroom and had jumped nearly ten feet in the air thinking it was a spider. 

He came to terms with the mistletoe, though, after realizing that every time he jumped when seeing it from his periphery, you’d come over and kiss him and remind him it was only temporary. He didn’t tell you that he’d let you keep the mistletoe up all year round if it gave him an excuse to kiss you more. 

The tree you want, though… that’s another battle. 

“Please?” You ask sweetly, snuggling with him under the aforementioned red and gold blanket. 

“No, amore,” Secondo says. 

You’re tracing gentle patterns into his bare chest and can feel his heartbeat under your fingertips. You watch as the soft, dark hair dusting his skin catches on your finger. “Explain to me your reasoning.” 

Secondo chuckles—a low, deep sound that you can feel more than hear. “Must I explain myself past the fact that I simply do not want a tree?” 

“But why?” You ask him. You lift yourself up onto an elbow and look down at him. The two of you had built a little nest of sorts in front of the fireplace in his sitting room. It’s the first night that the two of you, as well as the entire Abbey, are absolved from duties in a week-long observance of the solstice and Yule, and you had decided to spend it together, alone, and very naked. 

Secondo sighs but there’s still a little smile on his face. He can’t help but adore you and your insistence. It seems to him that you’re determined to uproot his entire life. He would gladly shed his roots and the soil of comfort and routine they grow in if it meant seeing you happy, but where is the fun in that? He enjoys making you ask for what you want. He enjoys seeing you work for it. And, in some (most) instances, he enjoys pushing you until you resort to begging.

“Because,” Secondo begins, drawing you back down to lay your head on his warm chest, “there is no room for one. And we have nothing to put on it.” 

You laugh. “This room alone is bigger than my old Sibling quarters. There’s plenty of space.” 

“It could catch on fire.” 

“Secondo, you don’t put a tree directly in front of the fireplace.” 

“Well. Suppose there is an ember—“ 

“And,” you playfully cut him off. “We can find things to decorate it with. Warm lights, those red, wooden beads for a garland, little glass ornaments… It can be classy. We can make it match your taste.” 

Your lover is silent for a moment, considering. “There would be pine needles everywhere.” 

You laugh again. His tone of voice tells you that you’re close to cracking him. Oh, you’re well aware of the games he plays with you and take full part in them. The push and pull, the give and take of him letting you believe you’re in control and then showing you that this was his plan all along… even with something as mundane as a holiday tree, your heart speeds up and your face heats just slightly. 

You’re still tired from the evening’s activities, after all. 

“We can get a fake one,” you offer. “Small, too. Nothing unmanageable. And I’ll string the lights on it because it’s a pain in the ass.” 

Secondo traces lines back and forth over your shoulder, tickling your skin. “You speak like the decision is already made, amore.”

“You haven’t given me a good enough reason to back down yet.”

He chuckles again. “Sto solo scherzando. Will it make you happy?” 

You prop yourself up again and press a kiss to his lips. “It will,” you say softly. “But I don’t need a tree to make me happy. If you really don’t want one, we won’t have one.” 

“You said it yourself,” Secondo says against your mouth, “that it is temporary. I will survive.” 

You feel his mouth curl into a small smile against your own when you kiss him again. You’re sure yours must feel the same. 

~~~

You and Secondo stroll leisurely through the rows of trees. The display is pretty, and nostalgic—it’s been staged to look like a small grove of real trees, with the stands cleverly hidden by piles of snow at the bases. Some of the trees are fully decorated, and some have only lights, but most are completely bare to emulate a tree farm. Somehow the staff had managed to make the display smell like pine and a hint of cinnamon, and if you close your eyes and listen to the winter breeze and the jingling of bells on the storefront door, it feels like a real tree farm. 

“You know,” you say to Secondo as you stop in front of a tree with fake snow on it, “you never told me why you didn’t want a tree.” 

Secondo regards the tree for a moment and, seeing how easily the fake snow flakes off of the limbs with just a slight breeze, gently tugs you towards the next one. “It is not necessarily the tree that I am opposed to,” he says. “But the commercialization of what is supposed to be a holiday.” 

You’re silent for a moment as you think about his words. He does have a point. There are a fair few seasonal decorations that you find to be unbearably tacky, but the ones you do enjoy carry a warm nostalgia. “I see,” you muse. “For a while after I converted, it was hard to rationalize the holiday because it’s so ingrained in our culture to be a Jesus thing.” 

“Esattamente,” Secondo nods. “Even though most of it is taken straight from Pagan traditions.” 

You stop in front of a plain tree, not any taller than Secondo, with simple, warm white lights. “That helped me rationalize it,” you tell him. “To know that modern Christmas is an amalgam of different things, and that there’s no right way to celebrate it. It doesn’t make us bad Satanists because we have a tree, or bake cookies, or wrap gifts. There doesn’t have to be any religious undertone.” 

“You are right,” Secondo says after a brief silence. “What is that term… when people use a word incorrectly enough times that the meaning changes.” 

“Colloquialism?” you offer. 

“SÌ. Christmas has become a colloquialism. Yule, Solstice, Saturnalia, Christmas, whatever you wish to call it.” 

“Is that why you never celebrated?” 

Secondo looks at you, and he nearly loses his breath. The sun is going down so the sky is a deep blue, leaving your face to be illuminated only by the warm white lights of the tree in front of you. You look so cozy in your hat and scarf and coat. And you’re trying to understand him, understand why he is not a ‘holiday’ person. How he adores you. 

“To a degree,” he says, looking away because he’s dangerously close to swooping you into his arms and kissing you silly. “The holiday has lost all its meaning beyond materialism. That is the way it seems. Why should I need a holiday to tell me when to gift things to the people who matter?” 

“You don’t, I suppose,” you shrug. “But it’s not completely about that. It’s the thought, the warmth, the togetherness. This time of year is when people want to feel cozy and comfortable and happy. To surround themselves with the people and things they love. It’s cold, and dark, and the holiday allows us to indulge in the things we might feel guilty about at any other time of year.” 

Secondo listens to your voice, and he understands. “I feel a bit like Scrooge,” he says softly. And he does—a bitter old man, learning the true meaning of Christmas… or something.

“Which ghost am I?” You ask, laughing. 

“You are Tiny Tim,” he replies without having to think. “Not a ghost, but I think the wisest character in the whole story.” 

“Satan bless us,” you say in your best impression of a small child. “Every one.” 

In the end, Secondo chooses the tree you’d been standing in front of. He tells you that it was because he likes that it’s small and simple (which is true), but he’d seen how your eyes reflected the small bulbs and decided he couldn’t let that evening be the last time he sees that. 

You also purchase simple glass bulbs, a modest tree skirt, and a silver garland to match Secondo’s green and silver color scheme in his chambers. When you arrive back at the Abbey excited to decorate, however, you remember that you’d forgotten to choose a topper. While he has his back turned to pour the two of you some hot chocolate, you sneak to the closet which houses his papal robes, and when he turns around, he finds his mitre situated crookedly atop the tree and your smug face pretending you don’t know how it got there. 

“It is lopsided,” Secondo hums, handing you your mug. 

“It has character,” you counter. You hide your smile behind the steaming hot chocolate. 

Secondo smiles, too. 

~~~

After the tree debacle, you wonder how far into the holiday spirit you can drag Secondo. You aren’t determined to make him the embodiment of Santa Claus, but you hope to ease his grumpiness. And honestly, it isn’t just the holiday that you want him to enjoy, it’s the whole season. Winter is cold and dark and oftentimes miserable, yes, but it doesn’t have to be. Not when you have someone to come home to after years of spending it alone. 

So you suggest cookies. Because I love sugar cookies, you explain when Secondo asks. And Copia has a sweet tooth. And we need something to bring to dinner with your family. 

Not at all because watching Secondo in the kitchen gets you going like nothing else. 

You sit at the small table in his kitchen, watching him move. He’d shooed you out of the way after scolding you for suggesting you use a premade mixture of Betty Crocker sugar cookies, insisting that if you must make cookies, you will at least do it right. But how can you stay away from him when he looks like that? 

He’s wearing his apron (which is, in and of itself, an incredible turn-on). The sleeves of his button-up shirt are rolled up to his elbows, showcasing his muscular forearms. And his hands, oh, his hands, are bare and flexing, kneading the dough as he mixes flour in pinch by pinch. The veins in his arms are highlighted in the overhead kitchen lights. His shoulders stretch and move, pulling the fabric of his shirt tight against his back again and again. 

Sweet Satan, give me strength, you think. And Satan, ever the purveyor of sin and temptation, strips all the strength from your mind and whispers in your ear to go to him. 

So you do. You quietly slip out of your chair and approach Secondo, taking in his perfect form. His broad shoulders, the slight pooch to his sides, his ass which is hugged so perfectly in his trousers, his hands kneading the dough ball like they knead the flesh of your thighs, your chest, your belly, your rear. Your hands slip around his middle and you press yourself against his back. You feel him pause. 

“Amore,” Secondo says softly and you’re not exactly convinced that he’s chiding you. “You are a terrible distraction. Come faccio a cuocere questi biscotti con te che mi tenta?” 

You trace your hands up his stomach to his chest, relishing in his warmth. There’s probably flour on your hands and forearms and all over his apron, but you don’t care. “Can you blame me? You know very well what watching you in the kitchen does.” 

“SÌ, I do, my dove,” Secondo hums. His hands are still now. He closes his eyes and focuses on the feeling of your palms brushing up and down his body. Yes, he knows quite well what he’s doing to you. He’d be a liar if he said his insistence to bake the cookies from scratch was entirely innocent. But he supposes you know that. “Tell me, amore. If I were to turn around and lift you up onto this counter and spread your legs, what would I find, hm?”

Instead of answering him, you trail your hands back down from his chest, over his tummy, and down to the crux between his legs and pelvis, resting your palms there and squeezing lightly. You can already feel the stretching fabric of his trousers and know that if he turned around to make good on his promise, you would find him hard and aching. He heaves a trembling breath at your movements. It’s likely that he will punish you for this later, but is it really a punishment if it’s what you desire most? 

It’s not often that Secondo allows you to take control like this. Even if it’s just a small movement, a little caress of his arousal, he’s quick to pull your hands away and make sure you find your pleasure first. But slowly, his hands begin to work into the dough once more, and he makes no further comment. Your own hands find the button of his trousers and tug it open. 

“Amore,” Secondo hums in warning when your fingers brush along the length of him over the fabric of his pants.

In a stroke of confidence (and maybe a touch of curiosity as to what might happen if you poke the sleeping bear), you reach down his front to grasp him over his briefs. It’s only for a moment before you’re withdrawing your hand and fumbling his button closed again. You press a kiss between his shoulder blades and step away. “Sorry, love. Cookies take precedence.” 

Then, you’re pressed against the kitchen table, your wrists pinned beside your head as Secondo looms over you and presses his hips to your own. His breath is hot and his voice is low in your ear as he speaks. “You know very well that I would ravish you right now,” he growls, rutting his hips forward to spread your thighs even further. You can feel just how honest he’s being and you sigh with the contact. “If it were not for this dinner… this cena maledetta…”

There’s flour all over your clothes from his apron pressing against your front. The tip of his nose traces a path up from the sensitive skin below your ear, across your cheekbone, to rest against yours. His lips brush your own as he speaks. “Do not think I do not know what you are doing.” 

“I know you know,” you say, your voice sultry. You arch your back up off the tabletop and press your chest into his. “That’s why I do it.”

“Sei una tentazione,” Secondo whispers. “Perché devi essere così allettante quando non posso averti?”

Your jaw slacks open when he presses his hips even harder against yours. He takes the opportunity to lean in and nip at your lower lip, tracing his tongue along it and tugging. “One day,” you gasp when he pulls away, “I will understand when you say such filthy things to me in Italian.” 

“You tell me that not knowing is a thrill.”

“Oh, it is. But sometimes I wish I could understand what depraved things you’ll do.” 

“Let me put it plainly, then,” Secondo says. He takes the shell of your ear between his teeth and squeezes your wrists just a bit tighter. Your thighs lift as he presses himself against you completely. “We are going to make these cookies. We are going to Terzo’s dinner party. And we are going to stay for however long is acceptable before I take you back here and punish you for teasing me.”

“Yes, Papa.”

~~~

Oh, you hate him. 

Not for last night when he’d punished you, no. You very much do not hate him for that. You’d gone to bed with trembling legs after he had to help you to the shower. He compared you to a newborn deer but held you steady as you wobbled, and then gave you one last orgasm in the warm water before the two of you retired to bed. 

Rather, you hate him because he’d been waiting for a reason to punish you last night. He’d been searching for an excuse to make you fall off the edge of the world, more than a few times over, because he’d planned to take you and your wobbly legs surprise ice skating the next morning and thought it would be funny to watch you scramble.

“I hate you,” you grumble as you cling to his hand with a vice-like grip. “I hate you and your stupid memory.” 

Secondo laughs quietly and supports your weight. You almost lose balance when he leans down to speak lowly in your ear, but he keeps you upright. “I did not hear you saying that last night when I remembered where to touch to make you–”

“Alright, alright,” you interrupt, your face heating. “But last night I didn’t think I had to tell you to take it easy so I could stand upright today.”

“That is the fun of it, amore. Seeing you wobble, knowing I did this.” He presses a kiss to your temple. “How is your ass? Sore?” 

“From you spanking it or from falling on it four times?” You ask. 

“Either way,” Secondo stands up straight again, “I suppose the answer is the same.”

You huff. “I used to be able to do spins as a kid,” you tell him. “And now I can barely stand on skates because of you and your fingers and your tongue and your little Secondino.”

“He is not very little though, is he?” Secondo asks, and you could smack him if he wasn’t completely right. You’re wobbly because he’s not little in the slightest.

You’re grateful, though. You’d mentioned how you used to go ice skating as a child, and how you haven’t in a very long time. In previous relationships, that was that. You would mention something you miss, or an activity you used to love, and that would be the end of it. But with Secondo, dear, attentive, lovely, grumpy Secondo, it’s different. You feel heard for the first time in your life. And that might be terribly cheesy, but it’s true. He does more for you than the absolute bare minimum you’d grown to expect from partners and you feel positively spoiled. If you can give him even half of the happiness he gives you, you’re happy. You would give him the world and the sun and the moon if you could. 

Secondo notices your silence and squeezes your hand, warm and cozy in the gloves Terzo had gifted you at his dinner last night. “Where did you go, dove?” 

“Sorry,” you shake yourself from your reverie and blink away the sudden tears of gratitude and affection. “I just love you. Thank you for taking me skating.”

“You’re welcome. Anch’io ti amo.”

Eventually you find your sea legs and show him the (very basic) spins you know how to do. You manage not to fall on your ass a fifth time. And then you begin to seethe because, of course, Secondo is perfectly balanced and graceful and can skate like he was born on the ice. Your poised Papa is always so composed and you feel like, as he’d said, a newborn deer perpetually falling. 

You hate him, but that doesn’t stop the heat from building in your lower belly. Again.

~~~

The next day is the Ministry’s observed holiday. Most of the Abbey’s residents choose to spend it honoring the Olde One in sin with loved ones—eating, drinking, laughing, fucking. You and Secondo are no different, having celebrated the holiday with family and friends at Terzo’s dinner two days prior. 

That was the intention of hosting a dinner two days before the holiday. So that one might be able to honor Satan and the unholy observance without having to worry about family coming. 

You are absolutely not complaining. You spend the morning sleeping in, held in Secondo’s strong, warm embrace. When you wake, there’s no rush to get out of bed. He apologizes for your sore (and slightly fall-bruised) ass by rubbing and kneading it with gentle hands, pressing kisses down your spine with no sense of urgency or implication of more. You want there to be more, but you have something planned for later. 

You aren’t sure how long you’ll be able to wait for later to arrive. 

In the weeks leading up to the holiday, he’d told you not to worry about finding a gift for him. He said that you are enough, that spending time with you and just seeing you is enough of a gift. That you’d somehow managed to soothe the harshness in his soul. In his Secondo way of saying those things, which is less sappy. But you know that the sap was there, so you found a gift for him anyway.

The gift, of course, is something practical and utilitarian. Fit for Secondo’s taste but not something he already has. Something you know for a fact he’ll enjoy. 

That’s the list of things you’d written in your head when debating whether or not to buy the expensive, green satin lingerie with silver buckles. And of course, you needed a robe to hide it with so he can unwrap his gift. 

Although neither of you want to get up from the cozy cocoon of bedsheets you’re tangled in, your stomach begins to growl for breakfast. 

“Hungry?” Secondo asks from where his face is nestled against your neck. 

“Very,” you say, and make no move to get up. Neither does he. 

Your stomach growls again. 

“Hush,” Secondo says softly. “I am comfortable.”

After the third growl, you laugh, and Secondo pushes himself off of you to sit upright. “Coffee?” 

“Please,” you nod. 

When Secondo stands to walk into the kitchen, shirtless and practically glowing in the morning sun coming through the windows, you decide that later can come whenever you like. He can spend all day and night unwrapping his gift over and over and over if he wishes to. You can’t bear to wait. 

You slip away with the box containing your robe and underthings and lock yourself in the bathroom. It takes you a few tries to align the straps correctly so you can slip your head and arms through where they’re supposed to go, but the lower portion is more straightforward. The set is simple once it’s situated correctly. There’s a strip of fabric leading up the middle of your chest and around your neck, clasped at the front with a silver buckle, not entirely unlike a collar. The thin straps accentuate your chest and shoulders while still leaving most of your skin exposed for Secondo to leave marks on. The bottoms are strappy as well, with an attached garter belt secured with two silver buckles matching the one on your neck. Observing yourself in the mirror, you feel powerful. You know exactly what this will do to Secondo, and do for him. You feel powerful in the knowledge that you are about to allow him to overpower you. 

You only hope the lingerie doesn’t get ripped in the process. 

You slip the robe over your shoulders and close it, offering only a peek of the fabric around your neck, and fix your bedhead before exiting the bathroom. You stride into the kitchen like absolutely nothing has changed and find Secondo, gathering ingredients for breakfast and still shirtless. If you hadn’t changed into the set you’re wearing already then you would turn tail and do it now. 

But, you steel yourself and enter the kitchen, making a beeline for your favorite mug which he’d filled with coffee. “Thank you, love,” you say softly. You lean against the counter and take a sip. It’s delicious but you couldn’t care less about the coffee right now. 

“Amore,” Secondo says lowly once he catches a glimpse of your new robe and the fabric peeking out underneath. “What is this?”

He raises his finger to trace along the strip of fabric running down your chest until it disappears under the robe. “You said not to get anything for you,” you tell him, trying to act like the simple touch isn’t burning your skin. “But, did you really expect me not to?”

“Sathanas, you are sent to me by the Devil himself,” Secondo groans. He takes your mug of coffee from you and places it on the counter. “How must I wait until we have eaten when you…” 

You gently take his other hand and intertwine your fingers. It’s not often that Secondo has no words. Your heart pounds in your chest and you’re sure he can feel it beneath his fingertips. “Don’t wait, then,” you say. 

Slowly, Secondo traces his hand down your chest, over your sternum and towards your navel where your robe is tied closed. He pulls on the end and the robe falls open, revealing the set of lingerie adorning your skin. You feel his hot, shaky breath fan across your face as he takes in the sight of you. As if in reverence, he gently pushes the robe off your shoulders. It falls at your heels and you’re left bare in front of him, skin hot yet somehow covered in goosebumps. “Sathanas,” he curses again, thanking his maker for you. 

Secondo places his hands on your waist and draws you towards him. Your own hands rise to his chest and you find that his heart is beating just as quickly as yours. Your lips meet somewhere in the middle, warm and desperate and passionate. He kisses you like it’s the last time, but also like you’re made of glass. Like he wants to ravage you and worship you at the same time but can’t decide. His tongue licks into your mouth, tracing your bottom lip. He tastes like coffee and Secondo. 

You nearly stumble when he begins to push you but you quickly understand his mission. His hands guide you out of the kitchen and towards the bedroom, walking you backwards while his lips never leave your own. “Sathanas,” he groans a third time. He can’t think of anything but you, the feel of you, the taste of you, the sight of you. The only word from his mouth is a prayer at your altar. 

Secondo guides you until the backs of your legs hit the mattress, and then he lifts you onto the bed, crawling over you like a predator taunting his prey. Your thighs part on instinct to welcome his body between them. The cool air of the room reaches your aching arousal and you realize that you’re already embarrassingly wet. 

His hands slide up and down your sides, to your hips, the tops of your thighs. He traces his fingers over the fabric of the garter belt, snapping the strap against your skin and smirking at the sound. “You are sin,” he growls as he leans down to latch his lips to your neck. “I need you.” 

“Take me,” you moan, and your voice comes out more desperate than you intend for it to, but you’re past the point of caring. You want him to know that you need him, too. “Please, Papa. I’m yours.”

Secondo’s mouth trails down your chest, leaving wet kisses and little marks as you’d predicted (and hoped). He finds the hard peak of your nipple through the thin satin and lathes his tongue over it, eliciting another moan from your lips. “Say it again for me, amore. Tell me who you belong to.” 

“You, Papa,” you breathe as his teeth gently bite down on your covered nipple. “I belong to you. Only you.” 

“Guisto. You are mine and mine alone.” 

His mouth moves to your other nipple and, as if to accentuate his statement, he gives it a harder nip. You gasp at the sensation and arch your back into his mouth. “Papa…”

“Hm?” Secondo hums, and the vibrations make you moan once more. “What is it, tesoro?”

You know very well that he knows what you want, but you also know that he wants to hear you say it. “Please, your mouth,” you gasp. Your hands clutch at his shoulders and give an almost imperceptible push downwards. “I want your mouth, Papa, please.”

Secondo licks a path down your midsection. “Già così disperato per me,” he mumbles against the skin just above the garter belt. His lips blaze a path along the strip of fabric, and for the first time you wish it was gone. You’ve had your fill, he’s seen it all, and seen you in it. It can go away now. But, he takes mercy on you, and kisses his way to your pubic mound, also covered by the cursed fabric. 

“Oh, amore, you are already dripping for me. I wonder if I can make you cum without taking these off, sì? They are already ruined, what is a little more?”

Secondo places a light kiss over your wetness through the fabric and your hips twitch upwards. Immediately his hands wrap around your thighs and grasp your hips, stilling you. “None of that,” he chides you, and repeats the kiss. You bite your lip to stifle your noises. That earns you a light slap on the outside of your thigh, and you gasp. “None of that either. I want to hear you.”

He licks a broad stripe up the entire length of your slit, humming as he does. Your hips twitch again but they can’t move in his firm grip. Your hands grip the bedsheets as you gasp. “Papa!”

You’re already so worked up that you feel your orgasm beginning to build in your lower belly. His tongue traces slow circles around your clit, sometimes dipping to press at your entrance but never straying for long. The fabric is practically plastered to the form of your core, but it’s not quite enough. It’s thin but it dampens the sensations of his mouth against your flesh just enough for your orgasm to elude you. 

“P-Papa, please,” you pant. Your hand finds the back of his head to press him harder to you, but it’s still not enough. “Please, I need more. I’m so close, please…”

“Look at me, dove,” Secondo commands, and you obey. His cheeks are flushed and you can just barely see the shine of your wetness on the tip of his nose. “Look at me as I help you cum.”

He snakes one hand back towards your entrance and lightly presses there, then slowly works his middle finger under the fabric to dip into you. It’s frustratingly shallow, just to the first knuckle, but he knows you’re most sensitive there. His tongue flicks faster on your clit, still covered by the satin yet completely drenched, and you cum. “Papa!” 

Your entrance clenches rhythmically around the tip of his finger. He growls and shoves the crotch of your panties to the side, latching his lips around your clit and sucking just as he pushes his finger deep into you. He finds the spot only he knows exists and you see stars as your first orgasm gives way to another, more powerful climax. You tumble down the side of a mountain of pleasure on his tongue and scream. 

Secondo works you through the intense pleasure until the aftershocks roll pleasantly up and down your limbs, and your hips twitch up from oversensitivity. He pulls away and licks his lips. “Perfezione,” he says softly, crawling back up your body until he can kiss you properly. “Così perfetto per me. Così forte quando mi vieni sulla lingua.” 

You can taste yourself on his tongue. His hands softly stroke up and down your thighs, easing the trembling there. You sling your arms around his shoulders and pull him down so that his chest rests against yours. “Do you like your gift?” you ask when you’ve finally caught your breath again. 

“Sempre,” Secondo hums. “Every time I touch you is a gift, amore.”

You lean up to kiss him again, because you don’t want to sully the heat and passion between you by crying at his sudden tenderness. “Let me make you feel good, too,” you whisper against his mouth. 

When your hands begin to wander downwards, Secondo rises onto his knees and grasps your wrists firmly. The position mirrors the one you’d found yourself in two days prior, after the cookie incident, and your core clenches around nothing. “All I want is to be inside you,” Secondo growls. The tenderness is replaced by a fiery passion behind his eyes, and his grip on your wrists leaves no room for debate on who is in charge now. You’ve ensnared him with your gift, now he gets to unwrap it. 

“Please,” you whimper. “Please, Papa.” 

Secondo hastily pulls his sleep pants off and his cock bounces up against his lower stomach. You wish so desperately that you could touch him, trace the trail of dark hair from his chest all the way down to the base of him, but he still has your hands beside your head. “Stay just like this for me, sì?” he asks, but you know it’s not a question and you nod. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of your ruined underwear and tugs. “Up.”

You lift your hips and he slides the soaked fabric down your legs and tosses it aside. Your hands, now unrestrained, itch to touch him. “Can I touch you?” you ask, your voice breathy and desperate. You’re hoping he allows it, because if he really didn’t want you to move, there are cuffs in his bedside table that he could have easily used to hold your arms above your head. 

“Not yet, amore. You are doing so well for me.”

You whine, but stay still. Secondo parts your thighs again and slots himself between them. The tip of his cock brushes against your swollen clit and you gasp, rutting your hips upward to seek more. But he doesn’t enter you, not yet. You know what he’s waiting for. 

“Please, Papa,” you say, canting your hips upward once more to accentuate your words. “I want to feel you, please.” 

“Bene,” Secondo hums. “Così buono per me.”

Secondo positions the head of his cock at your entrance, and pushes in slowly. Your back bows off the mattress and you sigh. “Oh, thank you, thank you…”

Inch by thick, delicious inch, Secondo enters you until your hips press together and you can feel the tip of him nudging at your cervix. When he’s fully inside you, he pauses, giving you time to breathe and adjust to his size. You hold his gaze as he strokes your thighs, soothing you, urging you to relax around him. “You may touch me,” he says. 

You bring your hands to the skin below his navel to trace along the strip of hair. Usually you like to kiss your way down, leaving little love bites along his happy trail, but both of you had been so desperate for this closeness that you couldn’t prolong the process. His muscles jump and twitch under your light touches. Slowly, you slide your palms up to rest on the sides of his neck and draw him down to kiss you. The shift in angle makes his cock move inside you and he brushes against the spot his middle finger had found just minutes ago, making you clench around him. He groans into your mouth at the sensation. 

“Are we going ice skating again tomorrow?” You ask. 

Secondo huffs a laugh. “No, amore. I plan to make your legs wobble without having to worry about a sore ass.”

You laugh with him and kiss him once more, then roll your hips against his. “Good.” 

He grips you by the hips and begins to thrust shallowly in and out of you. The drag of his cock is divine inside you, and yes, your legs will very much be wobbling tomorrow because you intend to spend all day like this and it is barely breakfast. Your head falls down against the mattress and exposes your neck, yet devoid of marks, to Secondo. And who is he to pass up an opportunity like that?

His lips descend on your pulse point just as he increases his pace. This angle again makes his cock brush against the tender spot on your inner walls and it rips a moan from your throat. 

“Sì, amore, let me hear you. Let me hear how I make you feel.” 

“Ah, it’s so—so good, Papa, you feel so good inside me—”

Secondo increases his speed again. His teeth gently dig into the skin of your neck and you clench around him, making him growl into your ear. “My little devil,” he rasps. “Who do you belong to? Tell me again.”

“You, Papa! I’m yours!” 

“Yes—ah, yes, you are mine. Only mine. Only I can take you like this, capisci? O-only I can make you feel this pleasure.” 

Somewhere in the back of your mind you register that Secondo is being particularly vocal this time. His eyes never stray from yours, but his hands are everywhere—your hips, your thighs, your stomach, your chest. His fingers briefly dip into your mouth and you willingly accept them, lathing your tongue over them and tasting the remnants of your juices on his skin. His hips snap against your own, over and over and over, increasing in pace until you bounce back and forth on his cock in time with his thrusts. 

With the fingers now covered in your saliva, Secondo brings his fingers directly to your oversensitive clit. Your hands clench onto any part of him you can reach, your fingernails scratching his skin and leaving red trails raised in their wake. You aren’t sure if you’re screaming or completely silent with the overwhelming pleasure. But your eyes feel magnetized to his own, like if you were to look away, the spell would break and the pleasure that’s building between you would dissipate entirely. 

“P-Papa,” You gasp, breathless. “I–I’m—”

“Sì, amore mio. Cum around my cock. Cum for me.” 

His desperate, almost animalistic command, paired with his fingers abusing your clit and his cock splitting you open so perfectly, send you hurtling over the edge of your climax and your vision goes white. Your entire being, your entire consciousness is centered between your legs and wherever he touches. The rest of you falls away into bliss as Secondo thrusts into you through your orgasm. 

You’re still riding the tidal waves of pleasure when Secondo finds his own release, spilling inside you and slowing his thrusts until eventually he stills against you. As your awareness fades back in and your orgasm ebbs away, you realize that your legs are trembling, but so are his. Your chests heave together as you catch your breath. You relish in the warm weight of him on top of you and inside of you, tracing your fingertips up and down his spine. 

When he manages to steady himself enough to hold his weight on his arms, Secondo pushes himself up just enough so he can plant soft, tender kisses against your lips. “Amore mio,” he mumbles reverently, “Sei la luce della mia vita.” 

“I love you,” you respond just as softly. Though you don’t (yet) understand what he said, you can feel the weight of his words in your heart. He isn’t the type to deliver flowery speeches or long-winded declarations of love, but you know he feels it for you, as you do for him. The two of you don’t need words. It shines through the string lights on the tree in the living room. It wafts through the air on the scent of freshly baked sugar cookies. It follows you in the sound of skates sliding in tandem atop the frozen lake, and in the pleasured cries echoing in the walls of the bedroom. 

Your stomach growls, and you feel the rumble of Secondo’s laugh deep in your chest.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Translations:

Amore - love

Sto solo scherzando - I'm only joking

Esattamente - exactly

Come faccio a cuocere questi biscotti con te che mi tenta? - How am I supposed to bake these cookies with you tempting me?

cena maledetta - cursed dinner

Sei una tentazione...Perché devi essere così allettante quando non posso averti? - You are a temptation...why must you be so tempting when I cannot have you?

Anch’io ti amo - I love you too

Giusto - Right

Tesoro - treasure, sweetheart

Già così disperato per me - Always so desperate for me

Perfezione - Perfection

Così perfetto per me. Così forte quando mi vieni sulla lingua - So perfect for me. So loud when you cum on my tongue

Sempre - always

Così buono per me - So good for me

Capisci - Understood

Sei la luce della mia vita - You are the light of my life

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Taglist (from my Camellia fic, I hope that's okay!): @bonelessghoul @gbatesx @the-did-i-ask @leah-halliwell92 @archive-obsess @rosacrose @sodoswitchimage @portaltothevoid @lightbluuestars @thesoundresoundsecho @stephnthangss @enchantedbunny @jackson5611-blog @copiasprincipessa @kadedoesthings @justheretoreadleavemealone @tiedyedghoulette @honimello @deetz-ghuleh @da-rulah @nijiru

[krizariel]

Follow up to this post

It’s been a few weeks since then and Tim is almost fully recovered. Soon he will be able to go back home. While Tim wanted to go back to the nest, Alfred had different plans.

“Preposterous Master Drake. You are going back to the mansion where you can be given proper care whilst you continue your recovery. There’s much you’ve lost and you need all the support you can get to get fully back on your feet. No objections.”

“Knowing you, you will want to get back to work right away. I brought you your laptop as a compromise.”

“Thank you Alfie.”

The nurses knocked on the door as it was time for his regular check up. Alfred left the room to let them do their job saying he’d be outside.

“Is your boyfriend not here today?” She asked as she was taking his blood pressure.

“ My who?!”

“Wow careful sweetie. Your heart rate”

Well I’m not the one who asked about my non-existent boyfriend what the hell lady!?

“Dark, tall and handsome? skunk hair? He has been here almost every day for over a year.” She continued.

“At first we thought he was a ghost haha” another nurse chimed in. “Almost every morning, when we'd come clean you up there was a flower, always had enough water. Sometimes we'd see a new flower.”

“You did get multiple visitors at the beginning but later the visits were more spread out and they didn't stay long so we knew when someone had visited. So it was SO strange that you'd always have fresh flowers and sometimes even books by your bed!”

"There was no one here near the end of the day and some nurses were too scared to enter the room in the middle of the night.”

"One time they peeked and one swore they saw a shadow by the corner so they called security. When we came in with a group of guards, no one was in the room. Everything was in place except for a new flower."

Another nurse peeked in. “Y’all talking about the lover ghost?” “The what now?!” Tim said "Yeah, yeah, come in!" Why are they just inviting themselves?! “Listen. Sometimes some nurses were scared to come in during the night but you were always peaceful, nothing out of place. Usually, with patients like you, rooms become silent and more empty as time goes by. It's…common. For visitors to slowly lose hope and being unable to continue visiting often. Each person deals with grief differently.” "But in your case, as months went by, your room was more…lived?" "Later Mr. Wayne let us know if we saw a certain Mr. Peters come in to visit that he was to be included in the list of people allowed to visit you." “We suspect he was our ghost!” A new nurse excitedly added, from behind Tim. WHERE ARE THEY COMING FROM!? "What makes you think Mr. Peters is the one that had been visiting me during the time I was in a coma?" "Well, if it's not him, then you had two suitors and one of them was a ghost. I'd go with the first option if I was you." “We haven't seen someone so dedicated so have to admit we were really rooting for you both. We haven't seen him lately though.” an older nurse continued. “Did something happen?” Another one asked. “No just… we are not- “ Tim felt a bit at loss as he was still processing all this information. Alfred, god bless him, made his presence be known at that moment. The head nurse was trailing behind him. “Excuse me ladies. Master Drake requires some rest.” Alfie said as he put his hand on Tim's shoulder, reassuringly. "Everyone please, stop bothering Mr. Drake and chop-chop, there's plenty to do." The head nurse said and then turned to Tim. "As for you Mr. Drake, it looks like everything is looks good. The doctor will see you in a minute to give you some final instructions and to tell you when will be your next check up but looks like you are ready to be discharged." And with that, she left. ----

Once he was finally back at the mansion and settled in his room, he finally gave himself time to think about what the nurses said. He just… it wouldn't leave him alone.

He will have to face Jason again, isn't he?

It didn't take long. And Tim suspects Alfred had a hand in it… "Hey." "Hi." By the way Jason's mouth moved, it looked like he had something to say but kept aborting saying anything. Tim could relate. "Sorry, Alfred wanted me to come to have tea with him this afternoon and was really insistent. I couldn't say no. Good to see you are doing well." "Yeah. Thank you." "Anyway, I'm on my way out so-" "WAIT" Tim grabbed Jason's arm before he could bolt out. He had to ask. "The nurses told me a story… about a ghost." "Uh?" "Yeah. Apparently a rumor started… of a ghost who kept leaving flowers and making noise in my hospital room. Who kept visiting me and keeping me company. They were apparently very charmed." "Oh." "Was it really you?" "I…yeah. Listen I never said anything because I didn't want to look lke a creep. I know it sounds nuts but I might have developed a bit of a crush on you…" "While I was unconscious??" "Let it be known I never said this made any sense." Jason continued "I just wanted to keep you company, to not be forgotten… because I know how it felt to come back and feeling that way. As time went by, I started learning every bit I could. I knew you as red robin but not the real you. I never bothered, and I started to want it really badly." Tim was at loss of words because a part of him wanted to stay upset but he couldn't find it it himself to stay mad in light of all this new information. "It was stupid of me to think that you'd wake up and maybe there could be a chance. But believe me I honestly didn't think it would be that simple. I know I can't take the hurt back but if you'll have me I want nothing more than to make it up to you and give this a try" Tim felt the smile grow in his face. He couldn't help it. It felt like getting closure in the best possible way. Maybe right now he really didn't want to focus on romance but he felt warmth at the thought of having his family around and Jason as well. The fact that Jason thought about him that far… is proof that his affections were never misplaced. "How about we take it slow and just see where it goes. I'd like it if you stick around." Suddenly he felt strong arms around him. Jason was hugging him tightly and just like that Tim couldn't help but feeling genuinely happy. Despite the situation, whatever the future hold didn't seem so bad. "Thank you babybird. I swear I'll make it worth your while." Jason said as he pulled slightly away and held Tim's face tenderly with both hands. "Alright… I could use a spar partner, wanna help a guy?"

"You got it." ----

It's been a few months since then and here they are. Jason usually wakes up first. He almost can't believe he gets to watch him sleep and wake up every day. He will hold on to this for as long as possible. For as long as Tim will have him. "Hey, sleeping beauty." "Hey, handsome." Part 1 Part 2

[teecupangel]

Ark: Scorched Earth Edition

Submitted by @saberamane

Time for Scorched Earth! (And going forward, I’m head-cannoning that it’s a Harem situation going on.) So they defeat the overseer (which was weird), ascend (which was stress inducing) and land on Scorched Earth (which is plain aggravating).

And the first thing that happens to them? Multiple respawns due to terror birds, pigs, wolves, and wyvern’s, seriously what the fuck.

The last straw is when they finally find each other, and a Kapro jumps out of no where to try and take a piece out of Ratonhnhaké:ton. After a brief scuffle, it ends with Ratonhnhaké:ton chocking the Kapro out, bare handed. Desmond is unreasonably turned on. (And he see’s your side eye’s Altair, Ezio.)

And so they set out, carefully, to set up a new base and figure out whats going on, and what they have to do now. And they need new tames. Joy.

Desmond:

Moschops

Paraceratherium

Tek Rex

Lightning Wyvern (because he’s from the future where electricity is prevalent.)

Deathworm

Phoenix (of course he has the phoenix.)

Shoulder Pet: Jerboa

Altair:

Titanoboa (Which Desmond hates, snakes shouldn’t be that big…)

Thyla

Procoptodon

Multiple jug bug’s

Rock Elemental (Mostly used for guarding the base.)

Fire Wyvern

Ezio:

Iguanodon

Daeodon

Lymantria

Mantis

Morellatops

2 Wyvern’s, a fire and a Poison

Ratonhnhaké:ton:

Pulmonoscorpius (Which they get poison from, easier than trying to get it from the wyvern’s…)

Tapejara

Thyla

Thorny Dragon

Kaprosuchus (The one he chocked out.)

Poison Wyvern (Because he has poison darts in AC3.)

Shoulder Pet: Vulture

==========================

Additions by teecup

Desmond would dedicate a part of their base as a tribute to their ‘fallen’ tames, half because he does feel sad and half because he finds everyone’s reaction funny. They’re trying to be supportive but it’s clear they think Desmond had finally lost it.

Ah, what love can do to a person… and, apparently, 3 persons.

Altaïr had to put his foot down that no, they cannot just waste all their materials to make the tombstones Desmond want for each tame. They finally reached an agreement to make an obelisk carved with every tame’s name and a brief description of each tame. The three couldn’t help their hearts from beating too fast when Desmond’s description for Cars is “my beloved tame gifted to me by my beloveds”

.… Cesare’s description is “best eggs, worst attitude”.

The obelisk is in one corner of the inner part of their base, surrounded by flowers. The flowers… just popped up out of nowhere. They have no idea where they came from because Desmond just made the obelisk and placed it on an empty spot. It’s only while they continue to explore the new Ark that they realize that the obelisks they see all around the ark do have flowers growing nearby and…

It seemed Desmond had created a nonfunctioning (non floating) obelisk by accident. At this point, they wouldn’t even be surprised if Desmond had found a glitch again. Glitches seemed to find Desmond naturally.

As usual, Altaïr is focused on research and making sure their base is well protected. Ezio takes care of their essentials while Ratonhnhaké:ton checks out the land. Sometimes, he’s accompanied by one of them, usually either Desmond or Altaïr since if he was with Ezio, that meant if Ezio dies, their supplies would be left without anyone to keep it safe). It becomes easier to survey the Ark once they get flying mounts and Desmond loves it when they go flying in their wyverns even for just a bit.

It’s… freeing.

And their wyverns are special since they were hatched, not tamed.

Altaïr’s fire wyvern actually came from the same nest as Ezio’s while Ezio’s and Ratonhnhaké:ton’s poison wyverns are from separate nests.

Desmond’s Lightning Wyvern is actually the oldest of the Wyverns, having been one of he first eggs they got. The three decided Desmond should have it.

They’re trying not to get attached to the tames this time since it’s highly plausible they would be transported into another ‘place’ and lose them all anyway.

It… doesn’t work though XD

Unorganized Notes:

Ratonhnhaké:ton pet vulture is also used to scout ahead. Ratonhnhaké:ton doesn’t connect with it like the Layla trilogy MCs though but it has been trained to make certain sounds that correspond to what it sees (for example, it makes a different sound when it’s safe compared to when there are predators in the area).

Ezio was the one who gifted Desmond the Jerboa because he thought it was cute. They later found out it could detect the weather. XD

Desmond tamed a Deathworm because of Altaïr’s Titanoboa. Altaïr doesn’t get the logic behind it but he’s more interested in the fact that Desmond seemed to be able to tame the untameable ones. He’s not sure if it’s a Desmond-exclusive skill or he’s just really good at making/finding glitches.

The Phoenix is the most prima donna tame they’ve ever gotten. Doesn’t want to work, just wants to perch on the special perch made for it. At some point, Desmond begins to joke that he’s not the master of the Phoenix but the Phoenix is the master. The Phoenix just stares at him as if to say “duh”.

Altaïr keeps the jug bugs in a cage and takes care of them for the materials they give. They’re not exactly tames, more like… wild livestock if that’s even possible?

His Thyla patrols the base frequently to make sure everything is working as it should. The Thyla’s name is Tazim.

Ezio’s Morellatops is his main companion when he’s out searching for resources. It doesn’t usually attack as it’s main jobs are to find resources (like berries) and to act as pack mule.

[tinyzoologist]

Autistic at work - office edition

If you are an autistic or otherwise neurodivergent person with a job - that’s awesome because sadly we are still a minority. In and around academia, I’ve been lucky so far when it came to my employment situations. My offices were always a bit non-traditional, quiet spaces for quirky people, hardly anything to complain about (except my weirdo boss who kept turning on my lights when I just wanted to be a cave goblin). But in my current job - which I really do like btw - I now spend 10h a week at my first real “normal office”. I’ve noticed* that it’s a bit harder for me to be productive and feel comfortable here, so I made a list (because of course I did) of what helps and what bothers me. Maybe some things that are totally normal for NTs in an office space will bother you and require adjustments to make your work experience better, so go ahead and add your own.

Pros:

Interesting work that keeps me engaged and lets me tell kids about cool science.

Good mix of playing to my strengths and learning new skills.

Option to do 50% home office, so I can work from my couch half the time - epic!

Nice, helpful colleagues (giant nerds, too).

No dress code, comfy all the way!

Clear communication of expectations.

Quite flexible time management.

Pretty campus, lots of green, even a pond with cute ducks.

They know I’m autistic and seem ok with it (even let me give a talk about it).

Cons:

Desk sharing. The horror. Not having my own little nest with my personal stuff keeps me from feeling truly settled in.

Nobody ever told me how to work the printer, microwave, coffee machine… felt very lost for a while.

Being asked to change plans on short notice - nope, no thank you.

The sun is horribly bright in the afternoon, I still don’t know how the blinds work.

The AC keeps turning on and off. The sound fries my brain.

Colleague will not put her phone on silent.

Same colleague keeps asking me to have lunch with her. Often I really don’t want to break my flow. Today I had late lunch outside with the ducks.

When I listen to music (to drown out said colleague, phone, and AC), I can’t do my little stimmy dance in its full glory - well I could, but I’m shy.

In summary - the most prevalent issues for me are sensory (sounds, lights) and the need to actively ask for instructions… sure, I can push through, but I’d much rather spend my energy on doing my actual work and not risk burning out. If you are an employer looking to make neurodivergent employees feel more comfortable - which is great! - please keep these things in mind, and maybe consult these handy resources. We bring so much talent, ambition and dedication to the workplace, and a few small accommodations can make all the difference.

*I've actually been working there for months, but only now has my "this is new and bad" paralysis eased enough to pick out what I actually like and struggle with. Employers - please give us time to figure out and adjust our needs, thx.

[sapphire-wine]

I would like to thank the academy and @jazjo33 for this opportunity and for supporting me all the way. Without further ado, the trope-filled Gavinners y/n fic, with a little twist. I think it's a given that it was neither proofread nor beta read.

I would like to dedicate it to @digitalstowaway

If anyone who wasn't in on this finds this please this is a joke this is a joke this is a joke this is a jo-

Y/N woke up. She needed to get ready to start her day.

She threw her hair into a messy bun. She adjusted her crop top shirt and looked in the mirror. She didn’t think she looked very special, but everyone else always liked what she looked like.

As heir leader of her gang, she was very busy and responsible for the lives of others. Everyone looked to her to lead them. They were her pack (she was also a werewolf), and she needed to provide for them.

She needed to get her coffee from the local coffee shop. She always went to the local shops. Not the name brands, she wasn’t like all of the other girls.

She gave her name and waited at the front of the line.

A man came in a little after her, seeming somewhat familiar. He wore sunglasses and a hat. His skin was pale and tan. He looked over at her, smiled, and walked over to give his order.

“Y/N” the barista called.

“Y/N?” the man said, “I used to know a girl named Y/N. She was really special to me. Well, I have to go.”

The familiar man left as quickly as he came. Y/N was a bit disappointed, but she didn’t let it show across her face.

She grabbed her mocha latte and went back to her small mansion.

Daryan, her right hand man, greeted her at the door.

“Hi Y/N. We’ve been waiting for you.” He said, sultrily.

“We have work to do, Daryan.” Y/N rolled her eyes, they were half blue, half pink. It was a special trait that designated her status as a werewolf. Luckily, many non-werewolfs didn’t notice it. She pushed past him into the house. He grabbed her arm as she walked past

“You’re late to the meeting with your parents, the pack leaders.” Daryan called over his shoulder.

“We’ve decided to sell you to the rival gang. Their leader will be here to pick you up tomorrow.”

“But mom! Dad! I’m the heir to the pack! You can’t be doing this!” Y/N yelled.

“We are. You leave in the morning. Daryan will help you back.”

Y/N turned to Daryan.

“I’m coming with you Y/N.”

“Daryan, you can’t. They’ll kill you.”

“That is a risk I’ll have to take. I can’t let you go into that nest alone.”

“Daryan..”

“Y/N…” Daryan looked like he wanted to say more, but then he punched the blanket and left.

“Goodbye…” Y/N said glumily, now alone. All this time, she thought her and Daryan were close friends, possibly closer. She thought he was her special someone, but now she wasn’t sure.

She fell onto her bed, and started texting a number she usually texted when she was upset. She found it one day when she was upset, and the person on the other end of the line was always understanding. They never told her their name. And she never told them hers. That did not make their connection any less strong.

The next morning the vampire leader came to take her away. He gave a credit card to her parents, to complete the transaction.

The vampire was a tall figure.

He took off his sunglasses to reveal two red eyes.

“My name is Klavier. I am the leader of my gang and also a vampire and I am here to take you to my vampire nest, Ja?”

Y/N was shocked. This was the man from the cafe! The familiar-looking man! The man from the cafe was the vampire leader of the rival gang. He ruled over his half of the city like a sheriff. He wasn’t a bad guy, but he was a bit of a bad boy. He would protect you if you asked, and decimate his enemies.

Y/N was brought to the vampire nest. It was a mansion in LA and very high status. Y/N could tell by looking at it. (A/N: We don't have mansions where I live, but I bet they're pretty big!)

She walked through the door.

“We’ve been waiting for you.” A familiar voice said.

“Daryan?”

“Hello Y/N”

“What are you doing here?”

“I told you I would come with you.”

“It is dangerous.”

A vampire came and interrupted them. “Our leader would like to meet with you. In his chambers.”

Y/N said goodbye to Daryan and went to Klavier’s chambers.

She saw Klavier standing at the window of his room. She tried to talk to him but he seemed lost in thought.

Because she was upset, Y/N started texting the number of her close friend, who she did not know the name of. She heard Klavier’s phone go off, and she gasped. He opened the message, and responded to it in front of her. She gasped again.

Klavier looked hopeful, but then his face fell.

“I...cannot be with you.” He whispered. Y/N was distraught.

She was beginning to think that Klavier was her special someone. She didn’t want to lose him to this.

“I...have a secret.” Klavier looked away, his shirt blowing open by the wind.

“And what is that?” Y/N questioned.

“I don’t like eating humans. It is unclean. I am….unclean.”

“No. That’s not true.” Y/N crept closer. She placed a hand on his chest. “It’s not true. Because you feel bad about it. That’s real, you’re real. I’m real. We’re real. Together. And together we will not eat humans.”

Klavier , “You’re right Y/N. Of course you’re right. You’ve always been right. Even when we were little.”

Y/N gasped, “you remember?”

“Of course I remember. You were very special. You were special to me. You still are.”

“Oh...Klavier…” Y/N leaned in.

“Y/N…” Klavier also leaned in.

They fell onto the plush big bed together.

Y/N woke the next morning in Klavier’s bed. It was empty. She was slightly disappointed. She went to her own room.

Waiting outside of her room was Daryan.

“Daryan!”

“I waited for you all night, Y/N. Where were you?”

“Why do you need to know?”

“You were with Klavier.”

“What does it matter?”

“You’re pregnant Y/N. I can smell it. This is ridiculous!” Daryan punched the wall. It made a big hole. “You’re a werewolf, Y/N! He’s a vampire. What’s going to happen to this baby?”

“We’ll just have to see.” Y/N cradled her stomach protectively.

“What is going on here?” She heard Klavier snarl from behind her. He wrapped a shoulder over her arms protectively.

“He’s worried our child is going to be a vampire.”

“He is not going to be a vampire. Our son will be a normal human.”

“What?” Y/N asked, “how do you know?”

“Because I am also a demon. I keep it a secret.” Klavier explained, “the demon in me will neutralize any quality in this child. Is that ok with you?”

“Yes. It is ok.”

Daryan punched the wall again, upset he lost his secret love forever. He punched the wall so hard he fractured his hand, and lay dying from the blood loss.

Klavier snapped his fingers, and two vampires came to take Daryan to the infirmary.

“Will he make it?” Y/N asked, concerned.

“Only time will tell, Y/N. The blood loss was extensive. (A/N: I’ve been to crime scenes so I know about extensive blood loss)

“What should we do while we wait?” Y/N put her hands over her growing belly again.

“We will lead our clans together. Your parents died shortly after you left. You are the leader of your clan now.”

Y/N was sad, but knew her responsibility as new pack leader. Her blue/pink eyes shined bright with hope for the future. For their child. For each other.

(A/N: Hope you all liked it! My cousin told me I should start writing!! So I started with my favorite band, The Gavinners!)

~~

Pearl Fey signed out of her account on the public library computer, packed up her belongings, and started walking back to the train station. She felt extremely satisfied with her work today, and thought a lot of people were going to like it.

[elderbwrry]

Girls' Night

tags: the knights of ren, All Women Knights of Ren, Girl's night, Girl's Knight, haha please like me, Fluff and Humor, Adversarial Kylux, Very much a WIP, Kylux, although fair warning it might not be that relationshippy

Read it on ao3

Summary: Hux is surprised by what the Knights of Ren get up to in their free time - it's strangely humanising. Unfortunately, Ren is still being the Lord of all Assholes. Hux needs a way to get back at him. It gives him an idea.

Hux marched down the corridor in the Finalizer's quarters deck, the section dedicated to command personnel. The immaculately tiled and polished floors glinted as he whipped past them. He was walking a little faster than usual, he noticed with distaste, but it wasn't surprising; this was his last task before he could officially count his shift as “over” and, instead of standing stiffly on the bridge checking reports, he could settle down to checking them in the comfort of his quarters. His sofa beckoned, along with another three hours of beloved admin, then five necessary hours of sleep before his next shift.

Moments ticked by as he had to pause and wait for a security door to open, and he felt his frustration manifesting itself in his brow. He was currently delaying himself by heading approximately six minutes out of the way of his own quarters, all to give Ren little more than a telling off. This wasn't the first time the glorified poser had caused him this kind of issue – trust Ren to get in the way, he excelled at it – but it was the first time Hux was personally carrying the message round to his quarters that he needed to file a report for the mission he returned from over a week ago.

Hux had tried the usual ways of getting hold of Ren; on his return to the ship, Hux had informed him a report was due; an automated reminder had been sent; a follow-up reminder had been sent; Hux sent a reminder himself. Today, when his agenda noted that Ren still remained unresponsive, Hux hailed him over internal comms. No reply. He called Mitaka in, intending to send him to Ren's quarters, but the poor man had paled at the knight's very name. So, Hux had dismissed him, and undertaken to deliver the message himself.

Hux didn't bother to wonder the reason why Ren wasn't completing the report – undoubtedly it was because he was irresponsible, disrespectful, possibly illiterate – he only amused himself to wonder what foolish excuse would be employed this time. “Meditation,” Hux's mind supplied in a mocking approximation of Ren's voice without that ostentatious helmet, “important Force matters,” “training,” “I was just really tired and forgot :(”

He was just shaking his head disapprovingly at the imagined pout as he drew up outside the door itself. He pressed the button to request entry, pushing it harder than necessary until his thumb joint hurt, as if somehow that would convey through the automated, equalized buzz sound how annoyed he was with Ren taking up his time like this.

The door puffed open, and Hux's mouth was already opened to give Ren a piece of his mind when he realised that the person in front of him was not, in fact, Ren. Instead, stood before him was a woman nearly a head shorter than himself, her long, black hair piled on her head in a decidedly non-regulation messy bun, drawn away from her face, on which was slathered some kind of light pink paste. She was wrapped in a fluffy, pink dressing gown, under which appeared to be heart patterned pink pyjamas.

Hux's planned rebuke of Ren fell away into an, “Uh.” Usually, he had time to prepare himself for any kind of non-work-related interactions, but he had planned to go into this with a clipped, righteous annoyance and come out of it with a self-indulgent bit of riling Ren up, and now that Ren was not available for that, he had nothing.

“Yes?” she said, about as neutrally as Hux supposed anyone would, when called upon while attired as she was.

“I must have the wrong quarters,” was what he managed to reply.

“These aren't mine,” she explained, pointing behind her, around a corner which Hux couldn't see, “You looking for Kylo?”

“Yes,” Hux said stiffly, “is Ren here?”

The woman leaned back inside the door, around the corner Hux still couldn't see. “Kyle!” she called, “visitor.”

“He's not getting up, wet nails!” someone called back, another female sounding voice.

Just what was happening in there? How many women were there, and what were they doing in Ren's quarters, of all places, clad in such unofficial wear? Hux shuddered to think. Was he also going to have to remind Ren of the rules against fraternisation with inferior officers? That was sure to be a fun conversation of Ren not giving a kriff and Hux being able to do little but barb his words and maybe mention the situation to Snoke. Odd, though – Hux had never thought Ren had showed any preference for women... or perhaps that had just been wishful thinking.

The woman before him remained still for a moment, her brown eyes glazing over just slightly in a way which made Hux think she wasn't entirely mentally present. Then the look was gone as soon as it had come, and she frowned, annoyed. “He wants you to leave,” she informed him, “but he wasn't very nice about it, so you're coming in.” She turned and retreated back inside, beckoning casually for him to follow.

After a moment, once Hux's brain had caught up – Ren had just communicated with the woman through the Force, and now he was being invited in against those wishes. He slipped through the door, letting it puff closed behind him.

The first fact of the place was that Ren's quarters were larger than Hux's. Hux had known this, of course – he'd scoffed over the confirmation for the allocation when Ren had first transferred over, perfectly happy to take moderately sized quarters himself – but, as he walked down the grandly inlaid corridor from the entrance antechamber to what was presumably a living space, it contributed to the sense of an impending mystery as to what, exactly, he was about to discover. He hoped it was nothing too debauched.

“You're that General, aren't you?” the woman a step in front of him asked over her shoulder. “Hanks? Hugs?”

“Hux,” he corrected. He disliked intensely when people got his name wrong. He was the General of the ship they were all currently hurtling through space on, he was the General Starkiller – how could she not know who he was? “Who are you?”

“Ushar,” she replied easily. No rank, no designation of any sort, no actual deference to him as a General; all things Hux made a mental note of for later, when he could check the ship manifest.

“Might I ask what you're...”

Hux had begun to speak with an acerbic self-confidence – it was his ship, and he demanded to know what was happening on it – but it all became clear when Ushar opened the door to the central living area and the situation was revealed. It was the second time Hux had been caused to falter in his words in the last five minutes, and he didn't appreciate it. “What is this?” he asked, minorly horrified, as he took in the scene before him.

Ushar shrugged. “Girls' night.”

The room looked like some kind of stereotypical, tacky imitation of a Zeltronian spa had taken over. There were tall glasses of something bubbly scattered around, half-drunk, the bottle chilling in a bucket of ice on the coffee table, which was scattered with cosmetic items. A holo-romance was playing off to the side. Boxes of chocolates fountained forth crunched up wrappers. There were four women – two humans, a zabrak and a twi'lek – lounging around in the pit of cushions the room had been turned into. The cushions were allpink to match the identical pink bath robes and headbands and fluffy slippers the room's inhabitants were sporting. And, at the centre of it all; Ren.

“You...” Hux started, under his breath just enough that no-one would take notice of the stammering. He had certainly not expected this. “I...”

Ren, clad too in pink fluffy bath robe, seemingly with nothingunder it this time, finally took notice that Ushar had led Hux in, as he sat up quickly and angrily, removing slices of some green vegetable from over his eyes. The woman who had been painting his toenails – black, possibly the only thing that could reconcile the Ren Hux was used to with this strange, pink perversion before him – protested, but he ignored her, instead hurrying to his feet and wading his way out of the pillows.

“I told you to make him leave,” Ren growled at Ushar, but the effect was considerably diminished thanks to his appearance. The bathrobe he wore was the short, fun kind of style which only came to his knees; the pink headband kept all his hair back from his face gave him a kooky sort of bird's nest; his face was slathered with a light green version of what Ushar had on, all except for comical spaces around his eyes and lips.

Ushar glared at him. “You shouldn't have ordered me like that, then,” she said, going over to sit next to the zabraki woman, shuffling in closer than was strictly platonic and picking up one of the glasses. “I'm not some stormtrooper.”

“You're ruining the night,” Ren brandished the vegetable slice at her. It wobbled.

“You'reruining the night!” the woman Ushar was sat next to shot back. “He's here after you!”

“Yeah, Kyle,” the twi'lek said from the sofa in a tone that was very much mocking, but still friendly, popping a chocolate in her mouth. Who were these people, that they could speak to Kylo Ren like this and get away with it?

Ren turned back to Hux, glowering. The face paste made him look like a clown. The outside finally reflects the inside, Hux thought to himself while wondering if Ren had waxed his legs or if they were just like that naturally, and had to force himself not to laugh. He obviously didn't mask his expressions quite as well as he should have, however, because Ren seemed to sense that Hux was amusing himself at his expense. Seizing Hux's upper arm in a grip to rival that of a hangar-bay droid, Ren manhandled Hux back to the door of the room, away from the group.

“Unhand me, you oaf,” Hux admonished, shaking Ren off him and lowering his tone a little so as not to disturb the ladies, who, in their disregard of Ren's plumped-up edginess, had endeared themselves to him.

“Why are you here?” Ren demanded before he'd even finished speaking, also at subdued pitch.

“Why are you here?” Hux returned, hissingly. “Who are these people? Why are you not completing the mission report which you have had no fewer than five requests for? Why the hells are your quarters this gods-awful colour?”

Ren took a moment to glare at Hux.

Hux interpreted this as having the upper hand. “Well?”

“I'm not completing any more of your stupid kriffing reports,” he said as if it were obvious. “I told you that already.”

Hux cycled through his memory quickly. He remembered Ren slamming down the last report onto his desk and threatening something similar, but he'd disregarded it, because reports were Necessary, and it was not a possibility for anyone to simply not do them.

“You will do the report,” Hux replied.

“No.”

“You'll do it now.”

Ren snorted. “No.”

Hux bristled. “Ren, I have been forced to come down here – well out of my way – to extract this report from you, only to find you sitting around like some... pampered princess, when I could be-”

“Good point actually, let's return to it. What are you doing down here?” Ren frowned and crossed his arms, but his lips curled cruelly, ready, Hux was sure, to make some insult about his doing such menial work.

“That brings me to the next matter,” Hux plucked the opportunity of throwing in this additional argument, squaring up. “You have intimidated my administrative staff to the point where it is necessary that I waste my time in a way which is thoroughly unacceptable to me.”

Ren widened his eyes in mock sympathy. “Did you forget how to use a comm?”

This only pissed Hux off more, because something about the movement was ridiculously attractive. He wasn't sure whether it was the slight shrug which emphasised Ren's muscular arms, the fact that the pink really brought out the rich shade of his hair, or even the cruelty behind the act itself, but it could not stand.

“I'm quite familiar with the comms system,” he spat, “it seems that you are the one having trouble, since you failed to reply to my hails. As my co-commander,” (Hux had practised in his bathroom mirror not grimacing as he said this) “you are expected to answer your comms when I call. It is highly unprofessional of you to shirk your duty like this.”

Ren momentarily pursed his lips. His next words were caustic. “I don't intend to waste my life away at work like you do, slaving over a tablet until I look like the living dead. At least I know how to relax.”

Hux's eye twitched. “I know how to relax.” An imagined image of himself on his icy blue sofa in his black and red robe, his cat to one side, his data-pad in hand, appeared in his mind. That was relaxing.

“No you don't,” Ren scoffed. “You should see the bags under your eyes. You look more drawn out than all the Starkiller blueprints put together.”

Mentally, Hux's self-image adjusted so that his porcelain skin turned grey, the lines of his face more prominent, the room dark until only he was visible by the harsh light of the data-pad. It could not have been more different than his current surroundings of pink and fluffiness and companionship and soft lighting.

“Get out of my head, Ren,” he said, putting the warping of his imagined scene down to some Force meddling.

“I'm not in your head,” Ren replied, “you're just sad and lonely and jealous that you have to go do a report while I have a nice night with my knights – my friends. You,” he pointed sassily, “could never have this,” he pointed back to the ladies. “Now kriff off, I'm not doing the report. Maybe you should do it yourself, since you have such a boner for that kind of thing.” The door far behind Hux puffed open, presumably manipulated by the Force.

“I expect the report before the end of my shift tomorrow,” Hux said, voice dangerous and low. How dare Ren speak to him like that. How dare he judge what Hux did to relax, while he was being a layabout with these random, cool ladies... doing... fun things like... painting nails and getting tipsy... and watching holo-dramas... and... he wasn't jealous.

“Leave,” Kylo told him.

Hux narrowed his eyes. “You will regret this, Ren.” He turned on his heel and marched from the room, commenting to himself once more as the door puffed closed behind him, “You will regret this.”

[line break]

Kylo watched Hux retreat from the room, waiting until the door had closed to turn and make his way back to his knights. He flopped himself back down onto the floor, jostling Ap'lek's sofa cushions in the process.

“Ah kriff,” he complained as he saw his black-smudged toes stretched out in front of him, “he made me ruin my nail paint.”

“I'm not doing them again,” Trudgen said, tossing the little black bottle at him, shifting around to watch the holo and grabbing a chocolate. “You shoulda been more careful when you got up instead of rushing off to be a bitch.”

Kylo sighed over-dramatically and called out, “Cardo!” She and Kuruk were in the kitchen, probably making an unsightly mess of the place, but Kylo knew only she would be willing to finish the paint for him. Of course, he would have to take the chance that the stuff would end up even more smudged than it already was, and, now he was thinking about it, he would probably be better off just dipping his entire feet in nail polish.

A chocolate wrapper hit the side of his head. He turned to see Ushar had thrown it. “Just do it yourself,” she told him, “it's not like it's hard.”

But he wanted to feel spoiled, that was the whole point of this spa evening anyway. He called Cardo's name again, whinier this time.

“What?!” came the shouted reply, “We're making mug muffins!”

Vicrul frowned, straightening up a little where her arm was thrown around Ushar's shoulders. “In the microwave?”

“Yeah!”

“Huh,” Vicrul shrugged, settling back down again. “Good luck cleaning that.”

Kylo groaned, letting his head fall back onto the sofa cushion behind him. First Hux was on him about a report, then none of his knights would do his nails for him, now Cardo was splattering his lovely microwave with chocolate batter. This was all Hux's fault. Kylo wasn't sure how yet, but it was.

He opened his eyes to see Ap'lek looking down at him, where his head rested by her left elbow. “What's this about a report then?” she asked flatly. Kylo just groaned again and re-closed his eyes.

“You can't be procrastinating this stuff again,” Ushar nagged him over the sound of footsteps, accompanied by a smell of chocolate, and a thunk-clink of a tray with spoons being set down on the table as the cooks brought the muffins through. “Your job is important, here, Kylo. Snoke wants you to do well.”

“To hell with Snoke,” Kylo mumbled, hoping the crusty fart wasn't spying on his thoughts as they spoke. Paperwork was a fate worse than a fate worse than all the Sith hells combined.

“Then we want you to do well,” she continued.

“Plus we blew up so much shit on that mission,” Vicrul added, and Kylo opened his eyes to glare at her as she accepted a mug from Kuruk.

“You have to tell the General about that some time, why not put it in a report? You'd save him lots of time, probably. I bet he'd be so appreciative.”

Kylo accepted a mug proffered by Kuruk and waved it about a bit. “Since when do we care about saving Hux time? I meant what I said, he loves paperwork so much he probably,” he picked up a spoon and stabbed it into the fluffy top of the muffin, watching steam come out as he tried to pick a suitably ridiculous image of Hux. “He probably sleeps with all the files strewn over his bed and like,” he made a face, “rubs them on his body, gets all cozy with them at night. I don't know.”

“I'm pretty sure he does paperwork on his data-pad,” Ap'lek said, and she was right, though Kylo resented that she'd killed his roll.

“Just do the kriffing report, Kyle.” Trudgen hadn't pulled her attention away from the holo enough to face him as she'd said it, but apparently had been paying enough attention to comment, “Anything to stop him showing up and interrupting us. Girls' night is a no-business zone.”

Cardo chose that moment to vault over the back of the sofa and land heavily on the cushions. “Ooh, General Hux came over?” she asked cheerfully. Her hands were, predictably, still coated in chocolate powder. “I can't believe I missed him, I want to see if his hair is gelled that solid from close up.” She grabbed her mug and dug into the muffin.

“The General shouts too much,” Kuruk said, sitting cross legged on a cushion by the coffee table. “He should check his blood pressure, it can't be good for him.”

“Hey, a bit like you!” Cardo added, “You must call me through next time. He's cute.”

Kylo opened his mouth – partly to gape at what had just been said, and partly because the muffin was too hot and he hadn't had the impulse control to prevent eating a large spoonful. “Hey!” he started a few times, mouth full and burning. Finally, he was able to swallow. “He is not cute, and there will be no,” he wobbled his mug and spoon in a no-fingered version of quotation marks, “next time.”

“Then do the report,” Ushar shot back.

Kylo made a loud complaint noise.

“He's not gonna do it because he wants the General to come over again,” Ap'lek teased, and, to Kylo's horror, all his knights laughed. Traitors. He didn't want Hux to come over again.

“I don't,” he replied vehemently, “I want him to kriff off and stop annoying me.”

“I think that's against his job description,” Kuruk said, prompting further laughs.

“You should just do it,” Ushar said, getting to her feet after a moment more.

“Hey, where you going?” Vicrul asked sadly, not letting go of Ushar's hand.

“Babe, I gotta peel my face.”

“Wait, let me come with, it's really satisfying.”

The two disappeared off, and Kylo had to add 'his knights screwing in his bathroom' to his list of sub-par things to happen this evening. He wasn't going to do the report. He couldn't be bothered, he didn't want to, he hated writing things and making them sound 'formal'. No, tonight he was going to finish his mug muffin, paint his nails and fall asleep with his knights in front of a trashy holo-romance. Hux would get the hell in eventually and do the report himself. Give it a few more days, and Kylo was sure Hux would drop the issue.

[forthehpfanboys]

Two Years

Pair: Fred Weasley x Reader; he/him.

Summary: You got back to Diagon Alley after the war and desperately wanna talk to him and explain why you were basically non-existent during the war. But is Fred ready to talk to you?

Warnings: Swearing.

Notes: Reader is Draco's Cousin! Hope you enjoy!

~DO NOT REPOST ANYWHERE~

-

Complicated couldn’t even begin to describe your relationship with the Weasley’s. 

For to start, you were related to the Malfoys which automatically meant it was rocky. You were Draco’s cousin. Your family didn’t believe in the same ideology as Lucius and Narcissa, leading to family feuds being normal during literally any time of the year. Your family didn’t exactly want the attention of the Malfoys or the Dark Lord once the war reared its ugly head, so your family fled to America, dragging you with them. They wanted to get as far from the war as possible. 

And two, well, you were Fred’s partner before the war broke out. Since your family was absolutely dedicated to being hidden, you lost communication with him when your family decided to just get up and go. You didn’t even have time to tell him goodbye or really anyone and it hurt. You knew you hurt him too and no matter how you begged, your parents wouldn’t let you see him, let alone send him a letter. Owls couldn’t travel across whole seas and you were basically in lock down, even if you were a grown adult. 

You stayed up most nights because of nightmares. You’d wake up in a cold sweat more times than you could count on both hands. After these tear jerking visions from hell, you’d usually climb from your bedroom window to the room, gazing out at the moon like a love struck teenager, hoping maybe even praying Fred was gazing at the moon at the same time you were.. Most nights he actually was.

During the war, Fred had come into a.. Complication. He ended up fracturing his leg, resulting in a cane and physical therapy. George took up fixing and running the shop with Ron while he was borderline trapped between surviving at the Burrow and physical therapy. 

Fred spent most of his free time sketching out ideas of products to tire his mind long enough to ignore the stupid nightmares and gazing out the window, hoping you’d apperate across the field and come comfort him, but you never came. Everyone in the Burrow avoided mentioning your name around Fred, anyway.

When the time came, Fred went straight back to work with his twin, spewing out ideas about different treats, potions, trinkets, anything and everything he came up with while bed ridden and they both got to work quickly. 

It was nice, relaxing, normal again. Everything was normal to Fred but a piece of him was missing. You were across the world and you held a piece of his heart and he hated you never gave it back. 

No matter how badly he missed you or longed for you to hold his hand, he wasn’t ready to face you when you entered their shop. He literally wasn’t ready to face you. He turned around when the bell went off, ready to say the shop wasn’t open yet but dropped the box he was holding. He ignored the sound of shattering glass and immediately booked it back into the room, where he nearly knocked over his brother. 

“What’s wrong?” George asked, swiftly setting the box he was holding down on the shelf. “Are you going into another attack? Do you need to go upsta-” He was silenced when Fred's hand covered his mouth.

“Hello?” A soft voice called out, causing George's eyebrows to furrow before his eyes grew wide. Fred moved his hand, using it to slowly shut the storage room door, making sure to turn the handle so it shut silently. The separation allowed the twins to whisper to each other in peace.

“Isn't that-” 

“Yeah.”

“Then why-”

“Because I’m not ready.”

“..You’re not ready? Blimey, Fred, it’s been 2 years since he left.” George ran a hand down his face, the other landing on his hip sassily. “What do you mean you're not ready? You always talked about how you missed him but now you aren't ready?”

“You wouldn’t understand-” 

“Don’t even give me that, Freddie. Talk to me.” George smiled, resting a hand on his brother's shoulder. “I know you're older by like, 1/4 a second, but you don’t have to be a rock. Come on, don’t bottle it up.”

Fred let out a sigh, his eyes casting downward before he let out the smallest of chuckles. His hand came to rub the back of his neck.

“Fine.” 

George almost squealed with joy when his brother decided to open up to him. He wanted to clap his hands and jump around like a child, but opted for not compromising their position. 

Fred went on to tell George about how you left, how you didn’t even leave a note, how he didn’t know how to ask if you two were still together and if you loved him anymore. George has already known all of this, causing his face to melt into an unamused expression.

“.. You realize you're being ridiculous, right?”

“Gee, thanks George. I will most definitely come back to you when I have emotional turmoil.”

“No, no, mate, listen.” George wrapped his arm around his older brother's shoulder, gently guiding him away from the wall. “Listen, ok? You’re such a top notch guy, not as handsome as me,” George smiled wider when his brother snorted, “but you’re trying! So why not at least talk to the bloke, yeah? You guys were snogging before he left, so why not try to snog after?”

“I just told you why I can’t.”

“Who are you and what did you do with Fredrick Weasley?” George put the back of his hand across his forehead, being the dramatic shit he is. 

“Don’t call me that, you prat-”

“I thought I knew you! Confidence was your middle name! Frederick Confident Gideon Weasley!” The youngest twin only became cockier when the older one groaned and covered his face. “Oh, Frederick, where did you go?” He wrapped his free arm tighter around his brother and dragged him out the door, ignoring his protests and grabby hands reaching to hold onto the door frame. 

“George, wait!” Fred’s hushed whisper floated in the air, completely ignored by the other red-head.

“Fredrick! Where did you go, Freddie?!” He called out, knowing damn well you were still in the shop. Neither of the twins heard the shops bell ring a second tie, indication your departure.

“George?” Your voice echoed in the closed shop, leading George to dramatically turn to his brother and smirk at him. “Is that you?”

“Why yes, my dear friend! How are you?” George let go of his twin, allowing him to scurry off to the side and hide behind one of their many filled shelves. You walked up to him just after Fred hid, much to his delight and George’s dismay. George’s smile faltered ever so slightly when he took in your appearance. 

Your hair was a nest fit for Scabbers, the bags under your eyes would need to be checked with baggage at any muggle airport and your clothes. Not that there was anything wrong with a hoodie and sweatpants, but it was summer for fucks sake. He could see the sweat across his brow and wondered if he should turn the AC on.

“I’m as well as I can be, I guess..” You fiddled with a stray strand hanging from your hoodie. George noted the fraying hand made thumb holes and his eyebrow raised in confusion. “I um-” You ran a hand through your hair, “I wanted to talk to Fred, do you know where he is?” While your eyes were darting across the top level of the shop, George’s eyes flashed to his brother.

The shop owner shot his brother a glare when he shook his head back and forth fast enough to make anyone dizzy. 

“Um, no.. I haven't.” George grumbled out, his hands going to his pockets. He looked down at the floor deciding it would be better than the disappointed expression on your face. “Um, do you want me to give him a message for something?”

“No, yeah, if that’s ok?” You went back to fiddling with the stray thread. You didn’t notice Fred peaking at you through the products lined on the shelves. “Just um- Could you tell him I’m sorry for me? I’m sure he’ll know what I mean..”

“Yeah, sure thing, (Y/n/n). Anything for you.” George ran a hand through his hair after you turned on your heel and mumbled a thank you before exiting the shop. “You owe me.” The red-head turned to his identical and sighed when he saw the longing expression. “Merlin’s left tit, you’re fucked, mate.”

“I should’ve-” Fred hit his forehead against the wood of one of the shelves, a yell of frustration leaving his throat.

“Say it.” “..You were right. I should’ve talked to him.”

“Damn right I was. Now, go get your bloke before he cries in the street or worse, goes to Malfoy for romantic help.” George faked a shudder at the idea. George watched his brother turn, slamming his back into the shelf and slide to the floor. “Ok, Fred, seriously, this is getting kind of sad.”

“I can’t go talk to him, George!” Fred was pulling at his own ginger locks, his knees coming up to his chest. “I- No, I can’t.”

“Do you want me to do it?” George’s voice was soft. He plopped himself on the dusty floor right next to his brother. “I can talk to him as you? See what all of this is about?” 

“I don’t know, Georgie..” Fred’s voice was softer than his twins. He looked at his brother with a hopeless expression and glossy eyes. George figured from this it would be best to tackle the problem tomorrow so he just pulled his brother into his side and held him for a good while.

-

The next day was easier for Fred. The store was bustling, as it was Monday, morning and all the happy customers provided a great distraction. He took over the register while George focused more on the floor work: answering customer questions, restocking shelves. It was a lot for two twins to handle, but they managed, especially when Ginny or Ron offered their free days to come down and help. 

Fred had just finished closing the drawer, handing a youngster his change back when the bell above the shop's door caught his attention. He shifted on his feet when Draco was practically dragging you into the shop wearing the same clothes as yesterday. The red-head was starting to wonder if you were ok.

“(Y/n)!” George yanked you into a hug before you could even blink, causing you to erupt into a fit of giggles that left Fred absolutely yearning to have you by his side again.

“Hey Geo!” You briefly hugged him back before pulling away, causing his attention to shift to your cousin. 

“Malfoy.” George looked the blonde up and down. He’d throw hands if he had too, even in his own shop.

“Hey, be nice. He’s on our side now.” You punched the tall suited man lightly in the arm before shoving your hands in your pockets.

“It’s unfortunate but true. Most birds did appreciate my bad boy ages.” Draco ran a hand dramatically through his hair while George snorted. “But that isn’t why we’re here. Is your brother around?”

“He’s at the til, why?”

“I’m just here to make sure (Y/n) actually talks to him like he promised too.” Draco put a hand on your back and gently pushed you forward. “But how is business, Weasley?”

While George went on to talk about statistics and boring old shit, you slowly walked over to the red-head who was trying to distract himself by restocking some of the knickknacks in the class case beneath the counter. You cleared your throat, clearly scaring him. He let out a squeak and hit his head on the underside of the glass case.

“I-I’m sorry, Freddie! Are you ok?” you asked, your hands awkwardly fidgeting in front of you as the male stood up and rubbed the back of his head. You bit your lip, resisting the urge to grab his shoulders and check his head. 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m good.” He had his eyes squinted so tight he could see stars flashing behind his lids. He couldn’t look at you yet. You’d looked like a kicked puppy yesterday when you left and it pained him so much.

“Did, um.. Did you get my message from Geo?” You were fiddling with the string again. Fred opened his eyes slowly, nodding to you while he played with the product in his hand. 

“I.. Look, I don’t wanna beat around the bush, but I-”

“I already know.” Fred spoke up quickly, louder than intended. “I know, it’s fine.”

“S.. So it’s fine then?” You looked around, a tiny bit confused. Fred wasn’t one for jumping to conclusions, but it seemed his legs weren’t tired yet.

“Yeah.” 

“So, I just wanna be sure we’re on the same page, you know my family dragged me to America?”

“Uh-”

“And basically put me under house arrest so I couldn’t see you or message you or leave or really live? And I haven’t forgotten you and my feelings for you haven’t changed and Godric, Fred, I miss you so much.” Tears pricked your tired eyes as you glanced at him. You cleared your throat over the awkward silence you felt was your fault. Fred was replaying your words like a record stuttering on a player and the bloke was still confused.

“.. Come again?” The red-head blinked stupidly, subconsciously leaning over the counter. Maybe he wasn’t hearing you right over the noise of the shop. You couldn’t help but release a borderline silent chuckle that bubbled into your throat.

“I still love you, Freddie bear.” You twiddled with your fingers, your eyes glancing down to his lips before looking back into his sparkling eyes.

“You do?” The co-owner was trying to keep his joy nestled deep down in his chest.

You nodded your head.

“Oh thank fuck.” 

“Wha- Ah! FRED-”

The male had all but jumped over the glass counter, dramatically picking you up by your waist and slamming his lips to yours. You wrapped your legs around his waist, while your hands gripped to his shoulders like your life depended on it. You immediately fell under the spell of his kiss and didn’t even hear your cousin and your boyfriend's twin brother whooping/gagging.

Fred soon set you down, his usual cocky grin spread across his face until his knee buckled. The strain of his dumb ass jumping over the counter and picking you off your feet like you were a feather was finally catching up with him.

“Ah, ow, ow.” Fred groaned out, bending over to hold his right knee. You put a hand on his shoulder, worry etched across his face. “Ah, so um.. I should probably explain-”

“We both have a lot to explain, Freddie. Two years is a lot of time to be apart.”

[imagineclaireandjamie]

Shielded: Chapter Six; Spring Watch.

Anonymous said to imagineclaireandjamie:

A hard man is good to find. [Mae West]

--

Jamie woke with a start, the alarm blaring in the background.

The dream had been intense and had left him panting, a sheen of sweat on his skin as he pushed the duvet aside and stood. As always it was light outside, the sunrise half blinding him as the blasts of orange and red permeated the old curtains. Washing the night from his skin, he plunged himself beneath the pounding rivulets of water coming from his power shower, his body temperature receding slightly as the morning wore on.

Fortunately Claire wouldn’t be awake yet and he could slip from the house almost unnoticed. He needed to get a good day of work done, and to forget the memory of his dream before he faced her again. The mere thought brought colour to his cheeks, the heat in his belly reminding him of how incredibly realistic it had been.

Delicate pink skin appeared without his permission and once more he could feel the remnants of it haunting him as he slid his wellies on and closed the door softly behind him. Working in a daze, he prepared his cows for milking, the heat of the morning fading slightly as the clouds rolled in. The animals barely paid him any mind, going about their own business as he fed, watered and tended to them.

She hadn’t snuck into his bed, as she had in his dreams, but she had infiltrated his thoughts and no matter how hard he tried, sporadic jolts of her came unbidden throughout the day as he worked.

She’s married, he told himself, although the argument felt pretty weak in his own mind. In the abstract she was, he could tell that she still thought herself that way despite starting her new life. Without knowing it, she often rubbed her wedding ring finger - though the ring had long since been removed. It was obvious she was struggling with the transition and who could blame her, it had only been a couple of weeks. She was still hesitating on her name whenever he spoke it out loud to her, the subtle twitch betraying her.

But she was beginning to thaw, the shocked reaction he received when he spoke to her growing less and less as time went on (which, secretly, made him smile).

The baby lambs were out in force as he pulled the sandwich from his rucksack - one Claire had made him the night before. He smiled to himself as he perched on the fence, watching his first time mums as they paraded their babies around the perimeter of the field. Food somehow tasted better when someone else had made it for him, the slight differences in style allowing him a great enough change in routine to be noticeable.

She, it seemed, had a penchant for adding multiple salad products on her ham sandwich. Whereas Jamie was always in a rush at 4am, trying to collect his thermos as well as various food items to keep him going for the day, usually he would just throw slices of meat on top of bread without much thought. Lettuce, tomatoes, cucumber and *butter*, however, made all the difference. He even had potato salad on the side and a bag of what looked like homemade crisps.

Before Claire had arrived, John had given Jamie a very brief update as to her situation. Knowing a limited amount, he gauged that the difficulties she’d encountered recently hadn’t really set in yet and, instead, she was going through some sort of nesting, using her time at Lallybroch to cook and clean, ensuring that her mind is actively kept away from thinking about much at all.

His mind needed something similar as the image of her pottering about in his kitchen whilst he was away brought to the fore those visions that had him startled awake this morning before his alarm had even a chance to ring and he shook the picture of her bare skin from his thoughts, turning back to his task list.

The orphaned lambs were thriving now. Most had been ‘adopted’ by other nursing mothers but he still had two rogue ewes who were waiting for collection - Rupert, his nearest (mostly by proximity but also by friendship) neighbour had offered to take them for him but had yet been unable to drive over to collect them. In lieu of this, Jamie had been spending time hand feeding them every day though he worried each time he left them that he might return to something unmentionable.

Luckily, they’d survived another night in the small outhouse and he crawled in between them, the straw poking and prodding him as he settled with the warm milk bottle. The first, the largest of the two, squirmed in excitement, rushing to plonk herself by his side and suckle noisily at the teet.

“Easy now, lass, there’s enough for the both of you.” He soothed, watching as she butted the bottle, falling to her knees as she fed. Sheep were notoriously terrible pets, losing their fear of humans when in contact for too long and he had worried this close contact wouldn’t be good for the ewes, but watching the smaller of the pair sit helplessly in the corner made him think of Claire.

An idea came to him all of a sudden as he moved towards the lone female. He could, if he wanted, take the lamb home that evening and leave her in Claire’s care. Not only would it give the poor wee thing a greater chance, it might give her something else to turn her attention to in the day. There was a large chance he’d lose this one if he didn’t do something drastic.

-- --- --

An odd feeling settled in her stomach from the moment she woke up. Though she couldn’t put her finger on what the issue was, she felt a strange atmosphere hovering around her. Her skin prickled as she got out of the shower and she immediately felt as though there was something she should be remembering but couldn’t quite hold onto the memory.

She’d heard Jamie leave this morning, which was odd in itself. Usually she was fast asleep at dawn, not waking until much later when the house was quiet and she was alone. But she’d been woken this morning by some forgotten thought or dream that she couldn’t picture from the second she’d opened her eyes.

After barely speaking for two weeks, the weekend had been a welcome change.

Conversation had not been forced or odd, Jamie had allowed her time for quiet reflection and had seemed really quite pleased with her suggestions for the upcycling of his old furniture.

She felt useful, finally. A feeling she hadn’t had in some time.

Putting herself to work, she opted for cleaning downstairs for the best part of the morning. There was still a lot of dust residue from the sanding epic they’d had on Saturday, even spending most of Sunday dusting and hoovering hadn’t removed it all, so she pulled the dyson from under the stairs and tried to be as thorough as she could be.

Like cooking, she had never considered herself to be fluent in the art of housewifery. Before...when she had been able, her time had been dedicated to studying. There had been a cleaner for such tasks and, even afterwards, she hadn’t *needed* to be useful in that way. Here, though, there was nobody else to clean, do the dishes or cook and she found that losing herself to each task kept her mind (and body) active.

Sitting with the remnants of her crisps, she decided that was the dish she’d been most proud of since her introduction to the kitchen. She found herself thinking of Jamie and hoped that he was enjoying them too.

Their food deliveries now consisted of a greater variety of produce and she’d been able to add some colour to his lunch - which she had been making every evening and putting into the fridge for him to take when he left in the mornings.

She felt pleased as well as shocked at how easily she had moulded to fit her new life here.

Happy with her efforts, she turned her attention to the bookshelves in the back living room. There were titles dating back hundreds of years. Thick leather covers with yellowed pages sat proudly amongst the newer softback novels. She could tell which books had been read just by glancing at the spines, though there had been fingerprints in the thin layer of dust that had been there only hours before.

They were categorised, it seemed, by the surname of the author, carefully and methodically organised so that each time a new title had been purchased, it had been added in the right spot though there wasn’t room for many more.

His taste was eclectic, from non-fiction books on farming, agriculture, holistic medicines and horticulture to the classics (neatly bound with multiple editions ordered together, oldest first) including Jane Austin, Victor Hugo, Descartes, Melville and Hemingway. Jumbled in were some biographies but she’d assumed those belonged to either his parents or sister as none had been touched for some time.

Her fingers ran over the spines, stopping to hover over the drawing and painting books she’d first read when learning to doodle on the post-it notes in the first few weeks. She didn’t stop until she reached a relatively new title that she hadn’t noticed before. There was ruffling on the edge, a clear sign of frequent use, and some damage to the corners. Pulling it from the shelves, she settled into the comfy armchair, her cup of tea now cool enough to drink, and began to read.

It was modern, eloquently written with intricate plot weaving from the moment she turned the first page. The front cover clearly denoted that of a romance but there was intrigue and art as well as carefully homegrown characters. Before she’d had time to digest the prose, the front door opened and closed and she blinked. The clock on the desk ticked loudly and she noticed that hours had passed without her knowing.

Placing the book back on the shelf, she decided to leave it where it was for the time being and come back for it before bed. Though the visuals she’d imagined for herself stayed with her as she stretched and went in search of Jamie.

A loud noise caught her attention and she burst out laughing as she walked into the kitchen to find him wrestling with a small lamb.

“A new friend?” She said, her shock fading quickly.

“Ah; lass, I need ye!” His words were breathless, his cheeks a vibrant pink from the exertion of keeping the lamb from darting off and wrecking the joint. “I have a challenge for you, if you’re up for it!?”

[captlok]

Pacifism Isn’t A Character Trait

Or: MLK Day is Upon Us so Let Me Do You a Learn

Or: As An Aang Stan I Got a Bit Over-Zealous But Lemme Explain Why For A Hot Minute

Plus some History and Tumblr commentary that even non-ATLA fans can chew on

And by ‘hot minute’ I do mean this is going to be a long meta, so strap in.  For those of you who just might be tuning into this debacle, I, a person who has not used Tumblr, much at all, except for the last half year, ran into some trouble. 

If you wanna skip the whole TLDNR interpersonal stuffs and get straight to Why Aang is the Best Thing Since Sliced Bread, I will embolden the relevant parts, and italicize the crit of Korra, if you want that alongside.

I was excited that ATLA was seeing a resurgence due to the Netflix remake. I wasn’t even trying to apply any steep expectations for it. (learned not to do that the hard way with the last live action adaption, and to a much lesser extent, ATLOK, since it had good . . . elements, *ba dum tsshh*) 

So, these are a couple aspects of the issue: (1) Even on the internet, I am extremely introverted and until recently mostly came for content, not socializing. My main online interactions thus far have been in forums and artist-to-artist on DA. Tumblr is still very strange to me because it splits up its ‘threads’ so you can’t see all the replies if a certain pattern of users responds in their own space. I’m not even 100% sure it’s in chronological order, and replies are not nested next to each other so you can look in the comments and someone will be replying to something you can’t see in that window. And also since it is a bizarre hybrid of a blogging system, posts are somehow considered ‘owned by’ or an ‘extension of’ OP in a way forum threads are not. (2) ATLOK was good in a cinematic and musical way, to be sure. It also had some good concepts. I can go into it just appreciating it for the worldbuilding and be somewhat satisfied. But the execution was terrible. I was on AvatarSpirit.Net for years, and If I had maintained my presence on ASN to current day and had gotten around to downloading their archive now that the forum is dead, I would include some links to other peoples’ detailed analyses on just how flawed both the plotting and Korra’s frustratingly flat learning curve was especially in the first two seasons. But, that is a task for another day, and only if people are interested. 

No, what I’m addressing today, on the issue of Korra as a writing exercise, is how Mike and Bryan said specifically they wanted to make her ‘as opposite to Aang as possible’ and in so doing, muddied the central theme of the original ATLA series.

Now, again, I was mainly an art consumer for my first major round of ATLA fandom. Tumblr is an alien beast to me. But, after I write my first major Aang meta, talking about how amazing it is that he has the attitude he does, and how being content in the face of this overwhelming pain and suffering is an ONGOING PROCESS and an INTENTIONAL DECISION and not a simple PERSONALITY TRAIT, I start hearing that Aang gets a lot of hate from the fandom. Now this would be bad enough if it were merely people not liking his crowning moment of pacifism because they don’t understand the potential utility (I’ll elaborate on that in another post) or the ethics involved.

Aang is easily the most adult member of the Gaang. But he apparently gets hate for his few moments where he actually acts his age, a preteen, and maybe kisses a girl in a historical timeframe in which ‘consent’ discussions were probably nonexistent. Even in the present day, we are still practically drowned in movies that reinforce this kissing without asking trope. And even some female bodied people complain that asking kills the mood! But somehow he is responsible and reprehensible for this, even though the first time she kissed him back. I’m only going to get into the pacifism discussion today, but that was just another layer of annoyance bouncing around in the back of my head.  Other peoples’ crit of Korra that was stewing in my subconscious, plus this Aang bashing, which thankfully I had not directly read much of, made up the backdrop of gasoline for the match that set it off.  Even that seems a pretty melodramatic way to phrase what I actually said, which was: Aang, on the other hand, lost dozens of father figures and was being steamrolled by Ozai who was gloating about genocide TO HIS FACE, yet he still reigned in all that quote, ‘unbelievable rage and pain’ (The Southern Raiders). We Stan Aang, the Superior Avatar. No I did not f**king stutter. #AangSupremacy In another meta, someone complained that I was too defensive of Aang as a character and didn’t apply literary analysis enough, which I quickly rectified.

What set this off? Someone was kind of indirectly praising the line from Korra,  “When I get out of here, none of you will survive” To them it was emotionally resonant or whatever, and I have to point out that no, it was a martial artist not having control of their state of mind, as is the bedrock of the practice. It was never addressed by the narrative, which is a severe oversight.  I had a conversation with someone in the chats, making this distinction between Korra’s character traits and life philosophy. If she were to kill people while enraged and she was fine with that, that’s one thing. But if she regretted it, that’s a whole other kettle of fish. People argue that she comes from a warrior culture, unlike Aang.

Never mind that warrior monks are a thing. That’s what Shaolin monks are. You can be a pacifist and skilled at fighting. Those things are not mutually exclusive, which is the whole point of Bagua, Aang’s style.  And also, Katara’s style. 

That’s one reason I like Kataang so much- their congruent styles. Both of their real world martial arts are dedicated to pacifism, even though ATLA specifically doesn’t spell that out for Katara and her learning arc. 

There was a meta where someone briefly tried to argue that knowing “martial arts” is against pacifism. No. Quite the opposite. I’d argue that you are not a true pacifist unless you know exactly how to handle yourself if someone attacks you.  If you are not in a position to make conscious decisions about how much force to use, rather than merely operating on survival instincts, that is not pacifism. Or at least, not any energy or effort towards pacifism as a practical everyday tool.  I’ve made a few attempts to learn some tai chi and aikido, and it’s improved my physical and mental health, but some other things have gotten in the way. #lifegoals

I’m not going to tag the unfortunate soul whom I was replying to, because they’re probably tired of all this, but I’ll be sending them a PM to say that I’ve made this into a different post, because as I mentioned before, threads are somehow considered “owned” by OP, so it’s been pointed out to me that I should separate it.  I also said, I have basically ZERO respect for Korra uttering violent threats when the writers already minted a far more emotionally devastated and yet still resilient and centered character earlier in their franchise. People always try to excuse away people who genuinely like Aang more.  As if it’s just nostalgia or whatever. For me, no, it’s absolutely not. It is respect for a character who stands toe to toe with real people who are kind in the face of overwhelming injustice. (I have another meta on that). 

Both OP and people in the chats try to make excuses that she wasn’t raised as a pacifist, and that would be fine if they had addressed it with Tenzin and she had stated outright that she was rejecting pacifism and mind training. As it is, we are left with this nebulous affair where the lines between ideology and personality traits are blurred. 

We are told she “has trouble with spirituality” but what does that even mean? Does she have trouble with focus? Does she have trouble relating to the canonically real spirits? And pacifism specifically nor inner peace that it flows from is never even talked about as an extension of spirituality, which is canonically tied to airbending.

“Aang didn't have to deal once with the loss of his autonomy in atla” OP claims.

This was after I had noted that Aang was getting kicked around by Ozai and was most likely going to die.  Similarly, someone in the chat rejected the idea that a 12 year old trapped in a stone sphere that is heating up under a cyclone-sized blowtorch feels powerless. 

Sorry but that’s flat out ridiculous.

No one wants to admit that both of these people were faced with similar situations, and when push came to shove, one showed his LIFE PHILOSOPHY through conscious effort, and the other was abandoning the basis of martial arts, which is, no matter what the situation, keep thinking. Hold the panic at bay. Non-attachment would have served her well in this situation. Tenzin should have told her this. Before, or afterwards. It should have been addressed in the writing.  

People see this as “bashing” Korra, and oh well, can’t help that. If I think the writers didn’t follow through on their themes, that is my concern.  OP said I was “offended.” No, not really. 

I wasn’t offended by the post itself, or its commentary. Thought I made that pretty clear.

This is not dramatics. Let me be blunt.

As a ideological pacifist, and an actual practitioner of meditation, based on Buddhism, NOT just the fan of some show, I am for calling out writers who write one way from the survivor of genocide, and then stray from that ‘thoughtless aggression is immoral no matter HOW hurt I am’ to ‘let’s not address this character’s aggression in the narrative whatsoever.’ OP attempted to derail by accusing me of being racist or sexist against Korra. Also ridiculous. It honestly should have set me off more, but it didn’t. 

Meditation is about reigning in your emotions. Managing your anger when it gets out of hand, and digging down to the roots of it. Being responsible for your own behavoir. Acknowledging ownership of your own actions. Not blaming anything YOU DO on anyone else or any circumstances in your life. Like an adult, or should I say, an enlightened adult.

Or at the very least, that is the ideal ypu strive towards while being imperfect in the present.

. . .

Now.

I’m going to quote a passage in a Google Doc of mine, even though I’d really prefer if you asked to read the whole thing, with context.

“What do humans do when it is necessary to, or greed makes a nation want to recruit?

They go to the army to get trained, right?

Granted, having someone scream and get spittle on your face is, in the grand scheme of things, poor preparation for having bullets whiz past your chest and grenades shatter your ears. And, what do you do to prepare you for the pain of getting your leg blown off? Hopefully, nothing. Like taking a test where you only got half the study guide. But, it’s about the most ethical way to go about it, right?

Not everyone even sees action. So any more more extensive mental preparation for physical pain than that, and you’d have people definitely protesting.

Well, as it turns out, pacifistic protestors themselves, if they were in the right time and place, also very intentionally do this type of mind training. Except, when they did it, they actually did sit still and took turns roughly grabbing each other and throwing each other down and in some cases, even kicking and bruising each other.

Turns out, those pacifists are, in some ways, more hardcore than the army.

Why is this?

Because a pacifist’s aim, unlike a unit, who wants to gain the upper hand in a situation, is to grit their teeth and grind their way through all those survival instincts, and totally submit.

In this, they aim to get the sympathy of the public, who clearly sees they are not aggressive, or a danger, no matter how much the footage is manipulated or suppressed.

In this, they hope to appeal to their attacker’s better nature.

Make them stop and think, wait a second, are these people a threat like we’re told they are? I’m attacking someone who’s letting me beat them up. Or a bunch of people. All forming a line, and letting us peel them off. Or sitting, and bowing their heads. If I’m on the ‘right’ side of things, the law, why am I doing this?

It’s not like a bully, who’s just a kid.” They’re more self-aware.

And might I add the situation influences a pacifist’s actions too. There’s no reason to let a single or a few random attackers beat you up if you can evade or disable without permanent damage.

Pacifism is a dynamic set of responsive actions informed by values. Not a proscribed set or a checklist.

But in terms of organizing against state power, and recording wrongdoing, which unlike during the Civil Rights can happen from all angles from smart phones nowadays, these are the motivations.

“So, the pacifist knows this, and that’s why they go through all that trouble of training themselves to, not only submit, but not turn tail and run, either.”

See, a character trait is something like being a morning person, or ways of handing information, or a given set of emotions a character feels. Once you cross over into actions, you must make the distinction of whether an impulsive character agrees with their own uncontrolled actions, or is embarrassed or remorseful. Those are life philosophy. Now sure, one type of person or character may be more likely to subscribe to pacifism, but there is no gatekeeping on what you have to feel or how you look at things. You can be easygoing, or feel all the rage in the world, but as long as you at least attempt to have a handle on those desires and feelings to where they do not cross into actions, you are still doing the work of metacognition, which is what martial arts and its accompanying mind training are for.

It’s what we see Aang do.

He’s informed us, during the Southern Raiders, on how much rage and pain he feels.

Pain points, TRIGGERS, that were directly struck at when Ozai gloated over him.

He joins with all the past Avatars for several moments, and just like every other time he is in the Avatar State, he is enraged. He wants to exact revenge on the unrepentant grandson of a baby murderer.

We see it when he turns his head away, face still screwed up in anger.

For another example, I could cite my difficulties in being aware and reining in my tongue sometimes. I know the roots of these issues and I seek to let them go.

It’s just that process takes way longer than Guru Pathik would have us assume.

In fact, I would even say that Aang’s portrayal throughout the three seasons is not strictly a realistic representation of at least the sad side of grief. I addressed that a little when I talked about real life figures. But what it IS, is a metaphor that cuts very deep to the heart of pacifism. As I showed in that Doc . . . There is no limit of suffering a pacifist is willing to go through, internal or external, for the preservation of peace.

This was demonstrated during the Civil Rights, and with Gandhi and all his followers beforehand, inspiring them. The pacifists’ method of swaying hearts is probably the reason BLM exists in such numbers as it does today. Will the types of narratives that correspond with their full stories of the way they collectively planned and trained for and approached conflict make it into fantasy media? I’d say, probably not. For a host of reasons.

It could be hoped for, I guess.

But we DO have Aang.

As for myself, whether speaking sharply is an “action,” per se is up for debate- certainly it doesn’t seem to violate the non-aggression principle put forth by the vision of a “stateless society.”

For another example, let’s take my explanation at the beginning. I am examining how circumstances affected my actions, and now am attempting to fix it, if indeed it needs to be fixed. 

At least one person said that it not so much what I said, but how and when I said it. I don’t actually think I’ve said anything “wrong” per se. So I have to figure it out. 

[I’m considering splitting up this next part into a second post, as it only slightly relates to pacifism itself and is just kinda some more commentary on Tumblr itself- Tumblr discourse, as it were]

[I’ll put more brackets when I’m done in case you want to skip this part as well]

An interesting social difference between Tumblr and other places is this command you often get, “don’t chat/reblog/message me back.”

This is interesting for several reasons. For chats and reblogs, other people may be following the “conversation,” so it’s actually pretty rude and presumptuous to tell a person not to respond to whatever you said, because other people watching still may be interested in your take.

In a forum setting, if someone involved in a conversation doesn’t have anything left to say, usually they just don’t respond.

This method would work perfectly fine for Tumblr, but for some reason, maybe its super odd format, probably due to the “ownership”/“extension of self” I mentioned at the beginning of the essay, people don’t tend to do this.

Now, in comment sections, sometimes you’ll run across an amusing sort of “mutually assured destruction” where two people both say this to each other. You’d better stop responding. Omg just give up. Why are you still arguing. Etc.

But see, no matter where this behavoir pops up, and no matter who starts in on it, those who do this usually want to have the last say on the matter.

Instead of merely not replying, they want to assert verbal control over the conversation.

Tumblr, in its weirdness, is also sort of like a mutant comments section. You can post comment section threads as your own post.

Which is one reason why I’m puzzled when people say ‘don’t read the comment sections’ when Tumblr is so popular.

I’m an oddball in that I browse comment sections for fun.

Probably due to alexithymia, I didn’t really comprehend the emotional toll it takes on many people, so the warnings to “stay out of comment sections” read to me like “hey don’t eat that dessert.” After I’m done with the ‘meal’ of an article or art, I like to see what lots of different people have to say about it. The fluff. Anything vitriolic I either blip over, or extract anything useful, or if I judge the person is reasonable enough, I might engage.

Sometimes I mis-judge on how reasonable someone is, and I shrug and move on after being cussed out or whatever.

In this, I suppose I succeed much of the time in being a verbal pacifist.

[But let’s get back to the more serious stuff.]

We’re talking about what is done in life or death situations, here.

For myself, I may in the near future be working more with dangerously mentally ill people. I’ve had a little exposure to it through various means. Nurses are obligated not to retaliate against patients, and those who have, have been fired in some situations. Again oddly, this is not primarily what triggers my anxiety. Unfortunately enough, this requirement has also resulted in nurses getting seriously injured and violated. I hope to influence whether “no harm” techniques such as tai chi and aikido and arm locks may be allowed. The voluntary philosophy I was luckily already on board with is enforced by bureauacracy, directly relevant to my potential profession.

Were someone to get involved in a dangerous profession, such as a police officer, their moral duty would also be to own up to any spur of the moment anger or fear they acted on. 

It’s just that their bureaucracy acts differently, in excusing their actions.

Ideally, they would be taking steps far in advance, to avoid this often-cited fear of death reaction. As training pacifists like Aang do. 

And yes, army people are trained differently than police officers because the army, often, even when threatened, is supposed to avoid engagement or deploy deterrents that are non-lethal almost all costs, unless ordered otherwise. Whereas American police are given pretty much complete discretion and often not taught de-escalation techniques. Even police from other nations are better trained in that regard.

Enter the ironically named @avatarfandompolice whose account description should really speak for itself. Combative, dismissive, and their attention-hungry bread and butter is to find people they think it’s acceptable to ridicule.  They basically tried to say trauma was a valid excuse to take out your anger on other people, and in this situation, potentially kill. 

Now, does this hold up in the real world? Yeah, sometimes. Especially if some law breaker or law keeper has not been given the anger management tools, they perhaps could be excused, or better yet, rehabilitated.

But especially if anyone finds themselves in dangerous situations, or intends to put themselves in such, it falls to them to do this preparation.

As an aphant, I am at a bit of a disadvantage, compared to an average martial artist, being unable to visualize an attacker. But I still attempt it.

As the main “police officer” of the world- the coincidentally blue clad figurehead that is supposed to keep order, it is apparently fine for Korra to not do the work Aang did to keep level. To blow it off as too much trouble: clearing the First Chakra of fear. For herself or others. And its resultant anger. Had she had access to the Avatar State, the authority figure pretty much would have killed people.  This is what the “fandom police” and a certain chat goer ultimately support. Maybe they didn’t understand it that way, and since the second had blocked me, they will also never see this explanation. Unless I were to share it in Google Doc form I suppose.

So, I responded. “Remember kids, you are not responsible for your own behavior if you have the excuse that someone else did something bad to you.” A frighteningly common sentiment on this site.

When it’s low stakes like CAPSLOCKING or internet fights, that’s not such a big deal. But what happens if this attitude leaks into the real world? This isn’t even about Korra or Aang anymore, it’s about toxic mindsets. I didn’t know fans taking pro-Korra posts as anti-Aang was a common in the fandom. I’ll say again I’ve only just gotten really active on Tumblr like the past few months. This is about pacifism itself. MLK and his hardworking, training followers (yes some of them sixteen and POC and not super-powered like Korra) facing down firehoses and staging sit-ins long trained for would shake their heads at this defense of reactionism. 

Pacifism is not a Personality Trait.

It is deliberate actions and preparation taken over a period of time.

Then the “fandom police” tried more of this, and these two conversations ensued, the comments with another user resulting in the title and main thesis of this essay:

https://captlok.tumblr.com/post/638777472806273024/avatarfandompolice-response-to-my-independent

https://captlok.tumblr.com/post/638806142933467136/the-plight-was-not-what-i-was-getting-at-it-was

[hq--fics]

How The Captains Started Dating An Athletic/Sporty Fem!S/O

A/N: This is my first time doing this so decided to pick something at random. Feel free to request scenarios/head canons and I’ll do my best!

Characters: Daichi Sawamura, Kuroo Tetsuro, Bokuto Koutaro, Oikawa Toru, Ushijima Wakatoshi 

Warnings: none

Masterlist

Daichi

Sport of choice: Football/Soccer 

- You first met in the summer before starting middle school. You’d just moved into the house next to his. Naturally he came over with his parents to welcome you to the neighbourhood.

-Became friends almost right away when you appeared with a ball in your arms and asked if he wanted to play in the garden (anything to break up the boredom of unpacking) and got to know each other more, both finding your mutual love of sports an easy connection along with your open and friendly personalities.

- Your nervousness about starting school in a new area eased after finding out Daichi was going to be going to the same school as he was. At least you’d know one face in the sea of strangers. It was an even bigger relief when you were in the same class as him. Both of you swiftly becoming inseparable and best friends, though many classmates immediately assumed you were both a couple within your first month of school. Who could blame them with the way you both looked at each other? 

-The gossiping was only intensified when they saw you walk to and from school together every day, both in your own little happy bubble. It wasn’t your fault that football and volleyball practice ended at the same time, even when you guys got home you both found yourselves in one of your back gardens talking about anything and everything while passing a ball around.

-A confession occurred naturally in your final year. You were both walking home and talking high schools. Daichi became nervous, worrying how a different school might change things but you surprised him by laughing softly and putting your hand in his stating and ‘Isn’t it obvious by now? Where you go, I go.’

-Both of you are a power couple at Karasuno, excellent captains of your teams and cheer for the other at all matches. He is very vocal and worries immensely when you and another player come into contact over the ball. He’s the one to help patch you up and soothe your bruises after a particularly intense match. 

Kuroo

Sport of choice: Tennis

-You both met in second year of high school after being partnered together for a large science project. Up until then you barely had any interaction. Of course you had both looked at the other idly at times, you noticing his hands while he took an interest in your legs.

-After you were partnered you spoke briefly at lunch to work out what days and times would be best to get together and work on the project. He suggested the school library after school but you immediately declined stating firmly that you had practice, which caught his interest that only grew when you said it was tennis. 

-‘Oh? You mean like the short white sports skirt and suggestive grunting?’ he asked showing you his trademark grin. ‘Can I come watch?’ He expected you to blush but instead you wrote your number on a slip of paper and slipped it into his shirt pocket. 

‘Well if you’re as sharp with biology as you are with sports, we may actually pass.’ You told him with a smirk before throwing him a sly wink and left to have lunch with your friends and he couldn’t help but watch you go with a growing grin.

- On your first session together you both split the work evenly and begin on your respective sections and he wastes no time and immediately starts flirting with you in the hopes of getting some sort of reaction. You give him a witty remark in response most of the time or smirk. It’s entertaining and helps fill in the time you’re both researching through textbooks and notes.

-After your first session he insists on walking you home, managing to make you laugh out loud as he tells you about the antics he’s gotten up to at the training camps with the other schools. He could listen to that sound all day but his smile lessens when you sigh.

-‘Must be nice. Compared to volleyball, tennis is a lonely sport. I’m jealous.’ After that Kuro stops by during your practices, working on his side of the project and keeping you company. It works out well that your practice days don’t conflict with his so you can return the favour. Although both of you find it incredibly difficult to focus on the work in front of you, not when the other looks so good.   

-You confess mutually to each other after school when you celebrate passing your project, both going into a tight hug after the bell rang gaining a lot of attention from the rest of the class.

Bokuto

Sport of choice: Gymnastics

-You both met as a result of his overly enthusiastic and energetic afterschool practice. He had spiked the ball so hard it shot out of the gymnasium and across the walkway, rolling to a stop outside the gymnasium you were in. 

-‘You’re the one who hit it, you go get it.’ Akaashi had instructed him, refusing to throw another set to him until he went to retrieve the ball. Bokuto rushed out immediately and grabbed it, pausing when he heard music playing. Noticing the door was opened he peeked in.

-His eyes widened and his mouth hung open as he watched you twist and leap on the balance beam, moving in ways he never thought possible but it was so hypnotic he all but forgot about the sport he was meant to be playing which is saying a lot. 

-At one point it looked like you were about to slip and fall he felt his own stomach lurch but let out a sigh when you arced and continued with steely determination and grace he realised you were okay. When you leapt from the beam and onto the mat he let out a cheer that made you jump watching with wide eyes as he ran toward you already praising you. 

-However he was quickly stopped when Akaashi appeared from behind him and took a firm hold of his captain’s shirt. He apologised to you making Bokuto stop and watch the exchange with lessening enthusiasm. Why did he already know your name and he couldn’t even introduce himself? He was beginning to pout heavily.

-‘We’ll let you get back to your practice, come on Bokuto.’ He lets himself get dragged away but he’s looking over his shoulder at you until you’re out of view. It isn’t until he’s back in his own gym that he interrogates Akaashi, finding out your name and that you’re in his setter’s class.

-Your poor classmate somehow becomes the middleman between the two of you. Bokuto begs him relentlessly to ask if he can have your number and is shocked when you approach him at lunch to sheepishly ask him for Bokuto’s. Blushing you said it was flattering that the ace had complimented you so much.

-After numbers are exchanged you’re both texting non-stop and poor Akaashi has to listen to you both gush about the other constantly. 

Oikawa

Sport of choice: Volleyball

-You both know each other since middle school through reputation and watching each other play in tournaments and you’ve both hated each other since the first meeting. No one really knows how it came about it’s just always been there.

-He’s the Grand King that the girls scream and swoon over? You’re titled the Goddess of the Court by the boys. (It annoys him so much that your nickname is a rank higher than his but would never say it out loud.) 

-You’re both the same year and spent your entire first year doing all you could to avoid the other. Class projects, trips, tournaments, festivals? You both point blank refused to be in the same group at all costs. 

-When you do interact it’s snide comments and intense staring contests with Iwaizumi watching the two of you like it’s his favourite soap opera. He can feel the tension between the two of you and knows not all of it is fuelled by negative emotions. Far from it. While it’s his favourite thing to watch he can’t help himself but poke the hornet’s nest one day when both teams are at a tournament. 

- ‘We should go watch.’ He suggests lightly tapping the roster and Oikawa clicks his tongue so sharply the first years flinch. ‘Our match isn’t for a while yet. You got a better idea to pass the time before we have to warm up?’ Some of the others speak up, eager to just look at the girls in general but won’t pass up a chance to see the Goddess play as a bonus. 

- He joins the others regardless and when he takes his seat he realises he hasn’t seen you on the court since you were kids and now he’s taking notice of everything. The way you move, your presence on court, your silent but powerful dominance of the opponents that makes them lose hope with every point your team takes under your wordless command. You’re amazing. 

-He finds you when your match is concluded and he’s on his way to his match and asks to speak to you in private. Iwaizumi has to bite the inside of his cheek to hold back his smug grin as he passes. 

-You’re curious about the sudden change in him when he begins to apologise for his previous behaviour towards you and asks would you consider spending time together outside of the tournament. You agree on the condition he wins his next match, which he does that starts the beginning of your unstoppable relationship.

Ushijima

Sport of choice: Kickboxing

- Probably the most unexpected and unintentional of meetings for you two as dating was never really on either of your radars, both minds set on your ambitions and nothing else. Both of you were in the same year and knew of the other’s standing in their sport and respected that but there was no other interaction.

-That was however changed on one of his runs, his teammates far behind him as usual. Then he heard the muffled sound of music behind him and saw you pass by him with headphones on. Given the weather was starting to get colder he was surprised you were just wearing a tanktop and shorts but it did let him notice your toned body. (he may be stoic but he’d definitely notice the results of hard work and dedication.)

-He also notices the suspicious looks some people on the street throw his way and then he sees it; a guy his size running behind a young girl who doesn’t realise his there? Yeah that’d send warning bells ringing anywhere so he speeds up to overtake you. Last thing he needs is for the police to be called. Then he blinks to see you out of the corner of his eye taking the lead again which he does his best to avoid you in succeeding at.

- It goes back and forth until you both have to stop at the traffic lights. That’s when you pull your headphones out to throw him an incredulous look. ‘There a problem?’ you ask wondering were the sudden racing competition came from.

-‘I don’t want people to think I’m chasing you like a pervert.’ he answers so matter-of-factly you blink and let out a laugh. You can’t argue with that and when the light turns green you lightly punch his arm. 

- ‘You’re welcome to run beside me…if you can keep up.’ You challenge playfully and start running again. It takes him a moment to register your words and feels where you hit him as his lips quirk into a brief smirk and sets off after you catching up in no time. 

-This ritual of running together starts after that day and after a while Ushijima notices you’ve stopped listening to music completely on your runs and notes his observation aloud one day. 

-‘Why would I when I’m spending time with you?’ you answer before throwing him a teasing grin. ‘Besides I need to listen out for potential perverts chasing me.’ ‘Not while I’m here.’ He answers simply and you smile, sensing the deeper meaning to his words. You both fall into a relationship easily after that. While you both can’t attend all of the other’s events you both support each other fiercely and loyally, knowing you’re both more than capable of keeping up with the competition. 

[yandere-sins]

I was wondering if I could request 45 and 49 for Felix H. Fraldarius? The way you write about him is amazing and charming thanks for your hard work (๑˃̵ᴗ˂̵)

Thank you so much! I am glad you enjoy my writing of him :D

“If you ask me nicely, I can fulfill your wish.”    &    “I haven’t met a human like you in a while… How interesting.”

»»——————— ♡ ————————« 

The ruins were so old, you thought they’d collapse any second now, just because you were breathing. Of course, you were thankful that they were keeping up the mountain that surrounded you, leading you towards the actual ruins which long collapsed down into the mountain, completely hollow after so many centuries of existing. But even if you fretted to find your untimely demise under a fallen rock, you still had to venture on. There was a quest to finish.

“Return,” you heard an echoing voice grumble through the old tunnel, and it didn’t leave you unaffected, the hairs on the back of your neck standing. You knew you weren’t welcome, but still, even if the old ghosts didn’t want you here, you’d have to seek them out for their advice. As you were told by the oracles, there would be hundreds of lost souls waiting for you at the end of this path, but only the one you needed would appear before you.

This caused a mix of anxiety and expectancy to bubble in your stomach. You had read so much about the old legends of the Garreg Mach Ruins, the heroes and their enemies, the great battles, and no losses on their side. If anyone could help you with the war raging outside of these old ruins, then those ghosts of the ancient times.

It was prettier than you expected. Sure, overgrown and worn down by time and weather, but with the sun breaking through the hole in the top of the mountain, it had a nostalgic feel to it. Birds had made their nests on top of pillars, and the ground had moved away for water, little fish swimming beneath your feet as you crossed a toppled over wall that worked like a bridge. Had you not known where you were, this would have been a beautiful ruin to explore.

“Leave. You don’t belong here,” a disembodied voice called out to you again, and all you really could do was nod. You didn’t belong here, but you had a reason to be here. “I seek help,” you answered it, loudly, though you flinched as some debris fell down, shaken by the vibrations of your voice. Turning, you took a few steps backwards as you watched it, making sure there wasn’t a boulder coming down to squeeze you under it, when suddenly, you felt a cold resistance in your back.

For a moment only, you thought it was a pillar or anything else of the building around you, when your survival instinct kicked in, and you swirled around, hand on your sword. But before you could pull it, you had been conquered with a sharp blade pointing at your throat, making you afraid to gulp as it would have cut you with just the tiniest bit of change in your skin.

Defeated, you slowly lifted your hands, eyes focusing on your opponent rather than the deadly weapon at the most vulnerable spot on your body. You’d have lied if you said that the appearance before you wasn’t scary as he was. The coats and furs he wore showed what kind of high position he must have had when he was still alive, but they hung from his seemingly non-existent body, only reminding people of what kind of build he must have had.

And yet, you recognized the emblems on his jacket, the black hair, the colors he wore. You recognized him as one of the greatest sword-fighters to ever exist. Felix Hugo Fraldarius, a master of the blade, and even more so, a dedicated, high-ranking soldier and nobleman.

His face was ashen white, but in stark contrast to the dirty and ripped clothes on his body, it still seemed human enough to not be unpleasant to look at. It was even... a little attractive, you admitted to yourself, though his glare was as cold and unwelcoming as it could be. “You were warned,” he spoke, no echo this time, designated just for your ears. “Do you have a deathwish?”

The ghost said it so nonchalantly, it was almost like him asking you what kind of dinner you wanted, but his words were no less terrifying than his appearance himself. Showing him your hands, he didn’t even glance at them, never stopping to pin you with his eyes even if you tried your best to show you weren’t out to hurt him. When you took a step back, he matched your stance immediately, and you were sure now that he wasn’t just any kind of guard or soldier.

While you couldn’t say you were trained or maybe even exceptionally skilled, after holding up your own sword for so long, you knew a fine enemy when he approached. Back in his day, this man must have scared the living shit out of his opponents, just like he did it now with you. But you couldn’t allow yourself to falter, you had come so far!

“I inquire your help,” you mumbled, eyes switching from his stiff glare to his blade and back again. “Outside, war rages and innocent people die by the minute.”

“So you came here for help? What idiot would search for help from ghosts?”

You. You were the idiot.

“You can’t help me,” you admitted, looking along the countless reflection in the - strangely enough, perfectly clean - steel. “But you can train me to help myself.”

He didn’t expect that, as you saw his expression change to surprise for all of a second. Even if his stance stayed firm, always on target, he did allow himself to click his tongue, and finally, the blade lowered, in a way, it would have simply cut you open had it touched you. “What a nuisance. You think we’ll just accept requests of any kind of person who comes here to inquire about us? People hear about our resting place all the time and come for all kinds of shit, like their marriage problems. I have nothing to teach you.”

He turned, ready to leave you and your problems behind as if it didn’t concern him whether someone died or not. But you, for you, it was a big concern, and your chance couldn’t be wasted just because your ghost was moody and maybe an asshole. “Then why did you appear?”

He let out a disgruntled huff, shrugging with his back still turned. But at least he stopped walking, glaring back over his shoulder. “Someone had to.”

“Then please!” you pleaded, taking a step forward. Felix didn’t like it, turning halfway as if you were going to jump him, and he had to defend himself. “Please, help me too! I’m not trained and I can’t handle the sword like you do. But I can sit and watch, and train until I am too exhausted to stand!”

A moment of silence fell over you two, except for the birds chirping in the distance. Had you said too much? Too little? Where you supposed to speak up again? Beg him some more? You wanted to open your mouth, but you were quick to shut up when he turned back to you, his expression even more severe than seconds ago.

“I haven’t met a human like you in a while… How interesting.” 

In a matter of a few steps, he was in front of you again, closer than ever before. Without the sword keeping some distance, you had to admit he reeked of what must be old fabric and furs, mixed with dirt or... other substances. Rot and decay of years you’d never be able to grasp on. But it was just another test you told yourself, and you’d not fail right in the beginning. “Show me what you got,” he ordered, moving aside to give away the whole platform you were on; stone that must have belonged to a great monument back in the days.

You weren’t sure what to do, but you unsheathed your sword, took the only stance you knew of, and swung, trying to show what you were made of. You didn’t even land the first air blow, when you already felt a shove at your elbow. The touch was cold and unforgiving harsh, making you stumble from the suddenness. “Higher,” he instructed, and while you felt the need to complain about your treatment, you swallowed your sour mood in favor of following the ghost’s advice.

Immediately, you felt relief in your shoulder. It was so different, the result was an instant gratification. But while you wanted to share your joyful conclusion, you were immediately bombarded with more shoves, correcting almost everything. “Goddess, you suck.”

“T-Thanks,” you bit your lip, swallowing the pride you were not supposed to have if you wanted his attention, fearing he’d let you down the moment you showed some resistance.

Another shove.

“Have you thought about how to repay my kindness.”

“Re... Repay?!” you quaked as you flinched from the push in the back of your ribs. “Everything comes at a price, don’t tell me you forgot.”

He was in front of you, arms crossed and anger in his expression, the moment you hesitated to answer. You did forget, or more like, you didn’t hear the oracle scream it after you as you set out on your quest. “Of course, I did not forget.”

“Hm,” he snorted. “So, what to do I get?”

“What do you want?” you mumbled, making some more swift attacks under his strict eyes and icy touches. “Are you really going to give me what I want?” he asked, and you nodded - slowly. If it meant that you’d be able to make a change in the war outside, save many more lives than he could ever want, then sure, what kind of promise could it be? “Then I want you,” he hummed into your ear, and your body didn’t know what to do first - jump to the side or have your cheeks fill with heat.

“Don’t get full of yourself now,” he continued, passing you by as if nothing happened. “If I train you, you’ll become as strong as I am, and then...” Turning towards you, the same, shining silver sword appeared in his hands. “You will be my training partner, finally someone worthy to fight.”

Taking his own stance, you were almost afraid to imitate him, but it was as good of a lesson as any. “Is it a deal?” Felix asked, and you agreed with another nod. “That won’t do.” His stance loosened, a surreal experience to see knowing how correct and serious he was always. “If you ask me nicely, I can fulfill your wish. And only then.”

You gulped. Even if the sword wasn’t at your throat now, you felt like it was a throat-cutting decision to make. “If I become your training partner--”

“--it will be forever,” he finished your sentence. “Mine, and mine alone.”

Both of you took on your fighting stance again, his sword shining in the sun rays from above. Felix wasn’t one to give you a chance to think about things for too long, and as you later found out, it would be the skill that would keep you alive the longest. There was no choice to make, only responsibility and virtue, and as he dashed towards you, you knew your fate was sealed, accepting it with a quiet, "Okay," to yourself, rather than doing as he told you.

But you’d be alive long enough to win the war you so desired to end. Even if it meant that he’d come for you when the time was over, to take what he made out of you. What belonged to him, rightfully.

And would haunt you forever.

[archangelsunited]

Why Elven Cultural Supremacy is a Myth (Inheritance Cycle)

Elves are not native to Alagaȅsia (which does not exclude a culture from its worth, but it is important when looking at relative ages and understandings). Yet, it is in Alagaȅsia that the race transformed into the version readers met through Eragon’s eyes. This is an important point for two reasons. One, elves are not, within themselves, the founders of Alagaȅsia. As far as the history goes, dwarves and dragons can claim precedence. Secondly, it establishes history, culture, and politics over five thousand years older than the elves- and which the elves had no part in creating.

According to Domia Abr Wyrda, the elves were already competent in the area of magic before the pact with dragons. This fact is supported by Saphira, in Eldest when she speaks of the Stone of Broken Eggs, who described the breaking of dragon eggs with magic. From what we know of dragon eggs in Eragon, eggs were very sturdy and difficult, if not impossible, to harm by non-magical means. We also know that the path to the nest is impossible to climb by non-magical means. To avoid a great loss of energy, the assumption would be, at the time of the elves arrival, the elves had a great proficiency and ingenuity with magic. It should be said the dwarves also had a rudimentary understanding of the craft as well.

Elves, however, bonded with dragons within eighty years of arriving in Alagaȅsia. For elves, this might have been a generation, but for dragons and dwarves, the time is not significant in their lifespans or their culture. Elves were mortal for only a short while in Alagaȅsia.

During the Blood-Oath Celebration in Eldest, Eragon is granted an appearance and the physical powers of an elf. He also gains the ability to meditate and split his concentration over many areas at once, which he struggled with beforehand. Understanding that this transformation came from the dragons is essential in understanding the elves, due to its implications:

1.)   While elves may have been skilled in magic, their abilities were most likely far, far below what was possible by the time of Galbatorix.

2.)   Elves would not have been known by their physical beauty when they came to Alagaȅsia.

3.)   There is a high likelihood that the elves had slower reflexes and less physical strength than they did three thousand years later.

In other words, elves were in the same state as humans when arriving in Alagaȅsia.

In other words, before the Urgals and humans arrived, the elves had gained extraordinary abilities, but since the progression was not slow (The guardian of Du Weldenvarden was alive since the War of the Dragons, making it likely the elves gained immediate immortality), they had absolutely no understanding the power and its relationship with their race. Nor, it should be mentioned, were the elven riders originally watchers over any race besides their own. A case could be made that the dragons put themselves into the power of the riders, but due to the nature of dragon society, it would be a bit unlikely. It was the elves who took it upon themselves to slay dragons. It was the elves who took it upon themselves to hunt down the Raz’ac and the Urgals. And when humans came in numbers to Alagaȅsia, it was the elves who placed themselves, or the riders, in charge of the dwarves, humans, and elves. While the elves frame this as benevolent, it was a prideful and arrogant stance to take. Each choice mentioned had multiple reasons attached to the act, taken together the consistent choices show something much more sinister.

The Riders of Brom, and even Oromis’ time, existed around 697 years. That span of time is less than a fourth of the existence of the Riders in general, It is less than a tenth of the history of the dwarves and the dragons. Even then, by the time the Riders established themselves as a ruling force, the monarch of the elves was not in control of them, though the leader was an elf.

Elven society was new and untried and then sought to dominate Alagaȅsia, despite claims of longevity or wisdom. When they failed, they lost most if not all position of power in Alagaȅsia, while trying to maintain a myth of elven supremacy, which I will most likely talk about in another post.

The main take away from this, I hope, is threefold.

1.)   The elves have a relatively young and untested culture.

2.)   The beauty and strength of the elves is a relatively new, if unknown, benefit of magic.

3.)   The elven culture was dedicated to spreading and dominating culture and power in Alagaȅsia.

[a-40k-dad-showcase]

AZORIAN FLUFF MASTERPOST

FORGE WORLD AZORIA — Aϱ-LXXXV

Affiliation : Adeptus Mechanicus Geological Radius : 2250 km Surface area : 15,910,000 km² Surface gravity : 7,85 m/s² (0,8g) Population : 9 billion (estimated)

World Classification : ϕ-ϱ-η Alternate Class : Knight World (House Sarrokkæn) Household Grade : Secundus 

Tithe Grade : Aptus Non Aggregate : 1,000: Aestimare : B800-C1 Production Grade : IV-Secundi

FOR ALL THOSE WHO APPRECIATE HOMEBREW LORE, HEREUNDER YOU WILL FIND THE ONGOING AZORIAN LORE CuRRENTLY BEING COMPILED INTO A SINGLE POST.

Summary :

Azoria is a Forge World of the Adeptus Mechanicus located in the Segmentum Tempestus, roughly in the middle of the triangle formed by Bakka, V'Run and Solstice. Rediscovered late M32, Azoria was originally a feudal / knight world rich in materials needed for ship-building. At first ruled by Terra, it has been transfered to Martian control at the end of M33 after the discovery by archeological expeditions of a host of strategically minor STCs. Profoundly altered by the transformation into a Forge World, Azoria's ecosystem has been all but destroyed despite the negotiation of unique conditions for the Adepus Mechanicus' take-over. Although officially run by the Adeptus Mechanicus, Azoria enjoys an unique joint-governance status, with the Fabricator-General overseeing the vast industrial zones, and a Planetary Government overseeing civil affairs. A production tax as a form of planetary-rent allowed the civil government to elevate Azoria as a thriving commercial hub for the sector and beyond.

Azoria's civil government rules over a competent and well-equiped law enforcement force spread within all its hive cities. The Adeptus Mechanicus protects its industrial zones with their legions of Skitarii. In remote plains away from the hives, the Knights of House Sarrokkæn, in vassalage to the Adeptus Mechanicus, keep sovereignty over their historical territories, called “The Wastes” by most hivers. These barren lands are populated by the Free Folk of Azoria, a parallel society living under the feudal rule of House Sarrokkæn.

Azoria is an important planet in the sector in terms of production, commerce and military might. Though the dispersed nature of its governance, and the long and difficult negotiations that lead to this arrangement resulted in the reluctance of both Terra and Mars (and by extension, Segmentum Command) to call upon Azoria for military contributions.

At the beginning of M42, Azoria issued a distress call to Bakka. Sabotage on a massive scale had taken place within the industrial areas and several Hive cities either declared themselves in open rebellion or went dark altogether. If the Skitarii and the Knights of House Sarrokkæn could clear up the industrial areas on their own, pacifying the hives or gaining access to the hives that shut off, proved another task entirely. Under the pressure of the Fabricator-General, who required the return of workers to the production facilities, the civil government had no choice but to make the call.

Transported by Naval Battlegroup Bakka's Fury, several regiments of the newly formed Spectris Cadiae and one detachment of Tempestus Scions were dispatched, alongside a regiment of the Death Korps of Krieg sent by mistake. By the time the Imperial Guard regiments had established their command posts on the desolated Azorian plains between the western border of Sarrokkæn Territory and the outskirts of Hive7, almost 5 months after the initial attacks, a formal enemy still hadn't been identified by the local defense forces.

Without clear guidance, and in the absence of an unified planetary organisation, not to mention, having to manage the expectations of the Death Korps men who were eager to lay waste to the unresponsive Hive Cities, the General Staff of the Spectres of Cadia were at a loss. Engagement-wise, troops on the ground suffered daily, morale-sapping losses during their attempts at pacifying the Hives.

Specialised in hostile environment operations and sent to Azoria under the false assumption that their presence was requested to secure the production facilities, the Spectres of Cadia were ill equipped for their urban pacification mission. They are currently still fighting an uphill battle, though Azoria definitely isn't the worst affectation in these regiments' history warfare.

The Azorian landscape in the Hives region.

The outskirts of an industrial area, weeks after the reclaiming operations lead by the Skitarii.

Early history and governance negotiations :

After being hastily incorporated into the IoM at its rediscovery, Azoria had managed to remain more or less untouched by change for a millenium, until the end of M33, when the Adeptus Mechanicus negotiated with Terra the rights to Azoria, projecting to turn it into a Forge World dedicated to the building of commerce fleets and the manufacturing of the various STCs discovered there.

At the time, Azoria, while still governed by the feudal reign of its Knightly Houses, had elevated its population and technological status to that of the smallest Hive Worlds.

The arrival of the Adeptus Mechanicus wasn’t well received and multiple conflicts ensued. The Knightly Houses of Azoria banded together, lead by House Sarrokkæn and managed, by threatening to destroys the STCs, to force Imperial authorities and the AdMech into fairer negotiations.

Out of which came the following decisions : Azoria wouldn’t become a Forge World as the Adeptus Mechanicus would have made it had they had free rein. Instead, the Adeptus Mechanicus’ implantation would not be allowed to extend over 30% of the total surface of buildable land. However, to circumvent this inconvenience, the AdMech built both deep and high on their alloted territories.

The Knights while accepting the Adeptus’ official leadership, would retain a comfortable amount of sovereignty over the Azorian people.

The civilian planetary government created especially for the newer urban areas - or hives - would also be allowed to evolve naturally, and not fall under the immediate rule of the Fabricator-General. A marginal part of the Forges’ production would also have to be ceded to the Planetary Government, as an exploitation’s tax, allowing Azoria to develop its commerce with nearby worlds.

Over the next centuries, House Sarrokkæn effectively absorbed all smaller houses and became the sole Knightly House left on the planet, ranking in to the higher tier of Grade Secundus with approximatively 300 war machines in its care.

At the dawn of M42, House Sarrokkæn still rules over a portion of the population willingly staying in “the wastes” or the non-urbanised areas found in the vicinity* of the Obsidian Keep, their ancestral homestead.

*(ca. 1.000.000 sq. km surrounded by a few hive cities and an Adeptus Mechanicus production megastructure. The closest hive to the Obsidian Keep is Hive 7)

While the House’s rule might not have changed, the level of comfort and quality of life of all from serfs to masters had tremendously improved, only to be set back by the pollution and the contamination of the planet.

The Wastes are under the jurisdiction of House Sarrokkæn and these lands are protected and policed by the House’s own army, the Milites Gregarii.

Law and order in the urban areas and hives is under the planetary governor’s jurisdication, protected by the Azorian PDF and policed by various local enforcement agencies.

Azorian economy relies on planetary and space mining, ship-building and the manufacturing of unique goods thanks to the retrieved STCs, the commerce of which with nearby worlds plays a tremendous part in Azoria’s economical growth and thus, in maintaining its privileges and independence.

HOUSE SARROKKÆN

Current Full House Crest with the motto “Parva Sub Ingenti”

“The small under the great” ; denoting the duty of protection of not only the people of the Free Territories, but also of their general interest, which has been paramount to House Sarrokkæn for over seven millenia.

Coat of Arms until the end of M33 — though not official anymore, this design is still widely in use.

Coat of Arms M34 onwards

INSERT 1 : “ARMIGER”

With a chilling mechanical wheeze, Ruinstride is clamped down onto the elevating platform. As soon as the giant becomes immobilised, cloaked figures begin scurrying about, as if they appeared out of thin air.

They engage in a ballet danced back and forth between Ruinstride and the various control panels placed on the platform. The Sacristans — responsible for the maintaining of House Sarrokkæn’s war machines — are but shadows moving in the murky, dying light of the Azorian twilight.

From within the piloting post of the Knight, very little of what happens beyond its metal shell can be heard. Not the strong, poisonous winds roaring through the desolate plains, not the noise made by the Milites Gregarii vehicles guarding the area, nor the clanking done by the ground crew at work. The pilot couldn’t hear anything other than the gentle, yet disquieting hum of the Armiger’s active systems, further intensifying the pilot’s feeling of being safely nested into a cocoon. A terrible cocoon of immeasurable might.

Sitting deep into the belly of the beast, Liwa stares at her control monitors. She is now linked to the platform’s security network and flicks through the various video feeds. There is no specific purpose in her actions, she merely passes time, waiting for the Sacristans to finish the preparations for the long ride down.

Suddenly, one of the monitors displays a communication channel opening, showing the spectrogram of the inbound signal. 

“Mistress?” inquires the Sacristan supervising the re-entry procedures. —”Ready when you are, operator.” Liwa replies, in haste. The sacristan produces a few vowels trying to begin his sentence. He stops for a second to better verbalize his thoughts with the appropriate deference. —”I’m terribly sorry if I mislead you, Mistress, but I only wished to inform you that departure will be delayed for a little while longer : Battlebound is in sight and will be travelling down with us.”

Liwa smiles for Battlebound is steered by her twin brother Leto. “Understood, operator. —Ruinstride, out.” she replies before tuning into her brother’s vox channel.

With an ever growing smile locked on her face, the young woman takes a moment to prepare her opening remark : “They told me that we had to wait for another passenger on the ride down, but I would have hoped it wouldn’t be a lowlife such as yourself.

Her satisfaction hits a high as she finds the vox’s clics a fitting punctuation for her comment. The answer comes back into the audio feed without delay :

“If I didn’t know you any better, I’d swear you were trying to hurt my feelings.”

Liwa chuckles as she taps into the distant surveillance feed, tracking Battlebound’s whereabouts.

—”Not in my wildest dreams, brother.” she says.

Leto’s Armiger arrives in visual range and soon walks onto the elevating platform, taking place in front of Ruinstride. The restraining mechanism bolts the war machine down and the Sacristans begin a new dance of preparing, checking and organising.

“Anyway, what have you been doing up here today?” she inquired.

—”I’ve been working on my short-range accuracy in the south-eastern ruins” he sighs. “I learned I wasn’t as good as I thought I was because the preceptor had me retake the drills over and over again. Truthfully, this was a bit of a painful day for me.” he concludes, a hint of frustration still stuck in his throat.

“But anyway, what about you?”

—”I simply went out for a long stroll. I needed a moment alone with Ruinstride, I feel like I need to focus on my synchronisation with the machine-spirit”

The voxcaster’s incoming transmission click interrupts their chit-chat :

“Mistress, Master, we are ready to depart. Today’s descent duration will approximate 30 minutes. Your respective maintenance crews have been notified and are ready for your arrival. I hope you’ll enjoy the ride. —Operator out.”

As the voxcaster clicks signal the end of the transmission, a faint rumble can be heard from within the metal carapaces that begin to vibrate.

The young pilots experience the shivering of the platform as it begins its journey downwards. Soon they disappear into darkness, swallowed by the seemingly endless vertical tunnels running deep beneath the surface of the Wastes.

Where those lead, very few surface-dweller actually know.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE I

PRINCEPS NEFO III SARROKKÆN

High-Monarchs of House Sarrokkæn are destined to pilot the infamous “Sovereign Fury” a Dominus-pattern Knight Suit of incredibly domineering nature. Sitting at the helm of Sovereign Fury is extremely demanding as the Machine Spirit has developped a hatred of weak-minded or less-than-stellar pilots.

However, with proper tutoring, it is possible for most pilots to learn how to stay in the good graces of their steed’s Machine Spirit, for a time. Although, when the first weaknesses of age make their appearance, the Machine Spirit will invariably begin to rebel and cause glitches and malfunctions. When this happens, it signifies that it requires a new pilot, one still in his or her prime.

Upon receiving confirmation of the Machine Spirit’s desires by the sacristans, the ruling Princeps will hold an abdication ceremony and his heir apparent (or pressumtive) will be crowned Princeps of House Sarrokkæn in his  or her stead.

Usually, it doesn’t end the former Princeps’ piloting career, as he or she will usually join the ranks of the precepts of House Sarrokkæn (or choose another role if they so desire).

If a High Monarch decides to ignore the signs however, Sovereign Fury’s malfunctions will become more frequent, and more serious. If the Monarch persists and refuses to abdicate and pass on the suit to their heir, the Machine Spirit will take hold of its pilot’s mind and seriously compromise their sanity, with impairments as varied as apathy, amnesia, catatonia, dementia, coma and even, death.

Therefore, the reign of a Monarch of House Sarrokkæn is expected to end somewhere between his mid 50ies and mid 60ies. To ensure that Princeps are mature enough for their duties, if the heir to the throne is less than 25 years of age on his or her coronation day, the household is placed under regency, elected by the previous Monarch and their High Court.

Nefo II Sarrokkæn, father of the current Princeps managed to hold the reins of Sovereign Fury into his early 70ies before the first signs of the Machine Spirit’s discontentment appeared. This is definitely a rarity within the household’s long recorded history of High Monarchs.

FORMER PRINCEPS : NEFO-THE-ELDER

INSERT 2 : “Reins of Fury”

Blood pounding under the temples, the Princeps’ limbs twitched as his steed murmured directly into his mind. Not in words, but rather in a slow, continuous and menacing hum, an unnerving cybernetic growl of which he somehow could make sense.

RELEASE. ME. NOW.

The lift carrying his lance to the eastern borders of Sarrokkæn territory still was a good ten minutes away from its destination.

MAKE. US. KILL. RELEASE. THE. FURY.

Nefo tried to concentrate on his breathing, to let go of the tension in his body. His head tilted forwards has he tried to relax his tense neck. As much as he tried, he couldn’t get rid of the stiffness between his shoulder blades. An unpleasant sense of unease began to grow within his guts. Those remaining minutes promised to feel excruciatingly long.

I. AM. FIRE

The Princeps spoke softly to himself within the silence of his Knight Valiant’s cockpit. “Inhale. Hold. Exhale.” He tried to distanciate his conscious mind from the overwhelming will of the Valiant’s Machine Spirit.

I. AM. FURY.

“Just two more minutes. Just two. Two short minutes” Nefo said, those words intended as a way to keep himself focused rather than meant as an answer to the machine-voices gushing into his brain.

I. AM. SOVEREIGN.

Energy discharges started flowing from the Throne Mechanicum’s electroencephalic connectors into the Princep’s brain. A chorus of unintelligible voices faded in, seemingly creeping out from the back of his mind.

YOU. WILL. BRING. ME. TO. OUR. ENEMIES.

His Knight was unrelenting but the newly appeared chorus had become gradually clearer. Amidst their whispers, Nefo heard ghostly yet familiar voices softly speaking in unisson.

“Tune Him out”

-I know, I know! Nefo replied in the apparent loneliness of his cockpit. WE. SHALL. INCINERATE.

He is angrier than usual. WE. SHALL. OBLITERATE.

Many individual voices talked over each other for a short moment but Nefo managed to make out a few sentences out of the ghostly chaos : “You call that angry?” “You haven’t seen angry, lad.” “I’d call that eager, at most?” Nefo could swear he also heard some manic laughter in the background. Probably the ghosts of the pilots turned mad by the machine spirit, or those responsible for the machine’s spirit ill temper, depending on which part of the family lore one is enclined to believe.

“Focus on me now.” said the voice of his grandfather, who had also been his preceptor when he was but a squire in waiting of his becoming ritual.

“Tune Him out.” the spectral voice repeated.

INCINERATE. OBLITERATE. INCINERATE. OBLITERATE. INCINERATE. OBLITERATE.

Nefo weakly grabbed the motion-control sticks and exhaled loudly.

“We’ve done this countless of times.”

added the memory imprint belonging to his father.

-I know.

INCINERATE. OBLITERATE. INCINERATE. OBLITERATE. INCINERATE. OBLITERATE. INCINERATE. OBLITERATE. INCINERATE. OBLITERATE.

Nefo closed his eyes and consciously slowed down his breathing. From within his own mentalscape, he pictured a door opening. The door was so small, it could hardly let an insect through. The door flung open and brought a light into the darkness of his mind. He pictured channeling everything the Throne was feeding him through that narrow passage. As he focused on this point within his mind, the overhelming input of Sovereign Fury’s Machin Spirit trying to dominate Nefo’s brain was being slowly filtered out.

INCINERATE. OBLITERATE. INCIRATE. OBLIRATE. INRTE. OBLTRTE.

He kept his eyes closed and his mind focused on the bright dot within until the knight’s voice became but a constant hum.

INSSSS. BLLLL. IUHMMMM. BHMMMMM. MMMMM.

It is done. He is within me. I feel his needs, his desires. I will heed them, feed them : we will incinerate, we will obliterate, but it is I who holds the reigns of our Sovereign Fury once more.

The Sarrokkæn Family Branches

Each branch is lead by a Baron (or Baroness) Prime who is also part of the Princep's Exalted Court. Traditionally, the role of a Baron(ess) Prime received in court stays within the same branch. Some changes may occur, but some roles are inherently linked to certain families, for instance, the role of Forgemaster has been within the Highgate branch since time immemorial, while the Princeps of House Sarrokkæn has been stemming from Deepgarden for at least 6 millenia.

Deepgarden (Baroness Prime Gesunna, Lady of Deepgarden — Mistress of Justice)

Dimwall (Baron Prime Rikken, Lord of Dimwall — Broadhailer)

Downspire (Baron Prime Nidar, Lord of Downspire — Master Tactician)

Highgate (Baron Prime Weralt, Lord of Highgate — Forgemaster)

Tornash (Baron Prime Agleizo, Lord of Tornash — Loremaster)

Outwark* (Baron Prime Hagus, Lord of Outwark — Gatekeeper)

*The Knights of Outwark are currently on deploiment off-world, fighting wars for the Imperium, bringing glory to themselves and to House Sarrokkæn.

Breakdown of Sarrokkæn Knight numbers by pattern.

There are roughly 300 full-fledged Knights within the household, making it a high-tier Secundus-grade house. In these numbers, the smaller Armiger chassis reserved for Squires and Vindices (veteran/retired milites employed as bodyguards) are not counted. They amount for roughly an additional hundred war machines.

Traces of House Sarrokkæn history can be found in its organisation. Azoria originally counted several Knightly Houses of which The Sarrokkæn were the most influential. This influence ultimately lead to their absorbing the other smaller houses.

This was done through an alliance which fought for a better treatment by the newly-arrived planetary ruler, the Adeptus Mechanicus. Arrangements and compromises were made between the houses, among which was the construction of a fortress-city and the abandonment of all previous titles in favour of a “branch-name” to honour the memory of incorporated Households.

The names of the original noble families never were passed down in records. If they were through oral tradition, these names never were uttered again. Similarily, which branch had stemmed from the first Sarrokkæns was never disclosed.

There are however hints, that can, if not point to the right branch, at least help winnow the branches to a few plausible candidates.

One of these hints lies in the repartition of Knights through the branches. Open-records state that after the Communion of the Houses, the Warmachines were more fairly distributed among the branches. But if the rearrangement was made to be fairer, it wasn’t done equitably in the strictest sense of the term.

Some postulate that the repartition might be indication of a particular House’s original strength and influence over Azoria’s pre-Adeptus Mechanicus past. If the theory seems to hold water, there is actually no way of knowing if the Sarrokkæn, first of their name, hadn’t forseen this eventuality and chosen to forsake their former strength in an effort to make the past harder to decipher for further-away generations.

Hereunder you will find a breakdown of the Knights of House Sarrokkæn by family-branch and chasis type (including additional Armiger counts for the sake of thoroughness). It is important to note that House Sarrokkæn also possess three Acastus suits (two Porphyrion and one Asterius) which are kept deep within The Obsidian Keep's vaults. These suits are not assigned to any particular branch of the Sarrokkæn House and do not have designated pilots. The Acastus suits are considered a collective heirloom and would only be fielded under the most dire of situations.

Deepgarden (branch of Princeps Nefo and Mistress of Justice Gesunna) Questoris-Pattern : 62 Dominus-Pattern : 8 Cerastus-Pattern : 5 Armiger-Pattern : 36 Total : 75 (+36)

Dimwall (Baron Prime Rikken, Lord of Dimwall — Broadhailer) Questoris-Pattern : 26 Dominus-Pattern : 4 Cerastus-Pattern : 2 Armiger-Pattern : 16 Total : 32(+16)

Downspire (Baron Prime Nidar, Lord of Downspire — Master Tactician) Questoris-Pattern : 44 Dominus-Pattern : 6 Cerastus-Pattern : 0 Armiger-Pattern : 26 Total : 50(+26)

Highgate (Baron Prime Weralt, Lord of Highgate — Forgemaster) Questoris-Pattern : 57 Dominus-Pattern : 8 Cerastus-Pattern : 6 Armiger-Pattern : 32 Total : 71 (+32)

Tornash (Baron Prime Agleizo, Lord of Tornash — Loremaster) Questoris-Pattern : 38 Dominus-Pattern : 4 Cerastus-Pattern : 0 Armiger-Pattern : 24 Total : 42 (+24)

Outwark* (Baron Prime Hagus, Lord of Outwark — Gatekeeper) Questoris-Pattern : 32 Dominus-Pattern : 3 Cerastus-Pattern : 0 Armiger-Pattern : 16 Total : 35 (+16)

This breakdown shows that the Highgate and Deepgarden branches both hold the largest pools of Knight armours while the Outwark and Dimwall branches currently hold the smallest amount of Knights.

It is however hard to come to definitive conclusions as historically, the Knights of Highgate have been affected to the protection of the Principality and the Free Territories, as the Highgate branch can be traced to the families most invested in the design and construction of the Obsidian Keep and its subterranean network of tunnels and caves know as The Burrows.

As for Deepgarden, it is the branch of the current Princeps and a fluctuation of the number of Knights into the service of the ruling branch is a known phenomenon.

Moreover, the recent records of each branch show a slower, natural fluctuation of their strength according to inter-branch betrothal, births, number of members actually being knighted, etc.

[91percentpynch]

the raven cycle x all for the games crossover part one - ronan and the ravens

i dedicate this to leni, as she sent me fanart of ronan lynch in a raven uniform and we started to talk about this. you probably won‘t see this, but this is for you. trigger warning: mention of abuse, mention of scars, mention/ hinting of rape, description of physical abuse at the end!! if i should add any warnings let me know!!

ronan joined the ravens because niall fucked up the moriymas and it was giving them one of their sons or dying

well we all know niall is a narcist so obviously he chose a son of his instead of his own death

declan figured that out pretty fast and immediatly volunteered so that niall would let ronan and matthew live in peace

but niall had other plans - he chose ronan: attitude problem and dreamer? he would surive the cruelties of the nest

declan told ronan, promised him to keep him safe, to not let niall take him away

declan tried to save him, really did try, but in the end he was just a teenage boy and their father? well he was their father, powerful dreamer, narcistic asshole, stubborn without limits

one night when declan and ronan go to bed, declan in ronan‘s room like every night since they heard from the deal, their father came in their room and got ronan

declan didn‘t notice, he slept too deeply - one of niall‘s dreams, so he would get ronan without declan noticing

when declan noticed however he screamed and cried and woke the entire house up

matthew didn‘t understand why his older brother cried in the room of the middle child every single day since the day ronan mysterically disappeared

riko tries to break him, because investments don‘t have feelings, they aren‘t human

little does he know that ronan doesn‘t have feelings, he doesn‘t have a heart you can break

besides that he lived with niall lynch long enough to know what pain feels like - after all their father gave them boxing/ fighting lessons and taught them how to handle pain

ronan is a backliner, he is jean‘s partner

jean and ronan grow really close

ronan promised to keep jean safe and unless declan ronan masters and sticks to his plans

he does everything to get riko‘s attention - disrespecting him, not showing up to practise, not doing as he was told

riko tried to use jean against ronan only ONCE - one of the only regrets the king of exy had in his sorry life

when riko tries to use that against him, ronan protects jean by fighting riko

this ends in riko torturing him

ronan doesn‘t mind

ronan is a dreamer in this universe

only jean knows about him

ronan dreams jean and himself things against the pain

ronan is actually super good at exy

almost as good as kevin

kevin has a crush on ronan

ronan doesn‘t care, because kevin is not his type

his type is adam parrish - starting dealer from the palmetto foxes

when they marked him, he tried to get a feeling of what the color is like, so when he went to bed he got himself a tattoo of his own

on his back, a maejestic raven, two boys kissing, surrounded by the forrest in his dreams

he hides it as good as he can from riko - for jean‘s sake because yes he fought him once and he might have left him in peace but you never know with that psychopath, do you?

and so he goes through the days, pain blurring them all together, jean always waiting for him in their room

„you don‘t have to do that, you don‘t have to take all the pain for my mistakes“, jean whispers in french once again.

„jean, moi soleil, i promised you to keep you safe. i‘m not my fucking brother. i never lie. i keep my promise, i will keep you safe. and if that means that i have to entertain our favourite dickhead, i will gladly do that“, ronan replied softly.

„i don‘t want you to be in pain“, jean admitted quietly.

„jean, you idiot, i am always in pain. either in my dreams or in this hellhole. but at least seeing riko furious is fun, unless my dreams“, ronan‘s eyes slowly wandered to his scars on his wrist.

jean just takes ronan‘s hands and holds them - their secret promise to never leave each other‘s side

eventually they fall asleep, jean‘s head on ronan‘s shoulder, ronan‘s head on top of jean‘s dark brown curles

they get woken up by a furious riko

ronan wasn‘t able to hide his tattoo fast enough, riko already saw it

„how dare you? how dare you disrespecting your master you piece of shit?“, riko yelled.

„which master? all i see is a little dickhead with a napoleon complex“, ronan replied calmly, looking riko right in the cold, dead dark brown eyes.

riko didn‘t take these words well and went straight for jean

„i would think about touching him twice if i were you. i don‘t know how you see it but i‘m roughly a foot taller and i know how to box. I wouldn‘t take my chances there. one more step towards him, one funny look and we‘ll find out“, ronan said calmly, „whatever you want to do to him, do it to me. i‘m a lot of fun. don‘t like my tattoo because you‘re an homophobic brat? well try burn it off me. take a knife and cut it off me. i don‘t care, i‘m a big guy, i can take it. however we don‘t want the other dickhead to know i might not show up to practice because my back hurts and oh, how my exy will suffer under that. probably gonna send someone to me in the shower again, oh how creative“

riko however didn‘t listen and took another furious step towards jean, hatred and madness in his eyes, which only meant once: brutality, torture, no limits of his anger

ronan out stepped riko and put himself in front of jean „go as far back as you can. sit down on your bed, face to the wall“, ronan said to jean in french, the other boy did as he was told, not knowing what else he should do

it was one of these times where ronan asked himself what that boy did before he arrived three years ago. how he surrived so long. obviously he saw his scars and ronan blamed himself for every single one of them. technically they weren‘t his fault, he wasn‘t here. but his brain stopped working properly when it came to the people he loved, he cared about.

he took his chance, the moment of suprise on his side and punched him right in his face. when riko tripped over his own feet ronan didn‘t hestiate and kicked him in the stomach. riko was never used to abuse, he was never beaten, never kicked, so he fell to the floor, holding his stomach, trying to catch his breathe

again ronan didn‘t hestiate, he took jean and ran for it

ran without any goal, without any orientation, he didn‘t plan this through, he just knew they didn‘t have time

„run, if you can make it without me, you run! do you hear me jean? run!“, he whisper-shouted at the other boy as they made their way through an dark corridor

„i won‘t leave you behind. i‘ll go with you, or not at all. he will kill you if we don‘t make it“, jean replied, anxiety making his accent thicker

they were just about to run around the corner when kevin came into their way

„what are you guys doing?“, he asked innocently.

„oh we‘re on a romantic fucking walk, watching the sunset asshole. we‘re fleeing. from your nice little cult. we‘re going. and if i find out you tell someone what we do i will come back and murder you princess. now either move out of the fucking way or join us for all i care. but if mr dickhead king of exy finds me, he will murder you, so i would really appreciate you making your decision fucking fast shithead“, ronan whispered fastly and furiously.

„i‘ll go with you, i‘ll bring you out“, kevin says in french.

ronan knew he didn‘t have the time to question day so he followed him, jean always close, ready to fight anyone who would be a danger for him

kevin navigates them through the labyrinth of the nest fast, always in the shadows, carefully that they won‘t be seen

somehow they managed to get out of the nest, but they didn‘t stop, they couldn‘t, not if they wanted to live

„did any of you actually plan this through?“, jean asks nervously

„of course i planned that riko would walk in on us sleeping together in one bed, where my back with my secret tattoo is exposed, where i then beat and kick him, take your hand and run like my life depends on it. and while i was at it i texted day ‚hey dickhead wanna go on an adventure;)‘ with my non-existent mobile“, ronan replied annoyed

„i actually did plan that sometimes, for fun. thought i might wanna visit my dad, thought i might wanna change teams. you know, riko gets harder and harder to stan with his perfect team bullshit and bla bla bla ronan and jean are not worthy your attentin bla bla bla stop talking about jeremy knox bla bla bla i will show you how that feels like bla bla bla being forced to sleep with riko bla bla bla“, kevin said quietly, they almost didn‘t make the words out.

„i thought he wouldn‘t do that to you, asshole“, ronan replied softly, „as much as we love a good talk about shared trauma, how did you plan to get away from here“

„actually no“, kevin said.

„how long do you think we have until mr dickhead is coming out here with his shithead uncle to kill us all?“, ronan asked calmly.

„i‘d say not long? five minutes the longest“, kevin replied.

ronan could physically feel jean‘s anxiety

„jean, it‘s gonna be okay, give me two seconds“, ronan replied. „i‘m gonna lay down now. if they come, jean you run. run as fast as you can. take them down. don‘t let them catch you. day? help him, i swear to god if i hear you didn‘t i will come visit you and i will not be as nice as riko“, ronan sadi to kevin, with a cold smile on his lips

over the years ronan learned how to control his sleep, how to fall asleep fast and dream something fast, this would work

ronan carefully lays down, closes his eyes and takes a deep breathe. he repeats this a few times. quickly he falls asleep and thinks of the car his father owned. a black bmw. the memories might not be nice ones, but they need a car and this was the only one he knows by heart. carefully he touches it, checks if everything is alright and when he is sure it is, he wakes up, holding on to it like his life depens on it - which in this case it literally does

just in time to furious shouts he wakes up

the car next to him and he quickly gets in

„i recommend getting in if you don‘t want to you know get murdered by the japanese mafia shitheads“, he says calmly.

„you- you“, kevin tries to say.

jean just gets in the car and forcefully pulls kevin with him

„we have time to talk once we have some miles between these psychopaths and us day, so shut your pretty mouth and get the fuck in“, ronan says.

when the doors are closed ronan goes for it

he obviously does not know how to drive, but this was one of his dreams and his dreams never failed to suprise him

the car goes the moment he puts his foot down on one of the pedals, it doesn‘t have multiply gears, just one and it works

„to make this short: i am a dreamer. that means i can take shit out of my dreams. that‘s why jean and i could play. well, i don‘t know how you two losers surrived so long without me, but i will keep you safe. i don‘t lie. i‘m gay. you are not my type, so don‘t even try to hit on me. if you hurt jean i willl murder you, i don‘t who you are, i don‘t care what you are, hurt my family and die“

„i‘m your family?“, jean said, his voice barley more than a breathe.

ronan doesn‘t have to turn his face around to see the silent tears running down the face of the french boy

once again ronan wonders how jean deserved this life, this beautiful, sarcastic, yet kind soul

„of fucking course asshole, you‘re the only motherfucker who can handle me“, ronan replies.

„okay enough sentimental bullshit and emotions, day where are we going? have we planned that as well?“

„palmetto state, to my father. well he doesn’t know he‘s my father, but i guess he‘ll love two backlliners and a kevin day - second best striker in the united states“

„palmetto state it is. hope they‘re ready for the mafia to come visit to get us“, ronan replied, a small smile on his lips as he thinks about all the new possibilities and hopes he now dared to dream for

[sapphic-writing]

A substitute

This is me being productive thank uuuu

Again, writing about my beloved Hawks ! Another Character study but with a little more plot!

Family dinners were a thing Hawks had never attended. So when Inko Midoriya invited him to a dinner with her son in their apartment, it felt personal enough for him to be touched.

With all the things that Izuku had been going through in the last months, Hawks had became a friend to him. After all, he was one of the only people the kid would talk to because of his work obsession, he had reassured the poor mother several times when they met in the hospital and the hero saved the student's ass more than once.

Inko was thankful for all of that and Hawks enjoyed her company. So initially, it was him who invited her and the kid to his favorite restaurant as he always did with people he grew found of. But the offer had been negotiated and twisted by the woman, in such a way that he ended up knocking at their door on a Saturday night at 6:49 pm.

He entered and was struck by how warm the small flat felt. There wasn't much, but he could feel all the love and care that was put into the relationships of the people inhabiting this nest.

The reason it appeared obviously to him was because he was used to the atmosphere of his own house to be oppressing and awkward. Even since he had been left alone, his mother had somehow let those feelings behind her like a sticky mud imbedding every furniture and parquet lick. It wasn't as overwhelming as when it flooded the whole place, letting Keigo in a constant fight for a breath of air, suffocating most of the time, but it was there. He was surprised by how the small home of the Midoriyas seemed deprived of any of this.

He sat down with them and they conversed while eating. Every now and then, Inko thanked him again for the times he had saved her son's life. Hawks would always accept it and say that the kid was a future great hero, it would be a shame to let him die at this age. A statement to which she agreed proud and loud while her son tried to hide the pleasure those flatteries provided him. A feeling of longing emerged in Hawks as he watched the woman compliment her flesh and blood. Squishing his hand when she reminded him of how much she loved him and sometimes blushing, as if she didn't deserve such an amazing kid as her Izuku. It was such a strange thing to see this mother invested in her son's dreams and ambitions.

While Hawks did know it should be a usual thing in a functioning family, being at the first row to witness this made him feel a lump in his throat.

When the student couldn't bare to be the subject of anymore compliments, he switched the conversation to the professional hero in a rather obvious way that none of the two others decided to take notice of.

After a few work anecdotes, the woman came to ask what she should call the hero outside of work.

"I have been going by Hawks for over ten years now." He answered. "But thank you for asking. You must have seen Touya's broadcast too. I really appreciate that you asked despite knowing my name."

"Why do you keep using your hero name in private if your identity is out to the public by now?" Izuku asked. Then he put his chin in his hand and tried to answer his own question before the hero could. "Altho I have to admit that after a decade of never using it, it could feel unfamiliar and strange to you. And just because the public knows about your name's reputation doesn't mean that you would want them to be reminded of it- not that your name defines your value... Or that you really care about your public image, now that I think of it."

While he was trailing off, Inko's face decomposed as she grew more and more horrified of how intrusive her son was being without realizing it. Hawks finished chewing his bite before cutting the boy off.

"Actually, I am in fact used to be called Hawks more than to be called Keigo or Takami. But I also like to think of it as always being working. I wake up and go to bed Hawks. I am myself as a hero and therefore I don't need a personal life next to it."

The boy nodded thoughtfully while the mother thanked him for sharing this with them and apologized for her son's comportment. Realizing only now what he had done, Izuku was quick to apologize with even more embarrassment than his mother if it was possible and it took Hawks a few minutes to seemingly convince them they had done no harm.

Once both the mother and son calmed down, Inko found the courage to start a new subject of conversation.

"About you always working. While I understand the necessity of it, is it something that all heroes are doing?" She said looking down at her plate.

Before Hawks could say anything, Izuku grabbed his mother's harm in a comforting way. "I will choose what kind of hero I am. And I know I don't want to be one without you. I have already tried cutting people out. I am never doing that again, I promise."

Inko gripped her son's arm back, tears growing in her eyes. "I'm sorry, Izuku. I just got scared for you again for an instant." The boy comforted her with a few words and she swallowed her tears to apologize to their guest.

"I'm sorry you saw this. I invited you to have a good time, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

"There's no problem." The man answered in a detached way. But his stomach now felt heavy and he wasn't hungry, so he grabbed his cup to drink instead.

It wasn't because he thought Inko made a scene or that he was uncomfortable with feelings in general. But the worry of the woman for her son had him wondering for a second if she would ever reveal personal informations about him if she was threatened. And the answer imposed itself to the man, she would never. And she would most definitely not then leave with only a note waiting in an empty hoise for her injured son coming back from a stay at the hospital after a war.

Thoughts about his mother creeped into Hawks' mind. Mostly questions, since she had left without any indication of where she was going.

Witnessing Inko's dedication to her child triggered some instincts in Hawks that were urging him to run to his own mother in the search of comfort. Hut despite this natural reflex, his brain couldn't picture such a scene. Not with the detached and clueless woman that was Tomie Takami. Not with the unnatural relationship they had. Actually, he knew that she would be the one to one day desperately come back to him when she will have spent all the money she took with her.

He carried the conversation with the Midorias for a while. Staying in their home this night was as if a sadistic entity was mockingly shaking a toy in front of a child who would never be able to even imagine the joy of holding it in their hands. So he finally declared he was leaving, sooner than he probably would have otherwise. He thanked the attentionate family and went for a fly outside. For a while, he had no clue of where he was going. After a while of wandering in his immense city, he found himself drawn back to his favorite restaurant. He stared at the closed place from a higher building. Lost in his thoughts and faced by the mediocrity of the comfort this place brought to him.

Was the title too subtle about the restaurant vs family dinner being a parallel of how Hawks finds substitute for his non existent childhood and family in things that aren't personal?